by Parnell Hall
“Even so, you think it would upset her to have him charged with murder?”
Cora shook her head. “You don’t understand. He didn’t do it. You charge him with murder, he becomes the sympathetic hero, charged with a crime he didn’t commit. Don’t cast that jerk in that role.”
“This is not a game, Cora.”
“No kidding. This is deadly serious.”
Chief Harper slowed his car near the crime scene. He frowned. It appeared half of Bakerhaven was there.
Harvey Beerbaum emerged from the crowd. “Cora, I just heard. I’m so sorry.” He enfolded her in a clumsy embrace.
“I’m sure you are, Harvey. I’m sure you are.”
Harvey was almost knocked off his feet by a stampede of Tune Freaks.
“Hey, man, where’s our lead singer?” Razor demanded.
“If you mean Dennis Pride, he’s talking to his lawyer.”
“I’ll bet he is,” the portly drummer said, and rolled his eyes suggestively.
Harper and Cora tiptoed through the Tune Freaks to where Sam Brogan was standing with two witnesses. Cora had a momentary rush of dread as she recognized Raymond’s long-haired hippie next-door neighbors, before the horrible realization dawned that she didn’t have to be afraid of them anymore.
“These the ones?” Harper asked.
“Yeah.” Sam rolled his eyes slightly as he introduced the hippie couple as Jack and Daffodil Dirkson. Their getup recalled the Beatles song in which John and Yoko looked like two gurus in drag. “They saw him go in.”
“Is that right?” Chief Harper asked.
Jack Dirkson ran his hand through his long, thinning hair. His mind appeared blown by the question. “Wow, man. What a thing to say. When you say, like, ‘Did we see him?’ you mean, like, ‘Did we see him?’ ”
“That’s the gist of it,” Harper said patiently. “Did you see him go in?”
“You gotta ask me that?” Jack whined. He pointed to Cora. “She was there. She went in. You don’t need us.”
“According to your wife, the young man came earlier,” Sam Brogan prompted.
“Yes, he did,” Daffodil Dirkson said. She seemed slightly more coherent than her spouse. Cora wondered if that had to do with their relative drug intake, or was just generally the case. “I was on the porch swing. He came out of the house over there, crossed the street, and went in.”
“Did Raymond let him in?” Harper asked.
Daffodil frowned. “I’m not sure.”
“Bummer!” Jack exclaimed. “You don’t want a witness who isn’t sure.”
“No one’s talking about being a witness right now,” Chief Harper said. “I just need some guidelines to go on. So the young man came by himself, before everyone went in and found the body. Do you have any idea how much earlier that might have been?”
Daffodil shrugged. “I’m not that good with time.”
“No kidding,” Jack Dirkson put in. “Daffy, you’re a space cadet. You don’t know.”
Chief Harper managed not to show amusement at Daffodil’s nickname. “How long was he in there?” he asked her.
“Don’t be a drag, man,” Jack said. “She can’t tell.”
“Was it as much as five minutes?” Chief Harper persisted.
Daffy shrugged helplessly. “Could be.”
“At least a couple?”
“Ah . . .”
“What I’m getting at,” Chief Harper said, “is there’s no way he just stuck his head in and came back out?”
Daffodil Dirkson tried to follow his logic, exhaled. “Wow.”
“Did he do that, or did he go inside? Did the door close?”
“Ah . . .”
“Daffy, you can’t make it up,” Jack Dirkson said. “She’s making it up.”
“I’m not making it up. I’m trying to think.”
“She’s making it up.”
“Your best recollection is he came alone, went inside for several minutes, then came back out again, prior to the time the others arrived?”
Daffy’s eyes looked round as saucers. “Oh, wow,” she murmured.
“Does she have to be a witness?” Jack demanded.
“I certainly hope not,” Chief Harper said dryly.
The chief walked Sam Brogan out of earshot of the Dirksons. “Good work, Sam. Where’s the owner of the B&B?”
