by Parnell Hall
“Because he wasn’t planning to at all. And he wanted to make his wife look scatterbrained. Not that hard to do. He convinces his wife that he’s having an affair, that he’s insured her life for a million dollars and he intends to kill her for the money. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Yes, he’s having an affair, but the insurance policy isn’t on her; it’s on him.”
“Why does she think it’s on her?”
“Because he told her so. I don’t know that, but just ask her. I’m sure he did. He said something like, ‘Honey, I insured your life for a million bucks, but it’s not nearly enough, because you’re worth so much more to me.’ Because it sounds better than, ‘I insured your life for a million bucks so if you die young I’ll be rich.’ Anyway, she’s cool with that until she sees the movie. And since she sees it with him, he’s able to plant the seeds of doubt with a few choice comments. He also manages to sell the idea the guy was really stupid not to hire a private detective to see if his wife was having an affair.
“One problem with pretending to be dead, after you’re dead you can’t do anything that shows you’re alive. And before you’re dead you can’t do anything that would tip off the fact that you were pretending to be dead. Hank’s problem was money. They didn’t have a lot. What they did have he couldn’t really withdraw from the bank right before his supposed death. That would be just too big a clue.
“Enter Iron Man.”
“Oh. He robbed the liquor store because he needed money,” Harper said. “So he could hole up and pretend to be dead.”
“Exactly,” Cora said. “Anyway, he plants the idea of hiring a private detective. And Brittany snaps at the bait. There are no private eyes in Bakerhaven, but there is a lawyer. She hires Becky Baldwin to help her with the case. Becky hires me to do the legwork.
“Which is just what Hank’s been waiting for. As soon as he spots me following him—which is not that hard to do when you’re looking for it—he puts his plan in motion. The next day he calls Madeline Greer, who he’s been stalling along about an insurance policy, and tells her he’ll drop by with it. He gets off work and leads me right there.
“The apartment has a window on the street. He makes a point of looking out so I’ll know which apartment it is. As luck would have it, Madeline appears in the window, completing the picture. And to make sure he sells it, a crossword puzzle shows up in her apartment.”
“Hank left that?” Harper said.
“Of course he did. He knows I’m the detective on the case. If not, he’s pretty sure whoever finds it will give it to me. This, of course, is in the event anyone tries to trace his back trail after his death. If so, it will lead to Madeline Greer, who happens to be a dead end. A carefully constructed dead end to keep anyone from getting on the real trail.”
“Which is?”
“Wendy Ross. Hank’s coconspirator, who’s the one who sent Madeline Greer to Hank as part of a prearranged plan.”
“This is where my eyes start to glaze over,” Chief Harper said.
“That’s too bad, because we’ve barely scratched the surface.”
“Well, scratch it then. What is the point of all this?”
“To collect two million dollars in life insurance, of course. The problem in doing that is the movie, Double Indemnity. See how we keep coming back to it? Because of the movie Double Indemnity, you can’t kill your wife for the insurance money anymore. The first person they look at is the husband. Hell, the only person they look at is the husband. That’s the only person who benefits. It’s kind of a no-brainer. Even the slowest cop can handle it.”
“Thank you,” Harper muttered.
“So, you wanna kill your wife for the insurance, you have to have a perfect alibi. Take this case, for instance. A car bomb. Sure, you could have a perfect alibi for the time of the murder, but it’s a device designed to go off when you aren’t there. The remote-control detonator is just the icing on the cake. It wasn’t accidental; it was murder. In light of all that, how in the world can you pull it off?
“Hank Wells found a way. You don’t kill your wife; you kill yourself. And why does that work when the other doesn’t? The husband killing the wife would be Double Indemnity with the sexes reversed. The wife killing the husband is a perfect copy. So how can it possibly work? Easy. His wife is a moron. She’s too stupid to commit the crime. Plus, she’s told the policy is on her. It’s a genuine shock when she finds out it’s on him. It’s not like she has to be an actress to pull it off. She really thinks it’s true. And now you see the point of hiring me.”
