by Parnell Hall
42
Cora kept quiet. It killed her, but she did. She didn’t go back and see Becky. She didn’t go back and see Melvin. She didn’t even go see if Becky was holed up with Melvin, though that was a safe bet what with Channel 8 staking out the police station. Except the stairs up to her office wasn’t nearly as good a place to film—you’d be shooting in the alley and no one would know where you were. And if Becky’d agreed to make a statement, she’d have told them where she was going to make it. The front of the police station was the go-to place. So the Channel 8 news van gave no indication where Becky actually was, and if Cora wanted to find her, she could simply go look. Or call her on her cell phone. Just because Cora didn’t have a cell phone didn’t mean other people didn’t. Did she even have the number? Had she ever called it before?
Why was everything elusive and frustrating? Why wasn’t she thinking straight?
Why was Melvin back?
Cora went home. It was the safest choice. She could get in the least trouble at home. There was nothing at home she could do.
Nonsense. She could use a computer as well as anyone. Not as well as the average nerd, but as well as anyone who had a life.
What a snide thought. Here she was, striking out blindly in frustration. The point was, she knew her way around a computer. She’d Googled promising sounding men she’d met in chat rooms. None had lived up to their promise, but she’d been able to determine that without going on excruciatingly boring dates, without the benefit of alcohol to make them even slightly tolerable.
She sat down at the computer and Googled Bill French.
He didn’t Google.
Impossible. Everybody Googled. But not Bill. Not that there weren’t a bunch of Bill Frenches, but none of them were the right age to have been loan sharking in Vegas twenty years ago. Of course, Bill French didn’t have to be the guy’s actual name, but he’d been going by it, and everybody Googled.
It seemed typical that he wouldn’t. Here she was, chasing shadows.
Cora sat down and took out the puzzles. If the killer was the blackmailer and was responsible for all the puzzles, perhaps there was a theme. Something she’d missed. Something she was supposed to see.
The first puzzle was the killer. “Your number is in there. The centermost square.” What the hell did that mean? The centermost square of the sudoku was eight. What did eight have to do with anything? It didn’t, as far as she could see. Which couldn’t be right. The numbers suggested by the second and third puzzles meant something, in one case an address, in the other the number of graves.
So what did the number eight mean?
She went through the puzzles, couldn’t find a thing.
Great.
Now what?
It was too early for anything to be happening, even so, Cora went in the living room and turned on channel 8. A game show was running. Cora left it on, went back to the office.
She walked past Sherry and Aaron’s room. The door was open and clothes were thrown around. Sure they were. They’d left for the hospital in a hurry. And Aaron, being a guy, hadn’t straightened up. Well, that was something she could do. Straighten up.
Cora bit her lip. She could not straighten up. The last thing the kids would want would be someone snooping through their things. They’d just have to come back to a messy room.
Though they wouldn’t be coming back to a messy room. They’d be moving upstairs with the baby. The only reason they hadn’t moved yet was the baby came early. Cora remembered Aaron making the preliminary move, carrying boxes of things upstairs.
Cora went through the back door into the breezeway/mud room that led to the new addition. The poodle darted along happily. He looked about to lift his leg. Cora shooed him outside, and wandered through the new addition.
The spacious kitchen, damned with the description of modern, was not likely to be used. Not with the cramped but home-style kitchen nearby.
The living room was suitable for entertaining. Cora wondered if she’d be asked to host dinner parties. Realized that was just silly.
She went upstairs to the bedrooms. Over her protest, Sherry and Aaron had insisted on giving her the master suite. It was larger than the other bedrooms and had its own private bath. Cora didn’t need a large bedroom. In her current marital situation, she didn’t even need a large bed.
A furious yipping below indicated that Buddy was ready to come back in.
Cora went down the stairs—and there was another problem with the addition, did she always want to be climbing stairs?—and let the little poodle in. Buddy, who had no problem with duplex living, went up the flight of stairs like Teddy Roosevelt yelling “Charge!” in Arsenic and Old Lace. What a great movie. Was the game show still on?
Cora stuck her head through the doorway to the old house. Yes, the lilt of the bouncy game show music was unmistakable.
Cora trudged up the stairs again.
The baby’s room had been outfitted with such things as a crib, changing table, bassinet, and rocking chair. That was all well and good, but with the baby coming home prematurely they wouldn’t want to leave it alone, even with a baby monitor picking up every sound. They would want to know if it was moving, twitching, wiggling its fingers and toes—did babies do that? Cora wasn’t big on babies, but she was big on her niece. She knew Sherry would want to be there. Sherry would probably even sleep in the baby’s room. She’d sit in the rocking chair, or drag a mattress in and sleep on the floor.
Nonsense. The baby’s room was for when the baby was big enough to be in a room.
Cora checked out the other bedroom. Sure enough, that was where Aaron had started to move in. So the baby would be right next door. Wouldn’t that be close enough?
Not the way Sherry was acting. She’d want to be right in the room. Hell, they might have to physically restrain her from climbing into the crib. And Sherry couldn’t be sleeping on the floor. Not after abdominal surgery. She needed to stay put. Have Aaron bring the baby to her. Any chance of that working? Not likely.
