Irregardless of Murder (Miss Prentice Cozy Mysteries) (28 page)

Trechere’s faint nod indicated assent and the priest retired, looking, I thought, a little guilty.

“I’ve been thinking about your business proposition,” I said. “I like it.”

The tense expression in his face relaxed. “Oh, that’s very good. I believe that we can come to a good agreement.”

“Why don’t you come by my house tomorrow afternoon, say four? And we can plan,” I suggested. “You will be here in town tomorrow, won’t you?”

“Of course!” he smiled vaguely and moved slightly away, as if to leave.

“Aren’t you staying for the Mass?”

He looked distracted. “What? Is there a Mass?” He waved his hands in the direction of the church. “No, I must be on my way. You will excuse me?”

“But you’ll be back. I know that much,” I said recklessly.

He blinked furiously and frowned at me. “What, be back? For what?”

I stepped forward and gently laid my hand on his arm. “For your daughter’s funeral, Etienne,” I said softly. “
Etienne
, French for Stephen, father of
Marguerite
, French for daisy.”

He stared.

His dark eyes filled with tears, and he waved his gloved hand in an irritated gesture. He said nothing.

“It’s a cruel thing to find her, and then lose her again,” I said. “But you did find her, didn’t you? And she did know that you loved her.”

His chin trembled and he nodded. “I shall always be grateful to God for that,” he whispered.

“Does Marie know it’s you?”

He shook his head. “Marguerite and Father Anthony were trying to help me. To break it to her gently, you know. She’s still mad at me. The whole family is.”

“Except for your daughter.”

His face broke. “Except her,” he mouthed, “but I didn’t know about this other thing, the drug thing. If I had . . . ” A dark expression crossed his face.

This man could be a dangerous enemy. It gave me a certain guilty satisfaction that when and if Sally Jennings ever turned up, I’d have to take a number.

“But Marguerite . . . ” His face lightened slightly at the memory of his daughter. “It was wonderful finding her again. She was sweet, so . . . full of plans and secrets. I laughed with her, but I didn’t pay much attention to what she said about those plans. There was something about this UDJ thing. I saw her, you know—spoke with her in the library—it must have been just a few minutes before . . . before . . . she died. We were supposed to meet later that evening. I waited for an hour. Then I drove back to the library and all the emergency trucks and police cars were there. If only I—” Grief overtook him again. “Oh,
mon Dieu!
” He waved one gloved hand helplessly.

I snatched it in mid air and held it firmly. “Whatever happens, please know this. Your daughter loved you all her life. Even when you weren’t there. Marie saw to that.”

He nodded silently as he struggled for composure.

I continued holding on to his hand. “And it’s my belief that you’ll see her again —someday.”

He looked at me through a watery smile. “Mine too,” he said in a whisper. “But Marie,” he said, pulling a large monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket, “I can’t ask her to forgive me too. Not after this.” Pain creased his forehead. “Not now.”

“She will, I know it. Give her time. She kept Marguerite’s love alive for you all these years. That means something.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” he admitted. “Thank you.” He pulled his hand from mine and gestured in the direction of the street. “I must . . . I mean, excuse me, please.” He turned and walked rapidly toward a dark car parked nearby.

Poor Marie!
I thought.
Poor Etienne!
What had kept them apart for so long. Pride? Fear? Unforgiveness?

My mind traced the trail of my own life. What had kept Gil and me apart? Was it the same thing that divided Marie and Etienne? Well, I resolved, it would stand no longer. Gilbert Dickensen was mine and I was his, and that’s all there was to it.

Oh, Gil
, I thought,
I do love you! I will marry you! I will! The sooner, the better.

I glanced at my watch. There was plenty of time to do what I had to do, and I couldn’t have postponed it, even if I wanted to. With a hand to my chest to calm that interior acrobat, I began to walk.

I had just enough time to tell him!

My steps quickened as they traced the route. My heart was so full, I barely noticed the traffic until a horn blared as I blithely stepped off the curb, only a block from the newspaper office. Impatiently, I bounced on my toes until the light blinked “Walk” and fairly flew across the street. There was no time to waste. I had delayed this important step far, far too long.

