by Parnell Hall
Though, Aaron realized, that wasn’t quite the case. In fact, it wasn’t the case at all. It wasn’t that he hadn’t gotten around to it. Aaron wanted to tell Sherry more than anything. It was one of the reasons he’d invited her to lunch. And yet, he still hadn’t told her.
Because, more than anything, he wanted her to tell him.
It really bothered him that she hadn’t. That after all they’d been through together, she didn’t trust him enough to let him know. Not that Aaron couldn’t make allowances. He knew Sherry had suffered at the hands of her alcoholic ex-husband. But he knew that from Cora, not from Sherry. And he wanted to hear the truth from Sherry badly, so badly he was holding off telling her just to give her the opportunity.
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But he could not hold out long. Aaron had made up his mind. If Sherry hadn’t told him by the end of lunch, that was it. He’d give in and speak first. Not that he thought he’d have to. From her manner, he had a feeling she was about to tell him.
And she was.
As Sherry Carter sat in the Wicker Basket, smiling across the table at Aaron Grant, she felt at peace with the world. Because she knew she could tell him, and it would be all right. She could tell him about being the real Puzzle Lady. And she could tell him about her abusive ex-husband. And Aaron would understand. In spite of his jovial manner, in spite of his never taking anything seriously, Aaron was basically a good guy, and he would take it the right way. He might joke, sure, but it would be a friendly joke, a supportive joke, an accepting joke. He would put her at her ease.
Sherry was sure of it.
So why was she hesitating?
She wasn’t.
She would tell him now.
Sherry put her hands on the table, opened her mouth to speak, and—
Stopped.
Aaron Grant wasn’t looking at her. He was looking past her. The expression on his face was hard to read. Surprise, yes, but beyond that. Was it a pleasant surprise? It was hard to tell. But he appeared to be blushing. What was he looking at?
A figure appeared in Sherry’s peripheral vision and bore down on their table. Sherry looked up, frowned.
It was a young woman in a purple pants suit. Her blond hair was sculpted, curling down the side of her head in a casual, careless swoop that Sherry knew took patience to perfect. She was in her mid-twenties, but looked older, without looking old. She also looked sophisticated without looking sharp, stylish without looking styled. She looked intelligent, competent, totally self-assured. A woman who knows precisely what she wants. And knows exactly how to get it. That was Sherry’s first impression.
Stunning.
Totally stunning.
Aaron seemed stunned. He gawked at the woman, apparently incapable of speech.
She smiled. “Hi, Aaron.”
“Becky,” he murmured.
Then he was smiling and on his feet, totally recovered and performing introductions. “Sherry, this is Becky Baldwin. Becky, this is Sherry Carter. She’s the woman who helped solve the murder case.”
Becky Baldwin smiled and arched an eyebrow. “Really? I don’t recall reading that in the paper.”
“No,” Sherry said, matching her smile. “Aaron was nice enough to keep me out of it.”
“Oh, really? You didn’ows didnt want the credit? How modest of you. And how fascinating. You mean you actually solved these crimes?”
“No, I did not,” Sherry said. “And if you don’t mind, I would appreciate your not giving everyone in the restaurant the impression that I did.”
“Oh, was I talking too loud?” Becky Baldwin said, innocently. “I’m sorry. Occupational hazard.”
“Don’t tell me. You’re a cheerleader.”
Becky laughed. “I’m a lawyer.”
“You passed the bar?” Aaron said. “Congratulations.”
“A lawyer,” Sherry said. “So, you’re here to start a private practice?”
“Hardly,” Becky answered. “Bakerhaven’s not big enough to support another lawyer. I’m interviewing with some firms in Boston.”
“So you’re just passing through?” Sherry said. It bothered her how relieved she was to hear it.
“Yes, this is a hit-and-run,” Becky said. “Check in with my folks. Pack up some of my stuff.” She smiled at Aaron. “Look up old friends. Oh, and what do you do?” she asked Sherry.
