A Clue for the Puzzle Lady

by Parnell Hall

  The children squealed in protest. Sherry couldn’t draw, but that didn’t matter. The rough caricatures she did of the kids delighted them.

  “What shall we start with?” Sherry said, tactfully deferring to the regular teacher she was partnered with. Fortunately, Mrs. Rhodes, with twenty years’ experience, didn’t seem jealous of Sherry’s popularity with the kids. “Drawing sounds good,” she said. “Why don’t you start with that, and I’ll catch up on my paperwork.”

  “Okay, let’s start with drawing,” Sherry told them, and the kids squealed again, and ran to set up the easel.

  Sherry taught in a private nursery school in what had once been a private house. There were three classes divided by age—the twos, the threes, and the four/fives. Sherry was teaching the threes today. It was only the second time she’d taught them. The other time she’d substituted had been for the twos. Even so, she knew all twelve students by name, and even recalled their birthdays, which she’d asked them the first time she’d taught. This phenomenal feat did not impress her students as much as one might have thought. While it pleased them, being three years old, they accepted Sherry knowing their birthdays as a matter of course.

  “Marcy Granover,” Sherry said, pointing to a young girl with freckles, pigtails, and an enormous smile. “Who will be four years old on September twenty-fourth. Let’s draw your picture.”

  Marcy Granover giggled and the class clapped and cheered.

  Sherry marched to the easel, picked up the Magic Marker, and quickly sketched a girl with a small head and enormously out-of-proportion braids. She added a sprinkling of freckles, ears, eyes, and a mouth.

  “There,” she said. “All done.”

  “No! No! No!” the children screamed in protest.

  Sherry appeared amazed. “No?”

  “No!” they screamed again.

  “Really?” Sherry said. “What did I forget?”

  “The nose!” the children screamed.

  Sherry turned to the picture, did a double take. “Oh, my goodness. I forgot the nose. Marcy, please. Would you help me out? Come up here and draw the nose.”

  Marcy jumped up, grabbed the Magic Marker, and added a long, pointed beak.

  The children squealed in delight.

  Sherry drew pictures of the whole class, always forgetting some feature the child would have to add. The children never tired of the game. Each time Sherry made her Ta-da! gesture and said, “All done,” they all screamed, “No!” and told her what it was that she’d forgotten.

  After drawing, Sherry did the numbers game. The game was simple. Sherry would arrange blocks on the floor, and the children would tell her whether it was odd or even. Sherry was pleased to find the children remembered the game from the first time she’d taught it.

  “Odd or even?” Sherry asked, laying out five blocks in a pattern.

  “Odd!” the children cried.

  “Who wants to tell me why?”

  At least half of them raised their hands.

  “How about the boy who was born on July eighth? That would be … you, Matt Wilson. Why is the number five odd?”

  Matt Wilson was a chubby boy with a very serious face. He bent down, pushed two of the blocks together, pushed two more together, then stood up and pointed to the remaining block. “Hasn’t got a friend.”

  “That’s right,” Sherry said.

  The children clapped and cheered.

  Matt Wilson beamed.

  “Do another. Do another.”

  After the numbers game, the children had juice and cookies. They sat at little tables, happily munching, while Sherry and Mrs. Rhodes went around helping them pour the pitchers of juice. When they’d all been served, Mrs. Rhodes went back to her paperwork, but Sherry stood and watched them eat, a misty look in her eye.

  It was times like this when Sherry wished she’d gotten her teacher’s certificate, so she’d have been eligible to teach full time in the public school. She loved teaching, but as a substitute the opportunities were few and far between. She’d been thrilled this morning when she’d gotten the call, enough that she’d felt a momentary pang of guilt. It was tough having to root for someone to be sick.

  “Sherry,” Mrs. Rhodes called.

  Lost in thought, it took her a moment to respond to her name. “Yes.”

  “You have a visitor.”

  Sherry looked.

