“Did you or did you not receive flowers from Blakely Knight?”
“I did, but it was just one flower, not flowers, plural. And I assure you, sir, that I am very happily married!”
He dismissed this with a wave. “Nonetheless, you displayed it in your classroom, giving rise to a most unfortunate conclusion on the part of your students.”
“What students are those? Mr. Berghauser, that flower, one flower, singular, was given to me by Mr. Knight on a whim. If anybody else, Mrs. Dee, for instance, had been in the copy room, he might have given it to her. Ask Blakely, um, Mr. Knight, about it.”
Berghauser squirmed uneasily. He cleared this throat. “I did, but he refused to be forthcoming about it. He used some most unseemly language.”
I could imagine.
Berghauser added, “And he didn’t give it to Mrs. Dee, he gave it to you.”
“So why isn’t Blakely in trouble?” I asked sharply.
Berghauser folded his hands on his desk with smug assurance. “He’s not married. You are.”
Of course, that explains it. Another thought occurred to me. “Who told you about the flower?”
He coughed. “That’s irrelevant. You admit that you were given the flowers, uh, flower, and that settles the matter. That, combined with the matter we have already discussed, puts you in quite a precarious position career-wise.”
I closed my eyes. I was sinking, drowning again in the deep, inky waters of Lake Champlain, and there was no one there to rescue me, no Lily, no professor, nothing. I’d have to swim, or try to.
“Mr. Berghauser, what do you propose to do?” I asked in a low voice.
He leaned forward. “In light of your long and commendable past record, I rather thought I’d leave it up to you. Of course, your behavior with regard to Mr. Knight is to be henceforth above reproach.” He actually shook a finger at me. “If the slightest hint of more impropriety gets back to this office, there will be Steps Taken, I assure you!”
I sat, stone-like and staring, while a volcano raged in my stomach, threatening to erupt.
His tone became silky, reasonable. “As to the situation with the Shea family, well, you have a choice. You can issue a written apology to the Sheas; a copy will remain in your permanent record, of course. Or you can be stiff necked and make a fuss that will result in a good deal of difficulty for both the school and yourself.”
He examined his coat sleeve for lint. “I would appreciate your answer now, please.”
I stood. “I . . . I don’t . . . that is, I—”
I was fighting the strongest nausea I’d yet experienced. I gagged and clapped a hand over my mouth.
“I can’t just—” My words were muffled.
Berghauser looked alarmed. “Miss Prentice, are you ill?” He also rose to his feet.
The big desk stood between us, and Berghauser had reason to be grateful for that fact, because just then, I threw up all over it.
~~~
“Oh, I’m glad I’m alive to see this day,” Olive Chapel declared in a fervent singsong whisper as she handed me another damp paper towel. “Here, honey.” She’d responded to the principal’s desperate summons and had helped me to the ladies’ room. “You took that man down a notch, you did, and more power to you!”
I used the towel to wipe my hands. I was seated on a folding chair with my head down, in accordance with accepted first aid practice. I continued to maintain my compliant position as she placed the towel on the back of my neck, but I had to ask.
“What are you talking about?”
She squatted and lifted my chin gently with her index finger. As she gently bathed my face, she said, “Don’t get me wrong, Amelia. Berghauser’s a pretty good man deep down, but lately he’s sort of turned into somebody else, like. Maybe he sees retirement at the end of the tunnel, I don’t know, but it’s getting harder to see the good guy and easier to see the donkey’s tail, if you see what I mean.”
I did. When I’d lost my lunch on his desk, he’d stared at me, wide-eyed, and said, “Really, Miss Prentice!” as he pressed the intercom.
“He did seem to act as though I’d done it on purpose,” I agreed. “I didn’t, you know.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Olive eyed my face speculatively. “But are you going to be all right? You need me to call the nurse?”
“No, thanks,” I said hastily. Nurse Dee’s motherly ministrations would only make me feel worse. “Just a little queasiness and stress. It’s nothing, nothing at all.”