“I wish you hadn’t said that,” Harper said.
“Sorry. I’m hired as Brittany’s alibi. After I find his make-believe mistress, Hank manages to give his wife the idea that he realizes he’s been tailed and he suspects her of doing it. She’s terrified, and, as could be predicted, hires me to keep her safe. Hank rigs a car bomb, and explodes it at a time she couldn’t possibly do it. Which is crucial to the whole thing. She can’t be found guilty of murder if she’s going to collect on the insurance.
“Unfortunately, a piece of the detonator survives, suggesting the possibility she could have set it off by remote control. The worst of it is the detonator means it’s not an accident: it has to be murder. So there has to be a murderer, and it can’t be his wife. So, what can he do now?
“Naturally, Hank has been monitoring the case on television, and hears Rick Reed ask you about Billy the Bug.”
“I said he had nothing to do with it,” Harper said.
“It doesn’t matter. His name was brought up as a suspect. His was the only name brought up as a suspect. He has a history of starting fires. Which offers Hank an out. Billy has to kill himself after confessing to the crime.
“A crossword puzzle sent to the police station says Brittany is innocent and suggests the existence of another killer. Brittany Wells knows there’s another killer because she knows it isn’t her. She’s frightened into hiring me as a bodyguard again. So she’ll have an alibi for the time of Billy’s death in case anyone suspects it was staged.
“And right there you have the only similarity between the two crimes. One’s an explosion; one’s a hanging. One’s supposed to look like an accident; one’s supposed to look like a suicide. In both cases Brittany Wells has a perfect alibi and I supply it.”
“Are you saying Brittany Wells is involved?” Harper said.
“Have you been listening? Brittany Wells has the IQ of a turnip. She could no more carry out a complicated plot than I could dance the lead in Swan Lake.”
“Then I don’t understand. Brittany winds up with the money. Hank winds up a penniless fugitive, hiding out pretending to be dead.”
Cora jerked her thumb toward the back of the police station. “You take a look in your holding cells lately?”
“What?”
“Wendy Ross. The woman you have under arrest for accessory to murder.”
“What about her?’
“Take a look. See if you can’t detect a certain resemblance to the fair Brittany Wells. I bet a good hair and makeup artist could work a little movie magic.”
“You mean?”
Cora shrugged. “That’s gotta be the endgame. Brittany inherits the money, goes off on a victory voyage. Comes back a little older, a little wiser, and with a new gentleman in tow. Most likely one with conspicuous facial hair.”
“And no one’s going to notice the difference? Or recognize Hank?”
“You’re too literal, Chief. When I say ‘come back,’ I don’t mean here. Bakerhaven has bad associations. Her husband blew up here. Of course she’d want to leave town.
“Enter Wendy Ross. The new and improved Brittany Wells. Who, by the way, was the key ingredient in the crime. Wendy Ross was Hank Wells’ oral hygienist. Who worked of course for Hank Wells’ dentist. After his ‘death,’ she replaced Hank’s files with the dental files of the man he killed.”
“Who was that?”
“I don’t know. But he was most likely
one of the dentist’s other patients. Which would make switching the files so much easier. She had all the charts and X-rays. All she had to do was change the names. I would imagine the next patient who misses an appointment is probably dead. Pull his files, they’ll turn out to be Hank Wells’.”
Harper thought that over. “I’ll be damned.”
Chapter
67
Cora, Crowley, and Stephanie came out of the police station. Rick Reed was waiting to pounce. He shoved a microphone in Cora’s face. “Here’s Cora Felton now. Miss Felton, you were just with Chief Harper. Is it true he has Hank Wells under arrest?”
Cora smiled. “You’ll have to ask the chief. He’ll be making a statement shortly.”
They tried to move off, but Rick grabbed Crowley before he could make his escape. Rick failed to notice the look on the sergeant’s face when he put his hand on his arm. “And here’s Sergeant Crowley of the NYPD. Sergeant, do I understand Hank Wells was in New York City when you made the arrest?”
Crowley sized Rick Reed up coldly and considered the question. He nodded. “Yes.”
