by Parnell Hall
“I don’t know. She removed it before she gave it to me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The file folders in her file cabinet have clear plastic tabs on the top. The kind you type the name of the file on a sheet of paper, cut it out, and slide it into the tab. She slid the paper out before she gave it to me.”
“That’s less than helpful.”
“No kidding.”
“Did you point that out to her?”
“I did, but she didn’t care. Her clients’ files were private. She was perfectly happy to give me the folder.”
“What about the drawer itself? The one that was broken into?”
“What about it?”
“Wasn’t the drawer labeled?”
“Yes, for all the good it does us. The file came from the drawer labeled ‘G dash M.’”
“All right, that’s something. Did you see her take the file out of the drawer?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t see the name on it.”
“Could you see what position it was in the file? In the front, in the middle, in the back?”
“It was near the front.”
“Well, that’s very interesting. And very lucky for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Cora Felton. My last name begins with an ‘F.’ So the file that was taken couldn’t be mine.” She shook her head. “On the other hand, Chief, it could be yours. Harper? ‘H’? About as close to the front as you can get.”
“Uh huh,” Chief Harper said. “Now what did you really think?”
“What do you mean?”
“When I said it was near the front of the file, you reacted. Then you blathered some nonsense about how it couldn’t be your file but it could be mine. What were you really thinking?”
“Oh, the demon interrogator. Can’t slip anything by you. You got me, Chief. I was thinking the name Greystone begins with a ‘G.’ Maybe you’ll get to interview our new celebrity after all. Why don’t you run him in?”
“Very funny. What were you really thinking?”
Cora grimaced. “I can’t come up with a secret agenda, Chief. I’d really like to keep something from you, but I can’t even make up anything suspicious. Let me ask you this: were the drawers just for patients’ files? I mean, is it possible the file could be something else?”
“Like what?”
“Well, insurance starts with an ‘I.’ Or IRS forms.”
“IRS forms?”
“Sure.”
“You mean tax forms? Why wouldn’t she label it ‘TAXES’ like everybody else?”
“I’m throwing out ideas, Chief. They can’t all be winners. The important thing is the concept. Now you’ll have it in mind. Later on, if something jumps out at you. Like you find out a drug cartel is operating out of Bakerhaven and you say, ‘Aha, H is for Heroin.’”
“Sounds like a Sue Grafton title.”
“You read Sue Grafton, Chief?”
“I’ve heard of the damn books.” Harper looked at Cora narrowly. “You know, I was starting to think you had nothing to hide. But that’s a lot of talk about nothing, even for you. You’re sure there’s nothing you’re not telling me?”
Cora smiled, and patted him on the cheek. “Would I hold out on you, Chief?”
Chapter
15
Cora Felton came out of the police station, walked down the alley, and took the stairs up to Becky Baldwin’s office. Becky lived over a pizza parlor, and the aromas had a tendency to seep up. The special of the day seemed to be sausage and peppers.
The attractive young attorney was sitting at her desk reading a paperback thriller.
“Really,” Cora said. “Couldn’t you even look busy? Suppose I was a client?”
“Then you’d either have a reason to hire me or not. My lack of a conflicting case would hardly be a deterrent.”
Cora nodded approvingly. “Well argued. You must be good in court.”
“I’m not going to speculate on what you must be good in. It wouldn’t be fair since I’ve been your attorney.”
“And might be again,” Cora said.
“Oh?”
“I seem to be in need of an attorney. My thoughts naturally turned to you.”
“That might be more flattering if I weren’t the only one in town. Do you really need an attorney, or are you just screwing around?”
“A little of both.”
“Cora.”
“Well, I haven’t killed anyone. We’re talking about some rather trivial crimes.”
“Such as?”
“Breaking and entering, burglary, obstructing justice, withholding evidence, and conspiring to conceal a crime.”
“You consider those trivial charges?”
“Well, compared to murder.”
“Are you telling me you’re guilty of those charges?”
“Of course not. I’m innocent. Just like all of your clients. I understand you couldn’t help me if I were guilty. But since I’m innocent you’ll do your best to save me from the clutches of the law.”
“So what are you accused of doing?”
“Nothing. That’s the beauty of it. No one has accused me of anything. Of course, if I’d been more forthcoming about the situation, Chief Harper might have thought differently.”
Becky groaned. “What did you do now?” Before Cora could answer she put up her hand. “I mean what is it you are afraid some ill-informed minion of the law might be misguided enough to suspect you of having done?”
“Breaking into the witch’s house.”
“You swore up and down you didn’t do it.”
“I didn’t. That is absolutely true. When her house was broken into I barely even knew where the woman lived.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“Well, it seems her house was broken into again.”
“Cora.”
“It’s not my fault. The problem with inspecting a crime scene is if you’re not the police they won’t let you do it.”
“I thought Chief Harper let you inspect the crime scene.”
“He did. As part of the police investigation. But the police had no right to look at the woman’s confidential files.”
“Are you saying you looked in her confidential files?”
“Absolutely not. I have never laid eyes on anything in the woman’s confidential files. And anyone who says I did is a police officer being suckered in by the circumstantial and physical evidence to come to the totally unfair conclusion that I did.”
