A Clue for the Puzzle Lady (18 page)

The next subheading was
BURNSIDE CONNECTION
.

The story was continued on page three. But Sherry didn’t turn the page. She was looking at the two photos that accompanied the article.

Neither was of the dead girl, Dana Phelps.

One was a photo of Cora Felton.

The other was a photo of a young woman. It was a professional, retouched head shot, could have come from a yearbook or been a wedding announcement photograph. It showed a young woman with dark hair, smooth skin, wide eyes, and a dazzling smile. It was a bright young face, full of promise.

The caption read:
Barbara Burnside
.

Sherry Carter looked up from the paper. Her eyes glistened and her lip quivered. “Oh, dear. Please come in. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re
so sorry?” Raymond Burnside said.

“I don’t know what to say. I had no idea. Please come in. I’ll do anything I can for you.” Sherry turned to the woman. “Mrs. Burnside. Please. I know how you must feel, but, please. Come in and let’s talk about it.”

The Burnsides allowed Sherry to usher them in the front door. Sherry shuddered at the thought of the living room, guided them instead into the kitchen.

The remains of a Bloody Mary were on the butcher block, the ice cubes melting, the tomato juice clinging to the sides of the glass. Sherry hoped the Burnsides wouldn’t notice. “Please sit down. Can I get you coffee?”

“No, you can’t,” Raymond Burnside said. “This is not a social situation. You say you know how we feel. Well, I doubt it. You can’t possibly know how we feel. Seven
years in therapy.
Seven
years. And all we accomplished in that time was finally being able to stop therapy. Well, I guess we’ll be starting again.”

Laura Burnside had sunk into a chair. “Why would she do this to us? Why?”

Sherry took a breath. “Mrs. Burnside, this is all just a horrible misunderstanding. I know that doesn’t help. But my aunt never had any intention of involving you or your daughter. The police came to her with a clue and insisted it was part of a crossword puzzle. She told them it wasn’t. Said it could as likely mean four graves down in line five. But she didn’t think it was, and she certainly didn’t think someone would go to the cemetery and count the graves to see what that might be.”

“Oh, no?” Raymond Burnside said. “Are you telling me she didn’t go to the cemetery herself?”

“No, she did, but—”

“And did she find our daughter’s grave?”

“She may have.”

“She
may
have?”

“I don’t know that she did, but I can’t assure you that she didn’t. I do know she didn’t give it out for publication.”

“Oh, of course not,” Raymond Burnside snarled. “A woman like that, in the newspapers and on TV. Her smiling face everywhere. Like she’d pass up a chance to be on page one.”

“You don’t know my aunt.”

“I know what she did to us.”

“She didn’t mean to.”

“Of course not. You haven’t
talked
to your aunt, but somehow you just
know.”

Sherry had turned away from the Burnsides. Now she turned back. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “It’s my fault.”

Raymond Burnside blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s my fault,” Sherry repeated. The tears overflowed, ran slowly down both cheeks. “That reporter came here after the first story, and I bawled him out for writing it. Told him how stupid he was. Made him promise to
retract. Not write any more about crossword puzzles.” She took a shaky breath. “I’m the one who gave him the other explanation. I didn’t know he would write it, and I didn’t know it would lead to you, but I did it. It’s my fault.”

Raymond Burnside snorted. “The hell it is.”

Fresh tears welled in Laura Burnside’s reddened eyes. It occurred to Laura for the first time how young Sherry was. Not much older than her daughter had been at the time … “Raymond,” she said. “That’s enough. Leave her alone.”

“No, he’s right,” Sherry said. “And there’s more you may not know. Have you spoken to Chief Harper this morning?”

“I called, he wasn’t in,” Raymond Burnside told her. “What do you mean, more?”

“There was another killing last night. Vicki Tanner. A young housewife from Bakerhaven.” Sherry hated to say it. “She was found at the same grave.”

Laura Burnside choked back a sob. “Oh, my God …”

Raymond Burnside’s eyes were hard. “Then it just starts all over again. Tell me, was there another clue?”

Sherry couldn’t bear to lie to him. But she couldn’t tell him the truth either. “There was nothing about four d line five on the body. Nothing that would lead people to your daughter’s grave.”

