Puzzled to Death

by Parnell Hall

  Charlotte’s husband was small like her, wore glasses, and looked like a graduate student. Betty’s husband was something else, however. Cora Felton sucked in her breath. This was a player. The man was big, like Betty, only more so. His face was hard as a slab of rock. It was solid, square, and there was a fierce scar on his chin. He looked as if he had been an enforcer for the mob until the mob had decided he was just too scary and let him go.

  Then he muttered something in a high-pitched nerdy voice, and the whole image evaporated in an instant.

  “Switch!” Harvey Beerbaum announced gleefully from the microphone. “Pass your papers to the left.”

  There was a flurry and rustle as papers changed places.

  From the snort of disgust nearby, Cora noticed that Marty Haskel from the filling station was less than thrilled with the puzzle he had just received.

  He looked even unhappier three switches later when someone screeched, “Done!”

  Cora looked, saw a young woman jumping out of her seat and clapping her hands. Cora scowled.

  The young woman’s face was lit up, sparkling with exuberance. Even had she not been good-looking, there would have been something attractive in her ear-to-ear smile, her wide eyes, her look of boundless joy. The fact that she had blond hair, rosy cheeks, and a pert ski-jump nose was just the icing on the cake. She was the perfect blue-ribbon winner, a veritable poster girl for the tournament.

  Except for one thing.

  She was Paul Thornhill’s wife.

  She was sitting next to him at the table.

  She had won because her celebrity-contestant husband was on her team.

  Instead of applause at her victory, there was considerable grumbling.

  None more than from Marty Haskel. “Come on, come on, keep working,” Marty griped. “They still gotta check her paper. What if she got one wrong?”

  Such hope was short-lived, however. Mrs. Thornhill’s puzzle, quickly checked, proved correct, and the game was over, much to Marty Haskel’s displeasure. The fact that the first-place prize turned out to be merely crossword-puzzle books did not appease him in the least. The man was obviously miffed.

  Cora wasn’t too pleased herself. As far as she was concerned, the much ballyhooed Fun Night was a huge bust. Fun, hell. Cora couldn’t think of anything less fun than crossword puzzles.

  Crossword puzzles and Harvey Beerbaum. What a deadly combination.

  Cora clutched her drawstring purse to her chest and headed for the ladies’ room. There was a faint smile on her lips as she went in the door.

  Cora had expected to find Fun Night utterly boring: She had prepared for that eventuality by sticking a silver flask of vodka in her purse.

  BLITHELY OBLIVIOUS TO ANY SIMMERING DISCONTENT IN the crowd, Harvey Beerbaum was once again at the microphone. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, for something entirely different—and something that’s enormous fun—instead of sitting at your tables, we’re going to let you get up and move around. Before you do, however, our volunteers are passing among you once again to hand out the next puzzle. You’re probably wondering, if you’re getting another puzzle, why are you going to move around? Well, what you’re being handed is merely the answer sheet. So where’s the puzzle, you might very well query? The puzzle, created by celebrity contestant Zelda Zisk—”

  With a clatter of jewelry, Zelda surged to her feet and waved both meaty hands over her head to acknowledge a rather tepid applause that started only because her action seemed to demand it. She also laughed raucously, as if this were the funniest thing imaginable.

  Harvey Beerbaum, to whom Zelda was a known quantity, patiently waited for her to subside. “As I was saying, this quite unique puzzle can be found taped to the walls of the meeting room. It consists of fifty-two separate drawings, cartoons, sketches, or what have you, drawn by Miss Zelda Zisk herself, representing fifty-two famous people whose names are in common crossword-puzzle use. Your task, of course, is to identify these celebrities. Which is what makes this such an interesting challenge. Because cruciverbalists usually know words, not faces. Except for a few like Zelda Zisk, who is of course not playing, having contributed the puzzle.”

  “I bet Pretty Boy’s playing,” Marty Haskel commented, loudly enough to be heard everywhere in the room.

  A volunteer shushed him as she gave him the paper. Marty glared up at her.

  “For this puzzle,” Harvey Beerbaum persisted, “you may work singly or in groups of two, three, or four.”

  “Figures!” Marty Haskel snorted. “Might as well just hand little Miss Sunshine the prize.”