“She was here a minute ago. Can’t miss her, she’s got red hair. Yeah, there she is. Right in front of her house.”
“Fine, let’s go serve the warrant.”
“Warrant?” Cora Felton asked. “What warrant?”
Chief Harper wove his way through the crowd with Sam Brogan. Cora Felton stuck to his heels. He checked the name on the warrant, said, “Mrs. Trumble?”
The red-haired B&B owner tore herself away from her conversation with her neighbors, preening a little with her newfound celebrity status—after all, this was a murder, and she was talking to the chief of police. “Yes?” she all but simpered.
“I have a search warrant here for your address.”
Her mouth fell open. The woman could not have been more astonished had the chief accused her of the crime. “What?” she stammered.
“Nothing to be alarmed about. But we have to check on one of your guests. This warrant empowers us to search any rooms occupied by him.”
“This is most unusual.”
“Actually, it’s quite routine. Could you open up for us, please?”
“What are we looking for?” Cora demanded, as she followed them to the B&B.
“You are not looking for anything,” Chief Harper reminded her. “This warrant empowers the police to search the premises. It does not empower private citizens.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sakes.”
“And that’s final,” Chief Harper said firmly. “I am not having any evidence thrown out on the grounds the search was tainted. We’re doing this strictly by the book. You stay here.”
“Well, I like that,” Cora Felton said, as Harper strode off.
With no siren but great honking of horn, the Channel 8 van drove right to the front of the crime scene and Rick Reed hopped out. Young, handsome, and as bright as your average fireplug, the on-camera reporter practically drooled when he caught sight of Cora Felton. In the past Rick Reed had always come out second best in his interviews with the Puzzle Lady. Now the sight of her dressed in rags seemed too good to be true. If she really was the grieving bride-to-be, she was a sitting duck.
“Get the camera! Get the camera!” he hissed desperately at the crew in the van. He buttoned his Channel 8 blazer, tugged on his tie. “Damn it, where’s my mike?”
The video crew, struggling with their heavy equipment, came around the side of the van.
“Here you go, Rick,” the soundman said.
“You wanna shoot a lead-in first, in front of the crime scene?” the cameraman asked.
“No, no, her,” Rick Reed said. “I want her.” He grabbed the mike, raced to Cora Felton. “Miss Felton, Rick Reed, Channel 8 News. I just heard of this terrible tragedy. You must be devastated. Is it true the victim was to be your bridegroom?”
Cora’s first instinct was to punch him in the mouth, but some sense of self-preservation stopped her. “I have no information,” she said primly. “But I understand the police have made an arrest.”
Rick Reed had already framed his next question, but that stopped him dead. “An arrest? Who have they arrested?”
“Ask them,” Cora said, and vanished into the crowd.
Rick Reed was left with egg on his face, and the suspicion he’d been gotten the better of again. Cora’s terse statement was worse than “No comment.” He’d be hard-pressed to justify using it.
Cora, escaping from the TV crew, barely sidestepped the solicitous Reverend Kimble, and fell right into the clutches of an overattentive Harvey Beerbaum.
“Cora,” Harvey said. “I was attempting to convey to you how sorry I am.”
“I know, Harvey.”
&nbs
p; “No, you don’t. I’ve been awful. I resented the fact a stranger came into town and swept you off your feet. He was an outsider. I didn’t want him here. I didn’t like him. But I didn’t want him dead.”
“Of course you didn’t, Harvey.”
“It’s just a coincidence, that’s all.”
“Of course it is,” Cora said, but she had no idea what he was talking about.
“Anyway, I’m devastated. If there’s anything I can do—”
“That’s sweet of you, Harvey, but there’s really nothing.”
“Are you certain?”
Cora patted his arm. “Just don’t tell me I should be home in bed.”
“You must believe me, I never meant for this to happen.”
“Of course I do, Harvey. Of course I do.”
“Well, just so you know.”
Harvey turned, trudged dejectedly back into the darkness.
Cora watched him go. Was he too upset about what had happened, or was she just woozy from the drug?
