by Parnell Hall
It was also fun.
52
Sherry Carter’s head was reeling. The puzzle made no sense. This to Sherry made no sense. How could it be? Two young women were dead, the murder weapon had been dropped in her lap, the police chief had been told to quit, and yet all of that meant nothing.
Sherry Carter was not used to puzzles that made no sense. Having a logical mind, Sherry was used to puzzles that could be figured out, puzzles that had one and only one solution. Not only that, the puzzles that Sherry dealt with followed a strict set of rules. Any puzzle that violated those rules was considered unfair.
Here was a puzzle that followed no rules, wasn’t fair, was too hard on the one hand, too easy on the other, and then turned out to be based on a premise that wasn’t even a clue. To a logical person like Sherry, this simply didn’t compute.
It occurred to her that it would take an illogical person like Aunt Cora to understand this. Sherry needed her now, needed to bounce the information off her. To get her perspective on it.
Because the last paranoid building block had finally fallen into place.
The puzzle wasn’t a puzzle.
Dennis couldn’t be the killer because he couldn’t think up the puzzle.
But there was no puzzle.
So Dennis could be the killer after all.
Yes, Sherry knew that made no sense. Yes, Sherry knew intellectually the odds of Dennis actually being a serial killer had to be somewhat less than her chance of winning the lottery. But that made no difference. Her mind wasn’t functioning on an intellectual basis now. The fact that it was possible was enough. The fact that the one obstacle to her logical rejection of Dennis as the killer had now been removed, allowed her to think the thought. Released the adrenaline rush. Brought on the fear.
Sherry’s intellect rallied, fought back. So what if the puzzle wasn’t a puzzle? Based on an algebra problem or not, the letters still spelled quit. And Dennis wouldn’t have spelled it. It would never have crossed his mind.
Didn’t that exonerate him?
No.
Almost, but not quite.
In the back of Sherry’s mind was the thought that if someone else had spelled quit, Dennis could have done the killings just fine.
Sherry needed Cora to tell her it wasn’t so.
Sherry called information, got the number of the Country Kitchen, punched it in.
The cashier at the front desk sounded young. “Country Kitchen. May I help you?”
“Yes. I’m looking for Cora Felton. I think she may be in the bar.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I need to speak to my aunt. Cora Felton. Could you see if she’s there?”
“I’m sorry. This is not a public phone.”
“Yes, I know. But this is rather important.”
“I’m sure it is. But the customers aren’t allowed to use this phone for private phone calls.”
“Oh, for goodness sakes. At least can you tell me if she’s there?”
“What was her name?”
“Cora Felton?”
“I’m sorry. I have no reservation for a Cora Felton.”
“She’s not eating dinner. She’d be in the bar.”
“Then I can’t help you.”
“May I speak to the bartender?”
“I’m sorry. He can’t come to the phone right now.”
“What?”
“It’s happy hour. I can’t call him away from the bar.”
“Oh, for goodness sakes! Don’t you have another phone?”
“There’s a pay phone for the customers. That’s the one you’d have to use anyway. You could try calling that.”
“Do you have the number?”
“One moment, please.”
Sherry found herself on hold. It was all she could do to avoid biting the woman’s head off when she came back on the line. Sherry broke the connection, punched the number in.
The phone rang ten times.
No one answered.
Sherry slammed the phone down in disgust.
There was one other person to call. Sherry didn’t want to, but she had no choice. She called information, got the number of the newspaper, and dialed.
A gruff voice barked: “Gazette.”
“Aaron Grant, please.”
“Grant’s not in. You got news, let’s have it. If not, call back.”
Sherry hung up. After a moment she picked up the phone again, called information. “You have a residential listing for an Aaron Grant?”
“I have an Aaron Grant at 325 Maple Street.”
“Could I have the number, please?”
Sherry scribbled down the number the operator gave her, broke the connection, punched it in.
A female voice answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
Sherry blinked.
A woman?
