Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series)

by E. E. Kennedy

  Flanking the entrance were two impressive snow sculptures, a full-color one that recreated the nearby law library’s life-size painting of the swashbuckling Samuel de Champlain and an all-white snowy depiction of the Lincoln memorial.

  Melody and I found a place off to the left, where we could perch on a stone wall and see a little above the heads of the crowd. Just as the mayor and a handful of other local dignitaries strode up to the podium, someone stepped roughly between us. I teetered on the edge of the wall, but was caught around the waist by a strong arm.

  “Hold on there!”

  “Vern!” Melody said delightedly.

  The young man in question wrapped his free arm around her and planted a quick kiss on top of her dark head. “Brr! It’s cold. Get close and warm me up!”

  The anxiety and a little of the anger that had haunted Vern for days was still in his eyes, but there was also a spark of pride. He nodded toward Melody.

  “How do you like her?”

  “She’s lovely,” I said sincerely, surprised that he would express himself so openly.

  “Shh!” Melody cautioned. “They’re starting!”

  After the usual minor adjustments were made to the public address system, our distinguished District Attorney Elm DeWitt stepped up to the microphone and announced the awards, beginning with the smallest. One by one, the winner raised his gloved hand, polite applause was given, pictures were taken and one of the three costumed school mascots—a hornet, a wolf, and a bear—handed over a small, golden loving cup to the recipient.

  I scanned the crowd for the missing boys, but had no luck.

  As the fourth prize was awarded, Vern bent down and muttered, “Nothing so far. That means either we won big or we got nothing! The suspense is starting to get to me!”

  Melody consoled him with a gentle smile and a comforting pat on the chest.

  Third prize, second prize, then first prize was awarded. As this winner was handed his cup, Vern shrugged and turned around. “Ah, well. Better luck next year, eh? Come on, who’s for hot chocolate? The Kiwanis Club’s got a trailer across the street—”

  At the same time he said these words, I heard Elm DeWitt declare in a loud voice, “And the Grand Prize Winner is . . . Chez Prentice!”

  After a split second of disbelief, Melody screamed and jumped up and down. We raised our arms to be recognized and turned a confused Vern over to a huge human hornet, who led him through the crowd and up the red-carpeted steps.

  As we watched happily, he accepted a large blue ribbon bearing the words, “Grand Prize Winner,” which was meant to be placed on the sculpture along with a check for a presumably generous amount. Cameras flashed as the district attorney and the other judges shook Vern’s hand.

  Just before he left the platform, Vern leaned over to the microphone and said, “This really should go to the man behind the idea, Professor Alec Alexander, a true genius.”

  There was scattered applause and a bit of frowning discomfiture among the dignitaries, some of whom had openly found Alec’s quest for the Lake Champlain monster to be an embarrassment. Genius was hardly the word they’d used to describe him.

  The awards ceremony concluded. Vern descended the stairs, along with the hornet mascot and a reporter from the newspaper.

  “Come on. We’re going to the B&B to take pictures!”

  Melody joined him and beckoned to me, but I smiled and shook my head. The chill between Vern and me wasn’t just from the cold air, and besides, I had hunting to do.

  The small, happy throng headed off in the direction of Jury Street. I watched them go, smiling. Melody seemed to be a sweet-natured and perceptive young woman, and I could tell Vern was fond of her. This relationship definitely had possibilities.

  Not if he goes to jail, it won’t.

  Where had that thought come from? Obviously, my mind was voicing the fears that had dogged me for the past few days.

  At this thought, I halted in my tracks, and someone bumped forcibly into me from behind. “Excuse me!” I turned to assure them that I was unhurt.

  “Miss Prentice!” a child’s voice rang out.

  “It’s Mrs. Dickensen, sweetie,” Dorothy O’Brien corrected her daughter, “Remember the wedding you were in?” Meaghan had been my flower girl.

  Dennis was justifiably proud of those he called his two girls. They made a most attractive mother-daughter pair, with their freckled cheeks pink from the cold and bright red curls peeking out from under identical colorful stocking caps.