It was clearly an afterthought. Never had Sherry’s impulse been so strong to tell someone she wrote a nationally syndicated crossword-puzzle column. She restrained it. “I teach school.”
“Oh, a schoolteacher. So you’re off for the summer?”
“Actually, I’m off most of the time. I’m a substitute teacher. I only go in when they call me.”
“Oh, a substitute. That must be stressful.” Becky smiled at Aaron. “I remember the trouble we used to give substitutes.”
“At age three?” Sherry said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I teach nursery school. Three-year-olds are not so rebellious.”
“Oh,” Becky Baldwin said.
The conversation ground to a halt.
Sherry wanted to ask, “When are you leaving?” but knew it would sound catty. She was relieved when Aaron asked it for her.
Until she heard Becky’s answer.
“I don’t know. I have a case to handle first.”
“A case?” Aaron said. “You’re kidding. How could you have a case?”
“I dropped by Arthur Kincaid’s law office to tell to ice to him I passed the bar, and he asked me if I’d handle something for him.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know. Some sort of conflict of interest where technically he’s retained on the other side.” Becky Baldwin pointed to a paper bag a waitress had just placed beside the cash register. “Anyway, I’m picking up salad to go, and having lunch with Arthur. He’s gonna brief me for the pre-arraignment, then I gotta get over to the courthouse and bail out my client.”
“What’s the case?” Aaron Grant asked.
Becky waved the question away. “Oh, it’s nothing. Town drunk broke into a house, was found passed out in bed. Hardly the crime of the century. Shouldn’t take long. Well, enjoy your lunch.”
Becky Baldwin paid for her salad, smiled, waved, and went out the door.
“Nice woman,” Sherry said.
“Uh huh,” Aaron said.
That was their entire conversation regarding Becky Baldwin. Still, her presence seemed to linger. The atmosphere certainly wasn’t the same as before she’d appeared.
Good intentions vanished.
Sherry didn’t confess to Aaron she was the Puzzle Lady, and Aaron didn’t confess to Sherry he knew.
They finished their lunch.
It was perfectly amiable.
And wholly unsatisfying.
Sherry Carter drove up the driveway to find Cora Felton on her hands and knees with a trowel, planting flowers next to the front steps. Sherry was surprised on several counts. It was a hot, hazy July afternoon, not conducive to outside work; it was late in the season to be planting anything; and, despite its pleasant, one-acre country lot, her aunt had never shown any interest in their prefab rental house before, let alone in its gardens.
“Aunt Cora,” Sherry said. “What in the world are you doing?”
Cora Felton looked up from the hole she’d been digging. She had a red kerchief tied around her curly white hair, and there was a smudge of dirt on her nose. She smiled brightly, the trademark smile that stood her in such good stead in her TV advertisements.
“Hi, Sherry. I thought the house could use some brightening up. What do you think?”
“Come again?”
Cora gestured at the cardboard box of flowers she’d been transplanting. “I was thinking of a geranium on each side of the steps. How does that sound?”
“Aunt Cora. Why are you doing this?”
“Well, the place looked so drab.”
“Uh huh.” Sherry sat down on the fro
nt steps next to her aunt. “Aunt Cora. It’s me. Sherry. I know you. You’re a city girl. Your idea of flowers is something someone brings on a date. But here you are wearing overalls and a work shirt—very color coordinated, by the way—and rooting in the dirt as if you liked it. So, what’s up?”
Cora Felton stuck the trowel in the ground. “People,” she replied.
“People?” Sherry echoed.
“The magazine,” Cora said. “They called, want to do a feature on the Puzzle Lady. An interview plus a photo spread. They want to send a photographer out, take some candid shots, show the public what the Puzzle Lady’s really like. You know, like what I do in my spare time.”
“Such as?”
Cora Felton made a face. “Well, there you are.” Cora jerked a pack of cigarettes out of her overalls, took one out and lit it. She took a deep drag and exhaled. “Unfortunately, my main leisure activities are drinking and gambling. I didn’t think you’d want them to photograph that.”
