Puzzled to Death

by Parnell Hall

  “You’d describe Marty Haskel as having no ax to grind?”

  “All right, rotten choice of words. But you know what I mean. The guy’s not involved in Judy Vale’s death. Not unless the whole world is topsy-turvy and nothing makes sense. So, from that point of view, he’s an impartial witness.”

  As she said this, Cora pulled into the service station at the edge of town. A boy with sandy hair and a dirty ski jacket was manning the pumps. “Fill ’er up?”

  “Yes, please,” Cora told him. She pointed to the garage, which was dark. “Service and repair closed?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You got a problem?”

  “No. Just asking. Is there a phone book?”

  “Pay phone on the corner had one last I looked.”

  Sherry followed Cora to the phone booth on the corner. Cora flipped the pages, looked up Marty Haskel’s address. “Here we go—232 Arbor Drive.”

  “Where is that?”

  “I have no idea. But the kid will.”

  They paid the young man for the gas and asked him if he knew where Arbor Drive was.

  “Arbor Drive? Course I do. Marty Haskel lives there.” He gave Cora the directions.

  Marty Haskel’s house was a modest affair about two miles outside of town. It was yellow with green shutters and had a breezeway and a garage. The garage door was open and the car was gone. The lights were out in the house.

  “Looks like he’s not home,” Sherry said.

  “That’s a pretty safe deduction, but let’s verify it.”

  Cora Felton hopped out of the car, went up on the porch, and pressed the doorbell. After several seconds she rang again.

  Sherry watched impatiently from the car. The man was clearly gone and—

  Cora tried the doorknob!

  What was that woman doing?

  In a flash Sherry was out of the car and on the porch. “Aunt Cora. You’re not going in.”

  “No, I’m not,” Cora assured her.

  “Promise?”

  “Absolutely. The door is locked, and the lock looks tough. I may have to try a window.”

  “Aunt Cora—”

  “Get back in the car. If someone drives up, honk the horn. If it’s him, honk twice.”

  “Cora. Be reasonable,” Sherry pleaded. “This is insane. Even if you got in there, what would you be looking for?”

  “A reason for Marty Haskel to murder those two women,” Cora said promptly. “That or his dead body.”

  “Oh, for goodness sakes!”

  “We think he’s a witness,” Cora pointed out. “Suppose the killer does too?”

  “Aunt Cora,” Sherry protested, but her aunt was already on her way around the house.

  The side door was also locked, but the row of flowerpots next to it looked inviting. The key was in the third one. Cora fished it out, tried it in the door. The lock clicked open. Cora returned the key to the flowerpot, slipped inside, closing the door gently behind her.

  Cora dug in her purse for her flashlight. She flicked it on. The batteries were almost dead. She shone the dim light, looked around.

  She was in the kitchen. There were no bodies on the floor. That almost disappointed her. Judy Vale had been found in the kitchen.

  On the other hand, Mrs. Roth had been found in the living room. Cora passed through the foyer, where a narrow staircase led to the second floor, and entered what clearly was a man’s den. A TV, a couch, and a writing desk. And no doors off it. A small house with few rooms. This was the living room, no one was dead here, what else did she need to know?

  Outside, a car horn honked. Cora Felton frowned, wondered if her niece would stoop to trickery to get her out of the house. She went to the window, pulled aside the blind.

  A car had indeed driven up, but it was turning into the driveway across the street. Cora decided she’d give Sherry that one. The honk was unnecessary but arguably justified.

  Cora let the blind fall back and continued her search.

  Upstairs were a bathroom and two small bedrooms. One was storage, the other where the man slept. Marty Haskel was not dead in either of them.

  Some papers on the bedside table looked familiar. Cora shone the light, saw that they were crossword puzzles. After an involuntary shudder of revulsion, she picked them up. They were the puzzles from Fun Night. Craig Carmichael’s CURIOUS CANINES and Paul Thornhill’s APOLOGIES. So these were the bones of contention—Marty Haskel’s losing entries.

  The Craig Carmichael puzzle, Cora noted, was nearly finished, while the Paul Thornhill one was completely blank.

