A Clue for the Puzzle Lady

by Parnell Hall

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “That’s what I said. Only problem is, every time I try to dismiss the theory someone keeps it alive. By stonewalling and covering things up. So, when I see you doing the same thing, it makes me say, hey, maybe there’s something to this stupid idea after all.”

  “I’m not covering anything up.”

  “So what’s the bit about the car?”

  “There’s no bit about the car. It happened just the way I said.”

  “And the way you said is Kevin Roth told you about the keys. Which doesn’t make much sense. At least, not the way you tell it. Because how would he know the keys were in your car?”

  Billy Spires said nothing, set his jaw.

  “No,” Sherry said, “the only thing that makes sense to me is if Kevin Roth took your car without telling you. He had an argument with his girlfriend, she took off in her car. Your car was sitting there with the keys in it. Kevin hopped in and went after her. He was right behind her. He didn’t come along later and find the wreck. He saw her go off the road.”

  “You’re making that up. You don’t know that happened.”

  “You’re telling me it didn’t?”

  “I’m not talking to you anymore. You twist a person’s words. You make things up. You’re not quoting me in the paper, because I’m not saying squat.”

  “You already told me about the keys.”

  “I didn’t tell you nothing. You made a lot of guesses, and they’re probably all wrong.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” Sherry said. “If they were, you wouldn’t have stopped talking. So, that’s very interesting. From your refusal to discuss this matter, I can assume there’s something to the supposition. Kevin Roth was there when Barbara’s accident happened. Is it possible he ran her off the road?”

  “No, it’s not possible,” Billy Spires said. His hands tightened into fists. “If you’re asking me if he banged up my car, the answer is no. That’s the stupidest idea I ever heard.”

  Sherry Carter suppressed a smile. Speaking of stupid, Billy Spires was not the swiftest person in the world, either. Anything he knew wasn’t true he was happy to deny. Which made his refusal to talk on certain points all the more illuminating.

  “So, he didn’t bang up your car,” Sherry agreed, “but he still could have spooked her off the road.”

  “You think he killed her? Is that really what you think?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Don’t be dumb. He loved her. He wouldn’t have hurt her for the world.”

  “But he did.”

  “He didn’t. It was an accident.”

  “Yeah, but if it weren’t for the argument, she wouldn’t have run away.”

  “You blame him for that?”

  “No. But maybe he blames himself.”

  “Maybe he does. But so what? Arguing with someone ain’t a crime.”

  “No, it isn’t. But murder is.”

  “Who said anything about murder?”

  “Well, that’s the thing,” Sherry said.

  She smiled. Shrugged.

  “Too bad you don’t read the Bakerhaven Gazette,” she told Billy Spires.

  39

  Cora Felton smiled. “That’s right. There is absolutely no foundation to the story in the Bakerhaven Gazette today. I never meant to suggest that the tragic death of Barbara Burnside was in any way connected to the murders. I merely used it as an example of how meaningless the note found in the dead girl’s pocket was. People were suggesting it was a crossword puzzle clue. I said it would be just as logical to assume it meant the fourth grave down in line five. But please understand I am not advancing either of these theories. I think they’re utterly ridiculous.”

  The TV picture cut to Rick Reed of Channel 8 News standing in front of the town hall. “And there you have it. The Puzzle Lady, herself, insisting that there is no puzzle. Yet the police are baffled, and have no clue as to the identity of the perpetrator or perpetrators of these two dastardly crimes that have traumatized this peaceful little community, leaving the townspeople afraid even to walk the streets at night. To the residents of Bakerhaven, it is an intolerable situation. County prosecutor Henry Firth feels something should be done.”

  The prosecutor appeared on the town hall steps. Belligerent, righteous, aggrieved. “This can’t go on,” he declared. “I won’t stand for it. The good citizens of Bakerhaven deserve better. We must act, and act now, before more lives are lost. If our police cannot handle this on a local level, then we must appeal for help from outside. We are a small town, with limited resources. If our police chief is not up to the task, he should step down, before it is too late, before this maniac strikes again.”

