by Parnell Hall
“You go skiing last week?”
“Sure. With Lance and Dorrie. What about it?”
“Who’d she ride the lift with, you or Lance?” Maxine’s mouth fell open. “What are you getting at? What difference does that make?”
“Probably none. What about it?”
“We took turns. I rode with Dorrie. Dorrie rode with Lance. Lance rode with me.”
“Dorrie didn’t mind?”
“Hell, no. You are so off the wall. Dorrie and I were like that.” Maxine held her thumb and first finger together defiantly. “Just like that.”
“How about in school?”
“We took the same classes. The same activities and sports. We were both in the school play.”
“Was that your idea?”
“Hell, no. I’m no actress. But she had a passion for it.”
“How about the Virgin Mary? Was doing that her idea?”
“Well, it sure wasn’t mine. Bundle up and stand in the cold? But she wanted to, so I did.”
Cora approached it tentatively. “And changing hours?”
“We wanted to go Christmas shopping, that’s all.”
“Whose idea was it to switch?”
“Both of ours.”
“Yes, but someone must have brought it up.”
“I think Dorrie did. I don’t remember.”
“Tell me about being Mary.”
“I relieved the first girl. She crept away. I took her place. It wasn’t that bad. Joseph put his hands on my shoulders, I could lean against him.”
“Did you talk?”
“Not at all. That’s strictly forbidden.”
“Even so. You’re high school kids.”
“We probably would have if we’d had a good group.
But I checked the schedule. The first Joseph was Mr. Virdon, the tech director. He’s young, but he’s a teacher.” Maxine imbued the word with the same oooh-gross expression as if she’d said “slimy worm.” “The one who relieved him was that geek Alfred, who would have run straight to Mr. Winston. So I kept my mouth shut.”
“What about when Dorrie relieved you? Did she say anything?”
“She squeezed my shoulders, whispered, ‘Move it, buster.’ ”
“Did Joseph hear?”
“If he did, he didn’t let on. So I doubt it. Alfred’s the type who would have told, trust me. A real geek.”
“So what did you do when Dorrie relieved you?”
“Went and got my coat. It was cold out there.”
“Your coat was in back of the stable?”
“That’s right. And you know what? A coat that’s been hanging outside for an hour isn’t that warm.”
“So you got your coat and boots, and went back over the actors’ path. Did you meet anyone?”
“On the path? No. No one.”
“How about when you got to town hall?”
“Lance was there. Dressed like Joseph.”
“You could tell it was Lance? Even with the long hair and beard?”
Maxine shrugged. “Lance is Lance. Anyway, we talked.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing much. Just told him it was freezing and real boring.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Great.’ ”
“That was your whole conversation?”
“I told you, I was freezing.”
“But you knew right away it was him? Lance?”
“Sure I did. I’d seen the schedule. I knew it was his turn.”
“So when Dorrie switched spots with Becky Baldwin, you knew she’d be working with Lance?”
“It didn’t bother me.”
“But you knew?”
“Sure. That’s when I saw the schedule. When we looked to see who Dorrie could swap with.”
“Where did you see the schedule?”
“It’s posted in town hall.”
“I know. And that’s where you saw it?”
“Yes. We drove over to check it. Dorrie’s got a car, of course.” Her eyes faltered. “Had a car, of course. Anyway, we checked the schedule and saw that Becky Baldwin had the slot. So Dorrie called her, asked her to switch places. And Becky did.”
“Did that surprise you? That Becky agreed?”
“Not at all. Dorrie always gets—got what she wanted.”
“Why was that?”
“You know. She has rich parents.” Under her breath, Maxine muttered something Cora couldn’t quite catch.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” Maxine said.
Cora let it go. But she had the distinct impression what Maxine had murmured was, “Two of ’em.”
24
PAMELA DODDSWORTH WAS WAITING FOR CORA AT THE FOOT of the stairs. Her face was drawn and pale, in stark contrast to the bright and festive striped candy canes, silver tinsel, and colored balls and lights on the Christmas tree behind her. Pamela seemed every bit as upset as her daughter, Maxine. Perhaps more so.
She also looked like Maxine. The resemblance Cora had noticed at the crèche seemed even more pronounced today. Besides the green eyes, curly brown hair, and turned-up nose, Pamela Doddsworth was also dressed like Maxine, in slacks and cable-knit sweater. Neither was as stylish as Maxine’s, however. That, coupled with Pamela’s age, gave her the appearance of a knock-off copy of her daughter.
“How is she?” Pamela demanded. “She won’t talk to me. Just lies there. I feel so helpless. Did she talk to you?”
“A little.”
“She won’t talk to me at all. And I’m her mother.”
“That’s why she won’t talk to you.”
“Do you have children?”
“No. But I used to be one. When you’re a teenager, parents are a real drag.”
“She talked to her father.” Pamela didn’t bother to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Jonathon was here this morning. Went on up, stayed about a half an hour. Said she was upset, but she’d be okay.”
“That’s probably about right,” Cora said.
