by Parnell Hall
“You came up with the shoes.”
Cora grinned. “Yes, I did. That I can do just fine. Murder mysteries are my element. Just keep the wordplay out of it, I’ll be happy as a clam.”
“And that’s the only reason you came up with the four-graves-down theory—because you didn’t want to talk about a crossword clue?”
“Don’t you know it,” Cora Felton said. “Imagine having the chief of police sitting there saying, Tell me what this means. The I’ll-work-on-it-and-get-back-to-you bit isn’t going to work forever.”
“Tell me something,” Aaron Grant said.
“What?”
“Why’d you do it?”
“What?”
“Agree to be the Puzzle Lady?”
Cora shrugged. “I couldn’t talk her out of it.”
“Why didn’t you just say no?”
“And break her heart? Sherry’s like a daughter to me. I’d do anything for her. Anything I could.” Her eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t let anyone hurt her, either.”
“I wouldn’t hurt her.”
“You will if you keep putting my picture on your front page. Sherry likes hiding behind the facade. Plus Dennis doesn’t know where she is, and she doesn’t want to tell him. She’s phobic about the media, and terrified of publicity.”
“So you think she won’t care for my Barbara Burnside piece?” Aaron said.
Cora smiled and cocked her head.
“I would say that was a pretty safe bet.”
32
Sherry Carter sat at the kitchen table, drinking her coffee and cursing Aaron Grant. Wasn’t that just like a man? After everything they’d been through the night before—driving around in the car, finding the body, calling the police, and deciphering the clue—never once did Aaron think to mention the one tiny detail, that he’d put her aunt on the front page again.
The Bakerhaven Gazette lay on the table in front of her. The headline, MURDER LINKED TO BURNSIDE TRAGEDY???, in bold, black type.
Gee, Aaron, you think you might have mentioned that?
And how could he have done this to the Burnsides? Yes, of course, it was long ago. He’d been a child at the time of the accident. Too young to know Barbara Burnside, way too young to know her parents. But still, he should have known better. What an insensitive lout. She’d read him the riot act the next time he came around. If he had the nerve to show his face around here again.
Sherry heard a car turn into the driveway. Could it be him? No, most likely Cora. Which would be good. They could talk this over, figure out what they were going to do.
Sherry went to the window, looked out. But it wasn’t her aunt. The car in the driveway was a news van from Channel 8. As Sherry watched, three men piled out, and the big, beefy one in the jeans and T-shirt began to unload a camera.
Sherry’s heart skipped a beat. This couldn’t be happening. Without stopping to think, she stormed out the front door onto the lawn.
“All right,” she said, “hold it right there.”
The youngest of the three men wore a tie and a Channel 8 blazer. He saw her and smiled a dazzlingly white smile that must have cost a fortune in dental caps. “Hi,” he said. “Is Cora Felton at home?”
“No. And even if she were, she’s not interested in doing an interview, so I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”
“And who might you be?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not doing an interview either.”
The young man’s smile never lessened in intensity. “Most people like being on television.”
“I am not one of them.” Sherry pointed at the cameraman, who was focusing on her. “You can tell him to put that down. I don’t wish to be filmed, I’m not a celebrity or a criminal, I didn’t consent to an interview. This is private property, you’re trespassing, and if you violate my right to privacy, I will prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law. Need I be more clear?”
“No, I think you made your point. Ernie, ditch the camera. You and Phil take a break.” The reporter in his Channel 8 blazer turned back to Sherry, smiled again. “Before we were interrupted, I was asking you your name.”
“Yes,” Sherry said. “You were. And I was telling you why it couldn’t possibly matter.”
“Because you don’t want to be interviewed. No problem.” He spread his hands. “Look, ma. No camera. No mike. No reason why we shouldn’t be friends.”
“I don’t recall inviting you here.”
“You didn’t. I came to see Miss Felton. Our meeting—yours and mine—is accidental. Anyway, let me introduce myself. I’m Rick Reed. I work for Channel 8 News. I’m young, I’m ambitious, and I happen to be single.”
“Am I supposed to swoon?”
“No, but you could tell me your name.”
“And have it wind up on television?”
“Not unless you’ve done something newsworthy. Am I to gather you haven’t?”
Sherry straightened to her full height and glared at him. “I’m Sherry Carter. Cora Felton happens to be my aunt. She does not wish to appear on television, and she has nothing to tell you.”
Rick Reed nodded. “I appreciate that. You understand I will have to verify that with Miss Felton herself.”
“She’s not here.”
“So you said. So, Cora Felton’s niece, eh? I don’t believe you mentioned being single.”
“It’s not one of the first things I tell people.”
“Too bad. Then I’ll have to ask directly. Are you single?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I don’t like to ask married women out to dinner.”
“Had a problem with it, have you?”
Rick Reed frowned momentarily, immediately smiled again. “Wrong response. You’re supposed to say, Are you asking me out to dinner?”
“Sorry. I’m obviously not up on your standard pickup lines.”
“Well, let me clue you in. You would probably have a fairly good shot at dinner, if you played your cards right.”
