He wobbled his left eyebrow. Gil was the entertainment editor. And the sports editor and the editorial page editor, too.
“Thank him for me. Tell me, what about Shakespeare? The nurse said I was quoting Shakespeare?”
He chuckled. “Not quoting. You were going on and on about not saying the word MacBeth. ‘Scottish play,’ you kept saying, ‘only the Scottish play,’ probably because we’d been talking about the summer theater stuff recently.”
“Oh, I know what that was. It was because of Terence.” The memory of my strange back-and-forth interaction with the man suddenly came flooding back. “Oh, Gil, about Terence, he—”
Wearing a frown, Gil sidled up to the bed, sat and took my hand in his. “Honey, I know, you wanted to thank him, but—”
“Gil, he’s a mur—”
“Amelia, he’s dead!”
For once, I was shocked into silence. Tears sprang into my eyes.
He handed me a scratchy, hospital-provided tissue. “Honey, I’m sorry I blurted it out like that. I was going to try to break it to you gently. When he got you to the house, I followed the ambulance to the hospital. He said he needed to get to town, so he rode with me. I noticed that he didn’t look very good, sweating and all out of breath, so when we got here, I grabbed somebody and asked them to take a look at him. Before they could, he collapsed. They couldn’t revive him. Heart attack, they think.”
“Oh, Gil!” I blew my nose. “He died helping me!” New tears filled my eyes.
“I know.” He shook his head. “I’ll always be grateful. Oh, honey, don’t cry. It’s going to be all right.”
He climbed onto the bed and took me in his arms. He knew the drill. I needed time to exhaust my sobs before I could be cogent again. At last, I leaned back, sighed and made good use of half-a-dozen tissues.
Gil slid off the bed. The front of his scrubs uniform was damp, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“What were you saying before, I mean, before I interrupted you?”
I couldn’t deal with it all. “Can I tell you about it later? Right now, I’m really tired. Is it okay if I take a nap?”
Gil grinned. “Aren’t you forgetting somebody?”
“Who? I mean, whom am I forgetting?”
“Miss Janet Lillian Dickensen made her appearance at 11:51 p.m., weighing seven pounds, six ounces. If she could stand up, she’d be twenty-one inches tall. And she’s beautiful, Amelia. Not much hair, but gorgeous.”
He smiled that hundred-watt grin again and I answered with my own, albeit weak, smile.
I was horrified. “Oh, Gil, I forgot my own baby! How awful!” I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was five a.m. “It was probably the drugs they gave me. I’ll never forget her again, I promise.” I held up my hand. “When can I see her?”
Once they moved me out of recovery and into a private room, they let Gil bring her to me, a tiny wrinkled bundle, eyes wide, squeaking like a kitten. A nurse followed him.
“Is she all right?” I asked her as Gil placed Janet in my arms. “She isn’t very loud.” I stroked the tiny groping fingers and murmured soothing noises.
“Give her time. She’s just not quite used to the outside world yet. And she’s hungry. It will be best for both you and her if you feed her now.”
She proceeded to show me how to nurse my child. I expected difficulty, but all went well, and in a little while, our daughter was sleeping peacefully in Gil’s arms, her tummy satisfied. The nurse had gone, the doctor had visited, rapidly declared us healthy and left, and the door was standing open.
A young man stood in the doorway. “Um, Miss Prentice? I mean—Mrs. . . . um . . . ”
“That’s all right, Brian. People still call me that sometimes.” It was one of my former students, Brian Lake, sweetheart of the amiable, seventeen-year-old grocery store clerk, Kim Mallard, and father of her baby.
He moved hesitantly into the room and handed me a copy of the tabloid newspaper Worldwide Buzz. “Well, um, Kim heard you were here. She told me to come find you and tell you we had a boy yesterday. And give you that. I got it in the gift shop. It’s a little old, but Kim remembered that you liked that paper. She’s gettin’ outta here tomorrow.” He stood up straight. “Elton Lake, we’re gonna call him, after my dad. He was a little bit early, but he’s okay.” He nodded reassuringly. “And we’re gettin’ married in about a month, ’cause I got a good job now, so . . . ”
“Well, that’s great. I’m very happy for you, Brian.” I smiled at him and made a mental note to shop for a baby gift and a wedding gift as soon as I was able.
