Puzzled to Death

by Parnell Hall

  Roger Winnington fiddled with his tie, which hung loosely around his neck. “Okay, the hypothetical is this: Suppose I were to concede my client was guilty of criminal trespass.”

  “That’d be a damn small concession on your part, considering where he was found.”

  “All right. Suppose the facts are these: My client knows absolutely nothing about any murders. Indeed, he is shocked and dismayed to learn that Mr. Thornhill is the latest victim.” Roger Winnington grimaced. “Though dismayed might not do it—he’s truly not really dismayed. And shocked might not do it either, because my client might have a vague recollection of hearing someone say something to that effect before he left the bar. Though I am not willing to concede the point.”

  “God save me,” Chief Harper said. “What are you willing to concede?”

  “I told you. Absolutely nothing. What I’m saying here makes no concessions whatsoever, it’s merely exploring possibilities.”

  “Hurry up and explore ’em or I’m going home.”

  “All right, all right, look,” Roger Winnington said. “All of this is off the record, and none of it’s binding against my client. But here’s the deal. Craig didn’t kill anybody, he never would. All he wants to do is win the tournament. He was concerned with his position in the standings. He was third, but only a few points ahead of the fellow who was fourth. Craig couldn’t bear the thought of that guy beating him. Nor could he bear the thought of losing to the guy who was second, a man who was just a rank amateur. Anyway, he kept drinking and brooding about it until he got good and drunk, and when he got drunk enough he decided to break into this guy’s house to get a peek at the puzzles to give himself an advantage over his competition. Granted, a horrible, shameful thing to do.

  “But there are two things to consider. One, it is not Craig Carmichael acting here, it is the whiskey talking. And, two, Craig never saw the puzzles—he was so drunk he couldn’t find them. So there’s no harm done, and no reason why he shouldn’t play.”

  “Attempting to cheat doesn’t count?” Chief Harper asked. “What planet are you from?”

  “You’ll pardon me, Chief, but I thought the legal matters were your business, and the contest was theirs. Mr. Beerbaum, my client is not particularly lucid, but he managed to get this across. Exposure in this matter will not just cost him the tournament, he will be ostracized from the crossword-puzzle community. He will never be able to compete again. It would be the equivalent of a life sentence.”

  “That’s going a little far,” Harvey Beerbaum protested. “It’s entirely conceivable that in time he might be accepted again.”

  Roger Winnington made a face. “I think the key word here is might. Do you speak for the crossword-puzzle community?”

  “Of course not.”

  “There you are. But if you drop him from your tournament, you will in fact be speaking for the crossword-puzzle community. You will be preempting their power and making a decision best left to them.”

  “Nonsense,” Harvey Beerbaum said. “We’re running this tournament, and we must enforce the rules. It’s as simple as that.”

  “But—”

  “Whoa, time out,” Chief Harper interposed. “I’m sorry to interrupt your little tangent, but I happen to have this murder here.”

  “Which my client had nothing to do with,” Roger Winnington said. “He was drinking in the bar of a local restaurant. Perhaps you could supply me with the name?”

  “The Country Kitchen?”

  “Is that the one that looks like a huge log cabin?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Fine. My client was drinking at the Country Kitchen most of the evening. You should be able to find people who saw him there.”

  “I saw him there,” Cora Felton volunteered. “But what’s it prove? He could have gone out, killed his rival, and come back. He’d still have lots of witnesses who saw him there. But you can’t prove he was there all night.”

  The look Roger Winnington gave her was not kind. “I can raise a logical inference,” he said. “Built around the fact no one will have seen him go out. But I thought we were just talking off the record here about what’s really what. Off the record, my client didn’t kill anybody. Please don’t quote me on that, but it happens to be a fact. So—”

  “You wanna move things along?” Chief Harper interrupted, looking at his watch.

  “You think Craig did it? I don’t. I think this alleged break-in is totally unconnected to the homicides. Unless it’s your theory my client snapped, bumped off Paul Thornhill, and then decided to do this gentleman in. If so, how do you account for the other murders? I’d be very interested to hear.”

