by Parnell Hall
Chapter
48
Chief Harper plodded down the drive to see if the paper was there yet. If so, it would be in the metal cylinder mounted on the pole under the mailbox. Harper resented the cylinder, preferred the paper thrown in the driveway. That way he could look out the window and tell if it was there. But that required a non-environmentally-friendly plastic cover.
Harper reached the mailbox, stuck his hand in the cylinder. Yes, the paper was there. He wondered if it would be a slam, and, if so, how severe. “Police Drag Feet” was mild, routine, nearly acceptable. “Police Withhold Evidence” was a little harder to stomach. “Police Withhold Murder Weapon” was the worst-case scenario. It was also totally unfair, since it was the prosecutor who was withholding the murder weapon. Harper unfolded the newspaper, prayed that wouldn’t be the headline.
It wasn’t.
PUZZLE LADY NAMES KILLER
By Aaron Grant
In a stunning development, late last night Bakerhaven’s own Puzzle Lady, Cora Felton, named the perpetrator of the two latest murders. According to Ms. Felton, the killer is not Melvin Crabtree, who was arrested yesterday afternoon on that charge, but rather a mysterious and shady individual named Bill French, who has dogged Mr. Crabtree for years, making trouble for him whenever possible. It is Ms. Felton’s contention that Mr. French manufactured the evidence that led to Mr. Crabtree’s arrest.
Some might discount Ms. Felton’s story on the grounds that Mr. Crabtree is her ex-husband. It doesn’t necessarily follow. Just last year Mr. Crabtree sued his ex-wife for reduction of alimony, in a bitter, contentious courtroom fight. Moreover, Cora Felton, who has been instrumental in aiding the police in solving crimes in the past, has a reputation for getting things right.
If she is right this time, not only is an innocent man in jail, but a dangerous psychopath is loose in Bakerhaven.
And, according to the Puzzle Lady, that man is Bill French.
Chapter
49
Cora Felton was dreaming.
She was all dressed up in her finest evening gown, a stylishly low-cut number a good three sizes smaller than ones she currently wore but which fit her perfectly, and she was cheering wildly as Jennifer Grant, Sherry and Aaron Grant’s daughter, was being crowned Miss America. The proud parents were standing by, Aaron clutching his Pulitzer Prize, and Sherry basking in the recognition she deserved for creating the Puzzle Lady column. Cora, happy to give her the credit now that she’d learned a thing or two about crosswords herself, indeed was just coming off her victory in the American Crossword Puzzle Tournament, the first woman to win the national event since Ellen Ripstein, quite an accomplishment, though she was playing it modest, even though her detractors were trying to knock her down, bang, bang, bang, trying to knock the trophy off the mantle, bang, bang, bang, as if smashing the symbol could take the victory away, still they kept trying, bang, bang, bang!
Cora’s eyes popped open.
She was in bed, she couldn’t do crosswords, and someone was knocking.
Cora cursed the intruder. She lunged to her feet, pulled on a robe, unlocked the front door.
Chief Harper came through it like a linebacker on a blitz.
Cora staggered back, caught her balance, and asked him what he was doing, though not in those words.
Harper waved the rolled-up newspaper in her face. “I don’t believe it! I thought last night was bad. I thought it couldn’t get any worse.”
“It’s not so bad.”
“Not so bad! How is it not so bad? Tell me one way in which it’s not so bad!” Harper unfolded the paper. “Puzzle Lady Names Killer! You claim you know who the murderer is. You claim he’s not the man I arrested. The man due in court this afternoon for a probable cause hearing. The man whose lawyer is already threatening the prosecutor with suppression of evidence. You claim he’s being framed and you claim you know who’s doing it. Aggravating as that is, it’s the type of thing that should be fairly easily disproved. Only guess what? You claim the murderer is Bill French. When we go to look for Bill French, do you know what we find? Nothing! He doesn’t exist! What a clever ploy. Accuse a man who doesn’t exist. Take the pressure off the real defendant, throw a monkey wrench into the system. It’s a false accusation, but you were smart enough not to make it to the cops, and a man who doesn’t exist isn’t going to sue you for libel.”