There was a tiny, sleepy squeak from the rocker in the corner. Brian turned.
“Oh, there’s your baby. I heard it’s a girl. Congrats, Grandpa,” he said to Gil, misinterpreting my husband’s gray hair. It would not be the last time someone did this. “I better get back to, um,” he pointed to the hall, “you know.” He waved as he moved away.
“Tell Kim I said thanks for the newspaper!” I called after him. I looked over at Gil as he contentedly rocked the sleeping child and shrugged. “They’re getting married.”
“Hello, Mrs. Dickensen!” This time, it was pretty, dark-haired Melody Branch at the door, wearing a nurse’s scrubs in a cheerful cartoon print. “Someone is here to see you.” She stepped into the hall and was heard coaxing someone into the room. “Come on, I mean it . . . ”
A huge, pink, floppy-eared stuffed dog of indeterminate breed preceded Vern Thomas into the room.
Melody remained, smiling and leaning on the doorframe with crossed arms.
“Here.” Vern thrust the animal at me.
“Who’s your friend?” Gil asked from the corner.
“If you mean the student nurse turned busybody, that’s Melody, who dragged me over here at the crack of dawn.” He jerked his head toward the entrance, then held up the toy dog. “If you mean this, Melody picked her out, but I named her Uma, since you didn’t have any use for the name.” He tossed it on my bed.
“How are you?” I refused to let tears once more fill my eyes. He looked thinner to me. “Are you all settled in your new place?” I pulled the dog to me and stroked its ears.
“I better be since I’ve been there since February.”
It hadn’t seemed that long. “Oh, yes. So you’re all right.”
Melody pulled a pager from her pocket. “Oops, pediatrics calling. Gotta run.” She pointed a finger at Vern. “Be good!”
“Yeah, I’m all right. I gotta go too.” He began moving toward the door.
“Thank you for the gift.” I gestured toward the corner where Janet lay sleeping in her father’s arms. “Don’t you want to see the baby?”
“Oh yeah.” Vern wheeled around and bent over Janet where she lay in Gil’s arms. He smiled. “Cute.” He turned back.
“I had quite an adventure just before she was born, Vern,” I said invitingly. “Don’t you want to hear about it?”
“I would, but there’s no time right now, sorry.” With a vague wave, he was gone.
I heaved a huge sigh. “Oh, Gil.”
A tear ran down my cheek. I was a mess. When were these soggy emotional reactions going to stop? I grabbed for the tissue box.
Gil deposited Janet in the crib and came over to my bed. “I know, honey. He’s still peeved at us, the stupid kid.” He put took my hand and patted it.
A few months ago, we’d help extricate Vern from a sticky situation, but not without stepping on his toes, or rather, his pride.
“Will he ever forgive us?”
Gil smiled ruefully. “For being right when he was wrong? If I were to guess, I’d say yes, judging by the hold that young lady has over him.” He resumed his seat next to the crib. “Meanwhile, I’m going to enjoy being a daddy. Not a grandpa, by the way,” he said with a rueful half-grin, “I’ve waited long enough for this.”
Sinking back onto my pillow, I turned my attention to the tabloid Kim had sent me. It was dated the week before. One headline read: “Dying M
obster Confesses Decades-old Mob Hit Mystery! Who Are the Victims? And Where Are They?”
I turned the pages until I found the article. It featured a slightly blurry but recognizable image of Gino Bernini, who had aged considerably since that day in Lake Placid.
Gil squinted over at me and chuckled. “Really? Are you reading that? Again?”
“Nobody brought me a copy of the Press Advertiser, so I make use of what I have at hand.”
I read for a bit before commenting, “They say they can’t find the graves of those poor people. The woods are so thick and Bernini’s directions are vague. And the men who actually buried the bodies are long dead. Poor Janey, or rather, Eileen. I need to talk to Dennis as soon as possible,” I said, referring to Police Sergeant Dennis O’Brien, a family friend.
“Can’t it wait, honey?”
“I’m not sure it can. By the way, you never did ask how I ended up on the lake in a boat with Terence Jamison.”
