by Parnell Hall
Chief Harper gave her a look, but her expression remained serene. “All right,” he said, “here’s the bottom line. We have discovered the murder weapon—if it is indeed the murder weapon, and I think we can assume it is. It was discovered tonight in the cemetery in a cardboard box. I discovered it. I went to the cemetery, found the cardboard box next to one of the graves, found the hammer in it. That is essentially true. It leaves out a few small details, but it is essentially true. And that is the official version I’m giving out to the media. As for the rest of it, I am assembling typewriting samples and having them analyzed as quickly as I possibly can. I figure I have a day or two at best before this all blows up in my face. If I can solve the murders by then, I’m off the hook. If not, I might as well just take the killer’s advice and quit. If this blows up, I’ll be lucky to keep my job.”
Chief Harper looked at Aaron Grant. “You’re sitting on this?”
“I’m sitting on this, Chief. I expect an exclusive the minute you crack the case. And if you fail, I’ll have to report that fact. But I won’t be the one to bring you down.”
“Practically a vote of confidence,” Chief Harper said. He gathered up his evidence bags, nodded grimly, and went out the door.
43
Friday began well.
Too well.
For once Cora Felton woke up without a hangover, due to the fact she’d been so busy finding the murder weapon the night before she hadn’t had time to drink. Sherry Carter didn’t care what the reason was. She was delighted to see her aunt in such good shape, and she decided to celebrate by making Cora her favorite breakfast, blueberry pancakes.
Sherry mixed the batter in the bowl, dumped in fresh blueberries, stirred it around, and spooned it out on the stove. Sherry’s stove had a built-in grill, large enough that she was able to lay out strips of bacon too. She also started coffee perking, and soon the most wonderful medley of odors was wafting through the house.
Cora Felton stuck her head in the door. “Pancakes and bacon?”
“Blueberry pancakes and bacon,” Sherry said.
“I’m in heaven,” Cora said. She went to the refrigerator, took out the tomato juice, set it on the counter. She filled a glass with ice, opened the cabinet, took out the vodka.
Sherry frowned. “Going to spoil your breakfast?”
“Not at all,” Cora replied. “I’m going to enjoy my brunch.”
Cora Felton mixed the Bloody Mary and sat down at the kitchen table just as Sherry slid a plate of pancakes in front of her.
“And we’ve got real maple syrup,” Sherry said. “Which wasn’t that easy to find. Can you imagine that? I would have thought here in the country it would be all they have. But the supermarket just had the processed kind.”
“Which I positively detest,” Cora said. “But I’ll eat it if I have to.” She poured syrup on her pancakes, cut off a bite, popped it in her mouth. “I think that’s the difference between us. You wouldn’t eat it if you had to.”
“Oh? Is that a criticism or a compliment?”
“It’s an observation.” Cora bit a strip of bacon in half. “You’re the one who makes value judgments.”
“Value judgments?” Sherry said.
“I don’t mean value judgments. I’m not sure what I mean. Aren’t you going to sit down and eat?”
“I’m still cooking,” Sherry answered. She adjusted the flame on the grill, flipped the pancakes. When they were done she put them on a plate and brought them to the table where her own plate of pancakes was waiting.
“Eat the hot ones,” Cora said. “Yours are cold.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. You cooked the stuff, you should enjoy it. You eat the fresh batch. When I’m ready for seconds, I’ll stick ’em in the microwave.”
“Okay,” Sherry said. “Thanks.”
She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down.
Cora Felton fed another bite of pancakes into her mouth, chewed it. “So, are you asking yourself the question?”
“What question?”
“Is it cause and effect?”
“What do you mean?”
“You start investigating Barbara Burnside. You question Ed Hodges and Billy Spires. Next thing you know the killer’s sending you letters and drops the murder weapon in your lap.”
“Wait a minute,” Sherry said. “The killer sent you the murder weapon. You’re the Puzzle Lady as far as he’s concerned.”
“Yes,” Cora said. “I don’t know how smart this guy is, but I’ll grant you that. On the other hand, it ties right in. The killer even says so in his letter. Suppose it was Barbara Burnside. You have to ask yourself, was that letter a reaction to what you did?”
“Are you saying I did something wrong?”
“Not at all. I’m saying maybe you did something right.”
“So, what do I do now? Go back to Ed Hodges, get a list of the kids involved that night, poke around some more? If I do, it won’t be long before Chief Harper finds out.”
“You want me to tell you to stop?”
“No, I want you to tell me what to do next.”
Cora smiled. “I wish it were that easy.”
The phone rang.
Sherry frowned, got up, and picked the receiver off the wall. “Hello.”
“Cora Felton, please.”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“NBC News.”
Sherry felt a sudden rush of fear. She must have shown it, because Cora Felton asked, “What’s the matter?”
Sherry covered the mouthpiece, said, “It’s NBC News.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“Cora.”
“I’ll handle it.”
Cora walked over, took the phone from Sherry, said, “Yes, this is Cora Felton.”
“Miss Felton. This is Simon Blackwood. I’m with NBC News. Are you the woman who writes the Puzzle Lady column?”
