by Parnell Hall
“Was your husband here when Sam Brogan came?”
“No, he was at work.”
“So you had to deal with him?”
“Yes. And you’d think the man never saw a baby before. ‘Madam, could you keep that kid quiet!’ Can you believe it? He actually said that.”
Cora, who shared Sam’s sentiment, merely nodded. “So, when did this break-in occur?”
“Sometime last night.”
“Can you pin it down any?”
“Not really. We didn’t discover it until this morning.”
“Was anything taken?”
“No. But it’s the principle of the thing.”
“You mention that to Sam Brogan?”
“Yes. He wasn’t happy.”
“No, I don’t imagine he was. How did the thief get in?”
“The policeman said since nothing was taken, he’s technically not a thief.”
Cora snorted in disgust. “Yeah, I know. But person-who-broke-in is such a cumbersome phrase. How about prowler? How did the prowler break in?”
“Through the kitchen window.”
“Oh?”
“He smashed a pane of glass in the back door of the kitchen, reached in, and unlocked it.”
Cora frowned. “Hmm.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Chief Harper said the study was broken into. According to you, the kitchen was broken into.”
“It was. You can see for yourself.”
“Then why did your husband say it was the study?”
“Obviously the prowler broke in through the kitchen to get to the study.”
“Yeah, but nothing was taken. If nothing was taken, how do you know the prowler was even in the study?”
“I don’t know. Maybe things were messed up.”
“Is that what your husband said?”
“He called the police from work. I wasn’t there.”
“Well, what did he tell you?”
“Someone broke in.”
“You knew that from the glass on the floor. Did he tell you it was the study?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Hmm.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Can I look at the study?”
“Why?”
“To see if anything’s missing.”
“But you don’t know what was there.”
“What’s your point?”
Mimi looked at Cora in exasperation. She clearly didn’t want to show Cora the study, but it was hard to refuse someone who had done her such a big favor. “You can look, but don’t mess up Chuck’s things. He doesn’t like people messing with his things.”
“Did the prowler mess with his things?”
“I don’t know. I think it’s the fact that he might have.”
“Uh-huh. So where’s the study?”
Mimi led Cora to a room down the hall. The door was open. There was a keyhole in it.
“Chuck keep this locked?” Cora asked.
“No.”
The study was a small room dominated by a wooden desk and an office chair on wheels. It was an armed chair of the type you could tip back to put your feet up on the desk. Cora hated them. She seldom put her feet up on the desk, and the chair was wobbly.
There came a loud wail. It was either the baby objecting to the playpen, or someone strangling a cat. At any rate, the sound sent Mimi charging out of the room. Cora was glad. The woman had no useful information, and it was easier to toss the place without her.
Not that Cora knew where to look. Or what to look for. There’d been a break-in. Nothing had been taken. But the husband had specifically named the study. He was either omniscient, a moron, or lying. If the latter— no, the last, sequence of three—oh, hell, she was starting to think like Sherry, what a depressing prospect. If Mimi’s husband was lying, if something was stolen, it was something he didn’t want to report. Now, what could that be?
Drugs immediately came to mind. The guy was a dope dealer, someone ripped off his stash, naturally he couldn’t tell the police. But he could report a break-in. Which might result in the police getting a line on his nemesis. Which would serve as a hell of a warning not to do anything of the kind again.
Okay, so where did the guy hide his drugs?
The bookcases seemed too easy, but Cora checked them anyway. There was nothing behind the books. Nothing in the file cabinets, unless pressed thin as wafers and slipped in the file folders. Nothing in the desk drawers. Nothing behind the desk drawers.
The kid was still howling, and Cora loved her now. She was a perfect distraction.
Okay, suppose nothing was stolen. Suppose something was just looked at.
The computer was on. And Cora had recently learned a little about computers.
Cora sat in the tippy armchair, wheeled it up to the desk. The keyboard was on the desktop, a little high for her liking. There was no mouse pad, the mouse sat on the ink blotter.
The blotter was slightly askew. The left front corner had been moved about a half inch to the right, creating a diagonal line in the dust on the desk.
Someone had moved the blotter. Why? Was there something under it?
Cora pushed the keyboard aside, raised the edge of the blotter. Saw nothing. Of course, the monitor was holding most of the blotter down. Should she move it?
In the living room, Mimi was reasoning with her child, with little success. From what Cora could tell, they had a lot more to discuss.
Cora pushed the monitor back, raised the blotter.
There was nothing there.
Except. . .
Was that something in the upper right-hand corner? Where the edge of the monitor still held the blotter down?
She hadn’t moved the monitor far enough. She had to move it again.
Uh-oh!
Darlene was quiet. The child from hell screams for fifteen minutes, and now she’s quiet?
Damn!
Cora’s left hand snaked out from under the blotter, grabbed the top of the monitor, tipped it up. Beneath the blotter her left hand was no longer holding up, her right hand fumbled forward, touched something, gripped it between her fingers.
The monitor began to fall.
Cora leaped to her feet. The desk chair shot across the room, banged into a small bookcase.