So what if they brought the crib in there?
And put it where? The room was too small. There’d be no place for the changing table. They’d be climbing over the crib. It simply didn’t work.
Cora went back in the baby’s room and moved the crib. It wouldn’t fit through the door, but with the mattress taken out, the bottom folded up and the sides collapsed into a parallelogram. Cora rolled it out, down the hall, and into the master bedroom.
It fit, with plenty to spare. Cora was able to move the changing table and the small dresser. There was even room for the rocking chair.
So. That was that. If they didn’t like it, it was just too bad.
Cora moved everything Aaron had put upstairs into the master suite. She found sheets in the linen closet and made the bed. Buddy thought that was great fun, and helped out by leaping in the middle every time Cora tried to tuck something in.
Finally she got it done. She stepped back, surveyed her handiwork. Well, it was obvious she’d never been employed as a chambermaid. Still, the rumpled result looked homey.
Cora stuck her head down the stairwell. From the living room she could hear the dulcet tones of Rick Reed.
Good. Let it be Becky. Let it take the weight off her shoulders. The dilemma she’d avoided facing by moving furniture around.
Cora did a double step down the stairs. Buddy did his best to trip her, but to no avail. She hurried through the breezeway, reached the living room while Rick was still delivering his lead-in, explaining at great length about the two Bakerhaven murders, and why Channel 8 news was the best if not the only source of information regarding them.
Becky Baldwin stood in the background, waiting to be interviewed.
Cora flopped down on the couch, heaved a sigh of relief. Buddy hopped up beside her. Cora gave him a pat.
“And now,” Rick Reed said triumphantly, “live and in person, here is Melvin Crabtree’s criminal attorney, Becky Baldwin.”
“You hear that, Buddy?” Cor
a said. “Live and in person. As opposed to live and being portrayed in this interview by an actress.”
Buddy, unimpressed by Cora’s wit, scratched his ear.
“Miss Baldwin,” Rick said. “Why is your client in custody? Is he guilty?”
Becky smiled. “I’m glad you asked me that, Rick. That’s a common mistake people make. In this country a person’s innocent until proven guilty. But we tend to forget that. And so he gets arrested, and we say, ‘Oh, he got arrested, he must be guilty.’ And very often people aren’t. That’s why we have safeguards in our legal system. So, no, the fact he’s in jail has nothing to do with his innocence or guilt. He’s in jail because the wheels of justice grind slowly.”
“What do you mean by that?” Rick asked, an old standby he fell back on when he had no idea what someone just said.
“The prosecution has nothing on my client. I have challenged them to produce any evidence of his guilt. They can’t do it. Tomorrow afternoon, when they can’t do it in front of a judge, my client will be free.”
“If he’s not guilty, why was he arrested?”
Becky shook her head. “Another common misunderstanding. An arrest is not an indication of guilt. It may be the result of many other things. In my client’s case, the facts happen to have been deliberately manipulated.”
Cora sat up. Finally, Becky was getting to it.
Rick, of course, took a wrong turn. “By the police?”
“No. Not at all. The police are the ones who have been taken in. You see, my client has been carefully framed. He was lured into the cemetery by an ingenious killer who wanted him to be blamed for the murder. The killer left the girl’s body by the gravestone, and made an anonymous phone call, reporting shots fired in the cemetery. The police responded and found my client there. They arrested him, even though he had no weapon on him, and no idea the girl was even there.”
“That’s shocking.” Rick tried to appear shocked. “And who did this? Who killed the girl and framed your client?”
“That’s what we want the police to find out.”
Cora stood up so fast she startled Buddy, who sprang from the couch yipping in protest.
What the hell was that all about? Was Becky toying with him, or had she just missed her cue?
Neither.
To Cora’s astonishment, Becky finished up the interview without ever once mentioning Bill French.
Chapter
43
The Channel 8 news van was gone and there was no one in front of the police station. Cora sped by, skidded into a turn, rocketed down the alley, and screeched to a stop in front of the pizza parlor. She hopped out, left the door open and the motor running, thundered up the steps to Becky’s office, and pounded on the door.
Becky jerked the door open. “What the hell’s the matter?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“Well, don’t. I’ve got work to do.”
“I’ll say. I just saw you on TV.”
“So?”
“Are you nuts? You didn’t mention Bill French.”
“Of course not.”
“But that was the whole point. Melvin hires a bodyguard. As soon as he’s sure he’s safe, you can make a statement.”
“That’s what I did.”
“You didn’t mention Bill French!”
“He didn’t want me to.”
“But that’s the whole point. Melvin knows who did it. Without that, you’ve got, aw, gee, I was framed, just like every other wise-ass punk who ever got arrested.”
“It’s frustrating, but it doesn’t change anything. He’s been arrested. He’s been denied bail. That’s what I’m dealing with here. Contesting the remand and petitioning for bail. That’s assuming I don’t get the case kicked on probable cause.”
