Last Puzzle & Testament Read online

  Raves for Parnell Hall’s

  LAST PUZZLE & TESTAMENT

  “Cora is emerging as a lovable and unique sleuth. [She’s] no sweet-natured Jessica Fletcher or wise-as-an-owl Miss Marple.… This series is a joy for lovers of both crosswords and frothy crime detection.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “[Last Puzzle & Testament] has its merry way with the cozy concept of the small-town spinster-sleuth.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Fun from the first page … This cozy mystery has a slightly different point of view and pair of detectives.”

  —The Dallas Morning News

  “Takes a sweet-faced grandmother on the gumshoe spree of a lifetime.”

  —The Washington Post Book World

  “Cora’s heart-of-gold personality gives Last Puzzle & Testament a special feel that turns this novel into a keeper that will be read many times over in the years to come.”

  —The Midwest Book Review

  “The author proves himself very adept at constructing the puzzles that are at the core of his mystery. The reader gets a chance to solve the puzzles before the protagonists do, which adds to the fun.”

  —Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

  “A decidedly different pair of detectives.” —Creative Logic

  “Crossword puzzle fans, this one is for you.”

  —The Daily Oklahoman

  “This novel’s puzzles within puzzles will charm and so will its attractive cast.”

  —Booklist

  “Just the ticket for the puzzle addict(s) on your list.”

  —Booknews from The Poisoned Pen

  “Laced with witty dialogue and enough twists to satisfy the most demanding of mystery fans.”

  —Greenburg (PA) Tribune-Review

  “Parnell Hall pulls off a clever and entertaining crossword-based mystery.” —Mystery Lovers Bookshop News

  Raves for Cora Felton’s debut in

  A CLUE FOR THE PUZZLE LADY

  “Some puzzles are real killers … devious and delightful.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “Deft … clever … fun.”

  —Booklist

  “The real lure here is the mystery, whose ingenuity takes quite unexpected forms en route to the final unmasking. Heaven for crossword fans, who’ll rejoice over the solve-as-you-go puzzle!”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Cora Felton is a delightfully different sort of sleuth—hardly the decorous, tea-sipping village spinster. In truth, she’s a hoot. I hope her niece can keep her out of too much trouble so that we can all savor future adventures of the Puzzle Lady.”

  —Joan Hess, author of the Claire Malloy and Maggody mystery series

  “In addition to his trademark zippy, witty dialogue, Hall provides a dandy puzzle, congenial secondary characters, plenty of laughs, and a true original in Cora Felton, the Puzzle Lady.” —Publishers Weekly

  “A Clue for the Puzzle Lady is fresh, funny, and ingeniously devised. It kept me guessing right down to the end—just like a good crossword!”

  —Will Shortz, Crossword Editor, The New York Times

  > “Parnell Hall’s superb new series dazzles like the Fourth of July, crackling with fun, wordplay, more twists than a maze, and a clever, vulnerable, wild woman sleuth—Cora Felton, the Puzzle Lady. Sheer delight!”

  —Carolyn Hart, author of Death on Demand and the Henrie O mystery series

  “A twisting plot, an intriguing puzzle, and a surprisingly satisfying romance. This one is hard to beat.”

  —Janet Evanovich

  “A fresh series with an engaging sleuthing duo … a lighthearted romp.” —Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine

  “A fun and entertaining story to challenge all mystery readers … A great premise … lively characters, an intriguing plot and a well-written story.” —Rendezvous

  “A Clue for the Puzzle Lady is going to please puzzle fans and mystery lovers alike.” —Romantic Times

  This edition contains the complete text

  of the original hardcover edition.

  NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

  LAST PUZZLE & TESTAMENT

  A Bantam Book

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Bantam hardcover edition published September 2000

  Bantam mass market edition / September 2001

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2000 by Parnell Hall

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-020150

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

  recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-77955-7

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Random House, Inc., New York, New York.

  v3.1

  A GRID FROM THE PUZZLE LADY

  The following crossword puzzle grid wint ]ll be used

  in the course of the book. This copy is supplied

  for your enjoyment. If you would care to use

  it to attempt to solve the puzzle ahead of

  the characters in the story, feel free.

