Last Puzzle & Testament

by Parnell Hall

  And Aaron Grant seemed to be eating it up. Although, Cora conceded, that was hardly a fair assessment, considering she could only see the back of his head.

  The door behind the judge’s bench opened, the court officer intoned, “Please rise,” and a white-haired man in a black robe came in and sat at the bench. Cora Felton did not know the judge, but realized she’d seen him around town, most likely at Cushman’s Bake Shop, where she often had coffee.

  The court officer droned, “Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Winston Hobbs presiding.”

  Judge Hobbs put on reading glasses, fumbled with some papers, and said, “What have we today?”

  Prosecutor Henry Firth was on his feet. “Your Honor, first on the docket we have a citation for speeding issued to one Ira Greenspan, for doing seventy-two miles per hour in a fifty-five-mile-per-hour zone. The amount of the citation is eighty-five dollars, at five dollars a mile for every mile over the speed limit.”

  “I see that it is,” Judge Hobbs said. “And why has this routine matter crossed my desk?”

  “Mr. Greenspan doesn’t want to pay it, Your Honor.”

  “Oh?”

  A plump, middle-aged man sitting near the front of the court got up and pushed his way through the gate. “That’s right, Your Honor,” he said, sounding aggrieved. “I’m Ira Greenspan, and I’m pleading innocent.”

  “On what grounds?”

  Ira Greenspan seemed startled by the question. “I wasn’t speeding.”

  “I see.” Judge Hobbs nodded. “Very well. Is the arresting officer here?”

  “He is.” Henry Firth turned, gestured. “Officer Finley.”

  An officer with sandy hair and freckles got to his feet and pushed his way through the gate. Cora Felton smiled. Dan Finley was a Puzzle Lady fan, young and impressionable enough to be flustered in her presence. But in the courtroom the youthful police officer seemed right at home. He stepped smartly up to the judge’s bench, said, “Yes, Your Honor?”

  “Officer, there is a dispute as to the citation you issued to this gentleman. He claims he was not speeding. Mr. Greenspan, how fast were you going at the time?”

  “Fifty-five, Your Honor.”

  “Officer Finley, how fast do you claim he was going?”

  “I clocked him at seventy-two.”

  “I see,” Judge Hobbs said. “Mr. Greenspan, this is a very simple case. We have conflicting testimony. It’s just a question of whom you believe. I choose to believe the officer. I find you guilty as charged. Pay the bailiff a hundred and eighty-five dollars and you’re free to go.”

  Ira Greenspan was incensed. “A hundred and eighty-five dollars? The ticket’s eighty-five.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t want to pay that, and now you owe the court costs. I would suggest next time you don’t try to argue with the radar gun. Next case.”

  While the court officer ushered out a sputtering Ira Greenspan, Henry Firth checked his notes. “That would be Jeff Beasley, Your Honor.”

  “Ah, yes.” Judge Hobbs glanced at the defense table where the defendant had curled up with his head in his hands, the very picture of misery. “And what has Mr. Beasley done now?”

  “He was apprehended last night breaking into the Hurley mansion.”

  Becky Baldwin shot to her feet. “One moment, Your Honor. I object to the prosecutor summarizing the charges in this manner. My client was not arrested breaking into the Hurley mansion.”

  Henry Firth appeared amused. “That’s right, Your Honor. He was found passed out in an upstairs bedroom.”

  “I object to the term passed out,” Becky Baldwin said.

  Judge Hobbs frowned and put up his hand. “Pardon me, young lady, but just who are you?”

  “I’m Rebecca Baldwin. I’m Mr. Beasley’s attorney.”

  “Oh? I thought Arth" athoughtur Kincaid was attorney of record.”

  “I was, Your Honor.” The distinguished silver-haired man sitting next to the defendant stood and adjusted the glasses on his nose. “As you know, I have represented Mr. Beasley in the past, and when this matter arose he consulted me again. However, when I learned the facts of the case, it turned out it involved the Hurley estate. As I am the Hurleys’ attorney, it was clear there would be a conflict of interest. So I asked Ms. Baldwin if she would represent the defendant in this action.”

