by Parnell Hall
“Yes, I did. I also told them it was very unlikely. Which they believe. It’s just the reporter who took it seriously.”
“But what about the girl?” Lois demanded. “If they identified her, what’s her name?”
“Dana Phillips,” Vicki said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Well, at least about the Dana. I think it was Phillips.”
“And you think she’s from Muncie,” Lois said.
“I know she’s from Muncie. And I know her name is Dana. She ran away from home some time last weekend.”
“Her father identified the body,” Cora told them. “The picture went nationwide this morning. He didn’t see it, but someone else in Muncie did. This guy called the father, he called the network, and they faxed him the photo.”
“The father has a photo fax?” Vicki said.
“Not a photo fax,” Iris said. “A fax is a fax. It’s like a Xerox. What goes in is what comes out.”
Lois frowned. “Not in color. A fax won’t give you color.”
“You mean the man ID’d a black-and-white Xerox of his dead daughter?” Vicki said. “How awful.”
“I doubt if that happened,” Cora said. “It’s not as if the man did this on his own. The Muncie police would be cooperating with our police and with the networks. I’m sure he saw a proper picture. At any rate, it’s a positive ID.”
“You know that for sure?” Iris said.
“I was there when Chief Harper got the call. Explaining why crossword puzzles had nothing to do with it.”
“It’s a shame,” Vicki murmured.
“A shame?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s a tragedy and all that. But if there was a puzzle to be figured out. If there was something we could do.”
“We?” Iris said.
“Well, no, her, of course. If Cora was working on something, she’d let us know, and we might have suggestions.”
“Oh, now you’re solving the case?” Iris asked Vicki.
“No, she’s not,” Cora said, “and neither am I. But that’s no reason why we shouldn’t think about it. Even if the crossword clue means nothing. Someone killed this girl for some reason.”
“Obviously,” Lois said.
“Yes, but it isn’t obvious,” Cora objected. “The girl was hit over the head with a blunt object and dumped in a graveyard. There were no signs of sexual assault. The girl was a runaway who didn’t have any money, so robbery wouldn’t be a motive. So why is she dead, and why is she here?”
“Here?”
“In Bakerhaven. You take a girl from the Midwest, what’s her connection with Bakerhaven?”
“The police don’t have one?”
“Obviously not. Her picture was on TV, nobody recognized her.”
“Nobody admitted they recognized her,” Vicki Tanner said.
“Good point,” Cora said. “You can’t take anything at face value because the killer’s going to lie.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Lois protested. “Are you saying this murder is like a puzzle which you could figure out?”
“Why not?”
“A little presumptuous, don’t you think?”
Cora Felton took another sip of her gin and tonic. It was her third or fourth drink, so she was inclined to be quarrelsome. “Not at all. I’m not saying I can solve this crime. I’m saying there’s no reason we shouldn’t try to think it out. If there’s a rational solution, it’s a puzzle just like any other. So why shouldn’t we work on it?”
“Right,” Vicki agreed. “Let’s do it.”
“You may not get a chance,” Lois said.
“Huh?” Vicki said.
Lois pointed over her head.
Vicki turned in her chair and looked.
Her husband, Stuart Tanner, came walking up.
Vicki smiled. “Hi, dear.”
Stuart put his arm around her, bent down, kissed her cheek, straightened up. “Hi, honey. I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Vicki said.
“I thought we went over that. There’s a killer on the loose, I don’t want you coming home alone.”
Vicki smiled. “Isn’t he sweet? Annoying, but sweet. Honey, I’ll be fine.”
“Uh huh,” Stuart said. He looked around the table. “Sorry to hold up your game. But it is upsetting. Having something like this happen. And then I’m away all day, and I don’t know what’s going on. Do they know who did it yet?”
“No,” Vicki said. “But they ID’d the body.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” Lois said. “Some girl from the Midwest.”
“Muncie, Indiana,” Vicki contributed. “Her name’s Dana something.”
“Dana Phelps,” Cora Felton said.
“That’s it,” Vicki said. “Not Phillips. Phelps.”
Her husband’s attention was on Cora Felton. “Weren’t you in the paper this morning? Offering a theory of the crime?”
“Hardly,” Cora Felton said. “You can chalk that up to an overzealous reporter.”
“Uh huh,” Stuart Tanner said. “I must say it concerns me that none of you seem to be taking this killing very seriously.”
“Oh, we are,” Cora Felton said. “But I know what you mean. I think if the girl had been local it would be different. But as it is, it seems very removed, both from reality and from us.” She winced. “Boy, that sounded pompous and academic, didn’t it? I think I need another drink. How about you, young man? You look like you could use a drink.”
“As an attorney, I don’t drink and drive. But tell me about the clue. How can you say it’s all this reporter’s doing? Didn’t you tell the police about the clue?”
“It’s a case of the chicken or the egg,” Cora replied. “I didn’t tell the police it’s a clue, the police told me. At least they came and asked me. It was like, if this was a clue, what would it mean? Well, probably nothing. But they put my picture in the paper. Big deal. Tomorrow the news will all be about who this girl really was, and no one will care about the so-called clue. Now, if you’re not going to buy me a drink, I guess I’ll have to get one myself.”
