A Puzzle in a Pear Tree Read online

  “I believe they knew each other in high school,” Sherry said evenly.

  “You believe so?”

  “That is my understanding. I didn’t live here at the time.”

  “So you’re a more recent arrival. You moved to Bakerhaven, met Aaron Grant, began a relationship. At that time Miss Baldwin herself lived elsewhere, didn’t she?”

  Sherry said nothing.

  “She then returned to town, took up residence, renewed her old acquaintance with the young Mr. Grant. Her work drove them together. She’s a solicitor, is she not? And you, I believe, are a substitute preschool teacher.”

  The phrase, delivered with clipped, British tones, hung insinuatingly in the air.

  Doddsworth smiled at her over his teacup. “Would you take an EPT?”

  That startled her. “What?”

  “An early pregnancy test. Will you take one?”

  “I most certainly will not! What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

  “My job,” Doddsworth answered implacably. “With regard to the third poem. The one that’s not yet public. But of which you are doubtless aware. Have you heard the poem?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “It refers to the difficulty of being a virgin while in the family way. Assuming the line does not suggest immaculate conception, one can conclude our Longfellow here is alluding to the inappropriateness of the actress playing a virgin.”

  “Yes, of course,” Sherry said. “Dorrie Taggart was two months pregnant.”

  “Yes, but did the killer know that? According to the postmortem, Dorrie was in the first trimester. She may not have been certain herself, let alone our killer. One must ask oneself, what if it is not Dorrie Taggart the killer is referring to? Who else might apply? Is there any other Mary who might find it hard to be a virgin?” Doddsworth steepled his fingers. “You, I believe,” he intoned, “are a divorcée.”

  Sherry glowered.

  “So,” Doddsworth mused, “if you were with child, what a sticky wicket that would be. You move to Bakerhaven, strike up a promising match with a young reporter chap. You are happy. Then his childhood sweetheart returns to town. She assumes a position of power, and proceeds to command more and more of his time. You find yourself with child, but instead of joy you are filled with apprehension. You are afraid to even broach the subject of your condition with the young man. Would you not agree that under such circumstances Miss Baldwin might be considered the chief obstacle to all your happiness? Would you not wish her dead?”

  “I don’t believe this!”

  “Will you consent to a pregnancy test?”

  “Absolutely not!”

  Doddsworth nodded serenely. “Your refusal is noted. I confess I find it intriguing.” He pushed back his cup and saucer, got to his feet. “Thanks for the tea.”

  Sherry remained seated, said nothing.

  Doddsworth slipped on his coat and hat, wound the scarf twice around his neck. He smiled down at Sherry quite paternally, then let himself out the front door.

  26

  CORA FELTON WAS SURPRISED TO SEE CHIEF HARPER’S cruiser parked in front of the school gym. Of course, the gym was where the sandbag had been dropped. But that was only an attempted murder. With an actual murder to investigate, Chief Harper had many things that were much more pressing. Why did he have to be there?

  Cora didn’t want Chief Harper there because she was about to suffer the ultimate indignity—a private rehearsal with Rupert Winston. To work on her solo. Since Cora’s solo consisted of a total of four words (and that only if one counted maids a-milking as three), a private rehearsal seemed like overkill. Between Cora’s singing and Rupert Winston’s scathing direction, it would certainly be humiliating, and Cora didn’t need Chief Harper around to witness her humiliation.

  Cora was in a foul mood as she stomped up to the gym.

  There was a sign taped to the door. It read: REHEARSAL MOVED TO MUSIC ROOM, ROOM 127—USE MAIN ENTRANCE!!!

  Cora’s first thought was, What a relief. Chief Harper wouldn’t hear her sing after all.

  Her second was, Why is he here?

  Cora pulled the gym door open, slipped inside.

  Dan Finley stood in the center of the basketball court. The young policeman was in his stocking feet, having removed his boots and overcoat. He was holding the blowgun in his right hand with one end on the floor, like a native posing with a spear. The blowgun was nearly as tall as he was. As Cora watched, Chief Harper walked up to him, handed him what appeared to be a dart. Dan did not look happy.

