by Parnell Hall
“Exactly. Which is why we need to shop.”
“I still feel funny about it. I mean, that young girl just got killed.”
“Sherry. Life goes on. You wanna get something for Aaron?”
“Of course I do. I just can’t think of anything. Come on, help me out. What do you think he’d like?”
“I know what he’d like.”
“Aunt Cora.”
“You wanna make Aaron happy, give yourself something from Victoria’s Secret.”
“You’re not helping.”
“Not that I ever did that. Though I wouldn’t even wanna tell you some of the things Melvin used to give me.”
Taillights gleamed as a car backed out down the row. Gunning the engine, Cora skidded toward it, but a man in a sports utility vehicle rounded the corner and screeched into the spot.
Cora voiced her opinion on men, malls, Christmas, SUVs, men, shopping, husbands, and men.
Sherry was lucky to keep her from leaping out of the car.
Cora eventually drove off, but not before treating the other driver to a rather unseemly gesture.
“Boy, what a shock finding that new clue,” Sherry said, largely to distract Cora, who was driving angrily, and a little too fast. “You should have seen the look on Rupert Winston’s face. I swear he thought you left it yourself just to get out of rehearsal.”
“I didn’t, but what a great idea.” Cora skidded around a corner, tore down another row of solidly parked cars. “I wonder where I could get some red envelopes. . . .”
“Cora! Don’t you dare!”
“Killjoy.”
“So what do you make of the case?”
Cora grimaced. “It doesn’t make sense. That’s the most striking thing about it. Everything’s a contradiction. The girl was killed in a stable. Aside from you, the only ones who could have killed her there are her boyfriend, her best friend, and Alfred the One Drumstick Wonder Nerd. Which makes perfectly good sense, except, drat it, she was the wrong girl. Everything points to the fact Becky Baldwin was the target. The poems were delivered to Becky Baldwin. Becky Baldwin was supposed to be in the stable, not Dorrie. As soon as it becomes clear that the murdered girl was not Becky, there is another attempt on Becky’s life. And, just in case there is any doubt, the killer leaves a message stating that he—or she—blew it.”
“Assuming the message was from the killer.”
“It was in a red envelope.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t a puzzle.”
“Of course not. Those first three puzzles were prepared in advance. Then the wrong girl gets bumped off. Oops. Slight miscalculation. Becky Baldwin still needs to be dispatched. A sandbag on her head will suffice, but a note needs to be found, informing us this was the real crime. This time, the killer doesn’t have time to write a poem and stick it in a puzzle. But this time, the killer doesn’t have to. All the killer needs is a short, blunt message, getting the point across.”
Cora, seeing a snub-nosed minivan snag a parking space, muttered a short, blunt message herself, getting the point across.
“And who was the killer?” Sherry asked. “Who planted this message?”
“I have no idea. Except for one thing. When I saw Doddsworth in the girls’ dressing room with that envelope, it occurred to me he might be the one who put it there.”
“Come on.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t all this start, the puzzle in the pear tree and all that, didn’t that start after that Brit got here?”
“The policeman is the killer?” Sherry arched her eyebrow. “Isn’t that a popular plot twist in some of those books you read?”
Cora ignored the remark. “He wasn’t there when the sandbag fell. He came right after, claiming he’d just driven up. Well, maybe he did. Or maybe he was at the top of the backstage stairs—the ones he pretended he didn’t know where they were—and maybe he was there with a rope dropping a sandbag on Becky Baldwin’s head, sneaking out the back door, walking around the high school, and walking into the gym as if he’d just arrived. Now, wouldn’t that work?”
“Perfectly,” Sherry said. “He comes over from England to murder his daughter’s best friend. Someone he used to play with when she was a little girl. I can’t think of a thing wrong with that.”
“Well, when you put it that way.”
A car turned the corner, coming their way. Cora skidded sideways to let it go by. Instead, it slammed to a stop in front of them, forcing them to stop too.
