A Clue for the Puzzle Lady (21 page)

“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!”

“I’m Cora Felton. You must be Jimmy Potter.”

He seemed amazed she knew his name. “Yeah. That’s me.” His eyes grew wider still. “It was in the paper. You’re working on the killings.” He lowered his voice. “There’s been some killings and it’s very sad, but we still have to do our work.” He nodded in agreement with himself, looked at her solemnly.

“That’s very true,” Cora Felton said placidly. “Tell me, do you know anything that would help?”

Jimmy frowned. “Help?”

“Yes. Do you know anything about the murders?”

Jimmy’s face twisted in alarm. “Me? Why me?”

Cora Felton put her hand on his arm reassuringly. “I just thought you might have seen something because you’re in the library all day long, and you see everyone who comes in and goes out. So you’d be in a good position to see things.”

Jimmy considered. “That’s true,” he said. The fact that his being in a good position to see everyone who
went in and out of the library was not even remotely connected to the murders did not seem to occur to him.

“So, if you see anything, please let me know,” Cora Felton said. She turned to go.

“Don’t you want a book?”

“I’ll get it later,” Cora called over her shoulder. “I just remembered something I have to do.”

Cora Felton could understand why Clara Harper suspected Jimmy Potter, though she did not suspect him at all. She wondered how to tell young Clara without disillusioning her too badly.

Cora Felton stepped out onto the library front porch and looked across the street. Clara Harper wasn’t there, but her father was. Aaron Grant’s car was parked in front of the police station, and he and Chief Harper were standing in the street next to it. Chief Harper was holding a sheet of paper. He didn’t look happy.

Cora Felton came down the steps and crossed the street.

“Hi,” she said. “What have you got there?

Chief Harper groaned.

Aaron Grant grimaced and shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe.”

Sherry was devastated by the news. She’d been watching out the window for her aunt, come out to meet her when she’d driven up the driveway. She leaned against the fender of the car, ran her hand through her glossy hair. “This is awful.”

“Isn’t it?” Cora Felton agreed happily. “I come up with a wacky theory, and now it appears it means something.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What’s the point?”

“They were here.”

“Who?”

“The Burnsides. They were here this morning, looking for you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. And, Cora. They’re nice people. I promised them this was nothing and it would go away.”

“Maybe it will.”

“Are you kidding? Those TV sharks are on to it. I had a news crew in the driveway this morning looking to interview you.”

“What’d you tell ’em?”

“I told ’em to take a hike. The reporter wouldn’t take no for an answer, and tried to hit on me.”

“Really? What’s he like?”

“Aunt Cora! I’m not in the mood. The Burnsides lost a daughter. It’s years ago, and the scars are healed, but this reopens them all again. If you’d been here this morning, if you’d met them, if you’d met the mother …” Sherry blinked back tears. “I felt so bad.”

“I know.”

“I assured them you never meant to involve their daughter. I promised them there was nothing to it.”

“I’m sure there isn’t.”

“Maybe not. But if someone’s sending anonymous letters, Chief Harper’s not going to let it go.”

“Maybe not, but he’s killing the story. He ordered Aaron Grant to lay off. Me too. He made me swear up and down I wouldn’t look into it.”

“What about him?”

“What
about
him?”

“He’s
looking into it, isn’t he?”

“He’s tracing the letter. That’s all.”

“How’s he doing that?”

“He’s getting typing samples from everyone involved.”

“Like who?”

“The boyfriend, for starters. Kevin Roth. He’s the most likely suspect. Particularly after going to the newspaper to confront Aaron Grant.”

“Who else?”

Cora grimaced. “Well, of course, the parents.”

“He should leave them alone.”

“How can he? They’re involved. They could have written that letter.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Maybe not, but he has to know.”

“It’s not fair. Cora, if you met these people, you’d feel like I do. They’ve suffered enough, and they deserve to be left alone.”

“Which is exactly Chief Harper’s point. That’s why
he’s killing the investigation. Except for finding out who wrote the letter.”

Sherry frowned. “That’s not right either.”

“What do you mean?”

“If there’s any connection between these murders and the Barbara Burnside accident, it should be looked into.”

