A Clue for the Puzzle Lady

by Parnell Hall

“I was.”

  “Oh.”

  “Aunt Cora. Snap out of it. Think. What did you do last night?”

  Cora Felton scowled. Cocked her head. Water ran down her cheek, cascaded off her chin. She took no notice. “Played some cards. Had some drinks. Met a man.”

  “What man?”

  “Nice man. Reminded me of Frank. My third husband. Nice man, but married.” Cora Felton nodded in agreement with herself. “So was Frank.”

  “Aunt Cora. Did anything happen with this man?”

  “Nosy, nosy, nosy,” Cora muttered. “Ow! Too hot!”

  “Aunt Cora.”

  “Turn the water down. I’ll talk, I’ll talk. What do you want to know?”

  “What happened with this man?”

  “Probably nothing. Can’t remember. Can I get out now?”

  “Aunt Cora, listen to me. A policeman is coming. You have to pull yourself together.”

  The front doorbell chimed.

  “Oh, my God. He’s here.”

  “Who’s here?” Cora Felton lost her balance and slumped against the side of the shower stall. She clung to the soap dish, blinked up at Sherry through the water, smiled and said, “Oops.”

  For a moment Sherry was tempted to simply give up and let the policeman have her. It was just for a moment, and yet she felt a pang of guilt. Sherry could never do that to her aunt, no matter how exasperating she was. For all her faults—and there were certainly many—Cora was a kind, warmhearted woman, and Sherry really loved her. Cora had always looked out for Sherry when she needed her most, like when her marriage had broken up, and Sherry would always look out for her.

  Even when it wasn’t easy.

  “Aunt Cora, listen. A policeman’s here. And he’s looking for you. So here’s what you do. You sit there, you keep your mouth shut, you listen to what he has to say. I’ll do the talking. You just keep from falling off your chair.”

  Sherry turned off the water, yanked Cora out of the shower, grabbed a towel.

  5

  Chief Harper stood in the breezeway dripping wet and wondered why they were taking so long to answer the bell. A red Toyota had been parked askew blocking the driveway, and he had been forced to pull in behind it and then sprint across the lawn to the kitchen door.

  Which no one seemed to want to answer. There was of course a front door, but it was exposed to the rain, on the one hand, and not nearly as convenient, on the other. Chief Harper doubted if they actually used it. Still, it occurred to him maybe he should try that door. Instead, he pushed the kitchen bell again. He could hear it ring inside the house. So they had to know he was there, they were just making him wait. He shuffled his feet impatiently, looked around.

  Three eighty-five Cold Springs Road was one of the prefabs built in the mid-50s, before the selectmen legislated against such structures. Other existing ordinances prohibited them from being built close together, required at least a one-acre lot. So the house, though modest, had no near neighbors. There was woods to either side, a meadow across the road. A wide front lawn. It probably looked nice when it wasn’t raining.

  Where were they?

  After what seemed like forever, the door was opened by an attractive young woman with short, curly dark hair. She wore a yellow pullover, blue jeans, and running shoes. To Chief Harper she looked like a college student, though he realized she must be older. Or maybe he was just getting older.

  “Sorry about that,” the young woman said. “You’re the police chief?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Chief Harper.”

  “I’m Sherry Carter. Miss Felton’s niece. We spoke on the phone. Please come in.”

  Chief Harper did, found himself in a small anteway leading to the kitchen. He stood on the welcome mat, shuffled his muddy feet.

  The young woman was all crisp efficiency. “Why don’t you just take them off? Let me take your raincoat. Here’s a towel.”

  Chief Harper surrendered his slicker, slipped off his shoes, dried himself on the towel. He followed the young woman through a well-stocked country kitchen with a central butcher block table, and a sparely furnished modern living room piled with boxes.

  “You must forgive me, the place is a mess. But then we weren’t expecting company,” the young woman said.

  She led him through a door into a small study.

