by Parnell Hall
“Yes. That is where you know her from, isn’t it?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I’m sure it isn’t. Shouldn’t you be conducting an interview?”
Aaron Grant glanced down the length of the bar and smiled. “I believe the man has his hands full at the moment.”
He certainly did, in the form of Jeff Beasley, showered and shaved, and sporting a fresh change of clothes. As Aaron and Sherry watched, the little housebreaker stuck his finger in Arthur Kincaid’s face and demanded, “Buy me a drink. Least you could do, after cutting me loose. It’s a fine thing, hang a man out to dry, say, Sorry, I’m not your attorney anymore.”
“There’s a conflict of interest,” Becky Baldwin explained.
Jeff Beasley looked at her as if she were some barfly butting in on the conversation. “Conflict of interest? A lot you know. Hell, there ain’t no conflict of interest. It’s in everyone’s interest to get me off on that charge.”
“I’m working on it,” Becky Baldwin said.
“Working on it? Did you hear that, Arthur?” Beasley demanded, his voice dripping with irony. “The little lady’s working on it. And I bet she just finished law school. Well, I guess my worries are over.”
“Now, now.” Arthur Kincaid stepped between them. “Becky, Jeff doesn’t mean it, he just likes to complain, you have to get used to him. Jeff, stop your grousing and I’ll buy you a drink. Then you go home and get to bed before you do something else we have to bail you out for.”
Jeff Beasley snorted contemptuously, but allowed Arthur Kincaid to summon the bartender.
From her perch on a barstool, Cora Felton watched with great interest. As she did, the loudest sports jacket she had ever seen came in the door. It was worn by a man with dazzling white teeth and jet black hair. The teeth were way too bright for a man his age, just as the hair was way too dark and full. The teeth and hair adorned a round, jowled face, which somehow still managed to appear angular. The man looked as if he were about to sell someone aluminum siding against their will.
He strode up to the lawyer and said, “Arthur Kincaid?”
“Yes?& Kp to#x201D;
“Philip Hurley. We spoke on the phone. We’ve met before, though it’s been years. And this is my wife, Ethel,” Philip said, thrusting forward a diminutive blonde with a face-lift, much in the manner of one presenting a bargaining chip in a deal one was conducting.
Ethel, clearly uncomfortable in a red sheath dress that was way too young for her, glared back at her husband before taking the lawyer’s hand. “Pleased to meet you,” she said. Her nasal whine could have cut glass. “We’re here for the reading of the will.”
Philip Hurley rolled his eyes. “He knows that, honey,” he said, managing to convey with the one-word endearment what a lesser man could not have accomplished with the phrase stupid, pusillanimous ignoramus. “He knows we’re the heirs. He’s the one who called us.”
Jeff Beasley had been studying the new arrivals. The burglar’s face brightened. “You’re the heirs? Then you owe me a drink.” He thrust out his glass. “I’m drinking bourbon.”
Philip Hurley’s lip curled. “And you would be?”
“Jeff Beasley. Pleased to meetcha.”
“The pleasure is yours,” Philip Hurley informed him. “And what earthly reason do you have for thinking I owe you a drink?”
“Jeff Beasley was my client,” Arthur Kincaid explained. “I had to let him go due to a conflict of interest over your aunt’s estate. He feels you cost him a lawyer, so you owe him a drink.”
“Is he nuts?” Philip Hurley sputtered. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”
“Spoilsport,” Beasley grunted. “Come on, just one drink.”
“I just bought you a drink,” Arthur Kincaid pointed out.
“And I drank it.” Jeff Beasley held up the empty glass. “And now I need another.” He thrust his chin out at Philip Hurley. “You putting up or not?”
“He’s not,” Arthur Kincaid said firmly. “Jeff, I can’t have you harassing the heirs. I’ll buy you one more drink, but then you’re on your own.” He signaled to the bartender, pointed to Beasley’s glass. “One more on my tab.”
“Now see here,” Philip said. “That better not come out of the estate.” He jerked his thumb at his chest. “Because that money is coming to me.”
“That’s right.” Ethel Hurley’s piercing whine cut through the squabble. “What about the inheritance? How much is it?”
