A Puzzle in a Pear Tree

by Parnell Hall

  “I don’t carry a weapon.”

  “I do. Don’t make me use it.”

  “You wouldn’t shoot me.”

  “Yes, I would. Although I’d regret it. I regretted shooting Henry. My fourth husband. Cost me a fortune in alimony.”

  “You shot your husband?”

  “In the leg. A double disappointment. I was sorry I shot him and sorry I didn’t aim higher.”

  “Miss Felton—”

  “Keep those hands up.”

  “I assure you, I’m unarmed.”

  “Maybe so. But I don’t want you destroying the evidence.”

  “What evidence?”

  “Why are you here?”

  Doddsworth scowled. Took an exasperated breath. “I’m examining the scene of the crime.”

  “Oh, give me a break. There’s nothing to examine. Did you bring the money?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Don’t play dumb.” Cora quoted, “ ‘You know and I know she did it. Get five hundred dollars in small unmarked bills. Bring it to the theater after rehearsal tonight. Perhaps we can continue to share our secret together.’ ”

  Doddsworth gawked at her, openmouthed.

  “Got the money?” Cora asked sweetly.

  “You? That was you?”

  “Did you bring the cash?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I think you did. I think you have it on you right now. That’s why I’m not going to give you a chance to ditch it before the cops get here.”

  “The police?”

  “You think I want to hold a gun on you all night? The cops are going to take you in for questioning, inventory your possessions. I don’t know if you got the blackmail letter on you, but I’m layin’ odds you got the five C’s. What did you do, pull it out of an ATM? Or did you have to cash traveler’s checks?”

  Doddsworth was sweating. “It’s stifling in here. I’m going to remove my coat.”

  “Be my guest.”

  He slipped his overcoat off, let it fall to the stage floor.

  “What makes you think your daughter’s pregnant?” Cora inquired.

  Doddsworth looked as though he might follow his overcoat. He was the picture of consternation. “How much do you know?” he asked Cora.

  “I’m learning more every minute. That was a guess. An educated guess, but a pretty easy one. What would it take to make a law-abiding police officer act like a common crook? Obviously a desire to protect his daughter. That only makes sense if the case against her looks particularly black. Do you know Maxine’s pregnant, or just suspect it?”

  “Damn you.”

  “Damn me? You frame my niece for murder, and then damn me? You’re lucky I’m such an old softy, or you’d be dead right now.” Cora gestured with the gun. “Grab your coat and let’s sit down. I’ve been hanging in the rafters, and my leg is cramped like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Cora marched Doddsworth down the stairs to the audience. The inspector tripped at the bottom, fell awkwardly in a heap, with his overcoat on top of him. Cora kept the gun trained, in case it was a trick, and watched for any sudden moves. But Doddsworth merely clambered to his feet. He and Cora sat on folding chairs, under the basketball hoop. The stage lights barely reached them, made them shadowy figures on the court.

  Cora dropped her purse on the floor, kept her gun in her lap. “Okay, let’s talk turkey. I don’t think your daughter bumped off her best friend. You don’t either, but you’re not sure. That’s what’s killing you. But we’re more or less on the same page. The difference is, you’ll protect Maxine even if she’s guilty. I won’t. If she did it, she’s goin’ down.

  “So here’s the deal. I’m gonna do some talking. You’re gonna shut up and listen. If you’re a quick study and pay attention, I won’t have to shoot you.

  “Here’s what I think happened. Dorrie Taggart was killed under circumstances that implicate your daughter. Horace Taggart suspects her. He brought you in not for your help but to hang you out to dry. You know that, but there’s nothing you can do about it except try to solve the crime. Only problem is, everything you find only makes things worse. Maxine has the acrostic program on her computer, the red envelopes in her room. You go through her garbage, find a discarded early pregnancy test box. That’s when you decide to frame my niece. Only two girls had the opportunity to kill Dorrie. If it wasn’t Maxine it must be Sherry. So how can you set Sherry up?”