  Chief Harper scowled. “All right. What do you propose?”

  “Frankly, I’d like to go to bed. As I doubt if there are any hotels nearby, that probably means driving back to New York. That’s rather inconvenient if I have to show up tomorrow morning—this morning—to get my client out of jail. If at all possible, I’d like to wrap things up right now. So, what do we have here? You drop the murder counts, and you’re left with the burglary. Considering nothing was stolen, that might go away. Or at least be reduced. Anyway, it’s Mr. Beerbaum’s house. He might not wish to press charges.”

  “Is that so?” Harvey Beerbaum said. “Have you ever had your property broken into?”

  “No, I haven’t, and I understand your just ire. So we have a situation here.” Roger Winnington turned to Chief Harper. “I assume you’re not waking up the judge to handle it now?”

  “That would be a correct assumption.”

  “I thought so.” Winnington steepled his fingers. “So, here’s the way it goes, Mr. Beerbaum. Tomorrow morning you will either be in the town hall, officiating at the completion of your crossword-puzzle tournament. Or you will be in the county courthouse, pressing charges against my client. The choice is up to you.”

  Harvey Beerbaum frowned.

  “I would imagine that would cause a certain backlash in the crossword-puzzle community,” Winnington went on. “A juicy bit of scandal. And the thing about scandal is, nobody ever gets it right. Particularly people who aren’t there. You know how the story will go? Craig Carmichael, ostracized from the crossword-puzzle community for getting the answers from Harvey Beerbaum and then getting caught. Your name will forevermore be connected with shame and scandal. Whether people believe you gave the answers to Craig Carmichael or not.”

  Harvey Beerbaum began to wriggle in his chair. “Now, see here. I don’t want to send anybody to jail, and I don’t want to ruin anybody’s life. But there’s no way I’m letting him compete. The possibility of him winning the tournament is totally unacceptable. No, I simply cannot allow it. He has to withdraw.”

  “He can’t withdraw without an explanation.”

  “So say he got sick.”

  “If he were sick, he’d go home,” Winnington said complacently. “Chief Harper, will you let him go home?”

  “Not on your life. He’s still a suspect in an ongoing murder investigation. He stays in town.”

  “There you are,” Winnington said. “So he can’t withdraw.”

  “Well, he can’t play either,” Beerbaum said.

  “So what can he do?”

  “He takes a dive,” Cora said.

  The men looked at her.

  “Huh?” Winnington said.

  “He makes a mistake and loses. And I don’t mean in the play-off. He’s not even one of the final three. He makes a mistake on the seventh puzzle tomorrow morning. I don’t care what it is, just so it’s enough to knock him out of the finals. He’s a smart man, he’ll know what he needs to get wrong.”

  Cora pushed her glasses up on her nose. “If he does that, we have a deal. And we won’t embarrass him by revealing any of this. Unless, of course, he’s a killer, in which case all bets are off. But, barring that, we have a deal.” She stuck her finger in Winnington’s face. “You got that, Mr. Lawyer Man? You with your mud-of-scandal-sticks-to-you threats. Are we p
erfectly clear? Your client doesn’t make the finals. Because if he should make the finals, Harvey and I will step in right then and there and disqualify him for cheating. So you make damn sure that he doesn’t.”

  Cora leaned back in her chair and smiled at the three men, whom she had just rendered speechless.

  “There,” she said. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

  SHERRY MET CORA AT THE FRONT DOOR.

  “You’re still awake,” Cora said. “When did the cops leave?”

  “About an hour ago. They got floodlights, searched the backyard for evidence.”

  “Find anything?”

  “I doubt it. Sam Brogan was not communicative, but I watched out the window. They bagged a few papers, but they’re more likely litter than anything the killer dropped.” Sherry pointed to the headlights retreating down the road. “Chief Harper drive you home?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Where were you?”

  “You wouldn’t believe,” Cora told her.

