by Parnell Hall
The young man stood, hands on hips, head thrown back arrogantly, taunting them. Then he turned and surveyed the room in quest of fresh game. As his eyes traveled down the bar the sardonic smile froze on his face, was replaced a moment later by a look of genuine bafflement. He blinked twice, and said:
“Sherry?”
It was all Cora Felton could do to keep from falling into her French toast. She propped her elbows on the table, rested her chin in her hands. “Sherry, sweetheart, be an angel, make me a drink.”
“Drink your coffee.”
“I can’t find my coffee.”
“By your elbow.”
“Which elbow?”
“Aunt Cora.”
“You never should have woken me up,” Cora Felton whined. “I’m not ready to get up.”
“Aunt Cora. You’re the one who woke up.”
“Oh. Well, I had a dream. A bad dream. A nightmare. I was having drinks with a walking thesaurus who kept gabbling about words.”
“That wasn’t a dream. That was a puzzle expert. And you handled him just fine.”
“I did?”
“You must have or we’d have heard about it by now. Eat your French toast.”
“Is that what this is?”
“Aunt Cora.”
“One Bloody Mary, Sherry. I’d make it myself if I could stand up.”
“Sorry. You know the rules. You want it, you get it.”
“Stupid rule.”
“Great rule. If you don’t drink so much, you’ll be sober enough to drink.”
“That even sounds stupid,” Cora snapped. “I’d better have a cigarette. If I don’t have a cigarette, things could get nasty.”
Cora Felton was wearing her Wicked Witch of the West dress, the tattered black smock decorated with liquor stains and cigarette burns. She reached in the pocket, came out with a crumpled pack of cigarettes, extracted one, lit it, and took a greedy drag.
“There, that’s better. So what happened last night? Last I remember the Hell’s Angels had just arrived and N0emv "justify one of them said he knew you.”
“Daniel Hurley.”
“Oh?”
“I went to school with him. At Dartmouth.” Sherry grimaced. “He knows Dennis.”
“Uh oh.”
Sherry shook her head. “No, I don’t mean now. He knew him then. A friend of his, not mine. But I knew him. Though back then he didn’t have a motorcycle. Or a beard.”
Cora’s head bobbed as she tried to follow all that. She gave up, exhaled. “All right,” she declared resolutely, “I can make a Bloody Mary.”
Cora staggered to her feet and careened around the kitchen, fetching glass, ice, vodka, tomato juice, and whatever spices she could find. Her accuracy was not one hundred percent. Her celery salt, for instance, was actually cinnamon.
When Cora was finished, she dropped the spoon down the garbage disposal, brought the glass to the table, and slumped in her chair. She took a huge sip, sighed happily, then frowned at the aftertaste. “Not quite right.” She squinted up at Sherry. “You were saying?”
“I wasn’t saying anything.”
Cora nodded. “No wonder I was confused. It’s better when you say something. So, what happened to what’s-her-name?”
“Who?”
“Becky-wecky. You leave her with Aaron?”
“No. But she must have wound up with him.”
“Why do you say that?”
Sherry pointed to the morning paper on the breakfast table. “It’s on page six. NEW ATTORNEY IS BAKERHAVEN HIGH GRAD.”
“He wrote about her?”
“It’s his job.”
“Writing is his job. Writing about her is not. I knew this would happen. You should have stayed.”
“Yeah, but you had to go. Before you told Harvey Beerbaum your life story.”
“That’s his name?”
“Yes, it is. Try to recognize it the next time it comes up.” Sherry cocked her head. “Do you think you’ll recognize him?”
“Are you kidding? I’ll see him in my dreams.”
The front doorbell rang.
“That’s probably him now. Wanting to know why I ran out.”
& Sn="probab#x201C;It better not be,” Sherry said darkly.
Sherry padded into the living room and looked out the window. There was a car parked behind the Toyota, but she couldn’t see it well enough to tell whose it was. She opened the door.
Aaron Grant was standing there. “Hi,” he said. “Are you busy?”
