A Puzzle in a Pear Tree

by Parnell Hall

  “Jesse Virdon has brought a poison dart. When the coast is clear, he emerges from his hiding place, opens the door in the back of the crèche.

  “All of the actors are facing outward, away from him. Directly in front of him, Dorrie kneels on the floor of the stable, leaning against Joseph, her boyfriend, Lance. The Virgin Mary’s cowl is not hiding her face, as it was when she was found. Dorrie’s features are in plain sight.

  “As is the side of her neck.

  “Jesse Virdon raises the dart and gives it a toss. God knows he should have missed, even at that distance. For an unpracticed hand it could not have been an easy task. But foul luck is with him. The dart strikes Dorrie in the neck. She slumps against Joseph. The hood slips forward, hiding her face. Because she is leaning against Joseph, she doesn’t fall down. Jesse Virdon has murdered her, and no one in the tableau has noticed. Jesse Virdon eases the door closed. The deed is done.

  “Before leaving the crèche, Jesse searches Dorrie’s coat, which is hanging just behind the door. He finds the third puzzle poem. He has no idea how to solve it. He figures it will be like the others. This is perfect for his plan.

  “He’s already secreted a blowpipe in the organ loft of the church, to baffle the authorities. He sneaks back into the church and affixes the puzzle to the blowgun. Then he returns to town hall, strips off his costume, shoves it in his backpack, and pulls on his clothes. He hops in his auto, motors to the high school, and resumes painting the set. No one has missed him. He has committed the perfect crime.”

  Doddsworth allowed himself a brief, self-deprecating smile. “Hard cheese for Jesse Virdon. I am on the scene. Horace Taggart brings me in to investigate. And, because of the acrostic poems, the Puzzle Lady becomes involved. As a result, Jesse Virdon has Chief Harper, Miss Felton, and me all nipping at his heels. A most uncomfortable position to be in. How best to throw us off the scent?”

  The inspector shrugged. “What could be easier? The poems appear to target Becky Baldwin. Dorrie was substituting for Miss Baldwin. Indeed, the Virgin Mary who relieved Dorrie believed she was Becky Baldwin. All Jesse Virdon need do is underline the notion that the killer made a dreadful mistake and murdered the wrong young lass.

  “Not a problem for the young technical director. Jesse finds a sandbag in the grid that’s not in use, unties it from the pinrail, and ties it off near his stage manager position. Then, when Miss Baldwin is warbling her notes, he drops the bag onstage. He doesn’t care where it falls. He isn’t trying to cosh her, he’s merely trying to create the illusion an attempt has been made. To further the illusion, he attaches a note to Miss Baldwin’s costume, proclaiming, Wrong girl.

  “But this note is telling. While Virdon is able to procure a red envelope, he lacks the skill to fashion a puzzle poem. Nonetheless, the police—and, alas, I—take this ‘evidence’ at face value, and, on the strength of Miss Carter’s alleged rivalry with Miss Baldwin, we arrest Miss Carter for the crime.

  “Smooth sailing for Jesse Virdon. He has everybody fooled.

  “With one exception.

  “Rupert Winston was no dolt. He was an artist—sensitive, intuitive, keenly perceptive. He had noticed Mr. Virdon’s infatuation with Miss Taggart. He had cause to observe Jesse Virdon after Dorrie’s death.

  “Rupert Winston did not like what he saw.

  “Jesse Virdon appeared to fancy many of the girls in the play. In particular, the actress whom Rupert Winston had tapped as poor Dorrie’s successor in the starring role of Nina. If his suspicions were true, that girl would not be safe.

  “On the night in question, after everyone else had left the theater, Rupert Winston confronted Jesse Virdon and accused him of the crime.”

  Doddsworth grimaced. “Not a prudent move. Cornered, Jesse Virdon attacks. Seriously outmatched, and in fear for his life, Rupert Winston snatches up a length of wood and lays him out. Jesse Virdon drops to the stage floor, dead.

  “Rupert Winston panics. It is just days before the Christmas pageant. The loss of a few rehearsals could be vital. If he tells his tale to the authorities, even if they believe he acted in self-defense, they will never leave him time to rehearse.

  “What can he do?

