Lethal Luncheon (Puzzle Lady Mystery, a short story)

by Hall, Parnell

  Cora was quick to admit that it was, indeed, something, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy Betty Flagstaff, “We are so delighted that you’re here, and so delighted that you’re going to speak. The women just can’t wait. I’m going to introduce you when they start dessert. That way there’s no chance anyone will finish lunch and sneak out for a cigarette. That would never do, now, would it?”

  “Certainly not,” Cora said virtuously. “Well, if I’m going on, I’d better run to the Ladies.”

  Cora pushed back her chair, grabbed her floppy, drawstring purse, and hurried in the direction of the Women’s Room.

  She was in luck. No one was there. Cora whipped out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and took a greedy drag. How anyone could eat a huge lunch like that and not finish it off with a cigarette was beyond her. It would be hard enough under normal circumstances. To have to get up and speak while going through nicotine withdrawal was out of the question.

  Cora took a last drag, held her cigarette under the tap water. She threw the soggy butt in the wastebasket and sailed out the door, just as two women came in. Whether they’d be able to breathe in the smoke-filled bathroom seemed a close point, but there was nothing Cora could do about that.

  Cora returned to her table just as a loud blast of feedback attracted everyone’s attention to a lectern at the front of the room where Betty Flagstaff was wrestling with a microphone.

  “Oh, dear,” Felicity said. “You’re going to miss your tiramisu.”

  “My what?” Cora said.

  Sherry cringed. It was no easy task keeping up the ruse that Cora was the Puzzle Lady, and not she. It would have helped if Cora had a slightly more extensive vocabulary.

  “Your dessert,” Felicity said, pointing to the rich confection behind Cora’s plate.

  There was one at each setting. The eight servings of tiramisu formed a circle in the center of the table.

  “It looks obscenely delicious,” Cora said.

  Felicity frowned at the adverb. It occurred to Sherry there were also times she wished Cora had a smaller vocabulary. .

  Another blast of reverb quieted the room.

  Betty Flagstaff, smiling the helpless smile of the electronically impaired, said, “Good afternoon, ladies. And welcome to this charity luncheon sponsored by Feed the Kids, Incorporated.”

  “I like ‘Ink’ better,” Cora said.

  “Shhh!” Sherry whispered.

  “I’d like to thank my co-chairman, Felicity Grant, for making this afternoon possible. I may do the work, but Felicity writes the checks. I’d also like to thank our committee heads.”

  Betty named them. One turned out to be Marcy Fletcher, who acknowledged her applause as if it wasn’t nearly enough.

  “And now,” Betty went on, “it gives me great pleasure to introduce our speaker for this afternoon. It is someone you all know and love, whether you can do crossword puzzles or not. If you can’t, all I can say is, you’re just not trying. Because I can, and I graduated in the bottom third of my class.”

  That self-deprecating remark drew an appreciative laugh.

  “So, without further ado, allow me to present Miss Cora Felton, the Puzzle Lady, who has come here this afternoon to explain how to construct a crossword puzzle.”

  Cora rose to applause, cast an I-told-you-so glance at Sherry, and marched to the lectern, wondering what excuse she would use to get out of explaining how to construct a crossword puzzle. It was not going to be easy. A blackboard had been set up to the left of the lectern. Clearly she was expected to use it.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. There are some gentlemen here, aren’t there?” Cora smiled. “Not that I’m looking to get married again, still one never knows.”

  That remark drew a warm laugh. Cora took heart, plunged ahead. “Well, I can see that I’m going to have to talk fast, because that dessert that you’re digging into looks absolutely scrumptious.”

  Cora glanced over at her table to see if Sherry had taken note of the fact that she’d said scrumptious instead of obscenely delicious, just in time to see Felicity Grant fall face first into her aforementioned dessert.

  THE COP was not happy. And who could blame him? He had a room full of two hundred women who couldn’t go home until he said so.