“With a real TV star? Be still, my heart.”
“Okay, so it’s only local,” Rick Reed said. “I see it as a stepping-stone.”
“I’m sure you do. I believe you also mentioned you were ambitious?”
“That’s right.”
“Then what are you doing hitting on me when you’ve got a double homicide to deal with? Or were you aware there was another killing?”
“Oh, we’re aware of it. The cops aren’t granting any interviews, and neither is the husband. The crime scene’s exactly the same, and nothing’s happening there, which means we’ve got until tonight to get out there and shoot a thirty-second lead-in. In the meanwhile, I got a much more promising angle.”
“What’s that?”
“You didn’t see? It’s on the front page of the Bakerhaven Gazette. Burnside connection, courtesy of your aunt. Which I can’t wait to ask her about.”
“There is no Burnside connection. It’s got nothing to do with anything. It’s a nonstory.”
“It’s a nonstory on page one, and I’m going after it. Your aunt gave a statement to the press, that makes her fair game.”
“Oh, for goodness sakes.”
“Plus, your aunt is a celebrity, which makes her fair game to begin with. But that’s just how I see it. I’d be delighted with any career guidance you’d care to give me.”
“I suggest you lay off my aunt.”
“That’s interesting advice. Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner.”
“Are you offering to drop the interview if I go out with you?”
Rick Reed smiled. “Young lady, are you trying to bribe me?”
Sherry caught herself, choked back the scathing retort she’d been building up to. Told herself this was not the man she wanted to antagonize, this was not the man she wanted to tell off. She had to be calm, cool, and collected. She had to reason with him. Be polite to him.
Go out with him?
Sherry caught her breath. How far would she g
o to stay out of the news? To keep Dennis from finding her again?
To keep her promise to the Burnsides?
It crossed her mind that this was entirely Aaron Grant’s fault.
That thought somehow made it easier to say yes.
She didn’t, it just would have been easier.
That realization infuriated her, made it easier saying no.
Which she did. Politely, yet firmly, in no uncertain terms.
She would have felt a certain satisfaction in doing so, were it not for the Burnsides. As she watched the news crew back their van out of the driveway, Sherry wondered just how much her refusal had cost the Burnsides. Not much, she figured. It was, like she had told the reporter, a nonstory. It was much better to ignore the Burnside story than to try to cover it up. Nobody really cared about it, not with another murder to contend with. The reporter had even said he was only after it because he couldn’t get anything else.
Sherry calmed herself with the thought the Barbara Burnside story meant nothing to anyone.
Just leave it alone, and it would go away.
33
Aaron Grant hung up the phone with his ears ringing. He pushed back in his chair, shook his head to clear it. He certainly had a new appreciation for Barbara Burnside and what her family had gone through. And he had given Chief Harper a clear promise he would not touch that story again. Not that he wanted to. Especially now that he knew the Burnside connection had been manufactured by Cora Felton simply for the purpose of trying to keep Sherry Carter’s secret. Well, he had learned his lesson. That was the last he would have to do with the Burnside affair, with the possible exception of issuing a private apology to her parents.
Which left him with a great big problem—what was he going to write today?
“Aaron Grant?”
Aaron looked up. The man standing by his desk was not happy, but that was par for the course. No one seemed happy today. The man was in his mid-thirties, early forties, it was hard to tell—his bald head might make him look older than he was. He had a plumpish face and wore wire-rimmed glasses. Aaron Grant recognized him vaguely. He had seen him around town, but couldn’t place him.
“Can I help you?” Aaron said.
“Can you help me? That’s a good one. Can you help me?”
Aaron stood up, faced the man. “All right. I’ll try again. Who are you and what do you want?”
“I’m Kevin Roth,” the man said, and waited for a response.
“Oh?” Aaron said. After a moment, he said, “Oh.”
“That’s right,” Roth said. “You mentioned me in your story. In passing. Like a footnote. Well, I was more than a footnote. I was her boyfriend. And she meant something to me.”
“You were with her that night.”
“Earlier that night,” he said. “Yeah, I was at the party. We had a fight, Barbara and I, and she took off in the car. She’d had a little too much to drink.”
“You’re the one who found her.”
“I was worried about her. I borrowed a car, went after her. She didn’t get far.”
“You’re the one who called the police.”
Kevin Roth ran his hand over his bald head. “This is all a matter of record. And it’s also ancient history. Why do you have to dig it up?”
“I’m not digging it up.”
“You wrote that story.”
“That’s all it is—a story. Just reporting the facts.”
“Yeah, sure. But you tie it in with these other murders, get the police to reopen the investigation.”
“I’m not doing that. I just got off the phone with Chief Harper. He assures me there’s nothing to it and they’re not reopening the investigation.”
“He might be saying that just to throw you off the track.”
“Well, he isn’t. I have it on good authority the police attach no credence to that theory of the case.”
“You mean the Graveyard Killings?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But your theory is there is a connection.”
“It’s not my theory.”
“You wrote it.”
