A Puzzle in a Pear Tree

by Parnell Hall

  “Ah, here’s one now,” Rupert said. “Miss Felton, please get into costume and I’ll show you what I mean.”

  “You want me to alter eight costumes?” the costume lady groused.

  “It isn’t a case of altering. Just wearing the costume lower. They can push the elastic down.”

  “Then let ’em do it. You don’t need me.”

  “They’re your costumes. You have to show them how they’re worn.”

  “I think they look just fine.”

  “I want them lower.”

  “Then tell them so.”

  “I can’t go around adjusting cleavage. That’s why I have a wardrobe mistress.”

  “Oh? I thought my job was to make costumes.”

  “It’s to make them to be worn. They’re not being worn right. Miss Felton, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “I’d rather be shot dead.”

  “What?”

  “I have rather urgent business. Could I talk to you alone?”

  “What could you possibly want to talk about?”

  “It’s a private matter.”

  “Perhaps you’d rather talk here,” the costume mistress said hopefully.

  Rupert glared at her, then back at Cora. “All right. But make it snappy.”

  Rupert followed Cora out of the costume shop and down the hall into one of the music practice rooms. He closed the door, turned to Cora. “All right. What’s so allfired important that you had to pull me out of the costume shop?”

  Cora looked the director right in the eye.

  “I think your life’s in danger.”

  49

  CORA FELTON PEEKED OUT FROM BEHIND THE CURTAIN. THE gym was packed. Every folding chair on the court was filled, as were the bleachers on the sides. People were even standing in the back. Cora was amazed. She wouldn’t have thought there were that many people in all of Bakerhaven.

  Dan Finley sat front row center. Becky had put her foot down about having him backstage.

  Aaron’s parents sat together on folding chairs.

  Jonathon and Pamela Doddsworth sat on opposite sides of the court, as far apart as they could get.

  The Taggarts were not there.

  A hand tapped Cora on the shoulder. She started, spun around.

  It was Harvey Beerbaum. “You shouldn’t be looking at the audience,” Harvey scolded.

  “Oh?” Cora said. “And just what are you doing here, Harvey?”

  “Checking my props.”

  “You haven’t got any props.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess I haven’t.” Harvey dropped all pretense. “So, who’s out there?”

  “Everybody and his darn brother.”

  “Let me see.”

  “I thought we weren’t supposed to do that.”

  “Yes, but you did. Wow! Standing room only!”

  “I told you.”

  “I see Dan Finley’s right up front.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  Harvey frowned. “Chief Harper’s still afraid something’s going to happen?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “What about you? Are you nervous?”

  “Yes, I am.” Cora sighed, smiled. “But it’s just stage fright.”

  Cora needn’t have worried.

  The Twelve Days of Christmas was an absolute smash. Whether it was just that after the recent tragedies people needed some comic relief, or whether it was just that good, the song stopped the show.

  The standing-room-only audience had been politely enthusiastic during the choral numbers, applauding the efforts of the schoolchildren. But when The Twelve Days of Christmas began, the audience went nuts.

  Becky wandered out onstage, young, innocent, dewy, bright-eyed, the very picture of eager anticipation, and sang, “ ‘On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me.’ ”

  Jimmy Potter marched out, singing, “ ‘A partridge in a pear tree.’ ”

  He was so proud, gawky, and happy, that it was funny. There were nervous titters in the audience. As if they wanted to laugh, but didn’t want to be rude. As Jimmy exited the stage, it was quite clear the audience was holding back.

  They stifled guffaws at the turtledoves, borne by plump Mary Cushman and her equally plump cohort. When Jimmy Potter came marching back, they suppressed giggles.

  But on the exit, as the turtledoves and partridge scattered into the wings, and it dawned on the audience that this was the format, and all of these items would be constantly vanishing and reappearing, the dam broke.

  A rumble of laughter grew and would not stop. It swelled through a delicious confusion of French hens, calling birds, and golden rings, rattled the rafters as geese a-laying gave way to swans a-swimming.

  By the time the eight maids a-milking got onstage and Cora sang her solo line, everyone in the place was laughing so loud that no one could hear her. It didn’t really matter—everyone knew what she was singing—but her line was lost in the din.

