Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series) by E. E. Kennedy

lame.” J.T. reached into a paper bag, pulled out a thick sandwich, and took a large bite.
    “What brings you here today, Vern?” I took another sip of my lunch.
    “Remember? I told you: tutoring.” He leaned in and waved a hand at his companion. “Giving J.T. a hand with his French.” He rapped his large knuckles on a textbook lying
    next to his tray. “He has a study hall after lunch on Mondays, so we get a little work done right here.” He flipped the book open to a marked page.
    “Has Vern been any help?” I asked J.T. pleasantly.
    I had expected a sullen shrug, but J.T.’s answer was surprisingly civil. “I guess. Dustin’s good at it, but I su—I mean, I stink at it. I wouldn’t even take French, only our grandmother, y’know, my mom’s mom, wants to talk it to us when we go to see her in Montreal.” He pronounced it the locals’ way: Mun-tree-ul. “French is all they want to talk up there.”
    “It’s a valuable thing to know another language,” I pontificated, and added what I hoped was a more tempting inducement. “You and your brother could carry on a conversation with each other without some people understanding what you’re saying. My sister and I used to say au secors when we needed help for something. Au secours ,” I repeated, giving more expression to the phrase.
    “That might work here, I guess, but not at Grammar’s,” J.T. pointed out, giving the French word grandmère an English-sounding twist. “She talks it all the time.”
    Vern slid the open textbook toward the boy. “C’mon, pal, let’s get busy.”
    My can of Fudge Fantasy half consumed, I turned to the coffee. I picked up a mug, held it to my lips and immediately put it down again. It smelled like dishwater. Forget that. I pushed away the coffee cup and resumed sipping the chocolate drink.
    Vern slid his lunch tray to one side and turned to his pupil. “Let’s look over your exam paper and find out what your weak points are.”
    “I’m supposed to memorize these?” J.T. indicated a short list of idiomatic phrases.
    Vern ran his finger down the list and smiled. “They’re kind of fun, J.T. Look at that. It means over there. Go on, say it.”
    J.T. frowned. “Lah- boss .”
    “No, you have to say it the French way: Lah-bah . Y’see? That ‘s’ is silent. And remember, there’s not really any particular syllable accented in French.”
    My Fudge Fantasy was gone. I stood and peered over their shoulders at the lesson. La-bas , I read.
    Vern was valiantly trying to put enthusiasm into the lesson. “Come on, J.T., try another one: On y va , let’s go. It means the same as allons-y , only more casual.”
    J.T. rolled his eyes. “Great. Whoopee.”
    This was getting painful to watch. “I’ll leave you fellows to it, then. Hang in there, J.T., you’ll be fluent in no time. Meanwhile, I’m going to put my empty can la-bas ,” I added, indicating the trash can in the corner. J.T.’s exasperated expression told me I was trying too hard.
    “Catch you later,” Vern said pleasantly, waving a pencil.
    With a growing sense of dread, I made my way down the hall to the main office. “Mr. Berghauser wanted to see me,” I told Olive Chapel, the principal’s secretary.
    “Um hmm,” she agreed, never looking up from her computer terminal. She jerked her head in the direction of the office door. “They’re in there.”
    “They?”
    She grimaced, but kept on typing. “They, the Sheas, your favorite parents.”
    “Parents, plural? Mother and father, both? No way.”
    “Way.” Olive nodded firmly as she made an adjustment with her mouse. Her eyes remained fixed on the screen. “Definitely way. Way-way-way-way,” she rattled rapidly, tapping rhythm on her keyboard. “You must have really stepped in it this time, girlfriend. They’re not happy campers.”
    I sighed and put my hand on the doorknob. “Will you see that I’m given a decent burial?”
    Her gaze had never wavered from the screen. “Only if I