A Puzzle in a Pear Tree Page 16

  “And what did you see?”

  “Nothing. Dorrie taps Maxine on the shoulder. Slides in as she slides out. Their backs are to me. I can’t see them. And they’re not paying any attention to me. I could be a statue, for all those girls care.”

  “Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do?”

  “Yeah, sure. If it was Lance Bigshot, they’d find an excuse to turn around.”

  “But they didn’t?”

  “No.”

  “When Maxine slid out, did she ever put her hand on Dorrie’s neck?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Weren’t you watching?”

  “Not for that. She might have, and she might not have.”

  “Are you saying that because you’re afraid?”

  “No. I just didn’t notice.”

  “How come?”

  “I was real cold. I was hassled. I had all this work to do.”

  “What work?”

  Alfred pointed. “Hanging lights. That’s what I should have been doing instead of playing Joseph. I tried to get out of it. Mr. Winston wouldn’t let me.”

  “How come?”

  “He’d had enough hassles about the schedule. Mr. Ferric—that’s the art teacher—Mr. Ferric made up the schedule. Mr. Winston made him change it.”

  “Why?”

  “For rehearsal. Mr. Ferric had actors scheduled for the Nativity when Mr. Winston wanted to rehearse. So Mr. Ferric told him to make his own schedule.”

  “So?”

  “So, after making such a stink about it, Mr. Winston wasn’t going to change it for anybody.”

  “He changed it for Dorrie Taggart.”

  Alfred shook his head stubbornly. “Dorrie didn’t ask him. She and Miss Baldwin did it themselves. That’s where I made my mistake. I should have just changed with somebody. But I didn’t know who to ask.”

  Cora could imagine that. Alfred Adams, too much of a stickler to change the rules himself, appealing to the one who’d made them. “So you had to play Joseph and do the lights?”

  “Right. And it’s a big job. The lights, I mean.” Alfred leaned in confidentially, gave the impression of lowering his voice, even though they’d been whispering to begin with. “Mr. Winston is a perfectionist. Everything’s gotta be done just right. I don’t just have to hang the lights. I gotta take ’em apart, wash and dry the lenses, put ’em back together again too. I mean, yes, they’re old and filthy, but, come on, give me a break. Here I am, fighting to get everything done before I gotta be Joseph.”

  “And you didn’t get everything done?”

  “No. Time just flew. Before you know it, Mr.

  Winston’s tapping me on the shoulder saying, ‘Shouldn’t you be outta here?’ And I look at my watch and it’s already ten o’clock. I got fifteen minutes to get to town hall, change, and get in position.”

  “But you were only five minutes late. How’d you get there so fast?”

  “Mr. Winston drove me.”

  “That was nice of him,” Cora admitted grudgingly.

  “Oh, yeah? Mr. Winston didn’t do it for me. He just didn’t want Mr. Ferric to know his schedule screwed up.” Alfred winced. “Sorry. I shouldn’t say ‘screwed up.’ ”

  “I’ve heard worse,” Cora assured him.

  “Pssst!” came an angry whisper from below.

  Cora and Alfred looked over the edge of the loft.

  Glaring up at them from the shadows was the paint-smeared face of tech director Jesse Virdon. He had a headset jammed on his head. A thin cord ran from the earpiece to a power pack on his belt. “Alfred, for Chrissake!” Jesse hissed. “Where’s your headset?”

  “There’s no cues,” Alfred protested. “I took it off.”

  “Yeah, well, Rupert wants you to kill the lights that are aimed at the audience. It would have been nice if you heard me on the headset. If it doesn’t happen right now, he’ll be up to tell you himself.”

  Alfred gulped and dived back into the booth. Cora was amazed at the speed and dexterity with which, given the proper motivation, he could manipulate the dimmers. Within seconds, the offending lights had been extinguished, leaving the rest of the stage lights on.

  Alfred whirled from the dimmer board, breathing hard. His face was pale. “Now see what you’ve done?” he moaned. “You got me in trouble. And Mr. Virdon saw you up here. Lady, you’re bad news.”

