Puzzled to Death

by Parnell Hall

“I would imagine they’re holding the shot of me saying ‘No comment’ until they can tie it in to the other story and lynch me.”

  “What other story?”

  “You know what story. Me being involved with Judy Vale.”

  “Which you were?”

  Billy set his jaw.

  “If you want my help, you gotta tell me what’s up. Let me make it easy for you. You and Judy Vale were a hot item, Mrs. Roth knew about it. That’s what she chatted with you about at Fun Night. And that’s why you’re so upset now.”

  A huge sigh racked Billy Pickens’s body. “That’s not the half of it,” he moaned.

  Cora waited patiently.

  “I was there,” Billy said.

  “At Mrs. Roth’s house?”

  Billy nodded.

  “Last night?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What happened?”

  “What you said. The old lady spotted me at Fun Night, came up, gloated about how she knew all about everything. Threatened to tell my wife.”

  “Right then and there?”

  “Absolutely. Unless I’d come and see her.”

  “What for?”

  Billy scowled. “What do you mean, what for?”

  “Was it blackmail? Did she ask you for money?”

  “No. At least not then. She just asked me to come.”

  “What time?”

  “Ten-thirty.”

  “That’s when she asked you to be there, or that’s when you went?”

  “Both. She said ten-thirty, and I was there on the dot. I didn’t want to tick her off.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I parked my car down the road and walked in. That’s what the old lady told me to do. She said otherwise the nosy neighbors would see me drive up.”

  Cora made no comment about the nosiness of neighbors, although she was sorely tempted. “Did anyone see you?”

  “I don’t think so. It was dark. And Mrs. Roth’s porch light was out.”

  “A trick she learned from Judy Vale,” Cora commented dryly. “So what happened when you got there?”

  “She opened the door and let me in.”

  “She was alive when you got there?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “No, not of course,” Cora said patiently. “There were two possibilities: You found her alive, or you found her dead. Go on. What happened?”

  “She led me into this creepy living room, made me sit down on the couch.”

  “The one with the plastic on it?”

  “That’s right. It sure felt funny.”

  “I’ll bet it did. So your fingerprints are on it.”

  “No, I didn’t touch it with my hands.”

  Cora raised her eyebrows. “Oh, you thought of that, did you?”

  Billy grimaced. “No, it’s not like that. Not like you mean. The whole thing just freaked me out. It was really creepy. I mean, here I am, scared to death, looking at my family falling apart. And here’s this old witch, gloating, lording it over me, telling me what a fool I was. That was the main thing. What a fool I was for coming. Because she didn’t really have anything on me. Just suspicions. But my coming confirmed them. The fact I was there meant it was all true. And now she really had something to go to my wife with. And the cops too.”

  “And that’s when Mrs. Roth asked you for money?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “If she didn’t want money, what did she want?”

  “I tell you, she didn’t want anything. I ask her, pointblank, ‘What do you want?’ But she just laughs. ‘I have everything I want,’ she tells me.”

  “So what happened then?”

  “I begged her to keep her mouth shut.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing. She laughs some more. I saw I was getting nowhere. I realized there was nowhere to get. So I left.”

  “You left her alive?”

  “Of course!”

  “What time was this?”

  “I don’t know. I was there ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

  “You didn’t look at your watch?”

  “No, I didn’t. I didn’t know the time till I started my car and saw the clock on the dashboard.”

  “When was that?”

  “About ten to eleven.”

  “Any cars drive up and park while you were there?”

  “No.”

  “You pass anyone on your way home?”

  “If I did I didn’t notice. I was rather preoccupied.”

  “I can imagine.” Cora turned to her niece, who had been sitting mute and attentive during the whole exchange. “What do you think, Sherry? How do you like his story?”

  “It’s fine as far as it goes. But I think it leaves a few things out.”

  “Yeah,” Cora agreed.

  “I find it hard to believe that Mrs. Roth merely hinted that he had a relationship with Judy and that was enough to make him run out of there.”