“As if that mattered,” Raymond Burnside said fiercely. “It’s on the front page of the damn paper, and that ties it in. As far as anybody in town’s concerned, my daughter’s involved.”

“Mr. Burnside, no one thinks that. I promise you it isn’t true. These murders have nothing to do with your daughter’s accident. There’s no connection whatsoever. This is all my fault, and I will take care of it. I know that isn’t good enough, but it’s all that I can do.”

Raymond Burnside didn’t trust himself to speak. He put his arm around his wife again, helped her to her feet, led her out the door.

Sherry wiped her eyes, and stepped away from the
counter, where she’d been standing in front of the vodka bottle Cora Felton had neglected to put away after mixing her breakfast drink. She followed the Burnsides out, watched while Raymond Burnside helped his wife into the passenger seat, then got in the driver’s seat and started the car.

Sherry’d been so caught up in the Burnsides’ problems that it was not until their station wagon backed out of the driveway that the implications of her aunt being on the front page of the morning paper caught up with her. It would not take much more publicity like this before her dream came true, before Dennis came knocking at her door.

Sherry looked at the empty driveway with mounting misgivings.

What mischief was that woman getting into now?

Tongues were wagging in the bake shop.

“The Graveyard Killer,” Sophie Singer said. A young music teacher at the high school, she had dropped in for coffee after her first class.

“That’s right,” Lydia Wakefield said. She had a baby in a stroller. “I heard it on the radio. The Graveyard Killer. That’s what they’re calling him. Because it was in the cemetery. Another murder in the cemetery just like before.”

“Only this time it’s local,” Anna Furst said. An older woman with white hair in a fat bun, she had piercing eyes. “That’s what I hear. This time it was one of us.”

The women shuddered at the word
us
.

“Is that true?” Sophie Singer asked.

“Yes, it is,” Mary Cushman said. The plump proprietor of Cushman’s Bake Shop had the scoop. “She’s local and she’s important. In fact, I think she’s a selectman.”

“A selectman?” Sophie repeated. “Are you sure?”

“No, but I know she’s important.”

“She could be a film star,” Lydia Wakefield pointed out. “Wouldn’t that be something if she was an actress from the movies?”

“Well, why would you think that?” Sophie Singer demanded.

“Because she’s someone important. So maybe she’s someone famous. Like a film star.”

“Wouldn’t they have said?” Anna Furst said.

“Who?”

“The people on the radio.”

“If they knew they would,” Lydia Wakefield agreed. “But the police don’t always release the information.”

“That’s true.” Mrs. Cushman nodded. “They always leave so much out.”

“From what I heard, he took her socks and shoes off,” Sophie Singer said.

“Oh?”

“Killed her and took off her shoes. And left them in our parking lot.”

“No!”

“Yes. Her car was in the high school parking lot, and her shoes were in it, and I think there was blood.”

“Blood!”

“Well, I’m not sure about the blood. But the car was broken into.”

“Is it still there?”

“No. The police towed it away.” Sophie finished her coffee, threw out the paper cup. “Well, I gotta get back to class.”

Sophie went out the door just as Julia Weinstein from the hairdresser’s came in.

“Julia,” Lydia Wakefield said, “did you hear what happened?”

“Who didn’t,” Julia said. “What’s this I hear about he took her clothes off?”

“Took her clothes off?” Anna Furst said.

“That’s what I hear. You didn’t hear anything about that?”

“Sophie said her socks and shoes.”

“There you are,” Julia said. “I knew there was something to it. The way I hear, the killer stripped the body.”

“Was she a movie star?” Lydia Wakefield said.

“Movie star?” Julia said. “I didn’t know that. Is that right?”

“I don’t know. I’m just asking.”

“All we know is she was famous,” Mary Cushman said. “Can I get you something?”

“I’ll have a coffee and a blueberry muffin,” Julia said. “Have they released her name?”

“Yes, and I didn’t know it,” Lydia Wakefield said.

“Then how could she be a movie star?”

“Oh, so you know the name of every movie star? What if it’s one of those actors who’s been in a million pictures and you know the face but you can’t recall the name?”