  “You’re not in any danger,” Cora told him.

  “Oh, yeah?” Alfred shot back. “Are you sure of that? You promise you won’t get me killed?”

  “Absolutely. I one hundred percent guarantee it.”

  Alfred gawked at her. “How can you do that?”

  Cora smiled, her trademark Puzzle Lady smile.

  “If I’m wrong, you won’t know.”

  32

  CORA FELTON SAT BOLT UPRIGHT IN BED. SOMETHING WAS wrong. She could sense it. That is, something was wrong beyond the fact that her niece was being framed for murder. Something was wrong with the facts as she knew them. Something simply wasn’t right.

  Cora had the terrible feeling it had to do with Alfred Adams. What was it about him?

  Alfred Adams was a geeky techie, socially gauche, but probably very bright. Quite possibly a computer nerd.

  Capable of composing puzzles.

  Could Alfred have been jealous of his more popular peers? Resented in particular a wealthy, attractive girl who had spurned him, perhaps ridiculed him for some ill-conceived, bumbling advance?

  Could it be Alfred?

  And if so, why hadn’t she suspected him before?

  Cora sat in bed, crunching the facts, knowing from bitter experience she would not be able to sleep until she had the answer.

  All right, she’s in the light booth. She’s questioning Alfred. Rupert is working with Becky onstage. Everyone else is out on the gym floor.

  And she’s effectively written Alfred off. Even though he was one of two Josephs who handled the victim and could have planted the dart.

  Now, why has she written him off?

  Why couldn’t she think straight?

  Cora fumbled on the night table, switched on the bedside lamp. Her drawstring purse was on the floor next to the bed. She reached inside, fished out her cigarettes, fired one up, and took a greedy drag.

  There. That was better. Now she could think.

  Her first thought was what a hell of a time to be awake.

  The front door clicked shut.

  Cora stiffened.

  Good God! That was what had woken her up. Not the nerdy tech geek. An intruder.

  Cora snubbed out the cigarette, grabbed her purse again, reached inside. She pulled out her gun, slipped the safety off. Her fifth husband, Melvin, had once told her, “Never shoot anyone with the safety on.” It was the only thing about Melvin she remembered fondly.

  Cora slid out of bed, pushed the door open, crept down the hall. She eased around the corner, leveled the gun at—

  “Sherry! What the hell are you doing?”

  Sherry Carter blushed red in the moonlight. “I’m a little late. What’s the big deal?”

  “A little late? It’s two in the morning!”

  “I know what time it is.”

  “Yes, of course you do. I’m sorry, I’m just an old fogy. I was young once. I’ve never been busted for murder, though.”

  “You will be if you’re not careful. You mind putting that thing down?”

  “Oops. Sorry.” Cora lowered the gun, snapped the safety on.

  “I’m sorry you’re up. I was trying not to wake you.”

  “I was up already.”

  “How come?”

  “Lemme get my smokes. I just got one lit when you came bursting in.”

  “You left it lit?”

  “I stubbed it out. At least I think I did.”

  “Check,” Sherry said.

  The cigarette was out. Cora grabbed her purse, plodded into the kitchen. Switched on the light, took the bottle of Cutty Sark out of the cabinet,
poured a shot, and slugged it down. She lit a cigarette, took a drag. “Okay. I’m wide awake. Help me think.”

  “Think of what?”

  “Are you kidding? Ways for you to beat a murder rap.”

  “I thought you already knew how. Hire Becky Baldwin as my lawyer.”

  “That was a smart move.”

  “Strategically, maybe. In terms of my mental health . . .” Sherry held up her hand, palm down, waggled it back and forth.

  “What do you think it will do for your mental health if you get convicted of murder?”

  “I need some coffee.”

  “At two in the morning? You’ll never get to sleep.”

  “I’ll make decaf.”

  “Big deal. Regular coffee’s ninety-seven percent decaffeinated, decaf ’s ninety-nine percent. It’s nearly the same thing.”

  “Is that true?”

