by Parnell Hall
“Yeah. That’s her.”
“I thought I recognized the name. All right, I’m not supposed to tell you this. But, to tell the truth, I wasn’t happy dispatching the car to her in the first place.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Because of where she wanted to go.”
“And where is that?”
“The cemetery.”
58
Clara Harper could hardly contain herself. She was right. Her father was wrong, and she was right. Just when it looked like tailing Jimmy Potter was a big waste of time, look where he wound up. If this didn’t clinch the case, nothing would. It was a classic. The killer returns to the scene of the crime.
While Clara Harper watched from the woods, Jimmy Potter crossed the meadow and climbed over the fence into the cemetery. Clara gave him a couple of seconds’ head start, then followed.
Clara wasn’t entirely happy crossing the field. The sun had gone down but the moon was full, and the meadow was wide open with no cover. Clara kept low, scuttled across. Moments later she was crouching down behind the fence. She raised her head, peered over. The side of a small, wooden building blocked her view. Jimmy Potter had approached the cemetery from the far side, and gone over the fence in back of the caretaker’s shed.
Clara crept to the edge of the shed, peered around.
And saw nothing. Just rows and rows of graves. And the road, twisting away to the right and disappearing into the darkness as it circled down to the gate.
Where was he?
Movement off to the left. She caught it with her peripheral vision. At least she told herself she did. Maybe it was her sixth sense. Maybe it was her intuition. But she knew he was there.
She crept from behind the shed and, keeping low, crossed the road and picked her way through the gravestones.
Five rows in, she stopped and listened. Peered around. Saw nothing. Heard nothing.
It was then that it occurred to her where she was. The fifth row from the road. Line five. That’s what the old woman had said in the newspaper. And if this was the fifth row from the road, it was just two rows over from the one where the bodies were found.
Clara felt a sudden chill. It was thrilling. She’d wanted her father to take her to the grave, and he’d refused. Although he hadn’t actually forbidden her to go, had he? And here she was, just two rows away.
Was that where Jimmy was? If the killer really was returning to the scene of the crime, wouldn’t it be that particular grave? The one where the young women were found. Why not? He wasn’t anywhere in sight. It was as good a place to start as any.
So where was the grave? If she remembered correctly, it was two rows back from where she was, and closer to the gate. Exactly how close, she wasn’t sure. The only thing she knew was it would be four graves higher than the grave of Barbara Burnside. Which would be in this row. So she should stay in this row.
Clara Harper started making her way toward the gate, trying to stay in line five. It was hard, because the row wasn’t entirely straight. Sometimes a choice had to be made—was the grave in the row that one or that one? Of course she was distracted by the fact that she was constantly looking around, trying to spot Jimmy Potter. And she had to read all the gravestones, looking for the name Barbara Burnside. She was so wrapped up in what she was doing she almost went by it.
The crime scene ribbon saved her. Once she spotted that, the Barbara Burnside gravestone was no longer an object.
So, this was it.
This was the murder scene.
This was where the two young women had been found.
Clara Harper slipped under the crime scene ribbon, crept up to the grave. Knelt down in front of the headstone.
“Hi.”
Clara jumped. Blood drained from her face. The voice had come from behind her. She turned her head. Looked up.
Jimmy Potter towered above her. He looked gigantic, silhouetted in the bright moonlight. He was smiling, a smug, enigmatic smile.
He was holding the knife.
59
The Reynold’s Ride driver wasn’t convinced. “Lady, you sure this is where you wanna go?”
“Yes, I am,” Cora Felton said.
“But the gate’s locked. There’s no one here.”
“I can see that. You think I can’t see that?”
“And you don’t want me to wait?”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
“I could wait.”
“I’m not paying you to wait.”
“How are you going to get home?”
Cora Felton ignored the question, rummaged through her purse. “Now, where’s my money?”
“If you don’t have money, lady, I’ll need to take you to someone who does.”
