Some months ago, Vern had suggested Uma. “It’s glamorous,” he’d insisted.
Etienne and Marie had hinted that Marguerite would be a good choice, and the Professor had mentioned that Nicie was a fine old Scots name.
“I must admit, I still like the name Anthea. It means flower.” I’d seen it in an old British children’s book.
“Anthea, schmanthea. I don’t care if it means the whole botanical garden. Come on! She’d be cut to verbal ribbons in junior high with that moniker. She’s Janet, after your mother, and that’s that, and she’ll be here before we know it.” Gil walked over and patted my belly.
“She can’t come soon enough for me! I have a closet floor full of shoes I’d like to be able to get back into, not to mention the blouses that won’t button over my chest.”
He arched his eyebrows. “You know, that was a pregnancy plus I hadn’t anticipated.” He stepped back to avoid my playful swipe. “Well, if you’re sure you won’t need me, I could do some work on the newspaper’s website today. I’ll be back around four.” He kissed the top of my head and headed for the door. “If you feel up to it, maybe we can go to a movie later,” he called out over his shoulder.
“Sounds good,” I said, “Find out what’s playing.”
An hour and a half later, I’d washed the dishes, mopped the kitchen floor, cleaned out the refrigerator, and scrubbed the toilet. There were clothes spinning in the dryer, and I’d packed my little suitcase in preparation for my stay at the hospital. No matter what I did, though, a strange, restless feeling wouldn’t leave me alone.
I made a lunch of chicken salad and toast and took it out onto the deck, where Gil had recently placed a small wrought iron table and two matching chairs. He’d bought this house right before we were married because he knew I liked it, and despite the haphazard building techniques and the seven-mile distance from town, I was very content here. Gil liked to accuse me of loving House, as he called it, more that I loved him, which was nonsense. Still, I felt at home here in my ramshackle lakeside cottage more than anywhere else, especially on our big weather-beaten deck that overlooked Lake Champlain.
It was a gorgeous day on the lake, warm with a soft breeze. Summer, I reflected, was my favorite time of year here. Where my sister Barbara lived in Tampa, she had sunshine like this almost all the time, but along with it came humidity and the possibility of hurricanes.
According to Lily, Florida was a hurricane magnet. “It’s just like mobile homes, Amelia. They’re tornado magnets,” was her none-too-scientific analysis.
I polished off the salad and drained my glass of milk. I put my dishes in the dishwasher and returned to the deck in time to watch a flock of birds flying over. Lake Champlain is beautiful any time of year, but I especially liked it now, when everything was still green and warm. I slipped off my shoes and waded in the shallows that bordered our pebbly shoreline.
“We’ll wade in this together when you’re big enough,” I told baby Janet. “Your daddy will teach you to swim, and I’ll teach you to . . . row,” I concluded dryly, remembering an occasion when I’d had to do a lot of rowing. “Uncle Alec will tell you about the history of the area and Aunt Lily will . . . ” I paused, mentally searching for Lily’s specialty, “ . . . teach you to cook. You mother is a terrible cook, sweetie. You might as well learn that now,” I admitted to my child.
I couldn’t swim and was also lousy at sewing. What could I teach this baby? I could always correct her grammar, I suppose, but where was the fun in that?
I sat on the deck steps. “I’ll just be your mommy,” I told her, patting my belly with one hand as I toweled off a bare foot with the other.
I believe I’ve already noted that one becomes philosophical when one is pregnant; at least I did. This particular afternoon, my thoughts went back all those years ago when I so longed for someone of my own. Surely God had smiled at the little song I sang on the front porch when I had no way of knowing what He had in store for me.
Of course, all this had been long in coming. I’d stayed at the house on Jury Street with my ageing parents while my sister Barbara married her airman and traveled with him all over the world. I’d taught school for decades, living in the old family home that my business partner Etienne had now converted into Chez Prentice. I’d nursed my parents through their terminal illnesses and had been prepared to spend my last several decades alone in the big old house, just me and Sam the cat. It wasn’t the future I’d planned as a teenager while sitting on my parents’ front porch, dreaming of a Prince Charming, but it was probably preferable to whatever had happened to what’s-her-name, Janey Johnson.