  Cora grabbed up her milking stool and dashed offstage, ruefully counting the hours she had spent rehearsing the damn line.

  She was certain she had performed it perfectly.

  Cora barely had time to think that before the ladies dancing appeared and she had to rush back onstage again. She ran off, ran back on for the pipers piping, collided with an errant goose a-laying and was knocked flat. She scrambled to her feet just in time to avoid being trampled by the lords a-leaping.

  Harvey Beerbaum shot her a dirty look as he went by, listening in vain for his cue. He missed it by three notes, which almost synchronized with his jump, which he missed by four.

  It didn’t matter. The audience was on the floor, chortling and guffawing too hard to notice that the eight maids a-milking, whose cue had been pushed back three measures by Harvey’s unintentional retard, were hopelessly offbeat.

  Mr. Hodges at the piano ad-libbed valiantly, inventing musical segues the likes of which had never been attempted in the history of musical theater. Fortunately, no one heard them either, because the turtledoves had just tripped the French hens, and the calling birds were having trouble picking their way over them to get offstage.

  Becky Baldwin, in the midst of such chaos, began to look like a woman besieged. When the twelve drummers drumming descended on her, her eyes darted desperately in all directions, as if looking for somewhere to hide.

  Her acting was so good that Dan Finley stood up, thinking she’d been attacked. He sheepishly sat back down as the lords a-leaping shot back onstage, and he realized it was part of the play.

  Within seconds, every calling bird, French hen, and golden ring was in place, and Jimmy Potter, for the twelfth and last time, came stomping up to Becky Baldwin, as the entire chorus warbled, “ ‘And a partridge in a pear tree.’ ”

  The actors froze in tableau, all gesturing toward Jimmy Potter, now down on one knee, offering the partridge and pear tree to Becky Baldwin.

  Thunderous applause. The audience was on their feet, clapping, whistling, hollering, and yelling. A standing ovation.

  The actors bowed just as they’d rehearsed, then gave way to the students, who quickly filled the stage. As the last class filed in, Becky Baldwin slipped into the wings. She was back moments later, carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers. She gestured to the front row, where Rupert Winston sat, for once quiet and inconspicuous amid the din. She motioned to the director, inviting him up onstage. As the audience realized what she was doing, the applause, which had abated somewhat, swelled again, louder, if possible, than before. Now all the actors beckoned with their hands, Come on, come on, until the unexpectedly modest director had no choice but to join them. Rupert scampered up the front steps as he had so many times in rehearsal, accepted the flowers and the accolades of his actors, who were all now applauding. He bowed deeply to the audience, then invited the actors to bow with him. He turned, gestured to Mr. Hodges, still valiantly banging out the tune on the piano. Then joined hands with the actors and bowed again, acknowledging the audience’s deafeni
ng approval.

  For once Rupert Winston didn’t seem arrogant. He appeared, instead, deeply moved. Touched. Even humble.

  As he came up from the bow, he glanced over at the maids a-milking. Just for a second Cora could see the fear in his eyes. Then he was bowing and smiling again, basking in the applause.

  50

  CORA FELTON SLIPPED OUT OF BED AT THREE A.M. SHE dressed in the dark, then tiptoed down the hall so as not to wake her niece. In the foyer she pulled on her boots and her overcoat and hat, and stealthily let herself out the front door.

  The temperature had dropped, and a bitter wind was whipping the freshly fallen snow, leaving patterns on the lawn. Cora tugged her coat around her, hurried to the Toyota. The door was frozen shut—it didn’t want to open even after she had popped the lock. Cora put her weight into it and it gave with a low, cracking groan. She slid into the front seat, started the engine. It protested mightily, then caught with an earsplitting roar. Cora eased back on the gas, prayed she wouldn’t pop the fan belt. Which, her ex-husband Frank had been fond of telling her, would make the car overheat before she’d gone five miles. Cora had no time for that now. Nor had she time to warm up the engine, another of Frank’s many automotive precautions. Cora put the car in gear, pulled down the drive. She didn’t turn on the headlights till she reached the road.