  “I see.” Judge Hobbs nodded. “And just what is the defendant charged with?”

  “Breaking and entering, breaking and entering with intent to steal, burglary, larceny, trespassing, drunk and disorderly,” Henry Firth said.

  “Oh, for goodness sakes,” Becky Baldwin said. “What about jaywalking? How did you ever miss that one?”

  “One moment,” Judge Hobbs said. He frowned. “Mr. Kincaid, this arrangement may not be entirely felicitous. Young lady, there is no reason to take an attitude with the Court.”

  “Maybe not, Your Honor. But so many charges certainly seems like overkill. I mean, this is not the crime of the century here.”

  “I would agree, Your Honor,” Arthur Kincaid interposed. “It is my understanding that Mr. Beasley was found asleep on the premises. Since he did not attempt to leave the premises, and since there is no evidence that he attempted to steal anything, as the attorney for the estate I have no real wish to press charges.”

  “Uh huh,” Judge Hobbs said. “And do the heirs share your feelings in this matter?”

  Arthur Kincaid shrugged. “It’s a moot point, Your Honor. The will is to be read at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Until such time, the heirs have no rights in the estate. Indeed, until then, it is not clear just who the heirs are.”

  Judge Hobbs scowled. “Surely you know.”

  “I don’t, Your Honor.” Arthur Kincaid smiled. “As you know, Emma Hurley was rather … eccentric. Her last will and testament is sealed. Her final instructions to me were to gather the heirs, or potential heirs, and then, and only then, to break the seal and read her will.”

  “Is that so?” Judge Hobbs cocked his head. “Well, in that case, I see no reason why we can’t come to some understanding.”

  Henry Firth cleared his throat. “Your Honor, I must point out these charges are not Mr. Kincaid’s to drop.”

  “Of course not,” Judge Hobbs agreed. “However, in light of the situation, I see no reason why this case can’t reach a speedy resolution. Attorneys, if I could see you in my chambers.”

  Judge Hobbs left the bench and went out the back door, followed by the three attorneyighree atts. That left Jeff Beasley sitting alone at the defense table. It occurred to Cora Felton that if Beasley wanted to he could just get up and walk out of court. That must have occurred to the court officer too, because he went over and sat beside him. Mr. Beasley hardly seemed a flight risk, however: he was snoring.

  In the front row of the courtroom, Aaron Grant stretched, looked around, and spotted Cora Felton. He smiled and waved, but it occurred to Cora he looked suddenly sheepish. She sat in the back row, waited for him to come and join her.

  He walked up, smiling, and said, “What brings you here?”

  “Just getting material for my column,” Cora answered.

  “But you don’t write a column,” Aaron objected.

  “Exactly,” Cora said. She cocked her head. “You think you might mention that to Sherry?”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh. You know how awkward it is for me pretending you don’t know?”

  “I can imagine.”

  “And it’s not like I told you. You figured it out on your own. If you hadn’t decided to burden me with the information, there would be no problem.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  “When?”

  Aaron was saved from having to reply by the return of the judge. He crept back to the press row while the lawyers resumed their places at the tables. The court officer left the prisoner in the care of his attorneys, who managed to shake him awake.

  “So,” Judge Hobbs said, when everyone was once again in
position. “Let me state for the record that the charges against the defendant, Jeff Beasley, have been amended as follows: all charges of breaking and entering and attempted burglary and larceny shall be dropped; the defendant shall plead guilty to criminal trespass and drunk and disorderly, in return for a sentence of three days in jail and a twenty-five-dollar fine.”

  Jeff Beasley spoke for the first time. “No jail!”

  Judge Hobbs frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I ain’t goin’ to jail! If I have to go to jail, it’s no deal.”

  “Mr. Beasley,” Judge Hobbs said. “Let me try to explain. You are a repeat offender. This is not the first time you’ve stood before me. This will not be your first drunk and disorderly charge, nor your first criminal trespass. But that’s beside the point. Three days is nothing. Are you aware of the penalties for breaking and entering with intent to steal if those charges are allowed to stand?”