  Meaghan’s mittened hand held a festival program. “We’re going to the pancake fling. I’m gonna throw pancakes like they’re frisbees. Daddy taught me how. Wanna come with us?”

  Before I could accept or decline, Dorothy said, “I heard that Chez Prentice won the top prize. Congratulations!” She grinned.

  “Con-go-lations!” Meaghan echoed.

  “Thanks, but it was all the work of Vern and the professor. They’re the ones who built the sculpture. Meaghan, dear, I’m afraid I can’t come with you right now,” I told the child.

  Come to think of it, where had Alec gone? He would have been a lot of help in the search for the Rousseau boys.

  Meaghan spent no time on regrets, only tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Come on, Mommy, we’re going to be late!”

  A frightful thought occurred to me. “Dorothy, where’s Dennis? He said he had to be someplace right away.” The image of Dennis encountering one or more of the Rousseau boys in this crowd made me shudder.

  Dorothy rolled her eyes. “He promised to help with the snowshoe race. We get him back when he’s finished there.”

  “Mommy! Come on!”

  With an apologetic smile, Dorothy allowed herself to be pulled toward the elementary school.

  “The snowshoe race,” I repeated, consulted the tiny map on the festival brochure, and struck out in the proper direction. If I could head the boys off at the pass, so to speak, and get them to return home, perhaps I could keep circumstances from further ruining Dennis’ day off.

  The race’s venue, the high school track, was located down a steep incline behind the main school building. Despite the salt and sand that had been lavished on the sidewalk, it was risky going until I arrived at the scene of the snowshoe race.

  Half a block ahead of me, a stocky middle-aged man slid into a handily placed snowdrift. When he recovered, slapping snow off his coat and replacing his expensive hat, I recognized Kevin Shea, sponsor of the race. He looked around to see if anyone had seen the mishap, and I tactfully pretended to be pawing through my satchel. He made rapid progress after that, and by the time I reached the ticket stand, he was at the race’s starting point, directing his employees to assist the young entrants with their footwear.

  “Hi, Mrs. Dickensen!” The ticket-seller, Hardy Patchke, took my admission fee and filled me in on how the race was to work. “There’s gonna be three heats, for the different age groups. If somebody doesn’t have snowshoes, Shea’s Sporting Goods’ll loan out used ones.” He handed me my change. “The first race is for eight- and nine-year-olds.”

  I hastened to the small metal bleachers along the track and climbed several levels in order to get a good view of the track. The seats were cold and a chill had soon numbed my hindquarters.

  Rummaging in my bag, I found the tiny cell phone and pressed the appropriate buttons to call Alec.

  “Hello, this is Alec Alexander. I’d be grateful if you’d leave a message.”

  I sighed with frustration and glanced around to see who might be listening, then, cupping my hands to keep out the ambient noise, I waited for the beep and said, “Alec, there have been complications. The two subjects are out. If you encounter either subject, please make sure they go home right away. I don’t have to tell you what the consequences could be if they are, um, apprehended. Call me for more details, please.”

  I snapped the little phone shut and looked around again. Nobody had paid the slightest attention to me. They were all too busy cheering on t
heir favorites.

  I stared at the proceedings. It was hard to determine the identities of the various adults who occupied positions along the large oval track. There was a variety of heavy parkas, plaid woolen lumberjack coats, and dark overcoats, not to mention hats of every imaginable form: Russian-style ushankas with fur-lined flaps, whimsical long-tailed stocking caps, and one or two of those Alpine hats that always seemed to be adorned with shaving brushes.

  At last I spotted the tallish hatless figure near the finish line, and when he characteristically lifted his hand to brush his hair back, I knew for sure it was Dennis. He never wore a hat, even in winter, trusting in the thickness of his dark blond hair to keep his head warm.

  “Everyone to your places!” Kevin Shea announced through a bullhorn. “On your marks!” they chanted, and the crowd joined in, “Get set!” I looked over to see Brigid Shea with her hand held high in the air. “Go!”