  “No, I made it up. Sounds good, though.”

  Sherry filled the automatic-drip coffeemaker, switched it on.

  “So where were you, over at Aaron’s?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did his parents know? They didn’t, did they? He snuck you in. You must feel like a teenager.”

  Sherry sighed. “I know you’re just trying to be amusing, but frankly I feel like the whole world’s picking on me.”

  Cora put her arm around Sherry’s shoulders, chucked her under the chin. “Come on, help me solve this thing. I gotta think it out.”

  “Whaddya got so far?”

  “The obvious scenario is Doddsworth’s daughter, insanely jealous of her best friend Dorrie’s wealth and social position, bumps her off. Doddsworth, realizing his daughter Maxine is the killer, panics and frames you.”

  “You believe that?”

  “It’s the obvious solution. He called on you this morning so he could plant the envelopes.”

  Sherry shook her head stubbornly. “I was watching him all the time. He couldn’t have done it.”

  “Uh-huh,” Cora said. If she was convinced, Sherry wouldn’t have known it. “You ever see a magician work up close?”

  “Doddsworth’s not a magician.”

  “Granted. I said that was the obvious solution. It doesn’t mean I’m going for it. The next obvious solution is the boyfriend bumped her off.” Cora waggled her cigarette. “The problem with obvious solutions is they’re obvious. That’s why I get hung up on the what-if-itisn’t-obvious.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The techie. Alfred Adams. I talked to him tonight and I’m not happy.”

  “What’s wrong with his story?”

  “Nothing. There was everything right with it. But he didn’t want to talk to me.”

  “Your feelings are hurt? Or you think he has something to hide?”

  “I don’t know what I think. But that kid was squirming. He figured talking to me would make him a target. At least that’s what he said.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “I think he thought it was true, but I don’t know why.”

  Sherry poured the coffee. “Well, if you wanna ask him, I think he’s still up. I just went by the high school and the lights are on in the theater.”

  “Maybe they just left the gym lights on.”

  Sherry shook her head. “The gym lights are out. The stage lights are on.”

  Cora Felton frowned. She pushed back her untasted coffee and stood up. “I’m going over there.”

  “Now? I was only kidding.”

  “I don’t like it.” Cora marched to the hall closet, took out her overcoat.

  “You gonna talk to him in your nightgown?”

  “I hope so. I’m worried about his health.”

  Cora pulled on her boots, grabbed her purse, wrenched open the front door.

  “Wait for me,” Sherry said.

  “You wanna come, come. I’m not waiting.”

  Cora hurried down the path. The night was very cold and crisp. The moon was three-quarters full, reflecting off the snow and lighting up the yard. The Toyota was at the top of the driveway in the space the neighbor boy had plowed for twenty bucks that afternoon while she was out.

  Hiring a lawyer for her niece.

  Cora hopped into the car, gunned the motor.

  Sherry slid into the passenger seat.

  “You coming?” Cora said. “You don’t think I’m being silly?”

  “You also have a habit of being right.”

  Cora backed the car around, skidded out of the driveway, headed for town.

  “What’s the idea?” Sherry asked.

  “When I questioned the kid, he claimed he was bustin’ his hump trying to get the lights hung before he had to play Joseph. That’s why he wound up late.”

  “So?”

  “If he was nearly done then, why is he still working now?”

  “That was hanging the lights. During rehearsal he was plugging the lights. After rehearsal he’d be aiming the lights.”

  “Until two in the morning?”

  “That’s not the point. The point is, what bothered you was the fact that he was almost done. When actually he had more work to do.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Why are you so upset?”

  “I promised the kid he wouldn’t get bumped off.”

  “Huh?!”

  “It was a joke. He was scared I was putting him in danger. I swore I wasn’t. Told him he’d be fine.”

  “How could you do that?”

  “What was I gonna do? Tell him to write his will? How was I to know he was gonna stay late and aim lights?”

  “Come on. It’s two A.M. Don’t you think his parents would have freaked out if he wasn’t home?”

