A Clue for the Puzzle Lady

by Parnell Hall

  “Probing?”

  “I spoke to Ed Hodges and Billy Spires.”

  Aaron Grant’s mouth fell open. “Why did you do that?”

  “Because you couldn’t. Chief Harper ordered you and Aunt Cora to lay off. When the Burnsides came to me, I thought they deserved better.” Sherry jerked her thumb at Kevin Roth. “So I asked some questions, and this is the result.”

  Aaron was incredulous. “Are you saying Kevin Roth killed Barbara Burnside?”

  “Not exactly. But he lied about what happened, that’s for sure. When you wrote the story, he panicked, sent that note telling you to drop the investigation. Then he panicked again—maybe realized the note could be traced to his typewriter—and he came to the paper to try to get his letter back. He bawled you out for writing the story, right? Pretended that was why he came.”

  “And all the time he’s looking around, to see if it’s still there, maybe he could steal it off my desk?” Aaron said.

  “Exactly. It’s already occurred to him what he wrote could get him in trouble. So, when he finds out the cops are trying to get a sample from his typewriter, he freaks out.”

  Aaron frowned. “And the truth about the accident?”

  “I’ve had a lot of theories. Kevin Roth followed her in Billy Spires’ car, then ran her off the road. Or when he found her, she was still alive and he caved her head in with a rock.”

  “I thought you said he didn’t kill her.”

  “I mean he didn’t murder her and try to make it look like an accident. If she had an accident, and he added to her injuries, that’s a slightly different twist.”

  “You think he did that?”

  “No, I don’t. I think the explanation’s much simpler. I don’t think there ever was an argument. I think Barbara and Kevin got in the car and drove off. Kevin was driving. He was drunk and ran off the road. Barbara was thrown through the windshield and was killed. She hit her head on a rock. Kevin had his seat belt on and survived. That’s when he ran back to the house, made up the story about the argument and her taking off in the car.”

  “And the part about borrowing a car?”

  “Never happened. That’s what he told the police because he had to account somehow for finding her. That he borrowed the car from Billy Spires. But Billy’s the weak link, because Billy doesn’t remember it like that. Billy remembers Kevin telling him he’d borrowed his car. After the fact. Well, if the keys were in it, Kevin could have taken it, but I don’t think they were. So there’s no evidence Kevin ever took the car at all.”

  “But if it was just an accident,” Aaron persisted. “I mean, he tried to kill you.”

  “He was drunk and stressed out. I know it seems out of proportion. But you gotta remember. If he did what I think he did—well, it isn’t murder, but it is manslaughter. It’s vehicular homicide, it’s driving while intoxicated, it’s leaving the scene of an accident. It’s falsifying a police report, compounding a felony, and conspiring to conceal a crime.” Sherry sighed, rubbed the palm of her hand, which was still sore from hitting Kevin with the iron pan. “But it’s more than that. It’s years and years and years of carrying around this terrible burden. Thinking it’s dead and buried, and then having it all blow up in your face. It’s enough to push someone over the edge.”

  “I suppose,” Aaron said, dubiously.

  There came the screech of tires in the driveway. Moments later, Sam Brogan burst into the house.

  “All right, where is he?” He spotted Kevin Roth lying on the floor. “Aha,” he said. “Is this our killer?”

  “I don’t think so,” Sherry answered. “But he assaulted me with a gun.”

  “Why?”

  “Guilty conscience,” Sherry said.

  Sam Brogan looked at her quizzically.

  “It’s a long story,” Aaron told him. “You find Chief Harper’s kid?”

  “No. Everyone’s still out. It’d be a big relief if this was the killer.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Aaron Grant said. He shook his head. “But it isn’t.”

  Sam Brogan frowned. “So who the devil is?”