  “And we have a time limit of fifteen minutes. Due to the nature of the puzzle, it is considered most unlikely that anyone will finish in that time. So the winner will be whoever accumulates the most correct answers at the end of fifteen minutes. Are the answer sheets all handed out? All right, then, ready, set, go!”

  People shot to their feet and began milling around the town hall meeting room, inspecting the cartoon drawings on the walls.

  In the back of the room, Aaron nudged Sherry. “You know, this is something you could do.”

  Hearing him, Becky Baldwin frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

  Sherry dug her elbow into Aaron’s ribs. “He’s kidding me. We play word games occasionally. He’s always trying to one-up me.”

  “Yes, that’s Aaron,” Becky said, nodding complacently. “Whaddya think, Aaron? You think Sherry and I would have a chance against you with pictures?”

  If the thought of Sherry teamed with Becky threw Aaron, he didn’t reveal it. “I’m not sure anyone would do well with these pictures,” he replied smoothly, “but let’s see what the three of us can do.”

  So they joined the stream of people eagerly wending their way around the edges of the room.

  “Okay, here’s a baseball player,” Becky Baldwin said, stopping in front of one sketch. “But he doesn’t look like anyone I know.”

  “Mel Ott,” Sherry said.

  Becky looked at her in surprise. “How do you know that?”

  “Trust me. I’ve seen enough Puzzle Lady puzzles to know. O-t-t is an extremely useful three-letter word.”

  “So we got one,” Becky said. “Number twenty-seven is Ott.”

  “Not so loud,” Aaron cautioned. “We’re not really playing, but let’s not help anybody else.”

  Number twenty-eight was a bearded man with glasses.

  “Well, who’s that?” Becky Baldwin demanded.

  “I have no idea,” Sherry said happily. The drawing was unrecognizable. It was a pleasure to be playing a game where she didn’t have to hide her expertise.

  Sherry smiled at Aaron Grant and was actually feeling quite content until Becky Baldwin murmured, “Well, look who’s here.…”

  Even then Sherry had no premonition of doom. Not until she saw the naked embarrassment on Aaron’s face. The poor man looked positively discombobulated. Not to mention discomposed and disconcerted.

  If Becky Baldwin noticed his discomfiture she didn’t show it; in fact, she looked pleased. She put on her sunniest smile, turned back in the direction she had been looking.

  Sherry followed her gaze.

  Striding across the floor was a youngish-looking middle-age couple—a robust man with a full head of curly hair that had just begun to turn gray, and a slender, attractive woman with a slightly homely face. The man wore a blue suit, the woman a print dress with a pink knit pullover. He had his arm around her shoulder in a totally comfortable way. Both smiled as they came walking up.

  Becky Baldwin beamed as she took their hands in hers. “Mr. Grant. Mrs. Grant. How marvelous to see you. I didn’t know you were puzzle people.”

  “We’re not, of course.” Mr. Grant chuckled. “I can’t do puzzles, and Debbie can’t either. We’re just here to offer our support.”

  Mrs. Grant put her hand on her husband’s arm. “Now, John, that’s not true. I can do crossword puzzles. I’m just very slow.” Her hazel eyes studied Aaron. “A
nd what are you doing here? Writing it up for the paper?”

  Aaron Grant seemed to have recovered his wits, but his face was still rather red. “Hardly. I’m just here like you to offer my support.” He turned stiffly to Sherry. “Mom. Dad. This is Sherry Carter.” After a moment’s hesitation he added, “Sherry’s Cora Felton’s niece.”

  Aaron Grant’s mother clasped Sherry’s hands. “Is that right?” she said. “You know, I’ve seen you around town, dear, I just didn’t know who you were. It must be exciting being involved with the Puzzle Lady. Please don’t take anything John and I said to heart. Just because we can’t do puzzles doesn’t mean we have anything against them.”

  “Of course not,” Sherry Carter said.

  There was an awkward silence.

  Mr. and Mrs. Grant stood there, smiling at her.

  Sherry Carter felt suddenly self-conscious. She had been perfectly happy to go to Fun Night in a sweater and slacks. Now she was acutely aware of Becky Baldwin’s impeccably tailored wool suit.

