Irregardless of Murder (Miss Prentice Cozy Mysteries) by E. E. Kennedy

and blew my nose on what was left of the tissue. “It doesn’t really hurt very much.”
    He pulled out his handkerchief. “Here. Reinforcements.” He pulled himself to his feet with a groan.
    “Amelia,” he said, pulling a chair over near mine. “Are you up for a little constructive criticism?”
    I knew it. Here it comes. The zinger.
    “No, thank you very much. I don’t need any cheap shots about hysterical females or—”
    “Wait, hold it. Nothing like that.” He shifted his weight in Mother’s antique sewing chair and smiled a tiny smile. “I was just going to observe,” he said slowly, “that you bear a striking resemblance to an infant raccoon.” His smile was up to full candlepower now, and he turned it on me.
    A muscle somewhere in my chest tightened.
    His eyes searched my face speculatively. “No, I take that back. More like a Disney character. Something from Bambi, maybe.”
    Once again, I approached the mirror over the old fireplace and beheld my painted countenance. Despite the recent flood, there was still a considerable L’il Lady residue, especially around my eyes, which had the added allure of being red and swollen from crying.
    “Meaghan’s beauty treatment. It does look ghastly, doesn’t it?”
    Gil came and stood behind me. He spoke to my image in the mirror.
    “Until O’Brien showed up,” he said softly. “I thought you looked kind of cute.”
    I looked down at the mantel’s surface. Dust! I had just dusted there day before yesterday! I took a swipe at the surface with Gil’s handkerchief. My hand shook.
    “Amelia,” said Gil, “I have a confession to make.”
    I ran the handkerchief over a figurine—a shepherdess—and replaced it on the mantel. “You do?” I straightened it.
    “I didn’t come here to get information for the paper.”
    “You didn’t?” I reached for another figurine. A shepherd boy this time.
    “No, I came to see what Vern was carrying on about—would you cut that out and look at me?”
    I set down the figurine and looked up into the mirror. His face, over my shoulder, had lost all traces of amusement.
    “What about Vern?” I demanded, none too graciously.
    “Well, his mother had told him all about you. I mean, about you and me, you know.”
    “Yes, your sister Carol. I see. Go on.”
    “And he got his crazy idea that, well, anyway, after he met you today, he came home raving about this terrific—”
    I turned around. “Home? Does he live with you?”
    “Yes, sleeps on a camp cot in the kitchen, but only till he can find a place he can afford, which may be never, at the rate he’s looking—look, are you going to let me finish?”
    I folded my arms. “Finish.”
    “Vern kept telling me what an idiot I had been to let you go—”
    “But—”
    “I know, I know, he doesn’t have the whole story. But he was so darned enthusiastic I just came by to see what kind of spell you had thrown over him.”
    “Spell?” For some reason, I felt stung. “Spell? Oh, yes, by all means. Let me go upstairs and look up the Vern Spell in my book of spells. Something to do with eye of newt, I think, and . . . ” My original intention was to stalk indignantly out of the room, but once again, Gil Dickensen short-circuited my plans.
    He kissed me.
    It was apparent from his technique that Gil had put in some practice since we had last done this. As for me, I had to rely on memory and trust that, just like riding a bicycle, it would all come back to me. I gave it my best.
    Of course, I wasn’t totally without experience of this sort. There was a time when I was in my thirties that everyone’s eligible visiting nephew had taken me to whatever was playing at the Strand Theatre, but it had never led to anything substantive. Perhaps I lacked enthusiasm or my attention was elsewhere, but when the moment for the goodnight kiss came, I either managed a skillful dodge, or made a lackluster response. I think somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I believed I was