Puzzled to Death

by Parnell Hall

  “Another rumor is that the killing of Paul Thornhill took place at the home of one of the tournament cohosts. This rumor is true. To the best we can determine, at some time last night, while Miss Cora Felton and her niece Sherry Carter were out, the killer lured Paul Thornhill to their house and murdered him in their backyard.”

  The reaction from the crowd was even louder. Chief Harper waited for it to subside.

  “Another rumor is that because of the killings, I intend to close this tournament down. I must say I have considered it, and it is an option. There are, however, other options. In this matter, I have been swayed by the wishes of Jessica Thornhill, Paul Thornhill’s widow. She has asked to be allowed to address you. I am going to let her do so now.

  “Mrs. Thornhill?”

  Jessica Thornhill stepped to the microphone. She was not dressed in black, although no one could possibly hold that against her. She was up from New York, not expecting to need black. Her blue wool dress was probably the closest she had.

  Her hair was pulled back from her face and fastened with a rubber band. Her eyes were red, her cheeks raw from tears. Her voice shook when she first spoke, then steadied with her resolve.

  “My husband is dead,” she began. It was here she stumbled for a moment before going on. “I want Paul’s killer caught. That is more important to me than any tournament. You must see that. Surely you can understand.

  “But I understand how you feel too. You came here, you paid your money, you put in your time. I could refund your entry fees, and I am willing to do that, if it would help catch Paul’s killer. But I fear it would not. If you pack up and go home, what if the killer is among you? What if he is an out-of-towner who simply leaves?

  “I could not bear that.

  “I will not allow it.

  “That must not happen.

  “And you don’t want that either, merely to get your money back. You want to play the game.” Here again, her voice trembled. “And Paul would have wanted it too. This contest should continue for Paul’s sake. In his memory. At least, that’s how I feel.”

  Jessica Thornhill swayed slightly, clung to the microphone. “But we have a problem. The police have an investigation to pursue. If the tournament goes forward, it ends this noon, and once it ends, you go home. With the same result as if we’d called it off. It will not do.”

  Jessica snuffled, then braced with resolve. “So here is what I propose. We suspend the tournament—”

  This announcement was greeted with howls of protest and a general swell of grumbling from the crowd.

  Except from Cora Felton, whose heart leaped as if she had just gotten a death-row reprieve. Cora controlled herself, tried not to let the TV cameras catch her grinning outright.

  “No, wait! Hear me out!” Jessica cried. “I didn’t mean forever. We suspend it for one day, and one day only, completing it tomorrow at this same time.”

  The crowd hubbub lessened, as people digested this new wrinkle.

  Cora scowled.

  “Now then,” Jessica continued, “I know the hardships this will cause. The out-of-towners will have to stay over another day, the local people will have to miss work. That is no problem. If you are staying over, I will pay your bill. Likewise, I will compensate you for lost wages.

  “And I will also sweeten the prize. In addition to the other incentives, I offer one hundred thousand dollars for anyone with any information leading to the arrest and conviction of the murderer of my husband.”

  Jessica Thornhill smeared a tear from her cheek. “I hope you are all willing to do that. For Paul.”

  Whether they were willing or not, at least there were no audible protests. The mention of one hundred thousand dollars had silenced the crowd.

  With one exception.

  From out of nowhere, Joey Vale staggered forward. No one had seen him coming, as he had slipped through the rope while Jessica Thornhill was speaking, and suddenly he was there, lunging to the microphone before anyone could stop him.

  He was a fright, even by his recent standards. His flannel shirt was buttoned wrong—the uneven tail hung out over a pair of ripped and filthy jeans. His work boots were unlaced and clomped as he walked—indeed, the fact they stayed on his feet at all seemed nothing short of miraculous. He was unshaven, his hair was matted, and his eyes were red. For ten in the morning, he seemed quite drunk indeed.