That was strange. Had she dialed right?
“Is Aaron Grant there?”
“No, he’s not. May I take a message?”
“No,” Sherry said.
Sherry Carter hung up the phone. She felt miffed. Wasn’t that just like a man? Aaron Grant hadn’t mentioned a girlfriend, at least not one of the live-in variety. Surely something like that would be worthy of mention. Unless one were deliberately not mentioning it. And wouldn’t that be just like a man?
Sherry Carter was furious. And not just with Aaron Grant. She was furious with herself. After all, what did it matter if he had a girlfriend? Aaron Grant meant nothing to her. So his behavior was typically, annoyingly male. So what?
Sherry Carter picked up the phone, called information again, asked for a listing for taxicabs. There were none. There were, however, car services. The information operator suggested one and supplied the number.
Sherry called and asked if she could get a car from her house to the Country Kitchen. The dispatcher took down the address, looked on the map, and gave her a price of nine dollars and seventy-five cents for the trip. He could have a car there in ten minutes.
Sherry was pacing at the foot of the driveway when the cab drove up. She got in, rode in silence to the Country Kitchen, and tipped the young boy driving two dollars, which seemed to make his day.
Sherry went up the steps and in the restaurant door. The cashier, presumably the one she’d talked to, was seated next to the register just inside the door. She was young, with too much makeup and teased hair. She was also chewing gum.
Sherry took one look and was instantly angry. The pay phone was in an alcove just to the right of the front door. The girl had given her that number, heard her call it, and then hadn’t answered.
Eyeing her now, the cashier popped her gum, said, “Can I help you?”
“No,” Sherry said, and pushed on by into the bar.
It was indeed busy. Even for happy hour, the place was packed. Sherry figured if even half the people in the bar were here for dinner, the place was doing fine.
Sherry looked around, couldn’t spot her aunt.
The bartender caught her eye. “Could I get you something?”
“I’m looking for Cora Felton. Have you seen her?”
“I sure have.”
“Where is she?”
He jerked his thumb. “Over there.”
“Huh?”
“In a booth. She’s sulkin’ ’cause I cut her off. Nice lady, but she’s had enough. Sorry, ma’am, but that’s the way it is.”
“Uh huh,” Sherry said. She turned, headed for the booths.
Cora Felton was in the second one. She was wearing her Wicked Witch of the West dress. She looked a fright. Her elbow was on the table, and her head was propped up in her hand. Her glasses dangled from one ear. Her eyes were slits. They might have been closed—it was impossible to tell.
In her right hand was the soggy remnants of a huge cigar. It had gone out some time ago, but it still stank.
Sherry shuddered. Then she steeled herself, slipped into the seat opposite her. “Aunt Cora,” she said. She reached out, shook h
er arm gently. “Aunt Cora.”
An eye opened. The left one. Red and bleary, it looked out with a dull, glassy stare.
“Aunt Cora,” Sherry repeated.
The eye fixed on her, seemed to focus. The mouth, which had been turned down, straightened, coming close to a smile. “Sherry,” she said. “Sherry, darling. Be an angel, would you, and get me a drink.”
“Sure, Aunt Cora. How about a cup of coffee?”
Cora Felton’s lips turned back down. “Now, dear, don’t be like that.”
“Come on, Aunt Cora. We’re going home.”
Cora Felton set her jaw. “No, I’m not.”
“They’re not serving you anymore, Aunt Cora. There’s no point staying here.”
“The bartender and I just had a little disagreement. He’ll come around.”
Cora Felton stuck the cigar in her mouth. Sucked on it. Seemed puzzled when she didn’t get any smoke.
Sherry Carter tried another tack. “Aunt Cora,” she said. “I really need your help. There’s been a development in the case.”
Cora Felton watched her face, as if trying to translate her words. She nodded her head once, then twice. “De … vel …?”
“Development. A development in the case. You know, a break in the case.”
“Break in the case?”