  Cora shrugged. “Right away you catch a break. Sherry has the acrostic computer program too. She bought it the day the first puzzle arrived, so she and I could work on it. No matter. The fact is, she has it. And no one knows your daughter has it yet.

  “So, one down, two to go. You call on Sherry, ask her about a pregnancy test. Sherry never took a pregnancy test, but that’s no matter. You’re smart enough to know you can create the story just by asking the question. ‘Suspect Sherry Carter today denied accusations that she was pregnant, and refused to take an early pregnancy test.’ Damning.

  “Two down, one to go. The envelopes. You had every intention of planting them, but, bad luck, Sherry never left you alone in our house long enough. No matter. You’re comin’ back with your warrant. You’ll plant them right under our very noses. Sure enough, Dan Finley downloading computer files keeps me and Sherry occupied. All you have to do is distract Harper, then stick ’em someplace he hasn’t already searched.”

  Cora shook her head. “Now you’ve got my niece strung up good, but you’re not too happy about it, because you know it ain’t gonna stick. Bet you a nickel your kid doesn’t have an alibi for the second murder, even if you were able to discuss it with her, which you’re probably not. So right now you’re runnin’ around like a British chicken with your noggin chopped off, tryin’ to find some way out, when, bang, you’re hit with a blackmail demand.

  “Well, I got good news and bad news. The good news is, I wrote the blackmail note. The bad news is, I wrote the blackmail note. I happen to have enough ammunition to blow you out of the water. How do you like that, Doddsy?”

  Doddsworth blinked, set his jaw.

  “Not bad,” Cora said, nodding approvingly. “Mindy Taggart’s reaction was much bigger.” His face twisted. “Yeah, like that.”

  Doddsworth’s lip quivered. “Who told you about Mindy?”

  “Why, is it a secret? I guess it is. I guess people bought the story Horace put out, how the real lovebirds were him and your wife. That must have been tough for you to swallow. Being estranged from your daughter and branded a cuckold. No wonder you stayed away so long.”

  “My daughter,” Doddsworth muttered. He heaved a huge sigh. His eyes glistened with tears. He rubbed his face awkwardly, brushing them away.

  Cora’s mouth fell open. “Oh, my God!” she murmured.

  Doddsworth’s head jerked up.

  Angrily.

  Defensively.

  “You were making a deal,” he said evenly.

  Cora looked at him. Her face softened. Her voice lost its edge. “I couldn’t understand why you would go so far. Take such risks. Planting the envelopes on my niece. Writing the message, Wrong girl. Even with your daughter in danger, it seemed a little much. After all, you’re a cop.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I don’t know. A minute ago I wanted to watch you squirm. Now I just don’t know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The story keeps changing. But some of it’s true. You and Mindy Taggart did get together. The only question is when. And the answer is, you got together way before anyone thought. By the time Horace found out about you two, the affair was quite longstanding.”

  Doddsworth said nothing, set his jaw.

  “I should have known. The way you fussed over her at the Grants’ Christmas party. The way you fell apart when you saw her dead.” Cora smiled softly. “The way you tripped coming down the steps just now. Klutzy, like her.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  �
�I’m talking about your daughter.” Cora paused, said gently, “Dorrie Taggart.”

  Doddsworth’s face drained of color.

  Cora shook her head. “It’s more than any man could bear. His one daughter killing the other. No wonder you snapped.”

  Doddsworth’s mouth opened. No sound came out.

  “So, let’s talk turkey,” Cora said, giving him time to recover. “There’s too many clues in this case. I don’t wanna bust my hump on the ones I have you to thank for. And vice versa. So you don’t waste your time on the poem about your daughter Max doing her best friend wrong. And I won’t waste my time on the Wrong girl letter. On the other hand, I didn’t plant the blowgun, and I bet you didn’t either. And I think I can safely say neither of us had anything to do with the attached note. It being about pregnancy and all.”

  “Damn it, woman! Can’t you hold your tongue!”

  Cora nodded. “Of course. The final straw. Both daughters pregnant. By the same man. What would that do to you? What would that do to Taggart? Or to your wives?”

