Puzzled to Death

by Parnell Hall

  Cora’s eyes widened. “Her lover came by last night!”

  “That he did. And isn’t that a fine state of affairs, the very same night her husband’s bawling her out.”

  “You told this to the police?”

  “Absolutely. The chief was very interested. He was disappointed I couldn’t give him a name.”

  “But you heard the man call on her. Around what time was that?”

  “Late. Around ten o’clock.”

  “What time did the man leave?”

  “I don’t know. I went to bed.”

  “You went to bed?”

  “Well, why not? It’s not like I could see anything. Or hear anything. Their bedroom’s in the back. So I don’t know, it’s just how long he stays, why should I wait up for that?”

  “What if her husband came home?”

  “But he wouldn’t. Joey’s off drinking, he stays till the Rainbow Room closes, one o’clock. Which is what she counts on, why it’s safe for men to come. As long as they’re gone before one. Not that she ever cuts it that close. Gone before midnight, sure enough, every time I’ve waited up.”

  “Except last night you didn’t.”

  Mrs. Roth seemed crestfallen. “No, I didn’t. The one time it would have done some good. ’Course, I would have had to wait up till after one. When Joey came home. And finally went too far.”

  “That’s your theory?” Cora said, sensing a kindred spirit. “That Joey killed her when he got home?”

  The look that Mrs. Roth gave her implied that Cora must not have a brain in her head. “Of course he did. He got home, found the proof she’d been seeing another man. What, I don’t know, but he did. Maybe it was footprints from the guy’s boots. Or something he dropped—a handkerchief, a card, maybe even a condom wrapper. Whatever, Joey knows the guy’s been there, and he blows up and strangles Judy.”

  “At one o’clock in the morning?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And then he sits up all night with the corpse and calmly leaves for work in the morning.”

  “Calmly, no, but leaves for work, yes, he does, ’cause as far as he’s concerned he’s gotta go on acting like nothing happened.”

  “You saw him leave for work?”

  “Oh, yes, I did.”

  “And he was excited?”

  “Excited doesn’t cover it. It’s too mild a word.”

  “Wait a minute,” Cora objected. “You’re saying when Joey Vale left for work this morning you knew something was wrong?”

  “That I did.”

  “Then how come you didn’t call the police?”

  “I knew something was wrong. I didn’t know Judy was dead.”

  “Couldn’t what was wrong be the fact they fought and never made up? And he got up and left for work still in a foul mood? And after he did, someone came and strangled his wife?”

  “Couldn’t have happened.” Mrs. Roth was firm.

  “Why not?”

  “No one came near that house from the time Joey left for work until Cindy Fuller came to pick Judy up to play tennis. I’d have seen anyone.”

  “Okay,” Cora said. “So what about the night before? You say you went to bed. What if the guy who came last night killed Judy before he left? Then Joey gets home around one, climbs into bed in the dark, climbs out of bed in the morning, and goes off to work with no idea anything was wrong?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Oh?”

  “I told you. I saw Joey leave for work.”

  “And?”

  Mrs. Roth looked smug. “He knew something was wrong.”

  “How do you know?”

  Mrs. Roth grimaced. “Here’s where the police are giving me a hard time. They claim I should have notified them. Like you were saying before. But is that fair? I think not. After all, it’s his house.”

  “What do you mean, it’s his house?”

  “Just like I say. Maybe he was acting funny, but he wasn’t doing anything illegal. So why should I call the police?”

  “About what?” Cora said, baffled. “What did you see Joey Vale do?”

  Mrs. Roth pointed toward her window. “The road curves. From that window there you can see the front of their house. You can also see the side. The kitchen side. Where she was found.”

  “So? What did you see?”

  “Joey Vale, breaking the lock on his own kitchen door.”

  “HE DID IT,” CORA FELTON SAID BITTERLY, TWISTING the top off the vodka bottle. Cora was making herself a Bloody Mary, and nothing Sherry could say was going to stop her. Cora simply wasn’t in the mood. She raised the glass, tilted the bottle, poured in a generous slug.