Olive smiled. “Oh, I get it. You haven’t told Gil Dickensen.”
“Told what?”
She smiled benevolently. “About the bun in the oven. Don’t worry, sweetie. Nobody will hear it from me, but you better get a move on because it’s gonna be common knowledge around here by the end of the week.”
I was shocked. “But who would know?”
Olive shrugged. “Hard to say, but people talk. Chances are Berghauser’ll hear of it before tomorrow and, whatever you do, don’t let him off the hook. You got him on the run, girlfriend. Ten to one, he’ll think you could sue him for something. Harassment, maybe. Keep it that way, that’s my advice.”
She looked at her watch. “Uh, oh, the bell’s about to ring. I gotta go back and make sure the janitor’s cleaning up the place.” She went to the door, looked back and pointed at me. “Remember what I said.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Olive’s prediction about repercussions proved true because very little was said the next day about the incident in the principal’s office. I never received the expected memo or summons in the morning, and Mr. Berghauser even smiled hesitantly at me in the lunchroom line.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you. I’m very sorry for—”
“No need.” He waved away my apology and scurried off, carrying his tray.
“If I knew that was all it took, I might’ve tried it sooner,” I murmured to myself as I accepted a bowl of vegetable soup from Mrs. Breen.
“Good choice,” someone said in my ear.
I turned and beheld Alec, holding a tray. “The chicken casserole is a disgrace—I can tell ye that first hand—but I’m told the soup is nice.”
He deposited his used crockery on the appropriate surface and chivalrously took over my load. “Come join us. Vern and I are having a meeting.”
“Here in the school dining hall?”
Approaching the table, I smiled hesitantly at Vern, who responded with a sullen frown while chewing a mouthful of food. He’d been avoiding and ignoring me ever since the Night of the Lunchbox.
I was of two minds on the subject. On one hand, I had turned him in, so to speak, when he asked me to wait; however, if we hadn’t gone to the police, he might have found himself in far deeper trouble later on. Either way, Vern’s attitude, while somewhat understandable, was hurtful to me.
“The food’s cheap, and I wanted to catch up with you, so I asked Vern to meet me.” Alec resumed his chair and opened the top of a large spring-bound legal pad. “The thing is, Amelia, Etienne’s roped us into designing and building the Chez Prentice entry in the snow sculpture contest.”
“I wondered how he was going to manage that.”
“The deadline for submitting our plan is this afternoon at five. We’ve gone through dozens of different ideas, but nothing seemed right, but just now, we had a flash of genius. By the way, we’ve called Etienne, and he’s definitely enamored of the idea. Marie thinks we’re a bit daft, but she’ll cooperate.” He paused and announced, “We’re going to build a miniature Chez Prentice!”
“She won’t like it,” Vern commented, and crammed half a slice of bread into his mouth.
“Nonsense, lad. You see, Amelia,” Alec explained, “Chez Prentice is built along square, straight lines. It would be relatively easy to build in snow. And the details will make it charming, unique, the clapboards, the chimney bricks, everything. It’ll be one-eighth scale or thereabouts. Don’t you think it’s
a splendid idea?”
He turned to Vern. “One thing, though, have you lined up a crew yet?”
“But—” I sputtered.
Vern ignored me. “Sure have. I called those students of yours you mentioned, and they’re on board. Melody’s willing to help out whenever she has time. It’s a done deal. They’re setting up the tarps in the front yard as we speak.”
I jumped into the conversation. “You two certainly have moved fast on this.”
“We had to, because of the deadline. Check out Alec’s sketch.” Vern slid an artist’s pad across the table in an almost civil manner.
Sure enough, the sketch was of Chez Prentice, albeit cartoonish. In fact, it seemed to almost put an actual face on the house. Half-drawn shades in the upstairs windows resembled drooping eyelids; the central upstairs gable became a nose of sorts and the front door, a mouth. I smiled in spite of myself.
“Well, it is rather charming. Friendly.”
