Puzzled to Death

by Parnell Hall

  “What true facts?” Cora asked. “A guy pops his two-timing slut wife. It’s hardly the crime of the century.”

  “What if he didn’t do it?”

  “Then I’m sure you’ll get him off.”

  Becky shook her head. “Not as things stand. Which is every lawyer’s nightmare. Your best isn’t good enough, and an innocent man goes to prison.” She shivered, and Sherry wondered how many hours she’d practiced that in front of a mirror.

  “What’s his story?” Cora asked, fascinated. At Sherry’s look, she added, “Not that I can do anything. But if it helps to talk it through …”

  Becky slid gracefully into a chair, said, “I think I will take that coffee.”

  Cora sat opposite her, leaving Sherry to get the coffee. She hesitated just a moment, then crossed to the automatic-drip coffeemaker, poured a cup, and stuck it in the microwave. She was aware of the fact that Becky was silently watching her and hadn’t answered Cora’s question. Sherry punched in twenty seconds on medium high. “Cream and sugar?” she asked.

  “Black is fine.”

  “Uh-huh.” Sherry jerked her thumb at the microwave. “You got twenty seconds. Will that give you time to think up a story?”

  Becky looked pained. “I’m not thinking up a story. I was waiting to include you in the conversation.”

  “Oh, don’t wait for me,” Sherry said. “An innocent man’s life is at stake.”

  “Oh, I doubt if they’ll execute him this afternoon,” Becky observed blithely.

  “Due doubtless to your skillful representation,” Sherry countered.

  The two women smiled at each other. Their looks could have frozen the coffee.

  The microwave bleeped.

  Sherry slid the cup out, set it on the table in front of Becky Baldwin. She didn’t sit but stood leaning against the counter near the sink, eyes on Becky.

  Cora leaned back in her chair and waited, eyes bright.

  “So,” Becky began. “Joey got home from work last night, accused his wife of playing around. They had an argument, he stormed out, went to drink in a bar. The Rainbow Room, a low-class dump on Jackson Road, five miles out of town. Joey was there till after midnight drinking beer and shooting pool.

  “Then he went home to his wife. According to Joey, Judy was asleep when he got home. Lights in the bedroom were out. Joey had no wish to continue the conversation, so he pulled off his clothes, fell into bed.

  “This morning the alarm rang at seven A.M. Joey slipped out of bed without waking his wife, pulled on his clothes, and went to work at a tool-and-die plant in Danbury. He was simply astonished when the police pulled him off the assembly line to arrest him.”

  “That’s his story?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s theirs?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What do the cops have on him?”

  “Judy was supposed to play tennis this morning with a girlfriend. Cindy Fuller. At a racket club in Clarksonville. Cindy dropped by to pick her up, found her dead.”

  “Where?”

  Becky nodded sagely, as if Cora’s question confirmed her own judgment. “There you’ve put your finger on it. She was on the floor of the kitchen. And the lock on the kitchen door was broken.”

  Cora Felton’s bright eyes narrowed. “Is that right?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Then how come they busted the husband?”

  “That’s the problem,” Becky Baldwin said. “Chief Harper is not communicative. Apparently, it’s not the chief’s fault. That prosecutor who looks like a rat—what’s his name?”

  “Henry Firth.”

  “That’s the one. Don’t quote me on the rat line. Firth’s running around behind the scenes playing it all very hush-hush.”

  “Your client make a statement?”

  Becky Baldwin made a face. “Before I got to him. Told the police what I told you.”

  “Now you’ve made him shut up?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you wonder why the cops won’t talk to you?”

  Becky shook her head. “The defendant’s not supposed to incriminate himself. That’s the law. The police are supposed to clear crimes up and not play games.”

  “It must be extremely frustrating,” Cora murmured.

  “So can you help me?”

  Cora sighed. “I told you I couldn’t. Even if I had the time, which I don’t. I couldn’t afford to work for you. I have a public image that sells breakfast cereal. The headline KILLER HIRES PUZZLE LADY would be regarded as a bad career move.”

  “Joey’s not a killer.”