  Cora put the puzzles back and finished searching the bedroom. The most she learned was that Marty Haskel subscribed to Playboy.

  Making sure she’d disturbed nothing, Cora went back downstairs and let herself out the side door. As expected, it locked behind her, and she didn’t have to fish the key out of the flowerpot to secure it. Then she hurried down the driveway to where Sherry waited impatiently in the car.

  “Crack the case?” Sherry asked as Cora climbed in.

  “No.”

  “Where to now?”

  “Check out the Olsens’ B-and-B. See if Paul Thornhill’s back.”

  He wasn’t. There were no cars outside the house except those they’d seen before.

  “Let’s check out the Country Kitchen,” Cora suggested.

  “Why?”

  “See if Marty Haskel’s there.”

  “You ever see him in the Country Kitchen?”

  “I never looked for him in the Country Kitchen. I never had reason to notice him in the Country Kitchen.”

  “Can you imagine him in the Country Kitchen?”

  “Why, Sherry Carter. Was that really you making that class-prejudice remark?”

  Cora Felton drove a little too fast for safety to the homey country restaurant where she often played bridge, swerved into the parking lot.

  “Now, if he’s not here we’re not staying,” Sherry Carter warned.

  “Of course not,” Cora agreed, getting out of the car. “You check out the dining room, I’ll check out the bar.”

  “Aunt Cora.”

  “I can’t smoke in the dining room.”

  “You could have smoked in the car.”

  “You hate it when I smoke in the car.”

  “That’s never stopped you before.”

  “Are you telling me you want me to smoke in the car?”

  Still squabbling, Sherry and Cora went inside. A young woman with menus hovered near the entrance to the dining room. “Two for dinner?”

  “No,” Cora said, and made a beeline for the bar.

  Sherry sighed, debated whether to make a scene. “We’re just looking for someone,” she explained to the young woman, and slipped past her into the restaurant.

  The Country Kitchen dining room, furnished with solid wood tables and chairs, had lantern-style lamps and a wagon-wheel chandelier. It boasted good old Yankee home cooking and featured a well-stocked salad bar.

  Half the tables in the restaurant were filled, but a quick glance told Sherry that Marty Haskel wasn’t there. A number of the diners were people Sherry had never seen before, most likely out-of-towners. It occurred to Sherry the Country Kitchen, too, was reaping the benefits of the tournament.

  Scanning the tables one last time, Sherry Carter froze.

  There, in a dimly lit corner at a table for two, sat Becky Baldwin. Sherry’s heart leaped, and she had a moment of icy dread. Becky’s head was blocking Sherry’s view of the young man at the table. Sherry took two steps sideways and collided with a waitress with a tray of entrees.

  Becky Baldwin was sitting with …

  Rick Reed.

  The TV reporter.

  Sherry didn’t know whether to be relieved or embarrassed. She collected herself, hurried into the bar.

  Her aunt was standing there with a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. Sherry snorted in disgust. “Have you even looked for Marty Haskel?” she hissed in Cora’s ear.

&n
bsp; “Of course I have,” Cora replied blithely. “He doesn’t seem to be here.”

  “Then we should be going.”

  “Not so fast,” Cora told her. “Haskel’s not the only fish in the sea.”

  “Just what do you mean by that?”

  “Look who is here. It’s fascinating, really.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ll show you. Just don’t stare.”

  The Country Kitchen bar was jammed. All the barstools were taken, as were all the booths. Cora flicked her cigarette, took a drag, and blew out a stream of smoke as she maneuvered Sherry toward the middle of the room.

  “Now then, if you’ll look over my left shoulder at the booth on the far end … See who’s sitting there?”

  Sherry looked. Craig Carmichael was sitting alone, shoulders hunched, head bent, avoiding eye contact. His small hands cradled a glass of dark amber liquid. For all appearances he could have been at his favorite tournament table, working on a puzzle.

  “Craig Carmichael stole your favorite booth,” Sherry told Cora. “So?”

  “Now look two booths down.”

  “Why?”

  “Okay, don’t,” Cora said. She took a sip of scotch, smiled at her niece.