  With a snarl, he wrenched the microphone from Jessica Thornhill. “Is that right?” he demanded of the crowd. “Is that how it works? She puts up money, and you all go along? A hunnerd—hundred—thousand dollars for the killer of her husband?” Joey regrouped and bellowed, “Well, how much for the killer of my wife? Doesn’t Judy’s murder count for anything? Just because I haven’t any money, doesn’t anybody care? You don’t, do you? You care about that son of a bitch, but you couldn’t care less for her.”

  Joey Vale whirled on a trembling Jessica Thornhill. “How about it, sweetie? You care who murdered her?”

  Chief Harper pushed between them, flipped a high sign to Dan Finley and Sam Brogan in the crowd. The two descended on Joey Vale and marched him away.

  It took a second for Joey to realize what was happening. When he did, he began kicking and screaming. As the officers hauled him off, Becky Baldwin detached herself from Rick Reed and the camera crew, who were filming this with glee, and followed him out the door.

  Up front, as Cora Felton and Harvey Beerbaum moved in to console Jessica Thornhill, Chief Harper picked up the microphone from the floor.

  “Sorry for the disturbance, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Before we were interrupted, Mrs. Thornhill was asking if you were willing to suspend the tournament for one day. Well, you’d better be, because that is now a police order. Due to an ongoing police investigation, this tournament is hereby suspended until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

  AARON GRANT WOULDN’T LET SHERRY ALONE. “WHAT have you got that you’re not saying?” he persisted.

  “Nothing that you can print.”

  “What have you got that I can’t print?”

  “Aaron, that’s not fair.”

  “Sherry, you’re talking fair? That newscaster’s on the air at six o’clock. I’m in the paper tomorrow morning. And I don’t have a single thing he hasn’t got. That gives him a good twelve hours’ head start.”

  “Old argument, Aaron. You’ve used it before.”

  “That makes it any less valid?”

  Cora Felton came out of the town hall to find them arguing on the steps. “Ah, good, you two lovebirds are together. Aaron, can you give her a ride home?”

  “Where are you going?” Sherry asked.

  Cora Felton waved her hand airily. “That’s on a need-to-know basis, and Aaron here doesn’t need to know.”

  “Oh, for goodness sakes,” Aaron said. “What is this, a conspiracy?”

  “Of course it is,” Cora replied. “I’m finding out everything I can and giving it all to Rick Reed. Boy, are you newspeople paranoid.”

  “Oh, is that right?” Aaron Grant said bitterly. It was the first time Cora could recall seeing him angry. “Tell me something, willya? Am I in or am I out? It was my understanding I was the good guy, withholding the juicy little tidbit about Billy Pickens and his wife swapping cars. Or is that how it works? Anything I happen to learn, you tell me if I can print. And anything I don’t learn, you don’t bother to tell me.”

  Before Sherry could retort, Aaron’s parents came out the door. His mother smiled and started over, but his father, seeing the expression on Aaron’s face, grabbed her by the arm and piloted her down the front steps.

  “Gee,” Sherry said, “I must have the plague.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Aaron cried, throwing up his hands. “Everything is not my fault.”

  With that he turned and stalked off.

  “What was that all about?” Cora asked, watching him head in the direction of the Gazette offices.

  “I don’t know,” Sherry said. “But ever
y time we have a fight, he brings up how he can’t compete with Rick Reed.”

  “And Becky Baldwin’s still following Rick around?”

  “Exactly.”

  Cora shook her head. “Men are so stupid. I remember my husband Henry—”

  “Could we leave Henry out of this?”

  “Certainly. I left him out of everything I could. So Joey Vale’s back in jail again?”

  “He’s certainly headed in that direction.”

  “At least he’s making work for Becky Baldwin.”

  “Yeah. I wonder if he can afford to pay her.”

  Cora sighed. “Well, looks like I’m stuck with you. You wanna hang out here or you wanna come with me? I don’t have time to take you home.”

  “Where are you going that you couldn’t tell Aaron?”

  “There are people I need to see who wouldn’t talk to me with a reporter hanging over my shoulder.”

  “Well, duh,” Sherry said. “You wanna be more explicit?”