  The cop wasn’t sure if he should say so. He didn’t appear that adept at murders. A local chief from a small town, it was a good bet he’d never had one. His opening remark, “Did anyone see what she ate?”, doubtless would have been inappropriately funny, had the women not been so traumatized.

  After the ambulance had taken Felicity’s body away, the cop managed to herd the seven remaining women from her table off to one side of the room. It was to them that he addressed the remarks regarding Felicity’s last meal.

  Of the women, only Marcy Fletcher seemed composed enough to answer questions. “She ate exactly what we ate. No more, no less. None of us are falling over dead, now are we?”

  That declaration was just insensitive enough to rouse some of the others out of their shock-induced stupor.

  “That’s not quite true,” Charity said. “She had the piece of quiche.”

  The cop zeroed in on that remark. “What piece of quiche?”

  Cora groaned.

  “She gave her a piece of quiche,” Charity said.

  “Who did?” the cop demanded.

  “I did,” Cora said. “I gave her my piece of quiche. I assure you there was nothing sinister about it.”

  “You gave her your piece of quiche?” the cop said insinuatingly.

  “Good interrogation technique, Chief. But I already told you I gave her my piece of quiche. Could we move on?”

  “Why did you give her your piece of quiche?”

  Cora sighed. “She said she wanted quiche. But she was near the back of the line, and the quiche was almost gone. So I took a piece for her.”

  “You took a piece of quiche just for her?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you planned this in advance? You knew that you would be giving your piece of quiche to her?”

  “Yes. That’s why I took it.”

  The cop glanced around to the other women. “And no one else at the table had quiche?”

  “Actually, I had quiche,” Cora said.

  The cop’s eyebrows raised. “I thought you gave your piece of quiche to her.”

  “I did.” Cora gestured to her niece. “But Sherry gave me her piece.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted quiche.”

  “And yet you gave your piece away.”

  “I gave my piece away because Felicity wanted quiche. I took Sherry’s piece because I wanted quiche.”

  Cora could practically see the cop’s mind whirling, processing that.

  “You wanted to eat quiche, but you didn’t want to eat your quiche. You wanted to eat another piece of quiche. You wanted the decedent to eat your piece.”

  “Oh, for God’s sakes!” Marcy cried impatiently. “This is our guest of honor. She didn’t come here to kill the woman who invited her with a poisoned quiche.”

  Sherry smiled at the misplaced modifier. She figured it was a good bet she was the only one who noticed.

  The cop certainly didn’t. “Maybe not,” he said. “But at the moment, it’s my only lead. Did anyone else give her anything to eat?”

  Monica snuffled, choked back a sob. Her lip trembled. “I“

  “What is it, my dear?” the cop asked.

  “I ... I think I passed the rolls,” Monica blurted, and burst into tears.

  Marcy threw her hands to her head in disgust. “Give me a break. So you passed the rolls. Big deal. I think you’re off on the wrong foot, officer. Who said it had to be one of us?”

  “I never said it had to be one of you. I’m just asking questions.”

  “But they’re all aimed at us.”

  “Well, who else is there? You were the only ones at her table.

  “We were the only ones sitting there,” M
arcy said.

  “Did anyone else come to the table?” the cop said. “Did a waiter come around?”

  “It’s a buffet,” Charity said. “There aren’t any waiters.”

  “Did you really suspect a waiter?” Marcy said sarcastically.

  The cop put up his hands. “Just asking. Did anyone else come around?”

  “Betty,” Monica blurted. She immediately flushed and turned away.

  “Who?” the cop demanded.

  “Betty Flagstaff,” Charity explained. “The co-chairman. She came by to talk to Miss Felton.”

  “Miss Felton. That would be you,” the cop said, pointing to Cora. “And you were seated right next to the decedent, weren’t you? To pass her your quiche.”

  “Yes, I was,” Cora said. She couldn’t tell if the cop suspected her or Betty Flagstaff.

