by Parnell Hall
“Who?”
“Chuck Dillinger. I followed him to see what he’d do.”
“What did he do?”
“Left the house, got in his car, and drove to the nearest gas station.”
“And got gas?” Cora said, lightly mocking him.
“Yeah, he got gas. But while he was filling up he went to the pay phone and made a call.”
Cora frowned. “From the pay phone?”
“Yeah.”
“He didn’t have a cell phone?”
“If he did, he didn’t use it. He went to the pay phone. It’s a gas station convenience store, with the phone on the outside wall.”
“On Elm Street?”
“I don’t know the names of the streets. At the traffic light.”
“That’s the one. So he made a call?”
“Yeah. I got close enough to hear. And I thought you should know.”
“Why?”
“It was a funny call. He said, ‘It’s me. We got trouble.’ Then he listened and said, ‘I have no idea.’ He listened again and said, ‘No, she hasn’t got a clue.’ He laughed and said, ‘Thank God she wrecked the car.’ ”
“Then what?”
“Then I think he saw me, because he said, ‘Gotta go,’ and hung up the phone.”
“What did he do then?”
“Paid for the gas and went home. I watched the house for a while, but he stayed put.”
“You drove all the way up from New York to tell me this?”
“I came by last night. With Brenda. There was no one here.”
“With Brenda?”
“Yeah. She thought it was important.”
“Okay, you told me. Now get the hell out of here.”
Dennis glared at her to show he couldn’t be pushed around, then did what she said.
Cora watched him drive off and frowned.
What Dennis told her was fascinating.
She wondered if it was true.
CHIEF HARPER PULLED into the Four Seasons Motel parking lot, to find the young desk clerk in the baseball cap waiting for him outside.
“Where is she?” Harper demanded.
The kid jerked his thumb. “Out back.”
Harper followed him behind the motel office, where a large, green Dumpster stood. The lid was open, and there was a scrabbling inside as if the garbage was being picked over by an enormous rat.
Harper walked up, banged on the side.
Cora Felton’s head emerged from the Dumpster. Her hair was matted and stringy, and there was a banana peel on her shoulder. She was wearing her Wicked Witch of the West outfit. In New York City she could have passed for a bag lady.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Harper growled.
Cora held up a Diet Pepsi can. “Would you believe collecting deposit bottles?”
“Cora.”
She smiled. “I love it when you use my first name. I wish I didn’t have to dress in garbage to get you to do it.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“No, it’s not. I phoned the police station three times this morning. You wouldn’t take my call.”
Harper stared at her. “You did this to get my attention?”
“Don’t be silly.” Cora chuckled. “That’s like that Carly Simon song. You know, you’re so vain you probably think this Dumpster’s about you.”
“So what are you doing?”
“Looking for evidence you missed.”
“Evidence I . . . missed!” Harper could barely get the words out. He wheeled on the desk clerk. “When was this thing dumped?”
“Yesterday.”
“See?” Harper said. “It’s been dumped since the murder.”
“That will make it harder,” Cora said complacently. She climbed out of the Dumpster, led him aside. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here, Chief.”
“Try not to touch me.”
“Sorry. I need help with the case. That’s why I called. I need your help.”
“I might be more inclined to give it if you hadn’t compared the prosecutor to a tree slug.”
“I’m sure I never did that.”
“I’m sure you did. From what I hear, it was one of your milder epithets.”
“You know what he accused me of?”
“Yeah. A lot of things you probably did. Considering you’re getting a pass on breaking and entering, I would think you’d be a little tolerant.”
“He thinks I faked my own shooting.”
“He’s going by the evidence.”
“The evidence is wrong.”
“Evidence is evidence. You wanna come up with another explanation for it, fine. But the facts are the facts.”
“It’s not my fault I was framed.”
“Well, it’s not my fault either. I didn’t shoot you with your own gun.”
“No, you didn’t. So you owe me a favor.”
Chief Harper frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“If you shot me with my gun, I’d be innocent, and I could prove it. The fact you didn’t leaves me in a bind.”
“That’s looney logic, even for you.”
“So I need a favor. Two, actually. Well, maybe three. But let’s start with two.”
“God save me.”
“Barney Nathan listens to you. You have a working relationship. You can call him, say, ‘What’s up, Doc?’ ”
“You want me to ask the medical examiner about the autopsy?”
“Well, it’s his job, isn’t it?”
“It’s not his job to make a case for the defense.”
“No, but you could ask him to check for contributing factors. I mean, it’s real nice you got the gunshot wound to the head from the gun with my fingerprints on it. But was there anything else? Like drugs, for instance.”
Chief Harper sighed. “I’ve seen the autopsy report. Drugs didn’t kill him. He was killed by a single shot to the back of the head. At an angle from which he’d have to be a contortionist to have fired himself.”
“I know. But did he have any other problems?”
Chief Harper gave her a look. “I am not inclined to bother the medical examiner.”
Cora shrugged. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t be. All right, you can do me the easy favor.”