What had happened to her? I wondered. The question gnawed at me as I remembered her desperation just before she disappeared into the night. I stared over the water and watched the ripples sparkle.
Where had she gone? Had Bernini’s men followed her? Had they grabbed her off the street and stuffed her into the trunk as I’d seen on TV? Had she been shot like those poor men on St. Valentine’s Day?
I shuddered, thinking of the terror she must have felt. I wondered if Diedre had ever heard anything from Janey. Now that I knew where Terence’s sister lived, I could ask her.
The cell phone Alec had insisted I acquire was in the pocket of my sleeveless maternity smock. A pocket was this garment’s only virtue. In this massive piece of bunched cotton fabric, I felt like a hot-air balloon. The maternity Bermuda shorts with the stretchy tummy panel weren’t much better. How glad I’d be when I could wash it, iron it, and give it all away to charity!
The restless energy I was feeling wouldn’t let me laze around the deck any longer. I had questions that needed answers and action was called for.
On the cell phone, I pressed the button to call Chez Prentice. “Marie, would you give me Dierdre Joseph’s phone number? You know, the one throwing the retirement party?”
Dierdre Joseph, née Jamison, was surprised to hear from me. Yes, she remembered who I was. No, she had never heard from Janey Johnson since that one summer. Yes, she’d heard the news that Danny DiNicco was dead. Wasn’t it sad?
By the way, what an amazing coincidence that she’d booked the party at my house! Yes, her brother Terence was in town. As a matter of fact, he was staying with her and her family, but she wasn’t sure that he was interested in talking to anybody, she said with apology in her voice.
“He hasn’t been well lately,” she confessed, “It’s the real reason he retired. It’s made him real depressed.”
“Would it help if I came over there? We could reminisce about the summer theater days.”
“That’s really sweet, but I don’t think so. Though, he always liked you, you know.”
I hadn’t known. “Really?”
“You made him laugh. You were a cute little thing, he said. You tried so hard.”
I grimaced, unseen. “I guess I did, at that. Do you think perhaps he’d enjoy a chat on the phone, Dierdre?”
“Oh, no, he’s not here right now. He’s out at our camp.”
“The Joseph cabin? The little fishing cabin on the lake shore near the lighthouse? Of course! I know the place. It has the license plates nailed all over the walls, right?”
“That’s it. My late father-in-law’s collection. It’s kind of rundown now.”
“You say he’s out there? I could go see him or invite him over to my place for coffee.”
“I don’t know, Amelia. He told me he wanted time to think, to be alone,” Dierdre said. “I gotta admit, things aren’t very quiet around our house, what with Luther’s kids and everything. Terence insisted I drive him out to the cabin and come back and pick him up just before dinner. He probably isn’t even there at the cabin. He sometimes likes to go out on the lake in my dad’s old boat.”
“Maybe another time, then.”
“Yeah, another time would be fine.” Dierdre sounded relieved as we said goodbye.
I put the phone back in my pocket and stared out at the lake again. I paced a little, we
nt into the kitchen and turned on the radio, turned it off, and went back out on the deck.
So what if Terence was off riding in the boat? I could leave a note with my phone number, couldn’t I? There were things I wanted to know about that long-ago summer that only Terence could answer. At least, I hoped he could.
I had made a decision. Eagerly looking forward to the task at hand, I changed out of my sandals and put on some sneakers. Some of the rocky lake shore was uneven ground, and I would need to watch my step.
The sun was warm on my bare arms and legs as I walked in the direction of the lighthouse. I could just make it out above the tree line in the distance. I’d reach the Joseph cabin first.
I extended my arms sideways to catch a little bit more sun. It would be nice to get just the tiniest bit of a tan before the baby came. They say you get vitamin D from sunshine. Not that I needed more vitamins after the horse pill I swallowed every morning.