  “No, but they ain’t.” For a man who had been unconscious moments before, Beasley was remarkably sharp. “Those charges are dropped.”

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  “Those charges are provisionally dropped,” Judge Hobbs corrected, “on the stipulation that you would plead guilty to lesser charges.”

  “Well, I never agreed to that.”

  “Your attorney did.”

  “My attorney?” Beasley said. “My attorney’s Arthur Kincaid. Then I come to court and some schoolgirl I never seen before agrees I should go to jail? Now, tell me, Judge: What’s fair about that?”

  Judge Hobbs frowned. “If the defendant does not wish the matter disposed of in this manner, he certainly has that right. Therefore, the original charges are reinstated. I hereby arraign him on breaking and entering, and bind him over for trial.”

  “Trial!” Beasley bellowed. He turned on Arthur Kincaid. “You said I wouldn’t go to jail!”

  “Oh, Your Honor—” Becky Baldwin protested.

  “Not my doing,” Judge Hobbs cut in. “Talk to your client. When you do, Ms. Baldwin, you might point out he’ll probably serve more than three days just waiting for the case to come to trial. Defendant is remanded to custody.”

  “Without bail, Your Honor?”

  “Bail is set at five hundred dollars.”

  “Arthur, you’ll help me on this?” Becky said. At the lawyer’s nod, she turned to the judge. “We can make that, Your Honor.”

  “Very well,” Judge Hobbs said. “I’ll recess for fifteen minutes to allow you to pay bail. Then we’re back here with—let me see—the theft of a hubcap and a domestic disturbance.” He banged the gavel. “Court is in recess.”

  As the court officer moved in again to escort Jeff Beasley away, Aaron Grant approached Arthur Kincaid. “Excuse me, Arthur. With regard to the Hurley inheritance. I’m wondering if you could give me an interview.”

  The elderly lawyer smiled. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Yes, but there’s a story in that,” Aaron replied. “Usually, a lawyer would know all the facts.”

  “Well, thank you very much.”

  “You know what I mean. I’m a column short for tomorrow. Whaddaya say?”

  “At the moment I have to help Becky arrange bail.” Arthur Kincaid nodded in the direction of a teenage boy sitting in the second row. “I’m also the attorney for the alleged perpetrator in the theft of the hubcap. After that, I have a meeting with a client and I’ll be lucky if I’m not late. I’m not sure I could give you an interview anyway, but I’ll tell you what, Aaron. I’m having drinks tonight at t thtonighthe Country Kitchen with some of the Hurley heirs. If you were to show up, I don’t know what I could do about it …”

  “Around when?”

  “I would imagine around seven.”

  “Interesting,” Aaron said. “I just might stop by.”

  Cora Felton, who had crept forward when court broke up, was close enough to hear Aaron Grant say that.

  And to see that Becky Baldwin had heard him say it too.

  Sherry Carter, sitting sideways in the passenger seat, leaned her arm out the window and watched Cora Felton pilot the red Toyota around the curves in the winding country road. “Tell me again.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Why we’re going out to dinner.”

  “You need to get out more. You never get out.”

  “I was just out to lunch.”

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  “Why not?”

  “It just isn’t.”

  The wind was blowing her hair in her eyes. Sherry pushed it off her forehead, said, “Then why the Country Kitchen? You play bridge there. You drink there. You’re there all the time. What’s so special about that?”

  “You don’t go there.”

  “That’s right. I don’t. That’s your life. I don’t interfere. If you’ll recall, you’re very particular that I don’t interfere.”

  “Sherry. It’s just dinner.”

  “Uh huh. So, where’d you go this afternoon?”

  “Out.”

  “I assumed you went out. You go out, you don’t say where, you come back, you’re all hot to go to dinner.”

  “You should have been a detective.”

  “Oh? What am I detecting?”

  “You know, Sherry. You should have your own car.”

  “What?”

  “I go out, you’re stuck in the house. It’s not like New York City. There’s no public transportation here. Without a car, you can’t get around.#x2201D;

  “It’s not a problem.”