“That’s my picture on it,” Cora said.
“Yes, I know. I’ve also seen your TV ad. You photograph well.”
“Whereas in person I look just dreadful,” Cora said, dryly.
Simon Blackwood laughed. “I guess I deserve that. You’re right, Miss Felton, I’ve never seen you in person, so how would I know? Anyway, I understand you’re involved in a couple murders.”
Cora Felton laughed. “Well, Mr. Blackwood, you make it sound like the police just read me my rights.”
“I’m sorry. That was not my intention, Miss Felton. Let me rephrase that. I understand the police investigating two murders have asked your help with a puzzle clue.”
Cora Felton laughed again. “Well, you’re a day late and a penny short. Or whatever that expression is. The police asked my help at one time. They’ve since come to the conclusion they don’t need it.”
“Even so. The idea that a murder involved a crossword clue—it’s just too good to pass up. It would be perfect for the closing feature of the nightly news. You know, those fascinating, unusual little tidbits we like to end the program with.”
“You mean the national news?” Cora said.
Sherry, who had been listening intently, came up out of her chair.
Cora raised her hand as Mr. Blackwood said, “That’s right, Miss Felton. We’d love to have you do it.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“For just the reason you said. What was it, the fascinating tidbit? There’s nothing fascinating about it. Two women are dead. One of them I knew. I don’t want to profit from their death in any way. In particular by gaining national TV exposure.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“Me too,” Cora said. “But it’s the only way to feel. Thanks for asking.”
She hung up the phone, went back to the table. “Well,” she said, “I just kissed off NBC.”
“I knew it,” Sherry said. “I knew they’d get on to us.”
“They’re not on to us. They’re on to a sto
ry. The story isn’t there, they’re gonna go away.”
Cora Felton tossed off the rest of her Bloody Mary. She got up, took the glass to the counter, opened the refrigerator, poured some tomato juice.
Then she took the vodka bottle out of the cabinet.
“Aunt Cora.”
“What?”
“You don’t need another drink.”
“How do you know what I need?”
“Aunt Cora. Don’t be like that.”
Cora Felton unscrewed the top from the vodka bottle. “What’s the first rule?”
“Aunt Cora.”
“What’s the first rule? When we started living together. What was rule number one?”
“I don’t tell you what to drink.”
“Fine,” Cora said. “Just so you remember.”
“But if the TV people are after you—”
“No one’s after me. Sherry, I turned it down. I could see you getting upset if I’d done the interview, but I turned it down. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
As Cora Felton poured the vodka into the Bloody Mary, Sherry knew she had a lot to worry about. When Cora chose to violate her one-drink-before-dinner rule, there was usually no stopping her. And it couldn’t have happened at a worse time, what with the TV people sniffing around. NBC had been forestalled, but the other networks might be more persistent. If they called, Sherry wouldn’t know what to tell them. Stall them, of course, but for how long?
Sherry watched Cora Felton sip her Bloody Mary and prayed for a miracle.
That Chief Harper would solve the murders.
44
Dan Finley shook his head. “I couldn’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“The typing sample. From Kevin Roth. I feel bad, because I know that’s the one you really wanted.”
“One of them,” Chief Harper said. “What’s the problem?”
“I guess I blew it. I went out to Roth’s house, told him the police would like to issue a formal apology to him for bringing up the Barbara Burnside accident.” Finley made a face. “Well, that was the wrong thing to do. He pounced on that, said he thought the police were denying they ever had anything to do with bringing up the Barbara Burnside accident. Which, I guess, is true, it was that reporter who brought it up, but, picky, picky, picky. ’Cause we got the credit for doin’ it anyway.”
“Yes, yes,” Chief Harper said, impatiently. “But what happened?”
“Well, I tap-danced around all that, said we weren’t investigating the Burnside accident, never had been, but since it had come up we wanted to issue an apology anyway, and we’d be glad to issue a formal, written apology if he would care to request one. If so, all he had to do was make a simple, written request. If he would type one out and sign it, I would be happy to see it processed.”
“Not bad,” Chief Harper said.
“Yeah, if he was biting. Only he wasn’t. The suggestion just made him uncomfortable and suspicious. The end result was he threw me out. No chance of getting a peek at his typewriter. No chance of typing out your quick brown fox. I couldn’t even tell you if he has a typewriter, ’cause I never got past his front door.”
“Uh huh,” Chief Harper said. “What about the others?”
“Much better. That same line worked on Barbara Burnside’s father. He wants a letter of apology, and issued a written request. It’s a full page long, tells us pretty much what he thinks of the whole police department. It should be all you need.”
“Who else?”
“Stuart Tanner. Both machines. The one in his home, and his New York office.”
“How’d you get the office one so fast?”
“Fax machine. I had his secretary fax me a letter. That’s good enough for comparison, isn’t it? I mean, isn’t a fax just the same as the original?”
“It’s not the same ink, but it would be the same typeface. I imagine it’ll do. Who else you got?”
