You Have the Right to Remain Puzzled

by Parnell Hall

  Cora frowned. The poorest of rationalizations, but one’s own.

  Certainly sufficient to rifle his desk.

  The three-legged desk boasted a telephone and answering machine, surely the most modern pieces in the room. Except for the small box next to it, the function of which Cora could only guess at. A fax line? No, then it would need a printer.

  Oh, well.

  The pencil drawer had pencils, a small disappointment. It also had an assortment of standard pencil-drawer junk, from paper clips to pennies, to a plastic pencil sharpener, to a roll of 35-millimeter film, which appeared to be exposed, since it wasn’t in a can. Cora wondered briefly if she should take it in and develop it.

  Very briefly.

  The three drawers on the right side of the desk looked much more promising. At least they were deeper than the pencil drawer, could hold something more substantial.

  The top drawer did. A laptop computer. Folded up, but open a crack. Cora fished it out, set it on the desk, pushed up the top.

  It was on.

  That was weird. The computer in the drawer left on. Why would that be?

  The answer immediately presented itself in the form of a small AOL mailbox icon at the bottom of the screen.

  Of course. The machine near the phone was a modem, of the dial-up variety. Wilbur would plug it into the back of his laptop, and go on the Internet.

  Should she connect the laptop? Why not? How hard could it be? She could go on-line and check his mail.

  Wait a minute! She didn’t need to be on-line. She wasn’t going to pick up the guy’s mail, just check it.

  Cora moved the mouse, clicked on the AOL icon.

  The mailbox opened.

  There on the screen was a list of the headings of the last e-mails Wilbur had received. All she wanted was his You’re El. Now, why wasn’t it there?

  His last e-mail was open. It seemed to be a mailing from some sort of antiques society, where a lot of members wrote in. Now, didn’t Sherry call that something? Something to do with tennis. Now, what the hell was that? A McEnroe journal? Not likely. Ah, right. A list-serve.

  Which didn’t really help her. Where was the damn heading? Not heading. Header. That was it. VIEW FULL HEADER IN PREVIEW. Cora moved the cursor, clicked on it.

  And there it was. Proof positive.

  Wilbur was sb@aol.com.

  Now, was there anything else?

  Cora skimmed through the e-mail, didn’t find anything interesting, aside from the fact that Wilbur had neglected to delete an offer of HOT ASIAN NYMPHOS, clearly an oversight.

  Cora shrank the mailbox icon, closed the laptop, put it back in the drawer. After a moment she took it out of the drawer, opened it, clicked on the AOL icon, then clicked on VIEW SHORT HEADER IN PREVIEW. Wilbur wouldn’t necessarily remember whether he’d left the full header on or off, but there was no reason to take a chance on arousing his suspicions.

  Cora put the laptop back in the top drawer, then searched the bottom two. She found nothing of interest. On inspiration she slid the drawers out, held them up, looked underneath. She found the bottoms of the drawers.

  Cora returned the last drawer to the desk, stood up, and looked around.

  Under the mattress, perhaps?

  It occurred to Cora it might have been useful if she’d known what she was looking for.

  The phone rang, snapped Cora back to reality. She glanced at her watch. Twenty-two minutes.

  The phone rang again.

  Should she pick it up, rasp hello, see what the person said?

  Probably not wise.

  The answering machine rendered the decision moot. Wilbur’s voice croaked, “I’m not in. Whaddya want?”

  A voice said, “Geez, you sell a lot of merchandise with that line?”

  That had been Cora’s exact thought. She grinned, until she heard, “This is Benny Southstreet, if you can’t tell. So, that info help, about who was bidding against you? There’s more where that came from. I’m a wealth of information. You won’t believe what else that woman’s been up to. You interested, call the motel. Four Seasons. Unit 12. I’m going out, be back after two. Give me a call, you’ll be glad you did.”

