Puzzled to Death

by Parnell Hall

  “Even so,” Chief Harper grumbled. He slowed the cruiser, hung a left into the driveway of the Mosely Funeral Home.

  Chief Harper had called ahead, so the porch light was on, and the proprietor was actually in the doorway.

  Sal Mosely, a gaunt man with sunken cheeks and a thick black hairpiece, could have passed for a cadaver himself. “This is extremely irregular,” he said, as Chief Harper, Cora Felton, and Ned Doowacker came up on his porch.

  “I know, Sal, but do us the favor,” Chief Harper said. “I’m bringin’ you business.”

  Sal Mosely frowned.

  “We got another one,” the chief told him. “Barney Nathan’s cuttin’ him up now. On second thought, you won’t get him, though. They’ll ship him home to New York.”

  “Another murder?” Sal Mosely said, twitching slightly.

  Cora Felton couldn’t tell if he was alarmed or if he regarded the prospect of a serial killer as a business opportunity.

  “Right. And this guy,” Chief Harper said, pointing at Ned Doowacker, “is a murder witness. That’s why we need to see the body.”

  “Of course,” Sal Mosely said. He stood aside and ushered them into a room with so many caskets in it that at first glance one would have thought the whole town of Bakerhaven had recently died. “Demonstration models,” he explained. “The viewing rooms are back here.”

  He went to the door, switched on a light, and led them into a smaller room hung with red velvet drapes, containing a single casket. He stepped up to it, raised the lid. Ned Doowacker whimpered.

  After a moment’s hesitation, however, he stepped up, looked inside. “Never saw her before in my life,” he said, turning away.

  Cora Felton, at his shoulder, said, “Of course he hasn’t. That’s not Judy Vale. That’s Mrs. Roth.”

  Sal Mosely fell all over himself apologizing. “Of course, of course. I’m extremely sorry. When you said the body I thought you meant the last one. Mrs. Vale’s right through here. Come on.”

  Sal Mosely opened another door, switched on another light, led them into a more starkly furnished and much cooler room. Here a casket sat on a slab.

  “Sorry about the temperature,” Sal Mosely said, “but you understand, it’s been a longer time than usual with this one, what with her husband … er, incapacitated and all. Anyway, she’s all made up for a viewing, though whether that will happen remains to be seen. Extremely distressing, the way things turned out.”

  “Yes, it is,” Chief Harper said. “If we could take a look …”

  “Certainly,” Sal Mosely said. He moved to the casket, raised the lid.

  The effect was startling. Particularly after Mrs. Roth. Despite the mortician’s best efforts, Mrs. Roth had seemed old, preserved, a wax figure, not really real.

  But Judy Vale had died young. And she had been attractive. Alive, she had drawn men like moths to a flame.

  Even in death, her beauty was evident. She had full lips and a turned-up nose. Curly red hair framed a freckled face. It was a face that in life had been saucy, impudent.

  Ned Doowacker sucked in his breath. “Yes,” he whispered. “I know her.”

  Cora Felton’s mouth fell open. She was light-headed, and her stomach felt hollow.

  “So do I,” she said.

  CHIEF HARPER DUMPED CREAM IN HIS COFFEE, STIRRED it around, took a huge sip. He lowered his right hand, which he’d been holding up in Cora Felton’s face as if he were a cop on traffic patrol and she were an oncoming truck. “All right,” he said, “what’s your crazy theory?”

  “I told you in the car.”

  “I couldn’t listen in the car. You were babbling about freckles and yearbook photos and God knows what else. If I’d listened, I’d have driven off the road. Now I’m not drivin’, I’ve got my coffee, and I’m ready to listen. I just hope you’ve calmed down enough to make sense.”

  Chief Harper and Cora Felton were having coffee at an all-night diner out on the highway, which at that time of night was the only game in town.

  “I wasn’t babbling,” Cora said indignantly. “I was making perfect sense. You just wouldn’t listen. All I was saying was the paper published Judy Vale’s yearbook picture, which was ten years old, airbrushed, and black-and-white. So she’s younger, they took out her freckles, and you can’t see her red hair. Of course I didn’t recognize her.”