“I’ll be glad to buy you a drink,” Stuart said. “But really, Vicki. I’m just wondering when you’re coming home.”
“When we’re done,” Vicki told him. “It won’t be that long. We’re just playing a little slow.”
“You want me to wait?”
“Don’t be silly,” Vicki said. “It could be another hour. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure.”
“Yeah,” Iris said. “Give her a break. We’re big girls, we can take care of ourselves.”
Stuart Tanner didn’t seem convinced, but he nodded. “Okay, honey, I’ll see you at home.”
As soon as he left, the women all started giggling about how cute and sweet and overprotective he was. All except Cora, whose reaction to Stuart Tanner was somewhat different. She was impressed by the fact he was the only one who seemed to take the killing seriously.
And she was aware of the fact he had managed to leave without buying her a drink.
15
Wednesday morning Aaron Grant had a cup of coffee at Cushman’s Bake Shop, checked out the police station, where nothing new was happening, and drove to the Bakerhaven Gazette.
The newspaper occupied the bottom two floors of a three-story brick office building on Center Street just off of Main. Center Street actually ran east–west at the south end of town. It was not known whether the town fathers had named it Center Street in the same spirit in which a bald man might be nicknamed Curly, or whether they had originally intended it as the center street, only to watch the whole town grow up to the north instead. At any rate, the Bakerhaven Gazette was enough on the outskirts of town that parking was no problem. Aaron Grant pulled up next to the front door and went inside.
The presses on the ground floor were quiet. As the Gazette was a morning paper, the presses rolled at night. In t
he morning, the only activity was the delivery trucks, which by now were long gone. Aaron Grant went up the stairs to the second floor.
The press room was deserted too. Again, not unusual. The managing editor didn’t get in until ten, and none of the reporters felt the need to show up before he did. In the morning the phones were manned by Mary Mason, a young Bakerhaven High grad earning money before going off to college. As the phones didn’t ring that often, she was prone to long coffee breaks, and was probably on one now.
Aaron Grant went over to his desk to pick up the mail. That was one of the benefits of working in a small town. The newspaper got its mail first, as soon as it was sorted, and before it went out on the trucks. The post office was just around the corner, and the postmaster let Mary Mason pick it up.
She’d done so this morning. There were three letters on his desk. For Aaron Grant, three letters was a big day, since his columns weren’t usually that controversial.
Aaron Grant ripped open the first letter. He read it and frowned. It was a fan letter of the simplest sort. The writer was merely writing to say how much she liked his column. No specifics were mentioned, no particular article referred to. From the content and the handwriting, the letter was probably the work of a high school girl. The letter was signed Jane.
The second letter was from Roger Rimley, whom Aaron Grant did not know, but could envision. A cranky old cuss, who was used to having things his own way. An apparent postgraduate of the school of shoot-the-messenger, Roger seemed to feel that the fault lay not with whoever had murdered the young girl, but rather with Aaron Grant for having reported it.
Aaron sighed, ripped open the third envelope. He pulled out the letter, unfolded it, and blinked.
There, typed on the sheet of paper, was: 14) A—SHEEP (3).
Aaron stared at the paper. Took a breath. Read it again. It was in every way, shape, and form identical to the crossword puzzle clue he had printed the day before. Only that clue had been in ballpoint pen. This clue was typed.
So was the address on the envelope. He noted now that there was no return address.
There was a postmark. The letter was postmarked this morning—June 2, A.M.—in Bakerhaven. All that meant was that was when the postmaster had run it through the canceling machine. When it had actually been mailed was something that would have to be determined.
By the police. That was the thought that came to mind. If this was an actual clue, it should be turned over to the police. Immediately. After all, Aaron Grant and the police had an agreement.
But, it occurred to Aaron, that agreement was the other way around. If the police got another clue, Chief Harper had agreed to share it with him in return for him not printing it. Nothing was ever said about what would happen if he got another clue. That hadn’t even been considered. Nor had he agreed not to publish any clue that he uncovered by himself.
So did he really have to give this to the police?
“What have you got there?”
Aaron Grant turned around with a guilty start.
Cora Felton stood smiling at him. Her eyes were twinkling. They were also slightly red, but Aaron Grant barely noticed, preoccupied with the fact that he had thrust the letter behind his back. That would never do. What an obvious, clumsy gesture. He brought it out, folded it up, set it on his desk. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.”
“Oh? Why? Not that I’m not flattered, but there was nothing in the paper this morning.”
“Exactly,” Cora Felton said.
“What?”
“There was nothing in the paper. Except yesterday’s news about the identification. And you agreed to cooperate with the police and not publish everything, so I’m wondering if there’s anything that you withheld.”
“That was not the understanding.”
“Oh?”
“I agreed not to publish the next clue if they let me in on it.”
“Is that it?”
He stared at her. “What, are you psychic?”
“You mean it is?”
