Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series) (12 page)

It was my turn to blush, but any response was squelched by the arrival of our waiter, bearing menus the size and heft of the Sunday
New York Times
.

I selected the evening’s special, filet mignon, twice-baked potatoes,
petit pois
, and house salad.

Gil, with a puzzled look at me, chose the same.

The waiter listened attentively, then asked, “Would you care for soup to start? A nice lobster bisque?”

Gil and I both spoke at once.

“No, thanks.”

“Yes, please. Guess not,” I quickly amended.

“I’ll bring out some hot bread right away.” With a sidelong glance and an enigmatic smile, the waiter withdrew.

“Amelia,” Gil said, “go ahead and have soup if you want.”

“No, I ordered enough for an army already. They say marriage puts a few pounds on you, and I’m living proof.”

I could tell he was trying not to smile. “That usually refers to the husband, because of the wife’s good home cooking. However, in our case—”

“That’s enough about my cooking, mister, or lack thereof. Here come the salads.”

Gil bowed his head with me as I gave my silent thanks. When I opened my eyes, I caught him gazing at me thoughtfully.

Dinner was wonderful. I attacked my underdone cube of beef with enthusiasm and declined dessert only for appearance’s sake.

“I feel like I’m in a scene from
Tom Jones
,” Gil murmured as I buttered the last roll in the second basket. “I had no idea marriage would bring out such . . . bawdiness in you.”

“A healthy appetite is bawdy?”

He took my hand and grinned. “I’m not criticizing. It looks good on you, with your flawless table manners. I—uh, oh—don’t look now.” He dropped my hand and sat back.

With a sense of dread, I turned and spotted a familiar, shimmery pink figure approaching, followed by her tall escort.

“Told you we’d see you later,” Lily Burns chirped. “You know, Blakely, first these two stay away for weeks and weeks, then all of a sudden we can’t get away from them!” She emitted a peal of artificial, silvery laughter and looked down. “We just finished dinner, and Blakely insisted we pay you a little visit.” She spoke in her usual fluttery social voice, but I could tell she was not happy about it.

“Make yourselves at home,” Gil said, with an elaborately casual gesture. He stood and pulled out a chair for Lily.

The waiter asked if we needed anything else. Lily ordered a trendy Cosmopolitan, and Blakely, a scotch on the rocks. Gil ordered a cola and I opted for ginger ale. It sounded good to my slightly queasy stomach, which had suddenly started giving me little, faintly rebellious qualms.

“You’re not drinking, Gil?” Blakely asked.

“Just can’t spare the brain cells, pal,” Gil parried deftly as he reached for his drink.

The ice clinked against the glass. Blakely couldn’t have known about the history of alcoholism in Gil’s family, which was my husband’s primary reason for abstaining.

Lily’s voice had the same crisp, icy sound. “Have you heard anything from Sam, Amelia?”

I sighed. It was a painful subject for me and she knew it.

“No, nothing.”

“Sam? Is this an old boyfriend?” Blakely put one long arm around the back of Lily’s chair. “Should I be jealous?” He picked up her hand and kissed it.

Lily actually blushed. “An old cat, as in feline,” she told him. She looked over at me and spoke each word firmly. “A sweet, precious old pet, lost due to appalling neglect.”

“I have informed Amelia that we were only going to discuss happy subjects tonight, Lily,” Gil put in. “That’s not one of them.”

Lily frowned. “What male chauvinist nonsense.”

“Well, I think it’s a good idea.” Blakely shuddered. “Besides, I can’t stand cats. Underhanded, sneaky creatures.”

“That’s not true—” Lily said.

“Sam’s not—” I said.

We spoke simultaneously and stopped, exchanging surprised glances.

Lily said, “This cat is an exception to that rule, Blake. He’s as affectionate as any dog.”

Yes, when you feed him sour cream and butter, against veterinarian’s orders, I thought, but did not say.

“A cat’s a cat,” Blakely said. He withdrew his arm and hunched over his drink.

I glanced at Lily and caught a faint catlike tightening around the eyes. Blakely had blundered. I wasn’t a cat person,
per se,
but even I knew better than to say something like that in front of Lily Burns.

“What do you hear from the jailbirds, Amelia?” Blakely asked, looking over the rim of his glass. “The raging Rousseau Brothers.” He took a sip.