“I’ve got money. Where’s my money?” Cora Felton came up with a wallet. “Oh, here we are. Now, how much was the ride?”
“Eight dollars. Don’t you remember? You argued about it.”
“Well, such a short ride.” Cora Felton pulled a ten out of the wallet, thrust it at the driver. “Here you go. Keep the change.”
“Eight bucks is too much so you’re giving me ten?”
“Not your fault. You gotta eat.”
Cora Felton jerked open the door.
“Lady, I don’t like leaving you here.”
“I’ll be fine,” Cora Felton said. She climbed out of the car, slammed the door. Took a step and staggered.
The driver, watching through the rearview mirror, frowned, killed the engine, opened his door.
Cora Felton saw him getting out. She waved her finger in his face. “No, no, no. You can’t stay here. You have to go.” She nodded at him as if he were a small child. “Santa Claus won’t come if we stay up and watch.”
“Lady—” the driver protested.
“Go on,” Cora Felton said. She waved her hand. “Go, go, go.”
The driver reluctantly drove off.
Cora Felton watched him go. Then she walked up the road to the front gate and climbed the fence.
She had trouble getting over. Her purse snagged on a nail and held her back. At first she wasn’t aware of it, wondered why she was making no progress. When she realized, she had to climb back down to unsnag it, and start all over again.
The second time she made it over but lost her balance, and fell to the other side, landing in an undignified heap. She got up, brushed herself off, straightened her glasses, adjusted her clothes. By the time she finished she’d managed to smear dirt on just about everything.
Cora Felton took no notice. She got her bearings, set off through the cemetery. The cool night air was helping to clear her head. Though she still staggered, it seemed easier now to focus her thoughts.
She knew why she was here.
She knew what she had to do.
If only she had a cigarette.
Cora Felton’s sense of purpose wasn’t a hundred percent, but she was getting better.
Cora leaned against a tombstone, rummaged through her purse. Came out with a twisted pack of cigarettes. She extracted one, tried to light it, using the matches she’d had the presence of mind to fish out of the cigarette machine when she’d gotten off the phone at the Country Kitchen. Though the cigarette burned, it would not draw. She lit four matches before she noticed the cigarette was broken in the middle. She broke it in half, threw the filtered end away, lit the remaining half and sucked in the smoke.
Okay, where was the grave?
Cora Felton knew approximately. It was just a few rows up and a million rows over. She sure hoped she could find it without starting from the beginning. Surely she didn’t need to do that. Surely she’d recognize the gravestone. Surely she could find it in the dark.
Counting was a problem. She thought she was counting, but lost track. She didn’t want to start over, didn’t have the patience, perhaps realized it wouldn’t do much good. She stumbled on, looking for the stone.
Unfortunately, there was no crime scene ribbon to guide her.
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Cora Felton wasn’t looking for the grave where the young women had lain.
She was looking for the grave where the murder weapon was found.
So she had to look at every stone. At least, when she got near. And how did she know if she was even near when she kept losing count? Was it this one here, or that one there, or—
He appeared in front of her, abruptly, stepping from behind a gravestone into the moonlight. He was not that big, not that tall, not that menacing.
“Well, Miss Felton,” he said.
Cora Felton stopped short, swayed for a moment, nearly lost her balance. She steadied herself, looked at the young man standing in front of her. “Hello, Mr. Tanner,” she said. “Frankly, I didn’t think you’d come.”
Stuart Tanner smiled back. “Ah, but you made the invitation so attractive. And so intriguing. On the one hand, it sounded like a trap. On the other hand—and I do beg your pardon—but on the other hand, you sounded somewhat drunk.”
Cora Felton’s cigarette was almost burning her fingers. She took a last drag, threw it on the grass. “Not drunk enough. The problem is, they shut you off.”
“I still don’t understand. Would you please tell me why you called me and asked me here?”
“To discuss the crime.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I think you do.”
“Well, I don’t. You said you’d solved the puzzle. What did you mean by that?”