“Yes. That’s it. There’s a break in the case, and I need your help. Let’s go home.” Sherry slid out of the booth, took Cora Felton by the arm. “Come on, now.”
Cora Felton pulled away. “Stop. Stop that. Not going home.”
“But the case—”
“Tell me.”
“Aunt Cora—”
“Tell me.”
Sherry slid back into the booth. “Okay,” she said. “You stay here if you want, but you’re not driving home.”
Cora Felton’s purse was lying next to her on the table. It was a big, floppy, drawstring affair. Sherry scooped it up, pulled it open, rummaged inside, and came out with a set of keys. “I’m taking your car keys. You wanna get home, you call for a car service.”
Cora Felton made a face. “Not very nice.”
“No, it isn’t. You really should come with me now.”
Sherry started to get up again. Cora Felton reached out, grabbed her by the wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong. Sherry looked at her.
“Break in the case,” Cora said.
“All right,” Sherry said. “I’ll tell you the break in the case. The first girl who was killed. Dana. The girl from Muncie, Indiana. The clue in her pocket. Four d line five. Guess what? Dana wrote it herself.”
Cora Felton blinked. Her eyes were squinted, her brow was furrowed, as if she were desperately trying to understand. “Wrote it herself?”
“Yes. She wrote it herself. And it isn’t a clue, it’s the answer to a problem on her algebra test.”
“Algebra?”
“Yes, algebra. It’s the answer to a math problem. It was never a puzzle clue at all.”
Though Sherry would not have thought it possible, the lines on Cora Felton’s forehead deepened. Her mouth sagged open, her head twisted in a circle, up and around and down. Her eyes widened, then narrowed again. Her lips formed a perfect O. Then she nodded.
“So,” she said. “That’s why he took her shoes off.”
Sherry Carter looked at her aunt in exasperation. She shook her head. “No, Aunt Cora. We’re not talking about her shoes. We’re talking about the puzzle clue. Which isn’t a puzzle clue. Which doesn’t mean anything. We’re talking about that.”
“Yes, dear,” Cora Felton said. She looked up at Sherry Carter, cocked her head. “Could you be an angel and get me a drink?”
“You can’t have another drink. Why don’t you come home?”
Cora Felton shook her head. “Not going.”
“Fine,” Sherry said.
She slipped out of the booth, fought her way up to the bar, caught the bartender’s attention. “She won’t leave. When she sobers up enough to understand, could you call her a car service?”
“She won’t try to drive?”
“I took her keys.”
“Good. I wish you’d take her cigar too.”
As Sherry Carter drove out of the parking lot, Cora Felton was in the process of lighting her cigar. She first found a butane lighter, which she spun several times to no avail. Then she rummaged in her purse, came out with a bedraggled book of matches. She pulled the cover off, discovered three matches. Managed to light the first one without lighting the cigar. Managed to break the second. The third produced a reassuring cloud of smoke.
Cora Felton inhaled deeply, blew the smoke out through her mouth and nose. “That’s better,” she muttered.
She took another drag, sat there trying to gather her thoughts.
“Puzzle clue,” she said. “Puzzle clue.”
She braced herself on the table, heaved herself to her feet. Grabbed her purse, lurched toward the front door.
It took her a while to make it. By the time she got there, her car was long gone.
Cora Felton stood on the front steps, looking around the parking lot, peering at every car.
“Not mine. Not mine. Not mine.”
Finally resigned to the fact her car was not there, Cora Felton went back in the front door.
The young cashier was not thrilled by her return. “She’s back again,” she called to the bartender.
Cora Felton fixed her with an evil eye. “Rude,” she said.
Cora stood there, looking around. Spotted the pay phone inside the door. Turned, lurched over to the little alcove, slipped inside.
A phone book hung on a cord next to the pay phone. Cora Felton grabbed the phone book, picked it up, turned it around, and looked at it in amazement. Even to a sober New Yorker, it would have seemed incredibly thin. To Cora Felton, it was a marvel indeed.