Cora shook her head to clear it. She certainly was woozy, or she’d be able to think straight. What did Chief Harper expect to find in Dennis and Brenda’s bed-and-breakfast?
31
BECKY BALDWIN ARCHED ONE EXQUISITELY PERFECT BLOND eyebrow, and drummed her pencil on her yellow legal pad. She had pulled a folding chair up next to the cell, and was talking to Dennis through the bars. “That’s your story?”
Dennis’s smile was good-natured. “What’s wrong with my story?”
“Well, in the first place, you call it a story.”
“You called it a story.”
“I’m a lawyer, and that’s what it sounds like. But you’re not supposed to think it’s a story.”
“All right, it’s the naked truth.” Dennis leaned forward on his bunk, his arms on his knees. “What’s wrong with it?”
Becky consulted her legal pad. Not that she’d written anything important, just to gather her thoughts. “You were going to pick up Raymond to go to the rehearsal?”
“That’s right.”
“Cora and Brenda were with you?”
“They were right behind.”
Becky doodled on the legal pad. “According to Brenda, you were all together.”
“We were practically together. I went in, they came in after.”
“That’s not what Brenda says.”
“Brenda’s trying to protect me. Which is dumb. I didn’t do anything.”
“You had the knife in your hand.”
“I pulled it out of the guy. I was just trying to help him.”
“It didn’t occur to you removing the knife might cause more damage, make him bleed out?”
“No, it didn’t. You ever see someone stabbed by a knife?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, neither had I.” Dennis chuckled ironically, shook his head. “Trust me, you’re not thinking all that. You’re thinking, ‘Jesus H. Christ, I hope he doesn’t die!’ ”
“I thought you didn’t like Raymond Harstein.”
“I don’t like a lot of people, but I don’t want to stab ’em.”
Dennis’s good-natured grin was infectious, his boyish charm seductive. Becky avoided the sparkling blue eyes by concentrating on her doodling. She blushed as she realized she’d been drawing hearts.
“How’d you get in the door?” she asked.
“It was open.”
“Open? Or just unlocked?”
“Oh. Unlocked.”
“Did you knock?”
“I think I did.”
“You think?”
Dennis shrugged. “It really wasn’t important. If I’d known I was going to find a dead body, I’d have been sure to remember.”
“Anyway, you turned the doorknob?”
“Yeah. It was open. Unlocked. I went in. I found the body.”
“Right away? Could you see him from the open door?”
“No. He was in the living room.”
“Why’d you go in the living room?”
“Are you kidding? Because I was looking for him.”
“Did you call his name?”
“Yeah. He didn’t answer. Now we know why.”
“You came into the foyer ahead of Brenda and Cora. You stopped, called Harstein’s name, got no answer. Entered the living room. At the time, Brenda and Cora had not yet caught up with you, is that right?”
“If you say so.”
Becky frowned. She drummed her pencil on her hand. “Dennis, this is not a game. You’re a murder suspect. I could use a little help here.”
“I could use a little help too. I gotta get out of here.”
“It’s not as easy as you think.”
For the first time, Dennis’s cheery facade slipped. “Hey, what are you talking about? I’m in jail. I didn’t do it. So get me out.”
“Just how do you propose I do that?”
“You’re the lawyer. Bail me out.”
“You haven’t even been charged yet. The police are holding you on suspicion.”
“Can they do that?”
“Until a judge tells them not to.”
“So get a judge.”
“The courthouse is closed, Dennis.”
“I can’t stay here all night.”
“You may not have much choice.”
“Damn it to hell!”
“Hey, it’s not the end of the world. You’re in a private lockup. It’s reasonably clean. You don’t have a two-hundred-fifty-pound roommate who thinks you’re cute. If I were you, I’d count my blessings.”
“But I didn’t do anything!”
“So you say. That will, of course, make everything much easier.”
He glared at her in disbelief. “Are you telling me I’m not getting out of here tonight?”
