Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series) (27 page)

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.”

Brigid’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.

Please,
I prayed,
please help her! Or show me how!

The pipes gurgled in the wall behind me. Apparently, someone was using the men’s room next door.

“Hey, is there anybody else in here?” Brigid’s tormentor asked, and I heard his steps come closer.

Brigid’s voice was barely a squeak. “No, nope, just me. Honest.”

My eyes widened. Was the woman actually trying to protect me?

The outer door to the restroom rattled and a young girl’s voice called, “Hey, no fair! The ladies’ room’s locked!”

Brigid gave a muffled whimper.

“Shhh!”

The three of us waited, listening, for several minutes.

“They’re gone. Come on,” he said finally, and I heard the latch being undone.

As soon as they’re out the door, I’ll run for help. Or use my cell phone to call 911.

At the same time I had the thought, a faint but lilting tune echoed throughout the high-ceilinged room:

Maxwellton’s braes are bonnie
Where early fa’s the dew

And it’s there that Annie Laurie
Gave me her promise true . . .

Even as I retrieved the tiny telephone, opened and snapped it shut again, I heard the scrambling sound of footsteps.

The stall door swung open.

“Why, hello, Mrs. Dickensen,” Blakely Knight said pleasantly, “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Blakely Knight, just exactly what is going on here?” I asked in my stern teacher voice.

He made a rather fearsome sight, with one arm wrapped tightly around Brigid’s neck and the other holding a tiny pistol pressed into her cheek. A trickle of blood ran from her mouth and down her chin.

My attempt at playing the outraged authority didn’t fool him for a second. “Come on, now, Amelia. You’re an intelligent woman, and I would imagine that from what you just heard you’ve surmised exactly what’s going on.”

He let go of Brigid with a shove, and she staggered back a few paces but didn’t fall. He then turned and relocked the restroom door.

Frowning pensively, he fingered the barrel of the pistol and murmured, “Change of plan.”

Shakily, Brigid went over to the sink. Moving automatically, she dampened a paper towel and wiped the blood from her mouth. As if in a daze, she retrieved her purse from the floor beneath the sink and began quietly dropping cosmetics in it.

Stop that, I thought, you’re removing the clues that show you were here!

Obviously, Brigid wasn’t thinking strategically. I’d have to do the thinking for both of us.

All at once, Blakely seemed to make a decision. “Okay, I got it. Come on, you two.” He grabbed Brigid by the elbow and rammed the gun against her side.

“We’re leaving,” he told me. “You go out there and see if anybody’s out there. And Amelia, if you do or say anything out of line, I’ll blow out her ribcage, right through her coat. Now, unlock the door and do exactly as I say.”

With shaking hands, I complied and pulled the door open.

As I stepped into the dim and chilly hallway, I was surprised to see two figures twined tightly together, only a few feet away, standing next to the door to the bell tower. It was J.T. Rousseau and Crystal Gervais, exchanging a passionate kiss.

I couldn’t help myself. “Really!” I exclaimed, reflexively, “Necking in a
church!
”

The two sprung apart, wide-eyed.

For the moment, I forgot that Blakely and Brigid were hiding behind the restroom door. I was in full angry teacher mode.

“J.T. Rousseau, you’re in big trouble! Your father is looking all over town for you!” Fortunately, my senses returned suddenly. “In fact,” I added with a deep breath and an unspoken prayer, “everybody is looking for you: Vern, Mrs. Dee, Mr. Berghauser, and even Mr.
O’Secoor
.”

Grabbing Crystal’s hand, J.T. looked abashed, then his eyes widened. “Even Mr.
O’Secoor
? Oh, gosh, Miss Prentice, thanks for telling me! C’mon, Crystal.”

In a twinkling, they had left, and Blakely emerged with his hostage. Strangely, he didn’t seem displeased with me. He even chuckled.

“Just can’t stop being a teacher, can you, Amelia?”

I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help myself. I said, “No, but apparently you can.”

His voice changed to a growl. “Turn left and go through that door. Get going, up the stairs. We’re going to take a look at the bell tower.”

To my surprise, the door to the bell tower opened easily. The doorknob was loose, and it was apparently impossible to lock.
They’d better do something about that broken lock
, I thought absently.
They could get sued. Attractive nuisance, they call it
. As I pulled open the door, a bitter cold breeze blew into our faces.

“Go on,” Blakely urged, gesturing with the gun.

It was a small one, but I had seen small guns fired before and knew they could have relatively long range and do a good deal of damage.

The stairs in the bell tower proved to be the twisting Gothic type. Blakely paused for a moment, regarding them.

“Okay,” he said, gesturing with the pistol, “up the stairs, and stay where I can see you at all times. You first, Amelia.”

It was strange, mounting these stairs for the first time under these circumstances. I’d always wanted to go up here. How many times in my childhood had I heard the sound of the Old Episcopal Church bell, calling worshippers to services or tolling the hour? It had been a local joke when I was a girl that the Old Episcopal bell was usually two minutes early, or rather the bell ringer was. The bell didn’t ring these days. The bell ringer had retired, the bell itself had been sent away for restoration, and the tower was waiting to be renovated.

I took the first few steps slowly, trying to think, well aware of the incongruity of the situation. If I had some kind of weapon, a piece of wood or a rock, perhaps I could hit Blakely with it as he rounded the curve. But he had threatened to shoot Brigid if I misbehaved, so I discarded the ambush idea.

Words were my strong suit. Perhaps talking would help matters.

“Blakely,” I said, “what on earth do you think you’re doing? You’re jeopardizing your career, your life, even the life of your father.”

Blakely snorted. “Yeah, right, my ever-loving dad. Where does he get off, expecting me to come to his rescue?”

“So you’re not going to give him your kidney?” I brushed the cold stone walls with one hand. If I were to stumble backwards, could I cause Blakely to fall down the steps? The problem was Brigid, who was between us, shivering visibly as she climbed. And of course there was no guarantee I wouldn’t injure myself in the fall as well.

“Oh, Lissy thinks I’m going to be tested. We had such a touching reunion back there. She even apologized, as if that made up for everything.” His tone changed, hardened. “Not that it’s any of your business. Keep moving!”

Brigid whimpered again. He must have prodded her, poor thing. It surprised me how protective I felt of this poor woman who had so infuriated me in the past.

We arrived at a landing halfway up the tower. Blakely, panting, said roughly, “Stop here.” He leaned against the wall, breathing hard.

As we stood shivering, watching Blakely catch his breath, I asked, “Brigid, how on earth did you get involved in all this?”

Her answer was low, almost whispered. “I don’t know. We needed money for the campaign, and Matt knew a way to make some. He was such a smart boy.”

Blakely snapped, “Matt? Don’t make me laugh! He was just the computer nerd, not the one taking all the chances.”

A remnant of Brigid’s feistiness seemed to return. “He made the discs, didn’t he? And I saw that they got to you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, right. You were so subtle, keeping them right there in your store so that Rousseau kid thought they were music and offered to buy them from you. That was real smooth, Bridge, real smooth. Then you made it even worse by firing the kid.”