I slid the sunglasses up on my forehead and gazed out at a colorful sail in the distance. The summer’s annual sailboat races were now over, but from our vantage point on the deck, Gil and I had enjoyed observing the various boats moving as their crews swarmed, watching the action through his strong binoculars.
I took a deep breath of the breeze that ruffled my hair and sent up a silent prayer of thanks for my life as it was. “All I have needed, Thy Hand hath provided,” I hummed, Alec-like, “Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me.”
I arrived at the old Joseph camp sooner than expected. There was no doubt that this was the one. The house itself was tiny, made of roughly-hewn wood with closed shutters and a slanted roof. One outer wall was bedecked with a large array of New York State license plates, ranging from the old orange-and-black rectangles to the more recent blue-and-white ones, all in various stages of rusty deterioration.
I turned and saw the weathered dock where a small boat with a motor was tied up. Presumably, Terence had returned from his ride on the lake. I thought I saw smoke coming from the chimney.
I made my way up from the shore, following the overgrown path to the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Terence?” I called hesitantly and knocked twice on the cabin door. I waited, then knocked again.
No answer.
The camp’s security was certainly loose. I pulled on the short, ragged rope latch and gently pushed the door open.
It was dark as night inside. The shutters of the cabin’s one window were closed. Despite the warm day outside, a fire was dancing merrily in a small stone fireplace, providing the only light. I thought of our own cozy house. It had begun as a lakeside camp. Could it once have been as bleak as this?
The floor was dirt, firmly packed. On my right, a rough wooden shelf held two dented aluminum pans, a coffeepot, and a five-pound Maxwell House can. An old metal folding chair, bearing evidence of many coats of paint, held a battered tackle box.
“Terence?” I said again. I stepped into the gloomy cabin, and asked, “Remember me? It’s Amelia Prentice. Are ya day-sent?” I quoted with a light laugh.
There was a sound behind me, a low laugh that turned into a cough.
“Little Amelia, my drama queen, is it really you?” Terence Jamison stepped forward.
In the firelight his cheekbones seemed distressingly prominent. His red mane was now a shining white. He was appallingly, painfully thin. There was a map of wrinkles all over his face. He was wearing a checked cotton shirt under a heavy cable-knit pullover, jeans, and deck shoes with thick socks. He still had the bearing and good posture of a dancer, but there was an unmistakable sense of the invalid about the man.
“It is. Dierdre told me where you were. I should have tried calling you.”
“You probably couldn’t get through anyway. The reception out here is rotten.”
“Well, I came to see how you are.”
I must have been silhouetted in the flames, because he took a look at my bulk and gestured in the direction in of the chair. “My, my, you’ve certainly, er, grown over the years. Please, take a load off.”
“Thanks.”
I transferred the tackle box to the floor and sat gratefully. The chair made a metallic groan. I redistributed my weight on the seat.
“Aren’t you hot in here?”
“Nope. I love a nice fire.”
He held a stick in his left hand, which he thrust into the fireplace. The makeshift torch burst into flame. He held it up so it illuminated the whole cabin.
“Tell me, Amelia, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” He tossed the stick into the fire.
“Well, Dierdre told me you were here. We live about a mile in that direction.” I pointed. “When I called, she said you might enjoy talking.”
He frowned, tossed the stick into the fire and coughed into an elbow. Suddenly I felt uncomfortable.
“About what?”
“You know, the summer theatre, The Last Leaf, things like that. I’d love to hear all about how you came to be the Storybook Dragon too.”
“I see you’ve followed my career with interest, but the poor old Dragon faded from the picture quite some time ago. It’s not a very interesting story.”
Obviously, cheering Terence up wasn’t going to be easy. I tried being whimsical again. “I’m just one of your humble subjects, come to see the Emperor.”
He chuckled mirthlessly. “It’s been a long time since anyone called me that. The Emperor has gone the way of the Dragon, I’m afraid.” He stared into the flames. “And Dierdre thought this visit would cheer me up?”