Gil tilted his head and looked at me. “Good point. How did you?”
I folded the tabloid on my lap and began, “Well, I had all this energy yesterday, so . . . ”
~~~
“ . . . and then you told me he died. I don’t know what to do.”
“Listen, Amelia.” Gil hefted the precious sleeping burden he had been rocking and deposited her gently into the rolling hospital crib. “You’ve got enough to worry about. Let’s dump this whole thing in O’Brien’s lap and let him sort it out. It may not even be his job. DiNicco was killed in New York City. There are bound to be jurisdictional issues and whatnot.”
“Knock, knock,” someone said at the door.
“Speak of the—” Gil began.
“Dennis!” I said. “And Dorothy! How sweet of you to come!”
Dorothy O’Brien smiled. Her halo of red hair glowed in the intense hospital lights. Her daughter, a miniature of her mother, stepped out from behind her and thrust a package into my hand.
“This is for you. We want to see the baby!” She looked around the room. “Is that her?” She pointed a small finger at the clear plastic crib.
She. But I said nothing. Six-year-old Meaghan would learn proper grammar in due course.
“Yes, that’s Janet.”
“Not too close, sweetie,” Dorothy warned and said to me, “I’m not sure if it’s against the rules for her to be here, but nobody stopped us.”
I tore open the package and thanked them profusely for a delicate pink blanket with a matching rattle.
“We got it in the store downstairs,” Meaghan said before her mother could shush her.
I laughed, beckoned Gil over close to me and whispered, “I need to tell Dennis what I told you.”
He nodded and turned to our guests. “Look, the baby’s asleep. They’re both going to need their rest. Meaghan, would you like me to show you and your mom where the newborn nursery is? You can see all the babies through a window.”
Meaghan nodded enthusiastically.
“Dennis, would you hang around here with Amelia?” he said as they left.
“Sure thing.” Police Sergeant Dennis O’Brien pulled the one straight chair closer to the bed and sat. “What is it? What’s going on? I can see you have something to tell me.”
“You’re right.” Once again, I recounted my experience with Terence Jamison and his involvement in the death of Danny DiNicco. Before I finished the first few sentences, he’d pulled out his ubiquitous notepad and pen. When the narrative ended, Dennis frowned.
“And he had a gun, you say?”
I shuddered. “Oh, yes, a big old-fashioned one with a long sort of . . . barrel thing. Pat—his wife—told me years ago that it was authentic, the actual kind Teddy Roosevelt himself carried. It was the one Terence used in San Juan Hill. That was a short-lived play on Broad—”
Dennis waved away Broadway. “I don’t care about that part. I just care that he had a gun. Did he take it with him when you guys got in the boat?”
I closed my eyes. “I think so. I know I saw him put it in his belt, but there was a lot of activity going on and I was kind of—”
Dennis scowled sympathetically and waved his pen. “Yeah, you were in pain and stuff.”
“The gun should be in the boat. I’m pretty sure I saw it sliding around on the floor, or bottom of the boat, or hull, or whatever you call it. I don’t know if he brought it with him up to the house. My memory is pretty hazy about then.”
“We’ll look into it.” He tapped his pad. “And this Terence guy got sick and died at the hospital right after you got there?”
I nodded. “Heart attack, I think. His sister told me he was sick. Terence told me the same thing. Gil was with him when he collapsed. Gil called for help, but it was too late,” I said sadly.
Terence was a complicated man, but there was something about him that I had liked. Perhaps it was the memory of happier times.
I had a thought. “Wouldn’t the hospital have reported a gun or something if they found it on him?”
He nodded. “Probably. I’m pretty sure we’d have already been informed if they did, but I’ll check with them before I go. And I better call the police in New York. I heard about that murder, but never thought there was a connection here.” He snapped the pad shut and tucked in his pocket. “I’ll need to talk to your husband too. Maybe he saw the gun.”
“I don’t think so. He would have told me, I’m sure.”
A high voice interrupted our conversation, “Daddy! They had seventeen babies in the nursery; nine girls and eight boys!”
As Dorothy shushed her daughter, Dennis said, “That’s great, honey.”
“But Janet is prettier than any of ’em!” She walked over to the crib in the corner and smiled down at the sleeping baby.
