by Parnell Hall
“Well, I couldn’t part with it. It has sentimental value.” Cora dug into the closet, came out with a low-cut, silk leopard-skin-print sheath. “Ah, here we are. Perfect.”
“Aunt Cora.”
“Just kidding,” Cora said. She patted Sherry on the shoulder. “You’re really way too tense.”
“Now stop right there.” Sherry’s voice had an edge to it. “I’m sorry, but that’s the type of thing Dennis would say.”
“I stand corrected. Sherry, pick out a dress. Let’s go to the town meeting.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Sherry rubbed her forehead, put up her hand. “Aunt Cora, look. I know we didn’t come here to get away from Dennis.”
“Right,” Cora said. “But it’s a bonus, and you’d hate to blow it.”
“Yeah, but it’s more than that.” Sherry frowned, held up her hands, working it out. “No, I didn’t come here to get away from him. I know it, and you know it. But Dennis doesn’t know it. And if he finds me, he’ll think I did. Wanna bet how he’ll feel about that?”
“Point well taken.” Cora smiled. “Sherry, sweetheart. You have my word. I’m not about to do something stupid.” She hung the silk dress back in the closet, pulled out a conservative gray and black print, regarded it approvingly. She smiled again, patted Sherry on the cheek. “Relax. I promise you, no one will know I was there.”
9
The Bakerhaven town hall was a large, two-story, white, wood-framed building at the end of Main Street, just north of the village green, and sandwiched in between the county courthouse and the Congregational church. By the time Cora Felton got there, the parking lots of all three were full. She cruised around the green, but cars were parked solid on all four sides. Cora finally wound up parking in the driveway of the church. She was partially blocking a blue sedan, but there was nowhere else, the meeting was about to start, and she figured she’d be leaving first. Cora cut across the green, and joined the few stragglers going up the front steps.
The town hall was packed. The meeting room had a capacity of two hundred and fifty people, but there were probably closer to three hundred there, enough so that many had spilled out into the lobby. Cora Felton pushed her way in, looked around.
From all appearances, the Bakerhaven town hall had not changed in fifty years. On one wall was a list of all registered voters from 1928. On another was an oil portrait of one of the town’s founding fathers. The painting bore no plaque, however, and Cora had a feeling even the selectmen would have been hard-pressed to say who he was.
Cora Felton elbowed her way into the meeting room, recognizing an occasional face to which she usually could not provide a name: the woman who ran the bake shop—presumably Mrs. Cushman, since it was Cushman’s Bake Shop, though she did not know for sure; the librarian and her son, whose names she also did not know; a man she knew to be a policeman, though he was not in uniform now; an older man who was in uniform, though she might not have recognized him without it; and a number of women she’d seen in the bake shop, though she had no idea who they were or what they did.
Off to the side she spotted Chief Harper standing with a plumpish middle-aged woman and a teenage girl, obviously his wife and daughter. As she watched, the woman buttoned a button on his shirt. He was in uniform. His hair was slicked down. He looked decidedly uncomfortable.
Iris Cooper stood at a lectern in the front of the room. A tiny woman, impeccably dressed in a blue linen pant-suit, the first selectman took her job very seriously. She had, in Cora Felton’s opinion, a snippy, dictatorial manner, although Cora was sure Iris merely considered herself efficient.
Iris was standing next to a little man with a thin mustache. Cora didn’t know him, but he reminded her of a weasel. She could imagine him poking his nose in, insinuating, finding fault. As she watched he leaned into the microphone and said, “Could we have it quiet, please?”
He most certainly could. It wasn’t as if there was a dead hush at the sound of his voice, still, all conversation rapidly petered out. Iris Cooper was able to take over and say, “Thank you very much. You’re all aware of why we called this meeting. Because of the murder of a young girl. Everyone is of course shocked, there have been rumors flying around all day. We want to give the people of Bakerhaven the facts, because, distressing as the facts are, they are not nearly as upsetting as all of this unfounded speculation. We want to let people know what happened, and just what we’re going to do about it. I’m going to ask our prosecutor, Henry Firth, to say a few words.”