“And what might lead the police to make this unfounded supposition?”
“The physical evidence.”
“See, this is where I want to strangle you. You’ve virtually told me you’re guilty of a breaking and entering and you want me to cover it up.”
“Not at all.”
“Let’s get at this another way. What is it the police think you did?”
“Chief Harper thinks I broke into the woman’s house last night, jimmied a file drawer open, and looked through a particular file.”
“What particular file?”
“He doesn’t know. But the witch does. She pulled that file from the file cabinet, removed the label from the file folder, took the files out of it, and gave the folder to Chief Harper to fingerprint.”
“So the witch expected a particular file to be targeted. Had you looked through that file?”
“No, and I’m safe to say that because I haven’t looked through any files in that file cabinet.”
“So you don’t know which file that is?”
“Oh.”
“Cora.”
“Well, it’s not my fault. The drawer is labeled G through M. The file she gave the chief was somewhere near the front.”
“So?”
“If I knew the name on one of the files in the front, there’s a chance it might be that.”
“And how could you possibly know the name on one of the files in the front?”
“Would you like me to bore
you with a hypothetical?”
“Not unless you bore me with a retainer. We’re reaching the point where I may have to rely on attorney/client privilege.”
Cora dug in her purse, fished out her wallet. She snapped it open, took out a dollar, and slapped it on the desk. “There. You’re retained.”
“At last I can pay the rent,” Becky said dryly. “Hit me with your hypothetical.”
“Suppose I happened to know one of the folders in that file drawer was labeled ‘Greystone’?”
Becky’s mouth fell open. “Our new celebrity? I would say your retainer is starting to look less than adequate.”
“Yeah,” Cora said. “If that’s the case, we’ve got a mystery I can’t solve with all kinds of ramifications.”
“You think Harper will figure it out?”
“No.”
“It won’t occur to him Greystone starts with a ‘G’?”
“I told him it does.”
“You what?”
“I told him Greystone starts with a ‘G’ and maybe he’d get a chance to interview him after all. He thought I was making fun of him.”
“Weren’t you?”
“Yes, but not the way he thought. Now, you wanna hear the bad part?”
Becky raised her eyebrows. “The bad part? You mean that was the good part?”
“Well, it’s not as bad as this.”
“Really? I can’t wait.”
“Yesterday afternoon Matt Greystone’s wife gave me a crossword puzzle she said was sent to her husband. She wanted me to solve it, not knowing I can’t. The solution to that puzzle was ‘You’ll find a surprise in the files of this guy.’”
Becky stared at her. “Oh, for goodness sakes! What’s the matter? You were afraid your case was too easy for me? You wanted to give me a challenge? Now we have an impartial witness who can testify you were in possession of a document indicating that something pertaining to Matt Greystone could be found in a file.”
“It didn’t say ‘Matt Greystone.’ It didn’t say which file.”
“And it didn’t say, ‘Don’t bother with a trial, I’ll just plead guilty.’ But it might as well have. You now have the motive. The puzzle tells you the evidence you want is in the file. You break open the cabinet and find a file labeled ‘Matt Greystone.’ And the victim is so convinced that file is the reason the cabinet was broken into that she turned it over to the police. This case hasn’t even started and we’re already at the point where we should consider copping a plea.”
“For what? This is not a capital crime. It’s a robbery where nothing was taken. The only reason we’re talking about it is because in this one-horse town it’s the only crime going.”
“The only reason we’re talking about it is because you’re the perpetrator.”
“Well, if you’re going to take that attitude.”
Chapter
16
Cora was on her way to her car, which was parked in front of the library, when she heard someone call her name. “Miss Felton. Miss Felton.”
She turned to see Matt Greystone’s agent hurrying down the street after her. He bustled up, slightly out of breath, and said, “Oh, good, I caught you. I didn’t get a chance to speak to you at the celebration. Of course, so much was happening. There’s always such a commotion when Matt is around. Well, you can understand how it is. I was hoping we could have a little talk. Could I buy you a drink?”
“You can buy it, but I won’t drink it,” Cora said. “I’ve given up drinking. At least until my blood alcohol level returns to normal. I figure somewhere around the year 2525. Remember that old song? Or are you too young?”
“Well, I could use a drink. Could I buy you a soda or iced tea or something like that?”
“Be my guest.”
“Where’s a good place?”
“The Country Kitchen has a sit-down bar. You know how to get there?”
“Can I give you a ride?”
“I’ll meet you there. If you don’t know where it is, you can follow my car.”
“I know it.”
The Country Kitchen had done its best to provide a rustic touch. The outside was designed to look like a large log cabin. The interior looked like an upscale country inn. The bar featured wooden barstools and wooden booths. Indeed, the theme of wood permeated the restaurant. Since she lived in cynical times, Cora wondered how much of it was real wood.
It being mid-morning, the clientele consisted of a few stragglers, no doubt trying to convince themselves a cold beer was the way to beat the heat. Cora had once embraced that theory, along with a few others of which she was less than proud.
