by Parnell Hall
“You are my client.”
“Not in this.”
“Damn it. I gotta get Minami out of jail.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Legal ethics.”
Cora made a face. “You’re a lawyer and you’re worried about legal ethics?”
Becky looked at Cora with narrowed eyes. “You’re way too glib. Did you go in that house?”
Cora just smiled.
“You went in, didn’t you? You went in and found her dead. Was that before or after Dennis went in?”
“Dennis went in? Oh, my God. Do the police know that?”
Becky groaned. “What am I going to do with you?”
Cora shrugged. “Well, you could pay me.”
Chapter 30
Cora came out of Becky’s office and steamed on past the pizza parlor as if it weren’t even there, the tantalizing aroma of chicken, onion, pepperoni, and sausage from the daily special barely registering. She flung herself into the front seat of the Toyota and exhaled as if she had been holding her breath for the past hour.
Good lord! How many balls was she juggling? How many lies was she telling? How many stories was she trying to keep straight? Never mind the basic I’m-the-Puzzle-Lady-but-I-can’t-do-puzzles secret, known to Sherry, Aaron, and Dennis but not to Becky or Chief Harper. Setting aside the grand deception and focusing only on the current crimes, she had just admitted to Becky that she had seen Dennis going into the house. She had refused to admit to Becky that she had gone into the house but had admitted to Becky about talking to her client’s niece. But she withheld from Becky enlisting Aaron to spy on said niece at the paper—to what end she was not entirely sure, since it was not the sort of thing she needed to keep from Becky. It simply had not come up.
From Chief Harper she was withholding just about everything, a wonderful position to be in with an investigating officer, particularly one she was presumably helping. But she couldn’t tell him she had seen Dennis go into the house. She couldn’t tell him she had seen Minami go into the house. And she certainly couldn’t tell him she had gone in the house. All in all, there were a lot of people that Cora couldn’t mention had been in the house.
By and large, Cora wasn’t doing a hell of a job helping the chief with the crime. All she’d really done was solve a meaningless sudoku. She hadn’t done anything to see what the solution meant. Not that it could mean anything. In the past, when she’d solved a sudoku, there had been a crossword puzzle along with it, to give some hint as to its meaning, to point her in the right direction, to suggest what numbers in the puzzle were important. In this case, there was nothing. Just a number puzzle to implicate the suspect currently in jail.
It occurred to Cora she was lucky she wasn’t the suspect currently in jail.
Aside from that, nothing was going particularly right. Two people were dead. They shared a common bond of infidelity, which offered a motive for a crime, but, in that case, a crime of passion, not a cold-blooded, methodical murder-by-numbers affair.
It was all coming down on her. She was getting older. She had no man, no job—at least no real job, one she actually did—and no place to live. Only a room in a honeymoon house that she ought to be out of.
Cora drove up the driveway, parked the car, sat, and stewed. Maybe she should talk this over with her niece. At least she could be open with Sherry, tell her everything.
Except where Dennis was concerned. That was the joker in the deck. It wasn’t fair to a bride on her honeymoon to keep throwing her ex-husband in her face.
No, Cora had to figure this out herself. Not that she wasn’t up to the task. It just helped to have people to bounce ideas off.
Cora opened the screen door, let the dog out. He yipped happily, darted around the lawn, and returned for a treat.
“What do you think, Buddy?” Cora said.
In times of stress, Cora had come to talk to the dog, the realization of which had led her to believe she was getting senile or at least dotty in a post-romantic-age way. Which was not the way Cora saw herself. Cora saw herself as the lead character in a noir crime novel or a bodice-ripper or some combination of the two. A young, stronger, sexier Cora Felton needed to swoop in and save the day. Particularly, if Buddy was no help.
“Okay, kid,” Cora told the dog, “let’s assume for a moment that Minami was not guilty of this crime. Which is a damn good assumption. Because, if she was, it would fly in the face of logic.” She frowned. “I’m glad you’re a dog. Because I’m not sure what flying in the face of logic looks like, though people seem to say it all the time. Anyway, assume she’s innocent. In that case, someone is framing her. Framing her with the sudoku. Which is a pretty clumsy frame, unless they knew she was calling on the woman, and how could they know? But assume they did. Or assume that even if Minami isn’t seen going into the house, the presence of the sudoku will call attention to her. She’s known to be investigating the crime. Surely, that is enough to establish a link.”
Cora looked at the dog. “What do you think, Buddy? Would you assume someone was trying to frame Minami?”
Buddy wagged his tail, spun in a circle, and peed on a bush.
“Right,” Cora said, “there’s no reason to make that assumption. So, what if that assumption is wrong? What if no one is framing Minami? What would that mean then?”
Buddy cocked his head knowingly.
“Oh,” Cora said.
The poodle was right.
Assuming no one was framing Minami, someone was framing her.
Cora had to find out why.
Chapter 31
Cora pulled the car to a stop half a block from Thelma Wilson’s house. She had just killed the motor when the front door opened and Dennis Pride came out. He looked more businesslike than usual, and it wasn’t just the three-piece suit, his briefcase, and the fact that his long hair was slicked back. No, for once Sherry’s ne’er-do-well ex-husband had a purposeful stride and a serious air. Cora was sure the young man would slip into his usual flippant, obnoxious self if he were aware he was being observed, but for the moment he was one somber son of a bitch.
