Puzzled to Death

by Parnell Hall

  “Well, they’re not going to,” Iris Cooper declared. “We’ve already taken in our entrance fees. We’ve got a nice chunk of money to give to charity.” She cleared her throat. “And as far as the charity’s concerned, I looked into the Children’s Placement Fund. They’re a dedicated group of concerned citizens, and they do good work. And we’re damn proud to be giving money to them, and that is our official position. I note this morning the pickets are gone. I assume that is a side effect of yesterday’s unfortunate tragedy. Not that I want to profit from that poor woman’s death, but I would hope the pickets are still gone tomorrow when everyone arrives. Now, let’s see how our committees have worked out.”

  As Iris Cooper began to deal with the committee members, Cora Felton stole out into the audience and slipped into the chair next to Sherry.

  “He’s on to me!” Cora hissed it out of the side of her mouth like a gangster.

  “What in the world are you talking about?” Sherry said.

  “Beerbaum. Weren’t you listening? His little demonstration? I told you so. He’s trying to show me up.”

  “No, he’s not. Didn’t you see how fast he dropped the idea?”

  “Only because I suggested the celebrities donate puzzles. Well, that’s fine for now. What if I can’t come up with a bright idea next time?”

  “Cool it. We got company,” Sherry warned.

  Chief Harper slid into the seat next to Cora.

  “What are you doing here?” Cora asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve solved the crime?”

  “No, I haven’t. And just where were you last night?”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh,” Chief Harper mimicked. “You can wipe that innocent smirk off your face. Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Tell me, did you have a nice time at the Rainbow Room last night?”

  “Their drinks are a little skimpy.”

  “Is that so? By any chance do you recall a conversation we had a little earlier in the day?”

  “What conversation might that be?”

  “The one where I told you to butt out of my case.”

  “Oh, I doubt if you phrased it like that, Chief. I’ve always found you to be a perfect gentleman.”

  “That assessment may change,” Chief Harper said sourly. “Didn’t I tell you in no uncertain terms to keep your nose out of the Judy Vale murder?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Well, perhaps your niece will bear me out here. She happened to be party to the conversation. Miss Carter, would you care to refresh your aunt’s recollection?”

  Sherry smiled. “I would if I thought it would do any good. But I’m afraid you’re about to take one on the chin, Chief.”

  Chief Harper frowned. “What’s she talking about?” he demanded of Cora.

  Cora shrugged. “You bawled me out for going to Joey Vale’s house, so I promised to stay away from the crime scene. But that’s all I promised.”

  “You knew very well what I meant.”

  “Intent is tough to prove. Even in a court of law. When it’s your own intent—or what’s worse, when it’s someone’s perception of your intent—”

  “Spare me,” Chief Harper snapped. “Anyway, I trust you got nowhere. Other than confirming Joey Vale’s alibi.”

  “On the contrary,” Cora said cheerfully. “I came up with several ways Joey Vale could have committed the crime.”

  “Aunt Cora …” Sherry warned, but Cora waved her away and proceeded to tell Chief Harper the theories she’d outlined for her niece the night before.

  As he listened, Chief Harper’s scowl became a glower. “Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Did you read that in some mystery book? That’s the only place that kind of thing happens, in mystery books. No one runs around killing people like that in real life.”

  “Why not?”

  Chief Harper snorted. “Because nobody thinks like that. You’d have to have the most twisted brain imaginable just to come up with such a convoluted scheme. I think I’ll kill my wife, stick her in the freezer, and go shoot pool. Wonderful. Could we come back to planet earth?”

  “How about strangling her in the trunk of the car?”

  “How about it?” Chief Harper scoffed. “Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with? This is not some suave murderer here. This is Joey Vale, used to popping his wife one when she gets out of line. And don’t you dare quote me on that. The point is, is there any way Joey Vale comes up with one of these schemes? No, he kills her and tells some clumsy lie, doesn’t stand up ten minutes when we start asking him questions.”

  “I thought his lawyer wouldn’t let him answer any questions.”