  The clues will be along shortly.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  IT ALL BEGAN WITH A BREAK-IN.

  A botched break-in.

  It might have gone differently if the intruder had been sober, but Jeff Beasley, in addition to a penchant for illegal entry, also had a weakness for alcohol, and when confronted with the daunting prospect of the Hurley house, had fortified himself with a drink or three before heading out. Jeff had also seen fit to slip a half-pint of rye in his hip pocket, on the off chance his courage should happen to wane along the way. Whether it would have or not was a moot point, as Beasley managed to finish off the bottle before he even got there. Were it not for that, he might have been more careful. He might at least have broken a side window, instead of the one right next to the front door. But by then Beasley had lost grasp of some of
the finer points of his trade. He staggered up onto the front porch of the huge, sprawling, gothic mansion, smashed the pane of glass with a rock, reached in, undid the lock, flung up the window, and fell right through, landing on the floor of the foyer in an ungainly heap.

  Treating his clumpy entrance as a matter of course, Beasley sat up and took stock. The first thing he checked was his hip pocket. The bottle of rye wasn’t broken, but it wasn’t full, either. That surprised him. Somehow, he had expected to find it replenished. Refusing to abandon that hope, he jammed the empty bottle back in his pocket and staggered to his feet.

  It was hard to keep his balance in the dark. Realizing that reminded Beasley of the flashlight he had slipped in his jacket pocket back in more rational times. He groped for it, pulled it out, switched it on. Winced to discover it was pointed directly at his face. It was several seconds before his eyes could focus. He stood there, swearing, blinking, with the light wandering aimlessly around the room. While Beasley got his bearings, the beam traveled over the red-velvet draperies, the mahogany-paneled walls, the silver candlestick holders, the marble-topped end tables.

  The knight with the battle-ax!

  Beasley staggered back in horror.

  No, just an old suit of armor. Beasley gawked at it in amazement, his brain slowly processing what it was. For a fleeting second it occurred to Beasley to wonder if he really wanted to be doing this.

  His flashlight lit up the circular front stairs with the carved wooden banister. Beasley reacted first with delight, then with increasing misgivings. On the one hand the stairs would lead to the master bedroom. On the other, they looked formidable.

  Beasley’s trip up the stairs was perilous at best. While he did not actually crawl, he did not actually walk, either. He stopped once to catch his breath, once to sit, and once to recall whether he was going down or up.

  Eventually he reached the top, shone the light around, and recoiled involuntarily from the grim visage of Evan Hurley in the huge oil painting that dominated the upstairs landing. The cold gray eyes of the venerable, bulldog-jowled former patriarch of the Hurley family seemed to look right through him, as if challenging his right to be there, and Beasley quickly averted the light.

  Off the landing was a hallway with several doors. Beasley first tried a bathroom, a linen closet, and a knob that proved to be a brass wall ornament.

  The next door was the jackpot. Even Beasley could tell. From the marble fireplace, Queen Anne chairs, vanity table crammed with cosmetics, and four-poster canopied bed, this had to be old lady Hurley’s room. Jeff Beasley shone the light around with a sense of satisfaction.

  And confusion and doubt.

  So much furniture.

  So many places to look.

  A rolltop writing desk in one corner of the room, with numerous drawers and cubbyholes, a veritable treasure chest, attracted his attention.

  It did not hold it.

  Beasley found himself drawn to the four-poster bed. He walked over to it, shone the light, touched the soft, puffy comforter, ran his hand over the smooth, polished, mahogany wood.

  Jeff Beasley blinked, frowned.

  Tried to remember why he was there.

  It was nearly three hours later when Bakerhaven Police Chief Dale Harper, cruising North Elm Street on a routine patrol, stopped to check out an open window on the Hurley house. Old Mrs. Hurley had died the week before, the mansion had been locked up, and that window had no right to be open. So, on inspection, Chief Harper was not surprised to find there had been a break-in.

  He was surprised to find the perpetrator sound asleep in Mrs. Hurley’s bed.

  Sherry Carter was happy. She ran her hand through her hair, pushed the bangs off her forehead, tugged at her earlobe, and smiled across the table at Aaron Grant.

