Puzzled to Death

by Parnell Hall

  “I’d like to get in on that,” Cora said.

  “I’m sure you would. At any rate, there could be lots of reasons why the guy isn’t home.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “You want to sit outside his house all night? You got a tournament finals to run in the morning.”

  “No, I’ve got a tournament finals to get out of in the morning. I’m still not sure how I’m gonna do it.” Cora grabbed a towel, rubbed her face. “I got a bad feeling.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “Oh, yeah? You gonna stay up all night and teach me to do commentary?”

  “No. You’re gonna kid around and joke about the contestants and riff on whoever’s ahead.”

  “Yeah. And Harvey Beerbaum’s gonna notice I’m not talkin’ shop, and he’s gonna be more suspicious than ever. Assuming I don’t out and out blow it and announce, ‘All right, you got me, I’m a fraud,’ right over the P.A. system.”

  Cora Felton tossed the towel on the floor, grabbed her glasses from the shelf over the sink, and put them on. “I need comfort food,” she declared. “Sherry, didn’t you make brownies yesterday? I’ll bet there’s a couple left.”

  “Aunt Cora. You just brushed your teeth.”

  “I never was good at sequencing. I didn’t know I was hungry till now. Boy, would a brownie hit the spot.”

  Cora padded out of the bathroom and down the hall toward the kitchen.

  Sherry followed to make sure her aunt chased the brownie with nothing stronger than milk. She got there in time to see Cora lift the aluminum foil off the square Pyrex baking pan.

  “Look, Sherry. Four left. Two for you and two for me.”

  “I don’t want any brownies,” Sherry said.

  “Good. More for me. These are great.” Cora took a dessert plate down from the cabinet. “Where’s the spatula?”

  “In the sink.”

  “Right, we never did the dishes.”

  Cora padded over to the sink, fished the spatula out from among the dirty dishes, switched on the water, and proceeded to rinse it off.

  In the kitchen window Cora could see her reflection, as well as the moonlit backyard. She tensed slightly, then went on washing the spatula.

  “Sherry,” she said casually, without looking around. “If you could do me a huge favor, just act natural and don’t react to what I’m going to tell you.”

  “Aunt Cora!”

  “Yeah, like that. Just try to avoid any sudden movements or expressions of alarm. We’re being watched through the kitchen window.”

  “We’re not!”

  “Try not to look, you’ll just tip him off. You can’t see anything from there anyway. You have to be where I am, but don’t come over or he’ll know we’ve seen him.”

  “Aunt Cora, you’re freaking me out.”

  “Sorry,” Cora said, “but there’s a man in the backyard crouched behind the picnic table watching us with a spyglass.”

  “A spyglass?”

  “You know, like a single binoculars. A telescope. Don’t you call that a spyglass?”

  “Aunt Cora—”

  “So here’s the deal. I’ll give you the spatula and walk out of his line of sight. As if I went to the refrigerator for milk or something. You’re gonna stay here, make a show of cutting and serving the brownies. If you can talk to me as if I were still in the room, it couldn’t hurt. If you can’t, just concentrate on your task. But keep his interest. For a girl in her nightgown, that shouldn’t be hard.”

  “Cora—”

  But her aunt was already gone.

  Cora came out the side door into the breezeway, crept around the garage. She shivered from the cold night air. Cora hadn’t bothered to grab her coat, just her purse. She rummaged in it, came out with her snub-nosed revolver. She snapped the safety off. Crept into the backyard.

  And there he was. Behind the picnic table. In the shadows, just out of the shaft of light from the kitchen window.

  Cora still couldn’t see his face, but she could see clearly enough to tell that her initial impression had been wrong. He was not crouched behind the picnic table but rather seated at it. He was scrunched down on the bench, which gave the impression of crouching. The hands and head were at table level. Only the outline of the spyglass could be seen sticking up.

  The thought flashed on Cora, what if it’s not a spyglass? What if it’s a telescopic sight? What if it’s a gun?