  Cora brought Sherry up to date on the situation. It took a while because there was a lot to tell, what with the Judy Vale revelation, the Harvey Beerbaum barbecue, and the Craig Carmichael intrusion. By the time Cora was finished she had changed into her nightgown and climbed into bed. She yawned, stretched, said, “Whatever happened to those brownies?”

  Sherry gawked at her. “Are you kidding me?”

  “You mean you didn’t wrap them up? They’ll go stale. Even I know that.”

  “We had a murder at our house. Or have you forgotten?”

  “That’s no excuse. We didn’t get killed. Life goes on.”

  “Cora, forget the brownies. What about Billy Pickens? Did Chief Harper ever get around to him?”

  “Not unless he’s out there now.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Why? I trust you and Aaron paid a call.”

  “Come on,” Sherry said. “You think I missed your sign?”

  “I’m sure you didn’t. So what’s his story?”

  “Same as his wife’s.”

  “Oh?”

  “As of now, they seem to be on the same page. She knows he’s vulnerable, knows he desperately needs an alibi. Only trouble is, they were both out last night.”

  “Together?”

  “No.”

  Sherry sat on the edge of the bed and filled Cora in on the Billy and Sara Pickens situation, including them switching cars.

  “Aaron knows that?” Cora asked.

  “Of course.”

  “And he’s sitting on it?”

  “I’m sure he is,” Sherry said.

  Cora looked at her sharply. “You mean he didn’t say he was?”

  “Cora,” Sherry said irritably. “Aaron’s not publishing it. It was too late to be in this morning’s paper, and it won’t be in tomorrow’s. I’ll make sure of that, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You all right with Aaron?” Cora said.

  “We’re fine,” Sherry said. “I’m just angry with myself ’cause I should have made this explicit, but I didn’t, and it didn’t occur to me till you said so. Anyway, the point is they switched cars. That implies guilty knowledge.”

  “You think he’s the killer?”

  “Or she is, and he’s covering.”

  “And why would either of them kill Paul Thornhill?”

  “Because Paul knew he or she killed Judy Vale.”

  Cora frowned.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Sherry demanded.

  “Nothing, that’s the problem. Everything’s right with that. Because of this barbecue. Paul Thornhill might have been around just about the time Billy Pickens hooked up with Judy Vale. If Thornhill saw the two of them together, then he’s a witness, and Mrs. Roth is a witness, and that’s what the two of them were gabbing about on Fun Night.”

  “Yeah,” Sherry said. “But how do they hook up at Fun Night? How does Mrs. Roth know Thornhill’s a witness? Or vice versa?”

  “I don’t know,” Cora said. “Because I don’t have all the facts. But if either Billy or Sara Pickens is the killer, it just might work.”

  “I thought you were trying to prove Billy Pickens wasn’t the killer.”

  “I am. But the facts are the facts. If he did it, I’m not going to shield him.”

  “You think he did?”

  “Well, there’s one big thing against him.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He knows where we live. Whoever killed Thornhill had to know where we live. Or at least find where we live. Which wouldn’t be that easy when you throw in that the killer had to lure Thornhill out here. Or bring his dead body. Well, Billy Pickens not only knows where we live, he was just here. Telling us a story practically guaranteed to make us rush out and start investigating. So he not only knows where we live, he knows we won’t be home. And he’s practically the only person who would know that.”

  “That’s pretty bad,” Sherry said. “You passing any of this on to Chief Harper?”

  “Not on your life. I don’t know he’s guilty. The man came to me for help. I’m not going to throw him to the wolves.”

  “So what are you gonna do?”

  “I don’t know.” Cora considered. “Actually, I’d like to break into Marty Haskel’s again, see if he’s still got his crossword puzzle.”

  Sherry gawked at her. “You’re joking!”

  “When I tossed the place, I found a copy of Thornhill’s puzzle in Marty’s upstairs bedroom. A blank copy. Just like the one in Thornhill’s mouth.”

  “Tossed?”

  “Don’t start with me. The fact is, Marty had the puzzle.”

  “So? If his puzzle was at home, he wasn’t out planting it on a corpse.”