  A gunshot sent a jolt through the group. Cheers went up and the race was on.

  I watched as Mrs. Shea thrust the small starting pistol into her purse and turned a painted-on smile to the crowd. If Kevin Shea was indeed elected mayor—and it was a distinct possibility—that would make Brigid First Lady of our town, not a thought that I relished. As if she sensed my negative thought waves, she whispered in her husband’s ear, descended the stairs of the platform and disappeared into the crowd.

  The young racers, mostly little boys, set off gamely, using a curious foot-lifting gait, aided by short, kid-length ski poles. These were not the snowshoes depicted in cartoons, which resemble tennis rackets.

  Today’s snowshoes were smaller, lighter, and scientifically designed to work with the walker’s foot to move him swiftly over the surface of the snow. They ranged in price from $39.95 to $199 and could be obtained at a fantastic discount at Shea’s Quality Sporting Goods if the customer produced a ticket stub. Or so Kevin Shea announced to the crowd with his bullhorn.

  The adults stationed around the track, I soon learned, were there to help those who fell over and also to ensure against tussles among the participants. As the crowd shouted encouragement, I watched Dennis O’Brien pull apart two over-zealous racers and send them on their way.

  Moments later, to my surprise, I spotted Brigid Shea at Dennis’ elbow. Clearly annoyed at the interruption, he frowned and bent to hear something she spoke into his ear. He gestured into the distance; she nodded and melted into the crowd.

  My seat was becoming unbearably cold, so I edged my way past the enthusiastic parents to the ground level. “How long does this event take?” I asked Hardy at the entrance.

  He shrugged. “Mr. Shea told me to stay two hours.”

  “Will you be racing in the teen division?” I asked, and immediately regretted my words.

  Hardy’s usually cheerful face registered a second of chagrin. “Nope, my asthma, remember?”

  “Of course.” It must be frustrating for an active, enthusiastic boy to be sidelined in such a way, and I had made it worse with my tactlessness.

  “Hey, it’s okay. I’m making some money doing this, y’know.”

  “For your college fund, no doubt.”

  He grinned. “Nope, games for my Play Station. You leaving? Here.” He grabbed my hand, pulled back part of my glove and stamped the skin with a Shea’s logo. “You can come back in if you show this.”

  I feigned gratitude, but now that I was sure that Dennis and the Rousseau boys probably wouldn’t be within fifty feet of one another for the next two hours, there was no need for me to sit shivering amid this cheering throng.

  I bid Hardy farewell and headed back up the hill to continue my search for the runaways. And, incidentally, to find a restroom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I passed the movie-theatre parking lot, where the various bands had gathered. It would be the starting and ending point of the parade. The young band members, thickly bundled in their particular school band uniforms, looked cold, nonetheless. They were tuning up with a variety of drumbeats, clarinet scales, and trumpet flourishes. It was a sound that had always given me a sense of pleased anticipation. I knew that they were looking forward to the moment they could get marching. Their breaths came out in clouds. I shivered for them and waved. A few waved back.

  But right now I had something else on my mind. It was getting urgent now, the need to find a restroom. There were numerous bright orange portable toilets in three strategic spots around the downtown area, but the nausea that had become my constant companion warned me that I’d pay dearly if I didn’t find a pristine, relatively scentless place to do my business.

  “Well, the Old Episcopal it is,” I muttered grimly and continued my walk, swimming upstream, as it were, against a tide of happy festival-goers lining up four deep along the sidewalk, waiting for the parade.

  I’d never actually been in the restrooms at this church, but I had attended several ecumenical chapel services and had a sketchy knowledge of the floor plan.

  As I went, a variety of different smells—funnel cake, flapjacks with maple syrup, Italian meatball sandwiches—mingled with the chilly gusts and tempted my taste buds, but the rest of my body was insistent. I must get to a toilet, and soon!