  She drove quickly through town and out onto Culvert Drive, where she’d scouted Rupert Winston’s rental house the day before. It was a small two-story, white with green shutters, like most of the houses in town, and had a brick chimney, constructed, no doubt, with Santa Claus in mind.

  There was a light on in the living room. The rest of the house was dark. Cora tiptoed up the front steps and tried the door. Locked. She tried to peer in the living room window, but the shade was drawn.

  Cora went around the house. The moon was almost full. Her boots left footprints in the snow.

  The glass storm door on the side of the house swung open. The wooden door to the kitchen proved to be unlocked also. Cora went inside, found a welcome mat on the linoleum floor. She scraped off her boots, stepped in, and pulled the door closed.

  The kitchen, she noted, had fluorescent lights. She didn’t want to turn them on, but there was no need. Light from the living room spilled into the hallway. Cora followed the light, stepped through the door.

  The living room cried Actor. Bookcases were crammed with plays. A poster of Olivier as Hamlet dominated one wall. A framed certificate of nomination for some theatrical award or another—Cora could tell from the masks of comedy and tragedy in the upper right- and left-hand corners—was displayed over the mantelpiece. Next to it hung a framed theater program, no doubt from the show associated with the award.

  On the coffee table sat a half-full glass of water. Next to it sat a case of pills. A daily reminder case, with little compartments for each day of the week. Cora noted that the slot for last night’s pills was open, and the receptacle was empty.

  A faint scent of bitter almonds filled the air.

  Rupert Winston sat on his couch. His head lolled back at an impossible angle. His features were contorted. A streak of saliva dribbled down his chin.

  He was clearly dead.

  51

  DORRIE TAGGART LOOKED GORGEOUS. HER GOLDEN HAIR WAS tastefully arranged against the red satin lining of the casket. Her cheeks were rosy. Her lips were ruby red. She might have been Sleeping Beauty, waiting to be awakened by a kiss.

  The coffin lay before the altar. The Taggarts sat in the first pew, Horace Taggart stiff as a ramrod, Mindy Taggart weeping and clinging to his arm. Across the aisle from them, Pamela Doddsworth was attempting to console Maxine, who kept batting her hand away.

  Students filled the next few pews. Cora Felton noted the boyfriend Lance Ridgewood, the techie Alfred Adams, the young actress Laura, who had taken over the part of Nina in The Seagull, and the teenager playing Konstantine, whose name Cora did not know. All seemed properly awed by the occasion.

  Becky Baldwin sat with Rick Reed, who had not been allowed to film but was hoping to grab interviews after the service.

  Dan Finley sat behind them.

  Just in case.

  Also on hand were Chief Harper and his wife and daughter, Jimmy Potter and his mother, wannabe amateur detective Harvey Beerbaum, out-of-favor-since-arraigning-Sherry Judge Hobbs, dapper doctor Barney Nathan, prosecutor Henry Firth, art teacher Charlie Ferric, and Mr. Hodges the music teacher—Cora had never heard his first name.

  Cora and Aaron sat flanking Sherry, for moral support. Cora hoped Sherry wouldn’t need it.

  Jonathon Doddsworth rose from beside the casket, tears in his eyes. He walked to the pulpit, leaned on it, looked out over the congregation. His voice was husky. “I knew Dorrie. Knew her as a little girl. She used to play with my sweet daughter Max. So long ago. So very long ago.”

  He sighed heavily, stroked his muttonchops. “I’m not much good at speaking. Not much good at much. I’ll give it a go, for Dorrie’s sake.

  “I’ll do the best I can.”

  Doddsworth took a breath, seemed to organize his thoughts. “Rupert Winston died last night.”

  This announcement produced only minor rumbling from the congregation. Clearly, everyone had heard the news.

  “Apparently by his own hand,” Doddsworth continued. “Bit of a stunner. Could it be true? Or something else entirely?” He paused and looked out at the assemblage.

  “This all begins with puzzles. Jingly poems promise the death of an actress. Die, leading lady, die. Who are these obscene missives from, and to whom are they directed? They appear to be meant for Miss Baldwin. And they sound like the rhymes of a schoolgirl. Appearances can be deceiving. In this case, what is the truth?”