Aaron Grant looked at Cora Felton for a long moment, then picked up the phone and punched in a number. “Chief Harper? Aaron Grant. I’m down at the paper, I’ve got something I think you’ll wanna see.… No, I think you’ll wanna see it now. Because Cora Felton wants to see it too, and I thought you might like to see it first.”
Aaron Grant listened, smiled, and hung up the phone. “Well, that settles that. Chief Harper will be right over. In the meantime, if you get so much as a glimpse of this, he promises to shoot me.”
“That’s an obvious bluff, and you’d be wise to call it,” Cora Felton said, but Aaron Grant was having none of it, and when Chief Harper arrived three minutes later the letter was still on Aaron’s desk.
“All right, what is it, and has she seen it?” he demanded.
“It’s another clue, and if you’re going to be like that, you can interpret it yourself,” Cora Felton said. “At least, I assume it’s another clue. This young gentleman is as secretive as he is handsome.”
Aaron Grant found himself blushing. “It’s a letter addressed to me. I’m afraid I opened it and handled it, because I had no way of knowing what it was.”
“And what is it?” Chief Harper asked.
“It appears to be another crossword puzzle clue.”
“You see,” Cora Felton said. “Now, couldn’t you have told me that?”
“One moment, please,” Chief Harper said. He pointed. “You’re telling me this folded piece of paper on your desk contains a crossword puzzle clue?”
“That’s right.”
“Just like the one on the body?”
“Yes. Except this one is typed.”
“Typed?”
“Yes.”
“You mean it’s a letter?”
“That depends what you mean by a letter. Yes, it came in an envelope. An envelope addressed to me. The paper itself is not a letter. It’s just a piece of paper with a clue typed on it.”
“And what is the clue?”
“You want me to unfold the paper?”
“Probably not,” Chief Harper said. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a pair of disposable rubber gloves. “I feel foolish about this, but there’s no reason to take any chances.” He pulled on the gloves and unfolded the piece of paper, aware of the fact Cora Felton was standing on tiptoes peering over his shoulder. “Fourteen A sheep three?” he read.
“Exactly like the other,” Cora Felton said.
Chief Harper frowned. “Yes. And would you care to tell me what it means?”
“That’s obvious,” Aaron Grant said. “Fourteen A is fourteen across. Just like four D was four down. And the clue is a three-letter word for sheep.”
“Which is?” Chief Harper said.
“Ewe,” Cora told him.
Chief Harper felt the beginnings of a headache. “Me?”
“No, not you,” Cora said. “Ewe. E-w-e. A three-letter word for a female sheep.”
“Of course,” Chief Harper said. “And how does it fit in with the other?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That was what? Four down? And this is fourteen across. The first clue was line. One of the solutions was queue. That has an e in it. In fact, it has two e’s in it. So does ewe. So I’m wondering if they could have one in common. See what I mean? If this were a crossword puzzle, would the words cross?”
Cora Felton frowned. “It’s possible. I’ll have to play with it when I get home.”
“You can’t tell?”
She waved her hand impatiently. “There are many different ways to construct a crossword puzzle. I have to try to find one that fits.”
“Uh huh,” Chief Harper said. If he was pleased, you wouldn’t have known it. He turned on Aaron Grant. “All right, what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Don’t play dumb. We had a deal. Are you going to withhold this or not?”
“Your deal was if you told me
anything I wouldn’t reveal it.”
“I am aware of what our deal was. I’m asking you a simple question. Can I count on you to hold this back?”
“Absolutely. Just keep me in the loop.”
“Fine,” Chief Harper said. He pulled a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket, unfolded it, stuck the letter in. “Where’s the envelope?”
Aaron Grant pointed to it. Chief Harper added it to the bag.
“There,” he said. “Now I can take these damn things off.” He pulled off the thin rubber gloves. “You see the problem here,” he said to Aaron Grant. “Yesterday you ran that story in the paper, all about the first clue. Now we get another. And I got no way of knowing whether it’s a genuine clue, from the murderer himself, or whether this is some nut having a little fun with the police over what he read in the paper.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Good. Then you realize how important it is that you cooperate with me on this one, Aaron. You too, Miss Felton. I don’t want word of this getting out.”
Cora Felton’s eyes went wide. “Me? You look at me? I will of course tell my niece, but she is the soul of discretion.”
“I don’t want you telling anyone.”
“I understand. But I have to tell my niece. If I start working on the puzzle, she’ll want to know what I’m doing. And if you think I could just say, sorry, I can’t tell you, then you don’t know my niece.”
“Fine,” Chief Harper said. He didn’t sound like it was fine. “Do you suppose you could avoid telling anyone else?”
Cora Felton straightened herself up, harumphed, and gave him her most affronted glare. “You have my word.”
“Uh huh,” Chief Harper said.
He might have been slightly more reassured if it weren’t for the faint trace of alcohol on her breath.
16
Sherry Carter couldn’t stop smiling. The children had cheered the minute she walked in the door. They swarmed around her, laughing and shrieking and pulling at her dress.
“Tell us a story!”
“Do the numbers game!”
“Draw my picture!”
“Oh, you don’t want me to do that,” Sherry said.