Despite everything, it had always been Gil. I pictured his devastating smile and my heart felt warm inside me. Somewhere in the back of my head, violins were playing a waltz and I could picture the two of us, dancing. I was in a foamy hoop skirt; his arm was wrapped around my tiny waist as he clasped me tightly and we floated around the ballroom, gazing into each other’s eyes . . .

How had I lost sight of the fact that I loved him? Why had we let that decades-long coldness build up between us? How could we have been so foolish?

Entering the building, I mounted the staircase leading to the offices. And now that Gil had broken the ice, why, oh, why was I hanging back? Well, the situation was to be remedied right away! Just as soon as I reached the top of these stairs!

Breathless both from excitement and exertion, I ran up to the desk of his secretary. “Is he in?”

She stared at me, wide-eyed. “Well, yes, but—”

I didn’t even thank her, but flung open the door of the office marked Editor, stepped inside, and gently closed the door behind me. Gil was at his computer, his back turned. His keyboard clacked rapidly.

“Gil,” I said panting, “the answer is . . . yes.”

The romantic music soared.

All nature held its breath.

He didn’t turn around, but he did stop typing.

“I know I should have said yes when you first asked,” I added, a little more loudly, “but, well, so much time has passed since we were engaged the first time and you must admit sometimes you’ve been pretty hard to reach, and then there was this thing about Marguerite . . . ”

He swiveled in his chair. “Oh, hello, Amelia,” he said pleasantly, removing little audio buds from his ears. “What brings you here?”

The violins stopped abruptly. My adrenaline level began receding fast.

“I . . . I . . . came to accept your proposal.” There, I’d said it again.

Gil leaned back in his seat and tilted his head. “My proposal? Of marriage? Really? Now?”

This was not the reaction I’d expected. At my declaration, Gil should have leaped to his feet and outstretched his arms for me to run into!

“Y-yes, now, really.” My voice had a petulant, defensive tone. I took a step backward.

He pulled the ubiquitous pencil from behind his ear and rolled it between his fingers. “Just like that? No more ‘we take our time. We date. We court. We keep company,’ et cetera, et cetera?”

I had to hand it to him. He’d remembered my little speech virtually word for word and had faithfully replicated my tone of voice, as well. It made me sick to my stomach.

“Um, yes. I mean, no. I mean—” I broke off.

Gil stared impassively, still seated, twirling the pencil.

Quickly, before I could actually throw up, I twirled, slammed open his office door, raced past his secretary and clattered down the steps to the outdoors, heedless of the possibility of falling.

I didn’t care. I rather hoped I did fall. My crumpled body, found lying in a pitiful heap on the sidewalk outside—that’d show him!

Rather anticlimactically, I made it safely to the street level, where a brisk gust of wind immediately braced me.

Dear Lord, what did I do wrong?
I prayed as I hitched my purse over my shoulder and moved sadly down the street.

The wind twirled red and orange leaves in a merry dance before me. I sighed.

The realization came to me all at once.
I didn’t consult You, that’s what. Just forged ahead without even offering a single prayer. Never asked what You thought.
A tear ran slowly down my cheek.
I’m sorry, Lord.

I walked a little more. The trees really were beautiful this time of year.

But what do I do now?

Immediately, at that very moment, I knew what I was supposed to do.

Forgive Gil.

Even though he would now never be a part of my life, I must forgive him.

As I walked, I shook my head in answer to the idea. God had given me similar instructions with His still, small voice before, but this was too much.

“Oh, hello, Amelia, what brings you here?”
I quoted Gil’s mocking voice.

That miserable so-and-so, that giant jerk, made fun of the very cry of my heart! He doesn’t deserve forgiveness.

Even as I thought the thought, the response emerged from deep inside me:
None of us does.

Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those . . .  
The words of the prayer came back to me.

“I can’t do it on my own,” I prayed aloud. “You’ll have to help me.” Even as I spoke, I knew He would, as He had so many times before.

“All right, I’ll forgive Gil,” I said aloud without an ounce of sincerity. “I’m not really willing, but I’m willing to be willing.” Another Bible verse popped into my head:
O taste and see that the Lord is good.

I couldn’t see how it applied to the situation until . . .

A large hand gently clasped my shoulder from behind. “Amelia, honey! Oh, honey!”