  “Good point.” Cora nodded. “It would have to be something more specific.”

  “And related more directly to the first murder,” Sherry added.

  “Naturally,” Cora said. “And what might that be?” Her eyes were bright.

  “Considering the proximity of the woman’s house and her predilection for peering out the window, there would seem to be only one answer.”

  “I agree.” Cora turned back to Billy Pickens, who had been following their exchange with the doomed fascination of one mesmerized by a deadly cobra. “By and large, Billy, you doth protest a bit too much, playing up the family-values bit, saying your wife and kids must never find out. The problem is that from the word go you’re acting like a man with more than that to conceal. The only thing that makes sense is that Mrs. Roth spotted you the night Judy Vale died.”

  “She didn’t!”

  “Are you sure?”

  Billy Pickens glared at Cora Felton for a moment, then his face wilted. “Yes, I’m sure,” he said in disgust. “She said she did, but she didn’t. That was her bluff, that was what going to see her last night confirmed for her.”

  “So you were there. Tuesday night. At Judy Vale’s. How did that happen?”

  “I was in the Rainbow Room shooting pool. Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like I hang out there all the time. I play once a week, and I don’t go straight from work, I go home and have dinner first. Then I go shoot pool with the boys from work. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Except you don’t always shoot pool, do you?”

  He grimaced. “I met Judy Vale,” he confessed. “In the Rainbow Room. Her husband used to bring her, figure that. Jealous on the one hand, but proud as a peacock on the other. Struttin’ around, showin’ her off. Who wouldn’t get interested?”

  “And the night of her murder?”

  “Was my night out. I was in the Rainbow Room. Joey was there, so I knew his wife was home alone. So after a couple of games I snuck out.”

  “And drove to her house.”

  “Well, not to her house. I left the car up the road as I always do. I walked in.”

  “What time was that?”

  “A little after eleven. Say eleven-fifteen.”

  “What happened?”

  “The light was out. The door was open. I let myself in. And I called out. Which I always do so as not to scare her to death. Only no one answered. Which was odd. Judy wouldn’t be out that time of night. So I went inside, looked around, and there she was. Dead. On the kitchen floor.”

  Cora nodded, as he had just confirmed what she’d known all along. “So what did you do?”

  “What was I gonna do? I suppose I should have called the cops. But then everything would come out—you know, about the affair and all, and my wife—Judy was dead. Nothing was gonna help her. It occurred to me I’d be a perfect suspect.”

  “That occurred to you?”

  “Stupid, right?”

  Cora shook her head. “No, Billy, that wasn’t stupid at all. You’r
e a very likely candidate. You’re such a likely candidate you’ll be lucky if the police even bother to look for another before they fry you for this. Your story stinks. You call on both murder victims just before they die. You claim one’s alive and one’s dead when you get there. The dead one you don’t report. The alive one you deny killing but admit to visiting because she knew you visited the dead one. If I were a cop, you’d look awfully good to me.”

  “But I didn’t do it.”

  “Maybe not, but your credibility’s zero. If I were you, I would work very hard on building it up. I would talk to Chief Harper ASAP.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Withholding evidence is a capital crime.”

  “But I didn’t commit any crime.”

  “So you say. Fortunately, that’s not my call.”

  “You’re going to Harper? I spoke to you in confidence. I bared my soul.” Billy had gone pale.

  “Let’s not talk about what you bared, Billy.” Cora Felton looked him right in the eyes, said in her most stern voice, “I’m advising you to go to the police. You gonna do it?”

  “I can’t.” Billy sighed heavily. “I know I made mistakes, but I didn’t kill anybody. Why should my family pay for that? My little girls see their father on TV, arrested for murder? Please. You’re very smart. You figure things out. Can’t you help me?”

  “You mean be an accessory to murder?” Cora demanded sarcastically. “You mean you want me to aid and abet you, withhold evidence, and conspire to conceal a crime?”