“Thank you, Iris,” the weasely-looking man said. He managed to elbow her away from the lectern without appearing to do so. He leaned on it, spoke into the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, and his nasal voice reverberated from the speakers. “This is a truly shocking crime. I have been fielding questions all day as to just what we are going to do about it. There has been a lot of speculation, and what everyone wants to know is, will the case be tried here, or will we seek a change of venue and move it to another court? Well, I can assure you, when the killer is caught, we will try the case right here in the county courthouse, and I will personally prosecute him or her to the fullest extent of the law.”
This was met by a murmur of approval, both from the townspeople at large, and the selectmen.
“Now then,” Firth went on. “With regard to the facts of the case and what’s being done about it, I am going to turn the floor over to Chief Harper, so he can bring you up to date.”
Chief Harper walked to the front of the room, smiled grimly at Henry Firth, then stepped up to the microphone. He ran his finger under his collar, cleared his throat.
“This is all we know. A young girl was found early this morning in the cemetery lying next to one of the graves. We are treating it as a potential homicide. The girl has not been identified and does not appear to be local. We put her picture on TV, so far no one’s come forward.”
Henry Firth weaseled his way to the microphone. “Let me ask you, Chief: How was this girl killed?”
“We don’t know for certain. We’re waiting on the autopsy report.”
“Uh huh. And when was she killed?”
“Apparently some time last night.”
“Apparently?”
“So it would appear. Again, I don’t have the report.”
“Uh huh,” Henry Firth said. “So you can’t tell when this young woman was killed or how she was killed?”
“Not at the present time.”
“And do you have any leads?”
“We’re asking anyone with any information to come forward.”
“I’ll take that as a no. Is there anything else you can tell us?”
“Yes. There’s every reason to believe this is an isolated incident, and there’s no reason to be alarmed.”
“Really?” Henry Firth said. “I wish I shared your confidence.” His narrow face brightened. “Ah, I see Barney Nathan has just joined us. Dr. Nathan, would you mind stepping up here a moment?”
Barney Nathan was suave and dapper in his red bow tie, just as if he hadn’t been cutting up a young girl all day. He pushed his way through the crowd, joining the others at the lectern.
“Dr. Nathan,” Henry Firth said, leaning into the mike. “Perhaps you could shed some light on this terrible tragedy. Thus far the police have not even been able to label it a homicide.”
“Well, it certainly is,” Dr. Nathan said. “The girl was killed by a blow to the back of the head which crushed her skull.”
This was greeted by gasps and the rumble of voices.
“Is that so?” Henry Firth said. He smiled. “You’ll forgive me, but I am a prosecutor. If I could play devil’s advocate here, Doctor, how can you tell she didn’t just fall and hit her head?”
Dr. Nathan was definite. “Couldn’t have happened. She was killed by a single blow to the back of the head, delivered with considerable force. She was struck with a blunt object, small, hard, and round.”
“Like a pipe?”
“Like the end of a pipe. Or the head of a hammer.”
“Interesting.” Henry Firth put on his most solemn, pious face. “Forgive me, doctor, but had the young woman been raped?”
Dr. Nathan shook his head. “She had not. I can assure you there was no evidence that this was a sex crime.”
“I see.” Henry Firth nodded gravely. “And what can you tell us about the time of death?”
Dr. Nathan smiled. “If you watch a lot of TV, you get the impression doctors can pinpoint the time of death down to a minute. That simply isn’t so. I can tell you for certain she died last night between eight o’clock and midnight. Most likely around ten, but that’s only most likely. She could have died anywhere within that time span.”
“Well,” Henry Firth said. “Thank you for clearing that up for us.”
Henry Firth’s smile was a smirk. Chief Harper frowned, shuffled his feet. His face was red.