  “What makes you think he did it?” Sherry had been seated at the kitchen table making up clues for the Puzzle Lady column when Cora stomped in.

  “I don’t think, I know,” Cora said. “He lied to the police, and he lied to his lawyer. Claimed he didn’t even know she was dead. Well, guess what? He knew perfectly well.”

  “That’s an assumption.”

  Cora snorted, fetched the tomato juice from the refrigerator. “They got a witness who saw him breaking the lock on the kitchen door. So he could claim later that someone broke in and strangled her.”

  “I admit that’s not good.”

  “You needn’t sound so pleased,” Cora groused. “I know you’re eager to see Becky Baldwin fail. Well, boy, did you luck out. Her client’s a lying, killing creep.”

  “Is that all you’ve got?” Sherry asked mildly.

  “Isn’t that enough?” Cora was so angry she skipped the spices. She stirred the vodka and tomato juice with her finger.

  “Maybe not,” Sherry said. “Say Joey found Judy’s body, panicked, figured he’d be the chief suspect, and tried to make it look like someone else did it.”

  “I like it,” Cora said, taking a huge gulp. “Now you’re thinking like me. I don’t believe it for a minute, but I like it just fine.”

  “Aunt Cora, I don’t know if it’s my place to point this out, but might I remind you that you didn’t take Becky Baldwin’s offer. You’re under no obligation to her whatsoever. Her or her client. And if the guy turns out to be guilty, it’s no skin off your nose.”

  “Oh,” Cora said. “Is that tough-guy talk? Skin off your nose? Next you’ll be talking about grilling suspects and casing joints.”

  “Skin off your nose is a standard figure of speech,” Sherry pointed out. “It may be trite, but it’s perfectly ordinary and not related to crime.”

  “It’s also wrong,” Cora said. “You think it doesn’t bother me this guy did it? You think I shouldn’t be disappointed that instead of an interesting murder it’s dull?”

  “I’m just surprised to see you give up so easy. So the guy lied to his lawyer. Half the suspects on TV lie to their lawyers.”

  “That’s fiction. And not very good fiction at that. They lie to the lawyers to stretch it out for sixty minutes ’cause otherwise there’s no plot. And they turn out to be innocent because it’s TV. In real life, people lie to their lawyer because they committed the crime.”

  “Okay,” Sherry said. “What if this guy comes home drunk as a skunk, passes out, wakes up the next morning, and finds his wife dead. He doesn’t remember killing her, but he was so drunk he doesn’t remember anything, so he thinks he must have. So he lies to his lawyer.”

  “And takes a crowbar to the kitchen door?”

  “Why not? He’s gotta back up his lie.”

  “That’s mighty thin.”

  “You don’t think it’s worth investigating?”

  “You want me to investigate this murder?”

  “Well, what’s stopping you?”

  The doorbell rang.

  Sherry got up, went out through the living room, and opened the door.

  Chief Harper stood on the front steps. He didn’t look happy, but it occurred to Sherry she couldn’t remember the last time he did.

  “Your aunt in?” Harper grunted.

&nbs
p; “She’s in the kitchen. Why?”

  “She’s doing it again.”

  Harper pushed by Sherry and headed for the kitchen.

  Cora Felton had taken advantage of the interruption to freshen up her Bloody Mary. She was tasting the result when the chief walked in.

  “Oh, great,” he said. “Drinking a toast to your murder investigation, no doubt.”

  “Well, whatever’s gotten into you?” Cora asked. “Would a cup of coffee make you less grouchy?”

  “Skip the coffee. Didn’t you just come from Joey Vale’s house?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “There’s a crime-scene ribbon up, Chief. I couldn’t possibly go in there.”

  Harper’s scowl deepened. “Don’t trade words with me. You were out there talking to the neighbors.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “That’s not your job. That’s my job. And it’s rather irritating when people interfere with my job.”

  “It was almost my job,” Cora Felton said.

  That derailed Chief Harper’s train of thought. “It was what?”

