by Parnell Hall
“Just shut up, will you!”
“Oh, nice! That’s the way to talk to your wife!”
Sherry Carter stormed out the front door. “Great. The two of you together. Brenda, you’re my best friend and I love you, but if you can’t control your husband I’m going to lose it. Just because your marriage isn’t working is no reason to ruin mine.”
“Exactly,” Dennis agreed.
“Not to you, damn it. My upcoming marriage. My pending marriage. My marriage that may not come off if you won’t leave me alone.”
“Then you do still have feelings for Dennis,” Brenda charged.
Sherry took a deep breath. Her eyes blazed. “Yes, I have feelings for Dennis. And, believe me, they aren’t love. I am so angry I am about to explode. I’m yelling at Cora. I’m yelling at Aaron. I’m yelling at you. I don’t want to yell at you. I just want to be left alone.”
A car rattled up the driveway.
“Oh, what is this—Times Square?” Sherry exclaimed.
A young woman in a beige business suit climbed out. Her blond hair was piled up on her head. Her earrings were simple gold studs. Her subtle makeup set off a fashion model face.
Becky Baldwin looked around at the gathering on the lawn. “Did I come at a bad time?”
Sherry, Brenda, and Dennis glared at her.
Only Cora Felton smiled. “Join the fun, Becky. We were just discussing the wedding plans. Or lack of them. I’m sure you’ll get a kick out of it.”
“Actually, I came to see you.” Becky looked Cora up and down. “But if you’re not well . . .”
“I’m just fine, thank you,” Cora said. “What could you possibly want?”
“Whatever it is, could you take it somewhere else,” Dennis snarled. “We’re having a serious conversation.”
“We’re having nothing of the kind,” Sherry said. “The sooner these people leave, the better. Stick around, Becky. I want to talk to you anyway.”
“Oh? What about?”
“Here he comes now,” Cora said, pointing to the Honda skidding up the driveway.
Aaron Grant vaulted out of the car, snagging the pocket of his sports jacket on the door. The young reporter didn’t notice. He glared at Dennis, set his lips in a firm line.
Sherry Carter threw her hands up in the air.
Cora waved Aaron over. “Come on in, Aaron. It’s a fraternity stunt. We’re trying to see how many cars we can fit in the driveway.”
Aaron was in no mood to joke. Aside from Cora, that made it unanimous.
“Sherry,” Aaron said.
Sherry turned her back.
“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Dennis said.
Aaron wheeled, pointed his finger. “You keep out of this!”
“Says who?” Dennis challenged.
Brenda grabbed his arm. “Dennis!”
He brushed her off like a fly. “Wanna make something out of it, paperboy?”
“Sherry’s a big girl. If she wants you here, fine. If she doesn’t, I suggest you leave.”
“Oh, now you’re telling me what Sherry wants?”
“No, she can speak for herself. Sherry, you want this ‘gentleman’ here?”
“That’s right,” Sherry said. “Throw it all on me.”
“Well, if you won’t say what you want. . .”
“Are you enjoying this, Sherry?” Brenda asked. “Having them fight over you?”
“Yeah, Bren, it’s a real blast.”
Cora raised her eyebrows at Becky Baldwin. “Before World War III breaks out, you wanna tell me what’s up?”
Becky swung into conciliatory mode. She put her hand on Cora’s shoulder, led her aside. “I came in person because I wanted to warn you.”
Cora’s eyes narrowed. “Warn me about what?”
Becky took a breath. “Benny Southstreet.”
“That twerp!”
“Just a friendly hint. In legal proceedings, it’s generally unwise to refer to the opposing party as a twerp.”
“Opposing party?”
“Benny has retained my services.”
“What!?”
“He’s accusing you of plagiarism. He’s suing you for damages.”
“You’re suing me?” Cora said incredulously.
“I’m not suing you, Cora. Benny is.”
“And you’re helping him?”
“He retained me.”
“But you’re my attorney. There’s a conflict of interest.”
