A Clue for the Puzzle Lady

by Parnell Hall

  “Are you telling me you can’t help me with this?” Chief Harper snapped.

  “Well, I like that,” Cora Felton said. “When I bring you the shoes. If you stopped to think, you’d realize they’re ten times more valuable than some idle speculation about some possible clues.”

  “They’re more than just possible now,” Chief Harper insisted. “This last clue came from the killer. And while there’s no proof as yet, it would appear identical to the one sent to the paper.”

  “You going to have them analyzed?” Aaron Grant asked.

  “I certainly am. But there again, I’m in the position of having to do it so nobody knows about it.”

  “You want me to do it for you?” Aaron Grant said.

  “Thank you, that’s all I need,” Chief Harper said ironically. “Just in case I was able to justify withholding these clues for a while, I’d also have to explain turning them over to a newspaper reporter. I will find an expert who can keep his mouth shut. I will also have this sheet of paper tested for fingerprints, though if they’re able to find any, they will most likely be hers. And mine.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Cora Felton said, but she didn’t look sorry. She fished a pack of cigarettes out of a pocket in her dress, pulled one out, and lit it.

  “You smoke?” Chief Harper said it disapprovingly.

  “Only in times of great stress,” Cora Felton answered. She took a deep drag, smiled. “I smoked as a teenager. Managed to quit until my second marriage. Arthur got me started again.”

  “Your husband encouraged you to smoke?”

  “No. Arthur hated cigarettes. My smoking annoyed him.” When Chief Harper and Aaron blinked at that, Cora said, “Anyway, the clue’s old hat. I would think you would want to get moving on the shoes.”

  “What about ’em?”

  “Well, for one thing, fingerprints. If the killer took them off Vicki’s feet, he might have left his prints. Granted, it’s a long shot. The killer’s probably too smart for that, the shoes are messed up from the garbage, any prints you find are probably mine.” Cora took another drag, blew out more smoke, squinted thoughtfully. “Still, it probably ought to be done.”

  “It will be,” Chief Harper said. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. The other girl’s shoes. You never found them, did you?”

  “No, we didn’t. What’s your point?”

  “It must be significant. The two women are killed in the same manner. In each case, the killer takes the shoes and socks, leaves his victim barefoot. There has to be a reason why.”

  “Can you think of one?”

  “The obvious answer is he does it to leave her helpless, so she can’t run away. But how effective is that? A woman facing death is going to be slowed down by her feet hurting on the pavement?” She gestured with the hand holding the cigarette. “That’s assuming this happened in the high school parking lot.”

  “In Vicki Tanner’s case?”

  “Or the other. Everything else about the killing is the same. The other girl could have been brought there too. The only difference is, she’s a runaway, so she doesn’t have a car.”

  “Interesting,” Chief Harper said.

  Sherry Carter looked at him in amazement. He was actually buying this.

  “You have any more theories for me?” Chief Harper asked Cora.

  “Was the cause of death the same?”

  “Uh huh. Blunt instrument to the back of the head. Does that fit in with your theory?”

  “Yes, it does. The two crimes are identical. Beginning with placing the body at the grave. Because of that, I would expect to find as many similarities as possible.”

  “From which you conclude?”

  Cora Felton shrugged. “The killer wants the crimes to be recognized as his. Which is the same reason for the puzzle clues. It’s like an artist signing his work.”

  “That’s an ugly thought.”

  “Yes, it is.” Cora Felton took another drag. “That’s all I have so far. Except for what I said before. The killer must be a handsome young man. Toward that end, you need to look to Vicki Tanner’s husband. He’s young, good-looking. And, if she was indeed having an affair—” Cora Felton put up both hands, “—though I don’t have any reason to believe that was the case—but if she were, that would certainly make for some interesting possibilities. On the one hand, it would give her husband the motive. On the other hand, whoever she was having the affair with would probably be a much better bet. Because he would undoubtedly fit the description I’m talking about, a young man irresistible to women. In which case, I don’t think you have to worry about my bridge group.”