“Honey,” Philip Hurley snapped. “You can’t ask that. It’s an improper question. It’s vulgar.” He rolled K1D; his eyes and shook his head, inviting the lawyer to share in his contempt for his moron of a wife. “You’re not the heir, I am.” He narrowed his eyes. “So, how much is it?”
“Mr. Hurley—”
“I heard fifteen million. Is that right?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“What’s the difference? The point is, is it true?”
“It’s a large fortune. Fifteen million is an approximation. But probably not an unfair one.”
Philip Hurley smiled like he’d just sold four hundred acres of Florida swampland. “And that money is mine,” he declared. “I’m entitled to it. I don’t care what that old biddy says in the will, the money belongs to me.”
Arthur Kincaid raised his eyebrows. “You plan to contest the will?”
“Of course not,” Philip Hurley said. “I plan to inherit under it. I’m just saying, if I don’t, be ready for trouble.”
“I’m not looking for any trouble,” Arthur Kincaid said.
“Oh?” Ethel Hurley exclaimed. “Are you trying to tell us something? That sounds like you’re trying to tell us something.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Arthur Kincaid replied with dignity. “As I said on the phone, my instructions are to read the will after I’ve assembled the heirs. And not before. So you see, there’s nothing I can tell you.”
“Yes, there is,” Philip said. “Who are the heirs?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Who have you been instructed to assemble?” Philip said. “Just who did Emma want present at the reading of this will?”
“All of her relatives.”
“All of her relatives?”
“That’s right.”
Philip Hurley frowned. “Surely not Jason.”
Arthur Kincaid said nothing.
Philip Hurley set his bulldog jaw. “Are you telling me my brother’s included?”
“No one is excluded, Mr. Hurley,” Arthur Kincaid answered.
“But that’s absurd. Surely Emma wouldn’t think of leaving anything to him.”
“She must if she asked for him,” Ethel interjected. “Isn’t that right? If a person is summone Kon 1em"d, it’s to share in the money?”
“Shut up, Ethel. Don’t talk stupid.” Philip Hurley wheeled on the lawyer. “Is that how it works, Mr. Kincaid? If he’s invited, he inherits?”
“Not necessarily. A person could be mentioned in the will for the specific purpose of disinheriting that person.”
“That’s more like it.” Philip nodded. “That’s what old Emma would do. Get Jason here just to disinherit him. Tell me, Mr. Kincaid, did you specifically invite Jason?”
“I left messages at his last known address. Whether he got them, I couldn’t say.”
“And what was his last known address?”
“Denver, Colorado.”
“Ah.” Philip Hurley’s look was knowing and eloquent, dismissing anyone who chose to live in the Rockies as having far too frivolous a nature to be taken seriously.
Cora Felton, at the bar, lit a cigarette, and watched with interest. No one had thought to introduce her, and she was glad, preferring to sit back and watch the scene unfold. Arthur Kincaid hadn’t introduced Becky Baldwin either, and Cora was pleased to note the young woman was looking somewhat put out. Becky kept hovering near the lawyer’s shoulder, looking to edge her way in.
Cora smiled, took a drag on her cigarette.
“The Puzzle Lady smokes?”
Cora Felton frowned.
Not here.
Not now.
Not in front of Sherry.
A nebbishy-looking man, with a bald head, black-framed glasses, prominent nose, and receding chin was smiling all over his face and regarding Cora with a look that was at once admiring and disapproving.
Cora sighed in relief. Not a muckraking journalist. Just a fan.
Cora Felton smiled. “I not only smoke, I can blow perfect rings.”
She proceeded to do so.
“I’m impressed, but I still disapprove,” the nebbishy man said. “You’re shattering my image.”
“Oh, you’ll get over it,” Cora told him. She picked up her martini glass from the bar. “If your heart can take it, I also drink.”
“Oh, so do I.” The man held up a glass of what appeared to be sherry. “To puzzle making.”
“I’ll drink to that!” Cora Felton announced heartily, pointing her finger in a theatrical manner.
He raised his Ke rtily, poieyebrows inquiringly.
Cora grinned. “Lee Marvin, as the drunken gunfighter in Cat Ballou.”
“Yes, of course.” The nebbishy man nodded approvingly. “He won the Oscar for it. In fact, that’s how I’d clue the word Marvin. Best actor of 1965.”