“What?”
“Are you doing anything this morning?”
“Just feeding my aunt breakfast.”
“Oh. Are you almost done?” Aaron pushed past her, heading for the kitchen.
“Aaron Grant,” Sherry said.
He stopped. “What?”
“You ever hear of the words come in? That’s how someone invites you into their home. What if my aunt weren’t dressed?”
“Your aunt’s naked?”
Cora Felton appeared in the door to the kitchen. “I beg your pardon?”
Aaron turned, saw her. “She looks dressed to me.”
“I most certainly am,” Cora Felton said. She waved her Bloody Mary in Aaron’s direction. “And it’s nice of you to notice.” She smiled, then winced, raised the glass, and pressed it against her forehead, her eyes shut. “Sherry, do the two of you have to talk so loud?”
Sherry took a moment to compose herself. Then, in an exaggeratedly quiet voice she said, “Not at all. Why don’t we go into the kitchen, sit down, have some coffee, and read the morning paper.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Aaron said, as he followed Sherry and Cora into the kitchen.
“Oh?” Sherry said. “Coffee?”
“No thanks. I’ve had breakfast,” Aaron said. “I wanted to explain about the article in the paper.”
“Oh?” Sherry said. “What article?”
Cora Felton, who had sat at the table, found herself between Aaron and Sherry, who were standing on either side. After looking back and forth from one to the other like a spectator at a tennis match, she said, “Uh oh,” heaved herself to her feet, and lurched over to the kitchen counter.
“I meant my article,” Aaron Grant said. “The one I wrote about Becky. I wanted to explain that.”
“Whatever is there to explain?”
“Why I wrote it. I was supposed to interview the other lawyer, Arthur Kincaid. But he had his hands full with the heirs. It was g Sirsy">etting too late, I had a deadline, and I had to come up with something fast.”
“So you interviewed Becky Baldwin instead?”
“I didn’t even interview her. I rushed back to the paper, banged it out, and got it in.”
“Why didn’t you interview her?”
“I was waiting to interview him. By the time I realized I wasn’t going to, it was too late.”
At the kitchen counter, Cora Felton poured a generous shot of vodka into her glass. For a heavy drinker, Cora had a strict rule of only one drink before dinner. Cora never violated this sacred rule.
Except when she did.
There was usually a reason.
“Anyway,” Aaron said, “I had a story to write, and this seemed like a natural. A lawyer passing through town stops and takes a case. Put together she’s a Bakerhaven High grad, and it’s her first case, and the story’s too good to pass up.”
Sherry put her hands on her hips, cocked her head. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Actually, it’s a tangent,” Aaron Grant said. “The point is, I never got to interview Arthur Kincaid. So I called him this morning, he hemmed and hawed, and we kicked it around a bit, and the long and the short of it is he wound up inviting me to the reading of the will.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I’m on my way now, it’s going to be an absolute hoot, and I thought you might like to go.”
“Me?” Sherry said.
“Why not?”
“Yo
u can’t crash someone’s will.”
“You can if the lawyer invites you. The way I understand it, none of the prospective heirs have enough clout to say boo. Because no one knows who inherits Emma Hurley’s fortune until the will is read. Anyway, that’s the story. I came here to explain the article in the paper and take you to something special. So, whaddaya say?”
“Are you inviting Cora too?”
“Sure, if she wants to go.”
Cora Felton waved her hand. “Stuffy old lawyers. Boring old wills. But don’t let me spoil your fun. You kids run along, have a good time.”
“Are you sure?” Aaron Grant said.
“Go, go, go.” Cora shooed him out.
Aaron looked at Sherry. “Come on. Whaddaya say?”
Sherry gave in with a smile. “ SmilWha;Okay,” she said, and the two of them went out the door.
Cora Felton made sure they were gone, then brought out the Bloody Mary she’d been holding behind her back. She’d wanted Sherry to go, was afraid her niece wouldn’t leave her if Sherry’d realized she was mixing another drink.