Cora Felton looked at her in exasperation. “Sherry. How could there be?
I made it up
. Or do
you
think the four-graves-down theory means something?”

“I know it doesn’t. But if someone wants the story killed, there must be something there.”

“What are you saying?”

“Aunt Cora. I gave the Burnsides my word that this meant nothing. If I’m wrong, I have to know it. If I told them wrong, I have to fix it. These people deserve the truth, whatever it is.”

Cora Felton put up her hands. “Sherry, Sherry, Sherry. This is the most convoluted reasoning I ever heard. You promised the Burnsides no one would investigate their daughter’s death, so you
want
it investigated?”

“I promised them the article in the paper was wrong. I have to make sure that’s true.”

“Well, there’s no way to do that,” Cora said. “Because the story is killed. No one’s going after it. Chief Harper made that perfectly clear. I gave him my word I wouldn’t touch it.”

Sherry’s skin tingled. It all came to the surface—her fear of publicity, her fear of Dennis. The things she’d been conditioned to avoid. And it was very hard, very unnatural for her to do what she was about to do.

Sherry shivered. She looked at Cora Felton, sighed.

“But I didn’t.”

Sherry Carter found Ed Hodges working in his garden. The former chief of police lived in a modest ranch house on a wooded lot on the north side of town. The house had fallen into poor repair. Sherry noted cracked shingles, peeling paint, and a drainpipe dangling from the roof.

The garden, on the other hand, was beautiful. Ed Hodges might have let the house go, but he certainly cared for his plants. The vegetable garden had neat green rows of carrots, radishes, and lettuce, according to the upside down seed packets on stakes at the end of the rows. There were also tomato plants carefully attached to sticks, a patch of summer squash, and a raspberry bush.

The flower garden was even nicer. There were marigolds, geraniums, several varieties of coleus plants, daisies, and petunias. As it was way too early in the season for any of them to have grown from seed, Sherry knew the flower garden represented frequent trips to the local greenhouse and many hours of careful planting.

Ed Hodges was digging when Sherry came up. He’d
dug up one corner of the flower garden, and was planting ground cover from a cardboard box.

“Ed Hodges?” Sherry Carter asked.

The man did not even glance up from his work. “Go away.”

“I’m Sherry Carter. I’d like to talk to you.”

He glanced up then. Ed Hodges was about seventy, had no doubt at one time been a bull of a man. Now the skin of his broad face sagged a little, but the eyes were still hard. “I’ll bet you would. You from the newspaper?”

“No.”

“TV?”

“No.”

“Then you’re not here about Barbara Burnside?”

“Actually, I am.”

“Then you can leave.”

Sherry Carter smiled. “Mr. Hodges, don’t be like that.”

“Well, how do you expect me to be? Bunch of rubbish in the morning paper. I’ve been expecting someone to come around.”

“When they do, just say, No comment.”

Ed Hodges scowled. “And who are you?”

Sherry hesitated. She knew her aunt would be quick on her feet, would hand the man a line, get him to open up. Sherry had none of those skills. She was no detective, didn’t know how to play the game. She wasn’t versed in subterfuge and deception. Her only weapon was the truth.

“I’m Sherry Carter. The woman quoted in that story is my aunt.”

“Yeah, well, your aunt is a fool. I’m sorry, lady, but that’s a fact.”

Sherry nodded. “Then you see my problem. My aunt shoots her mouth off, and there’s hell to pay. Now, I can tell you what’s already been done. Chief Harper’s talked to the reporter who wrote the story, told him not to write another. He’s also told my aunt if she issues anything more than a retraction the next headline she reads will be
BUSYBODY SNOOP ARRESTED FOR MEDDLING IN CASE
.”

Ed Hodges smiled in spite of himself.

Sherry pressed her advantage. “Now, can you help me out here? The Burnsides came to me this morning, all upset because of my aunt. I assured them there was nothing to the story.”

“So?”

“So, I’d like to hear it from you.”

Ed Hodges jabbed his trowel into the ground, let it stick there. He brushed his hands off, got to his feet. Standing slightly bent, he still towered over Sherry Carter. “Close,” he said. “Very close.”

“What do you mean?”