  “So you say. That’s not the point. Basically, you want to hire me to pump Chief Harper, and I don’t like the work.”

  Becky’s eyes narrowed. “Chief Harper’s consulted you?”

  “No, of course not.” Cora frowned. “Why should he?”

  “No reason.” Becky swirled the coffee in her cup. Sherry noticed that she hadn’t touched it. “You know, the doctor’s not talking either.”

  “Who?”

  “The M.E. The medical examiner. Barney Nathan. Won’t give me the time of day. What do you make of that?”

  “I wouldn’t make too much of it. Barney’s a cranky sort, that’s his normal demeanor. Look, if no one’s talking, how do you know about the woman who found the body?”

  “That young cop—Dan Finley—spilled it before Harper slammed the lid.” Becky Baldwin got to her feet. “Look, if you can’t help me, I gotta move on. This is not going to be easy.”

  “No, I don’t imagine it is.”

  Cora Felton ushered Becky Baldwin out. Cora and Sherry stood at the window, watching Becky drive off. The minute the Honda was out of sight, Cora said, “Okay, let’s go!”

  “Go?” Sherry echoed, bewildered. “Go where?”

  “Are you kidding! It’s a murder!”

  Sherry looked at her aunt in exasperation. “You just got through telling Becky Baldwin you couldn’t investigate it.”

  “I can’t investigate it for her,” Cora Felton said. “But you think I don’t wanna know?”

  “I thought this was an open-and-shut case.”

  “So did I. But if Becky wants to hire me, something’s up!”

  “Aunt Cora—”

  “Figure it out, goosey! Why would that woman want to hire me if Joey did it? What could I possibly find?”

  “But—”

  “Phooey!” Cora Felton exclaimed, flinging the front door open. “You don’t wanna come, fine! I’m outta here!”

  Cora bounded down the front steps, jumped into the car, gunned the motor, and took off.

  Sherry watched her go with mixed emotions.

  Her aunt was about to stick her nose in where she had no business.

  But her Bloody Mary was untouched on the kitchen table.

  JOEY AND JUDY VALE LIVED ON THE WRONG SIDE OF town, if a town such as Bakerhaven could be said to have a wrong side. To Cora’s surprise, it did. Cora gunned the Toyota rashly over the railroad crossing—the wooden bed of the trestle had worn low—and turned onto a street of decidedly less-desirable housing. The lots to the right were all close together and bordered on the train tracks. The lots to the left were similarly squished and abutted a power line.

  Cora drove by slowly, looking for 23 Barlow Street. According to the guy at the general store, Barlow should have been the next street on the left.

  It was. Barlow was a short street, curving down to a dead end at the fence around the power-line towers. Twenty-three was an exaggeration—there were only four houses on the road, with street numbers ranging from seven to forty-six.

  Cora had no problem finding the Vale house. There was a crime-scene ribbon across the front door, and two women in housecoats were on the front lawn, jabbering at each other in an animated fashion.

  Cora snorted in disgust. How stereotypical. The men go off to work, and the women stay home. The fact Cora hadn’t worked a day in her life never crossed her mind.


  Cora got out of the car in full Miss Marple mode and made her way across the street. “Well, ladies,” she said, “what seems to be the trouble?”

  The women stopped gabbling, looked at her. The larger of the two, a horsey-faced woman in fat curlers and a pink scarf, said, “Well, look who it is. Hey, Charlotte, you know who this is?”

  Charlotte, a smaller woman with curly blond hair, peered at Cora, then smiled in recognition. “Sure I do. She’s the one running the dirty game.”

  Cora frowned.

  “Oh, behave,” the woman in curlers said to her pal. “Really. Dirty game.” She shook her head, then turned to Cora, slapped on her hundred-watt smile. “It’s the Puzzle Lady, just like on TV. You here for the murder?”

  “I sure am,” Cora answered. “You happen to know anything about it?”

  “Anything?” the big woman in curlers said. “We know everything. He killed her, just like that. Oh, I’m Betty Felson, that’s Charlotte Drake.”