Uh oh.
Alarm bells jangled in Cora Felton’s head. This was worse than a journalist. Worse than a TV reporter. Worse, even, than an obsessed fan.
This was a peer.
A colleague.
A constructor.
“How you’d clue it?” Cora Felton said, with mounting misgivings.
The man’s smile stretched from ear to ear. He paused portentously, then announced, “I’m Harvey Beerbaum.”
Cora Felton’s cornflower blue eyes widened. “Is that right?” she said. She grabbed his hand, pumped it up and down. “I’m so pleased to meet you.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Now, if you would just be an angel and order me a drink, I will be right back.”
Cora Felton flashed Harvey Beerbaum her most winning smile, slipped off her stool, and hurried down the bar to where Sherry Carter was talking with Aaron Grant.
As she went by Cora Felton leaned close, hissed in Sherry’s ear, “Mayday!” and kept on going.
“What was that all about?” Aaron asked as Cora Felton hurried off.
Sherry frowned. “Aunt Cora’s in trouble. I gotta go help.”
“In trouble?”
“Someone’s probably hitting on her. I’ll be right back.”
Sherry slid off her stool and headed for the ladies’ room. She pushed open the door, found her aunt standing there waiting for her.
“Okay, what’s the problem?” Sherry asked.
“You see the man standing next to me at the bar?”
“No.”
“Nerdy little guy, just came in.”
“I didn’t see him. What about him?”
“He’s a constructor.”
“Oh?”
“At least I think he is. He announced his name like he expected me to swoon.”
“What is it?”
“Harvey Beerbaum.”
Now it was Sherry’s eyes that widened. “Uh oh.”
“Who is he?” Cora demanded.
“He’s not just a constructor. He’s a famous constructor. Almost as famous as Will Shortz. He contributes regularly to The New York Times. What in the world is he doing here?”
“I have no idea. The minute he announced his name I had to get out of there before he realized I didn’t know it.”
“Okay, you know it now. Go back out there and bluff it through.”
“Sherry.”
“Cora, you can do it. You know you can. You’ve done it before. You give him the I-don’t-talk-shop routine, and get him to buy you a drink.”
“I don’t know …”
“I do. I happen to know you. You’re devious on the one hand, and utterly charming on the other. I wouldn’t be surprised if he offers to marry you.”
“Sherry, I’m not in the mood.”
“Don’t tell me, tell him. Cora, most likely this guy’s just passing through. You hand him a line, you make him feel good, that’s the end of it.”
Sherry pushed open the ladies’ room door and went back to the bar. A quick glance showed her the tableau had changed. Jeff Beasley had somehow managed to corral two drinks, and had moved to a booth where he sat, hunched over, with his arms protectively around them. Becky Baldwin sat opposite, and appeared to be trying to reason with him.
So, the man standing alone in the space left by Cora Felton and Becky Baldwin had to be Harvey Beerbaum, legendary crossword-puzzle constructor and expert, whose work was discussed regularly on CRUCIVERB-L, a daily digest Sherry subscribed to on the Internet. Under other circumstances, Sherry would have relished talking to him. Not tonight. Instead, Sherry joined Aaron at the end of the bar.
“So?” Aaron said.
Sherry shrugged. “Just as I thought. Cora’s being bothered by a crossword-puzzle expert. She doesn’t want to offend him, but she doesn’t want to encourage him either. It happens all the time.”
“Then she should know how to handle it,” Aaron pointed out.
Sherry glanced at him sharply, but Aaron didn’t seem to mean anything by the remark. “Well, will you look at that,” he said.
Sherry followed his gaze down the bar to where Philip Hurley stood looking at …
Philip Hurley!
It wasn’t, of course.
It was his twin. His double. His doppelgänger. A man who looked exactly like him. With dark black hair and flashing teeth and the same bulldog chin. Though somewhat more conservatively dressed in a blue leisure suit.
Sherry blinked.
Not a blue leisure suit.
A blue pants suit.
Despite all outward appearances, Philip Hurley’s mirror image was undoubtedly a woman.