  56

  Cora Felton finally managed to call the car service. It was hard, largely because she kept forgetting that was what she was trying to do. She’d look up the number, then forget it, wander into the bar or the bathroom, find a quarter, lose a quarter, forget her purse, forget the number, forget she was even looking up a number, forget she was even trying to make a call. But in the end the stars must have aligned just right, because Cora, the quarter, the phone book, the phone number, and the phone all happened to be in the same place at the same time, and she managed to get through to Reynold’s Ride, a car service listed in the book.

  Of course, the first thing the woman on the phone wanted to know was where she was. That threw her. She knew she was in the restaurant where she played bridge, but the direct question made her blank out the name, and she had to leave the phone booth and ask the girl at the cash register. The fact she was able to get back to the phone and retain the name Country Kitchen was another small miracle, but finally the deed was accomplished and the car was actually on its way. Which, to Cora Felton, meant only one thing.

  One for the road.

  Cora Felton went back in the bar, petitioned the bartender, but to no avail. It was the fourth or fifth time she’d done so. Still, Cora approached each new inquiry with a drunkard’s optimism—perhaps the gentleman had changed his mind.

  The bartender had not. Cora lurched dejectedly away to meet the car service, but only got as far as the booth where she’d been sitting before seeming to recognize an old friend. There was something very familiar about that cocktail glass. Could it possibly be full?

  Cora padded over, slipped into the booth. Picked up the glass. Frowned at it, raised it to her lips.

  It was empty, and familiarly so. Cora had been sipping from that empty glass for the last half hour. Cora looked at the glass in disgust, set it back down, very carefully.

  All right, time to do something. What was it that she was supposed to do? Oh, yes. Go meet her ride. Time to get up, get out of the booth, and go meet her ride.

  Good. Now that she knew what she had to do, it would be easy. All she had to do was get up.

  Cora smiled at the thought. She put her hands on the table to push herself up. Her head slumped down onto her arms, and she was instantly asleep.

  In the lobby of the Country Kitchen the young cashier’s eyes widened as Rick Reed of Channel 8 News came in the door. The cashier blinked, popped her gum, tried to think of something to say, but he just flashed her a smile and pushed on by in the direction of the bar.

  For Rick Reed, it had been a long, hard, unprofitable day, in fact, the worst day yet since Dana Phelps’ body had been discovered in the Bakerhaven Cemetery. In terms of the story, the only development had been the finding of the murder weapon. And he hadn’t even seen it. He’d learned about it secondhand, after the fact. He didn’t even have a picture of it to put on TV. He’d had to send Phil out to a hardware store to buy a hammer for Ernie to shoot. He hoped the irritation hadn’t shown in his voice when he’d pointed to it on camera, described the murder weapon as “a hammer like this one.” That tape was running on the early news, and barring a miracle, would be running again at eleven.

  Rick Reed stepped up to the bar and noted with irritation that the TV over the far end was set to ESPN. Still, he flashed his trademark smile at the bartender and said, “Hi, there, a scotch and soda. And is there any chance of switchin’ that to Channel 8?”

  “If no one minds,” the bartender said.

  He turned around to mix the drink, leaving Rick Reed to ask the people at the bar if anybody minded.

  Rick Reed frowned. This was not the type of star treatment he worked so hard to cultivate.

  Ernie and Phil trailed in from locking up the truck.

  “Pair of drafts,” Phil said.

  “Tall drafts,” Ernie amended.

  “Is there any o
ther kind?” Phil said.

  “Hey, what’s with the TV?” Ernie asked. “They don’t get Channel 8?”

  “Everyone gets Channel 8,” Phil said. “Hey, can we change the TV?”

  “Get me a draft,” Ernie said, “I’m goin’ to the can.”

  The cameraman stalked off in the direction of the men’s room, leaving Phil and Rick Reed to order the beers and petition the bartender for Channel 8.

  Ernie was back moments later. “Hey, guys, get a load of this.”

  “What’s that?” Rick Reed said.

  The cameraman was grinning and pointing his finger. “Here. Take a look.”

  He led them around the far corner of the bar to where the booths were.