  “What did the co-chairman come to talk to you about?”

  “My speech.”

  “I see. Did she also talk to the decedent?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Does anyone?”

  No one did.

  “That’s annoying,” the cop said. “It would appear that she didn’t, but then again we can’t be sure. When she talked to you, did you get up from the table?”

  “No.”

  “She leaned over to talk to you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Which side? The one between you and the decedent, or the other one?”

  “She leaned in between us,” Cora said.

  “Aha. I think I’d better have a word with Betty Flagstaff.”

  The co-chairman, clearly distraught, blinked through tears and tried to answer the officer’s questions. Neither her recollection nor her descriptive prowess were awesome. The cop was less than thrilled with her recitation.

  “You remember talking to Miss Felton?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t remember talking to the decedent?”

  “No.”

  “Could you be more forthcoming with your answers?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Don’t make me drag it out of you. Tell me what you did.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say. I came to tell Cora I was about to announce her as soon as we began dessert.”

  “You did that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did the decedent say anything?”

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  “Yet you remember standing between Miss Felton and the decedent. You even put your hands on their shoulders.”

  Betty Flagstaff could not have looked more devastated had the policeman actually accused her of the crime. “I think so. I’m so confused. It’s so awful.”

  “Well,” the policeman concluded, sizing her up. “You have to admit, you had the opportunity. Now, I understand you and the decedent quarreled a lot.”

  Betty Flagstaff wilted. She sank into a chair in horror, dissolved into tears.

  Cora Felton cleared her throat. “Excuse me, officer.”

  “Yes,” he said impatiently. “What is it?”

  “I want to confess.”

  The policeman kept his cool, but he was clearly taken aback. After a moment, when the startled gasps from the women had died down, he said, “Go right ahead. Ah, before you do, let me remind you that you have the right to remain silent, and—”

  “Yes, yes,” Cora said. “I know all that. Not a problem. The only thing is, if you wouldn’t mind, I would prefer to make my confession in private.”

  “In private?” He managed to make it sound as if he’d just been propositioned.

  “Keep your shirt on. You don’t have to rent me a room. If we could just step off to one side.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Be a dear, Sherry, and stay here and see that no one tries to listen in.”

  Cora took the bewildered cop by the arm, dragged him off into the corner of the room.

  “All right,” he said. “What is it that you want to tell me? You understand, of course, that you don’t have to.”

  “For goodness sakes,” Cora said. “We’re alone. You could always say you read me my rights, and it would be my word against yours. Who are they gonna believe, you or me?”

  The cop clearly had no interest in a discussion of the merits of the Miranda system. “Yeah, yeah, right. But tell me, you wish to confess to the crime?”

  “The murder? Of course not. Sorry to get your hopes up, but I didn’t do it.”

  “Then what do you want to confess to?”

  “Withholding evidence.” Cora made a face. “Though I’m not really withholding evidence, I just haven’t had a chance to tell you. I mean, I wouldn’t wanna blurt something out in front of the other women, now, would I? So I’m not withholding a thing, and that never was my intention. I just have to confess that I happen to know something about the crime that you don’t.”

  “Oh?” the cop said ironically. “And what is that?”

  “I know who did it.”

  CORA FELTON stood at the blackboard beside the lectern. The other women had returned to their tables. All but Betty Flagstaff, who sat in a folding chair up front. The officer stood behind her, with his hand firmly on her shoulder.

  “So,” Cora said. “It’s time for me to earn my lunch. We have a murder to solve, and I don’t think any of you ladies are going to be too happy attending these luncheons until we do. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to tell you a few things about this crime.”

  Cora turned to the blackboard, picked up the chalk. “I’m supposed to talk to you about words, so let’s start with one.”

  Cora wrote on the blackboard:

  MOM.

