A Clue for the Puzzle Lady

by Parnell Hall

  Ed Hodges had been looking at the backyard too. “What?”

  “The fight they had that made Barbara run off—was there a witness to that?”

  “No, there wasn’t.”

  “How come?”

  “The way I understand it, there wouldn’t have been.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, the way the boyfriend tells it, the impression I got—because this is not exactly how he tells it—but the way it seems to me is, the fight was the type that was apt to occur when they were alone.” The old chief was trying to choose his words carefully.

  Sherry Carter’s bright eyes narrowed. “You care to elaborate on that?”

  “That’s my impression,” Hodges said. “From the way Roth acted. And the fact that she was so drunk—considerably drunker than he was—I had the impression maybe he tried something with her and she didn’t like it. You know, that it was that kind of fight. Which he would naturally not want to admit.”

  “You have any evidence of that?”

  “No, I don’t. But when you asked me about this—was there anything about it that didn’t seem right—my first reaction is no, absolutely not. And my personal opinion is still, no, absolutely not. But if you want any part of it that don’t add up total, one hundred percent, well, it’s the bit about that fight. Because there’s no confirmation because it happened when they were alone. And the boyfriend isn’t supplying the details that would explain why they were alone. So I’m supplying them from what I think happened. Not that it makes any difference one way or another. It was still an accident. You’re not gonna get away from that.”

  “Uh huh,” Sherry Carter said. “Can you think of anything else that might help?”

  “I don’t see how any of this helps.”

  “I’m not sure it does. But thanks anyway.” Sherry got up. “And thanks for the tea.”

  “Don’t mention it. Wish I could have been more help.”

  Sherry drove off, feeling somewhat ambivalent about her performance. She hadn’t gotten much, but as Ed Hodges had said, there probably wasn’t much to get.

  Still, she couldn’t help wondering if Cora Felton could have done better.

  37

  Cora Felton paced the kitchen like a caged tiger, and wondered how Sherry was doing. She wished she were with her. It was so frustrating, being stuck without a car. Cora felt like she was back in college, grounded, campused, confined to her room. And just when things were getting good.

  The Barbara Burnside business was certainly interesting. Cora knew the old accident had nothing to do with the murders, that simply made no sense. Still, it was certainly significant that someone didn’t want it investigated. That had to indicate something was wrong.

  Unless.

  Unless, it was the murderer who was warning people off the Barbara Burnside investigation in order to draw attention away from himself.

  Cora Felton mulled that explanation over, liked it a lot. Wished there was someone to share it with.

  The sound of tires in the driveway brought her to life. Sherry back so soon. Thank goodness.

  Cora was halfway to the front door before it occurred to her it might be the TV people again. She peered out the window to see a police car coming up the drive.

  Great. Chief Harper. She’d tell him her theory and give him a piece of her mind.

  Cora went outside to meet the chief, but it was a young officer who climbed out of the car. He was wide-eyed, and seemed somewhat awkward and self-conscious.

  “Miss Felton?”

  Cora’s thoughts leaped to Sherry. Sherry alone investigating. Sherry out in her car. “What’s wrong?” she said.

  The officer put up his hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you. There’s nothing wrong.” He grimaced, took his hat off, held it in front of him. “Oh. Gee. That’s pretty stupid. I guess I can’t say that today. I mean nothing else wrong.” The young policeman was particularly gawky, seemed to be falling all over himself. “I’m sorry, Miss Felton. I’ve seen you around, of course, but I don’t think we’ve officially met. I’m Dan Finley. I was at the cemetery last night.”

  “Yes, of course,” Cora said.

  “Terrible thing,” Dan said. “I understand you knew Vicki Tanner?”

  “She was my bridge partner,” Cora said. She looked the young officer over, trying to account for his nervousness. “How about you? Did you know her?”

  “Sure,” Dan said. “Since high school. Nice girl. As a matter of fact, she was in my class.”

  “Oh?”

  That was all the prompting Dan needed. “That’s right,” he said. “She was Vicki Johnson then. Poor thing. Lived here all her life. Well, except for college. She went away for that. Smith, as I recall. She came back, lived with her parents right up till she got married. They’re both dead now. Her parents, I mean.” Dan shook his head. “I was at her father’s funeral just last year. Good man, Mike Johnson. Ran the Old Mill Inn on Clemson Drive. Best food in town. Been closed up ever since he died.”

  “I see,” Cora said.

  Dan Finley blushed. “I’m sorry. Here I am, rambling on, and I didn’t tell you why I’m here. I’m collecting typing samples, and I need to get one of yours.”

  “Typing samples?”

  “Yes. Chief Harper says you know, and I can just ask you direct. Which is a pleasure, believe me. Everyone else I’ve had to trick.”

  Cora Felton smiled. “Let’s be sure we’re communicating here, young man. What is it I know that you don’t have to trick me about?”

  “The letter. Aaron Grant got a letter, telling him to lay off Barbara Burnside. Chief Harper wants to know where it came from, he’s got me collecting samples from every typewriter in town.”

  “In town?”

