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

from the chair, then stepped into a waiting pair of three-inch alligator heels. Almost as a reflex, I looked down at my prim black flats. Next to Sally, I was a dweeb, I thought, quoting Hardy Patschke to myself.
    “Oh, poor Miss Prentice. What a time you’ve had.” She embraced me. She was wearing a cashmere sweater and smelled wonderful. The top of my head came just to her chin. She and Gil were exactly the same height if she wore the heels.
    And a shrimp. I was a dweeb and a shrimp. Miss Prentice, indeed. We’d graduated from high school together. Sally Dodd had been head cheerleader, girls swim team captain, and queen of the junior prom. I was French Club, chorale, and attended the prom with my cousin Bob.
    In every way that was possible to measure, Sally was one of life’s winners: popular, beautiful, successful, rich, and married to Barry Jennings, the most sighed-over boy in the Class of ’82. She’d done it all herself, too, starting from scratch, as it were, with no help from her widowed father. I had to hand it to her.
    She held me at arm’s length and surveyed my face with its bandage and the remnants of Meaghan’s Li’l Lady makeover. “My, you do look all done in. We mustn’t wear you out.”
    I smiled bravely. “Not at all, Sally. I’m just a little surprised to see you. Why don’t we adjourn to the parlor?” Ever so calmly, I led them downstairs.
    “Now, Miss Prentice—Amelia—you mustn’t blame Gil,” said Sally. “It’s all my doing. I explained to him how we’ve talked about your selling this place.”
    “You talked about it, Sally, not I.” It was a running thing with us, practically the only foundation for our continued association.
    I escorted them into the front parlor and turned on the ginger jar lamp that had always sat on Grandmother Lloyd’s cherry wood drum table.
    “Yes, but you did promise to think about it, now didn’t you?”
    It was true. I had—once—but only to get rid of her. “I have thought it over, Sally, and—”
    “Wait!” She held up a slim hand.
    I couldn’t help staring at her gold bracelet, from which dangled a single large disk, bearing elaborately entwined initials. I had seen one in the Neiman-Marcus catalog last Christmas. A little twelve hundred dollar stocking stuffer. (Engraving extra.)
    “Before you say another word, let me tell you: I’ve found a buyer!”
    Obviously, that clinched it for Sally. I opened my mouth to answer, but she went on, “A very eager buyer. One who’ll pay handsomely for a house—” She paused and shrugged, shaking her head sympathetically. “You’ve got to admit it, Amelia—a house that’s past its prime and in need of a lot of work.”
    She waved her hands, inviting us to survey the wreckage. “For instance,” she added, “I noticed your doorbell’s not working and a front step is loose.”
    “Sally, I’m sorry you went to all this trouble,” I said evenly, “but this is my home. I grew up here and I’ll probably—” I stole a glance at Gil, whose face was a blank, “die here. I have no intention of selling. Ever.”
    “Now, Miss Pr—Amelia. I know you’re not feeling a hundred percent this evening, so I’ll give you just a little more time to think it over, okay? I’ll be getting back to you later next week.”
    She walked to the foyer where her camel coat was draped over the mahogany banister. “Uh, oh,” she said, donning the coat. “This wobbles a bit. Better have it fixed. Goodbye, dear, take care.”
    She embraced me. When had we become such friends?
    She paused at the front door, pulling on her kidskin gloves. She handed me a business card. “Here. Call me the minute you change your mind.”
    I read the card: “Ursula ‘Sally’ Jennings, Vice President, Jennings Real Estate.” Barry, of course, was president of the firm, but it was common knowledge that she was its life and soul. A line at the bottom announced that she was a Gold Star Member of the Million Seller’s Club,