“You’re planting flowers for People magazine?”
“Well, why not? Isn’t that the whole point? Don’t we want people to see us as we really aren’t?” Cora took a drag, flicked the cigarette. “So, how do you like geraniums by the stairs?”
“When is People magazine coming?”
“Oh, not till next week. But I thought I should practice. I’d hate it if they set up the camera and then it turned out I couldn’t plant the damn things.”
There was a half-full glass of Bloody Mary on the front steps. Cora Felton picked it up, took a noisy slurp.
“Perfect,” Sherry said. “Is that how you’re going to have People magazine photograph you? Smoking and drinking?”
“Of course not,” Cora said. “Don’t be such a grouch. I’m just trying to chase a hangover.”
“I’m sure People will love that.”
“They’re not going to see that,” Cora said. “I’ll be on my best behavior.” She puffed out her chest. “What do you think of the outfit?”
“I think you bought it just for the article.”
“Well, of course I did. You think I have gardening clothes in my wardrobe?”
“Yes, but I had the car this morning. How did you get out?jusu get ox201D;
“Out?”
“Yes. How did you get to the store to buy the clothes?”
“Did I say I bought them this morning?”
“No, you didn’t. You bought them yesterday. Or maybe the day before. Just when did People magazine call?”
“Sherry.”
“You didn’t want to tell me because you knew I’d be upset. Instead, you went out and bought the clothes to show me what a fine, upstanding image you’re going to produce for the magazine. The same reason you bought the flowers. Not to impress the magazine. Just to impress me. Which might have worked better without the cigarette and the drink.”
Cora Felton took another sip of the Bloody Mary, studied Sherry’s face. “You’re in a fine mood,” she commented. “How was your date?”
“Oh.”
Cora raised her eyebrows. “Oh? There’s an oh?”
“It was all right.”
Cora struggled to her feet. “All right is not good. All right is not what I want to hear. Why was it just all right?”
“Well, we didn’t talk about anything.”
“Like the fact you write the column?”
“Yeah, we never got around to that.”
“What did I tell you?” Cora said. “I know what you told me.”
“You can’t start a relationship off on a lie.”
“It’s not a relationship.”
“That’s not the point. The point is, you’ve gotta tell him.”
“I was about to. Something came up.”
“What was that?”
Sherry told her about Becky Baldwin interrupting their lunch.
Cora Felton’s cornflower blue eyes narrowed. “A girl from high school? What did she look like?”
“A lawyer.”
“She looked like a lawyer?”
“She is a lawyer. She looked like a high-fashion model.”
“You look good.”
“You should have seen her.”
“Was she nice?”
“Perfectly nice. Friendly. Pleasant.”
“I hate her. Did she stay for lunch?”
“No. She had to meet with some lawyer. She’s appearing in court this afternoon.”
Cigarette ash dribbled on the front of Cora’s new shirt. “I thought you said she was leaving town.”
“She is. She’s just passing through.”
“But she took on a case?”
“So she said.”
“Uh huh,” Cora said. It was an eloquent statement, conveying mountains of skepticism and doubt. “So, anyway, she didn’t stop you from talking to Aaron Grant.”
“What do you mean?”
“About the column. Telling him you write the crossword-puzzle column.”
“It’s not important.”
“It is to me. As long as I’m getting credit for it.”
“I’ll get around to it, Cora. It just wasn’t the right time.”
“Uh huh,” Cora said. “So, what did you talk about? After this Becky what’s-her-name left?”
“Baldwin. I don’t remember. I think Aaron said something about his job. He needed to find something to write about for the paper.”
“But nothing personal?”
“Aunt Cora,” Sherry protested. “You’re really making too much out of this. Everything is fine.”
Sherry smiled reassuringly and went in the front door.
Cora smiled back, but she was not at all happy. Sherry might think everything was fine, but Sherry was still young. Cora Felton, with age, experience, and several husbands to her credit, was more cynical. Nothing was ever fine.