  “Becky Baldwin tried to hire me to do her legwork. I turned her down.”

  Harper’s eyes narrowed. “Becky Baldwin tried to hire you?”

  “There’re no PIs in town. The boys from the city want travel time.”

  “Is that right?” He considered this. “So what did she tell you about the case?”

  “That’s funny.”

  “What?”

  “She was asking the same about you.”

  “It’s a laugh riot. So what did she tell you?”

  “The same thing her client told you.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No. What could there be?”

  Chief Harper didn’t answer, rubbed his chin. “So you turned her down and went out snooping anyway.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “You’re not denying you were out there talking to the neighbors?”

  “Chief, what could it possibly matter? You got the killer in jail, you got an open-and-shut case. What’s the big deal?”

  Chief Harper slumped into a chair and sighed. “Barney Nathan just completed his autopsy.”

  “Don’t tell me …”

  “That’s right. According to the doc, Judy Vale was killed sometime last night between the hours of nine and eleven. By all accounts Joey Vale didn’t leave the Rainbow Room until after one.”

  “Hot damn! You mean he’s innocent?”

  “I just got through getting the guy arraigned. Now Becky Baldwin will be hunting up the judge and getting the charges dropped. Henry Firth’s madder than a wet hen. I’m sure the prosecutor will have some choice words in the course of the proceeding about the police department. As if it’s our fault the guy’s got an alibi. The point is, I’m back to square one, and when I start in questioning the neighbors I find out someone’s beat me to it.”

  “Second time around.”

  “Cora,” Sherry cautioned. “I don’t think the chief wants to argue.”

  “Good guess.” Chief Harper leveled a finger at Cora Felton. “You listen to your niece. She’s like the voice of reason, you know what I mean? So listen to her and understand. This murder is very bad news. We got the charity event this weekend to get through—which won’t be easy with those dingbats protesting. On top of that we got this unsolved murder hanging over our heads. With people coming to town, that’s not good. I need to solve this case, and I need to solve it fast. And I don’t need someone messing it up.”

  “I’ve helped you in the past,” Cora pointed out.

  “That you have,” Chief Harper agreed. “When the crime was crossword puzzle–related. This one isn’t. It’s a simple, straightforward crime. There’s no reason for you to be involved. And there’s no way I can justify your involvement. The prosecutor asks, what’s that woman doing messing around, I don’t have an answer. So I can’t have you snooping around Joey Vale’s house.”

  Cora took a sip of Bloody Mary. “Chief. Say no more. I understand perfectly. You made your point. And you have my word. I promise you. I won’t go near your crime scene.”

  THE RAINBOW ROOM WAS A LONG, LOW, CINDER-BLOCK building with neon in the windows and a front-door sign that was higher than the roof. It was dark when Cora got there, and the sign was blinking. The parking lot was half full and seemed to have as many trucks as cars. Cora pulled in between a green pickup truck and a white minivan, locked her car, and went inside.

  The Rainbow Room was pretty much what Cora expected: a horseshoe-shaped bar, booths along the walls, a pool table, a jukebox, and a noisy cluster of bowling and basketball machines. The clientele was mostly working-class men.

  There was a space at the bar, and Cora squeezed in. The bartender wore his hair short in front and long in back and looked too young to drink. He rubbed his closely trimmed mustache, said, “What’llya have?”

  “Gin and tonic,” Cora ventured, wondering what she’d get. The glass the bartender grabbed was a bad omen—an eight-ounce tumbler that might have served for a scotch and soda but was a far cry from the tall, cool, frosted glass she was accustomed to. But Cora accepted it without comment, offered a ten-dollar bill. The bartender rang it up, slid her change across the bar. The modest price of the mixed drink underlined what a step down the Rainbow Room was from her usual haunts.

  “Thanks,” Cora told him. “Could you help me out?”

  The bartender frowned. Other customers were waiting for his service. “Whaddya need?”

  “Joey Vale.”