Cora Felton finally accepted it for what it was, flipped it open, peered inside. All she saw was a blur. She reached up, discovered her glasses dangling from one ear. She grabbed the frames, dragged the wire rim over her other ear, pushed the glasses up on her nose, examined the phone book again.
It was still somewhat blurry, but she could make out the names. She stared, furrowed her brow, tried to reacquaint herself with the workings of the alphabet. After a few moments’ contemplation, she began paging through the book.
She smiled in triumph when she finally found the number.
She lost it again getting a quarter out of her purse. By the time she found the quarter, the telephone book was once again dangling from its cord.
This time she was a little quicker looking up the name. When she found it, she clasped the open book to her chest as she reached up and dropped the quarter in. Then she lowered the book, looked at the open page, found the number again. Constantly referring back and forth, she punched the numbers into the phone. Finally, holding the receiver to her ear, she was rewarded in hearing it ring.
It rang three times before she got an answer.
“Hello?”
Cora Felton was startled by the voice. She had forgotten who she was calling. Forgotten she was even on the phone.
Then she remembered.
“I solved your puzzle,” she said.
53
Sherry didn’t go straight home. On the way through town she slowed down as she passed the police station. There were no cars out front. That seemed strange. Surely someone would be on duty, and that someone would need a car. Sherry stopped, got out, went up and tried the door. It was locked.
Locked?
That didn’t compute.
Sherry banged on the door, got no answer. She looked in the window. The lights were on, but there was no one inside.
Sherry got back in her car, drove on down the street. On an impulse, she hung a left on Center Street, drove by the newspaper. Aaron Grant’s car was not there. Sherry wasn’t sure what she would have done if it had been, still the fact that it wasn’t was frustrating.
Sherry remembered
the address the operator had given her. Three twenty-five Maple. Sherry wasn’t sure, but she seemed to remember seeing a Maple Street off of Oak. It wasn’t more than a mile or two out of town. Of course, there was no real reason to drive by his house. On the other hand, it wasn’t often that she had a car. And Sherry wasn’t ready to go home now. Not after fighting with her aunt. Not after getting upset over Dennis. She needed to take time out, cool down, clear her head. And what better way than driving around. It really didn’t matter where she went, she just needed a destination so she’d have somewhere to drive. Aaron Grant’s house was as good as any. Particularly since she knew the address. It couldn’t hurt anything to drive on by. To satisfy her curiosity as to where he lived. That was why she was doing it.
It certainly didn’t have anything to do with that woman who’d answered his phone.
Sherry turned around, drove out of town, took a left on Oak and went to Maple. The drive was closer to four miles, but that didn’t matter, as she was in no real hurry. She drove slowly down the road, looking for street numbers.
The houses here were nicer than on her road. There were stone and brick buildings, two-story colonials, with an occasional contemporary thrown in. Sherry was well aware of what they were worth. She’d priced houses like these before settling on the one she and Aunt Cora had rented.
Sherry spotted a house number. Three twelve. So, pretty near, and on the other side of the street, if odd and even numbers meant anything. Which, Sherry had noticed, in some streets in Bakerhaven they didn’t.
On Maple Street, however, they did. Three twenty-five Maple Street was a two-story white house with blue shutters. Aaron Grant’s car was not in the driveway. But a blue Subaru station wagon was. So his girlfriend was home. If the woman was indeed his girlfriend, and not actually his wife. Sherry couldn’t help noticing the children’s swing set in the backyard.
Sherry drove on by. Well, he never said he wasn’t. And, anyway, what difference did it make to her?
A few houses down the road Sherry pulled into a driveway and turned around. Yeah, that was enough driving for a while. That had done the trick.
As Sherry drove back through Bakerhaven, a police car passed her going the other way. It was the officer she’d met the other night when they were looking for Vicki Tanner. Sherry considered turning around and catching up with him, asking him where everyone was. But he seemed to be going rather fast. She kept going.