by Parnell Hall
“I’m afraid so.”
“Like what?”
“It will be on the evening news. The puzzles were found in his car.”
Daffodil Dirkson’s mouth fell open. “Puzzles? What puzzles?”
“Cryptograms, warning me not to marry Raymond.”
“And the boy had them? These cryptograms?”
“It would appear so,” Cora said. She felt no need to mention Dennis had actually been apprehended in the attempt at getting rid of them.
“Whew. Bummer.” Jack Dirkson shook his head. “So what more do you want?”
“Frankly,” Cora said, “I’m not entirely convinced the young man did it. If he didn’t, I wanna nail the guy who did.”
“But he must have done it,” Daffy said. “I’d feel awful if I told on him and he didn’t do it.”
“That’s why you keep your mouth shut,” Jack said.
Cora ignored him, said, “So, if there was any evidence that pointed to anyone else . . .”
“Well, there isn’t,” Jack Dirkson said. “Look, lady, we don’t know diddly-squat. After dinner we came out on the porch, and we saw you guys go in, that’s all we know.”
“And before dinner?”
“We were inside,” Jack said forcefully.
Cora looked at his wife. Daffy Dirkson was playing with one of her straw-colored braids, and would not meet Cora’s eyes. Nor would she meet her husband’s. She snuffled her nose like a rabbit, or perhaps a sulky girl. She didn’t speak, but she did not look happy.
Cora left, having learned nothing. But it occurred to her that if Jack Dirkson didn’t want his wife to talk, he was playing it all wrong.
Next time, Cora decided, she would make a point of talking to Daffy alone.
38
CORA COULD HEAR THE RACKET A BLOCK AWAY. SHE SUPPOSED it must be music, though it certainly seemed more like noise, made her feel like an old fogy as she drove up to the house.
There seemed an inordinate amount of cars out front, even for a bed-and-breakfast. Cora pulled up behind a white Land Rover, and got out. She realized the din was coming from the two-car garage. She walked up to the door, cocked her head, and listened.
Buried in the electric buzz of the guitar, a gravelly voice was croaking, “I’m an angry man. If I can’t have you, no one can.” Then came a note that sounded bad, even within the context of the discordant music. The drumming and loud electric strumming dissolved into a torrent of vile, varied curses. Cora cocked an ear, hoping to hear something new. Alas, Tune Freaks seemed no more versatile with their sexual and scatological references than they were with their lyrics.
Cora grabbed the handle and pulled. The garage door slid upward, revealing a jungle of amps and music stands. The latter were clearly for show. No sheet music of any kind was in evidence. Cora doubted if a Tune Freak could read music.
Razor stood at the front mike, wearing a guitar. To his right a scrawny Freak sat at an electric keyboard. To his left stood a tattooed Freak with an electric bass. A plump Freak sat behind him at a drum set. From the dynamic, Cora gathered that Razor, distracted by his singing chores, had played a wrong note on the guitar, and was somehow blaming the keyboardist.
Cora took all this in with a glance, beamed at the band. The four Freaks gawked at her. Cora realized they were young men, but couldn’t help thinking of them as boys. Again she felt a twinge of age.
Razor stuck out his chin. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I need to ask you some questions.”
Clearly he would have liked to tell her to go to hell, but after all, her fiancé had just been killed. Instead, he fell back on the simple but actually insightful, “How come?”
“Your lead singer’s in a lot of trouble.”
“He’s not our lead singer anymore,” Razor pointed out reasonably.
“You resent him for that?”
Razor shrugged. “Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
Cora suppressed a smile. She had encountered that phrase before in the course of mystery fiction, but this was the first time she had ever heard it applied to taking a job in the textile industry. “If Dennis changed his mind, would you guys take him back?”
“And how!” the keyboardist exclaimed. Razor shot him a dirty look. “Nothing against you, man, but we need you on guitar.”
“I am on guitar.”