  “But now you do?”

  “Sure I do. Judy Vale is the woman who stood up at the first tournament planning meeting and objected to the whole thing. Throw that in and it all makes sense.”

  “I’m thrilled it makes sense to you. You mind explaining it to me?”

  “That’s where she and Marty Haskel squared off. Not squared off, exactly, but had different views. He’s fighting to keep the celebrities out, and she’s fighting to close the whole thing down. At the time I thought nothing of it. Because I’m a bigot like everyone else. I wrote Marty Haskel off. I figured he works in a garage, does he really expect to compete with these puzzle whizzes? Turns out he did. Turns out he wasn’t just blowing smoke, he really does have a chance to win the thing. Apparently it means a lot to him, and when he said he didn’t want the celebrities in the tournament he was dead serious. And for good reason. You take the professionals out of the tournament, he wins it hands down.”

  “What about Judy Vale?”

  “She stood up and argued against it. The tournament, I mean. Said she didn’t see the point in it, and if it was just going to cause dissension, why should we bother? She was cute, spunky, and spoke pretty well.”

  “So?”

  “So, here’s another obstacle in the way of Marty Haskel winning the tournament. So Marty Haskel removes it.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? An hour after Marty Haskel finds out he’s number two in the tournament, number one is bumped off. Now, Marty can claim it doesn’t matter who’s number one, but I’ll bet you a gin and tonic it does to him. And you were sold enough on the idea you went to see the standings and went to question Marty. And after you did, the only thing that convinced you he couldn’t have done it was the fact you couldn’t connect him with Judy Vale. Well, guess what. A great big connection just got dumped in your lap.”

  Chief Harper frowned.

  “And if it’s Marty Haskel, it accounts for the body winding up at my house. If there’s anyone Marty hates more than Paul Thornhill, it’s me. It’s my tournament. And I’m the big-time Puzzle Lady, who never even noticed him.” Cora’s eyes gleamed with excitement as she put all the pieces together. “So what are we gonna do now?”

  Chief Harper took a sip of coffee, considered. “I know exactly what I’m gonna do.”

  “You gonna bust Marty Haskel?”

  “No, I’m not.” He took another sip of coffee, pointed his finger at Cora Felton. “You’re very good when you’re on my side. When you’re not, you’re not. That’s the problem. You can make black sound like white. The town meeting’s where the whole thing began? I don’t think so. Not according to Ned Doowacker.” Chief Harper shook his head. “That wasn’t where the whole thing began at all.”

  HARVEY BEERBAUM CAME TO THE DOOR IN A BLUE SATIN robe with the initials HB monogrammed on the pocket. It was chilly for the robe, and Harvey shivered as he blinked sleepy eyes at Chief Harper and Cora Felton.

  “This better be important,” he griped. “I’ve got a tournament to run tomorrow. And you should be sleeping,” he added insinuatingly to Cora. “You have a big day.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Chief Harper said grimly. “Tell me, who’s in first place?”

  “Paul Thornhill.”

  “Not anymore,” Chief Harper said, and pushed on by.

  Harvey Beerbaum, on being told of Paul Thornhill’s recent violent demise, was considerably chastened. “Good God,” he said, “I had no idea. I went to sleep early. Big day tomorrow. Need to be fresh. Well, this certainly changes things. Horrible understatement. I don’t know what to say. Everything seems wrong.” He led the
m into his living room, gestured toward the couch.

  Cora, who’d never been in Harvey Beerbaum’s home before, and never had a desire to, found herself repulsed by the furnishings. Crossword-puzzle art was everywhere. Framed puzzles, framed covers from puzzle books, even paintings of puzzles adorned the walls. Several trophies on the mantlepiece had Harvey’s name inscribed on them.

  Cora looked at the hearth, wished the fire were lit. It was cold in the room. The glass doors to the patio were uncurtained, heightening the effect.

  Harvey Beerbaum sat in a leather director’s chair with his back to the window. “Now then,” he said. “This is a tragedy, of course, but the tournament should go on. I assume that’s what you came to say.”