  Cora Felton switched the TV off. “Can you believe that,” she said. “The man actually said strikes again.”

  Sherry Carter wasn’t amused. “Why did you do that—give a TV interview?”

  Cora Felton smiled. “Sherry, darling, I didn’t go looking for them. I was out on the front lawn, they came up the driveway, stuck a microphone in my face.”

  “You could have said no comment.”

  “That would have been worse. They would have run the Barbara Burnside story and my refusal to comment on it. Insinuated there must be something there. I’m ten times better off saying, No, there’s nothing to it, if I want it to go away.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m just touchy. I mean, I could have prevented that interview.” Sherry said it glumly.

  “That guy really asked you out?”

  “Asked me out? You call that asking me out? The guy tried to pressure me.”

  “Men are like that. I remember my fifth husband—”

  “Aunt Cora! Please!”

  Sherry got up from the couch, went into the kitchen, took out a mixing bowl, and lit the oven.

  Cora Felton trailed in behind her. “Oh, oh,” she said. “Cake or brownies?”

  “Brownies.”

  “Brownies? You must be really upset.”

  “Please, don’t start that again.”

  “Start what? You bake when you’re stressed. It’s no big deal.” Cora Felton took a gin bottle out of the cupboard. “I drink when I’m stressed. It’s the same thing.”

  “You’re not stressed.”

  “And you are?”

  “Aunt Cora, give me a break.”

  Sherry Carter took out flour, sugar, milk, eggs, started mixing them in the bowl.

  Cora Felton poured gin in a glass, added tonic and ice. Took a sip. “Not bad. Could use a little lime.”

  Sherry said nothing, stirred the batter.

  “You know, I think that newspaper reporter likes you.”

  “Aunt Cora, puh-lease.”

  “Puh-lease? You sound like a teenager. You want me to slip him a note in English class, see if he thinks you’re cute?”

  “You’re not funny.”

  “You’re stirring that batter awfully vigorously.”

  “Good thing you said vigorously now, before you start slurring your words.”

  Cora Felton raised an eyebrow at her. “Oh. Cheap shot. Did I hit a nerve?”

  Sherry added chocolate syrup, stirred it around. Said nothing.

  “I thought Chief Harper did pretty well,” Cora Felton said. The chief, in a brief TV interview, had denied the Barbara Burnside story, reported on the lab analysis of the Vicki Tanner shoes, and declined further comment, even when Rick Reed snidely and none too subtly hinted Harper was not up to his job. “Didn’t you think he did well?”

  “Just great,” Sherry said.

  “What are you so upset about?”

  Sherry poured the batter into a baking pan, put it in the oven. She straightened up and turned around. “What am I so upset about? What aren’t I so upset about? On the one side, the Barbara Burnside case won’t go away. I made a promise to the parents that I can’t fulfill. I keep getting information that is inconclusive and leads nowhere. Not that there’s anywhere to lead. But what I want is for people to tell me, no,
there’s nothing to it, Sherry, forget about it, get on with your life. Instead, I come up with some insignificant witness, who didn’t even see the accident, who only loaned the guy the car, but who couldn’t act more guilty if he’d killed the girl himself.”

  “Maybe I should go talk to him.”

  “No, you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t, and I shouldn’t either. We’re way too visible in this case. You were just on TV. And I’m upset about it, but here I am poking around in the case too. And imagine what would happen if that bloody TV reporter were to find out about that.”

  “You mean you might have to have dinner with him?”

  “That’s not funny.” Sherry walked out of the kitchen back into the living room. Sat on the couch, snapped on the TV.

  Wheel of Fortune was on. There was a new puzzle on the board, with no letters filled in. The category was Quote. The puzzle was:

  “I came, I saw, I conquered,” Sherry said.