  Billy looked at her pathetically, with pleading eyes.

  Cora grinned.

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

  SHERRY, SITTING BESIDE CORA FELTON ON THE PASSENGER seat of the red Toyota, said, “I like the way you included me in your decision.”

  “What do you mean?” Cora asked innocently.

  “Well, here we are, not on our way to Chief Harper’s with a bunch of vital information. Instead, we’re out investigating on our own.”

  “Sherry, if we go to Chief Harper now he’ll have no choice but to arrest Billy Pickens. Which would be a terrible mistake.”

  “At least it would be his mistake. And he couldn’t go to jail for it.”

  “Sherry, give me a break. Do you really think Billy Pickens did it?”

  “No, I don’t. But that’s not the point.”

  “How can that not be the point?”

  “Billy may be innocent, but that’s not why you’re doing this. You’re running around making your own investigation and holding out on Chief Harper—which is something you know you shouldn’t do—just so you won’t have to think about the tournament. Because you’re so freaked out about this puzzle-commentary bit Harvey dreamed up.”

  “Well, you heard him,” Cora said defensively. “Am I imagining it or not? Didn’t he sound like he’s looking to show me up?”

  “Maybe. But it’s sort of a self-fulfilling prophesy.”

  “A what?”

  Sherry snorted in disgust. “For someone who’s supposed to be a linguist, you might want to brush up on a few common phrases. I mean Harvey Beerbaum has no idea at all you might be a fake. But you think he does. So you act like he does. So he notices you acting like he does. He’s not suspicious. But he gets suspicious. See what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” Cora said. “But what’s the difference? If he’s suspicious now, who cares how he got that way? Unless you just wanna load me up with guilt.”

  “Heaven forbid.”

  “So let’s concentrate on the murders. If Billy Pickens didn’t do it, then someone else did. It’s up to us to find out who.”

  Cora pulled up in front of Olsens’ Bed-and-Breakfast, a two-story colonial just three blocks from the center of town. She and Sherry got out, went up on the porch, and knocked on the door.

  An elderly gentleman in a baggy herringbone sweater answered their knock. He was tall, thin, had gray hair, and carried a pipe. “Yes?” he inquired. His voice, Cora decided, sounded like rust.

  “Mr. Olsen?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Cora Felton. This is my niece, Sherry. We’re looking for Paul Thornhill.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “Paul Thornhill’s not staying here?”

  “Yes, he is. But I believe he’s gone out.”

  “With his wife?”

  “No, I think he went out alone.”

  “So she’s here,” Cora said.

  “She might be.”

  Cora blinked. This was like pulling teeth. “Why do you say she might be?”

  “Well, I didn’t see Mrs. Thornhill go out. But maybe she went out without me seein’.”

  Not likely, Cora figured. “We’d like to talk to her. Where might she be?”

  “In her room.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Second floor, to the right.” The man chewed pensively on his pipe stem. “Only you can’t go up there.”

  “Why not?”

  “It wouldn’t be right. A woman alone and all. You really wanna see her, I’ll get my wife.”

  “We really wanna see her.”

  Mrs. Olsen proved to be a rather plump woman whom Cora recognized from Cushman’s Bake Shop. From the number of mornings Cora had seen her there, it appeared that Olsens’ Bed-and-Breakfast wasn’t serving many breakfasts. Capturing the Thornhills during the crossword-puzzle tournament must have been a small windfall.

  “Now, I don’t want a commotion,” Mrs. Olsen declared. “We do have other guests. If the Thornhills want, they can see you in the living room. We don’t rent out rooms to entertain.”

  “I think he’s out,” Mr. Olsen put in.

  He was. Mrs. Olsen came downstairs minutes later with only Paul Thornhill’s wife.

  Since her TV interview, Jessica Thornhill had changed into a soft cashmere sweater and velvet slacks. She was still wearing her jewelry—diamond-studded earrings and gold necklace and bracelet. Close up she had a perky face, vital, alert, interested. And highly competitive. She was, Cora concluded, just the type of woman to have won a game at Fun Night. Even if it took her husband’s help.

