A Clue for the Puzzle Lady (27 page)

“Did you get it anyway?”

“Sure I did. And there’s another one in a little office just off the downstairs reading room. Her son was using it. You know, Jimmy. He’s helping out, typing up file cards.”

“You got a sample from that?”

“Sure thing. Jimmy typed it up himself.”

“He didn’t mind doing it?”

“No, he seemed proud to show off his typing.”

“Is that it?”

“Oh, no. I got a whole bunch more.” Dan Finley pointed to the file folder on his desk. “They’re all sealed in plastic, they’re all labeled where they’re from.”

“Then we don’t need to go over them,” Chief Harper said breezily. He was afraid it would occur to Dan that there was no reason to be interested in any typing that obviously didn’t match the Barbara Burnside letter. “Okay, hold down the fort, I’m going to New Haven to drop the hammer off at the lab. If anyone should ask, that’s where I went. I’ll also be taking these typing samples to the examiner of questioned documents, but you don’t have to mention that.”

“Gotcha,” Dan Finley said. “Anything else?”

“Yes. I need that typing sample from Kevin Roth. If we can’t get it the easy way, we’ll get it the hard way. Draw up a search warrant, empowering you to search his premises and seize any and all typewriters. Get a judge to sign it, and go and serve it.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“What grounds do we have for a warrant?”

“Plenty. We suspect Kevin Roth of obstructing justice, compounding a felony, and conspiring to conceal a crime.”

“We do?”

“We most certainly do. And I’m counting on you to impress that fact on the judge, Finley. The reason for the warrant is to determine whether the suspect wrote a letter in an attempt to impede a police investigation.”

“Kevin Roth’s going to be furious.”

“I’m sure he is. At this point, I don’t care.”

“Okay, I’ll give it a try.”

“Give it a good one. Also, call Officer Crocket in Muncie, Indiana, see if he’s got anything more on the runaway girl. If he hasn’t, see if you can get him to make another pass at the boyfriend.”

“Okay. Anything in particular you want to know?”

“Actually, yes. If possible, ask him about Dana’s shoes.”

“Her shoes?”

“Yes. The killer took her shoes off. At least that’s what we assume. At any rate, we never found them. It would help to know what kind they are. See if the boyfriend remembers what kind she was wearing.”

“How will that help?”

“It might help to find them. If we could find them, maybe we could figure out why. In both cases, the killer took the victim’s shoes off. There’s gotta be a reason. I have a feeling if we can just figure out why he did that, it would go a long way toward solving the crime.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Dan Finley said. “Is that it?”

“No. Type me a note on your typewriter.”

“What?”

“Type me a note. Type anything. Type the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Mine too. And the one at the other desk. Did you give me samples from them?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then do it now. We’re not always here. I don’t want to overlook the obvious.”

“When no one’s here, the place is locked.”

“I know. I want them just the same.”

Dan Finley typed two samples and Chief Harper typed
the other one. They labeled them, added them to the folder.

Chief Harper gathered up the folder of typing samples, nodded to Dan Finley, and went out. He drove to New Haven, confident that, aside from Kevin Roth, he had typing samples of everyone else in the case.

Sherry Carter switched on the computer, logged onto the Internet, and tried to forget about life.

Her aunt, after finishing off the last of the vodka and searching in vain for another bottle, which Sherry had had the presence of mind to hide, had marched out the front door and taken off in the car, leaving Sherry to her own devices. The device that suited her best was the computer, and Sherry sought solace in that.

Sherry scrolled through the CRUCIVERB-L digest, a daily compilation of posts discussing crossword puzzles. Some of the subscribers were merely puzzle enthusiasts, but many were constructors looking for help, and these were the posts Sherry liked best.

Sherry checked the thread that had been started the day before by Word Man, the on-line name (or nom) of a constructor who had used the five-letter sequence
youto
in a puzzle, and wanted suggestions for a good clue. In particular, Word Man wanted to know if the words
you to
were in any song, poem, or quote memorable enough to be fair.

Today there were several responses. The most
inventive was
Irish rock group, sort of
, though Sherry knew it wouldn’t fly. The rock group was U2.
Sort of
was the fact the answer was only a homonym for their name. Most puzzle editors would throw it right out.

Ordinarily, Sherry would have found this amusing. Today, she couldn’t even concentrate on the screen. Sherry told herself it was because she was worried about her aunt, but she knew that wasn’t the case. And it wasn’t even the Barbara Burnside business, either. No, Sherry was bothered by the nagging thought that wouldn’t go away.

Dennis.

And it wasn’t just the idea that he might find her.

No, it was the idea that had been germinating in her mind ever since her friend Brenda had put it there, offhandedly, inadvertently, with a casual, facetious comment.