This time, Cora was out of the driver’s seat while the Toyota was still rocking. She came pelting around the front of her car to accost the other driver, who was climbing out of his.
It was Chief Harper.
Cora was still steamed. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she raged.
“Looking for you. Aaron Grant thought you two might be here.”
“I told him we were going shopping.” Sherry got out of the car too. “What’s up, Chief?”
“I assume you’ve been discussing the crime?”
“That’s a brilliant assumption,” Cora said irritably.
“What’s your opinion of it?”
“It’s a bummer.”
“Yes, it is. Unfortunately, as police chief, I have to be slightly more specific.”
“That’s tough, Chief. Would you mind moving your car? I’m trying to get a space here.”
“Oh, I’ll be going. I just wanted to make sure you have as bad a night as I do.”
“I beg your pardon?” Cora snapped.
“Barney Nathan just weighed in with his autopsy.”
Cora’s eyes widened. “And . . . ?”
“Dorrie Taggart was two months pregnant.”
22
IT WAS A TYPICAL TEENAGE ROOM. CRUMPLED CLOTHES ON the floor. A poster of what appeared to be terrorists but was probably just a rock group on the wall. A boom box by the bed blaring some incomprehensible noise, perhaps the terrorists’ latest hit.
Lance Ridgewood lay in bed. He was unshaven. He wore ratty jeans and a dirty T-shirt. Cora decided that was a costume, part of his image. It occurred to her Lance was a handsome young man, would clean up pretty well.
She slammed the door to attract his attention and said, “Hi, Lance. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
He raised his head, looked at her. “Cops already did.” “Yeah, your mom told me. I thought maybe I could help.”
“Don’t need help.”
Cora walked over to the boom box, switched it off.
“Hey!” Lance threw his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. “What you doin’, lady?”
“Your girlfriend just got killed. I know you’re in shock, but you can’t hide behind a wall of sound forever. The cops were here last night?”
“If you talked to my mom, you already know that.”
“I know what she said. I’d like to hear what you have to say.”
“Yeah, the cops were here. During the Knicks game, for Christ’s sake.”
“Dorrie was your girlfriend?” There was just the hint of a sarcastic edge to Cora’s voice.
“We’d been going out. Yes, I’m upset, but why hassle me? I already told them everything I know.”
“That was before they found out she was pregnant.”
“Boy, was that a shock. I don’t know how that happened.”
“You and your father never had a little talk?”
“That’s not funny.”
“No, it isn’t. Come on, Lance, give me a break. I don’t think you murdered Dorrie, and I’m going to find who did. How about helping me out?”
“What do you mean, you don’t think I killed her?”
“I thought you got into Yale. You were holding her when she died. You were her boyfriend. And she was pregnant. A scandal that would freak out your parents and might scare off your college. If you were taking an SAT test, and the question was Who had the best murder motive, you think you might be leaning toward A, The boyfriend as the most likely answer?”
> “I didn’t do it,” Lance grumbled.
“No, I don’t think you did. Unfortunately, proving it is going to take more than just your say-so. First off, was that your kid?”
“No way.”
“Well, that’s mighty strange. Dorrie was playing the Virgin Mary. Another immaculate conception is just too much coincidence, even in Bakerhaven. What’s the matter, weren’t you using birth control?”
“I can’t talk to you about this. You’re a . . . woman.”
Cora smiled. “You started to say old woman, didn’t you? Thought you might offend me. That wouldn’t offend me nearly as much as if you lie to me. So, try again. Was the kid yours?”
Lance glared at her for a moment. Then his lip quivered. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“If it was, she would have told me.”
“And she didn’t?”
“No.” Lance snuffled and looked up. His eyes were wet. “You gotta understand. Dorrie wasn’t like that. Yeah, she was a bit of a klutz. It would be just like her to screw up her birth control and get pregnant. But not with someone else. She wouldn’t do that. And there’s no way she wouldn’t tell me.”
