You Have the Right to Remain Puzzled

by Parnell Hall

  “What the hell’s going on here?” he demanded of no one in particular.

  Chief Harper tore himself away from the unrewarding task of interrogating the other motel guests to intercept him. Otherwise the cranky antiques dealer might have ducked under the ribbon and gone in.

  “What do you want, Wilbur?”

  “I want to see Benny Southstreet. What’s the matter? He under arrest?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Wilbur considered. “In that case, I don’t want to see him.”

  “What’s your business with Benny Southstreet?”

  “That’s between me and him.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Good point. Okay, I was hoping he could get my chairs back, seeing as how you weren’t doing squat.”

  “What made you think he could do that?”

  “He said so.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “You saw him yesterday?”

  “No, on the phone.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he had some chairs I might be interested in.”

  “Were you?”

  “If they were my chairs? What do you think?”

  “Were they?”

  “How the hell should I know? I figured I’d check it out.”

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He wasn’t there. He said he’d be here at two o’clock. I called the number, he didn’t answer. I drove by, knocked on the door. He wasn’t there.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure. I waited around, in case he was in the can, knocked loud. He wasn’t there. You say he’s dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what about the chairs?”

  “What chairs?”

  “Have you heard a word I said? The guy had chairs. If he’s dead it’s a damn shame, but where are they?”

  Harper frowned. “Wait a minute. You’re saying Benny Southstreet had chairs in his motel room?”

  “Or his car. Why am I telling you? Did you find his chairs or not?”

  “Not in his motel room.”

  “How about his car?”

  “Which one’s his car?”

  “You’re asking me?” Wilbur shook his head. “Sheesh, you got any plans to solve this thing?”

  The zapper on the keys found in Benny Southstreet’s pocket flashed the lights and unlocked the doors of the Ford Taurus. The chairs weren’t in it.

  “There you are,” Wilbur declared. “The killer took the chairs.”

  Rick Reed, close enough to overhear, chimed in, “Chairs? What chairs?”

  “Oh, hell.” Chief Harper dragged Wilbur away from the reporter. “If you want to spout a lotta nonsense, I suggest you don’t do it in front of the TV camera. You don’t know this guy ever had any chairs. You don’t know chairs have anything to do with it. But we have a violent death, and if it turns out to be a murder, your interest in your damn chairs is going to make you a suspect in the eyes of the public.”

  “Oh, sure. Like people will really think I did it.”

  “Someone did. Why not you?” Harper said bluntly. “Now shut up about the chairs until we find out if they ever existed. Will you do that?”

  “I don’t see how I can refuse, considering how much progress you’re making.”

  Chief Harper walked over to where the chambermaid was hanging out with the rest of the motel help. “Can I talk to you a minute?”

  Marge seemed concerned. “I told you all I know.”

  Harper smiled. “Humor me.”

  He led her away from the others.

  “What do you want now?” Marge asked.

  “Tell me about the chairs.”

  Marge stopped, and her mouth fell open. “What about them?”

  “You didn’t mention the chairs. I was wondering why not.”

  “I don’t understand. What’s important about the chairs?”

  “I don’t know, but I mean to find out. What do you know about them?”

  “Nothing. The guy had four chairs. I don’t know why. I had to clean around them.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You knew they were gone?”

  “Well, I didn’t see them.”

  “You didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

  “Are you kidding? The man is dead. Who cares about some stupid old chairs?”

  “That remains to be seen. The point is, it’s not up to you to evaluate the evidence and decide what is important enough to tell us. You think of anything, you let us know.”

  “Okay.”

  “Is anything else missing? Anything you noticed before that you don’t see now?”

  “No, that’s it.”

  “The last time you saw the chairs was when you cleaned yesterday? You have no idea where they went? Or when?”

  “No.”

  “You had no idea they were missing until you went in there just before you called the police?”

  “No, I didn’t. You mean he was killed for his chairs? But that’s ridiculous.”

  “Why is it ridiculous?”

  “It just is. I mean, I can imagine someone stealing the chairs. I can’t imagine someone killing someone over them.”

  “And you have no idea who might have taken them?”

  “I don’t know how anyone could. The door was locked.”

  “I thought you said it was unlocked.”

  “I mean yesterday. When I made up the room. The door was locked when I left. No one could have gotten in there without a key. Unless Mr. Southstreet let them in.”

  “You’re sure the door was locked when you left?”

  “It’s one of the rules. You clean the room, you leave it locked.”

  “Maybe you forgot?”

  Marge shook her head. “I tried the knob. Like I always do.”

  Chief Harper’s cell phone rang. He dismissed the chambermaid with a nod, yanked the phone out of his pocket, strolled away.

  “Chief, it’s Barney. Your boy came by, picked up the bullet.”

  “Fine.”

  “No, it’s not fine. I have a job to do. I don’t need some young whippersnapper hounding me to hurry.”

  “Dan’s got a gun with fingerprints, Barney. He’d love to match it up.”

  “I’m sure you would too. But I have to follow procedure.”

  “I understand. Give him the bullet when you can.”