Cora Felton shook her head. As far as she was concerned, that tableau told the whole story. She could imagine the doctor stalling his autopsy, failing to report his findings to the police, being unavailable on the phone, and then arriving at just the right moment to undercut the chief in front of the selectmen. The public humiliation of Chief Harper was so obvious it reeked to high heaven. She wondered if the townspeople took it at face value. Decided they probably did. In Cora Felton’s opinion the town meeting was a washout. Time to play some bridge.
Cora scanned the room for players, saw none. She was just about to give up when she spotted Vicki Tanner standing in the back near the exit. The youngest member of their bridge group, Vicki had straight straw hair and a little ski-jump nose. She was dressed, as usual, in a simple cotton dress and wore no makeup. While she looked perfectly presentable, she was, in Cora’s estimation, one of those women it would not take much to look quite striking.
Cora Felton began edging her way toward her. The town meeting was winding down. After the doctor’s revelation, no one had much to say, at least nothing of importance. It occurred to Cora if she could line up Vicki Tanner, the two of them could buttonhole Iris Cooper when the meeting broke up, and then they would only need a fourth.
As Cora Felton approached Vicki Tanner, she noticed the man standing next to her. He was a handsome man, slim, with boyish good looks. He wore a blue, double-breasted three-piece pinstripe suit, which was probably intended to make him look older, but in her opinion made him look young.
Cora Felton’s hopes sank. Vicki Tanner had mentioned her husband was a lawyer from New York. This was undoubtedly him, stopping in on his way home from work. The chances of getting a bridge game off the ground were rapidly fading.
Still, she gave it a shot.
“Hi, Vicki,” she said. “Any chance of getting out of here and playing some bridge?”
Vicki turned, saw her, blushed, appeared flustered. Not that she had any reason to be. Vicki was shy, and often appeared flustered. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, you startled me.” She turned to her husband. “Honey, this is the woman I play bridge with.”
Cora Felton smiled. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Cora Felton. You must be the young lover Vicki’s so afraid her husband will find out about.”
Vicki blushed a deeper red, but her husband just smiled and said, “You’re a very naughty woman, Miss Felton. But I’m pleased to meet you nonetheless. I’m Stuart Tanner. I’m Vicki’s husband, as I’m sure you’ve guessed.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Cora Felton said, but she wasn’t. Stuart Tanner’s presence meant his wife was going home. Vicki stammered all over the place apologizing, but assured Cora Felton she had no intention of playing bridge that night.
Cora gave it up as a lost cause. The town meeting was giving her a headache. Bridge was not happening. Nothing new was being discussed. Tomorrow was soon enough to start snooping. Right now she needed a drink.
Cora Felton vacillated a second, wondering if she stayed if there was anything of importance she might learn. The fact Vicki Tanner had been standing so near the exit tipped the scale. It was so easy just to slip out. Cora took one last look around, then went out the door.
On the other side of the room, the officer in uniform, Sam Brogan, pushed his way through the crowd and nudged Aaron Grant. “That’s her,” he said.
The young reporter craned his neck. “Who?”
“The Puzzle Lady. The one I told you about.”
“Oh? She’s here?”
“Just went out.”
“You mean she left?”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just saw her.”
“When’d she leave?”
“Just now.”
Aaron Grant pushed his way to the door. He got outside in time to see a car pull out of the parking lot of the Congregational church. He considered following, but he couldn’t even be sure it was her. Aaron went back inside, made his way over to Sam Brogan.
“Catch her?” Sam asked.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Too bad.”
“Yeah,” Aaron said. He took out his notebook. “Tell me again about this puzzle clue?”
10
Tuesday morning was sunny and bright. The grass was still wet from the rain and dew, but the pavement was dry as Sherry Carter padded down the driveway in her bedroom slippers. One of the bonuses of living in the country was not having to get dressed to get the morning paper, and Sherry was still in her pajamas. She yawned, stretched, and noted with satisfaction that the red Toyota was not parked across the driveway. Sherry hadn’t heard Cora come in, but apparently her aunt had been sober enough to put the car in the garage. Thank goodness for small favors.