Not when men were involved.
Men were capricious and unpredictable on the one hand, and totally predictable on the other. If Sherry didn’t learn that, she was in for a lot of trouble.
Cora Felton took a long sip of Bloody Mary, then frowned at the wickedness of the world in general, and men in particular.
Sherry Carter was a very bright woman, except when it came to men. Here her judgment was not always sound. Her ex-husband was a case in point. The man had been an absolute disaster, a conceited, self-indulgent, obsessive, abusive jerk. Sherry had learned from the experience, would not make that mistake again.
But she might make others.
Like being too trusting, for instance.
But not if Cora could help it.
So, Becky Baldwin was just passing through?
Passing through, hell.
Cora Felton tossed off the rest of her Bloody Mary, stubbed out her cigarette in the empty glass, turned in her trowel, and headed for the shower.
Cora Felton, cleaned and polished and looking her conservative best in a discreet gray sunbonnet, white blouse, black skirt, and black and white linen vest, parked her car in the lot between the town hall and the Congregational church, and ambled across the Village Green. As usual, she saluted the statue of the horse and rider as she went by, and wondered who they were. She had stopped once to find out, but the metal plaque was too worn to read. And the wrought iron rider’s clothes were too nondescript to offer a clue. The statue could have honored a Revolutionary War hero, Pony Express rider, or Kentucky Derby winner.
Cora crossed the green and headed for the county court. She was on her way up the steps when Chief Harper came out the door.
“Miss Felton,” he said. “This is a pleasant surprise. What brings you by the courthouse this afternoon?”
Cora Felton thought fast. The amiable Bakerhaven police chief was in many respects a friend. But there was no way she was ever admitting why she was really there. Fortunately, Chief Harper didn’t know her secret. He still deferred to her as the Puzzle Lady.
Which would work.
“Just doing a little research,” Cora said.
> “Research?”
“For my column. Thought I might work in a little legal anecdote. And the truth is, I’ve never really seen a courtroom proceeding. Outside of movies and TV. And how accurate is that?”
“Probably accurate enough for what you need,” Chief Harper replied. “You’re certainly welcome to watch, but I’ve got to warn you, real courtroom proceedings are pretty dull.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Cora Felton said. She smiled at Chief Harper and made her way into the courtroom.
Henry Firth presided over the prosecution table. A little man with a thin mustache, a twitchy nose, and an insinuating manner, the Bakerhaven prosecutor always reminded Cora Felton of a rat. Cora had never dealt with Firth directly, and hoped she never would. Watching him from a distance was quite enough.
At the defense table sat an elderly man in a three-piece suit. He was tall, thin, and distinguished-looking, with an angular face and a very pointed nose, the tip of which supported a pair of half-glasses.
Next to him perched a scruffy man who seemed to be having a hard time staying awake. His head kept bobbing forward, and it seemed as if he had to keep catching himself to avoid curling up like a cat right there on the table. He was unshaven, and his hair was a matted mess. His clothes looked like they’d been slept in for several days. The man was of indeterminate age—he could have turned out to be anywhere from twenty to sixty without surprising Cora in the least.
Especially since she wasn’t really paying that much attention to him.
Her eyes were glued on the young woman behind the defense table who was leaning over the spectators’ railing, her long blond hair cascading in careless curls that jiggled while she talked, her purple pants suit gaping fashionably at the neck, her makeup understated, brilliantly accentuating her near-perfect features.
Cora Felton took this all in at a glance, scowled, and almost wished she hadn’t come.
The man who was sitting in the front row of the press section just behind the defense table, the man the young woman had leaned over to talk to, was none other than Aaron Grant.
Cora Felton watched a few minutes while Becky Baldwin flirted with Aaron Grant. Even from the back row, Cora Felton could see that Becky Baldwin’s eyes were bright, her smile wide, her cheeks flushed, her face animated.