  “What’s this about?” Jessica demanded.

  “I’m awfully sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Thornhill. This is my niece, Sherry Carter. We’d like to ask you about your interview with the reporter from Channel 8.”

  “What about it?”

  “Could you go in the TV room if you’re gonna talk?” Mrs. Olsen told them. “I don’t want the other guests disturbed.”

  “As if they could hear,” Jessica Thornhill scoffed. Having registered her defiance, she conceded, “We might as well sit down. Come in the living room. I think they have a fire.”

  There was a fireplace with easy chairs nestled around it. A log crackled in the hearth.

  “Paul went out for booze,” Jessica Thornhill explained as they sat down. “They put a decanter of sherry in our bedroom, but I’d rather drink strychnine.” She shuddered, then smiled. “What is it you want to know?”

  “About the dead woman, of course,” Cora said. “I understand she was talking to your husband while you were playing the game. The one about the pictures on the wall. As I recall, when you came back to the table that’s when the mechanic followed you. The man who was so upset about you winning.”

  “He’s a mechanic? That figures.”

  Cora ignored this class prejudice. “And that’s when Mrs. Roth intervened and pulled him away, is that right?”

  “Absolutely. And that is why her murder affects me so deeply. I owed a debt of gratitude to the woman, and before I could express it, she was gone.”

  “I understand,” Cora said. “My point is, because of the incident you had particular reason to notice her. So I’m wondering if you happened to notice her talking to anyone else, aside from your husband.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “That terrible man. The one you say’s a mec
hanic.”

  “I mean aside from him,” Cora said patiently. “She only spoke to him because he interrupted her when she was talking to your husband. I mean did you see her talking to anyone else at another time?”

  “Absolutely,” Jessica Thornhill said, nodding emphatically.

  “And who was that?”

  Jessica spread her arms wide with the exasperation of someone who is being willfully misunderstood. “I told you. The mechanic. That horrid man.”

  Cora Felton frowned, feeling the beginning of a headache.

  Sherry Carter leaned in. “You mean you saw her talking to him some other time?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Cora Felton could hardly hide her disappointment. “So you saw her talking to Mr. Haskel again. And when was that?”

  “During the picture game.”

  Cora frowned. “The picture game?”

  “Yes. He complained when I won the first game. Then he made a fuss when we started the second, the one with the pictures. That’s why Paul wasn’t playing with me. So I knew who he was, and I was giving him a wide berth. Then during the game I saw him talking to a woman near one of the drawings, so I skipped it and came back to it later. And the woman he was talking to turned out to be her.”

  “Wait a minute,” Cora Felton said. “I don’t understand. Are you telling me you saw Mrs. Roth talking to Marty Haskel before she spoke to your husband?”

  Jessica Thornhill looked at Cora as if she were an idiot. “Yes, of course.”

  “NOW WE’RE GETTING SOMEWHERE,” CORA SAID, AS THEY pulled the Toyota away from the Olsens’.

  Sherry groaned. “Getting somewhere? All you got is another lead to the mechanic, who we happen to know is a dead end.”

  “How do we know that?”

  “How do we know anything? Aunt Cora, the town mechanic is not a serial killer.”

  “I never said he was.”

  “So what’s your big lead?”

  “He must know something. If he was talking to Mrs. Roth, he’s a valuable witness. He knows what she said. So far we’ve had only Billy Pickens’s version. Which is constantly changing and may or may not be the truth. And Paul Thornhill’s version, which has also changed once. Granted only slightly, and perhaps just a sin of omission. But still, his accuracy is very much in question. Plus, everything he says appears to be totally egotistical. We’ve been looking for someone else to give us another angle on Mrs. Roth. Now we finally have it. Which is great. Give me an impartial witness with no ax to grind, and maybe we’ll get a straight story.”