A Clue for the Puzzle Lady Page 4

  Sherry pointed at her, nodded her head. “There, you see? That’s the whole thing. Rationally, I know that he couldn’t, that it’s all in my head. You’re in the newspapers and you’re on TV, but it’s nationwide, there’s no way to know where you are. But now this. Murder in Bakerhaven. It’s local, it’s specific. You get your name mentioned in connection with this, it’s like telling Dennis we’re here.”

  Cora Felton frowned, looked at her. “You’re really upset about this, aren’t you?”

  “Can you blame me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So you see, we can’t afford to help.”

  Cora Felton’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, no. We can’t afford not to.”

  “What?”

  “Sherry. That cop is cooperating. As long as we help him, he’ll help us. He said he wasn’t gonna mention us.”

  “But someone else might. Particularly if they play up the puzzle angle.”

  “So tell him not to.”

  “Huh?”

  “Tell him to withhold it.” Cora took a big slug of Bloody Mary. “That’s what the police do anyway, isn’t it? Withhold an important fact only the killer would know. To weed out all the cranks confessing to the crime. Get him to withhold the puzzle clue, no one will get a lead to us. No one will even know we were there.”

  “Unless they see us tromping around the crime scene,” Sherry pointed out. “You’re not really going to do that.”

  “Sherry, darling.” She patted her on the cheek. “I grew up on Agatha Christie. I spent my whole life reading murder mysteries. Let me tell you something. Crossword puzzles are nothing. This is the real thing. If you think I’m going to miss it, you must be crazy.”

  Cora Felton tossed back the last of the Bloody Mary. “Now then. Let’s roll up our sleeves, put our heads together, and come up with some five-letter words for line.”

  7

  Chief Harper kept his keys out as he sprinted up the front steps of the police station. He’d locked the station when he’d gone to see the Puzzle Lady, and he didn’t feel like standing in the rain fumbling for his keys. But the door was already unlocked. He pushed it open and went inside to find Sam Brogan manning the desk. A cranky little man, with a thin black mustache and gleaming bald head, Sam pointed his finger and announced, “I hope you understand I’m on time and a half.”

  “It’s a murder, Sam. We all gotta pitch in.”

  “And we all gotta be paid. I worked last night until one in the morning. I wasn’t due back till five.”

  “It’s a murder case. Didn’t Dan fill you in?”

  “Oh, sure. On the phone he says, Get in here, there’s been a murder. When I ask him, he doesn’t have time to talk, he’ll fill me in when I get here. When I get here, he’s gone. There’s no one here. That’s a fine way to run a police station, no one there.”

  “So, what’s happening?”

  “Henry Firth dropped by. You just missed him.”

  “What’d he want?”

  “Wanted to know where you were.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “Told him how should I know? Didn’t seem to please him none. Then he wanted to know all about this murder, and what could I tell him when I don’t know a thing.”

  “I suppose you made that clear to him?”

  “Absolutely. He got nothing out of me. For all I told him, we know absolutely nothing.”

  “Thanks for your support,” Chief Harper said dryly.

  The front door banged open and Dan came in, shaking the water off his orange slicker. “Oh, good, Sam’s here. I got a picture of the girl, they’re making copies now, we should be able to get an ID.”

  “What about the autopsy? How’s that coming?”

  “Slow,” Dan said. He hung his raincoat on a hook. “You know the doc. Taking his own sweet time. Acted like I was really putting him out wanting to take a picture. Like I was holding him up, so if the autopsy wasn’t done, it was all my fault.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Chief Harper said. “He give you any indication when he might be done?”

  “None at all. If you want to call and ask, he’ll tell you never if you don’t stop interrupting him.”

  “Great.”

  The phone rang.

  “Maybe that’s him now.”

  “Yeah, complaining about me,” Dan said. He set the camera on his desk, flopped down in the chair.

  Sam scooped up the phone. “Bakerhaven police, Officer Brogan speaking.” He listened, said, “Yeah, just a minute. Chief. Some woman for you.”

  Chief Harper took the phone. “Yeah. This is Chief Harper.”

  “Hi. This is Sherry Carter. Miss Felton’s niece.”

  “Oh. Yes. Hello,” Chief Harper said. “Have you got something?”

  “In a way. You have to understand, this is just preliminary …”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, if we’re right in our assumption, that four down is a five-letter word for line, then a likely solution would be queue.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The word queue. Q-u-e-u-e. A British expression for a line of people. For instance, the line waiting to go into a theater. It’s used as a noun and also as a verb. To queue up for something.”

  “You say it’s British?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Not American?”

  “I didn’t say that. It’s an English word, it’s an American word. It’s in use in both countries. But it’s in common usage in England. In America it’s rather rare.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “You ever hear people talking about queuing up for tickets at Yankee Stadium?”

  “Not that I recall. That’s certainly interesting, Miss Carter. By any chance, did you get anything else?”

  “Spiel. ”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “As in handing you a line. The guy talks a good line. A salesman’s line. A salesman’s line can be a spiel. It’s also what he’s selling. His line of merchandise. In which case, line equals goods. Which happens to have five letters.”