“So how do you account for it?”
“The doctor must be wrong.”
Cora’s silence was eloquent.
Lance’s face hardened. “Look, lady. You didn’t know Dorrie. I did. And you’re way off base.”
A fresh tear formed in Lance’s eye, started down his cheek.
Cora thought about it, then sighed. “Hey, buck up, kid. Maybe I’m doing you a disservice. You pushed my buttons griping about the Knicks game. If Dorrie really meant something to you, help me get her killer. Okay?”
“How?”
“Tell me about Dorrie. What was she like?”
“Dorrie was fun. That’s what makes this so hard to believe. She had real spirit, you know. Threw herself into everything.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno. Whatever. Lately it was skiing. We went to Catamount just last week.”
“Dorrie was a good skier?”
“No.” Lance smiled fondly at the memory. “She’d fall down a lot. Real klutz, you know. But she never got frustrated. She knew how to laugh at herself. Had more fun than anyone.”
“She tease people?”
“Oh, sure. But not in a mean way. Everybody liked Dorrie. Everybody.”
“So who would want to kill her?”
Lance shook his head. “That’s the thing. No one would. It’s gotta be a mistake.”
“Uh-huh,” Cora said, without enthusiasm. “So help me understand what happened. You were in the manger holding Dorrie. . . .”
Lance shuddered. “Yeah.”
“Did you know it was her?”
“Sure.”
“You saw her face?”
“No.”
“How come?”
“Her whatchamacallit was down. You know, the thing over her head.”
“Her cowl.”
“Yeah. The hood of her costume.”
“So how did you know?”
“I saw her in town hall. Before. That’s where the costumes are. I was going in to change just as she was coming out.”
“Did she say anything?”
“She said, ‘See you out there.’ ”
“That’s all?”
Lance flushed. “She said, ‘See you out there, hot stuff,’ if it really matters.”
“What did you say?”
“I asked her what she was doing. She told me she’d swapped spots.”
“What happened then?”
“She said, ‘Gotta go,’ and ran off.” He exhaled irritably. “If you must know, she said, ‘Gotta go, Joey babe.’ She called me Joey babe and I called her Mary kid. When we did the Nativity.”
“So what did you do?”
“Went and changed.”
“The next time you saw her was in the manger?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you speak to her then?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“No talking, no kidding around, no personal contact. Those were the rules. I expected her to break them. But if she didn’t, I certainly wasn’t going to.”
“When you got there, where was she?”
“On the floor, holding the Baby Jesus, leaning against Joseph.”
“Who was Joseph?”
“I don’t know. Some dweeb.”
“Alfred Adams?”
“Yeah. I don’t know him. I only know ’cause it was on the schedule sheet.”
“You talk to Alfred?”
“No way. I did just what I was supposed to. Crept up behind him, tapped him on the shoulder, slid into his place. And he slipped out the door.”
“You took Alfred’s place holding Dorrie up? Was she dead?”
He cringed, young and vulnerable. “I don’t know. That’s what the cops asked me, and I don’t know. I mean, how could I? I was just grateful Dorrie wasn’t trying to crack me up. You don’t screw around with the Nativity. Mr. Ferric would tell the principal, and there’d be hell to pay. But Dorrie didn’t always follow rules.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Like I said. Dorrie liked to kid around. And sometimes she’d crack herself up doin’ something stupid, and once she started giggling, you couldn’t stop her.” He nodded. “Dorrie was a gas.”
“I see.”
“Anyway, she didn’t, and I was glad. That’s what I was feeling then. I was just glad she was taking it seriously.”
“She stayed like that for how long?”
“Until the next Mary relieved her. That would be your niece, right? Is that why you’re so interested?”
“A Yale man after all. My third husband was a Yalie. Yes, I confess to having a personal interest. Though I doubt if anyone seriously suspects Sherry. Anyway, you were holding Dorrie when Sherry came. What happened then?”