  “He ties a rope around Jesse Virdon’s neck and hoists him up into the grid. The idea is to make it look as if the young man hanged himself in a fit of remorse. It is a poor idea, not very well thought out—the wound on Virdon’s head will instantly contradict it—but by now Rupert Winston is desperate. He closes up the gymnasium, goes home, and waits to be awakened with the news of Virdon’s death.

  “So who, you may ask, killed Rupert Winston?”

  Doddsworth shook his head. “Irony of ironies, it was Jesse Virdon.”

  That announcement produced an uproar entirely out of place in a church. The Reverend Kimble strode out in front of the pulpit and held up his arms for quiet. Even so, it was some time before Doddsworth was able to resume.

  “Yes,” he told the congregation. “You heard me right. Rupert Winston’s killer was Jesse Virdon. From the tenor of Mr. Winston’s questions earlier in the day, Virdon realized the director had his measure.

  “Jesse Virdon had access to poison—soon we shall learn from where. He had the curare that killed Dorrie Taggart, and also the cyanide that would kill Rupert Winston.

  “Mr. Winston took a variety of medications. He had one of those weekly pillboxes with a compartment for each day. He carried it in his briefcase. Had it with him during each rehearsal. While Jesse Virdon was working on the set.

  “What could be better? The daily pillbox told Jesse Virdon exactly what pills Rupert Winston would be taking, and when. Jesse Virdon had only to remove one and replace it with a similar-looking capsule containing cyanide. Rupert Winston, gulping down four or five pills at a time, would scarcely be likely to detect the substitution. Even less so, if he was slightly tipsy. So Jesse Virdon cleverly chose the night of the Christmas pageant. Rupert Winston was sure to be celebrating, and would never notice.

  “He didn’t.

  “And he died.

  “Ironically, by then Jesse Virdon was also dead.”

  Doddsworth motioned to the casket. “And so we must now lay Dorrie Taggart to rest. I regret that I cannot bring her killer to justice. Someone else has done that for me. But at least it is done: Jesse Virdon has died for his crime. May Dorrie now rest in peace.”

  With a tear trickling down his cheek, Jonathon Doddsworth said, “I am sorry, Horace. I am truly sorry.”

  Horace Taggart rose from his seat by the casket. His face was wet with tears. He went up to the Scotland Yard inspector, and the two men embraced.

  Mindy Taggart hovered, watching her husband and her former lover. She made no attempt to join in. But beneath the sadness, her face registered enormous relief. She waited there to hug her husband when he was done.

  As Horace Taggart turned back to embrace his wife, Maxine Doddsworth hurled herself, sobbing, into her father’s arms. He held her close, patted her head. She snuggled on his shoulder, then turned, reached out an arm to her mother.

  Pamela Doddsworth choked back a sob. She rose slowly from her seat, her mouth open, her eyes wide, a mass of conflicting emotions. Tears streaming, she stretched out her arms to her daughter.

  Maxine grabbed her mother, hugged her.

  Doddsworth drew mother and daughter in, held them close.

  And as they embraced, Mindy Taggart pulled her husband away, away to the casket, away to Dorrie, their Dorrie, where they belonged.

  Leaving the Doddsworths alone, hugging each other, in front of the whole town.

  In the back of the church Cora Felton smiled a sad, wry smile.

  Aaron Grant leaned across Sherry to whisper, “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

  “Yes,” Cora agreed. She lowered her voice confidentially.

  “And it was all a pack of lies.”

  52

  “WHAT ARE WE DOING IN THE STABLE?” AARON GRANT asked.

  Aaron,
Sherry, and Cora were sitting in straw. Across the green from the stable, Rick Reed was conducting interviews with the people streaming out of the church. At the moment he was filming Jonathon Doddsworth, who stood on the church steps with his arms around his ex-wife and daughter.

  “It seemed appropriate,” Cora said. “And we can grab a few moments alone.”

  “Great. We’re alone. I’m going nuts here. What was that about a pack of lies?”

  “This is not for publication.”

  Aaron threw up his hands. “Everything you give me these days isn’t for publication. Some journalist I am.”

  “It’s not for Becky, either,” Sherry said. “Just for you.”

  “You held out on your own attorney?”

  “The case is over,” Cora said. “Becky’s not Sherry’s lawyer anymore.”

  “Yeah, yeah, fine, so I won’t tell Becky,” Aaron said impatiently. “Come on, what’s the scoop? You said Doddsworth’s denouement wasn’t true.”