  “I gave him the bullet. He’s long gone. I just don’t like to be rushed.”

  “I’ll let him know. How’s the autopsy coming? You got anything for me yet?”

  “I can give you an approximate time of death. Yesterday afternoon, between twelve and four.”

  “That ironclad?”

  “Hell, no. But as a working hypothesis, I’d take it to the bank.”

  Chief Harper hung up the phone, to find a vaguely familiar young man bearing down on him. He was relatively young, probably on the good side of forty. He wore a black T-shirt and blue jeans.

  “Chief Harper.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Paul Fishman. I run the Photomat stand at the mall.”

  “Yes, of course,” Chief Harper said. That explained his daughter Clara’s sudden interest in photography.

  “I saw it on the news. About the murder. Are you calling it that yet?”

  “It’s too soon to say.”

  Paul jerked his thumb. “It’s not too soon for the TV guys. They said a murder at the Four Seasons Motel.”

  Harper’s face darkened. “Did they really?”

  “They may have said potential, or alleged, or whatever newsmen say when they’re not allowed to tell you something obvious.”

  Harper nodded. “It’s probably a murder, but don’t quote me on it.”

  “Anyway, they showed a shot of the crime-scene ribbon, and it’s Unit 12, isn’t it?”

  Harper’s eyes nar
rowed. “Yeah. Why?”

  Paul Fishman put up his hands. “Look, I don’t know how these things work. Whether I need a lawyer, or what. Doctors have professional privilege, or client confidentiality, or something like that. I’m just a guy in the Photomat. But I don’t want to violate anyone’s right to privacy.”

  Chief Harper glanced around for the TV crew, saw that Rick Reed had moved in on the chambermaid. “I haven’t got time for this. You want a lawyer, I’ll get you a lawyer. But just between you and me, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “I have some pictures that might have something to do with the crime.”

  “Photographs?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean a roll of film that you developed?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You don’t want to violate anyone’s privacy by turning them in to the police?”

  “You see my problem?”

  “I see your problem. And if I don’t see your photographs, I’m running you in on obstruction of justice. You’re not violating anyone’s privacy here. I’m ordering you to turn the pictures over. If you’d rather hear it from a judge, you and your photos can wait in jail until I get a court order for you to turn ’em over.” Harper looked him right in the eye. “The point is, you’re not surrendering them voluntarily, you see what I mean?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So let’s have ’em.”

  Paul produced a packet of four-by-six prints. “They’re just from a throwaway camera, but they’re pretty clear. I do good work. Brightness, definition, color correction. Take a look.”

  Chief Harper pulled out the prints. The first was a shot of the motel sign.

  “They’re in reverse order,” Paul volunteered. “That’s the last shot on the roll.”

  The next-to-the-last shot was a close-up of the number 12 on the door. Then came shots of the chairs. Long shots. Close-ups. All four together. A single chair. Close-ups of the detail work. In the longer shots, the chairs were clearly in the motel unit.

  Chief Harper’s pulse quickened. Here it was, a good solid lead. He flipped to the next photo, and stopped dead.

  It was a shot of Sherry Carter, young, lithe, and tanned, in a string bikini, a wide-eyed smile, and her hand up in an unmistakable don’t-take-my-picture pose, as she lounged in a deck chair on the front lawn of her house. Sherry looked positively gorgeous, but the allure was lost on Chief Harper, so great was his surprise.

  He didn’t let on, said casually, “Whose pictures are these?”

  “Cora Felton’s. She dropped them off yesterday, never picked them up.”

  “What time yesterday?”

  “Early afternoon.”

  Sam Brogan came up, practically dragging a young man wearing a baseball cap. “This kid was on the desk yesterday. Whaddya think he saw?”

  “Don’t make me guess, Sam,” Harper said irritably.

  “Tell him,” Sam ordered.

  “A woman loading chairs into a car.”

  “You’re kidding! When?”

  The kid was sulky, probably figured he was in trouble for not reporting this before. “I dunno. Sometime in the afternoon.”

  “Tell him from where,” Sam prompted.

  “Unit 12.”

  “You recognize the woman?”

  “Yeah. It was that Puzzle Lady woman.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure. It took a while. She had to load ’em one at a time.”

  “The guest didn’t help her?”

  The kid crinkled his nose. “Guest?”

  “The guy who rented the unit,” Harper said impatiently. “Mr. Southstreet. He didn’t help her carry the chairs?”

  “I didn’t see him. Just her.”

  “Oh. So you don’t even know if he was there.”

  “He was there, all right.”

  “I thought you didn’t see him.”

  “I didn’t. Not then. But when she got there, I saw him let her in.”

  “You saw him?”

  “I didn’t see him. She knocked on the door. It opened. She said, ‘Hi,’ and went in.”

  “She said, ‘Hi’?”

  “Yeah. I think she said his name, but I couldn’t tell. Not through the office window.”

  “You saw this through the office window?”

  “When she got there. Not when she took the chairs. I was outside then.”

  “And you’re sure it was Cora Felton?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “And Mr. Southstreet let her in?”