  “Why is that?”

  Cora Felton smiled. “Well, now, you don’t know them, do you, Chief? Vicki Tanner was our youngest member. By a wide margin. I can’t imagine Iris or Lois taking up with the young man I’m talking about. Assuming he is that young. Perhaps the killer’s a dashing forty-five, but I don’t think so. There’s something youthful, almost childlike about this whole thing. Anyway, I don’t think the other women are in danger. And as for Sherry here, needless to say she can take care of herself. I can’t see her giving the killer the time of day.”

  Cora Felton blew a perfect smoke ring. She smiled, gestured to Aaron Grant. “Unless, of course, the killer was this young man here.”

  29

  Sherry dreamed Dennis was breaking down her door. He had found her somehow, and he had come to get her, and a locked door wasn’t going to stop him. He was pounding and pounding in a drunken fury, screaming at her, trying to break the door in. Sherry was pushing against the door with all her might, but it was flimsy, would not hold, and any minute a fist would come crashing through and he’d be on her.

  The door wasn’t broken yet, it was still solid, but Sherry could see him through it, that’s how she knew it was Dennis. She recognized him by his clothes, by his long stringy hair.

  By his face.

  But it wasn’t his face.

  It was Aaron Grant’s face.

  Aaron Grant was the one who was breaking down the door.

  Sherry blinked. It couldn’t be. She looked again. Who was it? Aaron? Dennis?

  Neither.

  It was the killer. A nameless, faceless killer, pounding relentlessly, trying to get in, pounding and ringing the doorbell.

  The doorbell?

  That seemed strange. Why would a killer trying to break in be ringing the doorbell?

  Sherry woke with a start to find sunlight streaming in her bedroom window. She’d overslept, it was late, and someone was at the front door. Sherry pulled on a robe, staggered down the hall.

  Cora Felton’s door was open. There were dirty clothes on the floor and her bed was unmade. Her aunt was up and gone.

  The doorbell rang again. Sherry yelled, “Coming!” hurried through the living room, and opened the door.

  Standing on the front steps were a middle-aged couple. The man was solid, muscular, good-looking, with a broad face and graying hair. He wore a suit jacket but no tie.

  The woman was a wreck. Her face was pale, her eyes were red. Her brown hair was tangled and uncombed. She clutched a handkerchief with which she dabbed her eyes. She was a frail woman, and clung to the large man, who had his arm around her protectively.

  The man glared down at Sherry. “Cora Felton?” he demanded.

  “I’m sorry. I think she’s out.”

  “You think?”

  “I just woke up. Her bed’s empty. But she might be in the house. Let me see.” Sherry leaned out, looked past the couple. A station wagon was the only car in the driveway. “No,” she said. “Her car’s gone.”

  “And who are you?”

  Sherry frowned. While the man was clearly upset, she was not prepared for such rudeness. Especially before her morning coffee. “I’m Sherry Carter. Cora Felton is my aunt. Who are you?”

  “I’m Raymond Burnside. This is my wife, Laura.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You don’
t know?”

  “No, I don’t. I was asleep. You rang my bell.”

  “And your aunt didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  Raymond Burnside had a folded newspaper under his arm. He thrust it at her.

  Sherry took the paper, flipped it open. There on the front page was a huge headline, MURDER LINKED TO BURNSIDE TRAGEDY???

  The story was by Aaron Grant. He led off with the subheadline, POLICE SHELVE PUZZLE THEORY.

  In a surprising turnaround, the police today refuted the story reported Tuesday, June 1st, in the Bakerhaven Gazette, that the note found on the body of the decedent, eighteen-year-old Dana Phelps, of Muncie, Indiana, discovered Monday morning, May 31st, in the Bakerhaven cemetery by caretaker Fred Lloyd, might be a crossword puzzle clue. According to well-placed sources, even Miss Cora Felton, the nationally renowned Puzzle Lady herself, doubts that this is indeed a clue from a crossword. Miss Felton’s speculation, reported Tuesday, that the notation, 4) D – LINE (5), might be a clue for the word queue, does not in fact reflect her opinion. Miss Felton concedes that queue might be a suitable solution if the note were actually a crossword puzzle clue. But it is her personal opinion that it is not.