  “Pleased to meetcha,” Cora said. “Now, what do you mean, he killed her? Who killed her?”

  “Her husband, of course,” Betty said, and Charlotte nodded agreement. Betty seemed to be the more dominant of the pair. Cora wondered vaguely if that was due to her size.

  “Her husband. That would be Joey Vale?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What makes you think he killed her?”

  Betty snorted. “Well, who else? Damn near killed her many times. Not that she didn’t give him cause.” Charlotte’s chimed-in approval seemed slightly half-hearted to Cora. “Hey, I’m not saying playing around justifies murder,” Betty added. “If it did, we’d all be dead.”

  This time, Charlotte’s protests were vehement. Betty ignored them. “All I’m saying is, Judy overdid it. Stuck it in his face, you know what I mean. Like she’d have a new boyfriend on the side, and like as not Joey’d find out about it. ‘Cause she wasn’t careful what she said, you know what I mean? She was indiscreet.”

  “She’d tell her husband?” Cora asked skeptically.

  “No, she wouldn’t,” Charlotte replied, clearly pleased to have the information. “And she wouldn’t tell us either. But I live right next door, and I could hear. When they’d fight, I mean. And he was coming to her with rumors. Something he heard somewhere else.”

  “In the bar,” Betty contributed. “In the Rainbow Room.”

  “Sometimes the Rainbow Room,” Charlotte conceded. “But sometimes somewhere else.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me,” Betty protested. “I never told him anything about his wife. Even if I know things, I always keep them to myself.”

  “What sort of things?” Cora asked sweetly.

  Betty made a face. “That was just a for-instance. I don’t know anything. I didn’t even know they’d had a fight.”

  “Well, I did,” Charlotte said. “I heard Joey storm out of here. Last night, right before supper. At least before my supper. He didn’t get any supper. Pulled into the driveway, slammed the car door. I knew it was going to be bad just from how hard that door slammed. Then he was inside yelling at her. Who’s it this time, does she think he’s a fool, does she think he doesn’t know?”

  “Did he?” Cora inquired.

  “What?”

  “Know,” Cora said. “Did Joey know who it was this time?”

  “Well, he knew who he thought it was. That Billy Pickens from the paper mill. At least that’s what he said.”

  “And was it true?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Charlotte said. “I mind my own business.”

  Cora managed to keep a straight face. “That’s too bad, under the circumstances. Is there anyone around here doesn’t mind their business?”

  “Of course,” Betty said. She leveled her stubby finger at the house across the street. “Old lady Roth. She’s a widow, living on Social Security, sits with her nose glued to the window. Probably watching us now.”

  “Did the police talk to her?”

  “Sure did.”

  “What’d she say?”

  Charlotte snorted derisively. “As if she talks to us.”

  The widow Roth lived in a modest two-story house that had fallen on hard times. Cora could feel eyes on her from the front window as she came up the walk. Cora went up on the porch and rang the doorbell. It didn’t work. At least she heard nothing inside—no chime, no buzz, no bell. Cora knocked on the door. After a few moments, she knocked again.

  There was no sound of footsteps approaching, but the door was suddenly yanked open, and a hideous troll face peered out of the gloom inside.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” snarled the troll.

  Cora Felton favored the troll with her best breakfast-cereal-selling smile. “I’m Cora Felton. I’d like to talk to you about the murder across the street. That is, if you’re Mrs. Roth.”

  “That’s me. Are you a reporter?”

  “Oh, no. I assure you, I’m not from the press.”

  Cora Felton had the impression Mrs. Roth scowled, but her face had been so forbidding from the start that it was hard to tell.

  “That’s annoying,” Mrs. Roth said. “I’ve been expecting reporters.”

  Cora swiftly reversed fields. “I know a reporter, and I’d be glad to send him over. If I could just ask you a few questions first …”

  “Very well.” Mrs. Roth stepped aside and ushered her in to a living room that was neat as a pin and looked as if it hadn’t been used since the nineteen fifties. The couch was vinyl. A black-and-white TV was on a metal stand and had rabbit ears on top.