  Sherry scowled at her aunt in exasperation, but her curiosity got the best of her. She craned her neck to peer around the side of Cora’s head.

  At a table two booths down from Craig Carmichael sat Zelda Zisk. She was drinking some sort of green liqueur in a tall thin glass. And she was not alone. Seated across the table from her was a round-faced woman with wing-tipped glasses. The woman was plump but appeared almost thin next to Zelda Zisk. The woman held a glass similar to Zelda’s, though her liqueur had a bluish hue. The women were talking animatedly. Zelda Zisk’s triple chins jiggled and her eyes were bright.

  “What’s your point?” Sherry asked Cora. “The contestants are swilling alcohol, so it’s all right for you to do the same?”

  “Not at all, but it’s extremely interesting,” Cora said meekly. “Craig Carmichael is a solitary drunk. Not a surprise, but interesting. And Zelda has a friend. A girlfriend. Do you suppose she’s gay?”

  “What if she is?”

  “Well, isn’t that an intriguing item?”

  “No, it isn’t, Cora. Have you forgotten what we’re supposed to be doing? We’re supposed to be checking out leads to Mrs. Roth.”

  “Exactly,” Cora said, and before Sherry could stop her she walked over and slid into the booth opposite Craig Carmichael. The little man glanced up, saw Cora, seemed astounded. He clearly didn’t want to look at her, but with her sitting opposite him it was impossible to look away. Instead, he stared down at his drink.

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” Cora said. “There’s no reason to be alarmed. Yes, I’m the contest judge. But you have done nothing wrong, and I don’t want to talk to you about that. A woman was killed last night. She was at Fun Night, she spoke to Paul Thornhill. I wonder if she talked to you too.” When Craig Carmichael said nothing, Cora added, “Did she?”

  Craig Carmichael stuck his tongue in his cheek, and his eyes probed the depths of his glass as if seeking the Loch Ness monster there. Cora Felton could practically see the wheels going, formulating a response. When he had it, he looked back at her.

  “I’ve been asked that question by the authorities. I’ve given them my answer. They are satisfied with that answer. My attorney feels the matter is concluded. I have no further comment.”

  Cora Felton’s mouth fell open. “You’ve consulted an attorney?”

  “I have no further comment.” After a moment Craig Carmichael added, “Was there anything else?”

  “No,” Cora replied. She slid from the booth, moved down the row.

  “Hello,” Cora told Zelda Zisk and her companion. “I’m sorry to disturb you ladies, but we’re trying to trace the movements of that poor elderly woman who was murdered. She spoke to Paul Thornhill last night. I wonder if she spoke to either of you.”

  Zelda Zisk threw back her head and laughed, a loud, braying laugh that instantly turned every head in the bar. “See, Sue,” she told the woman sitting across from her. “I told you she’d be over, and I knew just what she’d ask. That TV guy asked the same thing, but then he didn’t use it.”

  “What was your answer?” Cora said, cocking her head.

  “That I didn’t notice her at all, and I’m not even sure what woman we’re talking about.”

  “I see,” Cora said. “You think the fact you didn’t know anything might have had something to do with the TV guy’s decision not to use your statement?”

  Zelda Zisk laughed again. Luckily, no chandeliers shattered. “Good one. Got me there.”

  “So you never saw Mrs. Roth at all last night?”

  Zelda grinned, an impressive hodgepodge of lipstick and teeth. “If I don’t know her, how can I say?” She pointed her finger and laughed. “Got you there.”

  “That you did,” Cora conceded cheerfully. “Well, thanks anyway. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  Cora joined Sherry at the door to the bar, said, “Okay, it’s a washout, come on.”

  They went back out to the parking lot, got in the car.

  “You ask Zelda if she’s gay?” Sherry said ironically.

  Cora gave her a dirty look, started the car.

  “So what’s the story?”

  Cora backed up, guided the car out of the parking lot. “Zelda Triple Chins claims she never saw Mrs. Roth. Craig Carmichael’s mum as a dead man. Isn’t that interesting? And not only that, Carmichael’s consulted a lawyer.”

  Sherry’s eye faltered.