“I, uh.”

“Seems to me people have finally gotten wise to those boys. They’ve been out of control far too long.”

“Sorry, that subject’s on the on the taboo list too,” Gil said firmly. “So, Blakely, are you entered in the ice fishing contest?”

“I’m afraid I’m not much for the great outdoors, Gil. Hunting, fishing—none of that. I like lifting weights, working on my six pack.” He patted his midsection and hefted an imaginary dumbbell with his fist. “Doing laps at the Y pool, like that. You might say I prefer indoor sports, if you get my drift.” He glanced at Lily.

Gil purposefully ignored the implication of the remark and went on making pleasant conversation. “I understand you just joined the faculty this winter. Where are you from originally?”

“The Midwest.” Blakely waved his hands vaguely. “Say, what’s this?” He plucked at the catch of Lily’s clutch purse and pulled back a grayish tuft.

I smiled. Strike two against Blakely. If there was anything Lily hated, it was to be picked at.

“Just lint,” Lily said briskly, snatching the speck from Blakely and dropping it on the floor. “Will we see you two at the Ice Dance?”

“Um . . . probably. Yes.” Gil cast a glance over at me and I nodded.

Lily had just cleverly informed me that she’d lined up Blakely as her date to this particular event.

He took Lily’s elbow. “Come on, Lily. I think these two want to be alone.”

Lily gathered up her glass and her evening purse in a confused manner. “Well, goodbye. Good luck hunting for Sam.” She clattered after her escort on her high heels.

“Alone at last.” Gil held up his glass in a toast. “Here’s to long honeymoons.”

We clinked glasses, smiled at one another and settled into a pleasant, companionable silence, listening to the music coming from the dance band.

“I remember that song,” I said, humming along.
. . . you are the wind beneath my wings . . .

“Me too,” said Gil. “By the way, I like your new dress. You look nice in that color. It makes your eyes look really green. And I like that—” he gestured in a sheepish, masculine way that I found particularly endearing, “—front part.”

My minor weight gain had enhanced my bosom somewhat, and the bodice of this new dress draped nicely over it. I smiled dreamily at him.

“Thanks.”

“Come on, let’s dance.”

We were threading our way around the tables in the crowded dining room when a now-familiar feeling hit me once again. I pulled on Gil’s arm. “I’ve—I’m—I’ve got to—”

Without another word, I rushed toward the sanctuary of the sign marked Restrooms and threw myself against the one designated Ladies. I was just in time. Suffice it to say that my lovely dinner in its entirety immediately deposited itself in the nearest porcelain toilet. And all I kept thinking was how thankful I was that it was such a clean restroom.

“The flu, maybe,” I told myself afterwards as I mopped my face before the mirror with a damp paper towel.

The reflection of a pretty face appeared behind me. “Mrs. Dickensen, are you all right?”

“Yes, thanks, just a little woozy.”

The girl frowned in concern. She was tall and young, perhaps nineteen or twenty, with dark brown hair that formed a halo of delicate curls around her pale face.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No, thanks, it’s all right. I feel a lot better.” Probably a former student, I thought. “I’m sorry; I don’t remember your name.”

She smiled, and her blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “That’s because we’ve never really met. Vern sent me in. We’re sitting in the corner across the dining room, sort of behind a post. We didn’t want to disturb you, and when that other couple showed up, Vern said we really didn’t want to get into that mess—I mean,” She paused, realizing that her quote might not be tactful. “Then when you came in here so suddenly, Vern sent me to see if I could help. I’m a nursing student, you know.”

“You’re Melody Branch!”

She smiled, surprised. “Vern has mentioned me to you?” The idea seemed to please her a good deal.

“Oh, yes.”

It was a half-truth, because I had actually dragged the information out of Vern, but I was a sucker for romance and encouraged it whenever I could. I was about to say more, when there was a chirping sound.

“Excuse me,” Melody said apologetically, “my cell.” She rummaged in her small purse and pulled out a square cell phone resembling a tiny television, tapped it and said, “Hello?”

Trying to give her some privacy, I turned away and began to soap my hands under the tap, but Melody’s clear young voice rang through the peripheral sounds.