  A cold chill ran down Cora’s spine at the thought of Sherry in its sights. She had left Sherry as bait. Why hadn’t she called the cops?

  Cora gripped the pistol, crept forward. She circled the table, coming up from behind. Wondered what she would do if he ran. She didn’t want to shoot him, but she might have no choice. She had to see his face.

  The dry leaves rustled under Cora’s slippers, sounded loud as thunder. Surely he must have heard. Any second his head would turn. If he brought the rifle—

  Rifle? It’s a spyglass. Get a grip.

  Cora crept closer, and—

  Headlights appeared in the driveway.

  Cora’s heart leaped. Not now! Not now!

  Cora hunched over, slunk back into the shadows.

  Tires rolled to a stop. A motor roared and died. A car door slammed.

  Aaron Grant’s voice called, “Hey, whaddya doin’?”

  Cora nearly gagged. She stood, frozen, torn between shushing Aaron and keeping her gun on the man.

  Who still hadn’t moved. What’s the matter? Was he deaf?

  And was Aaron crazy? Here he came, walking right up to her in plain sight, with a killer in the backyard, and—

  Cora’s mouth fell open.

  Realization dawned.

  Cora straightened up, marched around the table. She kept the revolver leveled, but there was no need.

  The man in shadows wasn’t spying. His neck was twisted at an impossible angle, and his eyes bugged out of his head. And what had appeared to be a spyglass was a piece of paper that had been rolled up like a scroll and shoved in his mouth.

  The man was Paul Thornhill.

  The paper was a crossword puzzle.

  CHIEF HARPER WAS FIT TO BE TIED. “YOU SAW HIM through the window?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You thought he was alive?”

  “Of course,” Cora said. “If I thought he was dead, I’d have called the police at once.”

  “If he was only a stalker, you were going to take him on yourself?”

  “I wasn’t going to take him on. I just wanted to know who he was. If I’d called the police he’d have run, and we wouldn’t have found out.”

  “He wouldn’t have run.”

  Cora Felton stuck her nose in the air with all the dignity she could muster and tugged her coat about her shoulders. While waiting for the police, Cora had managed to attire herself in her finest Miss Marple wear, complete with tweed skirt, jacket, and frilly white blouse. She could probably not have chosen a less likely outfit to please the chief.

  Chief Harper and Cora Felton were standing near the side of the garage watching Dr. Barney Nathan examine the body. An EMS crew with a gurney stood by waiting for him to finish.

  Aaron Grant and Sherry Carter came walking up.

  “Gotta move my car,” Aaron said.

  Chief Harper frowned at the interruption. “What?”

  Aaron jerked his thumb toward the foot of the driveway. “Sam Brogan’s stringing up a crime-scene ribbon. If I don’t park on the road, I’ll never get out.”

  “Technically, your car’s part of the crime scene.”

  “Give me a break,” Cora said. “He came ages later. He just drove up.” Cora raised her eyebrow, shot Sherry a meaningful look. “Why don’t you let him go?”

  “Okay, move it,” Chief Harper said.

  Aaron and Sherry got in the car and backed down the drive. Sam Brogan, cranky as ever, grudgingly moved the ribbon to let them out.

  Chief Harper, watching them go, noted that both Becky Baldw
in and the Channel 8 news team had arrived. He turned back to Cora and scowled. “You have no idea how bad this is.”

  “Oh, really? I have no idea how bad this is? This happens to be my house.” Cora pointed. “That’s my picnic table. The murder happened here. Unless the killer drove up and dropped off the body. Those are the only possibilities, neither one of which I particularly like.”

  “Yes,” Chief Harper said. “And how is it the killer was able to do that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How is it you happened to be out?”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh,” Chief Harper said sarcastically. “Or perhaps I should say, how is it you happened to be out looking for Paul Thornhill?”

  “And just how do you know that?”

  “His wife called in a missing person’s report. Said he went out for cognac and never came back. Said the reason she realized he was taking so long was the fact you came by looking for him. You mind telling me why?”