“I think so, too, Meaghan.”
I saw Gil exchange a word with Dennis before they bid us goodbye.
“I’m seeing him later at the office,” Gil told me, kissing my forehead. “Right now, I’m heading out to the paper. Be back soon, after I’ve announced our great news to the world and finished my special editorial for tomorrow. Anything else you need?”
I was suddenly exhausted. “No, I’ll go to sleep now. Oh, would you call Marie and Etienne and tell them how much I appreciate the flowers?” I looked over at the ornate arrangement perched on the windowsill that had been delivered while I was talking to Dennis.
Another thought struck me. “Oh, no! Poor Dierdre! She was going to give her brother a retirement party next week!” I started to cry again softly. “If it wasn’t for me, he’d—”
“Have died all alone out in that dirty old cabin,” Gil finished. “Don’t take this burden on yourself, Amelia. If he’s guilty, he at least went out saving a life—excuse me—saving two lives. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”
“But he wasn’t sorry. I don’t think he was sorry at all for killing Danny. I think he thought of himself as carrying out a sentence. That’s just wrong. Or maybe he was sorry,” I added, as a memory came to me. “I think I remember his saying something about the thief on the cross.” I blew my nose. “I’ll have to tell Dierdre. It might bring her some comfort.”
Gil took my hand and kissed it. “Honey, cut it out. You can’t fix this.”
A thin squawk erupted from the little crib.
“But you can fix that,” he said brightly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Terence’s funeral took place two days after I was released from the hospital.
“You go, Amelia,” Gil insisted, “Janet and I will be here at Chez Prentice. I want to spend my day off getting to know my little princess better.”
In the intervening days, Gil’s little princess had stopped making tiny squeaking noises and had graduated to full-throated infant arias. I was getting used to her rhythms, but it was a relief to have even an hour of grownup time. I accepted gratefully.
The proceedings were conducted in the chapel of the town’s most prestigious funeral home. Father Frontenac performe
d the service with great dignity, adding a vague reference that Terence had “done a great kindness in the last hours of his life,” but very few people knew the facts. There was a large gathering in the facility’s social hall, which was conveniently located on Jury Street, just a few blocks from Chez Prentice. I had been able to walk there.
Outside the building, Dierdre’s glad-handing CPA husband, Lester Joseph, had gathered with several other men in the driveway, where they were admiring a huge, shiny, green and white vintage car with large fins. “It’s a ’58 Cadillac Deville,” I heard him say proudly. “Took a lot of coins and elbow grease to get it this way, I can tell you.” He patted the hood. “Still having a little trouble with the muffler.”
Dierdre met the mourners at the door, receiving hugs, as several female relatives handed out coffee and other refreshments. People stood around in groups and talked in hushed tones.
“Thanks for coming,” Dierdre said. “The flowers arrangement you sent was really nice.”
The woman didn’t look well, as might be expected under the circumstances. Her strawberry blonde hair was heavily threaded with gray, and her young-girl freckles had faded, leaving behind bone-white skin that housed a rather thin body. The resemblance to Terence was even more noticeable than when I first met her.
“It was the least we could do after the way he helped me.”
Her voice subsided to a desperate, almost-whisper, “Sergeant O’Brien explained to me about how Terence helped you. But the other stuff, well, I don’t want to believe it. How could Terence do something like that? It could have been a mob hit. That’s what I told the police: It was probably a mob hit, a shooting like that. I don’t like to think my brother could do that, do you?” She was whispering faster and faster and seemed almost surprised at herself when she suddenly stopped.
I shook my head, remembering that she was in the throes of grief. I changed the subject.
“Did you retrieve the boat he used? I saw it was gone from our dock.”
She fingered her sleeve and plucked off a bit of lint. “Oh yeah, my father-in-law’s old boat. Lester took our boat over there to tow it back. I suppose the police will want to look it over for fingerprints or whatever.” She waved her hands vaguely. “Sergeant O’Brien’s talked with the New York City police and he’s sending a file or something down there to be checked out.” She laid a hand on my arm and began whispering urgently again, “I mean, Terence actually told you he did it? He really said he did it?”
Murder in the Past Tense (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series Book 3) Page 19