As Sherry pulled the Bakerhaven Gazette out of the green metal delivery box, a milk truck went by. The driver smiled and waved, and Sherry waved back. A city girl, she’d forgotten about milk trucks, was surprised to discover they still existed. It occurred to her she could get her milk delivered. She wondered if she ever would.
Sherry smiled to herself as she unrolled the paper, flipped it open to the front page.
The headline was GIRL MURDERED!!! Underneath the headline was a picture of the dead girl, the same picture that had been on television. The same one the police had been showing people yesterday. To absolutely no avail, apparently.
Sherry walked slowly back up the driveway reading the account of the case. She flipped the paper over to read the bottom half of the front page, and stopped dead.
Smiling up at her was the face of Cora Felton. The headline over the picture read CROSSWORD CLUE???
One of the more bizarre aspects of the Bakerhaven murder is a clue found on the body of the victim. The clue, 4) D – LINE (5), is believed to be a clue from a crossword puzzle. For this reason, the police have consulted Miss Cora Felton, better known as the Puzzle Lady, for help in interpreting the clue. According to police sources, Miss Felton, who resides in Bakerhaven, has already been of help. She believes that 4) D stands for four down, like the number of a clue in a crossword puzzle. The clue itself would be line, and the (5) would indicate that the solution had five letters. Miss Felton has already come up with several possible solutions, the most likely of which is queue, a five-letter word for line in common British usage. However, it is way too early to speculate on what this might mean.
Sherry Carter looked up from the paper, blinking hard. She was having paranoid flashes of Dennis seeing the picture, Dennis reading the article, Dennis tracing the address.
Dennis coming to get her.
Sherry took deep breaths, calming herself. Told herself, no, it’s nothing. It’s a local paper. No one sees it but the people in Bakerhaven. Dennis had never heard of Bakerhaven. And no one in Bakerhaven had ever heard of Dennis. It’s not a case of cause and effect. It’s not a case of anything. It’s unfortunate, but that’s all. Nothing to panic about.
Sherry looked at the paper again. The article was by someone named Aaron Grant. Sherry wasn’t sure, but she thought it wa
s the name of the man who’d called for Cora Felton last night. Sherry could check it, she’d left her aunt a message. Not that it made much difference now.
Sherry shook her head. Why did Cora have to go to that town meeting? And why did she have to open her mouth? If Dennis got wind of this—
No. Sherry stopped herself. It’s local, it’s nothing, and Dennis doesn’t know.
The phone rang.
Sherry froze in the driveway, stifled another panic attack. Told herself it wasn’t Dennis. It was most likely the nursery school calling her to teach.
Which was just what she needed. Sherry hurried up the driveway, went inside, answered the kitchen phone.
“Cora Felton, please. It’s Chief Harper.”
Sherry didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed. Which struck her funny. She smiled, in spite of herself.
“Oh, hi, Chief. This is Sherry Carter. Did you see the paper?”
“That’s why I’m calling. Is your aunt there?”
“She’s sleeping.”
“Better wake her up. There may be repercussions and I’d like her prepared.”
“This is awful. I didn’t think she’d talk to the press.”
“She may not have.”
“Oh?”
“It might have been one of my men. That’s not the point. The point is, what we do now.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s news crews in town. If they pick up on this—”
“You think they will?”
“They might. If they do, it’s important what she says. Go wake her up.”
Sherry draped the phone over the back of a kitchen chair, hurried down the hall.
Her mind was reeling. News crews. Her worst nightmare. Maybe they were just local, but this was a murder, and Cora Felton was a celebrity, and if the New York stations should pick up on it … Sherry didn’t even want to think about that. She had to wake up her aunt. Wake her up, sober her up, pound some sense into her head.
Cora Felton’s room was dark. Sherry fumbled on the wall, found the light switch, flicked it on, and stood blinking at the bed.