Irregardless of Murder (Miss Prentice Cozy Mysteries) Read Free Page B

six-thirty a.m. to an alarm clock-telephone duet. Sam had deserted me some time in the night, presumably to use the litter box, which I had banished to the back porch. In one fluid movement, I pounded the top of the clock with my fist and picked up the telephone.
    “Miss Prentice?” That somber bass could only belong to our principal.
    “Mr. Berghauser.”
    “I read about what happened in the paper this morning. Are you coming to school today?” That was Gerard B. all over. None of this how-are-you nonsense. Just get to the point.
    “It’s good of you to ask,” I said, deliberately misreading sympathy into his question, “but don’t worry now, I’ll be fine. Just a bit of a bandage on my head.”
    “Bandage? A large bandage?”
    I could hear the wheels turning. Such a spectacle might be distracting to the students. Worse yet, there might be negative publicity.
    “Oh, just average-sized, you know,” I said vaguely, enjoying his discomfort.
    “We have Coach Gurowski available to substitute . . . ”
    Oh no, you don’t! That man wasn’t going to play havoc with my grade book ever again! It took forever last time to straighten things out.
    “Thank you so much, but it’s not necessary.”
    “Well. If you’re sure, all right then,” he conceded, adding, “I’m afraid I was right about the LeBow girl. A shame, a real shame, but then, she was never really stable, was she? And when it comes to these drugs . . . ”
    “Drugs!” I squawked. “There was no question of drugs! It was some kind of seizure or something.”
    “That’s not what the Press Advertiser says.” I heard the rattle of newspaper as he read aloud: “‘Sources close to the family revealed that drugs had recently become a problem and that such an outcome was no surprise to those who knew Marguerite.’”
    What sources? What did they mean, no surprise?I knew Marguerite, too! I’d read her journal, filled with tumultuous adolescent idealism. Marguerite was quite literally an open book, but a clean one.
    I remembered her words: “It just isn’t right!” she’d said, when I’d challenged some emotional comments she made during a classroom debate her senior year.
    “I know, Marguerite, but there are better ways to get your point across without personally attacking your opponent. That’s called an ad hominem argument, and it’s, um, bogus,” I pointed out, trying to use terms to which she could relate. “You make a better point attacking his logic, using facts to refute it, rather than calling him names.”
    “I’m sorry, Miss Prentice,” she’d whispered, still quivering with emotion. I was reminded of a hummingbird. “I got carried away. It’s just so, so . . . evil!”
    The subject of the debate was the legalization of drugs.
    “It’s always drugs these days,” Berghauser was saying.
    Not always. “Well,” I said, “I don’t know about that. But anyway, I’ll be there right on time.”
    “Good,” he said, and hung up.
    Groaning, I climbed out of bed and headed for the dresser. The face in the mirror was pale, with an irritated, world-weary expression. I winced as I pulled away the edge of the bandage and squinted at the wound.
    A tiny white butterfly-shaped adhesive held together the edges of the bulging cut, which was dark maroon and surrounded by purple bruising. No, I wouldn’t be able to dispense with the big white bandage yet.
    Sunshine streamed through the stained-glass panels in the entryway as I came down the wide old stairs. My sister Barbara had been married in this house and descended this staircase, her long satin train rippling down behind her, just the way we had planned as little girls. The family had filled the house then, uncles and aunts, now dead; and their children, now far flung and lost to one another. Still, it was a lovely memory and I smiled.
    There was a brisk tap-tap-tap at the door announcing Lily Burns, a casserole in her hand and lively curiosity in her eyes.
    “Isn’t this doorbell