“Young lady, you almost had me sold. You’re young, pretty, come across as sincere. And I can tell. After a lifetime of hearing stories, I know which to buy. And yours holds up until right at the end. If the story is killed, then why are you here?”

Sherry hesitated. Then she said, “Because someone wants it killed.”

Ed Hodges frowned. “How’s that?”

“The reporter who wrote the story. He got an anonymous letter telling him not to write another.”

Ed Hodges made a face. “And that’s all?”

“That’s not enough?”

“An anonymous letter’s not worth the paper to print it on. It could be a nut, it could be a crank, it could be some kid.”

“That’s true,” Sherry said. “And it could be—and, granted, this is a real long shot—it could be someone who wanted the Burnside story killed.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But I promised the Burnsides it meant nothing, and I need to make sure I’m right. They’re good folks, and they don’t deserve this. So, can you help me out?”

Sherry Carter had beginner’s luck. Ed Hodges wouldn’t have fallen for deception. But sincerity got him. “Let’s go up on the porch.”

He led Sherry Carter up onto a screened-in back porch with faded wicker chairs and a rickety card table. “Here,
sit down. Just let me wash my hands, I’ll be right with you.”

Ed Hodges pushed through the screen door into the kitchen. Sherry could hear him in there, banging around. He was gone several minutes, returned carrying two tall glasses.

“Ice tea,” he said. “Took a chance you could stand it, nice sunny day like today. The way I like it, lemon, no sugar, but I can get you some if you like.”

“Not for me,” Sherry said. “This is fine.”

Ed Hodges sat down at the table, took a sip from his glass. “Okay,” he said, “what can I tell you?”

Sherry considered. Smiled. “What were you thinking in there while you were making the tea?”

Ed Hodges laughed. “I’m thinkin’ you’re pretty sharp. I was goin’ over it in my head, thinkin’ what I wanna say.”

“Why do you have to do that?”

“Because it’s been a long time, and I don’t wanna tell you wrong. Like you said, these are good folks. Not that I think it matters, but for what it’s worth, ask your questions.”

“Okay,” Sherry said. “Let’s get right to it. Was there anything suspicious at all about the Barbara Burnside fatality?”

Ed Hodges shook his head. “Absolutely nothing. Typical drunk driving accident. Blood alcohol on the girl was well over the legal limit. I don’t remember the exact figures, but it’s a matter of record, you could look it up. Anyway, it was way over point one percent. She wasn’t slightly drunk, she was very drunk. It’s a wonder she was able to drive at all. As it was, she didn’t get more than half a mile.”

“From where?”

“The Timlin place. That’s where the party was. Young kids. Drinking age, but still kids. Early twenties maybe. And maybe some of them not even that.
She
was over twenty. That I know for sure. It was important to know. The state of Connecticut raised the drinking age to
twenty in the fall of ’83. If she was under twenty, the Timlins were on the hook, serving liquor to a minor.”

“I thought the drinking age was twenty-one.”

“It is now. Ever since ’85. But at the time of the wreck it was twenty.”

Sherry nodded. “And there was nothing suspicious about where Barbara’s car went off the road?”

“Not at all. The Timlin house is up on a hill. You know the place? Out on Locust, two miles out of town, just past the vet’s. You know the house I mean?”

“I’m new in town.”

“Well, the first big curve down the hill she didn’t make. Right through the guardrail, hit a tree, threw her from the car. Messy.” Chief Hodges looked away and grimaced.

“And the boyfriend reported the accident?”

“That’s right. Kevin Roth. He called it in.”

“You questioned him?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What was his story?”

Hodges shrugged. “What you know. He went to the party with her. They had a fight. She got angry, took off in her car. He was worried she was too drunk to drive. He borrowed a car and went after her. Found the accident, phoned it in.”

Sherry hesitated. Frowned.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m new at this. I don’t know what to ask.”

Ed Hodges smiled. “Sure. ’Cause you don’t know what’s important. When you investigate, you don’t worry what’s important, you ask everything. Until you find something. In this case, it’s hard, ’cause there’s nothin’ much to find.”

“Maybe not,” Sherry said. “But I gotta try.” She took a sip of ice tea. “Okay. I’m gonna take you at your word and ask everything. When the boyfriend found the wreck—he was alone at the time?”