“Becky.”
“They’ve got nothing on him. Nothing. Basically, they got him for carrying too much money after dark. If that’s a crime, I’ll eat it.”
“What was he doing in the cemetery?”
“Minding his own damn business! It’s not a crime to wander around the cemetery. At least, not the crime he’s charged with. Leave him alone, let me get him out of jail.”
“You can’t do that without bringing in Bill French.”
“Oh, yeah? Just watch me.”
“Okay. Fine. I understand the situation and I understand how you’re playing it. But it isn’t going to work.”
“Why not?”
“You’re going to get kicked in the teeth.”
“How?”
“Challenging the prosecutor on probable cause.”
“He doesn’t have any.”
“Yes, he does.”
“No, he doesn’t. He’s got no witness. He’s got no evidence. He’s got nothing.”
“He’s got the gun!”
Becky’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“He’s got the murder weapon. He’s going to spring it on you when you ask for probable cause.”
“Where’d they find the gun?”
“In Melvin’s car.”
“They have a warrant?”
“Yeah.”
“So they knew this was happening? This went through legal channels?”
“That’s right.”
“How long have they had it?”
“Since early this morning.”
“How do you know?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“I was told in confidence.”
“By Chief Harper?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“I’m defending a client, Cora.”
“I know. That’s why I can’t let you walk into court tomorrow unprepared. You need to know, you just need to pretend you don’t know.”
“I can’t do that.”
“What do you mean, you can’t do that? Of course you can do that. You don’t have to do anything. You just have to act dumb. For a blonde, that shouldn’t be hard.”
“My client’s interests come first. Anything I’ve got, I gotta use.”
“You don’t have to use it, you just have to know it. Now you do, so you can take steps tonight to lay the groundwork for tomorrow.”
“Like what?”
“Make another statement. Call Rick Reed up and tell him you got an exclusive.”
“An exclusive what?”
“Tell him you’ll name the killer.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can. The killer’s a guy named Bill French.”
“Oh, yeah, like I’m really gonna do that.”
“Why not?”
“Are you kidding? He’ll sue me for slander. Assuming he doesn’t kill me.”
“He won’t kill you.”
“He might sue me.”
“He can’t sue you. You’re telling the truth. Truth is a defense against slander.”
“But I can’t prove he’s a killer.” Becky broke off, angry with herself. “Why are we having this argument? The point is, I’m not doing it because my client doesn’t want it done.”
“Your client doesn’t know Bill French planted the murder gun in his car.”
“And you don’t know it, either.”
“I know someone did. I’ll bet you a nickel that someone is Bill French. Melvin doesn’t know it happened. Tell him and he’ll change his mind.”
“No, he won’t.”
“You don’t know that till you ask him.”
“Yes, I do.”
“How?”
“We already discussed it.”
“I thought you didn’t know it.”
“I didn’t know it. We discussed the possibility. Melvin thought it was extremely likely since the case against him wasn’t strong the killer would try to manufacture some evidence. We discussed what evidence. Murder weapon was the number one answer.”
“Well then, we won’t give Bill French too much credit for thinking of it. But let’s give him credit for doing it. Just stand up and
say he did.”
“Melvin doesn’t want—”
“Right, right,” Cora said disgustedly. “Melvin doesn’t want. Because Melvin’s just a macho little boy who can’t stand to have a little girl say another little boy’s picking on him. Which is pretty stupid in this case. So, fine. You’re not going to mention Bill French, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going into court tomorrow and beat the case on probable cause.”
“Not when they bring in the murder weapon.”
“At worst, I’ll get him out on bail.”
Cora snorted. “Trust me. It’s worst.”
Chapter
44
The police station was locked. Cora banged on the front door until it was opened by a middle-aged man in a gray suit with a bulge under his left arm and a scowl on his face. “What do you want?” he growled. He was a stocky man with a crew cut. In a sweat suit he could have passed for a football coach.
“I want to see the prisoner.”
“I gotta pat you down.”
“In your dreams. I got a gun in my purse. If I were going to shoot him, I’d have done it years ago.”
“Ex-wife?”
“Isn’t everyone?”
“Good answer.”
The bodyguard pushed the door open. “Hey, Melvin, got a woman here says she married you.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“For Christ’s sake, Melvin. How many women know you’re here?”
“That’s Cora. Bring her in.”
“She says she’s got a gun in her purse.”
“I’m sure she does.”
The bodyguard followed Cora in and stood next to her and slightly behind.
Melvin grinned. “Cora, this is Clyde Curtis of the C.I.A. That’s Curtis Investigation Agency, but it’s still impressive.”
“Melvin loves his little joke.”
“Clyde and I go way back. He’s a good man if you need someone to shoot first and ask questions later.”
“That only happened once.”
“Right,” Cora said. “You’re from New York, you’re packin’ heat, you’re gonna keep Melvin from getting whacked in the night.”
Clyde nodded. “Good job description.”
“Glad you like it. Whaddya say you let me have a little talk with my ex? Stand guard, make sure no one disturbs us.”