“And there you have it,” Rick said triumphantly. “A Channel Eight exclusive. Sergeant Crowley of the NYPD confirms that he arrested Hank Wells in New York City.”
Crowley shook his head. “No.”
Rick Reed, about to ask a follow-up question, did a classic double take. “I beg your pardon?”
“No, that’s not true,” Crowley said.
“You just said you arrested Hank Wells in New York City.”
“No, you asked me if you understood that I did. I figured you probably did think that, so I said yes, that’s what you understood. You happen to be dead wrong, but that’s not my problem.” Crowley smiled at the badly discombobulated newsman, said to Cora and Stephanie, “It’s cold out here. You wanna get some coffee?”
“Oh, yes, Cushman’s Bake Shop,” Stephanie said as they walked down the sidewalk. “I hear Mrs. Cushman’s scones are to die for.”
“Well, you can get ’em any time you want,” Cora said. “Mrs. Cushman can’t bake a lick. Her scones come from the Silver Moon Bakery at One-oh-Fifth and Broadway.”
“And she passes ’em off as her own?”
“A small deception,” Cora said. “Hank Wells passed himself off as dead.”
They went into the bakeshop. Crowley had black coffee. Cora and Stephanie had lattes and scones. They stood in the bakeshop window, looking out at the street.
“Hard to believe there was a car bomb there,” Crowley said.
“Where was it?” Stephanie said.
“In front of the library,” Cora said.
“Right across from the police station,” Crowley said. “That was a stroke of bad luck. Brittany being in the police station at the time. Close enough to have set it off by remote control.”
“Because they found a piece of the detonator. Otherwise, what better alibi witness than the chief of police?” Cora smiled. “I’ll be sorry to see you kids go. You’re the only other woman I’ve ever liked.”
“I’m really not the other woman,” Stephanie said.
“No, I am.”
“Cora,” Crowley said.
Cora put up her hand. “No. Don’t spoil it. This is way too civilized. And frankly, it’s been a lot of fun. You guys are good together.”
“Cora,” Stephanie said.
“Yeah, I know, you’re not a couple, yada yada yada. Shut up and eat your scone, you skinny bitch. God, you thin women who can pack it away and not put on an ounce.” Cora smiled. “Ah, that feels better. A cleansing breath of resentment. I’m back in my element.”
Stephanie laughed. “Crowley was right. You’re delightfully strange.”
Sherry came in with Jennifer on her hip.
“Can walk!” Jennifer said indignantly.
“Of course you can.”
Sherry put her down, and Jennifer wrapped her arms around Cora’s leg. Cora tousled her hair. Sherry nodded hello to Crowley and Stephanie. “Everyone’s outside the police station waiting on the chief. You got anything you can give Aaron?”
Cora looked at Crowley. “How about an exclusive with the cop who arrested a dead man?”
“Really? Great. I’ll get him. Come on, Jennifer, let’s get Daddy.”
“I didn’t really arrest him,” Crowley said. “It was the Jersey cops’ jurisdiction.”
“You can clarify that in the interview. He can still use the headline. He’ll write something like ‘Sergeant Crowley was quick to point out…’ It doesn’t matter. Go. Go, you guys, do the interview.”
“What about you?”
“I’m family. I’m taken for granted. The scoop is an exclusive with you.”
Crowley and Stephanie went out. Cora watched them go, not without a twinge of regret. Life was full of disappointments. It hadn’t seemed like so many when she washed them away with alcohol or calmed her nerves with a cigarette. Damn. Why did everything make her think of a cigarette? And she was putting on weight, which caused her anxiety and made her want to smoke. Should she have another scone? Of course she shouldn’t. But these were stressful times. She’d been eating a lot. What difference could one scone make?
Or if she wanted to be really wicked …
Cora bought a California bun. She took a bite, and everything was all right with the world. Excellent decision! She could always diet tomorrow. Today was a day to celebrate.
The door banged open and a small whirlwind blew in. It was Brittany Wells, flush with triumph and high as a kite.