  Doddsworth hesitated, looked out over the congregation. His eyes met Cora Felton’s. He took in her niece, sitting next to her, then looked to Cora again.

  Her face was iron.

  Doddsworth took a breath, then blurted out: “In this case, the truth is exactly as it seems. The poems were written by Dorrie Taggart, and they were intended for Miss Becky Baldwin, attorney-at-law.”

  This announcement produced a loud reaction in the church. Mindy Taggart sat up straight, stared at him openmouthed. Doddsworth’s daughter, Maxine, twisted away from her mother and glared furiously at her father.

  Cora Felton leaned back in the pew and heaved a sigh. It was out of her hands. It was all up to Doddsworth now.

  Having taken the plunge, Doddsworth picked up the pace and pressed on rapidly. “I know, I know. You find that hard to fathom. I shall try to explain. Dorrie Taggart was quite mature, but she was in fact a girl. A young girl, in love with a young boy. I think it is safe to say the lad, by some casual remark or other, gave her the impression that he fancied Miss Baldwin.

  “Well, Dorrie’s jealous reaction to that was purely adolescent. She penned silly, threatening jingles, and sent them to her ‘rival.’ One she placed in the pear tree presented to Miss Baldwin. The other she pinned to her costume. And that might have been the end of it. Except for one thing.

  “Jesse Virdon.

  “The tech director.

  “Dorrie was the lead in the Bakerhaven High production of The Seagull. She had long rehearsals. They sometimes ran quite late. Dorrie would stay, even after the director left, working on her part.

  “While the tech director worked on his set.

  “Jesse Virdon was an unstable young man with a history of criminal activities, including offenses against women.”

  This information, having already been released by the police, was no surprise, either, but its use in this context was. There came a low rumble of voices from the congregation.

  Doddsworth rode over it. “We can assume Virdon made some advance which poor Dorrie rebuffed. And that he didn’t take her rejection well.”

  There were audible gasps and whispers.

  Doddsworth raised his voice. “We don’t know what caused Jesse Virdon to snap. Perhaps a lifetim
e of rebuffs. Perhaps insanity or rage. But snap he did. Jesse Virdon decided that Dorrie Taggart must die.”

  Mindy Taggart cried out, a choking sob. Horace Taggart hugged her close and gaped at Doddsworth in amazement. Pam and Maxine gawked at him too. Maxine’s mouth was open. Her metal braces gleamed.

  Doddsworth waited with patience until his audience was quiet enough for him to continue.

  “Lo and behold, an opportunity presents itself. Dorrie Taggart is portraying the Virgin Mary in the live Nativity. She swaps places with Becky Baldwin. In light of the poems threatening Miss Baldwin, if Dorrie were to die, it would appear the killer had mistaken one young woman for the other.

  “Jesse Virdon is portraying Joseph, but earlier in the morning, before Dorrie arrives. He will have no opportunity to kill her. But this is good. The actors on hand will be the likely suspects. Who would suspect someone who had already left?

  “Virdon must pretend to leave, but actually remain. But how? His costume must be returned to town hall. It must be hanging there for the next Joseph. Which it was. So how did he stay?

  “The Joseph costume is not elaborate. It’s basically a blanket, long hair, and a beard. He need merely find another. Bring it to town hall and put it on. He wears the other costume over his—after all, it’s quite cold. He goes to the manger, plays Joseph for an hour, until he is relieved by Alfred Adams. He returns to town hall, hangs the original costume on the hook where it should be.

  “He walks out of town hall in his own costume and returns to the crèche. The actors in the stable will not see him, as the path leads to the crèche from behind. The only danger is that someone in the square may notice Joseph arriving twice. But barring that, Jesse is quite safe. The figure of Joseph, walking along the actors’ path at approximately a quarter past the hour, is what everyone expects to see.

  “He reaches the crèche, wriggles underneath the platform it is mounted on.

  “Waits for Dorrie to arrive.

  “At eleven she does. Minutes later, Alfred Adams is relieved by Lance Ridgewood. Dorrie’s boyfriend. The youth whose advances Dorrie did not spurn. The perfect scapegoat. What could be better?