  “Yeah, but we had him a while before he asked for a lawyer. And his story isn’t the sophisticated alibi you lay out, it’s a moronic fabrication that wouldn’t stand up even if he hadn’t been seen breaking the lock on his kitchen door. Which is bad for him in one way, and good in another. Where it’s good is, when it turns out he has an alibi, it’s because he has an alibi. Not because he contrived to make it look like he had an alibi through some cockamamie scheme. You see what I mean?”

  “Your logic is a trifle convoluted. Still, I get the fundamental idea.”

  “Do you? Good. Then you see where I’m at. Joey Vale is innocent. Which means I’m back to square one without a clue who could have killed this woman.”

  “What did she look like?” Cora asked.

  Chief Harper blinked. “What?”

  “Well, this picture in the paper …” Cora dug into her purse, pulled out a copy of the Bakerhaven Gazette, and flipped it open. HOUSEWIFE MURDERED screamed from the front page. The photograph under the headline showed a young woman without a blemish, every hair in place, smiling for the camera. “Look at this picture of Judy Vale. She looks eighteen years old.”

  “She is,” Chief Harper said. “It’s a yearbook photo.”

  “Why?”

  “Her husband’s not cooperating, and the Gazette couldn’t get anything else.”

  “How old was she? When she died, I mean?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “You wouldn’t know it from this. Maybe I should see the body—”

  “No, you shouldn’t see the body,” Chief Harper snarled in exasperation. “I didn’t come here to facilitate your investigation. I came here to stop your investigation. I got a murder case to solve. I got this stupid tournament starting tomorrow, which I don’t like, but I don’t wanna call it off and make waves. I just want it run smoothly.” He stabbed a finger at Cora. “That’s your job. Keep everybody distracted, play down the murder, bring this puzzle event off without a hitch.”

  Cora Felton looked like she’d been told to gargle gasoline. “And what will you be doing while I’m doing this?”

  “I’ll be working on the murder case.”

  “Got any leads?”

  Chief Harper grimaced. “What I’ve been trying to impress on you is that’s not your concern.”

  “Gotta like the husband. I just showed you why you shouldn’t cross him off.”

  “I just told you why I should.”

  “He’s still your chief suspect,” Cora persisted. “Say he’s not bright enough to manufacture an alibi. Say he just lucks into it.”

  “All your theories involved sticking her into a refrigerator, or tying her up in a car trunk. You mind telling me how he lucks into that?”

  “He doesn’t luck into that. He lucks into doctor what’s-his-face blowing the autopsy. Which frankly wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”

  “How could he blow the time of death as much as that?”

  “Easy,” Cora replied, “if he’s basing it on body temperature. Your quack’s assuming her body temperature at time of death was ninety-eight point six. Suppose it wasn’t. Suppose she was running a fever. Say the body temperature at time of death was a hundred and one point six. Three degrees higher. Since the body cools at a rate of a degree and a half per hour, three degrees would throw the time of death off by two hours. So in
stead of between nine and eleven, the possible time of death would be between seven and nine. While her husband was still home. Joey throttles her, then goes off to the bar to shoot pool to give himself an alibi, because he’s too stupid to know the doctor will be able to tell when she was actually whacked. He lucks into the fact she had a fever. So, lo and behold, the stupid alibi that shouldn’t hold up suddenly turns out to be valid.”

  Cora smiled. “But, hey, don’t let me sell you anything, Chief. You go right ahead and solve your murder. I’ve got a tournament to run.”

  EARLY FRIDAY MORNING THE TOURNAMENT PLANNING committee volunteers, heavily armed with ladders, hammers, nails, thumbtacks, and masking tape, descended on the Bakerhaven town hall like locusts. They festooned it from top to bottom with red, yellow, and blue balloons, red, white, and blue streamers, and a long blue and white banner proudly proclaiming The Bakerhaven Charity Crossword-Puzzle Tournament, in preparation for the contestants’ registration, scheduled to begin at noon.