  The second paragraph was headed NEW THEORY EMERGES.

  While rejecting the idea of a crossword puzzle clue, Miss Felton offered a new explanation for the note. In her opinion, the notation, 4) D – LINE (5), is much more likely to be a set of directions. She points out that Dana Phelps was found next to a gravestone, and that the graves in the cemetery are in rows. She thinks four down would be the fourth grave down from where the body was found, and line five would indicate the fifth line of graves over from the road.

  The next subheading was BURNSIDE CONNECTION.

  Four graves down in the fifth line over from the cemetery road is the grave of Barbara Burnside, tragically killed in an automobile accident fifteen years ago at the age of twenty-two.

  The story was continued on page three. But Sherry didn’t turn the page. She was looking at the two photos that accompanied the article.

  Neither was of the dead girl, Dana Phelps.

  One was a photo of Cora Felton.

  The other was a photo of a young woman. It was a professional, retouched head shot, could have come from a yearbook or been a wedding announcement photograph. It showed a young woman with dark hair, smooth skin, wide eyes, and a dazzling smile. It was a bright young face, full of promise.

  The caption read: Barbara Burnside.

  Sherry Carter looked up from the paper. Her eyes glistened and her lip quivered. “Oh, dear. Please come in. I’m so sorry.”

  “You’re so sorry?” Raymond Burnside said.

  “I don’t know what to say. I had no idea. Please come in. I’ll do anything I can for you.” Sherry turned to the woman. “Mrs. Burnside. Please. I know how you must feel, but, please. Come in and let’s talk about it.”

  The Burnsides allowed Sherry to usher them in the front door. Sherry shuddered at the thought of the living room, guided them instead into the kitchen.

  The remains of a Bloody Mary were on the butcher block, the ice cubes melting, the tomato juice clinging to the sides of the glass. Sherry hoped the Burnsides wouldn’t notice. “Please sit down. Can I get you coffee?”

  “No, you can’t,” Raymond Burnside said. “This is not a social situation. You say you know how we feel. Well, I doubt it. You can’t possibly know how we feel. Seven years in therapy. Seven years. And all we accomplished in that time was finally being able to stop therapy. Well, I guess we’ll be starting again.”

  Laura Burnside had sunk into a chair. “Why would she do this to us? Why?”

  Sherry took a breath. “Mrs. Burnside, this is all just a horrible misunderstanding. I know that doesn’t help. But my aunt never had any intention of involving you or your daughter. The police came to her with a clue and insisted it was part of a crossword puzzle. She told them it wasn’t. Said it could as likely mean four graves down in line five. But she didn’t think it was, and she certainly didn’t think someone would go to the cemetery and count the graves to see what that might be.”

  “Oh, no?” Raymond Burnside said. “Are you telling me she didn’t go to the cemetery herself?”

  “No, she did, but—”

  “And did she find our daughter’s grave?”

  “She may have.”

  “She may have?”

  “I don’t know that she did, but I can’t assure you that she didn’t. I do know she didn’t give it out for publication.”

  “Oh, of course not,” Raymond Burnside snarled. “A woman like that, in the newspapers and on TV. Her smiling face everywhere. Like she’d pass up a chance to be on page one.”

  “You don’t know my aunt.”

  “I know what she did to us.”

  “She didn’t mean to.”

  “Of course not. You haven’t talked to your aunt, but somehow you just know.”

  Sherry had turned away from the Burnsides. Now she turned back. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “It’s my fault.”

  Raymond Burnside blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s my fault,” Sherry repeated. The tears overflowed, ran slowly down both cheeks. “That reporter came here after the first story, and I bawled him out for writing it. Told him how stupid he was. Made him promise to retract. Not write any more about crossword puzzles.” She took a shaky breath. “I’m the one who gave him the other explanation. I didn’t know he would write it, and I didn’t know it would lead to you, but I did it. It’s my fault.”