  “Actually, no,” Chief Harper said. At Harvey’s expression he added, “Not that I’m saying it shouldn’t go on, but that’s not what I came to talk about. I came about the barbecue.”

  Harvey Beerbaum blinked. “Excuse me? What barbecue?”

  “The one you had last fall. With the players here. The crossword-puzzle people, I mean. Surely you remember.”

  “Yes, of course. What about it?”

  “Paul Thornhill was there?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “No, she wasn’t with him.”

  “Do you remember just who was here?”

  “Certainly. Paul Thornhill, Craig Carmichael, Zelda Zisk. Ned Doowacker, Don Hinkle, and Beverly Platt.”

  “What about Judy Vale? Is there any chance she was here?”

  Harvey Beerbaum shook his head. “None at all.”

  “Do you know what she looks like?” Chief Harper said. “Aside from her picture in the paper?”

  “No, that’s all I’ve seen,” Harvey Beerbaum replied. “But surely that’s enough.”

  “I assure you it isn’t,” Chief Harper said glumly. “The picture is very misleading. Judy Vale was actually a young woman with green eyes, red hair, and freckles. None of which show in the picture. So I wonder if it’s possible you were mistaken about her not being at the barbecue.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Harvey Beerbaum said. “It was my party. I know who was at it.”

  “The people you named are all from out of town?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Were any Bakerhaven residents at the party? Any at all?”

  “No,” Harvey Beerbaum said. He indicated Cora. “I invited her, of course, but she had a family function to attend.”

  Cora nodded dolefully, as if she still deeply regretted missing the barbecue, and wondered what particular excuse she’d invented.

  “I see,” Chief Harper said. “Now, this barbecue, what time did it break up?”

  “It was September. It still stays light out fairly late. People began leaving around eight. I believe by nine everyone was gone.”

  “But some left as early as eight?”

  “Yes. Some of them had to drive back to New York City. A few stayed over.”

  “Would you happen to recall who?”

  “No, I wouldn’t. It’s not as if they stayed with me. Why is it important?”

  “Ned Doowacker stayed in Bakerhaven. He may have met Judy Vale that night.”

  Harvey Beerbaum’s eyes widened. “You suspect Ned of these crimes?”

  “Not necessarily,” Chief Harper replied. “But if Ned met Judy after your cookout, others may have too. Whether that makes them witnesses or suspects, I don’t know. But I mean to find out.”

  “Well, there are only the six of them,” Harvey Beerbaum said. “And only four of them came to the tournament. The other two aren’t here.”

  “As far as we know,” Chief Harper said meaningfully.

  Now Beerbaum’s eyes narrowed. “You suspect the people I didn’t select to be celebrity contestants?”

  “It’s a thought,” Chief Harper said. “I don’t know if it occurred to you, but Ned Doowacker took not being picked quite personally. Others might have too.”

  “I assure you they didn’t,” Harvey Beerbaum said. “Don Hinkle only came to the barbecue because he happened to be passing through town. And Beverly Platt didn’t want to do it—I actually asked her over Zelda Zisk.”

  “Really?” Chief Harper said, perking up. “And does Zelda know that?”

  “Of course not,” Harvey Beerbaum said. “You think I want to offend someone?”

  “You offended Ned Doowacker.”

  “Anything offends Ned,” Harvey Beerbaum said. “He’d have been offended even if he had been picked.”

  Cora Felton, who’d been looking for a spot in the conversation to weasel her way in, found it. “Tell me something, Harvey. Did you go out with your friends after your barbecue? Were you in the Rainbow Room that night?”

  “Of course not,” Harvey said. “It was my party. I had to clean up.”

  Cora could imagine that. Harvey’s puzzle-encrusted living room was fastidious, with nothing out of place.

  Except that the glass doors were open a crack, and the wind was whipping through. No wonder it seemed so cold. At first Cora thought she’d imagined it, but now as she watched, the door swung in an inch.

  “Harvey,” Cora said. “Your door’s open.”

  Harvey frowned. “What?” He turned. “That’s odd. I was sure I locked it. I always lock the doors and windows before I go to bed.”

  Harvey got up, went to the glass doors, and locked them.

