A Puzzle in a Pear Tree Read online

  The Christmas pageant was being performed on the stage in the Bakerhaven High gymnasium, where it shared the space with the basketball team. It also shared the stage with the upcoming high school production of Anton Chekhov’s The Seagull, so the English village square Becky Baldwin was performing in looked suspiciously like a Russian country manor. In a corner of the gym, the Bakerhaven High tech director, a wiry young man in splattered overalls and work shirt, was diligently if somewhat messily painting scenery flats to transform one into the other.

  “Then we can’t be wasting time now,” Rupert declared virtuously, as if he hadn’t been the one prolonging the squabble. “Let’s take it from the twelfth day, get a look at everyone. Aaron Grant? Where’s Aaron Grant?”

  The young Bakerhaven Gazette reporter, who was standing onstage beside Sherry Carter, put up his hand and said, “Here, Rupert.”

  “Aaron, we’re going to take it from your line, the twelve drummers drumming. Do you have your drummers ready?”

  “I’ve got nine of them.”

  “Only nine?”

  “That’s the trouble with afternoon rehearsals,” Aaron said. “People have to work.”

  “Well, then,” Rupert said with heavy irony, “are your nine drummers drumming ready?”

  “Yes, except we haven’t got the drums yet.”

  “I know you haven’t got the drums yet. This is for choreography.” Having made that pronouncement, Rupert instantly contradicted it by demanding, “What props do we have? I know we don’t have the swans and the geese, but at least we have the pear tree.”

  Rupert looked around and spotted Jimmy Potter, the librarian’s son, sitting on the apron of the stage, listening attentively. Jimmy, a tall, gawky boy of college age who had always been a little slow, was just thrilled to death to be part of the pageant, and he had, as usual, a goofy grin on his face. However, he had nothing in his hands.

  “Jimmy!” Rupert cried. “Where’s your pear tree? How can you play your part without your pear tree?”

  Edith Potter, the librarian and one of the maids a-milking, pushed out of the pack to defend her boy, but Jimmy wasn’t upset.

  “It’s offstage, Mr. Rupert.” Jimmy pointed stage left. “You want me to get it?”

  “No, Jimmy. I just want you to have your tree for the run-through. I want you to come on carrying it, so you get used to carrying it. Okay, places, please, people. Let’s take it from the top of the last verse, starting with Becky’s line.”

  The actors took their positions in the wings.

  Rupert called, “And, Miss Felton. Project, project, project !”

  Cora, in the wings, raised her prop and muttered to Sherry, “I’d like to project this milking stool. Can you guess where?”

  “Cora! Think of your image.”

  “I’m thinking of his image. And how I could change it with this damn stool.”

  “Are we ready?” Rupert Winston yelled from out front. “And . . . begin!”

  The pianist played a note.

  Becky Baldwin, alone on stage, rolled her eyes toward the piano. Becky was, Sherry had to admit, quite good. The expression on her face in response to that lone note was priceless. This being the twelfth day of gifts, one could scarcely wonder what her lunatic lover had sent her now. In a voice tinged with resignation and dread, Becky sang, “ ‘On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,’ ” then with hands upraised, shrank back from the onslaught.

  Aaron and eight other men entered from stage left, pantomiming drums.

  “ ‘Twelve drummers drumming,’ ” sang Aaron.

  The drummers marched on Becky Baldwin as if she were Richmond, then turned and sang in chorus, “ ‘Eleven pipers piping.’ ”

  The pipers, eight strong without pipes, marched on from stage right, singing along with the drummers.

  Ten lords a-leaping—actually eight, not leaping very high—emerged from all sides of the stage. Had it been the tenth day of Christmas, the solo would have been sung by Harvey Beerbaum. As it was, the lords sang in chorus along with the pipers and drummers.

  Nine ladies dancing, led by Sherry Carter, waltzed on from stage left.

  Eight maids a-milking swooped in from stage right, sat on their stools, and had just begun to pantomime milking when the seven swans a-swimming (six men who would be carrying cardboard cutout swans, which had not yet been made), followed directly by the six geese a-laying (five in number, not laying, and without geese), sent the milkmaids diving for cover.