  At approximately eleven fifty-five it began to rain, a steady, drenching downpour that released over half the balloons, popped most of the others, and uncurled the streamers before washing them away.

  Regrettably, one end of the banner tore loose. More regrettably, the other end held, creating a gigantic, soggy whip that lashed at anyone attempting to get up the town-hall steps.

  Luckily, Fun Night didn’t start until eight o’clock that evening, so there was a chance the storm would blow over, and under ordinary circumstances the contestants would just have holed up in their bed-and-breakfasts, inns, and motels until then. However, the Bakerhaven Charity Crossword-Puzzle Tournament was being run by committee, and the tournament welcoming committee, a splinter group formed by a vicious difference of opinion within the tournament reception committee, had in their infinite wisdom decreed that tournament contestants must register at the town hall on Friday afternoon before five o’clock.

  This was utter nonsense, of course. The tournament was for charity, the contestants were paying to enter, the town wanted as many contestants as possible, and no one was going to be turned away, whether they met some arbitrary registration deadline or not. However, as a result of a deluge of officious memos on the part of the welcoming committee, which had gone out with the mailings, the majority of the contestants complied with their wishes and showed up at town hall before five P.M. Most of them, however, did not look happy about it.

  None was less pleased than Cora Felton, whom the committee had decreed should be on hand with Harvey Beerbaum to greet each entrant. She and Sherry arrived at noon, a good hour before the first contestants, who began drifting in around one-thirty and continued to trickle in as the wet afternoon wore on. Most of them were people Cora had never seen before—crossword-puzzle enthusiasts who had shown up just for the tournament—but a few were locals, some of whom Cora recognized but could not place. She greeted them all with the trademark Puzzle Lady smile plastered on her face, apologizing for the inclement weather as if it were something over which she had some control, even as she attempted to dodge their dripping raincoats and umbrellas.

  Her choice of such a mundane topic of conversation as the weather was not entirely accidental. Alarmed by the influx of so many puzzle experts, Cora was eager to deflect any conversation from her column. To her relief, none of the experts seemed inclined to discuss it. It was midafternoon before Cora learned why.

  A man came in with a blue raincoat and blue rain hat. The brim, which turned up, was full of water, although the man did not seem to be aware of it. He made his way to the front of the room, where the Bakerhaven welcoming committee had pushed three tables together to form the registration area. Hanging from the front of the tables were the signs: A–H, I–P, Q–Z. Each table was manned by a beaming, welcoming committeewoman. Happy or not, the women displayed all outward signs of good cheer, as decided in their committee meeting.

  The man in the blue raincoat approached the middle table, manned by Mrs. Cushman, the genial proprietor of Cushman’s Bake Shop, whose actual baking skills were suspect and whose pastries were rumored to be trucked in daily from New York City. The man leaned forward, sending a shower of water from his hat brim cascading down on the table. Mrs. Cushman yelped and immediately put her hands protectively around the name tags, which were in plastic pin-on holders and which she had painstakingly arranged alphabetically in rows. She was less concerned with the plastic bags containing giveaways—crossword-puzzle magazines, pencils, and flyers consisting largely of local advertising, the inclusion of which had been hotly debated by the committee.

  “My, my,” Mrs. Cushman said, struggling to keep her smiling face within committee guidelines. “You could use a towel, couldn’t you?”

  The man frowned. “Why?”

  He wasn’t joking. His view of the world was clearly rather narrowly defined.

  “Because of the rain,” Mrs. Cushman said politely. “Are you here to register?”

  The man nodded yes, releasing a fresh stream of water, but Mrs. Cushman had already swept most of the name tags to safety. “Fine,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “Ned Doowacker.”

  That response pleased Mrs. Cushman immensely. “Then I’m afraid you’re in the wrong line. This is the I–P line. You want the A–H line over there.”

  “That’s silly,” Ned Doowacker retorted. “It’s not like there was anyone in line behind me. Why can’t you help me?”

  “Because I don’t have your personal name badge.” Mrs. Cushman pointed to Edith Potter, the librarian, who was manning the A–H table. “She does. That’s why it’s alphabetical.”

