A Clue for the Puzzle Lady

by Parnell Hall

  “I have no idea.”

  “Neither have I. And Aunt Cora won’t know either. Nobody could. This is a puzzle that doesn’t make sense. And we don’t even know if this last clue is a real clue at all, if it came from the same person.”

  “I know. That’s my fault. I’m sorry. Even so.”

  “What?”

  “If your aunt comes up with anything, will you let me know?”

  “That’s up to her.”

  “Right. Well, thanks for the coffee.”

  “Going so soon?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but if I can’t write about this, I gotta come up with something else.”

  “Fine. You do that. Just so it isn’t crossword puzzles.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t. Trouble is, you already did.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Aaron said. “I’m sorry about that. But don’t worry. I’ll fix it.”

  He smiled at her and ducked out the front door.

  “Fix it?” Sherry stuck her head out the door, called, “What do you mean, fix it?”

  But Aaron Grant was already climbing into his car. As she watched, he gunned the motor and drove off.

  Sherry closed the door, leaned against it. Aaron Grant had to be one of the most exhausting men she had ever met.

  She smiled, headed back to the computer.

  19

  Without the crime scene ribbon it took Aaron Grant a little while to find the grave. When he finally did, he saw that he had not been the first to do so. There were a lot of footprints in the soft earth. A lot of curious people had been by.

  At least the TV crews were gone. Aaron hadn’t seen them all day. With the passage of time, the story had lost its immediacy. If the girl had been raped it might have been another matter, but she hadn’t. Now that she’d been identified, she was just a runaway unlucky enough to have been hit over the head. Tragic, of course, but not compelling. Not newsworthy. Not without something else.

  Like the clue he’d promised not to use. How frustrating. The perfect story, and he couldn’t write it. Of course a promise was a promise.

  Or was it?

  What was bothering Aaron Grant was whether he would actually withhold the story if he hadn’t made a deal with the police. If it was only Cora Felton asking him to.

  And her niece.

  What was it about that girl? Uh-oh. The word girl. It occurred to him he’d better not even think it. Somehow she’d know. He shook his head.

  What was it about her?

  At any rate, he’d agreed to quash the crossword puzzle story, so that’s what he was going to do.

  Aaron Grant looked around. Okay, what was it she’d said? Four graves down from the body in the fifth row of graves. Carefully, Aaron Grant counted down, then counted over. He took out his notebook, wrote down the information on the stone.

  Aaron Grant put his notebook back in his pocket, got in his car, left the cemetery, and drove back to the paper.

  Bill Dodsworth popped out of his office when Aaron came in. The managing editor not only looked like a bulldog, he also always seemed to growl and bark. “There you are! You got somethin’? We need somethin’. Right now we got squat!”

  “I’m chasing leads.”

  “Leads?” Dodsworth repeated. The editor had a sour expression even when pleased. “I don’t need leads. I can’t print leads. Give me something I can go with.”

  “I’m working on it,” Aaron said.

  He brushed Dodsworth off, continued through the pressroom, out the swinging door, down the hall, and into the morgue, where the back issues were kept. The morgue, a large, dark room with metal bins of papers, was foreign territory to Aaron Grant. In his short time at the Gazette, he’d had little cause to go there. Aaron hated research, preferred personal interviews.

  Not this time. He switched on the lights, went to work.

  Only he had no luck. All but the most recent newspapers were missing. Aaron couldn’t find a thing earlier than 1990.

  Aaron went back to the editor’s office. “Where’s the old papers?” he asked Bill Dodsworth.

  “What?”

  “The back issues. There’s nothing in the morgue.”

  “Of course not. We’re converting to microfilm. You ever pay attention at staff meetings? This is not something new. It’s been going on for months.”

  “Where’s the microfilm?”

  “At the library.”

  “Oh?”

  “Best place for it. We donated the papers, they donated the viewers.”

  “Who paid for the transfers?”

  “Is that any of your business?”

  “None at all,” Aaron said.

  He hopped in his car, drove to the library.

  The Bakerhaven Library was a white, wood-frame building that a plaque on the front proudly proclaimed had been built in 1886. The wide wooden front porch was a favorite reading spot, and an old man sat on it now, reading the morning paper. In spite of himself, Aaron Grant couldn’t help craning his neck to see if the man was reading his story, but the way the paper was folded, he had to be reading the sports.

  Aaron Grant went up the steps and went in.

  Edith Potter, the librarian, was at the front desk, typing card catalogue entries. She looked up when he came in. Her gray hair, as always, was pulled back into a bun. Her face appeared more lined than usual. It occurred to Aaron that this murder was getting to people.

  “Aaron Grant,” she said. “Oh, Aaron Grant. Isn’t it awful?”

  Aaron couldn’t dispute that. He spent a few minutes convincing Edith he didn’t know anything new about the case, then asked her where the microfilm was kept.

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh. You should ask Jimmy. He can help you with that.”

  “Jimmy?”

  “My son Jimmy. He’s home from school and he’s been helping out. He’ll be glad to show you.”

  “I’m sure I can do it myself.”

  Edith Potter smiled patiently. “Yes, but do ask him,” she said. “He likes to be asked.”

