by Parnell Hall
“Then you’re not disappointed.”
“Did you find it?”
“Of course not.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a thorough investigator, and you didn’t miss anything.”
“Why do I find that answer so exasperating?”
Cora tactfully changed the subject. “I notice you didn’t mention any guns you might be tracing.”
“No one asked me about any guns.”
“It would seem to come under the heading of Mr. Overmeyer’s possessions.”
“It would also come under the heading of evidence in a murder investigation. As such, I would prefer not to have it bandied about.”
“Did you notice how I carefully didn’t bring it up?”
“If you had, I’d have arrested you on the spot.”
“I had a feeling,” Cora said.
“We have a dead man. We have no apparent motive for his death. Unless some partner in crime wanted to shut him up for some past transgression.”
“Or the offspring of such accomplice. You’re not about to give Harmon a free ride, are you, Chief?”
“Just between you and me, I’d love to pin it on him.”
“Too bad he was in Texas at the time.”
“Candy could be sent in the mail.”
“Not without wrapping. Big problem there, Chief. You send the guy a box of candy with a note that says, ‘Burn the wrapping paper before you eat this,’ he’s gonna get suspicious.”
“True, but if no one suspects he’s being poisoned . . .”
“The evidence get cleaned up before you got to it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. This is a mess.”
“You’re telling me? I got absolutely nothing to go on. I got this bozo running around making trouble. I got Rick Reed asking stupid questions that make me look stupid because I got no answer. Yes, I didn’t treat Overmeyer’s cabin as a crime scene. Because it wasn’t a crime scene until two days after he died. If I treated every death as a potential homicide, it would be cruel and heartless. Can you imagine me striding into some new widow’s home: ‘Hello, ma’am, sorry your husband just kicked the bucket, but it’s my job to make sure you didn’t hurry him along. You wanna give me your fingerprints and stay out of the bedroom while my boys give it the once-over.’ ”
“I see your point.”
“I’m in a pickle. Unless Dan comes through with the gun, I got nothing.”
“Yeah.”
“So if you can come up with anything, anything at all, it would be a lifesaver.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Cora said.
The crossword puzzle was burning a hole in her purse.
Chapter 22
Sherry Carter stood on the seat and stuck her head out of the open top as the Land Rover bumped its way across the plains of the Masai Mara. The elephants off to the right, so exciting the first day of the safari, were no big deal. Not since they’d had a herd surround their Jeep. One had even charged before Jonathan, their guide and driver, started the engine and scared him away.
Giraffes were grazing right by the road. Jonathan barely slowed down. Sherry and Aaron had seen enough giraffes to last a lifetime. Today they were after wildebeests.
The migration this year had been late. There’d been ample rainfall in the Serengeti, grazing had been good, and the wildebeests had been slow to move. A two-week delay would be enough for Aaron and Sherry to miss them. They couldn’t have that. If the wildebeests wouldn’t come to them, they’d go to the wildebeests. Even if they had to drive all the way to Tanzania.
Aaron put his arm around Sherry’s shoulders. “Do you know why the wildebeests aren’t in Kenya yet?”
She frowned. “Why?”
Aaron’s eyes twinkled. “Because the rain in the plain stays mainly in Tanzania.”
Sherry batted at him playfully with her binoculars, and they wrestled around in the back of the Land Rover.
“Easy, tiger lady,” Aaron said, laughing and pinning her hands. “You know, we don’t have to do this.”
Sherry grinned. “I promised you a wildebeest, I’m going to give you a wildebeest.”
“I can live without a wildebeest.”
“You say that now. But when we get home . . .”
“I’d settle for a reticulated giraffe.”
“Who wouldn’t? But we’ve seen enough giraffes.”
“You can never see enough giraffes.”
“Well, we’re not going to turn back now. It’s wildebeests or bust.”
“Speaking of bust . . .”
“Why, Aaron Grant. Was that a racy Cora remark?”
“That wasn’t the way I saw it.”
“Well, you watch your mouth. I’m a married lady.”
“So I recall.”
“Look!” cried Jonathan. “Wildebeest!”
The Land Rover bumped over a small rise, and there they were. Thousands of wildebeests, as far as the eye could see.
“Wow,” Aaron murmured.
“Worth it?”
“I’ll say.”
Jonathan assured them this was nothing. In the height of the migration, the plain would be solid wildebeests. Millions of them.
Sherry and Aaron were happy to settle for tens of thousands. After all, they were on their honeymoon.
They got back to camp just before dinner.
The tents they lived in were large, had electricity and running water. Not that you could drink it, but you could take a heated shower. The tent flaps had to be knotted shut securely so the monkeys didn’t get in.
The bar and dining room, with thatched roof and open air, and warthogs trotting freely in the yard, still featured a battery-charging station and Internet access port.
Sherry took her iTouch out of her pocket, logged on.
“I thought you weren’t going to do that,” Aaron said.
“I’m just picking up my e-mail.”
“I thought that’s what you weren’t going to do.”
“I’m not going to answer my e-mail. That doesn’t mean I can’t pick it up.”