Cora Felton took a sip of Bloody Mary, shook her head thoughtfully.
That was a bit of a fib, pretending she wasn’t interested in the will. The Hurley will was absolutely fascinating, and it killed Cora not to go to the reading, but she didn’t want to tag along. She didn’t want to cramp Aaron’s style.
Cora Felton took another slurp of Bloody Mary, frowned. For some reason she couldn’t taste the vodka. Perhaps she hadn’t put enough in. She’d poured without looking, so Sherry wouldn’t notice.
Cora smiled.
Sherry. Out with Aaron Grant. On a date. An early morning date. In a lawyer’s office. Listening to a will. Even for a modern young couple, that was not your average outing.
Cora chuckled at the thought, and absently reached for the vodka bottle.
Becky Baldwin was there. That was the first thing Sherry noticed, and it bothered her. Why should she care if Becky Baldwin was there? Why should she even notice?
Particularly in a room so crowded.
Arthur Kincaid’s law office was on Cedar Street a block off Main, on the second floor above an antiques shop. The conference room was unusually large for a lawyer with a one-man practice, and it occurred to Sherry that in a town this size it would be rare that Kincaid actually needed it. However, today was certainly one of those occasions. The conference table seated eight. Every single seat was taken.
At the head was Arthur Kincaid, whose briefcase was closed on the table in front of him. To his left sat Philip and Ethel Hurley, dressed as game-show hosts, and fidgety as game-show contestants. Today, Philip’s sports jacket was wildly yellow, perhaps out of deference to Ethel’s puce dress. Taken together, they reminded Sherry of a salamander.
Across from Philip sat Phyllis Hurley Applegate. Severe, in a prim gray dress, she could have passed for the warden of a women’s prison. Though not smiling, she still managed to appear smug and gloating.
Her husband, Morty, sitting next to her, was doing a remarkable job of appearing insignificant.
Next to Philip and Ethel Hurley sat an elderly man with bad teeth. He had other features—a bald head, big ears, and a hook nose chief among them—but the teeth were the first thing Sherry noticed. They were remarkably bad—black, broken, twisted, or simply missing. One of his front teeth was gone. The other looked as if the dentist had filed it down for a cap, and then neglected to put the cap on. The end result was wholly unattrac Vg themtive.
The ugly man was dressed like a lumberjack. In spite of the heat, he wore a flannel shirt and overalls, the type with a bib and shoulder straps. The pockets in the bib bulged with assorted junk—Sherry noted a paint-smeared screwdriver handle, a twisted pipe cleaner, a gnarled pencil, and a broken straw.
Across from the old man sat a woman who looked like she’d been kicked in the face by a horse. Her nose was flat, not the way a boxer’s broken nose might be flattened, but simply in that it did not protrude from her face. It was not broad, either, just a flat little nose that sat above thin lips, and a bulldog jaw. The woman looked as if she’d just sucked a lemon.
At the end of the table, opposite the lawyer’s chair, slumped Daniel Hurley, who had obviously not cleaned himself up for the occasion. The young man was still dressed in boots, jeans, and leather jacket.
In addition to those seated at the table there were several people standing, including Aaron Grant, who was at Sherry’s side; Becky Baldwin, who was standing behind the Hurleys; a teenage boy who didn’t seem connected to anyone at the table and who looked exquisitely unhappy to be there; and a gaunt woman, inexpensively yet impeccably dressed, whom Sherry immediately pegged as a spinster, then chided herself for doing so.
Arthur Kincaid looked at his watch, rose, and cleared his throat. The room fell instantly silent.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Arthur Kincaid said. “The time has come for the reading of the will. It is my responsibility—”
Before the heirs could learn what the lawyer’s responsibility was, however, footsteps pounded up the stairs and Chief Harper walked into the room.
“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Sorry to interrupt. Police business. I’ll try to be brief. Arthur, if I could have a moment …”
Chief Harper pushed to the front of the room and led the lawyer off into a corner, where the two men proceeded to converse in low tones. Neither looked happy.