  Cora was furious. That son of a bitch! Something else she’d been up to? Evidence of her plagiarism, no doubt. Of all the dirty tricks. And she couldn’t even defend the charge, since it was true. He’d probably planted something in her office.

  Cora was roused from her musing by the sound of the front door.

  Oh, my God!

  Wilbur had been quicker than usual with his coffee. Of all the days. How was she going to explain her presence in his bedroom? She might have to seduce him. Cora shuddered at the thought.

  Was there a window?

  It didn’t matter if there was. It would be too high.

  Says who? She could climb down.

  Climb down what?

  Who cares what? Just open it!

  It wouldn’t open. It was nailed shut. Or stuck. Or never meant to open in the first place. It was too high anyway.

  So where to hide?

  The closet?

  No, no closet. Metal standing closets. The kind that made a lot of noise and didn’t hold a lot of clothes. She’d climb in and the damn thing would tip over. Or he’d hear her and stick a broomstick through the metal handles and she’d be locked in there like Alec

  Guinness in the oven in Bridge on the River Kwai. Granted, he got an Oscar; still, she’d never last like he did. Besides, he probably got to get out between takes.

  Oh, my God, here he comes, what the hell to do?

  Cora dived headlong under the bed.

  It was dusty, dirty, and littered with knickknacks that probably dated back to 1962. Maybe she’d find Hank Aaron’s rookie card. No, that was the ’50s, not the ’60s. Like the Guinness movie. Was she really that old?

  Shhh! Here he comes! Quiet! Head down!

  Her head was brushing the box spring. Cora prayed Wilbur hadn’t brought home one of the hot Asian nymphos.

  He hadn’t. He headed straight for the bathroom.

  Why hadn’t she thought of the bathroom? If she had, he’d have found her, but she’d be more comfortable.

  Go to the bathroom! Go, go, go, you old geezer! Close the door and stay in there forever!

  He didn’t close the door. Instead, he turned on the water in the sink and began brushing his teeth.

  His teeth? After a cup of coffee he brushes his teeth? He shouldn’t even have teeth. He’s gotta brush ’em at the sink,, right by the open door, where he can see someone crawling out from under the bed.

  Like a commando, Cora slithered across the bedroom floor, avoiding antiques and antiques dealers alike, until she reached the stairs.

  Stand up or slide down?

  Compromise. Cora slid until her feet cleared the top step, then squirmed into a crouch, and scurried the rest of the way. She hit the ground running, zigged and zagged her way through the shop. A flowered vase paid the price, toppling from a pedestal and shattering on the floor. Cora gritted her teeth, plunged on.

  It was not until she was out the front door and hurrying down the street that Cora’s heart stopped pounding too hard for her brain to catch up and process what she’d just heard.

  Oh, was Benny Southstreet going to get it!

  THE FOUR SEASONS Motel was just the kind Benny Southstreet would choose. The sign read, CABLE TV: $29.99. That, Cora figured, was either an expensive TV or inexpensive room. Cora drove right in as if she owned the place, pulled up in front of Unit 7.

  The service cart with linens and toiletries was outside the open door to Unit 8. The chambermaid was inside. Cora realized chambermaid was a rather sexist concept. Surely a man could hold the position.

  He didn’t. The chamberperson was a woman, not much more than a girl, from Cora’s perspective, though perhaps in her early twenties. She had freckles, red hair, and green eyes. She was chewing gum, which, in Cora’s humble opinion, made women seem unattractive. Not t
his one. She seemed bright and perky.

  Cora put on her friendliest smile. “Hi there.”

  “Oh, hello.”

  “Cleaning the rooms?”

  The girl popped her gum. “You must be psychic.”

  “I’m Cora Felton.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m Marge O’Connell.”

  “Hi. So what’s it like?”

  Marge frowned. “What’s what like?”