  “Okay, try again,” Harper told him.

  “It’s not that I’m not trying,” Dan Finley said.

  “I know you are. You’re just not very good.”

  “You wanna try it, Chief?”

  Finley fed the dart into the blowgun, raised it to his lips. Aimed at the far end of the court, where a four-by-eight-foot piece of Sheetrock had been set up. The silhouette of a man had been crudely drawn on it with Magic Marker.

  “A little higher,” Chief Harper corrected. “It has to arc.”

  “I can’t aim that way.”

  “Never mind accuracy. I want distance.”

  Dan Finley filled his lungs with air. Wound up, and blew.

  The dart flew from the end of the blowgun, arced through the air, and imbedded itself in the court, well short of the target. It didn’t even reach the foul line.

  “Damn it,” Harper said. “Get that out of the floor. Is it going to show? The principal will kill me.” As Cora started forward, he wheeled with a guilty look. “Oh, it’s you! What are you doing here?”

  “I have rehearsal.”

  “Rehearsal’s moved. Didn’t you see the sign on the door?”

  “No, and I didn’t see that hole in the floor, either. You mind telling me what you’re doing here, Chief?”

  “We got the blowgun back from the lab. The technicians were all excited that they got such clear prints. I didn’t disillusion them, so they’re going to be puzzled when I don’t make an arrest. And guess whose prints they were?”

  “You were telling me what you were doing here, Chief.”

  Chief Harper pointed to a fifty-foot measuring tape laid out on the gym floor. “At the nearest point it’s thirty-six feet from the road to the crèche. I’m trying to see if this blowgun can shoot a dart thirty-six feet.”

  “Is that the same dart?”

  “It’s an exact duplicate. Considering Dan’s accuracy, I decided against his shooting a poison dart.”

  “When you say exact duplicate . . . ?”

  “It’s close enough. We’re not talking mathematical certainty here, we’re looking for possibility. Is it possible for a dart to go thirty-six feet? So far, it would appear it isn’t,” he concluded glumly, glaring at his young officer.

  “Not to knock young Dan, here,” Cora said, “but how much experience as a dart blower does he have?”

  “None. Which in itself is telling. There’s every indication it would take an expert. Assuming it can be done at all.”

  Cora examined the setup. “You’re talking laterally, Chief.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re assuming the shooter is standing on the ground. The blowgun was found in the organ loft in the church. The window in the loft—you could open that, shoot from a greater height.”

  “And from a greater distance,” Chief Harper pointed out darkly. “You’d lose more than you gained.”

  “Maybe. I just mention it because this doesn’t seem to be working.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t either.”

  The back door clanged open and Rupert Winston sashayed in and immediately struck a pose. “Oh, there you are. Why am I not surprised? Do you have a timepiece, Miss Felton?”

  “Why, is one missing?”

  That stopped him in midsneer. “You’re joking. And an old joke at that. At least it’s a sign of life. If only you could channel some of that into your performance . . . You happen to be
late for rehearsal.”

  “Yeah. Chief Harper here was just telling me it’s been changed to the music room.”

  “Is the sign on the door down? That will never do! I have more rehearsals this afternoon.” Rupert strode to the outer door, wrenched it open. “No, it’s right here. Apparently, Miss Felton, you are a double threat, who can neither sing nor read.” He turned to the policemen. “Gentlemen, please, go on with your game. I’m sorry we interrupted you. Miss Felton, this way.”

  Room 127 turned out to be a minuscule music practice room with a piano and a couple of school desks. Mr. Hodges, the music teacher, sat at the piano. “Ah, you’ve captured her,” he said. “Good. I don’t have all afternoon. And how many more after her?”

  “Just two. But they, at least, can keep a tune. I’m not sure what you’re going to do here.”