  “Because Mrs. Roth talked to him at Fun Night.”

  “Yes. You were there when I asked him about it. I suppose you decided you could do better.”

  “Well, I didn’t think it could do any harm.”

  “That’s because you don’t know who Jessica Thornhill is. I didn’t either, but I sure do now. It turns out she’s a Gattling-Finn.”

  “A what?”

  “Of the Percival Gattling-Finns. Made so much money in cotton and sugar they could buy the state of Vermont. Her father, Percival Gattling-Finn the Fourth, alas, has no sons, and she’s the eldest daughter. You do the math.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “The woman made a missing person’s report and I didn’t act on it. Turned her down flat. Partly because she tried to bully me with how much money she had. So I did nothing, and this is the result.”

  “Doesn’t a person have to be gone twenty-four hours before they’re officially missing?”

  “Yeah, great. I’m sorry your husband’s dead, Mrs. Thornhill, but I’m technically right.”

  “I see your point.”

  “It’s a real mess. The way I see it, the only way I’m off the hook is if she did it.”

  “Oh, for goodness sakes.”

  “Well, it would solve my problems. She’d have a hard time suing me then.”

  “That’s your thought?” Cora said skeptically. “She found him here and strangled him?”

  “You don’t like that theory?”

  “I haven’t had time to think about it. But I don’t need time. It’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. I can poke a million holes in it.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “How does she know he’s here? And how does she get here, if he’s got the car? Does she have a car service bring her here and wait while she kills him? And why does she want to kill him? What does she gain? And how does she kill him, little woman like her? How does she strangle such a big man? I mean, he was strangled, wasn’t he?”

  “I won’t know till Barney’s done, but it sure looks like it.”

  “How could she have done it?”

  “He was her husband. He wouldn’t be suspecting anything. She could have got him in a position—”

  “And strangled him? He could have snapped her like a stick.” Cora lowered her voice. “And if it’s her, how do you account for this?”

  Chief Harper frowned. “What?”

  Cora reached in her jacket pocket and surreptitiously handed him a folded up piece of paper. He stared at her in amazement, then turned and unfolded it, shielding it from the crowd. His eyes widened. He refolded the paper, turned back to Cora. The look on his face was not cordial. “Where the hell did you get this?” he demanded.

  “It was stuck in Thornhill’s mouth.”

  “You removed it from the body?” Chief Harper said incredulously.

  “If I hadn’t, people might have seen it. I thought you wanted the puzzles withheld.”

  “Not from me!” Harper hissed. A vein in his forehead was bulging. It occurred to Cora it was the first time she had ever noticed it.

  “Relax, Chief,” Cora said. “I gave you the puzzle at the first opportunity. It was rolled up and stuck in the guy’s mouth. It’s his own puzzle, it isn’t filled in, and what it means is anyone’s guess. But for what it’s worth, you have it.”

  “Who knows about this?” Chief Harper said ominously.

  “Just you, me, Sherry, and Aaron.”

  “Aaron Grant?”

  Cora put up her hands. “Off the record. I promise, he won’t write it.”

  Sam Brogan came walking up. “I found his car.”

  Chief Harper jammed the puzzle in his pocket, turned to the policeman. “Where?”

  “Parked out on the road.”

  “You didn’t see it when you drove in?” Chief Harper asked Cora.

  “No,” Cora said. “Where is it parked?”

  “North of the driveway.”

  “That’s why. We came in the other way.”

  “You secure the car?” Harper asked.

  Sam Brogan nodded. “Locked the doors and took the keys. They were in the ignition.”

  “Put a crime-scene ribbon on it?”

  Sam shook his head. “That’d just call attention to it. There’s so many cars parked out there now, no one will notice.”

  Harper frowned, considered.

  “And I reached his wife. She’s on her way.”

  “How’d you find her?”

  “Bed-and-breakfast had her cell-phone number. She’s out driving around. I had to give her directions. She’s damn near hysterical.”

  “You tell her he’s dead?”