“What? Sure, I remember you. Why?” There was a pause while she listened. “Well, didn’t he tell you where he was going?” Melody paced and curled one strand of hair around her finger thoughtfully. “No, I know. Of course you can’t. We’ll come get you right away. No, it’s okay. I’ve got an air mattress we can put on the floor. We’ll figure all that out when we get there. Stay cool.” She stowed the cell phone back in her purse.

I didn’t ask, but she seemed eager to talk. She stepped up to the mirror with a comb and began to repair the damage she’d done to her hairdo. “Sorry about that. It’s an old school friend of mine. She’s pretty stupid sometimes. I told her she shouldn’t go live with this guy. She barely knows him. Now he’s run out on her, and she’s frantic. Her parents won’t speak to her, and she and I haven’t been especially close since high school, but I guess I’m all she’s got.” She shrugged.

You’re a nice girl, Melody,
I thought, rinsing my hands.

Melody sighed and put away her comb. “If Vern doesn’t mind, we’ll go pick her up. She can stay with me at the sorority for a couple of days until she gets her head straightened out, poor kid.” She went to the door and opened it.

I said, “I don’t think Vern will mind. He’s a really good fellow.”

She dimpled. “Oh, I know that! It’s just that it’s so far. Almost to Canada, so I guess you better not expect him to get home early. See you later!”

The door closed and I was left to dry my hands and think.

Vern and Melody were heading out of the dining room by the time I made it back to our table. “The young lady with Vern assured me you were all right,” Gil said as he stood and held my chair. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. In fact, I’d like to have some dessert, after all.” I decided that he didn’t need to know that I’d lost my dinner and was starving again.

“Good idea.” Gil signaled the waiter. We put in our order for the house specialty, Bavarian cream with butterscotch.

While we waited, I explained about Melody and the telephone call. “Unless I miss my guess, the poor kid in question is Yvonne LaBombard. Her mother told me she was living with a man somewhere in the Champlain area, near the border. They don’t like him very much.”

“Whoever the girl is, she has a good friend in Melody,” Gil observed.

“That’s true. I’m so glad Vern has finally found a really nice girl. Ohh,” I murmured with pleasure as the dessert was placed before us.

“Aren’t you being a little premature?” Gil picked up a spoon and dipped it in the thick butterscotch. “I wouldn’t go ordering the wedding cake just yet, if I were you.” He tasted the dessert. “Mmm, it
is
good.”

“It’s the bride’s family who provides the cake,” I corrected him. “The groom’s family gives the rehearsal dinner. Double mmm.” I closed my eyes. “Well, if they do get serious, I only hope they’re as happy as I am at this very moment, Gil.”

He lifted his glass of cola. “Here’s to things staying just the way they are right now.” His voice grew husky. “I intend to spend the rest of my life keeping it this way.”

“Cross your heart and hope to spit?” I said, quoting one of my students with a smile.

He drew a cross over his heart. “You’ll have to imagine the spitting part. This is a classy joint.”

I imitated his gesture. “And I promise the same thing.”

“But that’s impossible!”

It was Monday and I had just wasted the better part of two hours, first in the doctor’s waiting room, then shivering in an examination room, wearing a flimsy backless smock, missing my morning classes. I never would have come if I hadn’t been distinctly queasy again in the middle of church the morning before.

It had happened just as we were about to sing the offertory, and Gil said that even from his seat in the congregation, he could see my face turn a pale shade of green, right in the middle of the alto section. At his insistence, I’d reluctantly agreed to call the doctor today and had been “squeezed in.” I’d also been poked and prodded and had various bodily fluids collected. It had been no fun at all and I was in no mood for jokes.

“The test is quite reliable, Amelia.”

With a faintly amused expression, Dr. Benjamin Stout pulled a sheet of paper toward himself on his big desk and peered at it through his reading glasses. He fit his name almost too well: barrel-chested under his white coat and double-chinned when he lowered his head to look at me over his reading glasses. He and old Dr. Henry Lewis before him had been my lifelong GPs.

“Reliable, unlike some doctors!” I snapped. “I was told, in this very building, by your late partner, that I was unable to conceive.”

Ben picked up my thick file and flipped back through the pages. “That was . . . just a second . . . here it is. That was over twenty years ago. We’ve learned a lot more about hormone levels since then. Turns out, you’ve been capable of conception ever since we corrected that thyroid imbalance.”