A Puzzle in a Pear Tree Page 9

  Doddsworth sucked in his breath. “Miss Felton, need I point out that this murder was not committed for your personal recreation? The victim was a childhood friend of my daughter. A young girl, cut down ruthlessly in her prime. Perhaps you could endeavor not to take such pleasure in it.”

  Cora looked abashed.

  Chief Harper, at his desk, tugged uncomfortably at his collar.

  “Got it!” Harvey announced.

  “You do!” the chief exclaimed. “What does it say?”

  “I don’t know yet. I just got that one particular clue. A Ref ’s call is offside.”

  “Yes, yes, do get on with it,” Doddsworth said, pacing.

  The door banged open and Dan Finley came in. He was carrying something under his coat. “Hey, Chief. Take a look at this.”

  “What is it?”

  Dan stopped, frowned at the number of people assembled in the office, all staring expectantly at him.

  “It’s all right, what is it?” Harper demanded.

  Dan Finley pulled the object from under his coat. It was a bamboo pole about five feet long. A piece of masking tape dangled from the top.

  “Here we are,” the chief said. “Miss Felton. Is this the pole the puzzle was taped to?” Cora squinted in the general direction of the blur she assumed was Dan Finley.

  “I say,” Doddsworth put in. “Is this how you handle the evidence? My dear young man, please tell me you haven’t touched the tape as well?”

  “I haven’t touched anything,” Dan Finley retorted, indicating the handkerchief he was using to hold the pole. “I just don’t have an evidence bag long enough.”

  “Well, there must be one here. We can get it bagged and sent to the laboratory, and—I say! Could it possibly be?”

  “Be what?” Harper said.

  “Here, young man, hold that up. Let me see. Is it hollow all the way through?”

  Chief Harper’s eyes widened. “A blowgun?”

  “We have a dart. Why not a blowgun? Raise it up, young man.”

  Cora Felton’s face fell in dismay. She couldn’t bear the thought of not being able to see the murder weapon. For a moment she considered pawing through her purse and claiming she’d found a spare pair of glasses. Reluctantly, she rejected the idea. She might be able to pull it off, but Harvey Beerbaum hadn’t finished the darn acrostic, and she’d be compelled to help him.

  “Look!” Doddsworth exclaimed. “You can see right through it. It’s a blowpipe, sure enough.” He cleared his throat. “Miss Felton, did you handle this blowpipe in any way?”

  Cora, tired of being beaten up, snapped, “I don’t recall.”

  That was not the response to save her from further embarrassment.

  “You don’t recall?” Doddsworth repeated it incredulously. “In a matter of such magnitude, you do not recall? Do let’s go over your actions again. You look. You see the envelope on what you assume to be a stick. You attach no importance to the stick, merely to the envelope, so when you attempt to remove it, you naturally grab the stick to extract the envelope, do you not?”

  “It’s possible,” Cora conceded.

  “I’ll wager it is. In the event this should prove to be the murder weapon, it may have some rather misleading fingerprints. Well, let’s bung it over to the laboratory. Where is the laboratory these days?”

  “New Haven.”

  “Hard cheese. Well, do let’s get it processed and get it back. We shall most likely require it.”

  A search of the police station turned up an evidence bag suitable to hold the blowgun, and Dan Finley was dispatched to the lab.

  “Well,” Doddsworth said, clearing his throat again. The sound was really beginning to irritate Cora. “What say we have another go at the actors, and see if any of them noticed anything that could have passed for a blowpipe?”

  “Got it!” Harvey exclaimed.

  “You’ve solved the puzzle?”

  “Yes, I have. Sorry I took so long. Embarrassing, really. It’s just the way these acrostics are laid out that makes them—”

  “Yes, yes. But what is the solution?”

  Harvey Beerbaum held up the completed puzzle.

  “The author is Me. The title is D You. The poem goes:

  “I’m afraid you didn’t listen.

  I’m afraid you didn’t take heed.

  So now you pay the piper

  As the word becomes the deed.