The bartender was one she knew. It occurred to her she knew more now than when she was drinking.
“Hi, Ben.”
“Hi, Cora. What can I get you? One of these gentlemen?”
The bartender was kidding her. The gentlemen in question were a good twenty years her junior. And that, she realized, was a conservative estimate.
On cue, Matt Greystone’s agent came in. “No, this gentleman here. I think we’ll take a booth.”
“Sure thing. Let me make you your drinks. I’m alone here, until Megan comes on for lunch.”
“Diet Coke for me,” Cora said.
“And a gin and tonic,” the agent said.
Cora and the agent took their drinks and settled into one of the booths.
“So,” Cora said. “I don’t believe we were ever introduced.”
“Oh. Forgive me. I’m Lenny Schick. And I know who you are. Everybody does. See, that’s the thing. You’re a famous person. Just like Matt. I thought maybe you could talk to him. One celebrity to another.”
“It’s hardly comparable,” Cora said. “Matt is a huge star pitcher for the New York Yankees. I do TV ads.”
“Exactly,” Lenny said. “But you’re not famous because you do TV ads. You do TV ads because you’re famous. You’re the Puzzle Lady. They’re using your image to sell their product.”
“I’m a media whore, is what you’re saying.”
Lenny choked on his drink. “Not at all. You’re engaged in an honorable profession fulfilling a useful purpose. You’re enlightening people about a nutritious cereal. It’s actually commendable.”
Since Cora didn’t eat the cereals she was hawking, she was not sure how commendable that might be, but she wasn’t about to argue the point. Cora wished she were somewhere else. Lenny Schick did not fall into her category of eligible males. She was not sure what category he fell into, but it wasn’t that, and she sipped her Diet Coke a little faster.
Lenny realized he was losing his audience. “Anyway, it’s going to be a tough year, what with the accident. It would be a tough year for anyone, but in particular for an athlete with limited shelf life. You work so hard to be drafted. And then you labor for years in the minors. And then it finally happens. You get called up to the show. And you’re nervous as hell, and just hoping to do well enough not to get sent back down. But you’re successful. Beyond your wildest dreams. You’re a star. You sign a long-term contract for big money. You’ve arrived.”
Lenny took a swig of his drink. “And just like that it’s over. Well, not over, postponed. Any person in that situation would be a fool not to make do with what he’s got.”
Cora sized up the little agent. “What are you trying to say?”
“If Matt can’t pitch for a year he can’t just curl up and die. He’s gotta keep occupied. He’s got to do something besides convalescence and physical therapy. He’s gotta get out there, see people, let them know he’s alive.”
“And this relates to me being a, quote, ‘famous person,’ how?”
“The public has a short attention span. You gotta keep ’em interested. You’ve got it easy because your puzzles fuel your TV ads and your TV ads fuel your puzzles. Matt’s just got pitching. And now he doesn’t. Fans are fickle. A year’s a long time. Matt should remind them who he is.”
“You want him to do TV ads?”
“
Why not? It’s a win-win. It gets him out of his funk, it keeps him in the spotlight, and it keeps the money rolling in.”
“That’s a win-win-win,” Cora said.
“Yes,” Lenny said. He frowned. “Are you teasing me?”
“Just a little,” Cora said. “You want me to sell him on the idea of doing TV ads.”
“If you could just point out it’s easy and fun.”
“Obviously you’ve never done a TV ad,” Cora said dryly. “I went on a publicity tour once. People tried to kill me.”
The agent paled. “You don’t have to mention that.”
“Why not? It was the highlight of the trip.”
A cell phone rang.
“Must be yours,” Cora said. “I don’t have one.”
Lenny fished in his pocket, pulled out a cell phone, and clicked it on. “Hello?… Oh, hi, Jackie … I certainly could. As a matter of fact, she’s right here.” He extended the phone.
Cora took it, said, “Hello?”
“Hi, Cora. It’s Jackie Greystone. Listen, Matt and I would love to see you. Could you drop by this afternoon about four o’clock?”
“I’d be delighted.”
“Do you know where we live?”
“I’ve never actually been there, but I’ve driven by there.”
“See you at four, then?”
“Sure.”
Cora handed the phone back to Lenny.
“See, Jackie,” he said, “do I give you service, or what? Was there anything else?… Oh? Sure, I’ll tell her.” He hung up, said, “Wonderful woman. Strong-willed, fiercely loyal to her husband. A bit of a handful sometimes, but—” He stopped himself. “I didn’t mean that. Like I say, a wonderful woman.”
“What were you supposed to tell me?”
“Bring a bathing suit.”
Chapter
17
Matt Greystone’s house was an imposing structure built on a hillside by a New York zillionaire for his bride-to-be. When she ran off with an unemployed actor he lost all interest in the project, and put it on the market. It didn’t sell. Way too pricy for a weekend retreat, it sat vacant on the south side of town, a giant albatross around the neck of the amorous young man, who barely deigned to acknowledge its existence. According to Judy Douglas Knauer, Bakerhaven’s top real estate agent, offers were not pouring in, and her requests to lower the asking price had fallen on deaf ears.