“Oh, is it?” Pamela said. “The man’s been gone for years, then he waltzes in and takes charge. My daughter will speak to him, but she won’t speak to me. Of course not. All I’ve done is raise her. Care for her, give her what she wants. While he’s off in England playing cops and robbers. Just a little boy who never grew up. Then he comes back and she acts like he’s never been away.”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Or it doesn’t. It could make a person miss him or hate him. Apparently, in her case, she missed him.”
“And I’m wrong to resent him? How’d you like to marry a man and have him leave you?”
Cora frowned. “I would have to stop and count the number of times that’s happened. But the alimony helps.”
“Yeah, well, the alimony’s damn small, considering I have a girl to raise. Although I suppose Jonathon feels the pittance he pays gives him paternal rights.”
“You say he was here?” Cora prompted, in an effort to steer the conversation away from Pamela Doddsworth’s litany of grievances.
“Yes, he was. He showed up yesterday, large as life, as if he owned the place. Let himself in the front door. I’m sitting in my living room, the key turns in the lock. And in he walks, just as if he never left.”
“He kept his key?”
“Yes, he did. All these years. Just to annoy me.”
“Did you ask for it back?”
“Soon as he came in the door. And he wouldn’t give it to me. How do you like that? Wouldn’t give it up. I told him a thing or two. At least today he rang the bell.”
“He was here yesterday and today?”
“Yes, of course. And she talked to him both times.”
“She had asked him to solve the crime,” Cora ventured.
“And what did he do? He just galloped in like some white knight to save the young damsel in distress.”
“So what did he tell you?”
“I should be asking you. I’m sure he tells you more than he te
lls me. I might be invisible for all he cares. Comes in, uses the computer, uses the phone, raids the refrigerator, and off he goes, without so much as a by-your-leave.”
“That was yesterday?”
“That was today. Right after he talked to Maxine. I tried to draw him out. At least see if she was okay. And he was so rude, like you wouldn’t believe. ‘Woman, I have work.’ That’s what he said. As if I were the hired help. He marches into the office, sits down at my desk as if he owns the place, and picks up my phone. Before he dials he looks at me, and says, ‘Out.’ ”
“Is there an extension in the house?”
Pamela’s eyes faltered. “I tried that once. When we were still married. He didn’t like it.”
“You didn’t try today?”
“I let him alone. Anything I did would only make it worse. And Maxine would be blaming me.”
“You talk to him when he was done?”
“Not at all. He bolted out of the office and drove off as if he’d just cracked the case. Which he didn’t, of course. He never solved a case that quickly in his life. Not his way. Bumbling. Plodding. Methodical. That’s Jonathon Doddsworth. He lulls his prey by acting like he couldn’t find his couch in the living room. Then bores them to death through dogged persistence.”
A regular Columbo, Cora thought. “Why did he run out?”
“Probably to avoid me.” Pamela’s lip curled up, revealing straight, pearly white teeth, the only clear edge she had on her daughter. Maxine evidently had her father to thank for her braces. That, too, probably was on Pamela’s list of grievances.
Pamela sighed, then leaned in confidentially. “If you could do me a big favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Beat him. Solve the crime first. You’re clever. You figure things out. Figure it out before Jonathon. If he solves the case, I’ll never hear the end of it. He’ll be a god-damn hero in my daughter’s eyes. Then he’ll go back to England and leave me here. And Maxine will go off to college, and I’ll be the wicked, unsympathetic mother, and she’ll never come home again. Except for money. And that will be that.”
“You paint too gloomy a picture,” Cora said. But she feared it was true.
“Will you help me?”
“I intend to solve this murder. I don’t know if that will help you.”
Pamela looked at her sharply. “Why do you say that?”
“I’m not doing it to hurt your husband. And I wouldn’t arrange things to see that happen.”
“I’m not asking you to. Just make sure he doesn’t solve it first.”
“That may be the thing I can’t arrange.”
Cora left the Doddsworths’ with an uneasy feeling. Jonathon Doddsworth might be methodical and plodding, but he was certainly making quick work of it. What had he learned from his phone calls that had lit such a fire under him?
And what was he up to now?
25
SHERRY CARTER OPENED THE DOOR TO FIND JONATHON Doddsworth all bundled up in a fur-lined overcoat, wool scarf, and tweed hat. “I’m sorry,” she said. “My aunt isn’t in.”
Doddsworth smiled, a most disarming smile. “Actually, I came to see you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Might I come in? It’s rather nippy out here. And, as you can see, it’s beginning to snow again.”
“Well, ah, yes, of course. Come in,” Sherry said.
Doddsworth stamped the snow off his boots, stepped inside. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Not at all.” In point of fact, Sherry had been constructing a crossword puzzle column, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. “You must be frozen. Come in the kitchen. I’ll make some coffee.”
“That would be civil of you. But I don’t drink it. Now, if you had some tea . . .”
“Of course.”
Sherry sat Doddsworth down and put the kettle on. The Bakerhaven Gazette lay on the kitchen table. VIRGIN MARY ICED screamed from the front page.
Doddsworth shuddered.
Sherry flushed and moved the paper. Aaron Grant had already called to apologize for the headline, even though it was none of his doing.