Cora wondered how his interview with Mrs. Wilson had gone.
Dennis crossed the street, climbed into his rental car, and drove off.
Cora ducked down behind the steering wheel as he went by, but Dennis was too preoccupied to even notice her car. She waited until he disappeared in the distance, then got out and walked up to the house.
Mrs. Wilson was a little older than Cora had figured. Of course, everyone looked young to her these days. An upward revision was the norm. In Mrs. Wilson’s case it was warranted. The woman’s face was lined and looked paler in artificial light. She ushered Cora into a living room furnished with way more doilies than the usual ration. She sat her guest on a spindly couch and sat opposite in a wicker chair that was either antique or just old. Cora suspected that in other circumstances the woman might have offered tea.
“You’re here about the murder,” Mrs. Wilson said, then nodded in agreement with herself. “Of course you are. You’re the Puzzle Lady. Always looking into crime. As if it was a puzzle. I suppose it is. So, what does Chief Harper say?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re working with the police, aren’t you?”
Cora was caught short by the woman’s directness and had to take a moment to readjust her parameters. She smiled, said, “I’m not a police officer.”
“Of course not. But you work with the police. Maybe not officially. But you do.”
“Yes.”
“So what’s going on? I’d love to know. The woman was my neighbor. Not exactly a friend, perhaps, but an acquaintance. And then for such a terrible thing to happen. Do the police have any idea who did it?”
“Not at the present time.”
“But they have that woman in jail. That doesn’t mean she’s guilty. I would find that hard to believe. I’m sure you do, too. There must be some other explanation.”
“
Can you think of one?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s the thing,” Cora said. “Someone killed her. Whoever it was had to be in the house. And you didn’t see anyone else go in or out.”
She frowned. “That’s a funny way to put it.”
“What do you mean?”
“To tell me I didn’t see anyone else go in or out. Wouldn’t the normal thing be to ask me if I saw anyone go in or out?”
“Absolutely,” Cora said. “And I’m assuming if you had seen someone, you would have mentioned it. That’s why I said you didn’t. Feel free to contradict me.”
She considered that. “Hmm.”
Cora took the opportunity to change the subject. “As I drove up, I noticed a young man leaving.”
“Is that right? A young man, you say?”
“Yes. Coming out of your house.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“Why is it interesting?”
“If I understand it correctly, the young man in question used to be married to your niece. I’m surprised you wouldn’t know him.”
“I do know him.”
“And yet you call him a young man, as if you had no idea who he was.”
“I know who he is. I didn’t know if you knew.”
“And if I didn’t, you weren’t going to help me?”
Cora took a breath. Good lord, what was she doing, pulling her punches just because she was afraid the woman might have seen her? “The young man. Dennis Pride. My niece’s ex-husband. Do you know him?”
She smiled. “I do now.”
“You hadn’t met him before?”
“No.”
“Why did he come to call?”
“You have to ask? The murder, of course.”
“What’s his interest in the affair?”
Her eyes twinkled. “What’s yours?”
Cora felt a slight chill. “As you pointed out, I consult with Chief Harper. Dennis Pride doesn’t.”
She nodded. “You do seem to have a monopoly on the chief’s time.”
“So what did Dennis Pride want to know?”
“Is it relevant?”
“Yes, it is. I’m investigating the crime. Anyone who’s interested interests me.”
She nodded her head. “That’s a reasonable explanation.”
“I’m glad you approve. Do you think you could satisfy my curiosity?”
“I should think it was obvious. He wanted to know what I saw.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The same thing I told the chief.”
“And what was that?”
“You were there when I told him.”
“I was there when you came out of your house. I thought you might have had a more extensive conversation later.”
“The facts remain the same. I saw the Japanese woman twice. Once alone, once with her niece.”
“You didn’t see anyone else?”
“Again with the assumption.”
“Sorry. Did you see anyone else?”
“That’s exactly what Mr. Pride wanted to know.”
Cora took a breath. “And what did you tell him?”
“The truth, of course.”
Cora wanted to wring the woman’s neck. “And what might that be?”
She studied Cora’s face. “You’re very clever. Just like the other woman. Do you like her much?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Because I wouldn’t think you would. You’re rivals and all that. In the same field. Most women don’t care for that at all. Were you glad they found the sudoku? That was a bit of luck. A clue pointing at your rival.”
“I fail to see how it points at her.”
“She’s in jail.”
“Because you saw her go in the house.”
“So? If I’d seen you go in the house, you’d be in jail.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what it says. She’s in jail, not because I saw her go in the house but because she went into the house. She did it. It was her action. It had nothing to do with me. You make it sound as if it’s my fault she’s in jail.”
“I wasn’t fixing blame.”
“If I’d seen you go in the house, I bet you would. Suppose I told the police that? Would you be so understanding then?”
“If you lied to the police?”
“Lied? Who said anything about lying? We’re playing a game of what-if. What if I came forward and said I saw you going into the house?”
