Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series) by E. E. Kennedy Page A
Authors: E. E. Kennedy
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get your parking space.”
It was hard to out-quip Olive.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Ah, yes. Miss Pr—Mrs. Dickensen, come in. We’ve been waiting for you.” The principal was seated behind his big polished desk and seemed relieved at my arrival. The tips of his moustache lifted in a half smile.
A trio of unsmiling faces swiveled my way. The three members of the Shea clan had been given the place of honor on the brown leather couch to the left of the desk, as befitted relatives of a mayoral candidate. Kevin Shea had thrown his hat into the ring a few months ago.
Mr. Berghauser waved his right hand. “You know the Shea family, don’t you? Mister and Mrs., um, Shea, and their daughter, Sa-Sa—um.” He stumbled over the name.
“Serendipity,” Mrs. Shea and I said together.
I glanced at her sympathetically, but only got a sharp glare for my trouble. Mrs. Shea looked even more baleful than she had at the last parent-teacher conference. Despite her well-styled ash-blonde hair and expensive Tyrolean sweater, she didn’t look all that good. There were dark circles under her eyes and her face was pale. She looked like a washed-out carbon copy of her daughter.
The young lady in question crossed her arms and snapped her gum defiantly. Her father just sat and stared at me, inscrutable, like a freckle-faced Irish Buddha.
Berghauser gave a little nervous chuckle. “Yes, well, I stand corrected. Please, Miss—Mrs., um, take a seat.” He gestured to the straight-backed chair directly in front of his desk.
The witness box.
Or more appropriately, the defendant’s chair.
I sat, clasping my grade book protectively to my chest.
“The Sheas have a few questions about Sa—that is, their daughter’s English grade for the last six weeks.”
“Yes?” I said sweetly, surveying the assemblage with an air of benign, but artificial, calm. “What questions are those?”
With an effort, I lowered the grade book to my lap and opened it to the relevant class page. If I moved them slowly and deliberately, my hands hardly trembled at all.
“They wanna know why you’re flunking me, that’s what,” Serendipity blurted.
“Oh. Well, let’s see . . . ” I traced my finger down the page to her name. “Here we are. It seems Serendipity made forty-five percent on the midterm exam in October and turned in her term paper long past the deadline.” I glanced up at the principal, who frowned at me. “That will lower it two grade levels right there. I haven’t had time to grade it, but considering—”
Mrs. Shea struggled to sit forward in the deep leatherette seat. “She told you what the problem was! She left it at her grandmother’s in Syracuse!”
I was ready for that. “But it was already late before the Christmas break. When she explained the problem, I told her it would be due the day we got back. I’m afraid I can’t keep making allowances for just one student. Remember what it said on the paper I sent home in September.”
“Paper?” Kevin Shea, owner and proprietor of Shea’s Quality Sporting Goods, glared accusingly at his daughter, who responded with an expression of innocent confusion. “I didn’t get a paper. Did we get a paper?” he asked his wife, who shrugged. “We didn’t get any paper. Anyways, that’s not what we’re here for. Are you gonna change the grade for my little girl or not?”
The telephone rang.
Principal Berghauser stared at it for a split second, then answered. “Olive, I’m in a meeting here—what? Who?” One side of his animated moustache started to twitch, and he blinked several times and sighed. “This is a shock. Let me think.” He tapped his index finger on the desk. “Well, have them sent down here and tell . . . ” He looked up at us, frowning. “That is, all the, um, business can be conducted, um, privately, in here. Good.” He hung up.
The Shea family and I watched this intriguing exchange with rapt interest.
Berghauser chose to ignore the implicit questions in
It was hard to out-quip Olive.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Ah, yes. Miss Pr—Mrs. Dickensen, come in. We’ve been waiting for you.” The principal was seated behind his big polished desk and seemed relieved at my arrival. The tips of his moustache lifted in a half smile.
A trio of unsmiling faces swiveled my way. The three members of the Shea clan had been given the place of honor on the brown leather couch to the left of the desk, as befitted relatives of a mayoral candidate. Kevin Shea had thrown his hat into the ring a few months ago.
Mr. Berghauser waved his right hand. “You know the Shea family, don’t you? Mister and Mrs., um, Shea, and their daughter, Sa-Sa—um.” He stumbled over the name.
“Serendipity,” Mrs. Shea and I said together.
I glanced at her sympathetically, but only got a sharp glare for my trouble. Mrs. Shea looked even more baleful than she had at the last parent-teacher conference. Despite her well-styled ash-blonde hair and expensive Tyrolean sweater, she didn’t look all that good. There were dark circles under her eyes and her face was pale. She looked like a washed-out carbon copy of her daughter.
The young lady in question crossed her arms and snapped her gum defiantly. Her father just sat and stared at me, inscrutable, like a freckle-faced Irish Buddha.
Berghauser gave a little nervous chuckle. “Yes, well, I stand corrected. Please, Miss—Mrs., um, take a seat.” He gestured to the straight-backed chair directly in front of his desk.
The witness box.
Or more appropriately, the defendant’s chair.
I sat, clasping my grade book protectively to my chest.
“The Sheas have a few questions about Sa—that is, their daughter’s English grade for the last six weeks.”
“Yes?” I said sweetly, surveying the assemblage with an air of benign, but artificial, calm. “What questions are those?”
With an effort, I lowered the grade book to my lap and opened it to the relevant class page. If I moved them slowly and deliberately, my hands hardly trembled at all.
“They wanna know why you’re flunking me, that’s what,” Serendipity blurted.
“Oh. Well, let’s see . . . ” I traced my finger down the page to her name. “Here we are. It seems Serendipity made forty-five percent on the midterm exam in October and turned in her term paper long past the deadline.” I glanced up at the principal, who frowned at me. “That will lower it two grade levels right there. I haven’t had time to grade it, but considering—”
Mrs. Shea struggled to sit forward in the deep leatherette seat. “She told you what the problem was! She left it at her grandmother’s in Syracuse!”
I was ready for that. “But it was already late before the Christmas break. When she explained the problem, I told her it would be due the day we got back. I’m afraid I can’t keep making allowances for just one student. Remember what it said on the paper I sent home in September.”
“Paper?” Kevin Shea, owner and proprietor of Shea’s Quality Sporting Goods, glared accusingly at his daughter, who responded with an expression of innocent confusion. “I didn’t get a paper. Did we get a paper?” he asked his wife, who shrugged. “We didn’t get any paper. Anyways, that’s not what we’re here for. Are you gonna change the grade for my little girl or not?”
The telephone rang.
Principal Berghauser stared at it for a split second, then answered. “Olive, I’m in a meeting here—what? Who?” One side of his animated moustache started to twitch, and he blinked several times and sighed. “This is a shock. Let me think.” He tapped his index finger on the desk. “Well, have them sent down here and tell . . . ” He looked up at us, frowning. “That is, all the, um, business can be conducted, um, privately, in here. Good.” He hung up.
The Shea family and I watched this intriguing exchange with rapt interest.
Berghauser chose to ignore the implicit questions in
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