Cora lunged across the desk. Her right hand flew from beneath the blotter, grabbing the monitor as it went over. She wrestled it back onto the desk with her right hand, knocking the keyboard and mouse to the floor with her flailing left.
The ensuing racket was slightly louder than a bus-boy dropping a tray of dishes, slightly less than an atomic blast.
The baby wailed again. Its surprised tremolo could only mean Mimi had snatched it from the playpen.
Cora only had a second to straighten up the den.
Fat chance.
The monitor was sideways. The keyboard and mouse were on the floor. The desk chair had knocked a glass, a vase, and a framed photograph off the bookcase. Miraculously, none of them were broken, merely strewn across the floor.
Footsteps hurried in the direction of the study. Cora had approximately half a second to make things right.
She flung herself to the floor. She did it so convincingly she banged her head on the leg of the desk.
Mimi burst into the room. “My God! What happened?”
Cora looked up ruefully, rubbed her aching head. “I fell. I went to sit on the chair, completely lost my balance. I’m afraid I messed up the desk. Oh, dear! And the bookcase! Did anything break?”
Mimi glanced around the room, then looked back at the prone woman on the floor with the impatient feigned tolerance the young reserved for annoying infirmities of the elderly, and Cora knew she was home free.
CORA SLAMMED THE red Toyota to a stop, dragged her drawstring purse off the passenger seat, and practically flew up the path. She was eager to see what she’d found under the blotter of Mimi’s husband’s desk, if she had indeed found anything. It
felt like the tiniest scrap of paper. Or cardboard. Or plastic. Or light metal, such as aluminum foil. Or cloth. It could have been a piece of a letter, a playing card, or a paper napkin without surprising her in the least.
If it was something so innocuous, Cora might have trouble figuring out what it was. She had plunged it deep within the recesses of her drawstring purse, where several similar objects presumably lay.
Cora burst in the door, bellowed, “Sherry!” There was no answer. She must be out with Aaron. Otherwise, she’d be home, since Cora had the car.
Cora went into the kitchen, lit up a cigarette. She took a saucer down to use as an ashtray. Sherry was always hiding the ashtrays to discourage her from smoking.
Cora sat down at the table, regarded her purse.
Should she dump it, or take out the items one by one? Dumping seemed good. Were there any items that shouldn’t be dumped? Ah, yes. She removed her gun, set it aside. Then, taking hold of the bottom corners of the drawstring purse, she turned it upside down and slid the contents out on the table.
It was a fairly imposing pile of junk.
Cora quickly removed the objects she knew to be hers, which included a makeup mirror, a knitting needle, and several ornate cigarette lighters, none of which worked, but all of which had sentimental if not intrinsic value.
An autograph book from her more lighthearted days, if such a thing was possible, boasted, among others, inscriptions from James Taylor, Reggie Jackson, and Paul Newman.
There was also a hairbrush. Cora couldn’t remember the last time she’d used it. Maybe it wasn’t hers. Even so, it wasn’t what she found under the blotter.
Cora pawed through the remaining articles, found birth control pills, a diaphragm, three condoms, and spermicidal jelly. Maybe it was just as well she hadn’t unpacked in front of Chief Harper.
A coin purse. A wallet, with ID cards and money. A number of pencils with broken points. A number of pens, none of which worked. A church key, left over from her drinking days. Damn. Cora could remember turning the house upside down to open a beer bottle, and she had a church key all the time.
Never mind. What did she find under the blotter?
There were a number of small pieces of paper in her purse, mostly receipts.
Whoa! What was this? A small green and white paper. What the hell was that?
Cora held it up, squinted at it.
It had a right angle, and a jagged, torn edge.
She could make out the upper half of what appeared to be numbers.
One, zero, zero.
Cora whistled.
It was unmistakably the corner of a hundred-dollar bill.
Cora couldn’t recall the last time she’d had a hundred-dollar bill loose in her purse. Granted, there were huge stretches of her life she couldn’t recall all that clearly; still, the presence of large sums of money would have been apt to make some impression.
Hot damn!
Wait till Chief Harper saw this!
Cora snatched the phone from the wall, punched in the number. “Chief? Cora. I’ll be right over. I found something in the Dillinger house,” she said, and slammed down the phone before he could argue.
Cora’s moment of elation was dampened by the pile of junk on the kitchen table. She couldn’t leave it there. She had to sort through it, throw stuff out.
Like hell.
Cora held her purse up to the edge of the table, pushed her precious belongings back into it. She snatched up her gun and her car keys and tore out the door.
As Cora’s Toyota sped down the driveway, Dennis Pride stepped out from his hiding place in the hall closet.
Well, that was interesting as all hell.
What had Cora found in the Dillinger house?
CHIEF HARPER SQUINTED up from the bill. “So?”
Cora pointed. “That’s a piece of a hundred-dollar bill.”
“I can see that. So what?”
“It may have come from under the blotter on Mimi’s husband’s desk.”
“May have?”
“There’s a very good chance. You could almost assume it did.”
“Why would I have any doubt?”
“It could also have come from my purse.”