  In the center booth, Cora Felton lay with her head on the table, her glasses askew, her mouth open, her hand wrapped around an empty glass. She was snoring loudly and rhythmically, a veritable symphony of sound.

  “Well, will you look at that,” Phil said.

  “Yeah,” Rick Reed said. His mouth twisted into a grin. The day wasn’t a washout after all.

  He nudged Ernie, lowered his voice, and jerked his thumb.

  “Go get your camera.”

  57

  “Where’s your aunt?” Aaron said.

  Sam Brogan had just driven off with his prisoner, leaving Aaron and Sherry nothing to talk about. Cora Felton seemed like a safe subject.

  Apparently it wasn’t. Sherry blushed. “Oh. I’m afraid she’s … indisposed.”

  “Indisposed?”

  “Aunt Cora sometimes drinks too much.”

  “She’s on a bender?”

  “How delicately you put that. She’s at the Country Kitchen right now, refuses to go home.”

  “Her car’s in the driveway.”

  “I went and got it. To keep her out of trouble. You have a problem with that?”

  “I find it commendable.”

  “You do?”

  “If she’s as out of it as you claim.”

  “Claim?”

  “Some people function better on alcohol than others.”

  “Are you advocating drunk driving?”

  “No. If your aunt’s in no shape to drive, I’m happy she isn’t.”

  “You have to argue everything I say?”

  “I wasn’t aware that I was.”

  “I’m sure you weren’t.”

  “If your aunt’s in such bad shape, why didn’t you just bring her home?”

  “She wouldn’t come.”

  “Perhaps I’d have more luck. You wanna take a run over there?”

  “With you?”

  “I won’t bite. And I don’t like leaving you here alone.”

  “I can cope.”

  “I’m sure you can. Kevin Roth was just a nut. Suppose the real killer takes a disliking to your aunt?”

  “Let’s go get her.”

  They got in Aaron Grant’s car, drove to the Country Kitchen. During the ride Sherry seemed particularly reserved. Aaron put it down to what she’d just been through, tried to draw her out.

  “I can’t wait to see your aunt,” he said.

  “Uh huh,” Sherry said. If that. She barely made a sound.

  “I wanna hear what she says when we tell her the clue wasn’t a clue.”

  “I already told her.”

  “Oh? When did you do that?”

  “When I took her car.”

  “You told her about it. So what did she say?”

  “I’m not sure it even registered.”

  “Oh?”

  “I told you. She’s pretty drunk.”

  “So what did she say?”

  “Something like, So that’s why he took her shoes off.”

  “Her shoes?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  “It probably doesn’t mean anything. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “So I see.”

  Aaron pulled into the Country Kitchen parking lot. They got out of the car and went inside.

  Cora Felton was no longer in the booth.

  Sherry looked around. The crowd at the bar had thinned out—apparently most people had either moved into the dining room or finished their drinks and left.

  She went up to the bartender. “My aunt’s gone. Did you call the car service?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Then how did she leave?”

  “I have no idea. Frankly, I didn’t even notice she was gone. It’s been busy.”

  “When’d she leave?”

  “Like I say, I don’t know.”

  “Well, when was the last time you saw her?”

  “Actually, not that long ago. Right after I threw out that reporter.”

  “Reporter?”

  “Yeah. What’s his name, from Channel 8.”

  “Rick Reed?” Aaron asked.

  “Yeah, that’s him. Came in with his crew for a drink. Must have seen her sitting there, ’cause one of them went back to the van for a camera. When I saw what they were up to, I threw them all out.”

  “They filmed her?” Sherry said. Her voice was dismayed.

  “I don’t think so. When I saw the camera, I made ’em stop. I don’t think he even asked her a question.”

  “And she left right after that?” Sherry said.

  “Not right after. She came up to the bar, tried to get another drink. Of course I wouldn’t serve her.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Ten, fifteen minutes ago, maybe. I just assumed she went back to her booth.”