  “Oh, no,” Cora said. “I don’t mean the whole thing wasn’t true. Just a few small details.”

  “Such as?”

  “Jesse Virdon didn’t have the hots for the actresses. Jesse Virdon didn’t poison Rupert Winston. Jesse Virdon didn’t murder Dorrie Taggart. Jesse Virdon didn’t drop a sandbag on Becky Baldwin.”

  “ ‘A few small details’? ” Aaron said incredulously.

  “Well, he couldn’t get everything right,” Cora said complacently. “The important thing was closure, bringing the Taggarts some peace.”

  “By lying, concealing facts, and letting a murderer go free?”

  “No one went free, Aaron. Like I say, it’s only the details that were wrong.”

  “And just exactly what was right?”

  “Actually, not much. Wanna know what really happened?”

  “You mean the part I can’t print?”

  Sherry snuggled up against him. “Trust me, Aaron, you won’t want to.”

  “Hey! Are you trying to influence a member of the press?”

  Cora shook her head. “Look, Aaron, you’re basically a nice guy. Here’s what really happened. On the day of Dorrie’s murder, Alfred Adams was in the gym doing tech. He got caught up in what he was doing and lost track of time. Rupert pointed out that he was late and drove him into town. Alfred changed into his Joseph costume, went out and took his place in the crèche. An hour later he was relieved, went back to the gym, and resumed hanging lights.

  “The Joseph who relieved him was Rupert Winston, disguised in a beard and cloak.”

  “Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” Aaron protested. “Rupert Winston didn’t relieve Alfred. Lance Ridgewood did.”

  “That’s what everyone assumed. They were so positive that no one ever questioned it.”

  “No one ever questioned it because it’s true. Lance Ridgewood says he did. Or are you claiming he was in on this?”

  “Not at all. Lance Ridgewood is telling the simple truth as he knows it. So is Alfred Adams.”

  “Then where does Rupert Winston come in?”

  “Between the two. Rupert relieves Alfred and plays Joseph until he is relieved by Lance. Fifteen minutes before that happens, Maxine Doddsworth is relieved by Dorrie Taggart. Rupert Winston waits until the very last moment. Just before Lance arrives, Rupert Winston injects a hypodermic of curare into Dorrie’s neck. He drops the poison dart in her clothing, to make it seem that was the weapon. But in point of fact, the amount of curare she could have received from such a dart probably would not have been enough to kill. But that’s not a problem with a hypodermic. Rupert easily injects a lethal dose.

  “Dorrie slumps against him, dead. He holds her up until Lance arrives. Rupert props her up against Lance and slips out without Lance realizing anything is wrong.

  “Rupert’s already hidden the poem and the blowgun in the church. He takes off his costume, leaves it hanging in the town hall. He returns to the gym, and promptly proceeds to get on Alfred Adams’s case about the lights.”

  “Wait a minute. Time out. There’s the flaw in your whole theory. Alfred Adams played Joseph. Alfred Adams went back to the theater then.”

  “Oh, but he didn’t.” Cora smiled. “And it’s interesting that you say time out. Because that’s exactly what happened.”

  Aaron frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “When questioned about that morning, Alfred gets confused about time. ‘Time,’ he says, ‘absolutely flew.’ Well, it certainly did. Rupert planned it that way. All he had to do was assign Alfred something messy where the boy had to remove his watch. Cleaning paintbrushes, for instance. Rupert took his watch and set it an hour ahead. Then he got Alfred engrossed in some project so the boy wouldn’t notice the time. At the right moment, Rupert calls Alfred’s attention to the fact that he’s late. Alfred is amazed the time passed so quickly, but he looks at his watch and sees that it’s true. Rupert whisks him outside and drives him to town hall. Alfred Adams goes in, changes into his Joseph costume. As far as he’s concerned, it’s ten-fifteen. It’s actually nine-fifteen. At ten-fifteen, Rupert Winston relieves Alfred at the crèche and takes his shift. Alfred returns to the high school and resumes working tech.

  “When Rupert is finished, at eleven-fifteen, he returns to the high school and uses some other subterfuge to reset Alfred’s watch. Alfred may be somewhat disoriented, and slightly confused as to the time, but he’ll be willing to swear he played Joseph in this crèche from ten to eleven.”

  “I don’t understand,” Aaron said. “Wasn’t someone scheduled to play Joseph from nine to ten?”