“I think it’s slander, Chief, if the reporter is quoting what I said.”
Cora shouldn’t have said that. Harper looked close to kicking over the coffee table.
“Is there even the slightest bit of truth in anything you said?”
“Absolutely. It’s all true.”
“What about Bill French?”
“It may not be his real name, what with there being no record and all.”
“Gee, what a surprise. So there may not be a Bill French.”
“Let’s not quibble. The guy exists, whatever you want to call him.”
“Oh. So now you’re claiming Melvin was framed by persons unknown.”
“They’re known. They may be known by another name, but they’re known.”
“Forget the name. Is any part of what you just told me true?”
“It’s all true.”
“Can you prove it?”
“I hope so.”
“How?”
Cora grimaced. “That’s the problem.”
“Don’t mess with me, Cora.”
“The guy’s in hiding. I’m hoping to lure him out.”
“With press releases? Because if you issue another one…”
“Are you threatening me, Chief?”
“I’m warning you. Henry Firth is on the warpath. Becky made this a no-limit game. You just made a big bluff. Henry’s going to call you on it. And if you can’t back it up, he’s going to figure out a charge that will stick.”
The front door flew open and Becky Baldwin burst in. Cora had never seen her so excited. She made Chief Harper seem calm.
“Are you crazy? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“And hello to you, too,” Cora said.
Becky grabbed her by the arms, shook her. “Did you hear what Melvin said? Weren’t you listening?”
“Chief Harper’s here.”
“I see him. I don’t care. Do you realize what you’ve done, making a statement like that? People will think it came from Melvin! People will think it came from me!”
“So what?”
“So what? So what? Make me look like a sleazy, two-bit shyster. Advising my client not to talk, and then leaking stuff to the press.”
“You wouldn’t do that?”
“It’s a despicable practice. It’s beneath contempt.”
“You would do that.”
“It’s not funny, Cora. Never mind what this does to Melvin’s hearing. Never mind what this does to his defense. You put the man in danger.”
“Oh, come on.”
“People will think it came from Melvin. Guess what? Bill French is one of them. You think he’s going to like it? I don’t. I think he’s going to be angry. You know what happens when Bill French gets angry? People die.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Harper said. “It’s like you orchestrated this. Rehearsed a little scene to play to sell me on the idea of Bill French. Well, if that’s the case, it’s a very bad idea.”
“I’ll say it’s a bad idea. You’ve got a sociopath who kills people just for the sake of annoying others. So you poke him with a stick? Melvin’s flipping out. Melvin’s afraid to go to court. Melvin says he’s a sitting duck.”
“He’s got a bodyguard, for goodness’ sake,” Harper said.
“The bodyguard’s a sitting duck. At least according to Melvin. Melvin’s got him so spooked he called for backup.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. By the time we leave for court he’ll have another man in place.”
“What can the guy do in broad daylight?” Harper made a face. “Dam
n it! Now you’ve got me talking like he exists.”
“That’s good, Chief. I can use your help.”
“What?”
“I have to persuade Judge Hobbs to sanction two armed guards in his courtroom.”
“This just gets worse and worse.”
“So what are you here for?” Cora asked Becky. “Just to bawl me out?”
“I wish.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Becky grimaced. “Melvin wants to see you.”
Chapter
50
Melvin went Chief Harper and Becky Baldwin one better. Cora hadn’t seen him so angry since they were married.
“Are you an idiot?” Melvin cried. “I know you’re irresponsible and irrepressible. But I’ve never known you to be so self-destructive. Even when you were drinking.”
“Watch it.”
“Oh, surely they know about your drinking. It was famed across the eastern seaboard. You practically supported Johnny Walker.”