  Only they didn’t lock. Harvey was turning the knob that should have shot the bolt, only it wasn’t catching the other door. Puzzled, he pulled the door open wider, looked outside.

  “Oh, my God!” he exclaimed.

  Chief Harper was out of his chair like a shot. “What is it?”

  “My door. Someone’s broken the lock.”

  “Since you locked up tonight?”

  “Must have been. The way it is now, the door won’t lock, and I’m sure I locked it.”

  Chief Harper spun around, surveyed the living room. Aside from the glass door, there were only two exits from the room: the open entrance to the foyer, where they’d come in, and a closed door on the opposite wall.

  “Where’s that door lead to?” he asked.

  “My office.”

  “Is there another door out of there?”

  “No. Just a closet.”

  “Where’s the light switch?”

  “To the left. Just inside the door.”

  Chief Harper crossed to the door. As he went, he drew his gun.

  Cora Felton was thrilled. As far as she could remember, it was the first time she’d seen him draw it. Of course, Cora had her own gun in her purse. She considered pulling it out for backup, decided against it. The chief would be angry, and Harvey would be shocked.

  Chief Harper sidled up to the door, taking no chances. He turned the knob, pushed the door open. Reached his hand around, switched on the light.

  Cautiously, Chief Harper peered into the room. He saw nothing, but his nostrils detected the faint odor of whiskey in the air. He flailed his arm, waving back Cora Felton, who was creeping up to look. Raising his gun, he edged his way into the room.

  Harvey Beerbaum’s office was small and cluttered, with one window, a writing desk, computer desk, typewriter stand, bookcases, file cabinets, and a closet. Unlike the rest of the house, the office was a mess, with books, magazines, and papers everywhere.

  It was also freezing. The window was wide open, but there was a screen on it, indicating no one had gotten in or out.

  Still, there was that odor of whiskey. Could someone be under the desk? No, a glance showed there was no room.

  How about the closet? Could someone be hiding there?

  As Chief Harper had the thought, the closet door moved slightly.

  Chief Harper’s heart leaped. Adrenaline raced through his veins. Good God, was he actually going to have to shoot someone?

  Swiftly, he crept across the office, thinking hard. The closet door would open out. Did he want to
be on the side by the knob? Then the open door would frame him, making him a target. But if he was on the other side of the door, where the hinges were, he’d have to reach all the way across to grab the knob. And what if the killer started shooting through the door?

  He’s a strangler, Chief Harper reminded himself. He doesn’t use a gun.

  Chief Harper flattened himself against the wall near the closet door.

  The odor of whiskey was stronger.

  Chief Harper reached out his hand, grabbed the knob, flung the door wide. With both hands he leveled his gun.

  At nothing.

  It took a second to see him. There, whimpering on the floor of the closet, curled up in a ball, and reeking of drink.

  The intruder.

  Craig Carmichael.

  ROGER WINNINGTON, CRAIG CARMICHAEL’S ATTORNEY, ran his hand over his bald scalp, frowned, and pointed his finger at Cora Felton and Harvey Beerbaum, who were sitting across from him in Chief Harper’s office. “I’m not comfortable talking in front of them.”

  “I understand that,” Chief Harper told him. “But seeing as how it’s four A.M., I don’t really want to debate the matter. These people are in charge of the tournament. If your client is willing to withdraw, we have no problem, and these people can go home. If he insists on being allowed to play, then they’ll have to hear him plead his case.”

  “He’s not going to plead anything,” Roger Winnington retorted. “If this is a murder investigation, I’m not inclined to let my client make a statement. On the other hand, I didn’t drive up from New York to say, ‘No comment.’ It so happens my client would like very much to play in this tournament, if such a thing could be worked out. For that reason, I would like to explore certain possibilities with you. Hypothetically, of course.”

  “Of course,” Chief Harper said dryly. “But I should warn you. My hypothetical threshold shuts down around two A.M. So whatever you gotta say, spit it out quickly, or I’m goin’ home, and your client will spend the rest of the night in that cell back there. Then tomorrow, when the judge wakes up, you can be as hypothetical as you want.”