  Cora Felton sat in an overstuffed chair, a blanket pulled up under her chin. Poking out from beneath it was the top of her dressing gown. There was a box of tissues on the table next to her, and her eyes were red. Otherwise, she looked exactly like the woman who smiled out of the newspaper every morning.

  “Miss Felton?” he said.

  She winced slightly at the sound, then raised her eyes and smiled.

  The young woman hovered over her solicitously, patted her shoulders. “Please do sit down,” she told him, indicating a chair. “You’ll forgive my aunt if she doesn’t get up, but she has a cold. And what can we do for you?”

  Chief Harper sat. “I’m Dale Harper,” he said, somewhat apologetically. “The chief of police. I’m investigating a crime. I was hoping you could assist me with my inquiries.”

  Cora Felton blinked at him. If she’d understood him, he wouldn’t have known it.

  “I beg your pardon?” the young woman said.

  “I’m sorry. I’d better explain. A girl was found murdered early this morning.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Yes. In the cemetery. Next to one of the gravestones. The caretaker drove in this morning, and there she was.”

  “Who was she?”

  Chief Harper frowned. He’d wanted to get the Puzzle Lady’s reactions. He wondered if there was any tactful way to talk to her alone. “For the moment, we don’t know,” he said. “She’s young, late teens, early twenties. Blonde, thin, attractive, appears to have been hit on the head. That’s all we know at the present time.”

  “You want us to look at a picture?” the young woman asked. He recalled her name was Sherry something.

  “I don’t have a picture.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I’m here, actually, to talk to the Puzzle Lady,” he said rather pointedly. “As I told you on the phone. Miss Felton, I’m sorry to bother you, but I need your expert opinion.”

  Cora Felton looked at him. Her blue eyes were wide. It struck him as an owlish look. “Opinion?”

  “Yes.”

  She blinked, seemed to give him her full concentration. “Opinion of what?”

  “A clue.”

  “Clue?” she said.

  She raised her hands from the arms of the chair, lurched sideways slightly, and caught herself. Her robe gaped open, and for a second he had the disconcerting impression she wasn’t wearing anything under it.

  “Yes, a clue. Found on the body.”

  She blinked again. “Body.”

  She seemed so confused, Chief Harper felt bad about overwhelming her with a murder. But he had a job to do. “See for yourself,” he said. He reached in his shirt pocket, pulled out the slip of paper, and passed it over.

  She unfolded it, pushed the glasses down on her nose, held it at arm’s length, and squinted. “Four d line five?” she said.

  “Yes. What do you make of that?”

  She pushed the glasses back up and frowned. “Let me see, let me see, now. Four d line five.”

  “You think four d means four down?” the younger woman said.

  Chief Harper scowled at the interruption. “It might,” he said. “If that was the case, Miss Felton, would that suggest anything to you?”

  “I don’t know.” She cocked her head, furrowed her brow, seemed to consider. “Did you count four graves down from where she was lying?”

  The younger woman stirred, opened her mouth, closed it again. Chief Harper noted her impatience, was relieved she hadn’t interrupted again.

  “That’s a thought,” he said. “I can’t say that I did. What about line five?”

  “Yes. Line five. That
certainly is confusing.”

  “Let me see that,” the young woman named Sherry said. She practically grabbed the paper out of the older woman’s hand. “Oh. Five in parentheses. Of course.”

  “Why of course?” Chief Harper asked.

  “Because it made no sense the other way. Line five?” She smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry. I proofread all the columns before they go out. So I’m used to recognizing crossword puzzle clues. Line five is not a standard crossword puzzle clue. On the other hand, what’s written here, line (5), makes perfect sense. The five in parentheses would indicate the answer has five letters.”

  Chief Harper turned back to Miss Felton. “Is that right?”

  “Yes, of course. Sherry is quite accurate when it comes to such matters.”

  “Tell me, is that why you’re here,” Sherry said, “because you figure this is a clue from a crossword puzzle?”

  “That’s certainly how it appears,” Chief Harper answered. “If you take it all together, four d line five. If the five stands for five letters, that would make it look like a crossword clue, now wouldn’t it?”