  From the kitchen doorway, Cora Felton said, “You can’t solve the puzzle with no letters showing.”

  “Of course I can,” Sherry said. “It has to be a famous quote, one everyone would know. That’s the only one that fits.”

  “Uh huh,” Cora Felton said. She watched as a young housewife, an airline pilot, and a plump woman with an enormous smile tried to solve the puzzle.

  The young housewife said, “T.”

  There was no t.

  The airline pilot said, “L.”

  There was no l.

  “She’ll guess r, which is third from the last,” Sherry said.

  The plump woman with the enormous smile did indeed guess r, which was exactly where Sherry said it would be.

  “Now she’ll get the s in saw,” Sherry said.

  The woman spun the wheel, got five hundred dollars for one s, the first letter in the three-letter word in the second line.

  “Now,” Sherry said, “she’ll buy a vowel, because she hasn’t got a clue. The i would give it to her, but she’ll buy the e’s in conquered and came which won’t help her at all.”

  The woman did just as predicted. She spun again, got two hundred for an n, spun again, and lost her turn for guessing g.

  It was nearly five minutes later when the airline pilot finally solved it to thunderous applause. He’d have made a thousand dollars more if he’d been able to supply Julius Caesar as the source of the quote.

  “Unlucky,” Sherry Carter said sourly.

  “Gee, even I knew that one,” Cora Felton said.

  “So, why don’t you go on the show?” Sherry said. “Let the whole world see how quick you are at puzzle solving.”

  “It wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

  “No. Just the end of the series.”

  “I don’t think it would be that bad.”

  “Oh, no? People don’t like being duped, Aunt Cora. It gets them rather upset.”

  “I can see that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything, but are you capable of being nice?”

  “What?”

  “Can you control your temper, act civil, not treat me with contempt?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That young reporter—the one I mentioned—the one I think likes you.”

  “You’re going to start that again?”

  “Absolutely not. I just thought you’d like to know.”

  “Know what?”

  Cora Felton pointed. “He’s here.”

  Sherry shot to her feet, looked out the window. Aaron Grant was climbing out of his car.

  “For goodness sakes,” Sherry said. “What does he want now?”

  “That’s a complicated question.”

  “Don’t start with me,” Sherry snapped.

  On

  the TV, Wheel of Fortune had come back out of commercial. The new puzzle was:

  The category was Book.

  “The Firm by John Grisham,” Sherry said. She picked up the remote control, snapped off the TV.

  The front doorbell rang. Cora Felton went to the door, ushered in Aaron Grant.

  “Hi, there,” Aaron said. “You seen the evening news?”

  “Yes, we have,” Cora said.

  “I’ve also seen the morning paper,” Sherry said dryly.

  “Oh. Sorry about that.”

  “Well, you’re not sorry enough. I had the Burnsides here this morning. You happen to know them? Nice people. A little upset, but nice, decent people.”

  “I know,” Aaron said. “I was wrong, and I feel bad. But I assume your aunt told you about the letter?”

  Sherry shot a look at Cora Felton. “She told me. I suppose you think the letter makes it all right?”

  “No, but it certainly makes it interesting. Particularly the way Chief Harper’s playing it.”

  “He’s withholding it.”

  Aaron Grant grinned. “He’s officially withholding it. That is the part he’s withholding that the police know he’s withholding. Then there’s the part he’s withholding from everybody including the police. I’m telling you, I don’t envy that man his job.”

  “I don’t envy you yours,” Sherry said. “What are you writing about for tomorrow?”

  “Oh, it’s all written,” Aaron said. “This time of night I’m usually done. The paper’s mostly set in type, they just wait on the ball scores to go to press.”

  “What’d you write about?”

  “Nothing. I took a dive. For the benefit of all concerned. A general rehash, with a spotlight on the Tanner shoes. Nothing more than Harper gave out in his interview.”

  “And you’re here looking for something better?” Sherry said. Her tone was not pleasant.