“I’m not your attorney at the moment.”
“But you have been in the past.”
“That’s no bar to my present employment.”
“What about your conscience? Do you have to take every case that comes along?”
“My portfolio’s a little thin. I happen to need the work.”
“You can’t need it that bad.”
“It’s a small town, Cora. I have two clients. One’s Benny. The other’s a speeder who hopes to avoid getting points on her license. I don’t see her as a cash cow.”
“So you wanna get rich suing me? Whaddya get? A third of whatever you bilk me out of?”
“You must have insurance.”
“I have homeowner’s insurance. I’m not sure it covers plagiarism.”
“Maybe not, but Granville Grains has deep pockets.”
Cora’s eyes widened. “How in the world can you sue them?”
“You’re the Puzzle Lady. They use your image to sell their cereal. If that image is built on an unfounded premise, they’re guilty of false advertising.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”
“This is a no-brainer, Cora. Did you steal a crossword puzzle from this guy?”
“You’re asking me to incriminate myself?”
“Off the record.”
“Off the record, on the record, I can’t begin to tell you how I didn’t.”
“So, what’s the big deal? Guy says you did, you say you didn’t, he can’t prove it, end of case.”
“Does your client know what you think of his chances?”
“I didn’t say his chances are bad. I just said he can’t prove anything. That doesn’t mean Granville Grains won’t pay him off to make him go away.”
“And you wonder why there are lawyer jokes,” Cora grumbled.
There came the sound of more tires on gravel. Cora looked up to see two police cars swinging into the drive.
“Ah! Excellent!” Cora clapped her hands together, strode back to the unhappy throng. “Dennis! Good news! The cops are here. I hope they have a tape measure. What is it, a hundred yards you’re supposed to keep away from Sherry? I think you might be a little close.”
Dennis’s face twisted in rage. “Damn it, Sherry! You called the cops?”
“Don’t be silly,” Brenda said. “How could she call? She’s been right here the whole time.”
“He wasn’t!” Dennis stabbed an accusing finger at Aaron. “He called ’em from his car!”
Aaron stuck out his chin. “I don’t need anybody’s help to deal with you.”
Dennis sneered. “Like hell! Big man! Called for backup!”
Two cops came up the drive. Dan Finley, an impressionable young officer, and actually a Puzzle
Lady fan. And Dale Harper, the Bakerhaven chief of police.
Cora knew both men well. She had cooperated with the police on several occasions, though cooperated was perhaps the wrong word.
The two officers seemed somewhat taken aback by the crowd on the lawn.
Cora pressed forward. “Hi, Chief. Hi, Dan. Good to see you.” She jerked her thumb at Dennis. “Unless you’re blocking this son of a bitch’s car. He was just leaving.”
Chief Harper didn’t crack a smile. In fact, he looked rather unhappy. “Cora Felton,” he began.
“My, my, how formal,” Cora said.
Chief Harper pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “I have a warrant for your arrest.”
Dan Finley took out his handcuffs, snapped one around Cora’
s wrist. “Sorry. Just doing my job. Cora Felton, you are under arrest for the murder of Benny Southstreet.”
Cora’s mouth fell open. “What!?”
“You have the right to remain silent. Should you give up the right to remain silent—”
Cora gave up the right to remain silent. Neighbors down the road could attest to the fact, as well as to the colorful metaphors and similes and malapropisms with which she congratulated the officers on their chosen profession, and suggested truly ingenious uses they might find for their warrant.
One week earlier.
“CONGRATULATIONS!” Harvey Beerbaum was beaming. The portly cruciverbalist could not have been more pleased had he just won the American Crossword Puzzle Tournament.
Cora Felton, emerging from Cushman’s Bake Shop with a skim latte and a cranberry scone, stopped and frowned. “Congratulations on what?”
“The wedding, of course.”
Cora suppressed a smile. Harvey Beerbaum was a whiz with words, but amazingly gauche at social graces. “Sherry’s not my daughter, she’s my niece. I’m not sure I deserve congratulations.”