  “That doesn’t sound very promising.”

  “Of course not. Like I told you, there’s nothing to go on. Until you narrow it down, there’s too many choices. For instance, if it’s a line of poetry, line could equal verse. Or if you were lining a drawer in a dresser, line could equal cover. Because you’re covering the bottom of the drawer. See what I mean?”

  “That doesn’t help.”

  “No kidding. We need more information. Have you identified the dead girl?”

  “Not yet. We’re working on it. Not that it’s likely to help.”

  “Anything would help. Right now we’re totally in the dark. Anyway, we were thinking, maybe you could play down the crossword puzzle angle.”

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, to weed out cranks. We need more clues. When we get them, it would be nice to know they came from the killer, and not some nut who read about it in the paper and thinks it’s fun.”

  “Makes sense. I’m not sure it’s possible, but I’ll think about it. In the meantime, anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”

  Chief Harper hung up the phone and stood up.

  “What was that all about?” Sam Brogan wanted to know.

  “She solve the clue?” Dan said.

  “In a manner of speaking. She had several solutions. Her favorite is queue.”

  “Q?”

  Chief Harper filled Sam Brogan in, and went over Sherry Carter’s explanation of the word.

  “British,” Sam said. “Would that mean the killer is an Englishman?”

  “That would certainly narrow the field,” Chief Harper said. “But it doesn’t seem likely. And it’s only one solution. Others were verse, cover, and spiel.”

  “How do you get that?” Sam Brogan said.

  “That’s not important, because none of them are apt to be right. Most likely the whole thing’s a waste of time. Sam, do me a favor
. Hustle down to the photo shop, see if you can hurry ’em along. I need that ID picture.”

  Sam Brogan went out into the rain as Aaron Grant came in. The young reporter for the Bakerhaven Gazette had obviously gotten wind of the story. He spotted Dale Harper and Dan Finley, stopped, smiled, and spread his arms. “Well, well, well. The gang’s all here. And Sam Brogan just went out. That’s pretty much the entire Bakerhaven police force all in one spot. Tell me, what’s the occasion?”

  “You must know, or you wouldn’t be here,” Chief Harper said.

  Aaron Grant snapped his big black umbrella closed, and shook it out. It had kept his slacks and sports shirt miraculously dry. “The rumor’s out Dr. Nathan’s got a live one.” He pretended to wince. “Ouch, bad choice of words. My editor would take that right out. I mean a dead one. You know what I mean?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Well, actually, the good doctor did, by slamming the door in my face. He might as well have hung up a sign, I’VE GOT A DEAD BODY. If Nathan’s not going to comment, I wondered if you would.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” Chief Harper said. “What sent you running over to the doc’s on a rainy morning like this?”

  “Now you’re asking me to name my sources, Chief?”

  “Are you saying you were tipped off?”

  “If I wasn’t, why am I here?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you.”

  “Why ask if you already know?”

  “I wasn’t asking if, I was asking who.”

  “That gets back to the sources issue.”

  “Is this sparring necessary?”

  “You tell me.”

  Chief Harper frowned. Aaron Grant wasn’t more than two years out of college. Harper had seen him grow up, found it hard not to think of him as a boy. “Well now,” he said, “you’re going to get it anyway, you might as well get it right. A girl was found early this morning in the cemetery. Dead. No identification on her. Barney Nathan’s trying to determine how she was killed and when. So far that’s all we know.”

  “Uh huh. And where’s Sam Brogan going in such an all-fired hurry?”

  “To check on the pictures.”

  Aaron Grant’s eyes lit up. “You got pictures?”

  “Just a photo for the ID. You’ll get one.”

  “Now?”

  “As soon as they’re done. Sam went to check.”

  “Can I tell him you said to give me one?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Aaron’s eyes flicked to the door, then back. “You got anything else? Any other facts for me?”

  “That’s all I know. We got a dead girl. I could describe her, but you’re gonna get the picture.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Aaron Grant snatched up his umbrella, went out the door.

  “Little twerp,” Dan Finley said. “Why’d you give him a picture?”

  “It got him out of here,” Chief Harper said. “We’ve got enough problems without dealing with the press.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  The phone rang.

  Dan Finley scooped it up. “Bakerhaven police, Officer Finley speaking.” He listened, covered the mouthpiece, cocked his head. “It’s the TV people.”

  Chief Harper grimaced.

  “Great.”

  8

  Chief Harper wasn’t good on camera. Not that he’d had much practice. In his short term as police chief he’d only been interviewed once, that time the young Pruett boy got caught in a well. He’d mumbled his way through that one, awkward, nervous, and uncomfortable, even though it was only the one local station. This time it was half a dozen news crews, huddled under umbrellas on the police station front steps, shouting questions at him, sticking microphones in his face, and expecting to hear words of wisdom.

  Chief Harper fiddled with his damp collar, cleared his throat. Became aware that rain was falling on his head. “All I can tell you is that early this morning a young girl was found dead in the Bakerhaven Cemetery. She has not yet been identified, and the cause of death has not yet been determined, but we are treating it as a potential homicide.”