“What’s the use of picking it up if you aren’t going to answer it?”
“Just to make sure nothing’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong. Cora has your international cell phone number. In an emergency, she’d call.”
“She might forget how.”
“You wrote it down for her.”
“Sweetheart. It’s Cora. You know what convoluted logic might make her decide not to call.”
“I know what convoluted logic might make you decide to check your e-mail.”
“I’m not going to check it every day. Just every half a million wildebeests.”
“Wasn’t that something?”
“I’ll say. . . . Ah. I picked up a signal. And look. Four new messages.”
“Only four?”
“I have a good spam filter.”
“Even so. When was the last time you checked your e-mail?”
“What’s the big deal?”
“Sherry.”
“So, I checked it last night. We didn’t have anything. Just junk. And today we got— Uh-oh!”
“What?”
“Cora.”
“What does she want?”
“I don’t know, but she sent an attachment.”
“Cora sent an attachment?”
“I left instructions.”
“What does she say?”
Sherry read, “ ‘Didn’t want to bother you, but I got this puzzle. I gave the first one to Harvey, which was okay because it didn’t mean anything, and he solved it for Chief Harper. Now I got another one, and I can’t give it to Harvey because Chief Harper doesn’t know about it because I found it at a crime scene where I wasn’t supposed to be. I’m hoping it means nothing and I can throw it in the trash. But old man Overmeyer, the geezer with the cabin, got himself poisoned, and I could use a little help. If you can solve this puzzle and send it back, I’d be
grateful, and if you happen to notice any way it might relate to a thirty-two-caliber Smith and Wesson revolver, that would be even better. Have a happy honeymoon. Don’t let the monkeys steal your undies. Cora.’”
“The monkeys steal your undies?”
“An old South African toast.” Sherry smiled. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard it.”
Chapter 23
Cora glowered at the puzzle and considered Overmeyer the most annoying, stupid, idiotic, exasperating man she’d ever met. And she’d never met him. But he ranked right up there with some of the ones she’d married. The man deserved to die a thousand painful, gruesome deaths. Arsenic was too good for him. Surely something more diabolical could have been planned for the dead man from hell.
Cora gnashed her teeth and looked at the dead man’s puzzle:
The theme entry read: “Flip me over onto my back. Upside head take a whack.”
Boy, if the son of a bitch were only here, Cora would take such a whack. The two poems had to be the worst meaningless drivel she’d ever encountered. “At noon I can not be done. So I should try to at one.” And “Flip me over onto my back. Upside head take a whack.” It should at least be “Upside my head.” Probably didn’t fit. Or maybe he was afraid she’d do it and wanted to maintain deniability. “No, not my head. Did I say my head? I didn’t say my head. How about his head? Take a whack at his head, if you want.”
Cora had been so eager to get the puzzle back from Sherry. At the same time, she had been conflicted about the possible result. If it meant anything, she’d have to take it to Chief Harper. Which she could get away with if it was important enough. If it was dropping a significant clue in his lap. The theft of the puzzle would be forgiven in exchange for unveiling the culprit.
On the other hand, if the puzzle was meaningless, she didn’t have to show it to Chief Harper. In fact, she couldn’t show it to Chief Harper. It would be suicide to show it to Chief Harper. If the poem was meaningless, she would keep quiet and pretend it never happened.
Well, there it was, and if there was a meaning hidden within it, Cora wouldn’t know it. Nor would any other sane, rational person on the face of the earth. Which wasn’t fair. If the guy was going to hide the damn thing behind his poker-playing-dogs picture, it ought to mean something.
Only it didn’t.
It really wasn’t fair.
Chapter 24
Cora Felton saw him as she came out of Cushman’s Bake Shop. He ducked back into the shadows, but that was what gave him away. Cora was always on the alert for elusive surveillance tactics. Not that she was often followed, but when she was, she knew it.
In this case, she knew the shadow. Becky Baldwin was right. The man snooping around was none other than Sherry Carter’s worthless ex-husband.
So. Dennis Pride was watching her. Had he followed her to the bake shop? Or just spotted her going in and waited for her to come out?
Cora was tempted to grab him by the scruff of the neck and demand to know what he was doing. But he’d probably lie. And then she’d waste her time figuring out what he was doing, why he was lying, and the whole nine yards. It was easier just to see for herself.
She hopped into her red Toyota, backed out of her parking spot, and drove slowly out of town. In the rearview mirror, she could see a black sedan pull away from the curb and follow. Cora went by the gas station, took a left on Holcomb Road. The sedan put on its blinker. Cora grinned in satisfaction, stepped on the gas, hurtled down the road. After a few seconds, she took her foot off the accelerator, let the engine slow the car. The Toyota had gone from twenty to eighty to thirty in the wink of an eye, and when the black sedan came into view, Cora was driving safely within the speed limit, though way down the road. It occurred to her that it would be really neat if Dennis had been smoking dope. After all, the guy was in a rock band, and if he was really stoned, her car seeming to teleport ahead would be a weird trip.