  “Maybe that’s an exaggeration. But from interested parties. Plus any typewriter in any public place anyone could go in and use.”

  “I see,” Cora Felton said. She smiled to herself. Chief Harper had told Dan Finley he was collecting samples to compare with the Barbara Burnside letter. Of course, the chief also wanted samples to compare with the two typed puzzle clues. In that way the Barbara Burnside letter had been a godsend, giving him a legitimate excuse for collecting the samples.

  And for keeping quiet about collecting them.

  “Anyway, no one’s supposed to know about it,” Dan Finley said. He hesitated, then ducked his head, shuffled his feet, and acted embarrassed again. This time Cora recognized the behavior, and figured she knew why.

  She was right.

  “I have to tell you, Miss Felton,” Dan Finley said. “I’m a big fan of yours.”

  “Oh, really?” Cora said. Fans made her nervous, because there was always the danger they might want to discuss some recent crossword puzzle which she of course knew nothing about.

  “Yes,” Dan gushed. “I guess that’s why I was rambling on before. Celebrities make me nervous. And, like I say, I’m a fan.”

  When meeting a fan, Cora always found a way to change the subject. This time it was easy. Eyes twinkling, she said, “But you still want my typing sample?”

  Dan Finley put up his hands. “I know it’s stupid. You’re the nationally famous Puzzle Lady. No one suspects you of anything. But the chief said get it, and what can I do?”

  Cora patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t be silly. Of course you can have a sample. Come in.”

  She led Dan Finley through the living room and into the office, wondering what it would do to the young officer’s assessment of her as the nationally famous Puzzle Lady when he found out she wasn’t even sure how to turn on the computer.

  Fortunately, it was on. Sherry had left the computer running, although the screen was blank. Cora knew how to deal with that—It’s a screen saver, hit any key. Cora touched the space bar, the computer hummed, and moments later a bunch of icons faded onto the screen.

  Cora moved the mouse, clicked on the icon WordPerfect. Cora had actually written letters on the computer before,
but always when Sherry was there. This was her first solo flight.

  She was gratified when a new document came up. “What would you like me to type?” she asked.

  “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Dan Finley grinned. “That’s what the examiner of questioned documents said to ask for. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. It has every letter in the alphabet.”

  “Really? Did you have everybody type that?”

  “No, of course not. Because I couldn’t tell ’em. You, I could tell. And any machines I type on myself, that’s what I type. So, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Cora Felton typed The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. She took care to do it, hoped he wouldn’t notice how slow she was.

  “Now I have to print it out,” she said.

  Cora had printed things before, again with Sherry’s help. She clicked on the printer icon, checked the screen that came up, verified that it was set for Print and not Fax, and the number of copies was listed as 1. Cora moved the mouse and clicked Print.

  The printer whirred, spat out the page. Cora pulled it out, tried not to look as amazed as she always felt when the machine actually worked. She gave the page to Dan Finley, who sealed it in a plastic bag.

  “Okay, thanks a lot, Miss Felton,” he said. “I wish they were all this easy.”

  As Cora watched him back out of the driveway, it occurred to her how lucky she was the reporters hadn’t shown up while he was there. It would have been a little awkward denying her involvement in the case with a policeman right in the house, not to mention explaining her interest in quick brown foxes and lazy dogs.

  Cora remembered she’d left the printer on. Plus she hadn’t exited from the document, or from WordPerfect, or done any of the things Sherry was always asking her to do.

  Cora went back into the study, switched the printer off. She clicked the mouse on Exit, and the computer asked her if she wished to save her document. Cora couldn’t think of a reason to do so, clicked No. The document imploded, and WordPerfect shrank back to a tiny icon, nestled among the others on the computer screen.

  One icon caught Cora’s eye. A tiny black and white checkerboard, labeled: 11×11. Cora clicked on it. The icon vanished, and moments later a crossword puzzle grid appeared on the screen.

  Cora looked at it, realized it was the grid Sherry had been working on. Aside from that, it meant nothing to her.

  Underneath the grid, Sherry had typed:

  4) D — LINE (5)

  14) A — SHEEP (3)

  18) D — YES VOTE (3)

  The puzzle clues.

  It occurred to Cora if she were really the nationally famous Puzzle Lady they might mean something to her.

  But they didn’t.

  Cora sat down, rubbed her head.

  It was torture, in the middle of an actual murder investigation to be stuck at home with nothing to work on but a crossword puzzle. And an electronic one at that. The ultimate insult to one who regarded the computer with distaste, considered it a natural enemy, would have preferred an old-fashioned Smith-Corona.

  But there was nothing else to work on.

  Cora Felton leaned back in her chair, cocked her head, studied the screen.

  38

  Sherry did much better this time. Maybe she’d learned something from Ed Hodges, or maybe she was just more confident the second time around, or maybe it was because the man she was questioning gave the impression there might be something to get. But, whatever the reason, Sherry gained confidence, zeroed in, and actually began to enjoy herself. After all, she realized, it was basically a logic problem. You asked questions, and you looked for discrepancies, contradictions, and omissions, then you boiled them down and asked more questions. If the witness was hiding something, you ferreted it out. Easy as pie.