  As always, everyone got a breather during the retarded line “ ‘Five golden rings.’ ” The rings, presented on velvet pillows borne by liveried servants (pillows, rings, and livery yet to come), were paraded in a circle around Becky Baldwin. She broke free just in time to be confronted with four calling birds, three French hens, and two turtledoves (birds, hens, and doves to be made later).

  The chorus reached a crescendo. All turned toward stage left.

  “ ‘AND A PARTRIDGE IN A PEAR TREE!’ ” everyone sang lustily.

  Jimmy Potter, pleased as punch, marched onstage, carrying the pear tree. It was actually a small artificial fir tree with papier-mâché pears, but Jimmy couldn’t have been prouder. He strode up to Becky Baldwin and presented her with it.

  He certainly wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

  “Jimmy!” Rupert Winston shrieked. “Where’s the partridge? Don’t tell me you’ve lost the partridge! It’s the only bird we’ve got!”

  Jimmy, completely taken aback, gawked at the pear tree. “Gee, Mr. Winston. It was right here.”

  Rupert Winston leaped onto the stage. “All right!” he cried. “Who’s been screwing around with our props?”

  “I . . . I . . . I . . .” Jimmy Potter stuttered.

  Rupert ignored him. “Jesse!” he bellowed. “Where the hell is my tech crew!”

  Jesse Virdon, the paint-smeared tech director who had been working on the flats, put down his brush. “Whaddya want?” he said, sauntering up.

  “What do I want?” Rupert stormed. “You’re my stage manager. Where the hell’s my prop?”

  Jesse shrugged. “Dunno. Been out here painting. Never went backstage.”

  “Well, who did?”

  Alfred, a gawky teenager with black-rimmed glasses and an unfortunate nose, emerged from the wings, protesting as he came, practically stuttering in his desire to distance himself from the theft. “I didn’t see anything, Mr. Winston. I was in the light booth. I never saw the tree.”

  Cora Felton pushed forward. “Wait a minute. What’s that ?”

  There was something red among the green pine needles.

  Jimmy turned the tree.

  Hidden among the branches was a red envelope. It was greeting-card size. The back was facing out, and the flap had been tucked in.

  Jimmy Potter blinked at it in amazement.

  “What the hell is that?” Rupert scoffed. “A ransom note for the partridge?”

  Cora lifted the red envelope off the branch. She opened the flap, reached inside.

  Frowned.

  Sherry, at her elbow, said, “What’s the matter?”

  Cora pulled the contents from the envelope.

  It was not a card. Just a folded piece of paper.

  Cora unfolded it.

  Scowled.

  “Well, what is it?” Rupert demanded.

  Cora turned the paper around for them to see.

  2

  HARVEY BEERBAUM SUCKED IN HIS BREATH. “CORA, LOOK what that is.”

  Sherry, realizing it was entirely likely her aunt had no idea whatsoever what the puzzle was, jumped in. “Look, Cora. An acrostic. You’ve never created an acrostic, have you?”

  “Can’t say as I have,” Cora said smoothly, grateful for the hint. “How about you, Harvey?”

  “I’ve never written one, but I can certainly solve it. Let’s see. . . . As I recall, the words in the grid are a quotation, and the first letters of the clues give the name of the author and the title of the
work.”

  “First letters of the clues?” Becky Baldwin said. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean the solution to the clues, of course,” Harvey explained pedantically, delighted at the opportunity to do so. “For instance, clue A is Christmas stealer, and it’s six letters. That would almost have to be Grinch. As in How the Grinch Stole Christmas! So you write the word Grinch in the blanks, then transfer the letters to the numbered squares in the grid: G is 38, r is 158, i is 67, and so forth. The letters in the grid will form the quote. And the first letter of the author’s name will be G.”

  Harvey positively beamed. “See what I mean? And then the first letter of the solution to clue B would be the second letter in the author’s name. The clue is pressing, and it’s six letters.” He leaned in insinuatingly. “Care to have a go at it, Cora?”