Cora was coming up on Overmeyer’s cabin. To her right was George Brooks’s house, a mansion by comparison. She could barely see it from the road. The driveway disappeared amid oak and maple trees. It was only from the cabin one had a direct view. Cora figured Brooks would plant bushes or hedges as soon as he got around to it. Assuming he couldn’t buy the land.
Cora slowed as she reached the cabin but didn’t turn in the drive. She went on by, pulled up at the side of the road, parked by the grove of trees. She slid across the front seat, slipped out the passenger door, dropped to the ground, and began crawling through the underbrush back toward the cabin. It was rough going. Her drawstring purse kept snagging on bushes and branches. But she wasn’t about to leave it in the car. It had her smokes and her gun. She wasn’t sure which she needed more.
The black sedan had pulled over just past the driveway to the cabin. Cora approached from the passenger side, yanked open the door, slid into the front seat. “Hello, Dennis.”
Cora had wanted to blow his mind, and she wasn’t disappointed. Dennis could not have looked more surprised if his guitar had vanished in midset. He gawked at Cora, his mouth open. He wore a suit and tie, and his long hair was slicked back. It was his salesman’s costume, his guise as the hardworking son-in-law of Norman Wallenstein, president and CEO of Wallenstein Textiles.
“Not much to say, huh? Strong, silent type. I usually like that in a man. In your case, I’ll make an exception.”
“What are you doing here?”
Cora frowned, shook her head. “Oh. Bad question. Just the worst. I live here. I have a right to be here. Unlike some people.”
“I have a right to be here.”
“You mean because Sherry’s gone? On her honeymoon?”
Dennis winced, scowled.
“You may have a right to be here. You don’t have a reason. And I think Brenda Wallenstein Pride, your current wife, the one who hasn’t divorced you yet, would bear me out on that. So if you haven’t any reason to be here, what the hell are you doing following me around?”
“I wasn’t following you around.”
“Well, you were doing a pretty good impression of it. Going where I go. Stopping where I stop. Waiting to see what I do.”
“Maybe I just wanted to see the cabin.”
“Huh?”
“There was a murder here. Or hadn’t you heard?”
“Yes. There was a murder at the cabin. That’s back there, Dennis. You drove right by it.”
“So did you.”
“I thought you weren’t following me.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t know your car.”
“Give it up, Dennis. Sherry’s married.”
“So am I.”
“Yes, you are. Now, that may not mean anything to you, but it does to her. You’re out of her life. You’ve got no business here.”
“I’d like to solve the crime.”
That caught Cora up short. “I beg your pardon?”
“You got no idea who killed him, do you? No one does. No more than I do. It’s up for grabs. Figuring it out. It’s important. It’s what a responsible person would do.”
“Too bad you don’t fall into that category.”
Dennis smiled. “I understand your attitude. This is your territory, you don’t want anyone treading on your space. But we’re after the same thing. We both want this killer caught. What do you say we pool our information.”
Cora stared at him. There was a glint in his eye that never came from liquor or cocaine. She knew it well. The sign of obsession so great that logic and reason would not prevail. The man could only be dealt with like an obstinate three-year-old determined to have his own way.
Instead of laughing in his face, Cora said, “What information do you wanna pool?”
“You first.”
She took a breath. “Overmeyer was most likely poisoned.”
“That’s not news.”
“It isn’t official.”
“It may be unofficial, but everyone knows.”
“Well, now it’s confirmed. Your
turn.”
Dennis shook his head. “Huh-uh. You tell me something no one knows, I’ll tell you what I know. Otherwise, forget it.”
Cora glared at him in contempt.
“Consider it forgotten,” she said, and climbed out of the car.
Chapter 25
“Your client’s insane.”
Becky Baldwin raised her eyebrows. “What else is new?”
“I’m not kidding. He’s certifiable. It’s a real problem.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Cora snorted in exasperation. Becky Baldwin’s law office was over the pizza parlor, and aromas had a tendency to seep up. Today’s special was the supreme combo—chicken, sausage, and pepperoni. Cora would rather have been eating it than discussing Dennis Pride.
“It’s worse than usual. He’s snapped. He thinks he’s an amateur detective, trying to solve the crime before the cops.”
Becky smiled. “A sure sign of dementia.”
Cora suggested uses for Becky’s law books unlikely to have helped her pass the bar.
“What are you getting so pissed about? He’s my client.”
“Exactly, and you can’t control him. He’s on probation, and here he is running around making trouble.”
“Unfortunately, he’s within his rights.”
“He may be within his rights, but he’s out of his mind. I mean more than usual. I don’t know how to get through to you if you’re not going to take this seriously.”
“I’m taking it seriously. What do you want me to do?”
“Bring him in. Give him a talking-to.”
“I do that every week.”
“This time make an impression.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Wear your black leather dominatrix outfit. Just make him listen.”
“How do you know about my dominatrix outfit?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Yeah.”
“Damn. All right, listen. Dennis claims he knows something.”
“You think he does?”
“I have no idea. But he won’t tell me unless I tell him something first.”
“Which you won’t do?”
“I’d rather be staked naked to an anthill.”