  “Sure. Jesse Virdon.”

  Aaron’s mouth fell open. “Oh, for goodness’ sakes.”

  Cora nodded. “Yes. That’s why Jesse Virdon was killed. Not for trying to drop a sandbag on Becky or havin’ the hots for high school girls. No, Jesse was killed for something he didn’t do. Which was play Joseph from nine to ten. Because Rupert called him the night before and told him he’d been rescheduled. To make room for Alfred Adams.

  “Ordinarily, that wouldn’t have been a problem. The nine-to-ten time slot had nothing to do with Dorrie’s murder, was totally irrelevant, who could possibly care?”

  Cora shrugged. “Who else but plodding Inspector Doddsworth, an inexorable force painstakingly sifting every tiny clue. He shows up at rehearsal, demands a copy of the crèche schedule. Rupert has to give him one. On that schedule, from nine-fifteen to ten-fifteen, is the name Jesse Virdon. Jonathon Doddsworth will question Jesse Virdon about playing Joseph, and Virdon will say he wasn’t there.”

  “So Jesse Virdon has to go,” Aaron concluded grimly.

  “Bingo. That’s the only part of Doddsworth’s fairy tale that was true. Rupert did kill Jesse. Though not at all for the reason Doddsworth gave.”

  “So who wrote the puzzle poems?”

  “Which puzzle poems? The first two Rupert Winston wrote. With Dorrie’s help. Rupert told her it was a game. An elaborate practical joke on Maxine. The idea was to send a bunch of letters and make it look like Maxine, then watch her try to deny it. So when Rupert told her to, Dorrie hid the red envelopes in Maxine’s room. She even installed the acrostic program on Maxine’s computer.

  “She also planted the first two puzzle poems. The first one she snuck up the back stairs and substituted for the partridge while the actors were all out in the gym. The second she pinned to Becky’s costume when no one was in the girls’ dressing room.

  “The third letter was Dorrie’s idea, though Rupert Winston isn’t thrilled—the eating-for-two bit isn’t really appropriate—not if the victim’s supposed to be Becky Baldwin. But Dorrie thinks it’s hysterically funny. Of course, she has no idea it matters. And, she doesn’t know she’s pregnant. So she thinks it’s a gas.

  “But that’s just the first three letters. Wrong girl was the work of Johnny Doddsworth, trying to implicate Sherry and clear his daughter. He’s found the envelopes in Maxine’s room and he’s going nuts. He uses a red envelope to send the
letter.

  “The last poem was back-at-you-in-spades. That’s the puzzle I wrote. Or rather, Sherry and I wrote. I wrote the poem, she wrote the puzzle. Anyway, we did it.

  “By this time, Rupert Winston has to be freaking out. I mean, first he tries to drop a sandbag on Becky to point out the fact she was the real target, and immediately Doddsworth finds the clue Wrong girl. Where the hell did that come from? It’s helpful, but it’s not his. Things are spinning out of control.

  “And then the last puzzle poem arrives. I was watching Rupert’s face when it appeared in the pear tree. And he was astounded. How can this be happening? He must have felt like his world was coming apart.”

  “So, who killed Rupert Winston?”

  “He killed himself. See, he stocked up on poison when he was planning to kill Dorrie. He stole curare from a hospital in New York. He used a fake letterhead to order cyanide from a laboratory in California. He had it shipped overnight UPS to an electroplating company in the South Bronx, hung out in front, and signed for it when the truck arrived. He’d used the curare, but he still had the cyanide. He simply put some in his tea.”

  “Why? Why would he kill himself?”

  “I went to him, told him I’d figured it out. Cracked the case. Told him I’d take everything I knew to Harper unless he’d cooperate.”

  “Cooperate how?”

  “Surrender to the police. Turn himself in for the crimes.”

  “Confess?”

  Cora shook her head. “No. Just the opposite. Stand mute, and make no attempt to prove his innocence.”

  “Why in the world would he do that?”

  “We made a deal. He agreed to it in return for something he wanted.”

  “What was that?”

  “His play. The Twelve Days of Christmas. I promised to put off going to the police until after the Christmas pageant. He really wanted to see it performed.”

  “And then he killed himself?”

  “He knew the cyanide was quick and easy. Far better than being arrested, tried for murder, and executed, or jailed for life. Far better than living in shame.”