“It’ll be a fine image for Chez Prentice. And free advertising,” Alec said.
Vern took a look at his watch. “Uh, oh, Gotta run.” He gathered up his papers in one sweeping motion, stuffed them into his backpack, and was gone.
I closed my eyes, mentally blessed my food, and took a deep breath. When I opened them, Alec was gazing at me over his cup of coffee with a glint in his eye.
I picked up my spoon. “What?”
He leaned forward across the table. “Give me your hand, Amelia.”
Puzzled, I extended my right hand.
Alec took it in both of his, and when I drew it back, it contained a red metallic rectangle, smaller than a powder compact.
I opened it. “My telephone? My goodness, it’s tiny.”
“It’s one of the simpler ones to operate. I’ve charged it up and programmed it with my number. Ye’ll know it’s me by the special ring.” He answered my doubting expression, “Don’t worry, Amelia, you’ll learn to love it.”
I doubted that, but said, “Thanks, Alec.”
“But that’s not all,” he whispered gruffly, “I have information.”
Surely no agent of the CIA was more eager. He glanced over his shoulder. He was enjoying himself—Alec the Spy.
“Yes?” I sipped my soup. It was good, as he had predicted.
“Well, I had breakfast at McDonald’s this morning and heard some interesting gossip from a fellow who does janitor work for Gray’s Funeral Home. That woman at Chez Prentice? The guest?”
“You mean Mrs. Daye?”
“The very same. It seems she’s been shopping.”
“Shopping?”
“Well, browsing, actually. For coffins. And funeral plans.”
I shrugged. “That’s not all that suspicious, Alec. Lots of people do that.”
“Yes, but she’s not from here. And is it for herself or someone else?”
“That’s not very juicy gossip. Nor does it implicate her in the murder. Why would the murderer plan the victim’s funeral?” A thought swam into my head. “Unless, perhaps, she’s somehow related to the victim. Have they determined his identity yet?”
Alec shrugged and shook his head.
“Could a little woman like that overpower a grown man, and what’s more, kill him, in such close quarters?”
“You’re right, of course.” Alec sighed and applied a pat of butter to his roll. “I just thought it was interesting. You need to keep an eye on her, though, that’s my advice.” He took a hearty bite of bread.
We ate in thoughtful silence for a little while.
Alec looked over his shoulder and said in a low voice, “That’s valuable information in that lunchbox. There’s a lot of money to be made in false identities, green cards, and suchlike.”
“What kind of person might be involved in something like that?”
“Someone who moves about the area regularly, I would think,” Alec said.
“And has connections across the border, perhaps?”
“Someone who might need money.”
“That would describe quite a number of us, Alec,” I said.
“True.” He reached for his coffee cup.
“Someone involved in ice fishing?” I speculated thoughtfully.
Alec scratched his head and reverted again to a whisper. “You know whom we’re describing, don’t you?”
I looked around self-consciously. There were only two people left at the long teacher’s table, and they were at the other end.
I whispered, “Out with it, Alec!”
“Etienne LeBow.” He saw my expression and added hastily, “No, Amelia, hear me out.” He began ticking off points on his fingers. “Moves about a good deal, has connections in Canada, always in need of money for those business schemes of his, and as for the ice fishing element, you can see for yourself. Besides, who knows what foreign contacts he’s made over the years?”
“That’s nonsense.” The very idea made my stomach seem to sink within me.
“I know, I like the fellow myself, but what do we really know about his life before he returned to Marie? Think about it, that’s all I’m saying.”
“He’s my business partner, for goodness’ sake. I know all about his past.”
“Yes, but consider the source. Do you really know if what he told you is true? Have you had any of it verified?” He looked at my face and smiled gently. “Ah, I thought not.”
“Oh, Alec, I don’t know. I can hardly bear to think of such a thing. I mean, I think I know him. I know as much about him as, well, as I do about you.”