“I would be most unhappy.”
“I bet you would.”
Cora pursed her lips. “You try this line on Dennis Pride?”
“What line?”
“Don’t be coy. You’re either very smart or totally oblivious. I’m trying to figure out which.”
Mrs. Wilson smiled. “When you do, will you let me know?”
Chapter 32
Thelma Wilson felt very pleased with herself. She’d played the game perfectly, set things up beautifully. Now there remained but to reap her reward. The reward she so richly deserved. It was galling to watch people out the window, coming and going and to-ing and fro-ing in their oh-so-important manner in their oh-so-important lives. It was nice when they got a little comeuppance now and then.
It was doubly nice that she was the one who knew it.
There was only one problem. Too many suspects. Too many possibilities for excitement. How to choose?
Of course, the police had first choice. That was a given. They picked the crazy Japanese lady. Which was good. Mrs. Wilson wouldn’t have picked her. She wasn’t comfortable dealing with foreigners. She never knew what they were thinking. Whether they were hiding something or being tripped up by a language barrier, confused by English idiom and confusing her in the process. No, the Sudoku Lady was out. Or, if not out, at least dropped to the bottom of the list.
The young one was a little different. More assimilated. More American. Mrs. Wilson could deal with her. As well as she could deal with any teenager. Which wasn’t very. Youngsters were another country unto themselves, with their iPods and their downloads and their text messages and their MP3s, and what-have-you. Not that she’d had any personal contact with teenagers, mind you, but the ones she’d seen on TV were enough to put the girl near the bottom of the list, just ahead of her aunt.
That did not leave her with a lack of choices. She had more than enough to keep her happy. She just didn’t know which to pick. She’d have to rattle their cages. See who stirred. How best to do that?
The kettle whistled. Mrs. Wilson went into the kitchen, brewed some tea. Tea always sharpened her focus, made her think. She couldn’t imagine why more people didn’t drink tea. A rejection of Old World values, no doubt. The Boston Tea Party and all that.
Mrs. Wilson let the tea steep, contemplated a cookie, planned her first move. It was a process of elimination. She needed to get people out of the way. How would that work? It depended on the person. For some, the direct approach. For others, bait.
What kind of bait? Well, that depended on the type of people she was attempting to lure. The Puzzle Lady was easy. Too easy. But the others. How to interest them?
Mrs. Wilson picked up her cup and saucer, carried her tea into the study, and sat at the writing desk. It was an old wooden roll-top with cubbyholes she’d gotten at a yard sale, not an antique shop—they ripped you off, always charging too much for anything worth having. Garage sales, attic sales, tag sales, that was where the bargains lay.
All right, the Japanese lady. She was in jail, but they couldn’t keep her forever. When they released her, where would she be? Motel or bed-and-breakfast? Motel was more likely. She was a foreigner; she wouldn’t be familiar with local customs. She might not understand bed-and-breakfast. Motels were easy. You saw a sign; you got a room. No thinking involved. Of course, she was a woman prone to thinking. Who solved puzzles. But not word puzzles. Number puzzles. Would that make a difference? These experts could be very good
at their given field but socially gauche. Could they ever! Like that twerp of an accountant she’d never married. No, not nearly.
Her mind going a mile a minute, Thelma Wilson pulled out the phone book, looked up MOTELS. She checked the number and dialed.
“Hello? I’d like to leave a message for the Sudoku Lady … you know, the Japanese woman. I’m not sure what unit she’s in. Could you leave a message for her? … She’s not? I’m sorry, I must be misinformed.”
Mrs. Wilson broke the connection, then dialed the next motel.
It took three. The manager of the Nutmeg Motel out on Kingston Road knew exactly who she was talking about and was happy to leave a message.
Mrs. Wilson gave him a phony number. “Could you ask her to call Mrs. Witness. First initial I. Thank you.”
There. That ought to shake Minami up, being asked to call Mrs. I. Witness.
So, that took care of the Sudoku Lady. Now for the Puzzle Lady.
Mrs. Wilson took out a pen and paper and began writing.
Chapter 33
Cora was not surprised to see Mrs. Cushman smiling. Mrs. Cushman was always smiling. The owner of Cushman’s Bake Shop was a plump, doughy-faced woman who gave the impression she spent the whole day baking. Nothing could have been further from the truth. In point of fact, the woman couldn’t bake a lick. Her muffins and scones were trucked in daily from the Silver Moon Bakery, and her genial smile actually reflected the serenity of being secure in the knowledge her wares came from the best bakery in New York.
“You have a note.”
Cora frowned. She thought she was familiar with all of Mrs. Cushman’s greetings, but that was a new one. “A note?”
“Yes. On the bulletin board.”
The bulletin board on the wall of Cushman’s Bake Shop served two purposes. It gave people something to peruse while waiting on line, and it allowed people to advertise such services as math tutoring, piano lessons, and tag sales. Some of the regulars would leave messages for one another. Cora had never done it, but she had seen the slips of paper thumbtacked to the board.
“Who left it?”
“Didn’t notice. It’s in the top-right corner.” Mrs. Cushman pointed in that general direction and went to make a latte.