“Yeah, but your attention’s, like, divided. And your notes, man, they are too beautiful to divide.”
To Cora, the fact Razor took that declaration at face value indicated he was either too stoned to notice, or so utterly self-absorbed that the sycophantic praise seemed perfectly natural. In any event, he calmed down enough to inquire, “What’s with Denny? We hear he was picked up again.”
“News travels fast.”
“For drunk driving.”
“Though not very accurately. Dennis wasn’t drunk. According to the police, Dennis was attempting to dispose of something that was hidden in his car.”
The keyboardist’s eyes widened. “The murder weapon?”
“No, doofus,” Razor said. “He was holding the murder weapon.”
“Then, what could it be?”
“More drugs,” the drummer suggested. He cackled happily at his own wit.
“Nah, that can’t be it,” the bassist scoffed. “They already busted him for drugs. That would be like double jeopardy.”
Cora managed not to roll her eyes. It took a huge effort.
“Well, if it’s not drugs, what is it?” the keyboardist asked.
“The puzzles,” Razor said. “They must have caught him with the puzzles.”
Cora’s flesh tingled. “You know about the puzzles?” “Sure,” Razor said.
A copy of the Bakerhaven Gazette, folded open to the sports page, was lying on one of the amps. Razor scooped it up, folded it back to the front page.
THE VICTIM WAS WARNED!!!
screamed the headline.
“ ‘In a bizarre twist,’ ” Razor read aloud for Cora’s benefit, “ ‘Raymond Harstein, the murdered intended bridegroom of Cora Felton of Bakerhaven, Connecticut, was warned against the upcoming marriage in a series of anonymous cryptic letters. The coded messages, when deciphered by the bride-to-be, threatened Mr. Harstein in the event that he did not break off the match.’ ”
Cora frowned. With everything else that was going on, she hadn’t taken the time that morning to look at the paper.
“The cops catch Denny with the puzzles?” Razor asked her.
“Would that surprise you?”
“Are you jazzin’ me? Why the hell would Dennis care if some geezer got married?” Razor flushed slightly. “No offense meant,” he mumbled.
“Right. Listen, Razor, could I talk to you outside a minute?”
Razor frowned, said, “Take five, guys,” and followed her out into the driveway.
Cora lowered her voice. “Look, I can tell you’re in charge of this band. The others do what you say. So I want your opinion, because that’s the only one that matters. This thing that’s happened to Dennis. Any way you slice it, it’s gonna be messy. He’ll have a rap sheet. Assuming he doesn’t go to prison, can the band get by that? Would you stand behind him and welcome him back?”
Razor grinned. “Are you jazzin’ me? Lady, I don’t know what kind of music you dig, but, boy, are you out-of-date. You think we’d dump him for that? Up till now, our big claim to fame was trashing a hotel room two years ago in Schenectady. But this. This is a natural.”
“So you’re standing by him. Good. Glad to hear it.”
Cora watched Razor walk back into the garage and pull down the sliding door. She felt somewhat smug. She wasn’t nearly as out-of-date as Razor imagined. The idea that Dennis being accused of murder raised him to celebrity status and was thus an asset for the band was exactly how she expected the members of Tune Freaks would see it. It was nice to have one’s theories confirmed so thoroughly.
Inside, the tune cranked up aga
in. At least, Cora assumed it was a tune. She certainly couldn’t discern any melody, but it sure was loud.
As Cora went down the driveway, the front door of the B&B opened and the owner came out. Cora recognized her as one of her fellow maids a-milking from last year’s Christmas pageant. Cora had occasionally chatted with the woman but didn’t know her name.
“Oh, Cora,” the woman cried, throwing her hands in the air. A birdlike woman several years Cora’s senior, the B&B owner seemed particularly distraught. “I’m so sorry. So sorry to hear. The young man squiring you around town, and all of us hoping, and then the wedding just announced. This is such a blow.”