  The windows had roller shades, which were down. The shade to the left, Cora noted, was slightly curled and had fingerprint smudges at eye level for anyone sitting down. A straight-backed chair stood between the windows in easy reach.

  The living room was dark. The overhead light was out. The only illumination came from a floor lamp in a corner.

  Cora sized Mrs. Roth up. The troll wore a simple print dress and a knit shawl and seemed less ogrelike in the shadows of the room.

  And she had wanted to talk to a reporter.

  Cora pointed to the smudges on the shade. “You watch from the window?”

  “Absolutely.” Far from being offended, Mrs. Roth seemed proud. “I see everything that goes on.”

  “You see the police come this morning?”

  Mrs. Roth jerked her thumb at the couch. “Sit down. I’ll tell you what happened, then you tell the reporter, then he can come.”

  Cora sat on the couch. Mrs. Roth sat opposite in an easy chair. “So,” Mrs. Roth said. “The woman came this morning to pick her up for tennis. How do I know? Because it’s the same woman all the time, and Judy always carries a racket when she leaves. So I see the woman’s car pull in the drive, routine, no big deal, I don’t bother to watch. In fact, I went in the kitchen, made myself a cup of tea. I get back and the car’s still there. Which makes no sense. How long does it take to pick someone up? Then I hear the siren, and the police car pulls up. It’s the chief himself. He runs inside, is out minutes later with Cindy Fuller. That’s the woman came to pick her up. Believe me, he is not happy. Now I know why. Cops don’t like it when you run around a crime scene. Cindy Fuller goes in, finds Judy dead on the kitchen floor, and—get this—uses the kitchen phone to call the cops. No wonder the chief’s upset.”

  “And what happened then?” Cora prompted, unnecessarily. Mrs. Roth was clearly primed to spill all she knew.

  “Another police car pulls up with the young cop in it. Dan Finley. The chief passes Cindy Fuller off to Finley. Just in time to deal with the EMS guys. They all go in together. The doctor shows up last.”

  “And the police talked to you?”

  “Sure did. The chief, himself, came over to take my statement.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “Oh, I knew a thing or two. But I didn’t let him off as easy as that. You think he got anything out of me without talking first?”

  “You made him
tell you what was going on?”

  Mrs. Roth’s eyes twinkled. “I merely inquired why he needed to know. He soon realized he wasn’t going to get any information unless I felt it was relevant.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “What I already knew. Cindy Fuller’d come to pick up Judy Vale, rung the bell, got no answer, gone inside, found her dead on the kitchen floor.”

  “How’d Cindy get in?”

  “The front door was unlocked.”

  “Was that usual?”

  “I don’t know, because Judy always came to the door before.”

  “Good point,” Cora agreed. “So what did you tell the chief?”

  “What I saw.”

  “Which was?”

  “Joey and Judy had a fight last night.”

  “Was that usual?”

  “Like the sun coming up.”

  “What did they fight about?”

  “Another man.”

  “Who?”

  “Couldn’t tell you.”

  Cora frowned. “How come?”

  Mrs. Roth pointed toward the window. “The light over her front door. Most nights it’s on. But some nights it’s off. Those were the nights. The nights he’d come.”

  “Her lover?”

  “Well, what do you think? The TV repairman? Who comes at night when her husband’s gone and the lights are all out?”

  “How often did he come?”

  “He? What makes you think it’s one?”

  “What makes you think it’s more?”

  “Even in the dark you can tell the difference. Light step. Heavy tread.”

  “But never during the day? Why not during the day when her husband works?”

  “For all to see?” Mrs. Roth scoffed. “Trip up the path in broad daylight? I think not. And most men work too. Anyway, that’s how she does it. At night, when her husband takes off, she turns out the light. And then someone sneaks over.”

  “From where?”

  “No one’s stupid enough to drive up the drive. If it’s no one from around here, they must leave the car down the road and walk up. Anyway, that’s what Joey’s bawling her out about last night. Then he takes off in a huff, and, wouldn’t you know it, after he’s gone her light goes out again.”