  “As you leave this vale of tears

  I hope it dawns on you

  It’s hard to be a virgin

  When you’re eating for two.”

  17

  BECKY BALDWIN TREMBLED WITH INDIGNATION. “ABSOLUTELY not!” She was incensed.

  Chief Harper thrust his hands up placatingly. “Now, now. Please understand. We’re not saying this. We’re not saying this at all.”

  “Oh, no? You just did. And why are they here? That’s what I’d like to know.” Becky gestured furiously at Jonathon Doddsworth and Cora Felton seated across from her in the chief ’s office.

  “They’re helping me solve the crime,” Chief Harper replied. “And they were present when the poem was read. You’re lucky it’s just them. Harvey Beerbaum and Sherry Carter were there too.”

  “Oh, good God!”

  “And they’re not saying a word,” Chief Harper assured her. “Which actually isn’t that hard. The crime has enough sensational details with the poison dart and blowgun and the first two poems to last for most entire investigations. And all in one day,” he concluded glumly.

  “One day? It seems like I’ve had a bodyguard forever!”

  “I mean in terms of the crime. It’s a lot of facts for the media to report. They’re not going to miss one little letter.”

  “What if they do?”

  “Then we will deal with it.”

  “You’re saying you’re not releasing the poem now, but it will probably come out?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, there you are,” Becky said bitterly. “I’ve already given an interview about how this girl was probably killed instead of me. You release that letter, and everyone will think it’s me the damn killer is talking about.”

  “This is why it is advisable to be circumspect with the media.”

  “No kidding,” Becky shot back sarcastically. “Tell me something. Did it occur to you the killer would send a note hinting I was pregnant?”

  “I take it you are not?” Cora Felton inquired sweetly.

  Becky’s face purpled. “I’m most certainly not!” she snarled.

  “Well, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Cora said. “Take it from me, it’s a perfectly marvelous means of getting married. Not that I’ve ever been pregnant, actually, but it never hurts to let a suitor think so.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” Becky said icily. “I’m an attorney. I have a law practice. I live in a small town. I do not need unfounded rumors of this type circulating. I do not want people whispering behind my back.”

  Jonathon Doddsworth leaned in. “This rumor is unfounded?”

  The look Becky gave him might have raised fear for his health. “Didn’t I just say so?”

  “I believe you expressed your outrage. So, how could the killer have made such an egregious mistake?”

  “The killer killed the wrong person. I would think that alone would call the killer’s accuracy into question.”

  “Quite so,” the Englishman agreed placidly. “But there’s a difference between mistaken identity and mistaken fact. Which, as a lawyer, you must surely know. In court, eyewitness testimony is the easiest to discredit. Whereas facts are facts.”

  “And misassumptions are misassumptions. The killer obviously doesn’t know me. He’s some sort of obsessive stalker living out a sick fantasy. Of course the details are going to be wrong because he’s making them up. I should think that would be perfectly obvious.”

  “It would certainly appear so. . . . But in a homicide investigation one cannot exclude theories simply
because other theories seem perfectly obvious. Surely you agree.”

  “I’m not in an agreeable mood,” Becky grumbled. “Nor am I in the mood to debate. What about my bodyguard?”

  “What about him?”

  “I want him gone.”

  “That might be premature,” Doddsworth said.

  “Yeah? And then again it might not. You pretended to pull him off me, but you didn’t, and look what happened. The killer killed someone else. You think it was mistaken identity, but what if it wasn’t? What if the killer killed that girl because he saw the bodyguard and he knew he couldn’t get to me?”

  “Very unlikely,” Chief Harper said.

  “Whatever am I thinking?” Becky said sourly. “Because Danny Boy is the most highly skilled of undercover agents, and would never, ever be spotted,” she said scathingly. “There’s a pageant rehearsal tonight. Will he be going?”

  “The rehearsal wasn’t canceled?”

  “The show must go on. At least according to Rupert Winston. Dorrie wasn’t in it, so the murder’s clearly unrelated.”