“Oh, my, y’ve gone quite pale.” Alec reached a hairy hand across the table and patted mine. “Och, I’m sorry, m’dear. Don’t give it a second thought. I’ve let my imagination run away with me again. I was just speculatin’, ye might say.” He had gotten quite Scottish all of a sudden.
I sat up straighter. “No, you’re right, of course. We must try to remain dispassionate. I mean, as you listed those aspects of the guilty person, I found myself thinking—no, I must admit that it was hoping—that someone of the Shea clan fit the bill. And they do, up to a point.”
“A few minutes ago, at this very table, Mrs. Dee told me she spent her Christmas vacation in the Laurentians. Where did she get the money? Bert Swanson also fits. As do I, come to that.”
“Yes, darn it.”
He held up an admonishing index finger. “Dispassionate, you said.”
I smiled at him. “Risky as it might seem, don’t you think we can at least eliminate you from our list of suspects?”
Alec glanced up sharply.
I turned around. Blakely Knight was approaching the teacher’s table, carrying his lunch tray. Pointedly ignoring us, he slid into a seat at the other end of the table.
“Speaking of preferred suspects,” Alec growled under his breath, “have ye given him a thought? He might be pretty good at hand-to-hand combat.” Alec’s own big hands formed slowly into fists as if he relished the idea.
“Do you know about him and Lily?” I whispered.
Alec’s eyebrows came together in a ferocious expression. “Oh, aye.” He stood and picked up his tray. “But I believe we’re finished here for the time being. Must be running along, m’self. I have snow sculpting supplies to purchase. And isn’t that your class bell?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
There was a strange square tent-like structure the size of a one-car garage fashioned from khaki tarpaulins and poles on Chez Prentice’s front yard. A heavy electric cord leading from it snaked to the basement entrance around the side of the house. Muffled sounds emanated from within and all at once, Vern emerged from a flap in the side. He acknowledged me with a relatively polite nod and trudged away, following the cord.
“Hello?” I called as I entered the Chez Prentice foyer. “Anybody home?”
“Here, Amelia!” Marie answered, sounding anxious. “We’re in the kitchen. Come here, you gotta see this!”
I hurried through the dining room.
Sure enough, Marie, Etienne,
Hester, and Bert were staring at the wall-mounted television recently purchased so that our more media-addicted guests could watch the news at breakfast.
“This isn’t good,” Etienne said as he stared at the screen.
“Terrible,” Hester agreed, shaking her head as she dried her hands on a dishtowel.
“Isn’t going to help them much,” Bert added. “Stupid kids.”
“What is it?” I stepped forward to see the screen.
Along the bottom, a subtitle read, “Previously recorded” and a reporter was saying, “And here, once again, is footage of what happened earlier today at the suspects’ home.”
A shaky, hand-held camera zoomed in on a figure as it scrambled across the roof of a house. Rapidly the figure climbed into a window, pausing just before it disappeared to give a jaunty wave. The camera pulled back and moved down the house to the snowy yard and a still, dark body lying there, apparently having fallen from the roof.
My heart raced. I gasped. “Oh no! Who is it?”
Marie laid her hand gently on my arm. “Don’t worry, it’s okay. Just watch.”
The camera zoomed in closer, moving slowly along the still form, starting with the feet and pausing significantly where the head would be. Instead, however, there was a white athletic sock, apparently stuffed to approximate a head and crudely decorated with eyes, nose, and a leering mouth.
The news anchor said, “As we said, this was shot immediately after our cameraman observed what he thought was a body falling from the roof of the Rousseau house. Fortunately, that body turned out to be a homemade dummy. Here’s a comment by the boys’ father.”
Sure enough, there on the screen was Martin Rousseau, looking more harried and gray-faced than ever, standing in the middle of the rabid crowd of reporters. A microphone was thrust into his face. He blinked and cleared his throat.
“I want to say, I mean, the boys want me to say, that they apologize to you people for the real dumb thing they did this morning.”
The crowd of reporters surged even closer. Their varied, frantically-thrown questions intertwined with one another.
Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series) Page 17