  Cora Felton stood in the doorway.

  Sherry’s eyes widened in surprise. Cora’d never come to the nursery school. Sherry hurried to the door. “Aunt Cora. What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

  Cora shot a glance at Mrs. Rhodes, who was within earshot. “Can we go outside?”

  “Not really. Why?”

  “Please. I need your help.”

  “Why? What is it?”

  Cora Felton looked at Sherry Carter in exasperation. She pulled her close, cupped her hand, and whispered in her ear, “We got another clue.”

  17

  Chief Harper had his hands full. He had a police officer from Muncie, Indiana, on hold, he had news crews camped out on his doorstep, and he had an exasperated prosecutor at his desk.

  “It’s not enough,” Henry Firth whined. “You’re not doing enough.”

  “Just what more would you like me to be doing?”

  “Are you kidding? I want you to find the killer. I’m the prosecutor. The people of Bakerhaven expect me to prosecute. But I can’t prosecute this madman until you catch him.”

  “Surely the people understand that.”

  “Yes, but they don’t care. They want something done.”

  “Fortunately, we are somewhat more reasonable,” Chief Harper said dryly. “If you’ll excuse me a minute.” He pressed the button on his phone. “Officer Crocket? I’m sorry, you were saying …?”

  “We still haven’t traced how she left town,” the Muncie officer said. “Most likely on a bus, but Saturday night or Sunday morning, we have no idea. The last her parents saw her was Saturday afternoon. She didn’t come home Saturday night, but they figured she was at her boyfriend’s. She wasn’t—at least according to him—but they didn’t know that. That’s where they thought she was. She wasn’t allowed, by the way, but sometimes did.

  “Anyway, according to him—Timothy Rice, the boyfriend—she came by that afternoon but didn’t stay. According to him she was real upset over her grades. Her parents had been giving her a hard time about them. Her parents confirm that—not that they were giving her a hard time, but the fact she got bad grades. They’d had finals the week before, Timothy’d done well, but she’d nearly flunked. She’d been quite upset, but had given no indication she was on the point of running away.”

  “So he says.”

  “Right. What else could he say? I’m not taking it at face value, and I will talk to him again. Anyway, we’re trying to trace the buses, but the drivers in question are out on their routes. I’m faxing the schedules so you can coordinate from that end.”

  “Thanks. Anything else?”

  “No, but for what it’s worth, from the reports I get this was not a particularly wild girl. She did poorly in school, had a fight with her parents, ran away from home. Getting killed in a cemetery in Connecticut doesn’t compute.”

  “Okay, thanks. Let me know if you get anything else.”

  Chief Harper hung up the phone.

  “So?” Henry Firth demanded.

  “They’re working on it. So far they’ve got nothing concrete.”

  “Another sign we need help,” Henry said peevishly. When Chief Harper didn’t respond, he said, “Any luck with that clue?”

  Chief Harper frowned. “Henry. Just because Aaron Grant put something in the paper doesn’t make it true.”

  “Was there a clue or wasn’t there?”

  “There was a paper in the girl’s pocket. It doesn’t have to be a clue. The woman in the article—the one who does crossword puzzles—doesn’t even think it is. I’m playing it down, and I would advise you to do the
same. Now, get out of here, Henry, and let me do my work.”

  Chief Harper watched Henry Firth go out the door. The prosecutor was a major pain in the neck. Always had been, always would be. Ordinarily, this was no big deal. But now …

  Chief Harper got up from his desk, went to the door, opened it a crack, peered out.

  Sure enough, there was Henry Firth in earnest conversation with the news crews, undoubtedly telling them everything he knew, and suggesting Chief Harper be taken off the case.

  Chief Harper closed the door. He sat in his chair, leaned back, rubbed his head.

  It was a good thing Henry Firth didn’t know about the second clue.