“Easy favor?” Harper looked at her suspiciously. “All this talk about the autopsy report was just a ploy to get me to do something else?”
“Don’t be silly, Chief. I want you to talk to the doctor.”
“Yeah? So what’s this ‘easy’ favor?”
“It really is easy, Chief. The type of thing you can do in your sleep.”
“Oh, yeah? What?”
“I need you to trace a call.”
SHERRY CARTER’S MOUTH fell open. “My God, you’re a mess! Where have you been?”
“In a Dumpster.”
“That’s what you look like. Where were you really?”
“Don’t start with me.”
Sherry spun away from the computer, picked a piece of romaine lettuce out of Cora’s hair. “My God, you were in a Dumpster. What were you doing?”
“Going through the garbage.”
“What for?”
“To attract Chief Harper’s attention.”
“Just because he wouldn’t take your call?”
“No. But that’s what he thought. I was out at the crime scene, looking for evidence.”
“Find any?”
“None to find. The Dumpster was dumped yesterday.”
“So it was a waste of time.”
“No. The killer doesn’t know it was dumped.”
“You’re setting a trap?”
“God, I hope so.”
Buddy came skittering in the door, took one look at Cora, and skittered out again.
“Now, there’s a vote of confidence,” Cora said dryly.
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”
“None at all,” Cora admitted. “I’m just trying to stir things up.”
“Why?”
Cora brushed cigarette ash off her outfit and frowned. She wasn’t smoking. “The killer made a big mistake, trying to frame me with my own gun. There are only a few ways that could have happened. Just like there are only a few ways Benny Southstreet could have been killed. You put it all together and it’s not a pretty picture.”
Sherry looked at Cora closely. “Are you saying you know who did it?”
“If I did, do you think I’d be crawling around in the garbage?”
“Good point.” Sherry’s eyes twinkled. “Well, while you were doing that, guess what I found.”
“What?”
“The Daniel Farnsworth Cane Company.”
“They make canes?”
“No, that’s just their name. I’m not sure why. Maybe they use cane in the manufacturing. Maybe one of the partners was named Cane.”
“What the hell is the Daniel Farnsworth Cane Company?” Cora said irritably.
Sherry smiled. “See? This is what you do to me all the time. See what it feels like?”
Cora characterized Sherry as a particular body part of limited intelligence.
“That’s no way to talk about the person who penetrated the records of the Daniel Farnsworth Cane Company.”
“I don’t give a damn about the Daniel What’s-it’s-name—Wait a minute. Does this company manufacture chairs?”
“Only for the last hundred years. Give or take a decade. The point is, they’re still in business.”
“I take it back. You’re an absolute genius. You should have your brain bronzed. Or your mouse.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Philip T Crickstein. Bookkeeper for the Daniel Farnsworth Cane Company from 1935 to 1962. Mr. Crickstein kept such meticulous records that it is possible to trace purchases made over fifty years ago.”
“You’re way too pleased with yourself. What did you find?”
“I found the record of Wilbur purchasing the chairs.”
“He didn’t buy them from the manufacturer. He bought them at auction.”
“When?”
“Two years ago.”
Sherry smiled, shook her head. “Not quite. He bought them from the Daniel Farnsworth Cane Company on June 6, 1952.”
“What!?”
“That’s right. And he didn’t buy four chairs. He bought eight.”
“Eight?”
“Yeah. And that’s not the best part. He didn’t have them shipped to himself. He had them shipped to a private home in Mount Vernon, New York.”
“Please tell me you traced the address.”
“I did, but that’s where the trail gets cold. The records indicate a family named Austin lived there in the early ’50s. Where they went after that is anybody’s guess.”
“Find them.”
“That may take a while.”
“I haven’t got a while.” Cora pointed to the computer screen. “Go on-line and find them. I don’t care if you Google ’em or use MapQuest, or a computer dating service, just find them, for Christ’s sake.”
“I’ll give it my best shot.”
“Please do.” Cora sighed grimly. “I gotta solve this damn case before I get framed for anything else.”
“TELL ME ABOUT the money.”
Mimi Dillinger was blocking the doorway, so Cora couldn’t get in. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes you do,” Cora assured her. “The first time I mentioned it you acted like every small-time punk who ever got picked up for questioning. Right down to the shifty eyes.”
Darlene was crying. Mimi glanced over her shoulder. “This isn’t a good time.”
“It’s the best time you got. It may be the last time you’ve got. If I were you, I’d take advantage of it.”
“The baby’s upset.”
“So, what else is new? I don’t care if you change it, nurse it, or spank it. Just so long as you talk.”
“Can’t you leave me alone?”
“Not anymore. I got shot at last night.”
Mimi was horrified. “What!?”
“Yeah. As if I didn’t have enough problems. And that’s just part of it. Well, I’m tired of being a punching bag. I’m hitting back, and I’m hitting hard. And if you stand in my way, I’m hitting you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. And you want to tell me. I know you do. You told me about the ice pick. That was kind of a test run. If that had gone well, you might have brought up the cash.”