  Doddsworth trembled.

  Cora said, “Well, it may be small consolation, but I don’t think Maxine is pregnant.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Just from talking to her.” Cora shrugged. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Cora raised the gun, looked at it thoughtfully, put it back in her lap. “So here’s the deal. You lay off Sherry, I’ll lay off Maxine. Whaddya say?”

  Doddsworth met her gaze, held it several seconds. Then he sighed deeply. “There’s a problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Taggart’s scheduled Dorrie’s funeral for the day after tomorrow.”

  “That’s Christmas Eve.”

  “Horace doesn’t care. That’s when he wants it. It’s inconvenient, but I imagine most people will attend it.”

  “I’m sure they will. So what’s the problem?”

  “I’m giving the eulogy.”

  Cora’s mouth fell open. “What?!”

  Doddsworth nodded. “That’s right.”

  Cora stared at him. “No offense meant, but why in the world would Taggart want you to give the eulogy?”

  “He wants me to say who killed her.”

  Cora whistled. “What you gonna do?”

  “The only possibilities are your niece and Maxine. I’m most certainly not naming Maxine.”

  “You’re most certainly not naming my niece.”

  “So what can I do?”

  Cora frowned, gnawed her lip.

  The gym door banged open and Santa Claus stood framed in the light from the foyer. His curly beard hung around his neck, but otherwise his scarlet-and-fur costume looked fine. His wide black belt held in his padded belly, which shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly.

  But Chief Harper wasn’t laughing. “I don’t wanna hear it,” he snarled, forestalling any comments on his festive appearance. “I had a Christmas party at the children’s hospital. I was on my way home and saw the light.” He pulled the red Santa hat off his head, shook out the snowflakes. “What are you two doing here?”

  Cora Felton surreptitiously shoved her gun in her purse. She looked over at Doddsworth, who returned her gaze miserably.

  “Just checking out the crime scene,” Cora told Chief Harper.

  47

  BECKY BALDWIN LEANED BACK IN HER DESK CHAIR AND frowned at Cora Felton, who was perched on the windowsill smoking a cigarette. “You want me to stop a eulogy?”

  “Sounds bad when you say it like that.”

  “Okay, you say it so it sounds good.”

  “I want a simple injunction.” Cora glanced at Sherry for help. None was forthcoming. “Or restraining order. Or gag order. Or whatever you call it when you don’t want someone to do something.”

  “I don’t believe this.”

  Cora blew smoke out the open window. It came back in her face. “Doddsworth won’t hurt us unless he has to. In which case we have to stop him.”

  “Since blackmailing him didn’t work,” Becky pointed out sarcastically.

  “Heaven forbid,” Cora said. “I thought I told you expressly I was not blackmailing Doddsworth. I merely asked the question.”

  “Yes, and what a lovely hypothetical that was. ‘I’m not blackmailing Doddsworth, but if I were blackmailing Doddsworth, what would I do if the situation happened to be this?’ ”

  “I thought you lawyers liked hypothetical questions. Ow!” Cora reached down and rubbed her leg. “Burned myself on your radiator. I’d sue you, if I knew a good lawyer.”

  “Very funny,” Becky said. “Well, I hate to disillusion you, Cora, but I am not stopping a eulogy.”

  “Then Doddsworth is going to stand up and accuse me of murder,” Sherry said.

  “That’s not all bad.” Becky nodded slyly. “Tainting the jury pool will probably get us a change of venue.”

  “Do we want a change of venue?”

  “It couldn’t hurt. The Taggarts own half the town. It’s not exactly the ideal place to be tried for murdering their daughter with a poisoned dart.”

  “Hey, no one’s getting tried yet.” Cora flipped her cigarette into the snow, heaved herself off the windowsill. “And no one’s gonna be. I’m just exploring options.”

  “Well, stopping a eulogy is a pretty poor option. I would strongly suggest you come up with something else.”

  “We should have told her,” Sherry said as she and Cora drove home ten minutes later.