  “Cleaning the rooms.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a . . .” Cora hesitated over the bogus relationship. She’d been about to say “niece,” but Sherry was her niece. Cora couldn’t bear to claim a granddaughter, even an imaginary one. “I have a friend whose daughter’s looking for a job. She’s right out of high school. Nice girl. Bright. Wants to put some money away before college.”

  Marge looked amused. “Does she, now?”

  “Yes. So I was wondering if you could give me a few tips on the trade.”

  “You’d like some pointers on the fine art of being a chambermaid?”

  “What are the hours? What’s the pay? Do they try to take advantage of you?”

  “You mean sexual harassment?”

  “Yes.” Cora noticed the girl’s eyes were twinkling. “You’re putting me on?”

  “Well, Mr. Haney’s close to ninety. His wife’s close to a hundred, wears the pants in the family. I’m not sure he remembers what sex is. Anyway, I bet your friend’s daughter could outrun him.”

  “Sounds good. Well, don’t let me keep you.”

  Marge took a set of towels off the linen cart. She turned around to find Cora standing there. “You’re still here.”

  “I was wondering if I could watch you work. Get an idea what the job is like.”

  Marge put her hands on her hips in a saucy manner, and popped her gum. “Yeah, sure. Which unit you interested in?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Give me a break. You’re an amateur detective. Always snooping around. What is it this time? A murder?”

  “I really can’t say. You know how it is.”

  “You mean you have a client.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Is that what you can’t say?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “Could you answer a question?”

  “Depends what it is.”

  “This is Unit 8.”

  “That’s your question?”

  “No, that’s an observation.”

  “What’s your question?”

  “You working your way up or down?”

  Marge was working her way up. Cora sat in her car and smoked while Marge cleaned Units 9 and 10, and was there to intercept her when she finished 11.

  “Pretty impressive,” Cora said. “You did those rooms in fifteen minutes each.”

  “That’s with an audience,” Marge said. “Ordinarily, I’d take my time.”

  “You didn’t seem hurried to me. How about I put a stopwatch on you?”

  The girl’s mouth fell open. “Is that it? Old man Haney sent you to check up on me?”

  “I wouldn’t do that. Scout’s honor.”

  “Then what’s with the watch?”

  “Nothing. I’d take it off and put it in my purse, except I’d never find it. Go ahead. Do the room. I won’t make a peep.”

  Marge walked up to the motel door, put the key in the lock. Cora was right behind her.

  “So, you’re interested in this room?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “No, you didn’t. You expect to watch me clean it?”

  “Would that be a problem?”

  “Not unless you get me fired.”

  “I’m not here to get you fired.”

  “You could do it anyway.”

  “Yeah, but I’d really have to try.”

  The girl smiled. “Okay, you can look. But you’re not touching anything.”

  Cora knew that before Marge said it. Cora had no intention of touching anything. Except the motel room door lock, which she hoped to fiddle with surreptitiously, twisting the little gizmo to unlocked, so that when Marge went in to clean 13 Cora could slip in and ransack 12. It occurred to Cora she had a perfidious nature, if that was what the word meant.

  Marge clicked the door open, entered the unit. Cora went in right behind her, took a look, and stopped dead.

  In the middle of the room were four rattan chairs.

  “I’M SORRY, BUT this changes things,” Cora said.

  The chambermaid frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Did those four chairs come with this room?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Do you know what they’re doing here?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, I have. They were stolen from a friend of mine.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “So I’m going to take them back.”

  “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. You can’t do that. You’ll get me fired.”

  “For recovering stolen property?”

  “I let you look around. Which was fine, as long as you didn’t touch anything. You take those chairs, I’m in trouble big-time.”

  “I told you I wouldn’t get you into trouble. So let’s go find Mr. What’s-his-name, the manager, and I’ll explain the situation.”

  “It’s Mr. Haney. And what are you going to explain?”

  “I came here to see Benny Southstreet. You were cleaning his room. I looked in the door and there they were.”

  “You know whose room it is?”

  “Of course I do. Come on, give me a break. You knew I was snooping around. You really surprised I had something in mind?”