While Sherry watched, the unmistakably female voice pierced the air. Ethel Hurley’s voice was bad, but this put Ethel’s to shame. “Philip!” shrilled the dragon-lady voice. “You old crook, how are you? Still under investigation for mail fraud?”
Philip’s lips curled into a sneer. “Well, well, sister Phyllis as I live and breathe.” He pointed to the wimpy-looking man in the gabardine suit standing slightly behind her. “Is this the current Mr. Phyllis Hurley? Hasn’t anyone pointed out to him how your husbands have a habit of dying after making out insurance policies in your favor?” He said to the wimpy man, “You wouldn’t be carrying life insurance, by any chance?”
Without looking, Phyllis put her hand in her husband’s face, in the manner of one instructing a dog to stay. “Don’t bother, Morty. My honor doesn’t need defending from dear brother Philip. So, where’s the lawyer?” She glanced around, spotted Arthur Kincaid. “You look like the lawyer. Are you? Sure you are. Same face, but older. I remember now. I’m Phyllis Hurley Applegate. This is my husband, Morty Applegate.” She spread her arms. “And he is here to watch me as I inherit the Hurley fortune.”
“You inherit? That’s a laugh.” Philip sniggered.
“As oldest surviving niece, I think not.”
“Then you think wrong. I inherit, as oldest surviving nephew.”
“Nonsense. As the oldest sibling, I take precedence.”
Philip and Phyllis instantly squared off, jaw to jaw. It was quite a sight. Whether Philip had chosen his hairpiece to mock his sister, or she had cut and dyed her hair to mock him, the effect was mind-boggling. They looked exactly the same.
“You’re not older,” Philip snapped.
“Yes, I am.”
“We’re the same age.”
“I’m still older.”
“By half an hour.”
“There you are!” Phyllis said triumphantly. “You heard him. He admits it. I’m the eldest. And I will be inheriting under Aunt Emma’s will.”
�
�Oh, I don’t think there’s much chance of that.”
The voice came from the doorway.
Philip and Phyllis Hurley turned to look.
Their identical bulldog jaws dropped in unison.
“Jason,” Philip Hurley murmured in a voice loud enough to carry to the end of the bar.
But the newcomer clearly wasn’t Philip’s brother. The young man was no more than twenty-five years old. He wore boots, blue jeans, and a black leather jacket. His dark hair was long and stringy, and hung down the sides of his face. His beard was scraggly and untrimmed. But his eyes were blue and bright, even in the dim light of the bar. His eyes twinkled as he looked at the battling Hurleys. He strode across the room.
“Is it possible? Could it be? Uncle Philip and Auntie Phyllis? And just look at you. Good lord, Philip, where’d you get that hair? Don’t tell me, you sell used cars. Did I get it right?”
Philip Hurley’s eyes widened. “My God, you look just like him.”
The young man laughed. “Well, not quite, I think. Dad never wore a beard. Among other things.”
Phyllis Applegate gawked at him. “You’re little Danny?”
“Not quite so little anymore, but I’m Danny, all right.” He grinned. “Didn’t realize you were so old, did you, Aunt Phyllis? But here I am, Auntie’s principal heir.”
“Is that true?” Philip Hurley demanded of Arthur Kincaid. “Does he share in the dough?” As the lawyer opened his mouth to speak, he added, “I know you don’t know. I mean, did you ask him here?”
“Indirectly. I invited his father and all of his heirs. Which includes any offspring. Just as it includes any children of yours.”
“I have no children.”
“That’s not the point. The fact is, if you did they’d be included.”
The young man spread his arms. “And Jason did. And here I am. What do you wanna bet I wind up with the whole shooting match?”
“And where’s Jason?” Philip Hurley demanded.
The young man shook his head. “We’re not the tightest-knit family in the world, are we? Dad’s dead. Nearly two years now. Mom nearly four. Amazing you don’t know that, but there you are. I am an orphan, an only child, a sole surviving son. A direct descendant of the Hurley millions, which will doubtless bypass you and come straight to me. Sorry about that, but I think you’ll find Auntie always favored Dad. Had a soft spot for the renegade. Chip off the old block. Eccentric, like her. When the dust clears, you can line up for a handout. You and all the rest. Apply to my solicitor. For funds to cover your shortfal Kyouhe l. Which I have no doubt you have.”