  “Except for the puzzles,” Chief Harper reminded Becky. “Which appear to have been sent to you.” As she opened her mouth to retort, he added placatingly, “Let’s not start again. This has become a murder investigation. Dan will be used where he’s best needed. Just don’t concern yourself.”

  “That’s a good one,” Becky said. “Someone’s trying to kill me, someone’s trying to smear me with lies and vicious innuendo, but, hey, don’t take it personally.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Cora applauded.

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  “Were you?” Cora said innocently. “Well, look on the bright side.”

  “What’s that?”

  Cora smiled.

  “You’re not dead.”

  18

  EVERYONE WAS SUBDUED BUT RUPERT WINSTON. JUDGING from Rupert, one wouldn’t have known there’d been a tragedy. He alluded to it once in a perfunctory manner, mainly to get it out of the way. Not that he didn’t emote. His voice lowered, quavered. His eyes were downcast. His body language imparted pain and loss that might have rivaled the suffering of Job.

  Seconds later he could barely contain his excitement. He stood on the apron of the stage, in front of the closed curtain, and addressed his huge cast, who were seated on the basketball court in folding chairs. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are going to have a run-through to end all runthroughs. It won’t, of course, we will have several more after that, but it should feel that way. So let’s get started.” With a flourish he cried, “Pull it, Jesse!”

  With a great clanking and squeaking of metal on metal, the red velvet curtain parted in the middle. The Russian country manor from The Seagull was gone. In its place stood an English village square, all decked out for Christmas in wreaths and bows and jingle bells.

  The tech director strode onto the stage with a theatrical ta-da! gesture and announced, “We have a set!”

  Rupert Winston, who had clearly intended to make that announcement himself, froze with his arms in midgesture. His face clouded for an instant. Then he recovered his composure and converted his gesture to the set into one to the artist who had created it. “Thanks to our tech director, Jesse Virdon,” Rupert said smoothly. “Let’s give Jesse a hand, shall we?”

  Jesse Virdon had an insolent arrogance born of talent. He swaggered somewhat in acknowledging the applause, and preened a bit too long before retreating back into the wings.

  Rupert Winston could not be daunted. He pointed to several card tables on the side of the stage and declaimed, “We have props! We have calling birds! We have French hens! We have swans and geese! We have turtledoves! We have pipes and drums! We have golden rings!

  “And,” he added, gesturing to the middle table, “we have a partridge in a pear tree!”

  There were ohs and ahs. Jimmy Potter grinned broadly.

  “Where was it?” Cora Felton asked.

  “In the props room, where it belonged.” Rupert rolled his eyes in Jimmy Potter’s direction. “In all probability, it never left.”

  Jimmy Potter frowned, processing that information. Then he realized it reflected on him. “Hey!” he protested.

  “The important thing is it’s back,” Rupert declared, ignoring him. “We have our set. We have all our props. And we have all our actors. Do we not? Group leaders, are we all here?”

  “I’m missing a drummer,” Aaron Grant said.

  “That’s right. Dick Larson called in sick. Which, just so you know, on performance night you do not do. There is a tradition in the Theater. The show must go on. If you have measles, wear makeup. If you have fever, bundle up and try not to breathe on your neighbor. If you are coughing, gargle a full bottle of cough suppressant, and clamp your mouth closed. But be here.” Rupert raised his head, yelled, “Jesse!”

  Jesse Virdon emerged once again from the stage-right wings. “Yeah?”

  “For this rehearsal, you are a drummer drumming.”

  “All right!” Jesse raised his arms in self-congratulation. The young tech director was in his midtwenties and still rather boyish.

  “Jesse is our man for all seasons,” Rupert explained.

  “In addition to being our tech director, set designer, scene painter, and stage manager, Jesse is also our understudy. In the event there is someone who cannot walk, crawl, or be carried to the theater on the night of performance, Jesse will fill in.”

  “For the men,” Jesse corrected.

  “For anyone but Becky Baldwin,” Rupert declared.