“Just what I said. I figured it out. I know why you took off their shoes.”
“Why I took off their shoes?”
“Yes. I know why you did it.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Oh, but you did. You killed that poor girl from Muncie, and you killed your wife. You would have killed others if it weren’t for the clue.”
“What clue?”
“The clue that wasn’t a clue,” Cora Felton said. “Four d line five.” She rubbed her forehead, added a smudge of dirt to the one she had on her cheek. “Turns out it had something to do with math. I’m not sure what.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m not sure.” Her eyes glazed slightly, then refocused. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, the point is, she wrote it herself.”
“She what?”
“She wrote it herself. The girl wrote it herself. So it never was a puzzle clue.”
“I’m sorry to say you’re not making any sense, Miss Felton.”
“ ’Course not. Puzzle makes no sense.”
Cora Felton dug in her purse, pulled out the cigarette pack. She took another cigarette broken in the middle, ripped the filter off, dug out the matches, and managed to get it lit.
Stuart Tanner watched her patiently. As she blew out a puff of smoke, he said, “Miss Felton, you’re not well. Why don’t you let me take you home?”
Cora Felton smiled. “You know, that’s what Henry said.”
“Henry?”
“My fourth husband. I met him at a party. He said, why don’t you let me take you home. And I did.” She smiled at the remembrance.
Stuart Tanner held out his hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”
She waved it away. “No. Here. Gotta be here. Where it happened.”
“Why?”
“Huh?”
“Why does it have to be here?”
Her face clouded. “Can’t remember.”
“Uh huh,” Stuart Tanner said. “I thought you had something to tell me. Apparently you don’t.”
Cora Felton put up her hand. “Shoes.”
“Huh?”
“It was the shoes. Wanted to tell you about the shoes.”
“What about them?”
“I know why you took them off. That’s the real puzzle. Why you took off their shoes. The same reason you put their bodies here.”
“I tell you, I didn’t do anything.”
Cora Felton put up both hands. “Okay. Sorry. Let’s say the killer. We won’t say you’re the killer. We’ll just say the killer.” She smiled brightly. “How is that?”
“You’re trying my patience. Start making sense or I’m going home.”
“And leave me here? I don’t think so. Don’t you want to know what I know?”
“What do you know?”
“I know why you did it. Sorry. I know why the killer did it.” Cora raised her finger, pursed her lips. “Say the killer was married. And say the killer had outside interests. Perhaps someone he met in the city where he worked. Say the killer loved this woman, but the killer didn’t want to leave his wife, because the killer’s wife had money. Money and property she’d inherited from her father. Including a valuable inn.” Cora crinkled up her nose. “You see the problem? It’s your wife we’re talking about. I can keep saying the killer, but it’s still your wife. You see what I’m saying?”
“You’re not saying anything. You’re just rambling. I thought you were going to tell me about the shoes.”
“Oh, yes. The shoes. I know why you took them off. Very simple. To create the Graveyard Killer.”
“To what?”
“To invent a killer of young women. So your wife could be one of them. A victim of the Graveyard Killer.” Cora Felton took a deep drag on the cigarette, blew out the smoke. “That was the point of the shoes. The women would be found in the cemetery with their shoes off. The link that ties them together. You took Dana’s shoes off so if the cemetery became too dangerous you could dump your wife’s body somewhere else. She’d still be a young dead woman with no shoes. And there’d be a connection. You were desperate for a connection. To make your wife part of a series. That’s why you would have killed more women, except for the puzzle clue.”
Stuart Tanner’s face was hard. “What about it?”
Cora Felton took a drag, burned her finger. She yelped and tossed the cigarette butt on the ground. “You don’t have a real cigarette, do you? One that isn’t broken.”
“What about the clue?”