  It didn’t help when Becky Baldwin casually addressed Mr. Grant by his first name, as if to point out her familiarity with Aaron’s family. “How’s business, John?”

  “Can’t complain,” John Grant replied. “Still seem to be scraping by.”

  “Oh, listen to him talk,” Mrs. Grant said, smiling affectionately. “A hard worker all his life.”

  “Not at all,” John Grant said with a grin. “I’m just there. Sooner or later people figure out they need insurance. Not my doing at all.”

  “And they just happen to come to John instead of the larger firms,” Mrs. Grant informed them. “Not his doing at all.”

  “Anyway,” Mr. Grant said, “Becky, I hear you’re the attorney for Joey Vale.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “From Joey.”

  “You spoke to Joey?”

  “I sure did. He had a big policy on his wife.”

  Becky groaned. “Don’t tell me.”

  Mr. Grant smiled ruefully. “That’s right. Double indemnity. Pays off double for accidental death. Murder counts as accidental, so there you are.”

  “I’m sorry,” Becky Baldwin said. “I knew he had the policy. I didn’t know it was with you.”

  “You knew he had the policy?”

  “Of course I did. I’m his lawyer. There was the question of fees.”

  “Then you understand my interest in the case.”

  “Of course I do. Murder is considered an accident, but not if the policy holder commits the murder. If Joey Vale’s found guilty of murder, you don’t have to pay.”

  John Grant’s smile became warmer. “It’s not like we’re rooting against you, Becky, but that is a fact.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m afraid he’s got a pretty good alibi.”

  “Too bad,” John Grant said.

  The three of them chuckled over that. Then Mrs. Grant said, “We won’t impose on you kids any longer. Nice meeting you, Sherry. I hope this tournament’s a big success.”

  With that the Grants moved away in the direction of the coffee and dessert table.

  “Well,” Becky Baldwin said cheerily, “shall we ID some more pictures?”

  It was a moment before either Sherry or Aaron responded. Aaron still looked embarrassed and ill at ease.

  “Well, come on, Aaron,” Sherry said. “It’s not like you’re a teenager. Once you’re grown up, it’s okay to have parents.”

  “Particularly when they’re as nice as that,” Becky Baldwin said.

  “Are your parents here?” Sherry asked. There was an edge to her voice.

  Becky merely smiled. “No, they’re in Fort Lauderdale. My dad’s retired. They winter down south. I have the run of the house.”

  It seemed to Sherry that Becky was looking at Aaron when she said that. But she couldn’t tell if he blushed, because he was still blushing from the encounter with his parents.

  “Well, shall we try our luck again?” Becky Baldwin suggested. It was an ambiguously vague suggestion.

  Sherry turned grimly toward the next picture. It was of a woman with curly hair. It might have been Mia Farrow, Edith Piaf, or Clara Bow.

  Sherry didn’t recognize the woman and couldn’t care less. To Sherry Carter, all the fun had just gone out of Fun Night.

  She had finally met Aaron Grant’s parents, and it couldn’t have gone worse.

  CORA FELTON CAME OUT OF THE BATHROOM IN A MUCH better mood. She stopped in the doorway and surveyed the room.

  For some reason people seemed to be walking around looking at the wall. That didn’t make a lot of sense. Ah, yes. Cora vaguely remembered something about some atrocious drawings by Zelda Zisk. If only she had paid more attention in any of the planning meetings. But Cora’s mind had a tendency to wander the moment Harvey Beerbaum began to pontificate. What was it about drawings …

  As Cora watched, Sherry, Aaron, and Becky Baldwin went by and stopped to look at a picture on the wall. Sherry didn’t seem particularly pleased. Probably due to the presence of Becky Baldwin. And the ugliness of the pictures. Good God, had someone really drawn that?

  Cora’s mind was going in circles, and not very productive ones. Now then, why was she here?

  Cora’s eyes widened. Ah, yes. Phooey on Fun Night. She was here to trap a killer. To check out the crowd for suspects in the murder of Judy Vale.

  Cora looked around.

  Judy Vale’s four neighbors had broken up into husband-and-wife teams and were attempting to identify Zelda’s pictures. From what Cora could see, neither of the teams was doing a very good job. There seemed to be more bickering going on than identifying.