  Mr. Hodges made a deprecating gesture, as if assuring Cora he was not the one impugning her talents. “Not a problem, not a problem. We just need the time to work. Miss Felton, I’m going to have you reproduce some tones for me. I’ll play the note, you hum the note. Are you ready? Here we go.”

  Mr. Hodges played middle C. When Cora looked at him, he hummed, “Hmmm.”

  “Hmmm,” Cora tried.

  “A little higher.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Little higher.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “That’s it. Again.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Good. Try this.” He played another note.

  “Hmmm.”

  “A little higher.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Excellent. Again.”

  “Hmmm.”

  They hit a few more notes. Then Mr. Hodges said, “Now, Miss Felton. The note you’re humming. You’re going to hum it again, then you’re going to sing on the exact same note, hmmm, eight, hmmm, eight, hmmm, eight. Now you try it.”

  “Hmmm, eight.”

  “You’re drifting.”

  “Hmmm, eight.”

  “You’ve lost the note now. Start again.”

  It was beyond humiliating. Mr. Hodges put her through the musical equivalent of See Spot run, while Rupert Winston’s face ran the gamut of incredulous, scathing, pained expressions. Nonetheless, at the end of fifteen minutes Cora Felton warbled, “ ‘Eight maids a-milking.’ ”

  Mr. Hodges said, “Perfect!” Granted, he’d been playing the melody note for note along with her; still, it was an accomplishment.

  Cora escaped from the practice room with an incredible sense of relief.

  Harvey Beerbaum sat in the hallway, waiting his turn.

  “Et tu, Harvey?” Cora said. “I thought Rupert was happy with your performance.”

  “He’d still like me to hit the notes.” Harvey lowered his voice, whispered eagerly: “You got anything new on the crime?”

  “I’m kind of out of the loop, with Doddsworth in town.”

  Harvey couldn’t hide his disappointment. He nodded glumly, went in the door of the practice room with no more enthusiasm than Cora had shown.

  Before leaving the high school, however, Cora detoured back by the gym.

  Dan Finley was up on a twelve-foot ladder, trying to aim the blowgun. He was not having much luck. The ladder was wobbly, and most of his energies seemed directed toward maintaining his perilous balance.

  Chief Harper wasn’t helping him. The chief was off in the corner, talking to Jonathon Doddsworth. Cora spotted them, started over.

  Chief Harper saw her, yelled, “Hey!” He flushed slightly and added, almost apologetically, “No shoes.”

  Cora bristled. Doddsworth was wearing shoes.

  Cora was wearing fur-lined slip-on boots. She stopped, yanked them off, padded across the gym in her stocking feet. “I notice you’re still poking holes in the gym floor,” she observed. “Does the height make any difference?”

  “Not for Dan. It might if we had an expert.”

  “Well, there you are,” Cora said. “Have a dart-blowing contest, and arrest the winner.”

  “Most amusing, Miss Felton,” Doddsworth said. “Have you any suggestions of a practical nature?”

  “I’d advise shutting down the Christmas pageant.”

  “Because of the attack on Miss Baldwin?”

  “For one thing.”

  Doddsworth looked puzzled. Cora waited for Chief Harper to pick up his cue on her get-me-out-of-this-pageant jest, but he didn’t. Cora wondered what was wrong. “Any developments?” she asked.

  “Nothing we don’t already know,” Harper answered. “No one remembers tying that sandbag off. No surprise there. Which leaves a lot of candidates. If it was done during rehearsal, it leaves half the cast. If it was done before rehearsal, it leaves all of them. And anyone else, for that matter.”

  “Then how could the drop be timed?”

  “Very easily, if it was someone in the wings. They just stand with their back to the pinrail, untie the rope, wait for the right moment, and let go.

  “If it was anyone else, they couldn’t be backstage. They’d untie the rope, run it over a back beam, tie it off near the top of the back stairs. Then, during rehearsal they’d creep up the stairs, untie the rope, and let it drop. Which would fit in with the clue, Wrong girl, being found in the girls’ dressing room.”

  “That’s not facts, just speculation,” Cora pointed out. “I could have told you that myself. Come on, you got anything new ?”