  “Well, duh?” Cora said. “Sherry, for a bright, mature woman, every now and then you sound like you’re back in high school.”

  “Are you evading the question?”

  “Well, duh,” Cora said. “Of course I’m evading the question. You think I wanna let you in on all my secrets?”

  “What secrets?”

  “Exactly,” Cora said. “I have no secrets. And I got only twenty-four hours to crack these crimes. It’s like working with a gun to my head. Worse than that, if I can’t solve ’em in twenty-four hours, not only do I fail, but I gotta do crossword-puzzle commentary for Harvey Beerbaum.”

  “So who you wanna talk to?”

  A jingle of earrings announced the approach of Zelda Zisk. The immense woman tripped lightly down the steps with awesome ease and dexterity. Her makeup, striking as ever, featured a heart outlined in eyebrow pencil on her left cheek. Her flamboyant topcoat was of royal purple and gold.

  Cora could forgive her the excesses. When Zelda dressed that morning, she had no idea Paul Thornhill was dead.

  Or did she?

  Zelda was a large woman—strong enough to choke a man.

  But why would she?

  While Cora watched, Zelda Zisk lowered herself into a tiny blue Fiat and backed out of her space in the parking lot.

  “Come on,” Cora told Sherry.

  “Huh?” Sherry said, but Cora was already down the steps. Sherry hopped into the passenger seat as Cora gunned the motor, backed out, and zoomed out of the lot.

  “Zelda Zisk?” Sherry asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Why Zelda Zisk? Do you think she killed Thornhill?”

  “Someone did,” Cora said grimly.

  IT SEEMED FITTING THAT IN A TOWN WHERE MOST houses were white with black shutters, Zelda Zisk had managed to find one that looked like a gingerbread house. Zelda’s bed-and-breakfast had more pointed peaks than structures twice its size, its facing was stucco rather than wood, and it was painted light chocolate brown with dark chocolate trim. The house couldn’t have suited Zelda better if she’d owned it, though Cora knew she was from New York.

  Zelda was subdued, for her. “You’re here about Paul.” She sighed tragically and shook her head. The effect was like dropping a box of silverware on the sidewalk. “Horrible business. Come on in. They let me use the living room. We can talk there.”

  Cora and Sherry followed Zelda inside to a living room dominated by a large marble fireplace and decorated with dolls. There were china dolls, straw dolls, cloth dolls, plastic and rubber dolls. They lined the mantlepiece and the windowsills, nestled on shelves and end tables, even hung on the walls.

  “I know, I know,” Zelda said, as Cora and Sherry gawked at the surroundings. “It’s like being on the ‘It’s a Small World After All’ ride at Disney World.” Zelda laughed deeply, then seemed to recall the solemnity of the occasion. “You get used to it after a while. Sit down and let’s talk. You’ll pardon me if I move things along, but I gotta make calls if I’m not gonna be back to the city till tomorrow.”

  “Oh?” Cora said. “If you don’t mind my asking, you have a day job?”

  “Of course I do.” Zelda snorted. “What, you think I do puzzles for a living? I’m a stockbroker. If I’m not gonna be back till tomorrow afternoon, someone’s gotta cover.”

  “What if they can’t?”

  “Then I go home. No disrespect meant, but it’s just a charity tournament.”

  “What about the police investigation?” Cora asked.

  Zelda shrugged. “I don’t recall anyone instructing me to stay. If they want me, they know where to find me.”

  “Have the police talked to you already?”

  “Why would they? Frankly, I don’t understand why you’re talking to me.”

  “You knew Paul Thornhill.”

  “Yes, I did. And I’m saddened and dismayed by his loss. But there’s nothing I can do. We have to move on.”

  “I’d kind of like to catch his killer,” Cora said.

  “And I’d like to help you. But I don’t know anything that would be of use.”

  “Maybe not. But would you mind answering a few questions?”

  “Hey, I let you in. But could you make it quick? I gotta make those calls.”

  “Did you know Thornhill well?”

  “I knew him from the games. Young up-and-comer. Bright, handsome, personable, everything going for him. And then he marries an heiress. Real rags-to-riches story. If I were a guy, I might be jealous of another guy having so much luck.”