  Next to Judy’s neighbors, a guy was looking at a picture of what might have been a young girl. He seemed familiar, but with his back to Cora, it was impossible to tell. Fortunately, he turned away, grabbed a cup of coffee, and went and sat on a tabletop, which gave Cora a better look at him.

  It was the man she’d seen shooting pool with Joey Vale in the Rainbow Room. He was even wearing the same Knicks T-shirt. He was a rather tall man, with a thin face and a beaky nose. He sipped his coffee as if he would have much preferred a beer.

  Cora pushed her way over to his table. “Giving up so soon?”

  He looked at her, frowned. “That’s not allowed?”

  “What do you mean, allowed?”

  “Aren’t you the Puzzle Lady?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Well, you’re in charge, right? You here to tell me I can’t quit?”

  “Of course you can quit. This is just a stupid game. It’s not like shooting pool.”

  His thin face altered. He pointed at her. “You were in the Rainbow Room the other night. Talking to Joey. I didn’t put it together. I thought you were his mother, come to console him.” At Cora’s offended look he added, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude. I just didn’t put it together then. You’re the woman who figures out crime.”

  “Right, I’m Bakerhaven’s Murder, She Wrote broad. I ask a few questions and zero in on the suspect.”

  “I’m a suspect?”

  “I dunno. Did you strangle Judy Vale?”

  “No.”

  Cora shrugged. “Then I guess you’re not. What’s your name?”

  “Sy. Sy Fishman.”

  “I’m Cora Felton, and I’m damn glad you didn’t kill Judy Vale.” Cora scrunched up her nose. “There was something I wanted to ask you.”

  “About Joey Vale?”

  “Yes,” Cora said. “No,” she amended. “Sort of,” she decided. “The guy Joey Vale thought was fooling around with his wife …”

  “Billy Pickens.”

  Cora’s face brightened slyly. “Yes. Billy. Very good. So you knew about Billy Pickens?”

  “Everybody knew about Billy. Joey’d get in the bag, he’d start whining about it.”

  “You happen to know Billy Pickens?”

  “ ’Course I do. He’s a regular.”

  “At the Rainbow Room?”

  “Su
re.”

  “Was he there the other night?”

  “No, but he’s there a lot.”

  “So what’s he look like?”

  “I don’t know,” Sy said. Apparently descriptions weren’t his forte. He raised his head, looked around the room.

  Cora frowned at him, then got the idea. “You mean Billy’s here?”

  “Unless he left. I saw him earlier. Yeah, there he is. In the corner, looking at the cartoon of the old lady.”

  Cora followed Sy’s gaze.

  In the corner of the room stood a broad-shouldered, muscular, athletic-looking young man in gray slacks, tweed jacket, light blue dress shirt, and patterned tie. His curly brown hair was neatly trimmed, and his face was almost boyish.

  The woman with him looked older but probably wasn’t. It was just the fact her hair was up and she was wearing earrings, tiny, understated, tasteful.

  They were studying a drawing of either an extremely flat-chested woman or a very long-haired man.

  “That’s Billy Pickens from the paper mill?” Cora asked Sy.

  “That’s right. Billy’s the bookkeeper down there. Looks too young, don’t you think?”

  Cora didn’t know about that, but Billy Pickens from the paper mill suddenly seemed a much better prospect on her suspect list. Particularly in light of the young woman at his side. “Is that his wife?”

  “Probably. I think he’s married, but I’ve never met her.”

  “Uh-huh,” Cora Felton said. It occurred to her she had some questions for Billy Pickens, if she could just separate him from his date. Cora scratched her head, wondered how to go about it.

  As Cora stood there pondering her next move, a young woman flitted by, peered at the androgynous picture the Pickenses were contemplating, scrawled a notation on her answer sheet, and scampered on.

  Aha, Cora thought. Paul Thornhill’s wife. Attacking the game with undisguised zeal. But without her celebrity husband.

  Cora glanced over at the Thornhills’ table. Paul Thornhill was seated facing Cora, partly obscured by the back of a woman who was bent over the table, talking to him. Cora was not surprised. With Mrs. Thornhill out of the way, her handsome husband would surely be besieged by female admirers.