“Well, you deserve something. It’s a momentous occasion.”
“It’s not my occasion. Sherry’s the one getting married, not me.”
“That’s hardly my fault,” Harvey observed, then blushed furiously.
Cora figured that was probably true. While Harvey had never actually proposed marriage to her, in his tentative, roundabout, thoroughly exasperating manner, he had certainly indicated his eagerness to do so, given the slightest encouragement. Cora was fairly sure she’d never offered any. Particularly since she’d given up drinking.
Seeing his veiled hint had once again failed to get a rise out of Cora, Harvey ventured, “Have they set the date?”
“No, they haven’t.”
“Oh? How come?”
“He hasn’t asked her yet.”
Harvey blinked. “But. . .”
“But what?”
“I heard they were engaged.”
“Oh, they are. He just doesn’t know it yet. That’s not important. I’ve married men who didn’t know it till they reached the altar.”
Harvey looked positively scandalized.
Cora took a slurp of her latte.
“Ah, I’m keeping you from your coffee,” Harvey said.
“No, actually I’m keeping you from yours.”
Harvey’s eyes flicked toward the bakery. Cora could read his mind. Having failed once again to satisfy his heart, he was looking to satisfy his stomach. Harvey murmured his excuses, and went into the bakeshop.
Cora saluted his departure with her latte, and con- gratulated herself on her powers of deception. In point of fact, Sherry and Aaron hadn’t set the date because Sherry was having last-minute jitters. That was no big deal. Cora had always had last-minute jitters when contemplating matrimony. There were so many points to consider. Was the gentleman one considered espousing even marginally better than the specimen one had just divested oneself of? Was the loss of alimony of the outgoing more than offset by the income of the incoming?
Cora smiled at the remembrance of the old turn of phrase, which had occurred to her in between some sequence of husbands or other in one of her more sober moments. The term incoming, neat enough in itself, also conjured up the image of a nuclear attack. Cora furrowed her brow, trying to recollect which of her husbands had deserved the comparison to an ICBM. Henry, surely, though he’d had other flaws. As had they all.
“Miss Felton.”
Roused from her musing, Cora looked up to find a woman with a stroller, one of the gaggle of young mothers who hung out in the bakeshop to swap stories of Junior’s latest whatever. Cora always regretted not having children. Not enough to have children, but still. She enjoyed the idea of someone else having children.
The mother in question had short-cut blond hair, a thin, attractively anemic-looking face, and anxious eyes of a greenish-blue variety.
The child in question was in that gray area between not-capable-of-taking-that-first-step and rushing-headlong-across-the-busy-street. It was dressed in a neutral tan playsuit, offering no useful clue as to its gender. Cora had trouble telling the difference, which was one reason why she had always begged off babysitting. One of many reasons.
Cora was mentally loading up phrases like your baby in case the mother didn’t offer an appellation, or the name was equally androgynous, like Pat or Shelly. She was also wracking her brain for the least clue as to the woman’s identity. Cora had seen her many times. Surely, one of the other young moms had addressed her by name. If so, Cora couldn’t recall it.
Cora dug into her vast vat of knowledge for some mode of address that would not frighten the woman.
“Yes?”
That frightened her. “Oh, dear,” the woman said. “You have your coffee. I’m intruding.”
“Don’t be silly,” Cora said. “You have your coffee too. At least I’m not trying to push a stroller.”
The young mother had a Styrofoam coffee cup in one hand, a paper bag in the other. “Yes, but you’re not intruding on me. Oh, dear, I mean . . . I’m not sure what I mean.”
The bench outside Cushman’s window was unoccupied.
“Why don’t you sit down and tell me briefly what the trouble is?”
As if on cue, the baby began to bawl at the top of its lungs. The young mother looked mortified. “Oh, dear. Stop it, Darlene.”