  His eyebrows raised momentarily, then his eyes flicked around the room. “Shooting pool,” he grunted in reply, and moved on down the bar.

  There were two men at the pool table. A large man in work boots, overalls, and a New York Knicks T-shirt, and a smaller, wiry man in blue jeans, a T-shirt, and a heavy red-and-black checkered shirt. The shirt was untucked and unbuttoned, even the sleeves, and as the man bent over the pool table to line up a ball it hung off him like a sail.

  Cora turned to the man on the barstool next to her, a geezer wearing horn-rimmed glasses and nursing a beer. He looked at her and his eyes lit up behind the thick lenses. “You’re the breakfast-cereal lady. You solved those murders. Is that why you want Joey?”

  “I’d like to talk to him.”

  “He didn’t do it. The cops thought he did, but he didn’t. How do you like that?”

  “And how do you know that?” Cora countered.

  “Joey told us.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Just that. The police thought he killed her, now they know he didn’t. Something about time of death. Turns out we’re all witnesses.”

  “To the fact he was here last night?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And was he?”

  “Sure. Joey’s here every night.”

  “Yes, but did you see him here last night?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “The whole time? Could he have left at some point, gone away, and come back?”

  “Joey? Nah. He always sticks around.”

  “Last night in particular?”

  “Every night in particular. He’d lose his place at the table.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The geezer pointed. “You see on the side of the pool table there? Where the coin slot is? There’s a row of quarters lined up on the edge of the table. Those are the people waiting to play. You sit around, you sip your beer, you watch your quarter move up. When it gets to the head of the line you better have three more quarters ready, ’cause it costs a buck a game.”

  “And Joey was shooting pool last night?”

  “Played him myself.” He frowned. “Either last night or the night before.”

  “Is that right? And which one did you say was Joey?”

  “Don’t believe I did, but it’s the guy in the floppy shirt.”

  “Uh-huh,” Cora said. She watched the man in
the dangling shirt line up a shot on one of the striped balls. The shot caromed around the pocket and didn’t go in.

  “First time here?” the man on the barstool asked.

  Cora Felton smiled. “I didn’t even know they had a place like this in Bakerhaven.”

  “That’s cause they don’t.”

  “What?”

  The man was smug. “This here’s Clarksonville. Just over the town line. Bakerhaven zoning don’t cut no ice with us.”

  “Tell me something,” Cora said. “Don’t you think it’s a little strange, Joey here shooting pool and his wife’s newly dead?”

  He grinned. “Well, you gotta remember. Joey’s a celebrity, with his wife getting killed. Earlier, when he’s talking about it, just about everyone bought him a beer. ’Course, he had to drink ’em just to be polite. At any rate, he’s pretty snockered now. I wouldn’t hold playing pool against him.”

  Cora watched Joey line up another shot. After he missed, Joey grabbed his bottle of beer by the neck, took a swig.

  “What’ll he do when the game’s over?” she asked.

  “If he wins, he’ll play the guy who put up the next quarter.”

  He didn’t win. Joey scratched on the eight ball, threw his cue down in disgust, and headed for the men’s room.

  Cora was waiting when he came out. She followed him to a booth where four empty beer bottles and three full ones were waiting. Sliding into the seat opposite him, she said, “Hi, Joey.”

  Joey Vale looked at Cora Felton as if she were a creature from Mars. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Cora Felton. I’m here to help you.”

  “Help me? You’re here to help me?”

  “If you want to know who killed your wife.”

  Joey’s eyes widened. They were very red, whether from crying or alcohol Cora couldn’t tell. “You know?” he murmured incredulously.

  Cora felt a pang of guilt. “No, I don’t. But I intend to find out.”

  Joey bobbed his head. “Good, good. You find out.” His interest wandered to the beer bottles on the table. He stared at them, probably trying to figure out which were full. Cora could practically see his mind working, trying to come up with a means of determining this.

  “Who do you think killed her?” Cora asked.

  Joey looked at her in alarm. “Didn’t do it,” he mumbled. “I didn’t do it.”