“I didn’t come here to get beat up.” Cora turned on her heel.
“Stop right there!” Melvin bellowed. “I told Clyde to shoot you if you tried to leave.”
“As if.”
“He’s a good man. Don’t test him on it.”
“I’m not going to stand here and be yelled at.”
“Sit down. I got a lot to say and I doubt if I can keep calm.”
“Can I go?” Becky said.
“No!” Cora and Melvin said together.
“Take a step and you’re dead,” Cora added. “I want a witness to what this jackass says.”
“You live in a small town. You’ve had a sheltered life. There’s been a few murders, but they’ve been the genteel sort. Not the blood and guts psycho-killer stuff suspense is made of. You put me in danger, fine, I can handle it. But you put yourself in danger.”
“I can handle it,” Cora said, patting her drawstring purse.
“Oh, you have a gun, why didn’t you say so, that makes all the difference in the world,” Melvin said ironically. “He’ll never hurt you now.”
“He’s not coming after me.”
“What do you mean? You called him out. You named him in the press. He’s going to whack you just as a matter of pride.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Tell him. Anyway, you’re not safe. You need protection.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Tell her, Becky.”
“You need protection.”
“Clyde!” Melvin bellowed.
The bodyguard stuck his head in the door. “Yeah.”
“You got another bodyguard? I want someone on Cora.”
“I got just the man you need.”
“Yeah? Then why isn’t he on his way up here?”
“You just told me.”
“If he’s so good, why isn’t he on his way up here for me? Who are you pawning me off on?”
“Are you trying to pick a fight?” Cora said.
“Of course I’m trying to pick a fight. I’m cooped up in jail where I can’t do anything. I want to fight the whole world.”
“On a more practical front,” Clyde said, “ma’am, you want a bodyguard?”
“Like hell,” Cora said.
“She wants a bodyguard,” Melvin said.
“She says she doesn’t.”
“She doesn’t know any better.”
“I can’t put a man on her against her will.”
“Can you put a man on her without her knowledge?”
“Hey, I’m standing right here.”
“The woman has a point, Melvin.”
“Give her your card.”
“Huh?”
“Give her your card. Cora, take Clyde’s business card. You get something you can’t handle, you call. Who’s she gonna get, Clyde?”
“David McDermott.”
“He’s the bodyguard?”
“Yeah.”
“How quick can he be here?”
“An hour fifteen minutes.”
“What if it’s urgent?”
“Forty-five. If he doesn’t get stopped.”
“Give her the card.”
Clyde gave Cora his business card.
“Okay,” Melvin said, “there’s the number. You see a car parked down by the road, you call. You see a car following too close, you call. You see a man taking an interest in you, you call.”
“Like the only reason a man would have an interest in me is to kill me?” Cora said.
Melvin cocked his head, grinned roguishly. “That’s up to you, babe.”
Chapter
51
Cora was imagining assassins in the shadows, cars parked down by the road. She cursed Melvin for suggesting it. Now she couldn’t get the idea out of her head. There were no cars down by the road. She knew it for a fact. She knew it because she’d checked several times. Damn it to hell.
Not that she was about to hire a bodyguard. That thought never crossed her mind. Well, it did, but only to reject it. She probably didn’t even have the card.
Cora dug through her drawstring purse. The first thing she found was her gun. Its weight in her hand, as always, was reassuring. She stuck it back in her purse, rummaged around. Had she stuck it in her wallet? No, that would have been too practical. She’d consigned it to the depths of her purse because she didn’t want to find it. She was only looking for it now to pass the time because she’d started getting the creeps.
Cora walked over to the front window, looked out again, saw nothing. She wandered back into the kitchen, continued rummaging in her purse.
She found a pack of cigarettes, pulled it out, lit one. A disgusting habit. She had to quit. If things ever calmed down. Which wasn’t likely. Where the hell was that card?