It was Gil. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” He turned me around and pulled me into his arms. “I’m so, so sorry!” He hugged me tightly.

“Gil,” I observed, my face in his chest, “you’re not wearing a coat.” I looked up at him. “And your chin is bleeding.”

He ran an impatient hand over the wound. “I don’t care. I tripped on my way down the steps. I just had to get to you before you were gone—oh honey!” He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me soundly.

“My feelings were a hurt because you didn’t accept my proposal right away. I was being a giant . . . jerk. Amelia, can you forgive me, honey? Can you?”

I laughed. “Oh, Gil, of course I can!”

The violins resumed playing with great enthusiasm,
allegro di molto
.

A half hour later, blushing slightly, I made my way to Marie’s church, found a seat in the sanctuary and whispered a prayer.

Father Frontenac performed Marguerite’s service with sweet dignity. There were few flowers. Marie had requested that donations be made to the church instead, but a huge basket of daisies—marguerites—stood at one end of the casket.

“Nobody knows who it’s from,” I heard a woman whisper.

Halfway through the service, I glanced up at the empty balcony. Etienne LeBow’s grave face stared down. I detected a faint nod, returned it, and turned back to the prayer book.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“Leave it to you to have your wedding in the middle of the Christmas season,” Lily whined as she helped Marie LeBow carry poinsettias into the soon-to-be-opened bed and breakfast, Chez Prentice.

“I had to, Lily,” I said. “This way, Gil and I can go on our honeymoon and I won’t have to miss any school.”

“Well, I think it’s romantic,” declared Marie LeBow, shutting the big front door firmly. “There. That’s all of ’em. No, Mrs. Burns, we’re putting these in the dining room, next to the tree. Gotta keep ’em out of the draft.”

“Got the food under control, Marie?” I asked.

“Oh, sure, piece of cake, you might say,” she said, and dimpled. “By the way, speakin’ of cake, Val’s just finished with it in the kitchen. Wanna see?”

“Of course!”

Valerie’s wide round face was glistening with a combination of heat and excitement as she backed away to show us her handiwork. “Turned out real good, if I say so myself,” she declared. She pushed hair out of her face with the back of her wrist and wiped her hands on her apron.

“It’s exquisite! Valerie, I had no idea you were so talented!”

“Oooh! Can I have a taste?” asked Lily, reaching, but one of Valerie’s blistering do-it-and-die looks restrained her.

My wedding cake was a small one, as wedding cakes go, but it was a work of art. Every surface was covered with tiny, lifelike flowers: pink rosebuds, delicate violets, lilies of the valley, tiny scrolling vines of ivy. The cake was a riot of discreet pastels, blending perfectly with the pale pink poinsettias that would bank the cake table.

“
Exquisite,
that’s the word I was thinkin’ of,” said Marie. “There now, didn’t I tell you, Val, Amelia’d come up with a ten-dollar word for your cake?”

Val nodded and beamed at her sister. “You sure did!”

Marie turned to me and said confidentially, “Val’s always been good at bakin.’ That’s why I’m gonna get her to make all our bread ’n muffins ’n things at her place. Her boy can bring ’em across the lake every couple days or so.”

“Sounds good. And now that you’ve lined up Hester Swanson as the regular cook, you’re set.”

Marie consulted a clipboard. “Looks like it, if we can keep from killin’ each other.” Ever since agreeing to take over management of the B&B, she had shown an amazing aptitude for organization, making shrewd and frugal use of the generous advance Etienne had invested. “If they get the upstairs bathrooms done on schedule, we can open just like we planned on New Year’s Day. You think this Trechere guy’ll come to the grand opening? I’d like to meet him sometime.”

“Um, I think so. But you’ll meet him sooner than that. In fact, I know for sure he’ll be at the wedding tomorrow.”

“That’s good,” Marie said.

She had come a long way in the last seven weeks. The complicated work of remodeling Chez Prentice had helped direct her attention away from her grief.

Against my unsolicited advice, Etienne had seen fit not to intrude on Marie’s recovery, but had insisted on being the silent partner, at least for the time being. As time went by and Marie became stronger, I began to see the wisdom of his forbearance. Approaching her when she was at her most vulnerable would have been unfair somehow.