  Of course, it helped that Billy Spires wasn’t all that bright.

  Billy Spires worked in a used-car lot in Danbury. A little man in a shiny blue suit and polka dot tie, Billy Spires thought Sherry Carter could use a new car.

  “Nothing against the Japanese,” Billy Spires said, “but you really ought to go American.”

  “I’m not here for a car.”

  Billy Spires nodded enthusiastically. “I know the feeling. Half the people walk on this lot, they’re not looking to buy. They think they’re set, they think they’re doing fine, but then, why are they here?”

  “I’m here to see you,” Sherry said.

  “And I appreciate it,” Billy Spires said. “And I’m grateful to whoever gave you the recommendation.”

  “That would be Ed Hodges.”

  “Who?”

  “Ed Hodges. From Bakerhaven. Former chief of police.”

  “Oh, yes. And he recommended me?”

  “Let’s say he remembered you. With regard to an accident.”

  “An accident.” Billy Spires put up his hands. “Hey, look, we’re not responsible once they leave the lot.”

  “I’m sure you’re not,” Sherry Carter said. “Let’s try this again. My name is Sherry Carter. I’m from Bakerhaven. I’m looking into the Barbara Burnside accident.”

  Billy Spires’ mouth fell open. “Barbara Burnside.”

  “Yes.”

  “But that was years ago.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You heard about the murders in Bakerhaven?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You happen to see this morning’s Gazette?”

  “No, I didn’t. This is Danbury. Why would I get the Gazette?”

  “Well, there was a column this morning about Barbara Burnside. I’d like to follow up.”

  “Follow up on what?”

  “The story. There’s always a story. And I figure you’d be the one to know.”

  “Know what? What the devil are you talking about?”

  Sherry Carter smiled. “Come on, Billy. I talked to Ed Hodges. And now I’m talking to you. Piecing together what happened that night.”

  “What happened that night. Everyone knows what happened that night. Barbara Burnside got sloshed, ran her car off the road.”

  “And why did she do that?”

  “What?”

  “Why did she get in her car, drive away, and run off the road?”

  “She had a beef with her boyfriend. Kevin Roth.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Everybody knows that. That’s what happened.”

  “Did you see the fight?”

  “It wasn’t a fight. Just an argument.”

  “Did you see the argument?”

  “Nah.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  “Kevin told me.”

  “And who found the wreck?”

  “Kevin did.”

  “Uh huh. How did that happen?”

  “What do you mean? He was real worried, and he went to look for her.”

  “On foot?”

  “What?”

  “When he went to look for Barbara—was he on foot?”

  “No. He took my car.”

  “You let him take your car?”

  “Yeah. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “I’m not saying you shouldn’t. I’m just asking if you did.”

  “Yeah, I let him take my car.”

  “He wasn’t drunk?”

  “No, he wasn’t drunk.”

  “But he’d been drinking, hadn’t he?”

  “It was a party. We’d all been drinking.”

  “And he wasn’t too drunk to drive?”

  “No, he did fine.”

  “So,” Sherry Carter said. “Kevin Roth and Barbara Burnside had an argument. She took off in her car. Kevin came to you, told you about it, said he was worried about her, and asked to borrow your car. You said, sure, and gave him your car keys.”

  “That’s about right.”

  “About right? What’s wrong with it?”

 
“Well, you’re making up a conversation.”

  “You didn’t have that conversation?”

  “Not like that.”

  “What conversation did you have?” Sherry asked patiently.

  “Well, almost like that. We talked about the car. About him taking it. About how it was all right.”

  “That he took it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Billy Spires seemed interested in a button on his jacket. Sherry Carter watched him fiddling with it, and pondered.

  “But not the bit about the car keys?”

  “What?”

  “Well, that’s the only thing you left out. You talked about him taking the car and how it was all right. The only thing you didn’t talk about was giving him the keys.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is that right? You didn’t talk about the keys?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Billy Spires continued to play with the button. “The keys were in the car.”

  “Oh, is that what you told him?”

  “No. He told me.”

  “He told you your keys were in your car?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he know that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t tell me that. It’s been a long time. How can I remember?”

  “You seem to remember pretty well, Mr. Spires. I told you a conversation, you said it wasn’t quite right.”

  “Well, it wasn’t.”

  “So you remember that. If you know what’s wrong, you must know what’s right. So what was the bit about the keys?”

  Billy Spires looked up from his button then. “Hey, wait a minute. You’ll pardon me, but why are you asking? You’re interested in Barbara Burnside, well how come? Here’s something happened a long time ago, over, done with, finished, and you’re bringing it all up again. And you said something about the murders, but you didn’t say what. I asked you, and you didn’t say. And you expect me to talk to you?”

  “Well, actually,” Sherry said, “I asked you if you happened to read the Gazette. And you pointed out this is Danbury. But there’s an article in the morning paper how the two killings in Bakerhaven might be connected to the Barbara Burnside accident.”