  “I’m here to fill you in,” Aaron said. He looked at Cora Felton. “And I happen to need some puzzle-making expertise. Not for publication, but just for my own sanity. Nothing in this case is right-side up. The puzzle clues, which should mean something, don’t. The clue to Barbara Burnside’s grave, which should be meaningless, is pay dirt. But if that’s pay dirt, what are the other clues all about? You see what I mean?”

  “Yes, I do,” Cora said. “What about it, Sherry? You think you could fit that information into a grid?”

  “No, I don’t,” Sherry said. “But it’s your theory. What do you think it means?”

  Cora Felton considered. Aaron Grant watched her with some amusement, knowing she was making it up. And knowing she knew he knew. He smiled slightly.

  “Frankly,” Cora said, “I don’t think it means anything.”

  “Really?” Aaron said. He turned to Sherry. “Do you think she’s right?”

  Sherry looked at him, tried to read the expression on his face. His nostrils quivered. The thought occurred to her, just like a horse.

  “Something in the oven?” Aaron said.

  “Oh,” Sherry said.

  She went in the kitchen, checked the oven. The brownies were not quite done. Another ten minutes, she figured. She straightened up to find Aaron Grant standing in the doorway.

  “Cake?” he said.

  “Brownies.”

  “Oh. I like brownies. Duncan Hines? Betty Crocker?”

  “No.”

  “What, then?”

  “Just brownies.”

  “You made them from scratch?”

  “You make it sound like a crime.”

  “No. I just didn’t realize you were a cook.”

  “Please.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Aaron Grant said. “I’ll bet they’re good too. Are they almost done?”

  “No. They just started.”

  “They smell like they’re baking. What do you think, another fifteen minutes?”

  “Were you planning to stay that long?”

  “Are you kicking me out?”

  “Don’t you have a job to do?”

  “I told you. My column’s already in.”

  “Too bad. You could have done a human interest story on my baking.”<
br />
  “I may anyway.”

  “You do, and I’ll kill you.”

  “There’s a thought,” Aaron said. “You know, everyone is assuming it’s a man, because it’s young women being killed. That’s rather sexist. What if the killer was actually a woman?”

  “I’m so flattered that you consider me in that category.”

  “As a woman?”

  “No, as a killer.”

  Cora Felton stuck her head in the door before Aaron could reply. “Sorry to interrupt, but did you mail a letter?”

  “What?” Sherry said.

  “Did you mail a letter this afternoon?”

  “No. Why?”

  “The flag is up.”

  “What?”

  “On the mailbox. I looked out the window just now, and the flag is up on the mailbox. I don’t recall seeing it up when I got home.”

  “It was up when I got here,” Aaron said. “I remember seeing it. I figured Sherry was posting another Puzzle Lady column.”

  Cora Felton gave him a look, said, “Well, if no one mailed anything, then why is it up?”

  “Well, that’s one puzzle we can solve,” Aaron Grant said. “You want me to go and take a look?”

  “I think I can handle it,” Cora said. “You kids bake your brownies.”

  Aaron Grant watched her go, turned back to Sherry. “She’s getting a real kick out of this.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Well, it’s right up her alley, isn’t it? Just a big puzzle.”

  “A murder is not a puzzle,” Sherry said sharply. “A puzzle has one correct solution.”

  “And a murder doesn’t?”

  “Not in the same way. You can have a murder that’s solved, you can have a murder that’s not solved. You can have a killer who goes to jail, you can have a killer who gets off. You can have a killer who’s convicted, but it’s the wrong killer.”

  “Interesting,” Aaron said. “You have a very analytical mind.”

  “Is that meant as a compliment? Are you trying to charm a brownie out of me?”

  “Did it work?”

  “Oh, that was insincere flattery?”

  “A compliment doesn’t have to be insincere to work.”

  “Just discussing whether it worked or not makes it insincere.”