  When I crossed the memorial square in front of the church, the crowd had thinned a little, and I took a short cut, as I frequently did, through the adjacent old graveyard that dated back to before the Revolutionary War. This time, the names and dates had an added poignancy for me with small headstones lined up next to larger ones. Parents lost so many children in those days, mostly to disease. I paused and said a prayer. I was so very thankful that I lived in an age where my baby would be far less likely to suffer the fate of, say, little Matthew Revere Ramsey, dead at the age of only 12 days. “Suffer the little children,” the stone read—

  Matthew Ramsey?

  This was important, I knew, but before I went to Alec—or to Dennis—with this information, I really, really had to go to the bathroom.

  Hastily, and a little bit sheepishly—I wasn’t really a festival volunteer, after all—I went up the steps of the church and through the heavy, carved wooden doors.

  The granite-floored narthex was quiet as I entered and the doors to the sanctuary were closed and locked. I stomped a bit to shake the snow off my boots. The smell here was of candle wax and the faint moldy fragrance so common in old buildings. My steps echoed as I followed the hallway around to the left where a small sign indicated the bell tower, church offices and restrooms.

  The door leading to the bell tower was next to the room marked “Ladies.” With a sigh of relief, I pushed through the door.

  A good deal of the church’s renovation had been accomplished, but the restrooms had clearly been saved for last. Though the floors had been recently mopped and the room smelled of lemon cleaner, the sinks were old and stained, the light switch was the antique push button kind, and a large eyelet latch reinforced the shaky doorknob.

  A woman was peering intently into the cracked mirror as she applied lipstick. An array of cosmetics occupied the small shelf over the sink. Brigid Shea scowled at my reflection in the mirror and snapped, “What’re you doing here?”

  “I—uh—using the restroom, like you.” I said, and hurried into a stall furthest away. Neither of us is a festival worker, Mrs. Shea, I thought, so we’re both guilty of trespassing.

  The lock on the stall door was no longer there, but with some effort, I managed to persuade it to stand open only a few inches and afford the required privacy.

  I had flushed the toilet and was making ready to emerge when I heard Brigid Shea say, “You aren’t supposed to be in here!”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but closed it when a male voice answered, “Don’t you worry about that!”

  “This is the ladies’ room! What are you doing? Why did you lock the door?”

  The man’s voice was a half whisper, but I thought it sounded familiar. “I need to talk to you about what happened on the lake.”

  B
rigid’s voice wavered. “On the lake? Wh-what do you mean?”

  “You know precisely what I mean. You came up with the idea of making the drop in that stupid tent and that gave the kid the idea he could stiff me.”

  There was cold menace in the man’s voice, and cold fear in Brigid’s. “S-stiff you? What are you talking about?”

  Clutching my satchel to my chest, I backed into the back corner of the stall. Maybe he wouldn’t notice that I was there. Maybe Brigid had forgotten.

  “Cut the dumb act, Mrs. Shea. It’s over. I’m closing down here and winding up unfinished business.” He spoke her name with contempt.

  “You’re the contact? You?”

  “You seem surprised.” He chuckled, and in that moment, I suppressed a gasp.

  I knew who it was.

  Brigid began to chatter, “I—I had no idea. Matt never told me who it was. He just said it was somebody local. He’s dead; Matt, I mean. It was in the papers.”

  “I knew it was you on that hill with binoculars. They flashed in the sun, you know.” He laughed. “I must hand it to you, Mrs. Shea, you don’t scare easily!”

  “Was that you whispering on the phone?”

  “What did you say to O’Brien back there?”

  “What?”

  “Were you telling him about the CDs, huh? Did you think they’d help you?”

  “No, of course not. I—um—I just asked him if his daughter was in the snowshoe race.” Her next words were a shout. “Hey! Get out of my purse! You can’t have that! It’s—” I heard grunting and heavy breathing and the sound of a blow.

  Brigid whimpered.

  “This’ll have to do,” he said. “Come on, we’re going someplace else, where we won’t be disturbed.”

  “But that’s—”

  I heard another blow.

  At that same moment, in the midst of a thick cloud of fear, something happened deep inside me. My hatred—and I could admit it now, it had been hatred—for Brigid Shea dissolved and was replaced by an intense pity and a desire to help her.