Cora found it, pulled it out. Curtis Investigation Agency. With a Manhattan phone number. The name of the detective she was supposed to call wasn’t on it. What the hell was it? Cora couldn’t remember. Not that she needed it. She was just spooked. Spooked by a shadow. A man who, as far as Chief Harper was concerned, didn’t even exist.
That started a disturbing train of thought. What proof did she have, aside from Melvin’s word, that he existed at all? Melvin was a charming liar, had spun elaborate webs in his day. None quite as elaborate as this, but still. He’d never had this motivation. But having to account for two corpses, that was a bit much.
It occurred to Cora she should ask Becky about a paraffin test. That would prove he hadn’t fired a gun. Of course, he could have worn gloves. In which case, where would he have disposed of them? They’d have to still be in the cemetery. Could she find them?
What was she thinking of? Melvin didn’t do that. Bill French did exist.
He might be sneaking up on her right now.
Cora went back to the window. There was still no car down by the street. She took a deep drag on her cigarette, headed back to the kitchen, trailing smoke behind her like a steam engine, her mind going a mile a minute.
If Melvin had made this up, was it possible? Well, let’s see. Could he have killed the man in the Dumpster? Easily. Though why he would have done so in that fashion was beyond her. On the plus side, he had a motive to kill him. On the minus side, killing him in that fashion was moronic.
Or was it?
If Melvin was the killer, then Melvin was also the blackmailer, pulling an elaborate blackmail scam on himself. For what purpose? It simply made no sense.
Or did it?
Melvin had a good motive for killing the gambler. And he knew the girl. What motive he might have had for killing her was not yet clear, but say he had one. Then, without the whole blackmail scheme, Melvin stuck out like a sore thumb. Even to her he would look guilty. It was only in the light of the elaborate fiasco in which she found herself, that he too seemed like the victim. And even though he still steadfastly denied being the one being blackmailed, that was just the type of lie he was apt to tell. He could count on her seeing through it, identifying him as the bla
ckmail victim, and thus the victim of a scheme, to lend credibility to the whole Bill French story. More so than if he claimed to be the blackmail victim. That would have made her suspicious. No, Melvin being Melvin, he had played it his way, issuing a denial that didn’t quite ring true. And how could it? He had to be the blackmail victim, for the simple reason that there wasn’t anybody else.
And if he was the victim, then he was also the perpetrator, embroiling himself in a bogus blackmail plot in order to build up his credibility as a man being framed for murder. The only way he could dispose of two people he would likely be accused of murdering without making himself a suspect. At least in her eyes. The police didn’t matter. They would suspect him in any case. But if he had her on his side, he could ram his story home. And so the nonexistent Bill French would take the blame. And he had done it so well that she was dodging shadows, afraid of a ghost. The man simply did not exist.
Cora looked out the window, fully expecting to see a car, but there was none. Deciding there was no Bill French did not immediately produce Bill French. No, it merely confirmed her suspicions that her least favorite ex-husband was at it again.
The cigarette burned her fingers. Cora yelped and dropped it. She picked it up gingerly by the filter tip, took it into the kitchen, and threw it in the sink.
The phone rang. A crank phone call? A threatening phone call? Or just someone pissed off at her for the story in the paper? Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.
Cora snatched the receiver off the wall. “Hello?”
“Cora, it’s Sherry.”
Cora’s heart fluttered. The one thing she hadn’t thought to fear. What was wrong?
“They’re letting me go home,” Sherry said. “Can you believe it? They’re sending me home.”
“Oh, Sherry, how wonderful! So, the baby’s all right?”
“The baby’s fine. Her lungs are strong enough. She doesn’t need an incubator. My fever’s down and they’re letting me hold her. Can you believe it, I’m actually holding her. I’m holding her right now!”
“That’s great.”
“So, I’m coming home, and we got a lot of stuff, and I’m afraid to let Aaron drive because he’ll keep turning to look at me, you know he will. So, can you pick us up?”