  “Oh, yes,” Aaron Grant said. He recalled that Jimmy Potter had always been a little slow. It wouldn’t hurt to let him find the microfilm.

  Edith Potter directed him to the back of the stacks where a tall, gawky boy was placing books on the shelves.

  “Hi, Jimmy,” Aaron said.

  Jimmy Potter looked down from the ladder where he’d been working on the top shelf. “Huh? Oh, hi, Aaron. What’s up?”

  “You got time to help me with something?”

  “Sure, Aaron. With what?”

  “It’s about the murder.”

  Jimmy nearly fell off the ladder and his face went white. “Don’t know anything about that,” he said.

  “Of course not,” Aaron said. He’d forgotten who he was dealing with, and felt a pang of guilt. “I know you don’t. That’s not what I meant. I just need help looking something up.”

  Jimmy exhaled. “Oh. Oh, that’s different.” He climbed down from the ladder. “Sure thing, Aaron. Anything I can do.”

  “You know where they keep the microfilm?”

  “Sure do.”

  “How about for nineteen eighty-four?”

  “I can find it. You want the whole year?”

  “No. Just anything on the death of Barbara Burnside.”

  20

  Jimmy Potter wouldn’t quit. Aaron Grant had taken what Jimmy’d found him, said it was enough, and gone back to the paper to write his story, but Jimmy had gotten such a kick out of doing research for him that he’d kept right at it. And sure enough, he’d managed to find a few more mentions of the Barbara Burnside accident.

  Jimmy wanted to print them out for Aaron like he’d done with the others, but he knew he couldn’t because Aaron had said he didn’t need them, and if Aaron didn’t need them, then his mother wouldn’t want him wasting the paper. So, instead, Jimmy just made notes of where the articles were.

  Unfortunately, organizat
ion was not Jimmy’s strong suit. By the time he was done he had written the information everywhere. When he realized this, Jimmy Potter was upset. He knew he couldn’t hand Aaron Grant a pile of little scraps of paper. Why hadn’t he used a big sheet of paper to begin with? That would have been the smart thing to do. Only he hadn’t had a big sheet of paper on him. He would have had to go back to the little office to get one. And he hadn’t wanted to go back to the office. Not while he was in the middle of looking stuff up. He certainly wouldn’t have wanted to do that.

  Jimmy went back to the office now, got a big sheet of paper, and a sharpened pencil. He could have sat at the desk, but it was piled with the file cards he’d been helping his mother type. There was even one in the typewriter. He could have taken it out and typed the list, but he didn’t want to. Too hard. Too many numbers.

  He took the paper and pencil, went out and sat at the big oak table in the reading room, and began copying the list.

  He got three entries made before his mind began to wander. That was his problem with school too. Why he had so much trouble with his homework. He could never stick with it for any length of time without beginning to daydream. And that was under normal circumstances, when there was nothing going on.

  Not like now.

  Jimmy Potter couldn’t stop thinking about the girl. The dead girl. The girl in the cemetery. No, not Barbara Burnside. The other one. The one lying by the grave.

  A young girl. Teenage. Like the one sitting at the other end of the table. The young girl in the Bakerhaven High sweater who was bent over a spiral notebook copying something out of a book. She’d be about the same age. Only this girl was alive and that one was dead.

  Dead.

  What a strange concept. The girl had been alive, every bit as alive as this one here. And now she was dead. One minute she was alive, the next she was dead.

  It was so strange.

  Jimmy looked at the girl across the table. Imagined her dead.

  His mouth fell open. What a horrifying thought. But what an electrifying one too. His body tingled and he felt afraid. Why had he imagined this young girl dead?

  And who was she?

  The girl seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place her. He’d gone to Bakerhaven High just last year, but she would have been behind him in school. Way behind. She didn’t look old enough to be a senior. She was a sophomore or a junior. Maybe even a freshman. Which would make her an eighth grader last year.

  So young.

  A pretty girl, but so young.

  It was hard to think of her dead.

  Jimmy Potter’s eyes were very wide.

  The girl’s pencil snapped. She frowned, looked up in annoyance.

  Her face froze. She blinked, hastily looked back to her paper. Her heart was pounding.

  He was looking at her.

  He’d immediately averted his eyes, but in that split second, she had seen. The image was still there, like a photograph, before her. The look on his face as he’d been looking at her. She shivered just thinking of it.

  Her homework was no longer an option. Her pencil was broken, she wasn’t going to sharpen it, or even look for a new one. She’d found what she was looking for. She didn’t have to copy it, she could remember it and write it down when she got home.

  Clara Harper shoved her notebook and pencil into her backpack, snatched it up, and hurried out the door.

  21

  “Daddy, he’s weird.”

  “Who is?”

  “That boy. I tell you, he’s really creepy.”

  Chief Harper wasn’t surprised. His daughter was at the age to find boys creepy. “Uh huh.”

  “Da-ad! Are you listening to me?”

  He actually wasn’t. He was trying to watch the ball game on TV. Not easy to do with a teenage daughter. “Of course I’m listening to you.”