  “Uh huh,” Sherry said, distracted. She tugged Aaron away from the bar, said, “You think he filmed her?”

  “I know he filmed her,” Aaron said. “He’s really pushing the get-Chief-Harper-off-the-case angle. He’ll tie her in with him, use this to make ’em both look bad. You think she left with him?”

  “I sure hope not. Let’s find out.”

  Sherry and Aaron went to the cashier, and waited impatiently while the young woman slowly processed a MasterCard.

  When the customer moved off, Sherry cleared her throat and said, “Excuse me, but I’m looking for my aunt.”

  The cashier popped her gum. “Uh huh.”

  Aaron Grant smiled at her. “You couldn’t miss her. White hair, wire-rimmed glasses. She was drinking in the bar.”

  “Oh, her,” the cashier said. She smiled at Aaron Grant. “She just left.”

  “How?” Sherry said.

  The cashier frowned at the interruption, managed to convey the fact that Sherry had just asked the stupidest question in the world. “How?”

  “She had no car,” Aaron translated. “Did someone pick her up?”

  “I don’t know. She just went out the door.”

  “Did she leave with the reporter?”

  “You mean the TV reporter?” The cashier’s eyes were wide. “Isn’t that something? You could have knocked me down with a feather. He comes walking in here, large as life.”

  “Right,” Aaron said. “Rick Reed from Channel 8. Did she leave with him?”

  The cashier practically guffawed. “Her? Not likely. She could barely walk. Anyway, Charlie threw him out.”

  “Charlie?”

  “The bartender. Can you believe that? They wanted to film right here in the restaurant. And Charlie says no. I gave him a piece of my mind. I could have been on the eleven o’clock news.”

  “You said she left after that?”

  “Sometime after that. I’m not quite sure.”

  “But you saw her go out the door.”

  “Yeah, like I say, barely walking.”

  “And you didn’t call a car for her?”

  “No, I didn’t. But she might have called herself.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. She made some calls.”

  “Calls? You mean more than one?”

  “Oh, yeah.” The cashier gestured at Sherry, shifted her gum to the left side of her mouth, and spoke to Aaron a
s if Sherry weren’t even there. “She went out right after this woman here. I thought the old lady was gone. Then she came in and used the phone.”

  “Right after I left?” Sherry said.

  The cashier only had eyes for Aaron. “Then later she made another.”

  “Another phone call?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Either time she used the phone, did she get through?” Sherry asked.

  The cashier shrugged. “I couldn’t see.”

  Aaron Grant smiled at her. “It’s important.”

  The cashier smiled back. “I’m sure it is, but I really couldn’t see. But she was certainly in there long enough.”

  “Which time?”

  “Both of ’em.”

  Sherry left Aaron charming the cashier, and checked out the phone booth. She spotted the phone book hanging from the cord. Sherry scooped it up, turned to the back, looked up car services. There were three listed.

  Sherry dug quarters out of her pants pocket, began dropping them in.

  She got lucky on the third listing.

  “Reynold’s Ride,” a woman’s voice said.

  “Yes. I’m calling about a pickup at the Country Kitchen.”

  “What about it?”

  “The call was from my aunt. Cora Felton.”

  “What’s the matter? Didn’t it show up?”

  “Yes, it did. I’m wondering where it went.”

  “Where it went?”

  “Yes. I’m trying to find my aunt. I understand she took one of your cars. I need to know where she went.”

  “Oh.”

  “So can you tell me where she went?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Of course I know. You can’t hire a car without giving a destination.”

  “So where did she say she was going?”

  “I’m not supposed to give out that information.”

  “Please. You have to help me.” Sherry’s voice broke. “Frankly, my aunt’s had too much to drink. And I know this is going to sound crazy, but she’s got some wild theories about these murders, and I’m afraid she’s going to get into trouble. Help me. Please.”

  After a pause the woman said, “Is your aunt the Puzzle Lady? The woman in the paper?”