  “Well, what was I gonna say? I found your husband, but he doesn’t wanna come? I had to tell her.”

  “I suppose so,” Chief Harper said. In the distance he could hear the roar of a motor, the squeal of tires.

  The TV crew heard it too. They perked up, swung around, hoisted the camera.

  Chief Harper began to feel a headache coming on. He turned to Cora Felton. “Tell me again why she couldn’t have done it.”

  JESSICA THORNHILL BROUGHT HER CAR TO A SCREECHING stop, erupted from the door, ducked under the crime-scene ribbon, and raced up the driveway. She was a fright. Her hair was mussed, her eyes were wide, tears caked her cheeks. She looked like a wild woman. “Where is he?” she cried. “Where is he?”

  Unfortunately, her arrival coincided with the EMS unit bringing her husband out on a gurney. She raced to it, flung herself on the body, weeping and wailing, “No! No!”

  The news crew filmed this gleefully. The ambulance was parked out on the road, so the cameraman got close-ups of the body being loaded, which took some time and maneuvering, including one of the technicians leaving the gurney teetering on the back of the van while he abandoned his position to pry Mrs. Thornhill free. Finally the doors were closed and the ambulance took off, leaving the poor woman standing staring like a lost soul.

  Becky Baldwin seemed poised to offer comfort, but at that moment Chief Harper appeared.

  Jessica Thornhill rushed to him. “Who did this?” she cried. “Do you know? Can you tell me? Who did this awful thing?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out,” Chief Harper said.

  It was an unfortunate choice of words.

  “You mean you don’t know?” she demanded. “You have no idea? How is that possible? Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me you have a lead.”

  Cora Felton, watching closely, said, “We have leads. That’s why I came to talk to you tonight.”

  “Yes,” Jessica said. “Because that woman talked to my husband. Now she’s dead, and so is he, and what does it mean? Nothing.”

  “Oh, it means something, all right,” Chief Harper said. “And I intend to get to the bottom of it. Now then, you were worried about your husband.”

  “Of course I was. Of course I was.”

  “Because he went out for brandy and didn’t come back.”

  “You’re telling
me stuff I know.”

  “I need to get it straight. How did you get here just now?”

  “How did I get here?”

  “Your husband had the car. What are you driving?”

  “I rented a car.”

  “You rented a car and went looking for him?”

  “That’s right.”

  “There’s no car rentals in town. Where’d you find one?”

  “In Danbury.”

  Chief Harper frowned. “How’d you get to Danbury?”

  “I didn’t. I called them, had them deliver a car.” Jessica snuffled. Her eyes were wide. “Why are you asking me this? What does it matter?”

  “I’m just trying to get the picture, Mrs. Thornhill. So you were out this evening, driving around, looking for your husband—is that right?”

  Rick Reed suddenly perked up.

  So did Becky Baldwin. “Chief Harper. If you’re suspecting Mrs. Thornhill of a crime, may I point out you’ve not advised her of her rights.”

  Jessica Thornhill looked at her. “You’re a lawyer?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yes. You’re the one Paul was talking to this afternoon when I came out. He said you were a lawyer. I said, ‘Why would we ever need a lawyer?’ And now I do. Can I hire you?”

  “You don’t have a lawyer?”

  “I have New York lawyers. They’re in New York. If I need advice now, let me hire you. What’s one lawyer, more or less.”

  “Sorry,” Becky said. “There’s a conflict of interest. I’m representing Joey Vale.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A suspect in the killings. At least he was. I doubt if he is now, but I still represent his interests.”

  “So you can’t advise me?”

  “No, just him,” Becky said, pointing to Chief Harper. “I’m advising him to read you your rights.”

  “My rights,” Jessica cried. “My rights. I didn’t kill my husband, what’s this talk of rights?”

  “It’s a formality,” Chief Harper said. “I’m questioning you in your husband’s death. You have the right to an attorney, you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”

  “That’s an awfully informal Miranda,” Becky Baldwin pointed out.