“Finally, a meeting of the minds.”
“Well, that’s just great.” Dennis rubbed his forehead. “Is Brenda still out there?”
“Last I looked.”
“Could you bring her in?”
Becky shook her head. “Chief said no.”
“Why the hell not?” Dennis said it with a cajoling grin. “It’s not like she’s gonna help me break out.”
“You wanna talk to Brenda about the case?”
“I sure do.”
“Why?”
“I wanna assure her I’m innocent.”
“I thought she knew that.”
“She does, but even so. It’s only natural.”
“So you’re just gonna talk to her about what happened?”
“Yeah, so?”
“She’s a material witness.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”
“Dennis, there’s nothing in your story you’d like to change, is there?”
“No, of course not.”
“And there’s nothing in her story you’d like to change?”
“No. I just don’t need her to try so hard to give me an alibi. I don’t want her getting in trouble.”
“I’ll convey that message.”
“You won’t bring her back here?”
“No.”
“Damn!”
Becky leaned forward, stared into Dennis’s smoldering blue eyes. Tried to read his thoughts. “What is it, Dennis? What is it that you need to tell Brenda?”
“I just want to talk to her.”
“About what?”
He shrugged. “Nothing special.”
Becky wondered why she didn’t believe that was true.
32
JUDGE HOBBS SAT AT THE BENCH AND FROWNED WITH displeasure at his crowded courtroom. Chief Harper had warned him a rock group might be present. But he was unprepared for the grubby guerrilla warriors who sat just behind the press row. The band, hoping for TV exposure, had dressed in concert garb. All were, as usual, filthy, unshaven, with tangled hair. Today they sported accessories, such as the drummer’s World War I German officer’s helmet, Razor’s aviator glasses, the bass player’s bandanna, and the keyboard player’s
eye patch. The skinny pianist had twenty-twenty vision; he just felt he needed something.
The band was not directly behind the defense table. That prime location was occupied by Brenda Wallenstein and her parents. Mrs. Wallenstein, who must have traveled with an extensive wardrobe, was decked out in an elaborate Versace dress that probably cost more than your average court proceeding. Mr. Wallenstein, steady as a rock, wore a business suit that could have been the one he’d worn the day before. The bride-to-be, perky in slacks and sweater, nonetheless sported a fashionably tear-stained face.
In the back of the courtroom, Sherry Carter whispered, “Now, remember, you behave.”
“Well, I never,” Cora Felton sputtered indignantly. Cora, who’d had a good night’s sleep, showered, dressed in her tidiest Miss Marple gear of frilly white blouse and tweedy skirt, had all but shaken off the effects of the sedative.
“This is personal, you have no perspective, you back off.”
“Just what I was about to tell you,” Cora countered, sweetly.
“Huh?”
Judge Hobbs banged the courtroom to silence. “All right, what have we this morning?”
Henry Firth, the county prosecutor, shot to his feet. A little man with a thin mustache and a twitchy nose, he always reminded Cora Felton of a rat. Today, pleased by the weight of a homicide charge to deliver, he seemed like a smug rat. “Your Honor, we have the case of Dennis Pride, arrested on a charge of murder.”
“Ah, yes. Is the defendant in the courtroom?”
“I believe he’s being brought in now.”
A side door opened, and Dan Finley led Dennis into the courtroom. Dennis had spent the night in jail, and was somewhat the worse for wear. He was unshaven, and his hair was uncombed. His jacket and shirt were open, and his tie hung loosely about his neck.
And he wore handcuffs.
Dan Finley led him to the defense table, where Becky Baldwin was waiting.
Judge Hobbs said, “I see that Mr. Pride is represented by counsel. To the charge of murder, how do you plead?”
“We plead not guilty, Your Honor, and ask that the defendant be released on his own recognizance.”
“On the contrary,” Henry Firth said with a smirk, “we ask that the defendant be held without bail. He is not a resident of Bakerhaven, has no ties to this community, and poses a clear and present flight risk.”