  “Did Aaron’s parents know you were there tonight? Till all hours, I mean?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Normal people go to bed. They don’t sit up till the crack of dawn.”

  “Even if their son’s out?”

  “He’s probably done tech before. Comes in quietly, doesn’t wake them up.”

  “You’re talking yourself into a nervous breakdown.”

  “I’m not talking myself into anything. It’s happening on its own. I got you charged with murder. I got Sherlock Holmes Doddsworth running around messing things up. And now this kid.” Cora shook her head, gunned the motor again.

  Sherry knew better than to push the subject. She gritted her teeth, braced herself on the curves.

  Within minutes the high school appeared on the right. It was dark except for the gym, where the glow of pink and blue stage lights flickered.

  Cora swerved into the driveway, headed for the gym. “Same lights you saw?” she asked grimly.

  “I think so.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  Cora slammed the car to a stop, tore out the door before the motor even died. She ran up to the gym door, grabbed the handle, and yanked.

  It was locked.

  Cora banged on the door, yelled, “Hey! Open up in there!”

  There was no answer.

  “Looks like no one’s here,” Sherry said.

  “Yeah.” Cora marched to the car, took out a flashlight, switched it on, started around the end of the building.

  “Where you going?”

  “I’m going in.”

  “How?”

  “Any way I can.”

  The backstage door was locked. So was the door to the cafeteria. But a window in the hallway was unlatched. Cora reached up, pulled it open. “Hey, give me a boost.”

  “Cora, you can’t go climbing through windows.”

  “We’ve gotta get in there.”

  “So let me go.”

  “I can’t boost you. I’m a little old lady.”

  “Little?”

  “Hey, watch it.”

  “Aunt Cora—”

  “I’m goin’ in. You wanna help me, or should I drag a box from somewhere?”

  Sherry laced her fingers together, boosted her aunt up.
Cora pulled herself over the sill, flopped on the floor in a heap. She got to her feet and retrieved the flashlight. “Okay, go around to the gym door. I’ll let you in.”

  Cora shone the flashlight ahead of her, hurried down the corridor, pushed her way through the doors into the gym.

  The stage lights were on, but they were aimed helterskelter, that is to say they had not been aimed at all. Several were focused not on the stage but on the gym floor. One blue-gelled spot was right in Cora’s eyes. She blinked, held up her hand so as not to trip on the folding chairs left set up from rehearsal as she picked her way across the gym floor. Cora pushed her way through the double doors to the gym entrance and let Sherry Carter in.

  “Anyone here?” Sherry asked.

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “Lights are cockeyed.”

  “Yeah. Someone didn’t aim ’em. Let’s find out why.”

  Cora and Sherry started for the stage. As they made their way up the stage-right stairs, Sherry suddenly gasped and grabbed Cora’s arm. “Look!”

  Cora, following Sherry’s gaze, let out a small, anguished cry.

  Hanging in the flies, upstage center, in the pink light of a misaimed spot, a pair of feet dangled from behind the teaser curtain, swaying gently in the still air of the gym.

  The feet wore combat boots.

  Cora pelted up the steps, rushed upstage to get a better view.

  He hung in the flies, a rope around his neck, his face contorted, his tongue lolling out, a grotesque spectacle in the eerie light.

  Cora stared at the dangling figure in horror. Her eyes widened.

  Sherry, at her elbow, gasped, “Is it . . . is it Alfred?”

  Cora blinked in amazement.

  “No,” she whispered.

  33

  “THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING,” RUPERT WINSTON PROTESTED. For once the dapper director’s hair was uncombed, and his hastily thrown-on outfit did not match. He looked up at Chief Harper and Jonathon Doddsworth as if prevailing upon them, as rational men, to reconsider and let him go home.

  Their silence was eloquent.

  The three men were standing on the basketball court. Sherry Carter and Cora Felton sat on folding chairs off to the side. In the background, a weary EMS crew was loading the body of the hanged young man onto a gurney in preparation for removing it from the stage.

  Rupert sighed. “All right, all right, it is happening. I just can’t imagine why.”