  “Told her what? The Doddsworths and Taggarts may have had their own little Peyton Place, but it doesn’t mean they killed anyone.”

  “Peyton Place?”

  “Before your time, sweetie. The point is, why fling mud if it isn’t gonna help?”

  “You’re such a softy. You don’t want Maxine to have to know the best friend she lost was also her half sister. Plus, you don’t suspect her anymore.”

  “She’s not guilty.”

  “Well, if it’s not her and it’s not me, that leaves Lance and the techie.”

  “It’s not Lance.”

  “Even if he knocked ’em both up?”

  “I don’t think he did.”

  Cora roared up their snowy driveway, skidded into a parking space in front of the garage.

  “Well,” Sherry said. “Who does that leave?”

  48

  ALFRED ADAMS’S EYES WIDENED. “YOU STAY AWAY FROM me!”

  “Just a couple of questions,” Cora said.

  Alfred was sitting on the high school stage taking apart a spotlight. He held a screwdriver out in front of him like a weapon. “That’s what you said the last time. When Mr. Virdon got killed.”

  “You think that was my fault?”

  “Did you talk to Mr. Virdon?”

  “No, I didn’t. Obviously I should have.”

  “Oh, is that right? Someone kills Mr. Virdon so you can’t talk to him, so now you think you should have? You’re living poison, lady. You’re the kiss of death.”

  “I’m nothing of the kind.” But Cora didn’t sound too indignant.

  “You stay away from me.”

  “Relax, Alfred. I talked to you before and nothing happened to you. Obviously you don’t know anything.”

  “ ’Course I don’t know anything. I told you I don’t know anything. So why do you want to talk to me?”

  “You were in the crèche. You could have killed Dorrie Taggart.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “And you were in the theater. You could have killed Jesse Virdon.”

  “Mr. Virdon? I liked Mr. Virdon.” Alfred wiped his brow, managed to smear grease on his forehead. “Say, what is this? First you put me in danger, then you accuse me of murder? You’re bad news.”

  “What was your relationship with Dorrie Taggart?”

  “I didn’t have a relationship with Dorrie. I barely knew Dorrie.”

  “But you knew who she was. You recognized her in the stable. When she came to play Mary.”


  “No, I didn’t. I only saw her from the back. The whole thing’s very whatchamacallit—stylized. You’re not acting, you’re posing. I wish I’d never done it.”

  “I bet you do. Are you claiming you didn’t know who Dorrie Taggart was?”

  “Of course I knew who she was. She was in the play.”

  “What play? The Seagull?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re working on that?”

  “If it’s in this theater, I work on it.”

  “Were you here when Dorrie had her late rehearsals?”

  “No. Why should I be?”

  “So when did you see Dorrie act?”

  “During the regular rehearsals.” Alfred snorted. “She was bad.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Mr. Winston was always stopping her, telling her she was doing it wrong.”

  “He does that to everybody.”

  “Yeah. I suppose.”

  “You know the girl taking over the part?”

  “Laura? Sure, why?”

  “Had she wanted that role?”

  “Are you kidding? All these girls wanna be the star. Pretty dumb, you ask me. I mean, what’s so important about some dumb high school play?”

  “I don’t know,” Cora said. “But someone killed Dorrie Taggart. And someone killed Jesse Virdon. Did it ever occur to you maybe someone was trying awfully hard to stop The Seagull?”

  Alfred sneered. “That’s stupid.”

  “Why is that stupid?”

  “Mr. Virdon wasn’t important. He was just the tech director. I’m filling in for him, no problem. And Dorrie stunk. You don’t hurt the play by killing her. If you wanted to stop Seagull, you’d kill Mr. Winston.”

  Cora Felton’s eyes widened. “Oh, for the love of—”

  “What’s the matter? Are you sick?”

  “You’re a lot smarter than you look.” Cora thought a moment. “You know where Mr. Winston is now?”

  “Downstairs.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I get a breather while he chews out the costume lady.”

  Leaving Alfred, Cora went down to the costume shop, where Rupert Winston was complaining about the milkmaids’ cleavage.