  Cora pounced. “What’s the matter?” she demanded.

  “Nothing.”

  “What’s the nothing?”

  Sherry grimaced. “Becky Baldwin’s in the dining room having dinner with Rick Reed.”

  “You’re jealous of her and the TV idiot?”

  “At first I thought it was Aaron.”

  “This time of night isn’t he at the paper?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  While they were talking, Cora breezed by the Olsens’ bed-and-breakfast, where the parked-car situation remained unchanged, and Marty Haskel’s driveway, still empty.

  “Where we going now?” Sherry asked her.

  “Check out the Rainbow Room. See if Marty Haskel’s there.”

  He wasn’t. Neither were Billy Pickens, Joey Vale, or anyone else Cora recognized. The bar was half full, the pool table was occupied, the row of quarters indicated it would be for some time.

  “Spot anybody?” Sherry asked.

  “No.”

  “Then you’re not looking. Far wall, third booth from the door.”

  Cora looked, and her cornflower-blue eyes widened.

  In the booth, Ned Doowacker was drinking with a young lady. For the occasion Mr. Doowacker had changed into a tweed jacket, white shirt, and pink bow tie. His face was scrubbed, and his hair was slicked back. He looked like a little boy whose mother had dressed him for Sunday school. But he was drinking a mixed drink, just like a big boy.

  The woman sitting opposite him had also prettied herself up. She wore an unwise amount of makeup and jewelry. A fake-fur coat dangled from a hook on the side of the booth.

  The makeup and hairstyle were distractions. If the truth be known, it was the fur coat Cora recognized, rather than the face. But at second glance there could be no doubt.

  The woman having drinks with Ned Doowacker was none other than Judy Vale’s gossipy next-door neighbor, Charlotte Drake.

  “IT DOESN’T HAVE TO MEAN ANYTHING,” SHERRY CARTER insisted as she and Cora Felton got ready for bed. As usual, they were crowded into the bathroom, fighting for mirror space.

  “Everything means something,” Cora Felton declared. She was dressed in her pink and white flannel nightgown and was taking off her makeup. Sherry, in terry-cloth robe and slippers, was attempting to do the same.

  “I mean in terms of the
murders.”

  “I know what you mean. And I totally agree. This particular sector of Bakerhaven seems to have a more active sex life than the norm, but that may be all there is to it.” Cora sounded very insincere.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t break in on their date and question them.”

  “It would have been awkward. Charlotte knows me. Besides, I’d rather let this budding romance play out and see where it goes. Or where it’s been.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Sherry asked, but Cora had turned the faucet on and was brushing her teeth.

  Sherry leaned in and rubbed cold cream on her cheeks. “I mean, are you implying something here, Cora? Ned Doowacker, the Bakerhaven strangler, seducer and slayer of young women? He wasn’t even around when Judy Vale was strangled.”

  Cora gurgled something unintelligible through her toothbrush.

  “What did you say?”

  Cora finished brushing, spat. “I’m not saying that Doowacker’s our killer. I’m just saying isn’t it interesting he’s managed to pick up one of Judy’s neighbors? One of her married neighbors, by the way. The lovely Mrs. Charlotte Drake. Whose husband happened to be with her at Fun Night.”

  “You think that’s where Doowacker met her?”

  “Unless he met her in the Rainbow Room just now.”

  “You think he did?”

  “No way. Not in that outfit. The guy wasn’t dressed to pick up girls, the guy was dressed for a date.”

  “So he met Charlotte Drake at Fun Night?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Sherry took a tissue, scrubbed the cold cream off a trifle too vigorously. “What could she possibly see in him?”

  Cora shook her head. “What did you ever see in Dennis?”

  Under the remaining smears of cold cream, Sherry’s face hardened. “Hey. Watch it.”

  “No offense meant. I still don’t know what I ever saw in George.” Cora cupped her hands, splashed water on her face. She straightened, blinked at herself in the mirror. “Anyway, I’m much more interested in Marty Haskel.”

  Sherry groaned. “So the guy wasn’t home. So he’s got a girlfriend. Or he went to another bar. Or he’s off somewhere playing poker with the boys.”