“Well, not in so many words. It was more my own idea.”
“Hmm. Sweet and well-meaning of you, but . . . unnecessary.” He coughed again. “I don’t mean to be unwelcoming, but to tell you the truth, I’m not very good with company these days. I do humbly beg your pardon.”
He wasn’t getting rid of me that easily. “It’s all right. I was just thinking about all the things that happened the summer I worked for you.”
He leaned on the mantelpiece and talked into the wall. “Halcyon days.”
“Yes, well, I enjoyed most of it. Except some of the stuff at the end. Especially that time when Danny fell off the ladder. Did you ever figure out how that happened? Or maybe who did it?”
He shook his head and coughed again.
He must be feeling roasted, standing so close to the fire.
“My husband and I were talking about it the other day and decided that either Neil Claussen or Chris Gold fiddled somehow with one of the rungs.”
His reply came out so low I almost didn’t hear him. He was nodding. “It might have been Chris Gold. He’s dead, you know—an overdose about ten years ago. Or it could have been Claussen. He couldn’t catch a break in New York after that summer, I know that much. DiNicco or his uncle probably put the word out on him. Or,” he said, turning around so I could see his saturnine expression highlighted in the firelight, “it could have been me.” He put his splayed hand on his thin chest.
“I don’t believe that. Why you?”
“Oh, Amelia, it’s such a long story, and I just don’t feel like telling it again.”
He turned away once more. Clearly, he was in no mood to be cheered.
I stood. “Well, we can get together another time. I can see you’d like to be alone. To tell you the truth, all I really wanted to do was ask you about that girl who disappeared.”
“About who?”
Whom, I thought.
“About Janey Johnson. You know, the girl who—”
“I know who you mean,” he snapped. “Eileen, that was her real name, remember?”
Whom you mean, I thought. I couldn’t seem to turn off my inner teacher.
“I always wondered where she went. That night, I mean. Did you ever hear from her again? I felt so bad for her. The way she talked that night, how scared she was. She seemed to think she was in real danger. I’ve always wondered if something happened to her.”
Terence scratched the back of his n
eck. “Oh, yes,” he said grimly. “Something did. She’s dead. She’s been dead a long time.”
“Oh.” I felt curiously deflated and sad. “And now so is Danny DiNicco. I can’t help but think there might have been a connection.”
“She was such a little fool,” he said, more to himself than to me, it seemed. “I blame myself. If I’d known the danger, I’d have hopped in my car and driven her back out West the day she arrived.”
He shook his head. “She thought she could get away from those . . . thugs. I told her it was dangerous, but I had no idea how bad it really was. They had—and still have—tentacles everywhere.” He smothered a cough.
“Tentacles?”
“Of course! Like some big—big—octopus.” He waved his hand. “The Mob.”
“Mob? You don’t mean Danny DiNicco?”
“Of course I mean DiNicco! Why else do you think that he—” He barked out the words and then stopped abruptly, frowning at me. He shrugged and finished his sentence. “—was killed?”
And that’s the moment I saw the gun. The huge, shiny gun. It had been in a shadow on the crude and weathered mantelpiece. Now it was in his hand, only a few feet away from me.
I sat back down. “Is that it?” I said in a small voice. “Is that what killed Danny?” Nausea rose in my throat.
He looked down at it. “Yes.” He sighed. “This is the one. It was justified, though, his death. He murdered Eileen. Or as good as, poor girl.”
“What do you mean murdered?”
He looked at me pityingly and shook his head. “I looked for her that night, remember? I didn’t stop looking for her, even after the summer was over. I went to see her father downstate. He had no idea where she’d gone. I called him every few months to check. He never heard from her again. Obviously she was dead. And the evidence pointed straight at DiNicco. Don’t you read the papers? Or listen to the news? His miserable thug of an uncle admitted it. They buried her somewhere up in those woods where nobody can find her. I knew that’s what happened the minute I heard about it.”
Murder in the Past Tense (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series Book 3) Page 17