  Cora Felton winced. Lately Harvey Beerbaum had grown annoyingly suspicious of her puzzle-making expertise. Having absolutely no puzzle-making expertise, she was somewhat hard put to deal with this. “No, I wouldn’t, Harvey, thank you very much. I’d be happy to work on it at home, but solving puzzles was never my talent, and I don’t need the pressure of umpty-million actors watching me do it.”

  “Fine. Take it home and do it,” Rupert Winston directed with elaborate calm. The lack of volume in his voice was positively chilling, gave him the appearance of a cobra about to strike. “Now. If you don’t mind, could we go back to rehearsing our play?”

  Rupert turned to the cast. “All right, let’s try it again, people. And this time, drummers drumming, could we all march together, please? You start on the left foot, on twelve. I know you don’t have twelve, but when you sing twelve.” He sang to demonstrate. “It’s ‘Twelve drummers drumming.’ Left, right, left together, turn, as you overlap the ‘Eleven pipers piping.’ Same thing, pipers, in unison, left, right, left. Joining with the drummers drumming marching in place as ‘Ten lords a-leaping.’ And lords, remember, we leap on ‘ten’ and we leap on ‘leap.’ Think of it as ‘Leap, lords a-leap.’ It’s, leap, one, two, leap.

  “And Mr. Beerbaum. Your leap is a half beat behind everyone else, you’re on the wrong foot, and you barely get off the ground.” Rupert pinched Harvey on the cheek. “I love it, you’re perfect, don’t change!

  “Ladies dancing. Miss Carter, could we please remember, we are going here for a combination of genteel sophistication and amoral slut. So if you could add a slightly breathy quality into your line. And, remember, it’s ‘Nine,’ two, three, spin, two, three. That’s your waltz step, and your beats are ‘nine’ and ‘dance.’ ”

  Rupert turned to the maids a-milking. “Miss Felton, I heard you this time, more’s the pity. Somewhat remarkable, since you were singing in chorus. Perhaps you felt freer to emote in the midst of other voices. This is not necessarily desirable. Let me attempt to explain. The words were assigned notes as a clear hint as to the pitch one is expected to sing. In case you need a guide, they happen to be the same notes sung by the ladies dancing you just heard. It would help the show immensely if you were to sing those notes, instead of inventing new ones of your own. If necessary, I could have the piano play the melody along with you, though it will stand out like a sore thumb. But not nearly as badly as if you sing it to the tune of the latest beer commercial.”

  Cora said, “Yes, Mr. Winston,” rather contritely, but she actually looked rather smug.

  Sherry caught her eye and Cora winked.

  Sherry understood perfectly.

  Listening to Rupert Winston might be torture, but it was a walk in the park compared with trying to solve an acrostic puzzle.

  3

  “WHAT’S A SIX-LETTER WORD FOR PRESSING?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Cora swore. “You’re a big help.”

  Sherry looked down at her aunt in exasperation. “I’m a big help? You sit there and tell me I’m a big help?”

  Sherry was standing on a step stool stringing lights on the Christmas tree.

  Cora was lounging on the couch, scowling furiously at the acrostic. “What are you so touchy about?” she retorted. “I’m the one who had the bad rehearsal.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re not supposed to agree with me,” Cora said indignantly. “You’re supposed to point out we all had a bad rehearsal, and Rupert Winston picks on everyone.”

  “Almost everyone,” Sherry muttered. She hopped down from the stool, moved it, climbed back up.

  “Oh?” Cora said. “You’re having a Becky Baldwin snit? Trust me, it’s not worth it. I’ve had more snits in my day over some woman or other, and, believe me, they all wind up the same way. The woman always proves to be far less special than she seems.”

  “I’m not having a Becky Baldwin snit,” Sherry said.

  This was only partly true. Becky Baldwin had been Aaron Grant’s childhood sweetheart. Since Becky had come back to Bakerhaven, she and Sherry had kept up a running rivalry.

  “Oh?” Cora said. “Then what are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to trim our Christmas tree. Without much help.”

  “Well, what do you want me to do? There’s no room for me on the ladder.”

  “Could you hand me the silver balls?”

  Cora sighed, heaved herself off the couch, and fetched the carton of ornaments from the cardboard box by the tree. She extracted a ball, passed it up to her niece.