  “You were looking for these chairs?”

  In point of fact, Cora was looking for Chuck’s hundred-dollar bills. The idea Benny might have taken the chairs never occurred to her. “Absolutely. I came here to ask Benny about the chairs. He wasn’t here, but the chairs were. You think Mr. Haney will buy that?”

  “It isn’t the truth?”

  “It’s close enough.”

  “Well, Mr. Haney isn’t here. He went shopping at the mall.”

  “How about his wife?”

  “She went with him.”

  “Who is here?”

  “Ralph.”

  “I take it Ralph doesn’t have the authority to handle this?”

  “Ralph barely has the authority to tie his shoes.”

  “Okay,” Cora said. “We could call the police, but that would be messy, and we don’t want things to be messy.”

  Marge shook her head. “Uh-uh.”

  “Or I could wait until Benny Southstreet comes back and talk to him about it.”

  “Perfect,” Marge said.

  “Only he won’t be back till after two, and I’m not waiting around till then.”

  “So come back.”

  “Fine. In the meantime, we have these chairs.”

  “What about them?”

  “I don’t want to leave them here.”

  “Well, you can’t take them.”

  “In that case, you’re a witness. You’d better look them over carefully, because you’re the only one besides me who knows they’re here.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Hey, if these things disappear it’ll be my word against his. I’ll need you to back me up. You better be ready to identify the chairs.”

  “Hey, listen, you tell your friend’s daughter this is one hell of a tough job.”

  Cora grinned. “Kid, I like your style. Let me see if I can let you off the hook.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Cora fumbled in her purse, held up a disposable camera, and smiled her trademark Puzzle Lady smile, just as if she were doing a commercial for Kodak. “Let’s document the evidence.”

  CORA HAD PURCHASED a disposable camera, not because she gave a damn about photography, but because the dreamy new guy at the mall Photomat had looked prom
ising, until the clueless son of a bitch had the gaucheness to inquire if her niece was married. Cora hadn’t taken a picture since.

  The Photomat booth attendant seemed totally unaware of his previous faux pas. He shook his curly dark hair out of his eyes, favored Cora with a goofy, endearing grin. “Miss Felton, good to see you.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Cora plunked the disposable camera on the counter. “How soon can I get prints of these?”

  “One hour.”

  “I’ll try to be back.”

  Cora drove out to Harvey Beerbaum’s. The little man was in the process of constructing some godawful crossword puzzle when she came in.

  “It’s a cryptic,” Harvey said. “Care to solve it?”

  The phrase when pigs fly occurred to Cora. “I got more important things, Harvey. I found your chairs.”

  “Really. Where are they?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “What!?”

  “I promised.”

  “Cora, please tell me you’re kidding.”

  “Sort of. I know who took your chairs. I’m going to get ’em back. What more do you need to know?”

  “You’re sure they’re mine.”

  “Absolutely. If you don’t believe me, I’ll show you a picture.”

  “You have a picture?”

  “Not yet, but I will.”

  “Cora—”

  “The main thing is, I’ve seen your chairs and I’m going to get ’em back. Now then, did you make a report to the police?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Too bad. When I produce the chairs they’ll wanna know why. If I don’t tell ’em they’ll accuse me of compounding a felony and conspiring to conceal a crime.”

  “Are you doing that?”

  “Of course I am. But it’s for your own good. You don’t want to advertise that your house is so easy to break into. You’ll have a gaggle of robbers outside waiting their turn.”

  “A gaggle of robbers?”

  “I know it’s geese, but I don’t think they steal things. Is there a term for robbers? What would it be, a theft of robbers?”

  “So what can I tell the police?”

  “Tell ’em you got new chairs.”

  “That would be a lie.”

  “So don’t tell ’em anything. It’s not like they’re gonna come running to ask if you got your chairs back. It’s an unsolved crime. If you don’t mention it, they won’t mention it.”