  “Sure he did. That’s how I knew it was okay she took the chairs. He gave ’em to her.”

  Chief Harper’s cell phone rang. He jerked it out, growled, “Yeah?”

  “Chief, it’s Dan. I’m down at the lab. The bullets match. And that’s not all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know the fingerprints we keep on file—you, me, Sam, the doc, all the other likely people who might have touched something at a crime scene—so we can eliminate ’em?”

  “What’s your point?” Harper said irritably.

  “You’re not going to believe whose prints are on the gun.”

  DOWN AT THE station Chief Harper and Dan Finley took the handcuffs off Cora Felton and offered her her one phone call. Since Becky Baldwin had been present when she was arrested, Cora didn’t need it.

  Becky looked across the visiting-room table. “I feel funny about this, Cora. Benny was my client.”

  “He’s dead. Doesn’t that resolve the conflict of interest?”

  “Not if you killed him.”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “That’s going to be tough to prove.”

  “Whoa! Hold on a minute! You’re a defense attorney. You don’t have to prove I didn’t kill him. The prosecution has to prove I did.”

  “They can. Which throws the ball back in our court. Once they prove you killed him, we have to prove you didn’t.”

  “Maybe I should hire another lawyer.” “Feel free. They’re just going to tell you the same thing. Your fingerprints are on the murder weapon. You took pictures of the stolen chairs. As if the pictures aren’t damaging enough, the chambermaid’s caved in and admitted you were the one who took them.” “The pictures, not the chairs.”

  “The boy from the front desk saw you take the chairs. Even if I could shake his testimony, they can prove you took them, because you gave them to Harvey Beerbaum yesterday afternoon. Which is double-plus-ungood, since it means you took ’em right around the time the doctor says Benny was killed. According to the chambermaid, you photographed the chairs around eleven-thirty, the guy from the Photomat says you dropped off the film around noon, and Harvey Beerbaum says you called him at three-thirty and came over by four.”

  “The guy from the Photomat’s pretty dreamy, isn’t he?”

  “I beg your pardon?” “He ask you out yet?”

  Becky blushed. “Cora, you’re charged with murder.” “Yeah, but I didn’t do it. Just between you and me, isn’t the guy a hunk?”

  “How can you even think about such a thing?” Cora shrugged. “Be a nice break for Sherry. Get you out of Aaron’s way. Head off any pass the guy might make at her.”

  “You think he’d hit on Sherry?”

  “You didn’t see the shot of her in a bikini.”

  “Cora, stick with me here. You’re in jail.”

  “Yes. You will get me out, now, won’t you?”

  “I don’t think you understand how serious this is.”

  “Oh, yes, I do. I’m charged with murder. Unless Benny Southstreet turns out to be a police officer, it’s as bad as it gets. Can you arrange bail?”

  “It’s not easy in a capital case.”

  “Oh, come on. I’m not a flight risk.”

  “I’ll certainly raise the issue. Right now I’m trying to get the puzzle.”

  “What puzzle?”

  “The puzzle found on the body. The police think it’s yours. Please tell m
e it isn’t.”

  “Hand to God.”

  “Are you sure? Did you get a good look at it?”

  “I haven’t seen it.”

  “Then how do you know it isn’t?”

  “Becky, trust me on this. I had nothing to do with the puzzle found by the body.”

  “What if it’s the one you gave that housewife?”

  “Becky, honey, in that context, housewife could be seen as a pejorative term.” Cora hoped it was. It sounded like something a linguist might say.

  The phrase rang no alarm bells with Becky. Though other things did. “If it’s the same puzzle Benny claimed you stole from him, that would make a pretty tough case.”

  “I thought it was pretty tough anyway.”

  “You’re not being very helpful.”

  “I don’t know anything that will help. Stop torturing me with what-if-it’s-the-same-puzzle, and go find out if it is.”

  “I can do better than that,” Becky said. “I’m gonna get a copy and bring it in here for you to solve.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake! You think I wanna sit in jail solving a puzzle?”

  “Maybe it will get you out of jail.”

  “Yeah, yeah, right. The guy died with a crossword puzzle by him, and when you solve it it says, ‘Cora didn’t do it.’ Gee, Becky, come back to planet Earth.”

  “You don’t wanna see the puzzle?”

  “Give it to Sherry. She’s good enough at solving them.”

  “I thought she was busy with her matrimonial problems.”

  “What’s more important? Her wedding, or my murder?”

  “Your loopy logic is hard to follow, at best. Do you have anything practical to add in your defense? Aside from the bald assertion that you didn’t do it?”

  “I’d take a good hard look at Chuck Dillinger.”

  “How come?”

  “Southstreet may have ripped him off for some money.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Evidence would indicate.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “Circumstantial.”

  “How solid is this circumstantial evidence?”

  “Actually, it’s more of an inference.”

  “Cora.”

  “What do you care? You’re not presenting this to a jury. I’m just telling you how things are. There is a strong possibility, which I can’t begin to prove, that Benny Southstreet may have ripped Chuck Dillinger off. Chuck Dillinger might be a perfectly good suspect.”