  Cora turned back to the women, smiled. “There you are. MOM. M-O-M. There are doubtless a lot of moms here; please do not think I am accusing you of the murder. If you stop to consider it, the idea that Felicity Grant was done in by a hundred angry mothers isn’t really going to fly. So what’s MOM all about? Well, the letters happen to stand for something.”

  Cora wrote:

  MOTIVE.

  OPPORTUNITY.

  MEANS.

  “There you are. Motive, opportunity, means. The three elements of a murder. Motive-, who had a reason to do it. Opportunity: who had the chance to it. And means: what was the murder weapon, and who had access to it. How do you solve a crime? Trust your MOM.”

  Cora shrugged. “So, what do we have here? The means is obviously poison. We’ll know more when we get the autopsy report. But it’s undoubtedly poison. Poison is a woman’s weapon. There are many ways to get one’s hands on poison. No problem there.

  “And what is the motive? Well, Felicity Grant and Betty Flagstaff are the co-chairmen of this organization. In any situation of that nature, there is apt to be tension, resulting in a power struggle for who is top dog. So there’s your motive. Granted, not deep. Sketchy, surfacey. But as with the means of death, I’m sure more will come to light as soon as the police have time to look.

  “That leaves opportunity. Did Betty Flagstaff have the opportunity to commit the crime? Absolutely. Just before dessert, she came to the table where I was seated next to Felicity Grant, put her arms over both our shoulders, and gave me a few instructions regarding my speech. Was that while we were still eating? Yes, it was, because we had not begun dessert yet. I know that for a fact, because Betty mentioned that I would begin speaking when the women began dessert.

  “So, Betty Flagstaff had the opportunity. No problem there.” Cora raised her finger. “Except for one thing.” She smiled. “Me. I gave Felicity a piece of quiche. There are lots of witnesses. Everyone at the table saw me do it. I took my quiche, handed it to her. And she ate it. Every crumb. This casts serious doubts on the guilt of Betty Flagstaff. Why? Because, clearly, I had a much better opportunity.”

  For the first time, there was dead silence in the room. No forks scraped against plates. No glasses clinked. There was no murmur of voices. The women were dumbfounded.


  “Oh, don’t worry,” Cora said. “I’m not accusing myself of the crime. I’m merely stating the obvious. I had the best opportunity. That is absolutely obvious. It is obvious to anyone. We lose sight of how important that is because we are used to reading mystery books in which the obvious explanation is never right. In real life it almost always is. And in real life, we embrace the obvious explanation, at least initially, because we’re in shock, and our minds can’t handle anything else.

  “Which is what happened in this case. The women at my table are all in shock at having one of their number topple over dead. When questioned, they give the usual unhelpful answers, until one of them, Charity something-or-other, recalls me giving her my quiche. Thus prompted, the other women chime in. It is the obvious answer, and the most likely too. A stranger in their midst, someone they don’t know, on whose actions they cannot rely, did something that could have resulted in the victim’s death. I not only had the opportunity, but my opportunity was observed by all. All embrace it.

  “All but one.

  “Marcy Fletcher comes to my rescue, pooh-poohs my involvement, asks who else it might be.

  “And why does she do that? Because my passing the quiche was a coincidence. An accident. I was not supposed to be the person with the best opportunity. That person was supposed to be Betty Flagstaff. Who of course would check with her luncheon speaker near the end of the meal. And the luncheon speaker would be sitting next to co-chairman Felicity Grant. The place cards insured that. Just as they guaranteed which tiramisu Felicity would eat, allowing the killer to poison it well in advance.

  “Unfortunately, the killer was a little too eager to pin the crime on Betty Flagstaff. And why not? If you want to take over an organization, what better way than to kill one co-chairman and frame the other for the murder?”

  Cora jerked her thumb at the blackboard and looked out over the dining hall. “So, what have we learned from good old MOM? Can anyone tell me who did it?”

  They certainly could. Some pointed. Some, buying into Cora’s classroom routine, actually raised their hands to be called on.