Neither did the heirs. All watched Chief Harper and Arthur Kincaid with deepening distrust and suspicion.
Arthur Kincaid returned to the head of the table, stood with his hands resting on the back of his chair. He cleared his throat again. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Before we get to the reading of the will, Chief Harper has another matter he needs to address. He has promised to be brief. I ask you all to give him your cooperation so we can get the matter out of the way as quickly as possible.”
All eyes were glued to Chief Harper.
“Thank you,” the Chief said. “Some of you are aware there was a break-in at the Hurley mansion the night before last. A man by the name of Jeff Beasley was apprehended on the premises—”
“Is that the man last night said I owed him a drink?” Philip Hurley interrupted.
“That’s him,” Arthur [x20y inter Kincaid said. “If you would let the Chief finish.”
“Thank you,” Chief Harper said. “But, actually, you’re getting right to the point I want. Jeff Beasley was drinking last night at the Country Kitchen. I’m wondering how many of you happened to see him there.”
“Why?” Becky Baldwin demanded.
“Can I assume you saw him there?”
“Of course I saw him there. He’s my client. Why?”
“Were you there when he left?”
Becky Baldwin smiled. “You’re talking to a lawyer, Chief. I let you sidestep the question once as a courtesy, now I’d like to know. Why are you asking?”
“Early this morning Jeff Beasley was found dead in a drainage ditch.”
There were gasps around the conference room.
Becky Baldwin’s perfect face fell, and Sherry suddenly felt sorry for her. Becky was not some high-powered attorney. She was a fledgling lawyer, a vulnerable young girl, who had just been cruelly deprived of her only client. There was even a tear in her eye. As Sherry watched, Becky reached up, wiped it away. But when she spoke, her voice scarcely trembled. “How did it happen?”
“That’s what I have to determine,” Chief Harper replied. “It’s an accidental death, and that’s probably all it is, but I have to make sure. So it becomes necessary that I trace his movements. So, is there anyone who recalls when Jeff Beasley left the Country Kitchen last night?”
“Absolutely not,” Philip Hurley said. “The man wasn’t important, there was no reason to notice him at all.”
“I thought you said he hit you up for a drink,” Phyllis Hurley Applegate put in.
Chief Harper looked from one to the other. “You would be th
e Hurley twins? Remind me of your names.”
“I’m Philip. My snide, insinuating sister is Phyllis.”
“Snide? Insinuating?” Phyllis snorted. “Did you or did you not say that sot pestered you for a drink?”
“That was before you got there. I didn’t see him after that. I can’t say the same for you.”
“Did you see Jeff Beasley leave the Country Kitchen last night?” Chief Harper asked Phyllis.
“Well, I like that.” Phyllis stuck her nose in the air. “Are you going to let him put ideas in your head?”
“No, but I intend to get the answers to some questions. Right now I want to know if anyone saw Beasley leave the Country Kitchen last night.”
["juone 201C;I saw him leave.”
Heads swiveled to the end of the table, where Daniel Hurley sat sprawled in his chair, feet out, head back, lounging in a youthful, insolent manner.
“You saw him leave?” Chief Harper said.
“Absolutely. I saw him stagger out the door.”
“You left then too?”
“Yes, I did. I didn’t offer him a ride. If I had, I probably would have saved his life.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“He’s not the sort of person you’d want on the back of your motorcycle.”
“Ah, yes.” Chief Harper nodded. “So you drove off and left Beasley there? In the parking lot?”
“That’s right.”
“You see anyone else in the lot?”
“Matter of fact, I did. Nerdy chap, was talking to Sherry’s friend. The old lady.”
“Sherry?”
Daniel Hurley gestured. “Sherry Carter. Who happens to be here. For no good reason that I can think of, although I am personally pleased.”
“Uh huh,” Chief Harper said. “And this nerdy man was talking to the Puzzle Lady?”
“Who?”
“Cora Felton. Sherry’s aunt.”