“Victory is mine!” she declared. “Freedom, redemption, money, money, money! It’s double indemnity after all! If my husband gets the death penalty for the murder, that’s accidental death! At least as far as the insurance company is concerned. When I get done testifying, he’ll be lucky they don’t fry him on the spot. Anyway, he’s alive, so all his assets are unfrozen, and guess who’s attaching them to pay for my legal fees? He’s responsible for them, seeing as how they were incurred through his actions. I don’t understand it all, but Becky does, and the money is mine!
“Anyway, she says I owe you big-time. I don’t see it, but she says it’s a deal breaker. If it weren’t for you, none of this would have been possible.”
Brittany reached in her purse, pulled out a folded paper. “She made me write you a check. It’s excessive, but she was firm.”
Brittany extended the check in Cora’s direction, said, “Oops!,” and dropped it on the floor. “Clumsy of me,” she said, turned, and swooped out as briskly as she’d come.
Cora looked down at the folded check. She was tempted to let it lie. She humbled herself, bent down, picked it up, unfolded it.
It was for ten thousand dollars.
Cora’s eyes misted over. Damn Becky. Becky knew she’d be depressed watching Crowley and Stephanie ride off into the sunset. As if money could cheer her up. The only satisfaction she’d get from the money would be depriving Brittany of it.
She was tempted to tear the check up.
“Miss Felton?”
Cora turned around.
It was Mrs. Wilson. The plump, matronly woman’s eyes glistened with tears. “I can’t thank you enough. You didn’t think you could do it, but you did. Now everyone will know. Billy didn’t kill anyone. He couldn’t kill anyone. He was a kind boy, a gentle boy. He didn’t kill that man. And he didn’t kill himself. I knew he didn’t. Now everyone will know he didn’t. Thanks to you.”
Cora’s smile was forced. She didn’t want the woman’s thanks. Not when it was her irresponsible tip to Rick Reed that had dragged Billy into the case. Yes, she’d brought her son’s killers to justice, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough.
“I’m having a small memorial for him this weekend. I’d like you to come. If you would be so good. It would mean a lot.”
“Of course.”
Cora sighed as Mrs. Wilson went out the door. She’d have to go. It was the least she could do.
Chief Harpe
r came in, spotted Cora. “Thought I might find you here.” He pointed to the pastry in her hand. “What’s that?”
“California bun.”
“Is it good?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Sounds irresistible.”
Harper went up to the counter, bought a black coffee and a California bun. He took a bite. A change came over his face. “Oh, my God.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Chief. Try not to eat more than three a day.”
He took another bite, sipped his coffee. “I saw Mrs. Wilson going out. Did she hit you up?”
“For the memorial?” Cora said.
“Yeah. You going?”
“Yeah. You?”
Harper nodded. “She’d notice if I didn’t. I’m the chief of police. And there won’t be many people there. It’s just a small ceremony. Not a church service. Poor woman. She’d have liked to give her boy a proper send-off, but of course she can’t afford it.”
Cora blinked. She smiled slightly.
Sometimes life’s ironies, by pure chance, actually came up with the proper random sequence of events.
Brittany Wells’ check was burning a hole in her pocket.
Cora pulled it out, unfolded it.
“As a matter of fact, she can.”
Also by Parnell Hall
NYPD Puzzle
Arsenic and Old Puzzles
$10,000 in Small, Unmarked Puzzles
The KenKen Killings
The Puzzle Lady vs. the Sudoku Lady
Dead Man’s Puzzle
You Have the Right to Remain Puzzled
Stalking the Puzzle Lady
And a Puzzle to Die On
With This Puzzle, I Thee Kill
A Puzzle in a Pear Tree
Puzzled to Death
Last Puzzle & Testament
A Clue for the Puzzle Lady
About the Author
Parnell Hall has been an actor, screenwriter, and singer/songwriter. He is a former president of the Private Eye Writers of America and a member of Sisters in Crime. He has been a finalist for an Edgar, two Lefty, and three Shamus Awards. Hall lives in New York City.