  “Oh.” Ned Doowacker wheeled around, sending an icy spray of water in all directions, and stomped to the next table, where Edith had already moved the name tags out of the line of fire and immediately produced his.

  “Here you are, Mr. Doowacker,” Edith told him. “I’ve already checked you off the list. Here’s your name tag and your complimentary gift bag. Say hello to our cohosts and you’re all set.”

  Ned Doowacker approached Harvey Beerbaum. Fortunately, Ned had already shaken off most of the water, for he bobbed his head up and down animatedly while he proceeded to take Harvey Beerbaum to task, to the best Cora could determine, for a puzzle Harvey had created over three years ago and could hardly remember, though Doowacker remembered it well, feeling that one of the clues was misleading if not out and out improperly worded.

  Cora couldn’t help smiling, until Mr. Doowacker wheeled on her. She braced herself, but the man just said bluntly, and apparently without the slightest concept of being rude, “I don’t do your puzzles. They’re way too easy.”

  “How do you like that?” Cora grumbled to Sherry, after Ned Doowacker had banged out the front door—most likely, in Cora’s opinion, to reload his hat brim. “The man doesn’t do my puzzles. My puzzles are too easy.”

  “It is rather amusing,” Sherry said.

  “Amusing?” Cora grumbled. “It’s downright insulting. Am I supposed to smile and be nice while someone tells me that?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “You don’t? Well, guess what: He’s the first contestant all day to even mention my column. I mean, here I am, standing up there like a boob, introducing myself and shaking their hands, and none of them wants to talk about my column.”

  “You don’t have a column.”

  “That’s not the point. They think I do.”

  “Cora, let me be sure I understand this. You’re taking umbrage at the fact no one’s showing you sufficient respect for a talent you do not in fact possess?”

  “When you put it like that it sounds stupid.”

  “Well, would you like to put it so it sounds smart?”

  “Sherry, this is your work that’s being disparaged. Aren’t you hurt?”

  “Why should I be? We have a mass-market column with a broad appeal. It’s syndicated to 256 newspapers. Unlike The New York Times crossword, which starts out easy on Monda
y and gets harder every day, our column is consistent. The level of difficulty does not change. Basically, anyone entered in this tournament will find our puzzles too easy. Otherwise they wouldn’t be in the tournament.”

  Aaron Grant came in the door, snapped his bright red umbrella shut, shook the water off, and hurried over. “Hi, gang. How’s it going?”

  “Cora’s doing great,” Sherry replied. “She’s charming the experts. But she’s offended none of them takes the Puzzle Lady column seriously.”

  Aaron grinned. “Gee, that’s tough, Cora. Why don’t you dazzle them with your linguistic dexterity?”

  “All right, that’s it,” Cora snapped. “It’s bad enough I gotta put up with Beerbaum. I don’t have to stand here and be insulted by you.”

  “No, you have to stand over there,” Sherry said, pointing to the tables at the front of the room. Another entrant was signing in, this one a tall, slender woman with wire-rimmed glasses. “Go welcome her, and try not to be too disappointed when she doesn’t read your column.”

  “If she doesn’t, I’ll punch her out,” Cora declared. “I cannot believe the committee voted this a nonsmoking zone. I’m dying for a cigarette, and they won’t let me smoke.”

  “Friendly and nice,” Sherry cautioned.

  Cora muttered something that could hardly have been construed as either friendly or nice and stomped back toward the front of the room.

  “If she gets through this, it’ll be a miracle,” Sherry told Aaron.

  “If the tournament comes off at all, it’ll be a miracle,” Aaron said. “The murder’s still wide open. Chief Harper’s got no leads, and I got no story. What’s this Fun Night scheduled for tonight?”

  “Just what it sounds like. It’s not part of the tournament itself. Scores don’t mean anything tonight, except to win silly prizes.”

  “Like what?”

  “Puzzle books. T-shirts. A crossword-puzzle murder mystery some guy wrote. Stupid stuff like that.”