Cora accepted the sympathy graciously, though she couldn’t help a tinge of amusement that the woman was old enough to refer to Raymond as young.
A particularly deafening burst of noise made the two of them wince.
“Oh, my goodness,” the B&B owner said. “When he rented the room, I had no idea he had an orchestra.”
“A band,” Cora corrected. “Didn’t they all come together?”
“No, he came first. Not that it mattered. I was happy to rent the extra rooms. But he didn’t say they were for an orches—a band. And when he wanted the garage, I thought it was for a car. You know, one of those fancy new ones they didn’t want to leave on the street. Then they show up with the amps and the preamps and the re-verb and what have you. And I’m telling you, it’s a wonder someone hasn’t called the cops.”
The woman flushed, perhaps realizing the cops were otherwise occupied at the moment.
“You say one of them came first?”
“Yes. He calls himself Razor.” She leaned close and winked. “But the name on his credit card’s Ralph Millsap. What do you think of that?”
“I think if my name were Ralph Millsap, I might change my name to Razor,” Cora replied.
The two women giggled conspiratorially.
Another blast from the garage practically shook the framework of the Victorian house.
“Do you hear that?” It was clearly a rhetorical question. The B&B owner winced. “And they play till all hours of the morning.”
“After midnight?”
“Oh, sure. I asked them to turn it down. I should have just said no music.”
“Then you’d have lost the rental.”
“Oh, I doubt it. I should have just been firm.”
“You think he’d have still booked the rooms?”
“Razor had already booked the rooms. Over the phone. When he got here, he wanted the garage. I could have just said no.”
“Well, that’s different. Of course you could. He’s lucky you even had a garage.”
“Oh, Razor knew that.”
Cora blinked. “He knew that? How?”
“Oh.” The B&B owner smiled. “Because he stayed here just last month.”
39
SHERRY CARTER WAS VERY UPSET. “AUNT CORA. YOU LEFT me here.”
“I didn’t leave you here.”
“You drove off while I was in the bathroom.”
“Did I? I had no idea.”
“Really? I didn’t hear the car start.”
“Oh?”
“And I always hear the car start. But you didn’t start it, did you? You simply took the brake off and coasted down the driveway.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because I know your devious ways. And don’t light a cigarette,” she added, as Cora reached into her purse. “You weren’t going to smoke in the house anymore.”
“That was for Raymond. It doesn’t matter now.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“You’re the one who changed the subject.” Cora whipped out her lighter, fired up a cigarette, looked around. “Oh, right, you got rid of them.”
“Got rid of what?”
Cora pulled open a cabinet, grabbed a saucer, flopped down at the kitchen table. “Ashtrays,” she answered. She took a drag, blew a perfect smoke ring. “You know how long it’s been since I’ve been able to do that?”
“You sound like you’re glad he’s dead.”
Cora’s face hardened. “Bite your tongue.”
“Sorry,” Sherry said. “That was awful. I didn’t mean it. My nerves are raw.”
“And mine aren’t?”
“I said I was sorry.”
“Yeah, I know. So guess what?”
“What?”
“Razor was here last month.”
Sherry blinked. “What?”
“Isn’t that something. The band got here yesterday. Or the day before. Or whenever it was.” Cora shook her head. “Anyway, the landlady where the band’s staying says Razor was here a month ago, all by himself, scoping things out.”
“Scoping what out?”
Cora put up her hands. “Sorry. That’s not what she said. That’s a conclusion on my part.”
“And what does it mean?”
“I don’t know yet. But it’s fascinating, isn’t it?”
“It’s more than fascinating. It’s completely off the wall. It’s before Dennis ever thought of coming here. Probably before he even thought of getting married.”
“Exactly.”
“What do you mean, ‘exactly’? You mean Razor is the killer? Razor is the one masterminding all this?”
“Someone is,” Cora said, ominously.
“But why? What would he have to gain?”
“He stops the marriage. He gets his lead singer back. And the publicity helps the band.”