  “Did you know in Shakespeare’s day there were no women in the theater? Men played all the roles. If I need you as a maid a-milking, Jesse, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  Jesse was clearly appalled by the prospect. He dropped his macho bravado, crinkled up his nose. “I don’t think I can be an understudy.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m the stage manager. I got too much to do.”

  “Yes. And filling in for the actors is one of your duties.”

  Jesse shook his head stubbornly. “I got too much to do.”

  Rupert frowned. Jesse Virdon was a teacher, not a student. And the pageant was not a high school production, so, actually, Jesse was a volunteer. If Rupert pushed him too hard, he’d quit. And the trim on the set still needed painting.

  “Alfred!” Rupert bellowed, improvising.

  “Sir?”

  “Out! Here!”

  Alfred Adams scurried from the stage-left wings. “Yes, Mr. Winston?”

  “You’re a drummer drumming.”

  Alfred’s mouth fell open. “But I’m the light man. . . .”

  “I know that. Just fill in for now.”

  “But . . .”

  Cora nudged Sherry, whispered, “He’s the first Joseph. The one in the stable when Dorrie took her place.”

  Becky Baldwin, seated between Aaron Grant and Dan Finley, leaned in. “That’s Dorrie’s boyfriend? You’ve gotta be kidding.”

  “No, no,” Cora hissed. “Dorrie’s boyfriend was the second Joseph. The one holding her when she took the dive. This guy is the one Dorrie’s boyfriend, Lance, relieved.”

  “Doesn’t look like a killer, does he?”

  “So you know him?” Cora asked.

  “Miss Felton,” Rupert reproved from the stage. “I’m sure you believe what I’m saying applies to everyone but you, but in point of fact, it does not. If there is anyone here who could benefit from rehearsal, it is most certainly you. So, please, try to pay attention. . . . Now then, I am going to call your groups one at a time, to find your props and take your places backstage. We’ll count down, starting with the twelve drummers drumming. Will the drummers come up here, please?”

  Aaron got up from his seat next to Sherry and made his way onstage, where he, ten drummers, and Alfred Adams hung toy drums around their necks.

  “All right? Do all the drummers have drums?” Rupert demanded.

  Alfred Adams raised his
hand. “I’m missing a drumstick.”

  “Make a note of it.”

  “Yes, Mr. Winston.” Alfred started offstage.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To write a note.”

  “Not now! You’re a drummer drumming. Write a note when you’re done drumming.”

  “Yes, Mr. Winston.”

  “All right. Pipers piping, come get your pipes.”

  “There better not be a puzzle attached to any of those props,” Cora whispered.

  There wasn’t. No red envelope appeared. The actors all took their places without incident. At the piano, Mr. Hodges played the opening strains.

  Becky Baldwin wandered out onstage. As it was the first day of Christmas, her face was cherubic, anticipating her lover’s gift. She sang sweetly, “ ‘On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me . . .’ ”

  A sandbag whizzed from the rafters, missing her by inches.

  19

  CHIEF HARPER WAS FIT TO BE TIED. “YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO be watching out for her!”

  “I was watching out for her,” Dan Finley protested wretchedly.

  “Then how did this happen?”

  “I was watching for an attack from the ground, not from above.”

  “If someone killed her from above that didn’t count? And what about you?” the chief raged at Cora Felton. “I would have thought you might have kept your eyes open.”

  “Right, Chief. I should have been climbing around in the rafters looking for faulty ropes.”

  Rupert Winston stuck his nose in. “It’s too bad the sandbag fell, but it didn’t hit anyone. Can’t we leave it at that?”

  “You’re not concerned? It nearly squashed your star.”

  “Yes, but it didn’t. And I’ve got a play to rehearse.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I would find it understandable if Ms. Baldwin was too upset to go on.”

  “Ms. Baldwin is fine.” Becky strode up and struck a pose. Having gotten over the initial shock, she seemed to relish playing plucky and courageous. “There is no reason to call off rehearsal just because a sandbag fell.”