  “I suppose,” Cora Felton said.

  “If you already know that, why are you here?” Sherry asked.

  “No puzzle there,” Chief Harper said. “I want you to solve it.”

  “Solve it?”

  “Yes. What’s the answer? What does it mean?”

  Cora Felton opened her mouth, cocked her head. Her whole body seemed to follow, listed slowly to the left.

  Her niece jumped in. She put her hands on Cora Felton’s shoulders, seemed to push her upright. “I don’t think you understand,” she told Chief Harper. “There’s a huge difference between creating puzzles and solving them.”

  “I would think if you were adept at that sort of thing …”

  “Yes, of course. But this isn’t a puzzle, it’s a fragment. You know how you solve a crossword puzzle, Chief? With interlocking clues. Think of the word. Crossword. The words cross. They have common letters. That’s how you can tell if your answer is right.”

  She pointed to the paper. “In this case, the clue is line, the answer is five letters. You know how many meanings there are of line? It’s a noun, it’s a verb. The line in the sand. A line of poetry. You line a drawer or a playing field. A dresser drawer you line with paper. A soccer field you line with lime. There’s a line in front of a movie theater, a line in the middle of a highway. A clothesline, a line an actor says in a play, What’s my line? There’s dozens more. Any of which could yield an answer to that particular clue. The only way you could narrow it down would be if you had another word going across to check if the letters fit. To expect my aunt to solve this on the basis of one clue is totally unfair.”

  Chief Harper frowned. “All right, look. Let’s not get off on the wrong foot here. No one’s quoting anybody, no one’s running to the media. You’re not going to see headlines like PUZZLE LADY FINDS CLUE, or if that’s what you’re afraid of, CLUE STUMPS PUZZLE LADY. I’m here in the hope of getting any advice that will point me in the right direction. So, can you give me anything at all?”

  Cora Felton considered. For a moment, Chief Harper had the impression she’d thought of something. But all she said was, “I’ll have to work on it. Leave your number and I’ll give you a call.”

  “Nothing immediately suggests itself to you?”

  “Something suggests itself to me,” Sherry put in. “This is not fun and games, Chief Harper. You’re dealing with a killer here. I don’t want you putting my aunt in danger.”

  “That was not my intention.”

  “Maybe not. But you’ve appealed to her for help, in the hope she might solve the crime. The killer might get that idea also.”

  “Not from me. I assure you, Miss Felton, I won’t even mention you.”

  Cora Felton waved this off. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll be safe. It’s just having so little to go on. You will call us if you learn anything more?”

  “But you will work on it?”

  “Yes, of course. Was there anything else?”

  “No, that’s it,” Chief Harper said. “Thanks for your time.”

  He left feeling vaguely unhappy about the whole visit. What was it about those two women? Whatever it was, Chief Harper couldn’t shake the feeling he’d been had.

  6

  “Is he gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank God. I’m dying for a smoke.”

  “Aunt Cora.”

  “Relax. You said he’s gone.” Cora Felton fumbled a pack of cigarettes up from under her blanket, extracted one, lit it with her lighter. Took a deep drag. “Ah, that’s better. What a headache.”

  “Yes,” Sherry said, “what a headache. And all because of that damn TV ad.”

  “That TV ad pays for this house.”

  “You never should have done it.”

  “How could I turn it down?”

  “You think that cop’s here because of the newspaper column? No. That cop wouldn’t do a crossword puzzle if his life depended on it. He’s here because he saw you on TV.”

  “I need a Bloody Mary.”

  “Aunt Cora.”

  Cora Felton pushed the blanket to the floor, struggled to her feet. Her dressing gown fell open. She felt the draft and looked down. “Why am I naked?”

  “You took a shower.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It seemed a good idea at the time.”

  “If you say so,” Cora said. “Well, time for brunch.”

  Cora plodded into the kitchen, dropping cigarette ash behind her. Jerked open a cabinet drawer, took out a bottle of vodka. Set it on the butcher block. Took out a glass, opened the freezer, dropped ice cubes in. Winced at the sound. “Ice cubes are so loud.”