“Iris Cooper and Lois Greely. That’s the women Vicki Tanner was playing bridge with before she left the Country Kitchen. Then you got the rest of the Burnside people. Ed Hodges, police chief at the time. And the witness in the case, Billy Spires—the guy who loaned the boyfriend the car when he went and found her. The guy lives in Danbury. I didn’t catch up with him till late last night.”
“And you got him?”
“Yes, I did. At least I got his typewriter at home. Spires works at a used-car dealer—if there’s a typewriter there he could use, I don’t have that.”
“Let’s hope we don’t need it,” Chief Harper said. “I’ll let you know.”
“Then there’s typewriters in public places—that is what you asked, isn’t it? Well, I tried the library. There is one at the front desk, of course, but I don’t see how anyone could use it, the librarian’s almost always there.”
“Did you get it anyway?”
“Sure I did. And there’s another one in a little office just off the downstairs reading room. Her son was using it. You know, Jimmy. He’s helping out, typing up file cards.”
“You got a sample from that?”
“Sure thing. Jimmy typed it up himself.”
“He didn’t mind doing it?”
“No, he seemed proud to show off his typing.”
“Is that it?”
“Oh, no. I got a whole bunch more.” Dan Finley pointed to the file folder on his desk. “They’re all sealed in plastic, they’re all labeled where they’re from.”
“Then we don’t need to go over them,” Chief Harper said breezily. He was afraid it would occur to Dan that there was no reason to be interested in any typing that obviously didn’t match the Barbara Burnside letter. “Okay, hold down the fort, I’m going to New Haven to drop the hammer off at the lab. If anyone should ask, that’s where I went. I’ll also be taking these typing samples to the examiner of questioned documents, but you don’t have to mention that.”
“Gotcha,” Dan Finley said. “Anything else?”
“Yes. I need that typing sample from Kevin Roth. If we can’t get it the easy way, we’ll get it the hard way. Draw up a search warrant, empowering you to search his premises and seize any and all typewriters. Get a judge to sign it, and go and serve it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“What grounds do we have for a warrant?”
“Plenty. We suspect Kevin Roth of obstructing justice, compounding a felony, and conspiring to conceal a crime.”
“We do?”
“We most certainly do. And I’m counting on you to impress that fact on the judge, Finley. The reason for the warrant is to determine whether the suspect wrote a letter in an attempt to impede a police investigation.”
“Kevin Roth’s going to be furious.”
“I’m sure he is. At this point, I don’t care.”
“Okay, I’ll give it a try.”
“Give it a good one. Also, call Officer Crocket in Muncie, Indiana, see if he’s got anything more on the runaway girl. If he hasn’t, see if you can get him to make another pass at the boyfriend.”
“Okay. Anything in particular you want to know?”
“Actually, yes. If possible, ask him about Dana’s shoes.”
“Her shoes?”
“Yes. The killer took her shoes off. At least that’s what we assume. At any rate, we never found them. It would help to know what kind they are. See if the boyfriend remembers what kind she was wearing.”
“How will that help?”
“It might help to find them. If we could find them, maybe we could figure out why. In both cases, the killer took the victim’s shoes off. There’s gotta be a reason. I have a feeling if we can just figure out why he did that, it would go a long way toward solving the crime.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Dan Finley said. “Is that it?”
“No. Type me a note on your typewriter.”
“What?”
“Type me a note. Type anything. Type the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Mine
too. And the one at the other desk. Did you give me samples from them?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then do it now. We’re not always here. I don’t want to overlook the obvious.”
“When no one’s here, the place is locked.”
“I know. I want them just the same.”
Dan Finley typed two samples and Chief Harper typed the other one. They labeled them, added them to the folder.
Chief Harper gathered up the folder of typing samples, nodded to Dan Finley, and went out. He drove to New Haven, confident that, aside from Kevin Roth, he had typing samples of everyone else in the case.
45
Sherry Carter switched on the computer, logged onto the Internet, and tried to forget about life.
Her aunt, after finishing off the last of the vodka and searching in vain for another bottle, which Sherry had had the presence of mind to hide, had marched out the front door and taken off in the car, leaving Sherry to her own devices. The device that suited her best was the computer, and Sherry sought solace in that.
Sherry scrolled through the CRUCIVERB-L digest, a daily compilation of posts discussing crossword puzzles. Some of the subscribers were merely puzzle enthusiasts, but many were constructors looking for help, and these were the posts Sherry liked best.
Sherry checked the thread that had been started the day before by Word Man, the on-line name (or nom) of a constructor who had used the five-letter sequence youto in a puzzle, and wanted suggestions for a good clue. In particular, Word Man wanted to know if the words you to were in any song, poem, or quote memorable enough to be fair.
Today there were several responses. The most inventive was Irish rock group, sort of, though Sherry knew it wouldn’t fly. The rock group was U2. Sort of was the fact the answer was only a homonym for their name. Most puzzle editors would throw it right out.
Ordinarily, Sherry would have found this amusing. Today, she couldn’t even concentrate on the screen. Sherry told herself it was because she was worried about her aunt, but she knew that wasn’t the case. And it wasn’t even the Barbara Burnside business, either. No, Sherry was bothered by the nagging thought that wouldn’t go away.