“What cash?”
“Don’t be dumb. The money under the blotter. The hundred-dollar bills. That might have been two, or might have been more. That Benny Southstreet might have stolen, or your husband might have spent. That might be real, or might not, but you think the police ought to test. That cash.”
“Oh.”
“Good answer. Not enlightening, but beats a denial. Come on, help me out here. I need to know if I got shot at for finding that piece of hundred-dollar bill under your blotter.”
Mimi’s eyes were wide. “You found that?”
“Let’s not get sidetracked. I want answers, and I want ’em now. After tonight, all bets are off.”
“Why? What’s happening tonight?”
“I’m wrapping up the case.”
It was a stone-cold bluff. Cora would have put the odds of her cracking the case as a slightly longer shot than her winning the Kentucky Derby.
Mimi bit her lip.
Cora whipped out a paper, waved it in Mimi’s face. “I got the goods. It’s all going down. The only question now is who’s going down with it. I’m hoping it’s not you.”
“What’s that?”
Cora glanced at the paper. It was an old cable TV bill from her Manhattan apartment. She quickly shoved it back in her purse. “Last chance. In or out. What’s it gonna be?”
The kid was shrieking a blue streak, but Mimi didn’t seem to notice. Her voice trembled. “What do you want?”
Cora’s voice was hard as nails. “Tell me about the money.”
RICK REED COULDN’T have been prouder. “This is Rick Reed, Channel 8 News, bringing you an exclusive interview with Cora Felton, the world-famous Puzzle Lady, who has been arrested and charged with murder in the shooting death of Benny Southstreet. Miss Felton, why are you making a statement at this time?”
Cora, all decked out in her favorite Miss Marple wear, beamed at the camera. “Because the public has a right to know, and I want to tell them.”
“And you’re telling them exclusively on Channel 8 News.”
“No, I’m telling them live, in person, at eight o’clock tonight at the Bakerhaven town hall.”
Rick Reed looked crestfallen. “You’re not telling us now?”
“No, I’m making my announcement tonight. I’d be delighted to have you there, just as I’d be delighted to have all of Bakerhaven.”
“You’re going to address the town meeting?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you going to tell us who murdered Benny Southstreet?”
“I don’t know who murdered Benny Southstreet. I’m hoping someone will tell me.”
“You think the killer will be there?”
“I hope not.”
Rick Reed frowned. “Why?”
“Because everybody else will.” Cora smiled. “And then I’ll know who the killer is. The killer will be the person who doesn’t have the guts to show up.”
“You think the killer will be afraid to come to the meeting?”
“Oh, yes. If he does, I’ll expose him. Or her. But if he doesn’t, I won’t have to, because we’ll all know who he is. The spineless wimp who didn’t dare to come.”
“And there you have it,” Rick Reed concluded. “An open challenge to the killer, to show up at the town hall tonight at eight o’clock, to meet the Puzzle Lady, face-to-face. We’ll be there, live, to see if the killer shows up, or wimps out. This is Rick Reed, Channel 8 News.”
Cora smiled.
“I know who you are, Rick.”
“I was doing the wrap-up.”
“That’s fine, but I’m not done.”
“No?”
“Wouldn’t you like a little preview?”
“And how!” Rick preened for the camera. “And now, with an exclusive preview of tonight’s town meeting, here is the Puzzle Lady, Cora Felton. What are you going to be talking about tonight, Miss Felton?”
“The autopsy report.”
“What about the autopsy report?”
“The doctor only found one bullet. Which was a big break for the killer. There were two bullets. The doc only found one.”
Rick Reed looked incredulous. “Wait a minute. You’re saying there were two bullets?”
Cora smiled. “Can’t put anything past you, Rick. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“You mean the autopsy report was wrong?”
“How many bullets were there in the autopsy report?”
“One.”
“You do the math.”
“And there you have it,” Rick concluded. “A shocking accusation from the defendant, challenging the findings of the medical examiner. This is Rick Reed, Channel 8 News.” He shot a glance at Cora Felton, mouthed, “Are you done?”
Cora smiled sardonically. “Am I ever.”
BARNEY NATHAN WAS right up front. Cora wasn’t surprised. She’d been ducking the doctor’s phone calls ever since the broadcast. Her answering machine was nearly fried from the volume and the language. She’d also refused to talk to him at the town hall. Through intermediary Iris Cooper, Barney had been promised he’d have his say as long as he held his tongue until called on, a condition to which he had agreed with great gnashing of teeth. Now the good doctor sat red-faced on the edge of his seat, ready to leap up at any minute.
Iris Cooper side-spied at him over the lectern. “Think he’ll keep quiet?”
“Or explode,” Cora whispered back. “I would say it’s a fifty-fifty bet.”
Rick Reed pushed his way through the crowd.
“Okay, we got monitors in the back to carry the live feed. We’re setting up some more outside.”
“Outside?”
Rick grinned. “Yeah. Our little interview really packed ’em in. We’ve got almost as many people out there as in here.”