  18

  Sherry Carter opened the front door hoping it was UPS with the new software she’d ordered for her computer. But, no, it was that annoying reporter in his preppy little outfits who probably thought he looked cool. Sherry had changed into cutoff shorts and a halter top, and didn’t care how she looked, although she looked very good indeed. Aaron Grant smiled when he saw her.

  Sherry wasn’t impressed. “I’m sorry. She’s not here.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Oh?”

  “I came to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe I like your looks.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not politically correct. In fact, it’s practically sexual harassment.”

  “Where do you draw the line?”

  “Wherever I choose. That’s the nice thing about sexual politics. Puts women in charge.”

  “Seems to me they always were.”

  “Did you come here just to spar?”

  “No, I came to see you. Are you going to ask me in?”

  “That depends on why you’re here.”

  “Are we going to go around again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Fine,” Aaron Grant said agreeably. “Can I assume you’ve spoken to your aunt about the new clue?”

  “You can assume anything you like.”

  “Then I’ll assume that. The new clue is a three-letter word for sheep. Cora says that would be ewe. I’ve agreed not to publish this information because I’m basically a nice guy. A very nice guy, since without it, all it leaves me for tomorrow is a rehash of my column today.”

  “Gee,” Sherry said, “would that be the same nice guy who has a deal with the cops? Would that have anything to do with being nice?”

  “I thought you didn’t want to spar.”

  “I don’t want to have this conversation at all. You’re the one who’s sparring.”

  “Well said. May I take that as an invitation to come in?”

  “Oh, certainly,” Sherry said. “I’ve done everything I can think of to encourage you.”

  Aaron Grant walked in the door, looked around. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  Sherry flushed slightly. The living room was still a cluttered hodgepodge of unpacked boxes.

  “I’m glad you like it,” she said. “But we so seldom entertain. Am I being remiss as hostess? May I get you something? A cup of coffee? A soda? Some strychnine perhaps?”

  Aaron Grant smiled. “Coffee would be fine. Thank you for asking.”

  Sherry shot him a look, turned, marched into the kitchen, with Aaron Grant trailing behind.

  “Well, this is more like it.” Aaron Grant looked around the kitchen, nodded approvingly. “Homey, functional. It’s nice to see that you at least eat.”

  “You want this coffee or not?”

  “Please.”

  Sherry took a mug with a black-and-white checkerboard design from the cupboard, filled it with the remnants from the Pyrex bottom of the drip coffeemaker. She stuck the mug in the microwave, zapped it on high for twenty seconds.

  “Milk and sugar?”

  “Please.”

  Sherry took the carton of milk from the refrigerator, set it on the butcher block table next to the sugar bowl.

  The microwave beeped. Sherry took the coffee out, set it on the butcher block, added a spoon.

  “Knock yourself out,” she said.

  Aaron Grant added milk, two heaping spoonfuls of sugar, and stirred it around. There was no saucer. Aaron finished stirring, looked around for a place to put the spoon. Sherry gave him a look that said Aren’t men helpless, took the spoon, and put it in the sink.

  “I didn’t want to put it on the butcher block,” Aaron said.

  “What?”

  “Thanks for the coffee.” He took a sip. “Not bad for microwave brew. You’re a woman of many talents.”

  “You’re a man of none. Would you like to try again to tell me why you’re here?”

  “Sure,” Aaron Grant said. He glanced around, spotted the computer through the opposite door. “Would that be your office?”

  “You stay out of there,” Sherry protested, but Aaron Grant was already in the door.

  “And, yes, what do we have here? A crossword puzzle on the screen. And here’s the word queue. Would that position be four down? And the word ewe. Would that be fourteen across?”

  “Now, you look here—”

  Aaron Grant spread his hands. “I am not printing any of this. Your aunt and I have a deal. The same deal I have with the cops. I’m giving her everything, she’s giving me everything, nothing’s going out. Now, if she’s done some work on this, I need to know.”