  Sherry looked at it. “Where’s the hook?”

  “What hook?”

  “The hook you hang it with. It must be in the carton.”

  “Oh.” Cora rummaged, held one up. “Is this it?”

  “Yes, of course.” Sherry accepted the hook. “Didn’t you ever trim a tree?”

  “My husbands always did it. Except Henry. He was Jewish.” Cora frowned. “Or was it Frank?”

  “Aunt Cora.”

  “Come on, Sherry. Help me solve the puzzle?”

  “Cora, you hate puzzles.”

  “Yeah, I know. But this isn’t a puzzle, it’s a mystery. Someone sent us the puzzle as a clue. Don’t you want to know why?”

  “I’d rather trim the tree.”

  “What’s the matter? Can’t you do acrostics?”

  “Of course I can do acrostics. There’s nothing to it. It’s just a pain, because you have to keep transferring the letters from the clue list into the grid.”

  “I’ll transfer the letters,” Cora promised. “Just tell me what they are.”

  “Won’t it keep till I get off the ladder?”

  “Hell, no. I’m racing Harvey Beerbaum,” Cora protested.

  “So what? Do you care if he wins?”

  “Not really. But that’s not the point.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “We don’t know who stuck that envelope in the pear tree, but it had to be someone who has a working knowledge of puzzles.”

  “So?”

  “So, what if it’s Harvey?”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “What’s wrong with that? We know Harvey suspects me of being a fake. The old prune would like nothing better than to expose me. Why not give me a puzzle I can’t solve?”

  “Don’t be silly. If that were his plan, he’d have the two of you working together.”

  “He would have, if Jimmy hadn’t made copies,” Cora pointed out. After rehearsal, Jimmy Potter had raced the acrostic to the high school business office and used the copy machine.

  “Even so, it’s a big stretch.”

  “Oh, really? Do you remember what he did? He took one look and said the answer to the first clue is Grinch, what’s the answer to the second? Pretty convenient, getting the first answer just like that. Unless he wrote the puzzle.”

  “Nonsense,” Sherry scoffed. “Christmas stealer, six letters, almost has to be Grinch. Anyone would get it.”

  “Is that so?” Cora countered. “I was thinking it might be klepto.”

  “Well, almost anyone.”

  Cora handed Sherry the last ball from t
he carton and scooped up the puzzle again. “All right, how about blank a home?”

  “Blank a home?”

  “Yeah. Blank a home. Three words.”

  “That would be blank, blank, blank a home.”

  “I don’t care if it’s blankety-blank a home. What is it?”

  “You can’t do it that way,” Sherry said. “You have to look at the whole puzzle. The general setup. See where things are going to intersect. You can’t pull an answer out of thin air.”

  “Harvey did.”

  “Tinsel.”

  “Huh?”

  Sherry pointed. “Hand me the tinsel.”

  Cora tore open the packet, thrust the strands of tinsel at her niece. “Hey, if you don’t wanna help me, fine. No skin off my nose. I thought you were the one who didn’t want me to blow my image.”

  “I merely pointed out you’d lose your TV ads, which at the present time are paying for this house. Without that, I don’t know what we’d do.”

  “I’d probably have to get married again.” Cora sighed. “I’d really hate to. A husband can be such a nuisance.”

  Headlights flickered through the frosty front window.

  “My God!” Cora said. “What did I tell you? It’s Beerbaum, come to trip me up with the puzzle.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s probably Aaron.”

  Cora darted for the window. Her mouth fell open. “It’s not Aaron. It’s Chief Harper! I knew it. I knew this would happen. The puzzle’s connected to a crime, and the chief ’s gonna want me to solve it.”

  “Well, you’re good at solving crimes.”

  “The puzzle, I mean,” Cora wailed. She looked at Sherry, whose eyes were twinkling. “Oh, you can be so exasperating when you want to. The point is, the cops are gonna want me to crack the puzzle, and I can’t do it.”

  While they were talking, the Bakerhaven chief of police got out of his cruiser, plodded through the snow toward their door.

  “Here he comes. Sherry, what do I do when he asks me about the puzzle?”

  “He’s not going to ask you about the puzzle.”