  The young reporter was wearing a sports jacket with his shirt collar unbuttoned and the knot of his tie pulled down. His brown hair was wavy and slightly mussed. And he was clean shaven—it occurred to Sherry he was always clean shaven, very clean shaven, almost as if he was too young to shave.

  “How’s your soup?” Aaron asked.

  Sherry barely heard him. “Huh?”

  “How’s your gazpacho?”

  “Oh. It’s okay.”

  “I could have warned you,” Aaron said. He gestured with his spoon. “Chicken soup you can’t go wrong. Anything else you take a chance.”

  “I said it was okay.”

  Aaron smiled. “Yes, you did. But okay is not a word of praise. It is an equivocation, indicating a reluctance to make a value judgment. And implying a less than favorable assessment.”

  Sherry tried to scowl, but made a poor job of it. Her eyes twinkled. “Does everything with you have to be wordplay?”

  “Not at all,” Aaron replied. “Just look me in the eye and tell me the truth—your gazpacho is barely adequate, and you could make much better yourself—which I am quite sure is a fact—and I would do nothing but agree.”

  “Oh, you like women who brag about their accomplishments?”

  “Who said anything about women? I like people who are straightforward. Sex doesn’t enter into it.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Does that happen to you often?”

  “What?”

  “That sex doesn’t enter into it?”

  “Now who’s indulging in wordplay?”

  “I wasn’t,” Sherry replied. “I was just looking you in the eye and telling you the truth.”

  Aaron Grant laughed. Sherry laughed back. They found themselves leaning on their elbows, smiling at each other.

  Aaron and Sherry were having lunch at the Wicker Basket, a small family restaurant on Drury Lane, just off Main Street in Bakerhaven, Connecticut. The restaurant was a step up from the local diner, featuring tables, not booths, with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths and linen napkins. It was a quiet, homey place, and while the food was nothing special, on this occasion the atmosphere was more important.

  It was their first date.

  And by Aaron and Sherry’s standards, it was going well. Even if they had taken refuge in the safety of wordplay. Both were linguists. Aaron was a writer, Sherry was a crossword-puzzle constructor, and as such they were highly competitive. Sherry loved sparring with Aaron, loved having an intellectual equal who was capable of giving it back as good as he got it. Bantering with Aaron Grant was a treat.

  It was also safe.

  It kept Sherry from exposing herself, from opening up, from talking about the things ack the ththat really mattered. Like their relationship, for instance, and where it was going.

  There were lots of things unsaid.

  Sherry was older than Aaron. Just a few years, but with an unsuccessful marriage to her credit. Aaron was only a year out of college and still lived with his parents, which made him seem young on the one hand, and precluded him inviting her up to his room on the other. Or so Sherry imagined. Their relationship hadn’t gotten to that point yet.

  For her part, Sherry lived with her aunt. And while the much-married Cora Felton couldn’t have cared less if Sherry had invited Aaron over—on the contrary, from the start Cora had been the one pushing the relationship—Sherry still would have felt inhibited by her presence.

  So they really had nowhere to go.

  As if that weren’t enough impediment to the relationship, Sherry had one more stumbling block.

  Sherry’s aunt, Cora Felton, was famous. She was known as the Puzzle Lady, both for her national TV ads and for her syndicated crossword-puzzle column. Two hundred and fifty-six newspapers carried that column, including Aaron’s paper, the Bakerhaven Gazette. Cora Felton’s beaming face appeared in the Gazette every morning.

  That in itself would not have been a problem, but Cora Felton didn’t write the crossword-puzzle column.

  Sherry did.

  Cora Felton merely provided the image. Her face was Sherry’s conception of what the Puzzle Lady should be. Which appare
ntly was everybody else’s, for the Puzzle Lady puzzles were wildly popular.

  At the moment, this too was complicating Sherry Carter and Aaron Grant’s relationship.

  Aaron knew Sherry was the Puzzle Lady.

  Sherry didn’t know he knew it.

  Aaron had found out while covering the Graveyard Killings, as the Bakerhaven murders had come to be known, figured it out himself and then finessed a confirmation out of Cora Felton, who couldn’t stand up to his cross-examination. Cora had left the task of telling Sherry up to him. So far he hadn’t gotten around to it.