“Oh. You saw it in the paper. Me. On page one. That must have given you a turn. After seeing me at the town meeting. You’re about to kill Vicki and here’s a friend of hers helping the police.” Cora Felton nodded almost approvingly. “Lesser man might have been scared off. But you’re a nervy guy. Had to be, chances you took. Typing the clues. Planting the murder weapon. Sticking the letter in my mailbox. Cool as ice.”
“You were talking about the clue,” Stuart Tanner said patiently.
“Right. That’s your link. You saw it in the paper. Crossword puzzle clue. Four d line five equals queue. Stupid, stupid, stupid. But if other clues tied in, formed a pattern, there you are. So you made a puzzle. Queue is a letter. You took three more words that were letters and spelled quit. Sent one to the paper, left one with your wife’s body, and another with the murder weapon. Which was very good. It meant you didn’t have to kill anybody else.”
Cora Felton shook her head. “Only it won’t fly.” She shrugged. “Not a puzzle clue. And even if it were a puzzle clue, it’s different from the rest. One’s pen and one’s typewriter.” She waved her hand. “But that’s the least of it. Four d line five equals queue. Who says it does? It could mean anything. But the other three clues—they’re so simple even I can do ’em. You see what I mean?”
“Interesting theory,” Stuart Tanner said. His hand was in his jacket pocket. “Who have you discussed it with?”
“Uh-oh.” Cora Felton cocked her head. “You bring a hammer just in case?”
“Don’t be absurd. It’s late, you’re rambling, we need to go home.”
“No.”
“Yes. Come on. Let’s go home.”
“Need a cigarette,” Cora Felton said. She fumbled in her purse.
Stuart Tanner took a step toward her. His hand came out of his jacket pocket. He had something in it. Something small, dark, and hard.
Cora Felton didn’t wait to see what it was. She pulled a gun out of her purse, stuck it in his face. “I said no. Why is it you men n
ever understand when a woman says no?”
There came a screech of tires from outside the cemetery’s front gate. Car doors slammed.
Cora Felton turned her head.
Stuart Tanner lunged. The sap in his hand chopped down on Cora Felton’s fingers. Cora cried out, dropped the gun. It fell to the ground in front of her. She dove for it, but Stuart Tanner beat her to it. He scooped it up, scrambled to his feet.
Cora Felton gaped up at him. There was no mistaking his intent, but there was nothing she could do. She raised her hand.
He raised the gun.
“No!”
It came from the darkness. A young girl’s voice.
It distracted him. Just for an instant, but that was enough.
Before Stuart Tanner could fire, a shadow shot from the darkness, hurtled through the air. Grabbed Stuart Tanner by the shoulders, and pulled him to the ground.
The gun fell beside the gravestone. Cora Felton pounced on it, picked it up, staggered to her feet.
Chief Harper, Sherry Carter, and Aaron Grant all came rushing up as Cora Felton leveled the gun at Stuart Tanner, struggling in the arms of young Jimmy Potter.
60
Clara Harper’s eyes were bright. “Did you see him, Daddy? Did you see him? He’s a hero, Daddy. A real hero. I mean, did you see him?”
“I saw him,” Chief Harper said. He was somewhat preoccupied by the fact he’d left his handcuffs in the car and had no means to restrain the prisoner as he wrestled him toward the front gate. Fortunately, Stuart Tanner had given up struggling, overwhelmed by the presence of so many people in the moonlit graveyard. Still, Chief Harper was not entirely comfortable holding the prisoner with one hand and his flashlight with the other while being distracted by his ebullient daughter.
“He didn’t just knock him down,” Clara said, “he held him too. Did you see how he held him?”
“Yes, I did,” Chief Harper said. He wished Jimmy Potter were holding him now. Jimmy was helping Aaron Grant and Sherry Carter with Cora Felton. After holding together for her big scene, Cora had collapsed and all but passed out. This had alarmed Jimmy Potter, who thought Stuart Tanner must have hurt her in some way. Sherry and Aaron calmed Jimmy down, and the three of them were now assisting Cora Felton from the graveyard.