The front door banged open as Betty Dunwood came in. A severe-looking middle-aged woman, Betty Dunwood was the town clerk.

“Ah, Betty,” Mrs. Cushman exclaimed. “Just in time. You’re the one who’d know. The woman found in the cemetery last night—you heard about it?”

“Who hasn’t.”

“So tell me, was she a selectman?”

Betty Dunwood was taken aback. “No, of course not. What makes you think that?”

“See,” Lydia Wakefield said. “There you are. She must have been an actress.”

“An actress?” Betty Dunwood was confused.

“Sure,” Julia Weinstein said. “That would tie right in with the body being found naked.”

“Naked?”

“Yes. We hear he took her clothes off.”

In the corner of the bakery, Cora Felton sat, sipping her coffee and holding her tongue as misinformation swirled around her. Cora was grateful for the fact the proprietor still hadn’t figured out who she was—somewhat remarkable, since her picture’d been on the front page of Tuesday’s paper, not to mention today’s, which gave an idea of how accurate Mrs. Cushman’s assessments were.

Still, someone else might have recognized her, and every time one of the women glanced her way, Cora managed
to have her head buried in this morning’s
Bakerhaven Gazette
. As a result, she had read the Barbara Burnside story more than once. Which made rather interesting reading in counterpoint to the women in the bake shop discussing the crime.

Cora Felton sipped her coffee, tried to chase her hangover. She’d had a Bloody Mary when she’d first gotten up, and now she’d moved on to coffee. In her eyes, this was the difference between a drinker and a drunk. For a drunk, the Bloody Mary would be the first drink of the day. A drunk would stick with liquor, head for a bar. For Cora Felton the Bloody Mary was just to take the edge off. After that, she would straighten herself out with coffee and would not drink again until dinner.

Cora Felton was a social drinker, not a drunk.

It was something she told herself many times.

Cora Felton finished her coffee, tucked her paper under her arm, and headed for the door. She chose a moment to do so when the women’s attention was diverted. She didn’t want to be spotted, recognized, questioned about the crimes. At least not here. She made her way quietly to the front door, slipped outside.

Her car was parked across the street in front of the library. There was a crosswalk at the corner, but in a town this size, Cora couldn’t really see the point. She stepped out between parked cars into the street.

A car turned the corner, came straight at her.

Cora had an instant of panic. The driver was trying to run her down. Then the car slowed to let her pass.

Cora Felton crossed the street, squeezed between two parked cars, stepped up on the sidewalk, and stopped dead.

Aaron Grant was sitting on the fender of her car. It occurred to her, for the amount of sleep he must have gotten, he didn’t look bad. At least he’d managed to shave, shower, change his clothes.

“Hi,” he said. “Thought this was your car. But you weren’t in the library.”

“No, I was in the bakery. But there wasn’t a parking spot there when I drove up.”

“Uh huh,” he said, nodding. “You want to take a ride?”

“Where to?”

“It doesn’t really matter. Just so long as no one bothers us.”

“Oh? What’s this?” Cora Felton said. “To pay me back for the you-might-be-the-killer remark? Or, wait, you
are
the killer, and I hit too close to home, and now you’ve got to eliminate me.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Aaron agreed. “You want to risk it?”

“I don’t see why not,” Cora said. “I’ll drive. That way if you kill me, the car goes off the road.”

“Sounds good,” Aaron said. “Shall we?”

Cora Felton unlocked her car. Aaron Grant got in the passenger side. Cora got in, started it up. She pulled out of the parking space, headed out of town in the direction of the Country Kitchen.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m driving as far as the high school and turning around. If you’ve got something to say, young man, say it by then.”

“You see this morning’s paper?”

“How could I miss it? I have it right here.”

“I see that you do. I’m wondering if you read it.”

“I read it. You took the Barbara Burnside story and ran with it. I’m not entirely sure why.”

“It’s part of the deal,” Aaron said. “I did it to pooh-pooh the puzzle angle.”

“Well, I bet you get little thanks for it,” Cora said. “You are rather young, you know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re impetuous. You do things without considering the consequences.”

“That’s a youthful trait?”

“ ‘Older and wiser’ isn’t just an expression. You learn not to do things after a while.”