  “Were you jealous anyway?”

  Zelda smiled and bobbed her head, resulting in chimes. “Yes, I was. Good point. Gender doesn’t enter into it. Yes, I was. Paul was just so successful in every way. So talented. And so skilled. He wasn’t just a good solver, he was a good constructor too.”

  “Don’t the two go hand in hand?”

  “Not at all. You construct, and I’ve never seen you compete. On the other hand, I’ve been in the top ten for years, and I can’t construct worth a damn.” Zelda made a face. “That’s why I did those drawings. Not that I can draw either. But Harvey asked me and I had to do something. It doesn’t really hurt me to be bad at drawing—so the sketches aren’t great, it doesn’t matter, it’s not what I do. Better that than turn in a lousy puzzle, let ’em see how poorly I construct.”

  “And you weren’t jealous that Paul could?”

  “Of course I was. He had a real flair. Sensitive, artistic, imaginative. He constructed really clever, ingenious puzzles. But I didn’t kill him because of it. That would be absurd.”

  “I admit it seems unlikely,” Cora mused. “Tell me something. You were at old Beerbaum’s barbecue when this tournament was first planned last September?”

  “That’s right. Why?”

  “Did you go out afterward?”

  “No. As I recall, I went straight home to the city.”

  “You drove home that night?”

  “I don’t remember, but I must have.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I didn’t stay here. I booked this bed-and-breakfast for the tournament, and it’s the first time I’ve stayed in Bakerhaven. Why do you want to know about the barbecue?”

  “Whoever killed Thornhill probably knew him. Most of the people who knew him were there that day.”

  “You mean Craig Carmichael and Ned Doowacker? That’s quite a stretch.”

  “Did they go out with him after the barbecue?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “But you don’t think either of them would have killed him?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “That leaves you.”

  Zelda laughed, causing her jaw to ripple. “Oh ho. Clever interrogation technique. I think you’ve trapped me.”

  “Somehow I doubt it,” Cora said cheerfully. “Do you have an alibi for the time of the murder?”

  “Am I supposed to know the time of the murder?”

  “You do if you kille
d him.”

  “Unfortunately, I didn’t. Kill him, that is. Therefore I don’t have an alibi for the time of the murder—whenever that was—and you got me dead to rights.”

  “How about yesterday evening, eight to midnight?”

  “I can give you eight to ten. I was at the Country Kitchen. You saw me there. Having drinks with a young woman who happens to know my mother-in-law.” Zelda made a face. “How’s that for inhibiting? Ordinarily, I might have stayed out, let some guy buy me a drink. But under the circumstances, I was back here by ten.”

  “Anyone see you come in?”

  “Nope. I’m the only guest. And the people who run this place were out.” Zelda cocked her head, which was both musical and disconcerting. “So how about it? Is my alibi good enough?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Cora told her.

  “That’s what I figured.” Zelda’s eyes twinkled. “Then I guess those business calls will have to wait. There’s another call I gotta make first.”

  Cora frowned. “Gonna call your lawyer?”

  “No, my husband.” Zelda giggled, and jingled. “I can’t wait to hear what he says when I tell him I’m a murder suspect.”

  CHARLOTTE DRAKE WAS HOME. SHE USHERED SHERRY and Cora into a neat but inexpensively furnished living room, said, “All right, talk. But make it quick.”

  Cora Felton smiled. “Make it quick? You act as if I have something to tell you.”

  “You mean you don’t?” Charlotte said.

  “Quite the contrary. I think you have something to tell me.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Charlotte said.

  Cora sized her up. Charlotte was dressed today in sweater and jeans but had makeup on and her hair curled. “You just come from the town hall?” Cora asked.

  “What’s that got to do with you?”

  Cora shrugged. “It’s not a big admission. Everybody was just at the town hall. Were you there with your husband?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Where’s he?”

  “He and Ray went over to Chuck’s to watch the football game. Chuck’s got a big-screen TV.”