“I reported it. I’m sorry I did. I could print a retraction, but that would only bring it up again. It’s probably better to drop the whole thing, just let it alone.”
“So you won’t retract?”
Aaron Grant controlled himself with an effort. “I’m sorry you’re upset, but I don’t wish to be willfully misunderstood. The only reason I would not print a retraction would be to spare her parents’ feelings. That and the fact any retraction is going to be inconclusive.”
“Inconclusive?”
“Yes. I can say there was no foundation to the story, but people will still wonder if it’s true.”
“So tell them it isn’t.”
“I can’t do that. I have no basis to make such a statement. For all I know this guy killed two girls to cover up the fact he was involved in Barbara Burnside’s death years ago.”
“What are you talking about, involved in her death? She had a car accident, for God’s sake.”
“Exactly my point. There is absolutely nothing to connect the one thing to the other. By the same token, there is nothing to prove these events are unrelated. The best course of action is no action at all. Just let it go. The police are not investigating, I’m not reporting, it’s not happening. Even the woman who came up with the theory in the first place admits there’s nothing to it. I can give you my personal assurance, all parties have agreed to let the matter drop.”
Kevin Roth rubbed his head again. What Aaron Grant had told him clearly wasn’t good enough. He frowned, seemed to be searching for something to say. He looked around the newsroom, at the door, at the wall, at Aaron Grant’s desk, at the bulletin board. At the managing editor back in his office, visible through the glass partition.
Aaron Grant followed his glance. “Go ask my editor if you don’t believe me. He’ll tell you the same thing. We’re not following up. If you let it drop, we’ll let it drop. The only thing that’s gonna keep it alive is if someone makes a fuss.”
“Damn it to hell.”
“Your coming here is off the record. I assure you I’m not writing it up.”
Kevin Roth seemed hopelessly torn, as if he didn’t know what to do. He glanced around again, looked at Aaron Grant. Aaron got the impression the man wanted to brush by him, shove him out of the way. He didn’t, however. After another moment, he turned and stalked off.
Aaron watched until Kevin Roth went out the door. He heaved a sigh of relief and slumped into his desk chair. What a day. No, what a week. He’d certainly learned his lesson. He’d never write an irresponsible column like that again. No more idle speculation. Stick to hard news, get something on the murders. He’d head over to the police station, see what he could turn up.
First to business. There were letters in his in-basket, compliments of the ever-efficient Mary Mason. Aaron pulled them out, riffled through them. While his expectations were not high, it occurred to him the killer might send another clue.
A glance showed that he hadn’t. At least none of the envelopes matched the typewritten one he’d gotten the day before.
Aaron got to the last one, stopped, and stared.
It was typewritten, but not like the one with the clue. There was no stamp and no address. Just his name.
While he was looking at it, Mary Mason walked by.
“Mary,” Aaron said. “Did you put this in my basket?”
She looked down at the letter. “Yes. Why?”
“Where did you get it?”
“It was under the door.”
“The door?”
“When I came in this morning it was lying there. Someone slipped it under the door.”
“That’s odd.”
“Why? They saved a stamp and made sure you got it the same day. What is it?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t opened it yet.”
Mary’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, well, why do that? You’ll s
poil our fun guessing where it came from.”
“Yeah,” Aaron said absentmindedly. He ripped the envelope open. Inside was a single sheet of paper. He pulled it out, half expecting it to be another crossword puzzle clue.
It wasn’t.
It said: DROP THE BARBARA BURNSIDE STORY.
34
“You’re the Puzzle Lady?”
Cora Felton frowned. She’d been on her way to the police station to talk to Chief Harper when the young girl had stopped her with the question. And it was one that she hated to answer. At least, directly. “I’m the woman on TV,” she replied. It was one of her favorite deflections.
“Uh huh,” the girl said. “And the one in the paper, talking about the murders.”
“That’s a misunderstanding,” Cora told her. “I really have nothing to do with it.”
The girl pouted. “Don’t be like that. That’s how my father acts.”
“Your father?”
“Yes. Chief Harper. He’s my dad.”
“Oh. Yes.” Cora remembered seeing the girl at the town meeting with her mother, standing by the chief. “Then you know more about it than I do.”
“Maybe I do.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Clara Harper leaned in conspiratorially, told Cora Felton about her suspicions of Jimmy Potter the librarian’s son and her father’s refusal to listen to them. “So, what do you think?” she demanded.
Cora Felton thought Clara Harper was pretty young, but she wasn’t about to say so. “I’ll tell you what I think. It’s probably nothing, but I’ve read enough murder mysteries where someone has an important clue, and no one will listen to them.”
“So?”
Cora Felton smiled. “So, I think I’ll go and check out a book.”
Cora Felton crossed the street and went up the front steps into the library. She smiled a greeting at Edith Potter at the front desk, but swept on by to look for her son. She found him straightening up the magazines in the reading room.
“Excuse me, young man. Can you tell me where the Agatha Christie mysteries are kept?”
Jimmy Potter looked up from his work. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. “You’re the woman on TV!”