  “He could have come back and got it.”

  “Why didn’t you ask him, then? When you were out there with Chief Harper, why didn’t you ask where it was?”

  “I couldn’t figure out a way to slip it into the conversation. Harper’s withholding the puzzle, and I couldn’t admit I’d seen it.”

  “What about the tournament?” Sherry asked. “Is it going ahead as scheduled?”

  “Yes. And I’m totally dorked, and it’s all my fault.” Cora shook her head in disgust. “I had the perfect out. Craig Carmichael trying to peek at the puzzles could have stopped the whole show, if I’d just played my cards right. Harvey and the chief and Craig’s lawyer were so tied up in knots they were never going to agree on anything. If I’d just kept my mouth shut, they’d probably still be talking.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Cora grimaced. “I couldn’t help myself. I think it was the sleazy shyster oozing pretentious, condescending legalese. I just wanted to stick it to him. To wipe that smug smirk off his lips. I didn’t even think of the consequences. I just had to do it.”

  “So you saved the tournament?”

  “Ain’t that a kick in the face? Chief Harper’s gonna make a brief statement, then he’s gonna let ’em play. And I gotta do the commentary.”

  “You know what you’re gonna say?”

  “Not a clue.” Cora looked at the clock. “And I gotta be up in three hours.”

  “You sure do. Better get to sleep.”

  “Yeah.” Cora heaved herself out of bed, headed for the door.

  “Hey!” Sherry said. “Where are you going?”

  Cora turned back and smiled—her trademark Puzzle Lady smile. “Unless there’s another corpse in the backyard, I’m going to have some brownies.”

  THE TOWN HALL WAS PACKED. ASIDE FROM THE CONTESTANTS, an area had been roped off in the back for spectators, and it was jammed. Everyone in town had heard what had happened, and everyone was there.

  The TV people were there too. The Channel 8 crew, and two other crews from New York.

  Sherry Carter, standing in the back with Aaron, noted that Becky Baldwin was still hanging out with Rick Reed.

  She also noted Aaron Grant’s parents in the crowd. So far, they had not acknowledged
Aaron’s presence.

  Cora Felton, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, stood onstage with Harvey Beerbaum. The TV crews had all tried to interview her when she arrived. None had succeeded. Cora had pushed on by, ignoring the microphones thrust in her face, the shouted questions regarding the body found in her yard. Keenly aware of the cameras still trained on her, Cora was expending a great deal of energy just trying not to yawn.

  Or to give Harvey Beerbaum a good swift kick in the behind. After all, she had saved the man’s bacon, bailed him out when the lawyer had him buffaloed. And yet there he stood, with the same supercilious smirk on his face, taunting her with the prospect of her commentary. He had already brought the subject up three times. Once more, and Cora would be ready to scream.

  On the other side of the stage, Iris Cooper paced back and forth and glanced at her watch. It was five minutes after ten, past time for the tournament to begin. She had nudged Harvey, to no avail. He, like everyone else, was waiting on Chief Harper.

  At ten-ten the chief finally came in the back door and pushed his way through the crowd. Following in his wake was the new widow, Jessica Thornhill. Fending off questions from the media, the two of them ducked under the restraining rope holding back the spectators, wove their way through the tables of contestants right up to the front of the room.

  Iris Cooper descended on them instantly. “What’s the story?” she demanded. “Can we get on with it?”

  “That’s what I want to talk about,” Chief Harper told Iris. “Let me make my statement.”

  He stepped to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen. By now you are all aware of the tragedy that has struck this town. Last night there was a third murder. This time the victim was one of the contestants. In fact, a key contestant, the one who was in first place. I am referring, of course, to Paul Thornhill, whose body was discovered late last night.”

  A general hubbub greeted this statement.

  Chief Harper raised his hands to quiet the crowd. “I know there are rumors flying around. I would like to address them now. One, that we have a suspect under arrest. This is not true. We have questioned people, and we will continue to question people. But at the present time, we have no suspect in these murders. As of right now I don’t know who did it. But I assure you, I intend to find out.