Ah. There was a silver lining to the ear-piercing cloud. Darlene. Cora filed the information away. The baby was a girl. Either that, or destined for a rather rocky childhood.
The young woman balanced her coffee on the win-dowsill. Took a muffin out of the paper bag, tore off a piece, and handed it to the screaming infant. “Here, Darlene. Have some nice blueberry muffin.”
Have some nice years of therapy, Cora thought, when the spoiled brat grows up and life kicks her in the teeth.
Darlene batted the piece of muffin away, and did a wonderful impression of an untuned steam calliope.
“Nice kid,” Cora said.
Darlene’s mother flushed, held out a pacifier. Darlene looked like she might have hurled the thing in the street had her mother stuck it firmly in her mouth.
Cora bent down, said, “What seems to be the trouble?”
Darlene instantly stopped crying, and tried to snatch off Cora’s glasses.
“Not so fast, young lady.” Cora waggled her finger in front of the baby’s face, then smiled at the mother. “You were saying?”
The woman stared at her. “How did you do that?”
Cora shrugged. “She probably recognized me from TV.” At the woman’s expression, she added, “I’m kidding. Anyway, before she starts up again, what do you want?”
“It seems so stupid. . . .”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“All right. I have to talk to someone. I feel so terrible.”
“Why?”
“Deceiving my husband.”
Cora practically rubbed her hands together. This was more like it. Instead of feigning interest, she found herself feigning indifference. “Go on.”
“He’s such a good man. A good husband and father and provider.”
“What’s his name?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. His name is Chuck. Chuck Dillinger. And I’m Mimi.”
“What does Chuck do?”
“He’s a lawyer. A malpractice attorney.”
“Chuck sues doctors.”
“No, he defends them.”
“Oh? Is that profitable?”
“Very.”
“There’s that many lousy doctors?”
“It’s not a case of bad doctors. It’s a case where, despite the best possible medical attention—”
Cora put up her hand. “Save it for the judge. The point is, Chuck has a lot of clients.”
“His firm does. They’re on a yearly retainer.”
“From a doctor?”
“No. An insurance co
mpany.”
“Figures.”
“Insurance companies get zapped with huge malpractice suits. If Chuck can win even one, he justifies his employment.”
“I take it he has no problem doing that.”
“Absolutely. Chuck’s very clever.”
“So he does well?”
“For the firm, sure. He’ll do a lot better when he makes partner.”
These details were fascinating, but not salacious. “You mentioned deceiving him,” Cora prompted.
“Yes. I feel so awful. . . .”
“Of course you do. Why don’t you tell me how it happened?” Cora tried not to sound too eager.
“Chuck works in the City. Commutes every day. I drop him off at the train station. Pick him up at night.”
“And the rest of the day you’re alone.”
“Yes. Except for Darlene.”
“I think I get the picture.”
“It just seems so bad. Him taking the train. And leaving me the car to get around. I didn’t mean to lie to him. But I was weak. I couldn’t bring myself to tell.”
“Why are you telling him now?”
“I have to. I have no choice.”
“I think I can help you.”
“You can?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll give it a shot.” Cora was all sympathetic encouragement. “It’s not the end of the world, you know. You’re young. You’re foolish. You made a mistake. You’d like to put it behind you and move on. Unfortunately, the young man in question is a jerk. He doesn’t want to let you go, and he’s blackmailing you. If you break it off, he’ll tell your husband. You’re terrified the whole thing will come out, but there’s no help for it. And if the secret’s going to break, the only chance to save your marriage is if you tell it first.”
The woman’s face twisted in revulsion. “That’s terrible !”
“Yes, it is. But it doesn’t have to end that way. I’ve had certain experience in these matters. If you’d like me to have a talk with the young gentleman, I’d be happy to do so.” Cora smiled. “He just might change his point of view.”
The young mother stooped down and tied the cap onto Darlene’s head, as if to keep the baby from hearing the sordid details of Mommy’s life. “That’s not what I want at all.”