  “Why?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why do you need to know? You just got through saying you’re not going to print it. So why do you need to know at all? Just to satisfy your own curiosity?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Sherry looked at him in disgust. “You can’t admit that. That’s selfish and unheroic.”

  “So what? You don’t like me anyway.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s your premise.”

  “My premise? What are you talking about?”

  “Everything under the sun, it seems like.” Aaron pointed at the computer screen. “To avoid talking about this. If your Aunt Cora started working on the clue I gave her, I want to know.”

  “Cora hasn’t even been home.”

  “I didn’t think so. You did this yourself, didn’t you? You punched this up on the screen to see if it fit. You’re a smart woman, you’ve learned enough from your aunt you figure you should be able to tell. So does it?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t be dense. Does the word ewe fit? As fourteen across?”

  “Yes and no.”

  Aaron Grant frowned. “Would you mind explaining that?”

  She gave him a look, then turned to the screen.

  On it was the grid of a crossword, a crosshatch of squares, with a few black squares and the words queue and ewe.

  “Okay,” Sherry said. “This is what I was working on before I was so rudely interrupted. This is a basic program for constructing crossword puzzles. What we have here is a fifteen-by-fifteen square, which is your fairly standard daily puzzle, which is why I started with it first. Fifteen squares across, fifteen squares down.

  “This is what it looks like if we put ewe in as fourteen across and queue in as four down.”

  “How do you know that’s where they go?”

  “I don’t. But some things you can infer.” She pointed to the black square in the fourth box over. “Like this black square here. Four down is queue. So if this square wasn’t a black square, it would mean q would be the fourth letter of one across. The number of words with q in the fourth position is somewhat limited.”

  “Ah. The old limited number.”

  “Right,” Sherry said. “So, the more likely construction is what I have here. One across is a three-letter word. Then a black square. Then four across and four down are both words beginning with q.”

  “That makes sense. And the other black square in the top line?”

  “Is a guess. As to where it goes. But there can only be one.”
/>   “Why?”

  “Because ewe is fourteen across. Two black squares makes thirteen clues down in the first line, so ewe fits in there.”

  “What if there were three black squares?”

  “Then fourteen across would move over one word and the e in ewe would intersect with the u in queue.”

  “But this way they both fit?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t like it.”

  “Why not?”

  “The words don’t intersect.”

  “Do they have to?”

  “No,” Sherry said. “But we have two clues, and there must be some connection. One’s across and one’s down, so the most likely connection is that they intersect. And both words have e’s in them. In fact, both words have two e’s in them, which makes an intersection likely.”

  “But they don’t intersect,” Aaron said.

  “Right,” Sherry said. “Unless we change the grid.”

  “Change it how?”

  “I was about to try something smaller.”

  “Such as?”

  “Twelve-by-twelve.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Sure.”

  Sherry pressed some keys, and the crossword puzzle vanished. She pressed some more, and a twelve-by-twelve grid appeared. Sherry and Aaron played around with the two words, but they couldn’t get them to intersect.

  “Eleven-by-eleven,” Aaron Grant said.

  “Huh?”

  “Do eleven-by-eleven.”

  Sherry deleted the twelve-by-twelve, punched up an eleven-by-eleven grid.

  “Now,” Aaron said, “you’ve got three three-letter words across. That’s nine words going down. In the second row you’ve got ten, eleven, twelve. In the third row across the first one is thirteen and the second one is fourteen. Go on. Fill it in. Doesn’t it work?”

  Sherry filled in the black squares, typed in queue and ewe.

  “That’s it,” Aaron Grant said. “That’s it. We’ve done it.”

  “We’ve done what?” Sherry said. She swiveled her chair around to look at him. “We’ve found a way the words could conceivably fit. I hate to break it to you, but that was not a particularly difficult challenge. I knew there was a way they would, finding it was not that hard. Now that they do, would you mind telling me what they happen to mean? In terms of that poor young girl who’s dead?”