“Oh, come on.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You said he stops the marriage. I thought we agreed Razor was up here before the marriage was even an issue.”
“I admit I haven’t thought it all out yet.”
“I’ll say.” Sherry shook her head. “And how does that stop the marriage? What if Dennis still goes through with the marriage?”
“You think he will?” Cora asked.
“There’s no reason to think he won’t.”
“Except for Brenda’s parents. They ain’t too pleased with this turn of events.”
“So? Dennis and Brenda are adults. They don’t need her parents’ consent.”
“No, but they need her parents’ dough.”
“Cora!”
“You think Dennis would marry her if her parents cut her off without a dime?”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Which?”
“Now you’re playing word games? Wonders never cease.”
The phone rang.
“That’s probably Aaron,” Sherry said.
“Or one of your gentlemen callers,” Cora said archly.
Sherry flashed Cora a look, scooped up the kitchen phone. “Hello?”
An anxious female voice said, “Cora Felton? You’re not Cora Felton. Is Cora Felton there? May I talk to her?”
Sherry cradled the phone against her side, said, “It’s for you.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know. It’s a woman. She seems upset.”
Cora lunged from the table, grabbed the phone. “Hello.”
“It’s you? Oh, thank God, it’s you! I was afraid I wouldn’t get you! I need to see you right away.”
“That’s very interesting,” Cora said, “but who the hell are you?”
“Oh, oh, I’m sorry. It’s Daffodil. Daffodil Dirkson. I really need to talk to you. But Jack doesn’t want me to get involved.”
“What do you want to tell me?”
“No. Not over the phone. I gotta get off the phone. I don’t have time. Jack would kill me if he caught me.”
“Yes, but—”
“Meet me at the Congregational church. Out front. If no one’s watching. If someone is, I’ll duck inside.”
“What’s this all about?”
“The murder, of course. I— Oh!”
The phone went dead.
40
CORA FELTON SLAMMED THE CAR INTO AN S-CURVE. THE tires spun wildly
, searching for pavement.
“Good God, slow down!” Sherry cried. “It’s not a race!”
The Toyota shot out of the curve, rocketed down the road.
“You didn’t hear that woman’s voice!” Cora hissed.
“Yes, I did. Remember, I took the call.”
“How’d she sound to you?”
“Frightened!”
“No kidding.”
“But not as frightened as I am! Slow down, will you!”
“Relax! Almost there!”
The Toyota hurtled toward the village green. Cora spun the wheel, swerved in the direction of the Congregational church.
The psychedelic VW microbus was parked right outside.
Cora snorted in disgust. “That’s inconspicuous as all hell. Like no one knows she’s here.”
Cora pulled in and she and Sherry got out.
“So where is she?” Cora demanded. “She said she’d be out front unless someone was around. There’s no one around, including her.”
“Maybe someone scared her off, she went inside, and they went away.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
Cora yanked the doors open and they entered the church.
The anteroom was empty. To the right was the door to the Reverend’s office. To the left, the stairs to the organ loft and the bell tower. Ahead were the double doors leading into the church. Cora pushed them open, strode through.
The light pouring through the multicolored panels of the stained-glass windows revealed the pews were empty, as was the pulpit.
“She’s not here,” Sherry said.
“She must be.”
Cora strode down the aisle, looking left and right among the pews. She reached the front row and stopped so abruptly, Sherry bumped into her.
A foot protruded from behind the pulpit.
It wore a purple Converse sneaker.
Cora grabbed Sherry by the arm.
“Oh, my God!” Sherry said.
Cora sucked in her breath. She scooted up the three steps to the raised pulpit, peered around.
Daffodil Dirkson lay facedown behind the pulpit. Her head was twisted to the side. Her left eye was glassy, bulging. A carving knife protruded from her back. Blood stained the back of her white T-shirt, presumably the “Fight AIDS” one she’d been wearing earlier that day.