“Aha. And when’s the last time you cleaned your purse?”
“I believe Nixon was in the White House.”
“That’s not encouraging.”
“It should be. A bad witness swears up and down they’re right no matter what. A fair witness, who acknowledges the fact they might be wrong, has an opinion I can take to the bank.”
“That’s well argued. It does not cheer me.” Harper sighed. “All right. I guess I gotta ask the husband about this.”
“No, you can’t do that.”
Harper looked at Cora in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“If you ask her husband, Mimi will know I was snooping.”
“So?”
“I’m not going to be invited into many people’s homes if they know I snoop.”
“You’re investigating a break-in. You’re not supposed to look around?”
“Not under the blotter.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake.” Chief Harper raised his head, bellowed, “Sam!”
After a pause of several seconds, from the deep recesses of the police station came a rather exasperated, “Yeah?”
“Come in here a minute?”
Sam didn’t answer, but after a while there came the sound of police boots stomping down the hall, and Bakerhaven’s crankiest police officer trudged in. He saw Cora, scowled, stroked his mustache. “What do you want?” he demanded.
“You ever have to sneak up on a suspect, Sam?”
“No, but I got one ready for booking. If I can get the paperwork done. Which I can’t really do in here. What’s she got you involved in now, Chief?”
“That break-in you covered.”
“Nothing to it. Nothing taken, nothing damaged, except one small pane of glass. Case closed.”
“Not quite.”
“Why not?”
“You found something in the study.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.” Chief Harper held out the plastic evidence bag with the corner of the bill. “You found this under the blotter in the study.”
“You planting evidence now, Chief?”
“No, just accounting for it.”
“I see.” Sam gave Cora his most withering look. “He means you found it.”
“Don’t worry, Sam,” Cora said sweetly. “I won’t tell anyone you overlooked it.”
Sam nearly choked on his mustache.
BECKY BALDWIN’S LAW office was over the pizza shop. Today’s special was sausage and peppers. Becky, with a fashion model figure to maintain, had grown immune to the aromas. Her clients were not so lucky.
“Damn, I missed lunch,” Benny Southstreet complained, sniffing the air.
Becky ignored the digression. She had few enough clients, she didn’t intend to lose one to a pizza. “But you have a problem?”
“Yes, I do. And you seem to be the only lawyer in town.” He put up his hand. “No offense, of course. I’m not saying you’re not good. You’re pretty young for a lawyer.”
Becky smiled. “How old do you think a lawyer should be?”
“I know that’s stupid. But you’re a girl. Not that there’s anything wrong with a girl being a lawyer. I seen some pretty tough woman lawyers. The one who handled my divorce was built like a tank.” Benny shuddered at the thought. “Damn, that pizza’s driving me nuts.”
Becky wanted to tell him to get some lunch and come back, but she was afraid he wouldn’t. She smiled, said, “You must be in a lot of trouble to pass a pizza place to get to my office.”
“I’m not in trouble.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“No you’re not. If I were in trouble, you could make a buck. That’s how you lawyers think.”
Becky was pretty sure that was how Benny Southstreet thought. �
��What can I do for you?”
“You know any law?”
“One or two.”
“Is that a joke? I’m sitting here starving, and you’re making jokes?”
Becky’d had enough. “You ask me if I know any law. That’s either a joke or an insult. You think you just rent an office and hang up a sign? I’d like to see you pass the bar, mister.”
Benny nodded approvingly. “Spitfire. I like that. Not much muscle, but a lot of moxie. Think I should trust you?”
“I know what I think. I have no idea what you think. Or who you are. Can you afford a cash retainer?”
Benny put up his hands. “Hey. Just a minute. Who said anything about cash? We’re talking lawsuit, here. It’s not cash. It’s contingency.”
“Just my luck,” Becky said dryly. “Guy knows two legal terms and one of them’s contingency.”
“Yeah, well, that’s right, isn’t it?”
“In a negligence suit, maybe. Is this a negligence suit? A personal injury?”
“Sure. I’m the injured party.”
“And how were you injured?”
“Not physically. I was stolen from.”
Becky shook her head. “That’s a matter for the police.”
“No it’s not. They’d just laugh at me.”
Becky was sure they would. An incoherent, two-bit gambler who looked like he’d stepped out of a production of Guys and Dolls. “What was stolen, Mr. Southstreet?”
“My crossword puzzle.”
Becky blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“See? See? You’re laughing at me too. It’s not funny. The damn bitch stole my puzzle!”
Dennis Pride barged in. That was the biggest problem with Becky’s office, aside from garlic and onions. No waiting room. No privacy. Anyone entering from the street interrupted any client conference. Dennis did so now, just in time to hear Benny’s complaint.
Dennis grinned. “So, some bitch stole your puzzle. Who might that be?”
“Dennis, could you wait outside?” Becky said.
“I could, but I’m not gonna. I’m supposed to check in with my lawyer. I’m doing it. Unless you got something else, I’m outta here.”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“I’d like to talk to you too. But someone stole this guy’s puzzle. Some bitch, I believe he said.”