  She opened the refrigerator, took out tomato juice, and mixed a Bloody Mary without the benefit of a shot glass. The vodka estimate was generous. She added Worcestershire, Tabasco sauce, and celery salt, stirred it around.

  She took a huge sip, lowered the glass. “Ah, that’s better,” she said, and smiled a huge smile. She looked just like she did in the pictures, except with a red mustache.

  And the fact her robe was hanging open.

  “Must you?” Sherry said. “If that cop comes back—”

  “We’ll offer him a Bloody Mary. Though he probably doesn’t drink on duty.” Cora noticed her dressing gown and tried to tie it up, but couldn’t holding the Bloody Mary. She had the belt in one hand, the drink in the other. She frowned at them as if they were a logic problem of annoying complexity.

  Sherry solved it for her by taking the glass. Cora cinched up the robe, retrieved the drink, took a huge sip, and exhaled happily. She seemed to be getting her second wind. “Sherry, this is exciting.”

  “Aunt Cora.”

  “An actual murder. And we’re in on it. I wish I felt better. If I’d known, I would have come home early.”

  “Really?”

  “Sherry, we have to figure the clue.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

  “Don’t be silly. This is a murder. A girl is dead. We have an obligation.”

  “We have an obligation?”

  “Exactly. If it really is a crossword clue, then we have to solve it. Not that it necessarily is. I kind of like the four-graves-down idea.”

  “Aunt Cora.”

  “You pooh-pooh it just because it’s mine. And line five? That fits right in. What if it’s four graves down in the fifth row of graves?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Why is that silly?”

  “The five was in parentheses.”

  “So?”

  “And if that’s the answer, we’re not needed,” Sherry pointed out. “The police can solve that perfectly fine by themselves.”

  “True, true, you’re undoubtedly right. So the clue is a line with five letters. If that’s four down, we’re going to need to see something else across. Whi
ch means we need to find another clue. Maybe we should go to the cemetery.”

  “Aunt Cora.”

  Cora Felton put up her hand. “Not now, not now. But if you say we can’t work on this clue without help, then we need help.”

  Her cigarette defied the laws of gravity. Sherry picked up an ashtray, held it out, just as the ashes tumbled to the floor.

  “Aunt Cora, try to understand something. The TV ad was a mistake. We’re living with the mistake. There’s nothing we can do about it, we have to make the best of it. But this. This is an absolute disaster. You start trying to solve a murder, and you know where your picture is going to wind up? On the cover of the National Enquirer. And the headline isn’t going to be PUZZLE LADY SOLVES MURDER, it’s going to be PUZZLE LADY EXPOSED. And that’s only if we’re lucky enough not to get PUZZLE LUSH or PUZZLE SLUT.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “And what’s gonna happen then? How many papers do you think are gonna stand beside us? The Puzzle Lady image is wholesome. That’s the sell. You tarnish that, you got nothing. They’ll never forgive you. For destroying the image. It’s as bad as Minnie cheating on Mickey Mouse.”

  “She did that?”

  “You get the point?”

  “Yes, I do. You’re a stick-in-the-mud, you want me to butt out of a murder. Whaddya think your chances are?”

  Sherry tried another tack. “All right. It’s not just that. There’s something else. I’ve been getting hang-ups.”

  “Hang-ups?”

  “Yes. This morning and again last night. The telephone rings, I pick it up, the line’s open but there’s no one there.”

  “What do you mean, no one’s there?”

  “I say hello and no one answers. There’s just the sound of the open line on the other end. Then I hear the phone hang up and I get a dial tone.”

  “Do you hear breathing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know if you hear breathing?”

  “Aunt Cora.”

  “Sherry, it’s nothing. Phones do that all the time.”

  “Yeah. But I can’t help thinking.”

  “What?”

  “What if it’s Dennis?”

  Cora Felton shook her head. “Sherry, Sherry, Sherry. That’s so stupid. How could Dennis know that we’re here?”