  A dart whizzed by, stuck into the floor by Chief Harper’s big toe.

  “Jesus H. Christ! Dan, are you trying to kill us?”

  “Sorry. That one got away.”

  “Where were you aiming?”

  “I was aiming at the target.”

  “How could you miss by that much?”

  “I was trying to get some distance. By swinging the blowgun like a whip.”

  “Well, it didn’t work.”

  “It went farther.”

  “Farther from the target. This only helps if it’s accurate.”

  “You think Sam might have better luck?”

  The thought of cranky Officer Brogan wielding the blowgun did not cheer Chief Harper. “No,” he said glumly. “Keep trying.”

  “I need a dart.”

  Chief Harper tugged the dart from the floor and walked over to the ladder, leaving Cora alone with Jonathon Doddsworth.

  Their eyes met.

  Cora tried to size him up. A superb poker player, Cora was used to sizing up opponents. Sensing their strengths and weaknesses. Looking for an edge.

  Doddsworth she couldn’t read. Oh, he was arrogant, overbearing, and self-important, as well as plodding, methodical, and slow—everything she already knew. But what lay behind his facade she couldn’t tell. She sensed the ruthlessness, the dogged determination his ex-wife had alluded to. But something else too.

  Fear.

  The fear she sometimes sensed in a card player, the fear that someone might call a bluff.

  Was Doddsworth bluffing? Or did he really have substantial leads? Had Doddsworth known she’d question his daughter, and run out of the house as if he’d discovered something, just so his wife would report that fact? Was he that clever? That devious?

  Or was he just that good?

  Was he going about his business without a thought to what she was doing? And was this all in her mind?

  It occurred to Cora that if she were playing poker with Doddsworth, she wouldn’t know whether to call, raise, or fold.

  27

  CORA GOT HOME TO FIND SHERRY WORKING ON THE COMPUTER.

  “Hi,” Cora said. “How’s your day?”

  “I’m trying to finish the Puzzle Lady column. I keep getting interrupted.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “No, not you. Aaron took me to lunch.”

  “You could have refused.”

  “Don’t be silly. I was hungry.”

  “That hardly counts as an interruption.”

  “Then Doddsworth came by.”

  “What did he
want?”

  “To know if I was pregnant.”

  “Glad I asked.”

  Sherry filled Cora in on Jonathon Doddsworth’s visit.

  “What did you say?” Cora asked her.

  “I told him to go to hell.”

  “Probably not the most tactful answer.”

  “Well, not exactly in those words. But I told him I sure as heck wasn’t taking any test.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Did I do the wrong thing?”

  “No. But it’s a no-win situation. You either let him force you into taking the test, or you refuse and let him insinuate you have something to hide.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re not preggers, are you?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Maybe you should take the test just to throw it back in his face.”

  “I will not take the test. It’s a matter of principle.”

  “Maybe you get your own home pregnancy test and do it by yourself. Quietly, without telling anyone. Just to make sure you pass. I remember when I was dating Henry—”

  “Aunt Cora! I am not in the mood!”

  “Well, you better be prepared. Doddsworth’s planning something. He and Chief Harper have their heads together, and, frankly, I don’t like it.”

  “Where did you see ’em?”

  “At my music lesson.”

  “What?”

  Cora told Sherry about the experiments in the gym.

  “Granted, it’s not conclusive,” she said, “but it’s a good indication the blowgun had nothing to do with the dart.”

  “Then why was it there?”

  “As a red herring. To make it look like that’s how Dorrie was bumped off. When actually the killer placed the dart by hand.”

  “That’s your deduction?”

  “That’s how it looks. Now, without ruling out the possibility one of the wise men threw it, the only ones who could have done it are Maxine Doddsworth; Lance, the boyfriend; that tech geek, Alfred something; or you.”

  “Or her,” Sherry said.

  “Huh?”

  “Or her. Dorrie Taggart. She could have done it herself. Knelt in position and stuck the dart in her neck.”