  Raymond Burnside snorted. “The hell it is.”

  Fresh tears welled in Laura Burnside’s reddened eyes. It occurred to Laura for the first time how young Sherry was. Not much older than her daughter had been at the time … “Raymond,” she said. “That’s enough. Leave her alone.”

  “No, he’s right,” Sherry said. “And there’s more you may not know. Have you spoken to Chief Harper this morning?”

  “I called, he wasn’t in,” Raymond Burnside told her. “What do you mean, more?”

  “There was another killing last night. Vicki Tanner. A young housewife from Bakerhaven.” Sherry hated to say it. “She was found at the same grave.”

  Laura Burnside choked back a sob. “Oh, my God …”

  Raymond Burnside’s eyes were hard. “Then it just starts all over again. Tell me, was there another clue?”

  Sherry couldn’t bear to lie to him. But she couldn’t tell him the truth either. “There was nothing about four d line five on the body. Nothing that would lead people to your daughter’s grave.”

  “As if that mattered,” Raymond Burnside said fiercely. “It’s on the front page of the damn paper, and that ties it in. As far as anybody in town’s concerned, my daughter’s involved.”

  “Mr. Burnside, no one thinks that. I promise you it isn’t true. These murders have nothing to do with your daughter’s accident. There’s no connection whatsoever. This is all my fault, and I will take care of it. I know that isn’t good enough, but it’s all that I can do.”

  Raymond Burnside didn’t trust himself to speak. He put his arm around his wife again, helped her to her feet, led her out the door.

  Sherry wiped her eyes, and stepped away from the counter, where she’d been standing in front of the vodka bottle Cora Felton had neglected to put away after mixing her breakfast drink. She followed the Burnsides out, watched while Raymond Burnside helped his wife into the passenger seat, then got in the driver’s seat and started the car.

  Sherry’d been so caught up in the Burnsides’ problems that it was not until their station wagon backed out of the driveway that the implications of her aunt being on the front page of the morning paper caught up with her. It would not take much more publicity like this before her dream came true, before Dennis came knocking at her door.

  Sherry looked at the empty driveway with mounting misgivings.

  What mischief was that woman getting into now?


  30

  Tongues were wagging in the bake shop.

  “The Graveyard Killer,” Sophie Singer said. A young music teacher at the high school, she had dropped in for coffee after her first class.

  “That’s right,” Lydia Wakefield said. She had a baby in a stroller. “I heard it on the radio. The Graveyard Killer. That’s what they’re calling him. Because it was in the cemetery. Another murder in the cemetery just like before.”

  “Only this time it’s local,” Anna Furst said. An older woman with white hair in a fat bun, she had piercing eyes. “That’s what I hear. This time it was one of us.”

  The women shuddered at the word us.

  “Is that true?” Sophie Singer asked.

  “Yes, it is,” Mary Cushman said. The plump proprietor of Cushman’s Bake Shop had the scoop. “She’s local and she’s important. In fact, I think she’s a selectman.”

  “A selectman?” Sophie repeated. “Are you sure?”

  “No, but I know she’s important.”

  “She could be a film star,” Lydia Wakefield pointed out. “Wouldn’t that be something if she was an actress from the movies?”

  “Well, why would you think that?” Sophie Singer demanded.

  “Because she’s someone important. So maybe she’s someone famous. Like a film star.”

  “Wouldn’t they have said?” Anna Furst said.

  “Who?”

  “The people on the radio.”

  “If they knew they would,” Lydia Wakefield agreed. “But the police don’t always release the information.”

  “That’s true.” Mrs. Cushman nodded. “They always leave so much out.”

  “From what I heard, he took her socks and shoes off,” Sophie Singer said.

  “Oh?”

  “Killed her and took off her shoes. And left them in our parking lot.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. Her car was in the high school parking lot, and her shoes were in it, and I think there was blood.”