  “No, you’re not. You don’t even know who I’m talking about.”

  “Some creepy boy.”

  “Da-ad! I’m talking about Jimmy Potter. The librarian’s son.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh? Is that all you have to say? Oh?”

  “Jimmy isn’t weird. He’s just a little slow.”

  “He’s creepy. He’s got this strange way of looking at you.” Clara shuddered. “So, what if it’s him?”

  “Huh?”

  “What if he’s the one?”

  Chief Harper was somewhat preoccupied by the fact the Yankees, trailing three to two, had runners on first and third with one out. Still, that statement registered. “The one? What do you mean, the one?”

  “You know. The killer.”

  “Oh, for goodness sakes.”

  “Da-ad! Someone did it. Why couldn’t it be him?”

  Chief Harper smiled. “And what makes you think it is?”

  “You should see the way he looks at me.”

  “Maybe he likes you.”

  “Da-ad!”

  “Clara, you have school tomorrow. Did you do your homework?”

  “And that’s another thing,” Clara said. “Why is he here? I thought he went off to college.”

  “He must have got out.”

  “I’m still in school.”

  “Some colleges get out early.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Maybe not. But you’re right about one thing. You still have school. Did you do your homework?”

  “But don’t you see?” Clara said. “He’s away at school. He comes home, and, bang!, right away this girl gets killed.”

  “I don’t think it’s cause and effect.”

  “Dad!”

  Chief Harper was vaguely aware of the fact that there were now two outs and the Yankee runners were still on first and third. “I hear you. He’s on my list of suspects. He won’t get away. Now, did you do your homework?”

  Clara gave him a look and stomped off.

  Chief Harper settled back in his chair to enjoy the game.

  The Yankees managed to load the bases before Sam Brogan phoned in a missing persons report.

  22

  Sherry Carter scooped up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Sherry? Hi, it’s Aaron Grant.”

  “Oh. Hi. I didn’t know we were on a first name basis.”

  “I’m sorry. You want me to call you Miss Carter?”

  “I don’t want you to call me at all.”

  “I’m not calling you. I’m calling your aunt.”

  “Oh, is that right? Am I supposed to be crushed?”

  “No, you’re supposed to call her to the phone.”

  “She’s asleep,” Sherry said.

  From the kitchen came an exclamation and the sound of breaking glass.

  “Really? Then perhaps I should let you get back to your party.”

  “Why did you call?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why are you calling my aunt now, this time of night?”

  “To ask her a question.”

  “I assumed that. What were you going to ask her?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Don’t be that way. If it has anything to do with what we were working on, I’d be interested to hear it.”

  “It doesn’t, directly.”

  “So what is it?”

  Before Aaron could answer, Cora Felton came into the room carrying a tall gin and tonic. Her hair was mussed and her glasses were slightly askew. There was perspiration on her brow.

  “Sherry, I must be getting old,” she said, in a slightly too loud voice. “I just broke a glass. Oh, you’re on the phone. Who is it?”

  “Is that her?” Aaron Grant asked. “Put her on.”

  Sherry frowned, looked at her aunt. Cora Felton had gotten home, changed out of her clothes, and put on what Sherry referred to as her Wicked Witch of the West dress, a long, loose, flowing, black, pullover shift that had seen better days. Stained, tattered, ripped, and freckled with cigarette burns, it was her favorite dress, the one she always wore lounging around at home. To the m
any battle scars, Sherry noted, had now been added the stain of whatever was in the glass Aunt Cora had just broken.

  Holding the phone, Sherry became aware of the fact she had not answered Aaron Grant, particularly when he said, “Hello? You still there?”

  Her face began to redden. “Sorry. Aunt Cora isn’t available at the moment.”

  “Sherry. Don’t be a nudge. Of course I am. Who is that?”

  “Sounds to me like she’s available,” Aaron Grant said. “Can’t she come to the phone?”

  “She’s just getting ready for bed, and—”

  “I’m doing nothing of the kind. Sherry, give me the phone.”

  Aaron listened to the phone being surrendered. Moments later he heard Cora Felton’s voice, slightly slurred, say, “Hello?”

  “Miss Felton, this is Aaron Grant. Sorry to bother you, but something has come up. Were you playing cards at the Country Kitchen tonight?”

  Cora Felton guffawed. “You’re not going to put that in the paper, are you?”

  “No, I’m not. One of the card players was Vicki Tanner?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “She hasn’t come home. Her husband’s very upset.”

  “She isn’t home?”

  “No.”

  “That’s ridiculous. What time is it?”

  “It’s after eleven.”

  “She should be home.”

  “She’s not.”

  “It’s not right,” Cora Felton said. “And I’ll tell you what you should do. You should call the police.”

  “The police know. They called me.”

  “They called you?”

  “Yes. They’re looking for her now. They didn’t call there?”

  “Sherry, did the police call?”

  “Police? Aunt Cora, what’s going on?”

  “No, no one’s called here. Why would they?”

  “To find out where Vicki Tanner went when she left the Country Kitchen.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t leave then.”

  “Who did?”

  “Iris and Lois. Stick-in-the-muds. Can’t stay for one round.”