  On the word homicide, a small but unmistakable stream of water ran down his forehead into his left eye, and a graphic identified him as POLICE CHIEF DALE HARPER.

  On the TV screen, the picture cut to a newsman with a microphone standing in front of the police station where Chief Harper had stood. A graphic identified him as RICK REED, CHANNEL 8 NEWS.

  “And there you have it,” he said. The young man had a sardonic, mocking tone. “In the quiet, peaceful, respectable town of Bakerhaven, a shocking, brutal crime. The police have no information as to who the girl was, where she came from, why she was there, or how she was killed. In short, they haven’t got a clue.”

  A picture of the dead girl filled the screen.

  “This is the girl in question. If you know her, Channel 8 is asking you to please call the station.”

  The picture cut back to Rick Reed, who cocked his head, raised his eyebrows. His smile was almost a smirk. “The police could use your help.”

  Sherry Carter blinked at the television screen. “Oh, dear,” she murmured.

  “That was rather unkind,” Cora said.

  “This is the man we’re counting on to help us?”

  “He’s doing a fine job so far. He didn’t even mention us.”

  “He didn’t mention anything. He sounds like he doesn’t know anything.”

  “He probably doesn’t,” Cora said. “You gonna eat that cutlet?”

  “I’m not hungry anymore.”

  “Then pass it over. It would be a shame to waste it.”

  Cora Felton and Sherry Carter were eating dinner on the coffee table in front of the TV. Sherry had prepared boneless chicken breasts with sliced mushrooms, a long-grain rice with pine nuts, and a salad vinaigrette. She was almost out of the balsamic vinegar she used to make the dressing, and had been wondering where she’d be able to get more outside of New York City before the newscast had driven it out of her head.

  “I thought you were on a diet,” Sherry said.

  “I’m always on a diet. That doesn’t mean I can’t eat.”

  “Aunt Cora.”

  “You gonna eat that chicken or not?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then I am,” Cora said. “It’s really delicious.”

  She speared the remaining chicken breast, plopped it on her plate, began sawing it up. She popped a bite in her mouth, looked at her watch.

  “Going out tonight?” Sherry asked.

  “I’m playing bridge.”

  “In the bar?”

  “In the restaurant.”

  “In the bar in the restaurant?”

  “What’s your point?”

  The television had gone to commercial. A four-year-old boy sat at the kitchen table with a spoon and a bowl of cereal. He took a bite, made a horrible face, dropped the spoon, shoved the bowl away, and slumped down in his seat with his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands.

  The smiling face of Cora Felton filled the screen.

  “Are you puzzled about what to feed your children? Well, you shouldn’t be. I love a good puzzle, but not when it comes to nutrition. Take it from the Puzzle Lady. A good breakfast cereal—”

  Sherry picked up the remote control and switched the TV off.

  “Hey!” Cora protested. “I resent that.”

  “Aunt Cora, look,” Sherry said. “I don’t know how to impress this on you, but there probably never was a more important time for discretion.”

  “Oh, pish tush,” Cora said. “What, we’re gonna hide in our house just because someone got killed? You’ll pardon me, but that’s not my lifestyle.”

  “No, your lifestyle is drinking and gambling.”

  “A penny a point. Just to keep it interesting.”

  “Don’t con me. That’s steep. And you’re only playing bridge because you haven’t found a poker game.”

&n
bsp; “That’s true,” Cora said, chewing the chicken. “It’s tough looking so sweet and innocent. No one invites you to play cards.”

  The phone rang.

  Sherry stiffened.

  “Relax,” Cora said. “I’ll get it.”

  Cora got up, went to answer the wall phone in the kitchen. She came back a minute later, sat down, and began digging into the chicken.

  “Well,” she said, “you got your wish.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The bridge game’s off.”

  “Oh?”

  “That was Iris Cooper. The selectmen are calling a town meeting on account of the murder. So bridge is out.”

  “The players are going?”

  “Well, Iris Cooper is. She’s the first selectman.”

  “Uh huh. If bridge is off, why are you eating so fast?”

  “I don’t want to be late.”

  “You’re going to the town meeting?”

  “Sure. Aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not. And you shouldn’t either.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why not. This is not the time to call attention to ourselves.”

  “Don’t be silly. Everyone’s gonna be there. No one’s gonna notice us.”

  “No one’s gonna notice me because I won’t be there.”

  “Sherry, how are you going to meet someone if you just hang out at home?”

  “Aunt Cora, give me a break. Meeting someone is not a high priority right now.”

  “Well, it should be. Young girl like you.”

  Cora Felton shoved the last piece of chicken into her mouth, picked up her plate. She piled it on top of Sherry’s, headed for the kitchen. Sherry followed her out.

  “Aunt Cora, if you go running around the town meeting—”

  “Running around? What do you mean, running around?” Cora dumped the plates in the sink. “Now, what do I wear?”

  Sherry followed her into the bedroom, where she began pulling dresses out of the closet. “Wore it last night. Wore it last week.” She held up a red satin dress. “Oh, Arthur hated this one.”

  “Arthur?”

  “My second husband. He couldn’t stand it.”

  “You’ve had it that long?”