“They wrestled around, and Dorrie fell out of the stable.”
“You saw her fall?”
“Sure. I thought she just tripped. Like I said, Dorrie could be a real klutz. But she didn’t get up. I jumped down to help her. I rolled her over, raised her head. But . . . But . . .” His eyes filled with tears again.
“Tell me something,” Cora said. “Before it happened. When you were posing in the crèche. Did anyone come close?”
“You mean in front of the stable?”
“In front of the stable. Behind the stable. In the stable. Did anyone come close to you and Dorrie?”
“No.” After a pause he added, “Just your niece.”
Cora grimaced. “Right.” She plodded on determinedly. “How about on your way to the stable? Did you see anyone?”
“Of course I saw Maxine.”
“Why do you say ‘of course’?”
“Because she was playing Mary. Dorrie relieved her.”
“And you passed Maxine on the path. How would that happen? Wouldn’t that make Maxine late leaving, or you early?”
“I didn’t pass Maxine on the path. I met her in town hall. She came in while I was getting ready to go outside.”
“What did she say?”
“ ‘Boring, boring, boring.’ She said her first Joseph hadn’t dressed warm enough and kept shivering. But he was a dream compared to the second Joseph, who stood like a stone statue and didn’t relate to her at all. Which is the problem with women. They expect guys to pay attention to them at all times under all circumstances.” At Cora’s look, Lance mumbled, “Sorry. I mean some women.”
“I know what you mean,” Cora told him. “So Maxine Doddsworth was one of those women?”
“I didn’t mean to say that. That’s not really fair. I guess I’m just biased on the subject of Maxine.”
“Why is that?”
Lance shrugged the hair off his forehead and answered casually, as if everyone in Bakerhaven were aware of what he was about to say.
“
’Cuz Maxine used to be my girlfriend.”
23
MAXINE DODDSWORTH’S ROOM WAS NOT MUCH DIFFERENT from Lance’s, except the terrorists on her poster were cleaner cut.
Maxine lay facedown on her bed, her head buried in a pillow. Even in that position her designer jeans looked stylish, her pink cable-knit sweater lush.
“Maxine,” Cora said.
“Go ’way.”
“Maxine, we have to talk.”
“I said go ’way.”
“I just talked to Lance. Would you like to know what he said?”
Maxine didn’t answer, but she didn’t say go ’way either.
“He said you two used to date. Go out. Go steady. Be his girl. Whatever you kids call it these days. Anyway, you were his girlfriend before Dorrie.”
Maxine’s head turned sideways on the pillow. One bleary eye glared up at Cora. “So?”
“The police are looking for someone with a motive to murder Dorrie. Stealing your boyfriend sounds like a good motive.”
Maxine sat up in bed. “That is so lame. That is so bogus. Dorrie was my best friend!”
“Did you know she was pregnant?”
“I can’t believe it! That is so not Dorrie.”
“It happens,” Cora said.
“No. It can’t be true. Dorrie would have told me. Except . . .”
“Except what?”
“Nothing.”
“You were going to say except if it was Lance. Dorrie might not be so eager to tell you if Lance was the father of her baby. Isn’t that it?”
Maxine’s mouth twisted in despair, and her metal braces gleamed. Cora wondered vaguely if a boy might dump a girl with braces for one without. She knew from bitter experience, men were capable of anything. Cora sighed. “Tell me about you and Dorrie.”
“Why?”
“Because I intend to get whoever did this. If anyone can help me, it’s you. I take it you and Dorrie were real close.”
“Absolutely. We did everything together. Everything.”
“That’s how she met Lance?”
“That wasn’t her fault!”
“No, I suppose not. Never mind Lance. Tell me about Dorrie.”
“Like I say, we did everything together. She went horseback riding, I went horseback riding. I went skating, she went skating.”