Doddsworth unwound his scarf, shrugged off his overcoat, put his hat on the table. His head was bald on top, and his bristly muttonchops were flecked with gray. But his eyes were hard.
Sherry sat down opposite him. “So, is this your first time back? Since you moved to England, I mean.”
“I was back shortly after the move. To see if my family might follow me. No luck, alas.”
“Where are you staying?”
“A motor inn just out of town.”
“Not a bed-and-breakfast?”
“I don’t need some old biddy fussing over me. Plus I get cable telly. A far cry from the BBC. Still, I fancy the news.” His eyes drifted to the Gazette.
“Did you see my aunt?”
Doddsworth frowned. “What, this morning?”
“No, on television. Aunt Cora does commercials.”
“Go on! I say, that’s a lark.” Doddsworth allowed himself a brief smile, which swiftly faded. “I wonder if we might examine your statement a little.”
“Feel free. But I’ve told you all I know.”
“You have made a full, frank, and open disclosure to the authorities?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Then you should have no difficulty doing so again. If I might just ask a few questions to illuminate certain matters . . .”
“Fire away.”
“When you arrived to relieve the Virgin Mary you had no notion it was Dorrie Taggart?”
“I thought it was Becky Baldwin.”
“When did you learn of your error?”
“Not until Becky came walking into town hall. Everyone assumed I knew, so no one told me differently. Up until then, I thought it was Becky who was dead.”
“I see. And what can you tell me about Aaron Grant?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I understand you two have been stepping out.”
The kettle whistled.
“There’s your tea!” Sherry exclaimed. She leaped up, took the kettle off the stove. “Sleepytime, Earl Grey, or Red Zinger?”
“Earl Grey would be splendid, thank you.”
Sherry poured the tea, set the cup and saucer on the table. “Milk? Sugar? Lemon?”
“Milk and sugar, if you please.”
Sherry produced them. Doddsworth sloshed in milk, added three heaping spoonfuls of sugar, stirred the mixture around. Before he was done, his saucer held nearly as much tea as his cup.
“Had time to think of an answer yet?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“About dating Aaron Grant.”
“It’s no secret I’ve been seeing Aaron Grant.”
“Is this a serious relationship?”
She considered telling Doddsworth that was none of his business. Decided not to. “I would say so.”
Doddsworth nodded gravely. “And what would young Mr. Grant say?”
Sherry bristled. She restrained herself with an effort. “You’ll have to ask Aaron.”
“I certainly intend to. I was wondering what you imagined he might say.”
“Is this part of your police investigation?”
“Oh, absolutely. Relationships are at the heart of any crime. Far more material than eyewitness testimony. Which is often inaccurate and apt to be wrong. The only way to comprehend a crime is to comprehend the people involved. At the moment I’m attempting to ascertain the relationship between you and Aaron Grant. In analyzing that relationship, I am naturally taking into account the degree of cooperation encountered when posing the question. Your constant avoidance is in itself quite telling. As is your indignation.” Doddsworth smiled thinly. “But, please, let’s be friends. Let’s move the conversation to less delicate terrain. You were at the rehearsal last night?”
“Yes.”
“Were you there when the sandbag fell?”
“Yes, I was.”
“I have heard varying accounts of how close it came to striking Miss Baldwin. Can you tell me the margin by which it missed her?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t actually see it fall.”
“And why is that?”
“I was in the wings at the time.”
“Who was onstage?”
“Just Becky.”
“The other actors were all in the wings?”
“Yes, they were.”
“Who was in the audience?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, who would logically be? The director?”
“Rupert would either be in the audience or onstage leaning against the proscenium.”
“In either case, he would have been watching Becky Baldwin?”
“He would.”
“What about the accompanist? The piano player. Would he have seen where the sandbag fell?”
“You’ve got me. I don’t play the piano. If I did, I’d look at the keys. A musician probably doesn’t have to.”
“And the technical director—where would he be?”
“Most likely in the wings. In performance he’d be on the prompt book giving the light cues. In rehearsal I don’t know.”
“What about the light man? Wouldn’t he be watching?”
“He would, but he’d just been assigned a drum set. He was offstage with the drummers drumming.”
“Ah, yes,” Doddsworth said. “And I gather the other tech students were not there.”
“Then you know more than I do,” Sherry replied. “In fact, you know the answers to all these questions, don’t you? So why are you asking them?”
“To put you at your ease. To make you comfortable answering. So we can return to the questions that are bothering you.”
“Nothing’s bothering me.”
“Oh, but it is. You take offense even at the suggestion that you take offense. Clearly there is something about your relationship with Mr. Grant that you do not wish to discuss.”
“You’re dead wrong,” Sherry countered. “I do not wish to discuss my relationship with Aaron because it is nobody’s business but my own, and has nothing to do with the crime. I have been dating Aaron Grant. There is nothing particularly special about the relationship. Certainly nothing worthy of your attention.”
“I see.” Doddsworth sipped his tea. “And did this same Aaron Grant not at one time have a relationship with Miss Becky Baldwin?”