  “Well, it should be. Young girl like you. You wanna be stuck in the house with your crosswords and computers? By the way, could you work something into the column about a trial?”

  “A trial? Why?”

  “Chief Harper wanted to know why I was at the county courthouse. I told him I was doing research for my column.”

  Sherry’s eyes widened. “You went to the courthouse?”

  “I dropped by.”

  “You went to spy on Becky Baldwin?”

  “Spy. What a nasty word.” Cora Felton spun the wheel, swerved into the parking lot.

  “It’s from the Greek slceptesthai,” Sherry said automatically. “To watch. Is that what we’re doing at the Country Kitchen?”

  “We’re here to have dinner.” Cora stopped the car, rolled up the windows, and got out.

  “Aunt Cora—”

  But Cora Felton was already padding across the parking lot. Sherry sighed, then headed after her.

  Inside, a waitress with an armful of menus stood at the door to the dining room. “Two for dinner?” she asked.

  “We’ll be having a drink at the bar first,” Cora answered, guiding Sherry firmly in that direction.

  It was late enough that most people had moved on into dinner, and the bar was not that full. Half the stools were empty and most of the booths. Cora Felton headed for a stool in the middle of the bar.

  “Wouldn’t you prefer a booth?” Sherry asked.

  “What, and wait for service? Hey, the bartender’s right here.” Cora beamed at him. “I’ll have a martini on the rocks with a twist, young man. And go easy on the vermouth. Just kind of wave the bottle over it once while you stir it around. You don’t even have to take off the cap.”

  The bartender grinned. “And you, young lady?”

  “I’ll have a Diet Coke.”

  Cora Felton shuddered. “Sherry. Honey. You’re out on the town. Live a little.”

  “Okay,” Sherry said. “Make it a regular Coke.”

  The bartender moved off down the bar to make their drinks.

  Cora Felton rolled her eyes. “You’re an impossible date. It’s a good thing you’re good-looking, or men wouldn’t bother with you at C wieyesall.”

  “Uh huh,” Sherry said. “Now, you wanna tell me what you were doing at the courthouse today?”

  “I will if you’ll keep your voice down,” Cora Felton said. “You see the man sitting down the bar? Tall, white hair, three-piece suit?�
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  “Yeah. So?”

  “That’s the local lawyer. Only game in town till what’s-her-name showed up.”

  “Becky Baldwin. So what?”

  “He’s handling the Hurley estate. That’s old Mrs. Hurley, croaked last week. Very wealthy eccentric recluse. Lived alone, died alone, left a ton of money. Mansion boarded up since her death. Heirs in town tomorrow for the reading of the will. A will even her lawyer hasn’t seen.”

  “So?”

  “Interesting story, don’t you think?”

  “What’s it got to do with us?”

  “Don’t you find it interesting?”

  “No, I don’t, Cora. It’s none of my business. Or yours. It doesn’t interest me at all.”

  “Maybe not, but it might interest other people. It’s a story. People love a story. And—” Cora Felton broke off and her eyes widened.

  Sherry saw this, turned and looked.

  Aaron Grant and Becky Baldwin had just come through the door.

  “Sherry, you don’t understand.”

  “Oh?” Sherry said. “What is it I don’t understand?”

  Aaron Grant jerked his thumb in the direction of Becky Baldwin, Arthur Kincaid, and Cora Felton. He had piloted Sherry away from them after perfunctory introductions. “I’m here to interview Arthur Kincaid for the newspaper.”

  “You must have a low opinion of my intelligence. I understand that perfectly well.”

  “I’m sure that you do. The point is, I didn’t come here with Becky Baldwin.”

  “Yes. I saw you not come here with her. You did it well. In fact, I just saw the two of you, not coming in the door.”

  “I didn’t come here with her. She met me in the parking lot.”

  “Is that where you meet most of your women?”

  “ F wieyhere ;I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

  “I can’t either. If I’d stayed home, as usual, it never would have happened. You can blame Cora. She insisted I go out.”

  “You’re here for dinner?”

  “Yes. Would you and Becky care to join us?”

  Aaron grimaced. “This is unbelievable. Suddenly, I’m back in high school.”