What was it Brenda had said?

You’re glad he’s on tour and not strangling young girls
.

That had been days ago. But all that time it had been ticking around in her subconscious. Bouncing around the corners of her brain, trying to come to the forefront.

Not strangling young girls
.

Dennis.

Strangling young girls
.

Sherry pushed herself back from the computer.

There. She had finally voiced the thought. At least to herself.

Could her ex-husband be a killer?

Could her ex-husband be
the
killer?

Could her ex-husband be behind all this?

The minute she had that thought, a million other thoughts assailed her. Ugly thoughts, buffeting her from all directions.

Yes, Dennis was violent; Dennis had a history of violence.

Yes, Dennis hated her, hated her almost as much as he loved her.

Yes, Dennis was handsome, personable, would be attractive to young girls.

But was he sick enough to kill?

Drunk, he was. Sherry knew that for a fact. Drunk, Dennis was capable of anything.

But sober, she couldn’t see it. Somehow, she just couldn’t see it. And yet, she realized, the reason she couldn’t see it was because Dennis, sober, was so suave, sophisticated, charming, and pleasant. And if that was an act—and didn’t she know well enough that most of his posturing was an act—well, then, would Dennis be capable of murder? Could he lure and kill a young girl?

The answer tortured Sherry.

It was not that the answer was yes.

It was that the answer wasn’t no.

It was possible.

In her heart, she knew it was possible.

She had to get it out of her head.

Sherry told herself if it were
really
possible, she would have thought of it before, it wouldn’t have taken this long. Why wouldn’t she have realized the moment she heard?

Unfortunately, she had the answer. Brenda’d said
strangling
young girls. Sherry had corrected her—the girl had been hit with a blunt object—leading the discussion away from Dennis and back to the crime. But more than that, the original remark, in being wrong, hadn’t registered. Brenda had referred to strangling young girls. No one was strangling young girls. Therefore, her remark had not connected Dennis to the murders.

Yes, it was pure semantics. But Sherry dealt in semantics. Her brain processed words in a very precise, selective manner. If a premise was misstated, it would take a long time for the truth to penetrate.

The truth?

Dennis?

Did she really believe it was Dennis?

Sherry told herself she had to think this out rationally. Because, rationally and logically, she knew it
couldn’t
be
Dennis. It simply didn’t make sense. So, if it wasn’t Dennis, she merely had to convince herself of that fact by simple, irrefutable logic. Calmly, coolly, work it out.

Could Dennis kill the girls?

Yes, he could.

But why would he kill the girls?

Unfortunately, Sherry knew why. He would do it to get at her. To scare her. To demonstrate his superiority, strength, intelligence, cunning, ruthlessness, ingeniousness, and persistence.

All right, grant him that. Was there anything in these two murders that pointed to him?

Unfortunately, there was.

The puzzle clues.

Sherry’s ex-husband was one of the few people in the world who knew that Sherry, not Cora Felton, was the Puzzle Lady. So far, it had not occurred to him to threaten to reveal that fact. Sherry prayed it never would. But he knew it, and he could certainly use it. And if he was killing these girls, as Sherry feared he was, to get at her, then didn’t it follow that he would taunt her with the puzzle clues?

No, it did not, Sherry told herself. And for the first time since she had had the paranoid thought that Dennis might be behind this, she was comparatively calm. Because the logic here was forceful. Although Dennis might be capable of committing the murders, he was not capable of leaving the puzzle clues. For the same reason his band would never get anywhere. Dennis was not that creative. His songs were mediocre at best. As a performer, he had gotten by on charisma, not talent. But to create a puzzle based on several words that were homonyms for letters spelling another word—Dennis simply couldn’t do it.

So, unless Dennis had an accomplice—which made no sense—he could not be the killer. Dennis might have killed in a drunken rage. He might even have lured young girls like the spider and the fly. But not like this.

So, the very thing that implicated Dennis also exonerated
him. The puzzle clues, which he would have known to send to her, he could not have made up.

In Sherry’s mind it was very clear.

Because of the puzzle clues, Dennis could not be the killer.

Officer Crocket, who was somewhat overweight, resented the stairs up to Timothy Rice’s room. Timothy lived above his parents’ garage in a housing development on the outskirts of Muncie, Indiana, and while that might have been cool for a teenage boy, the steep, narrow stairs were ill suited for a portly policeman. So Officer Crocket began the questioning slightly out of breath.

Fortunately, he had a good chance to recover while Timothy protested that he’d already told the police everything he knew. Crocket let the boy ramble, glanced around the room.

It was your typical teenage room, clothes on the floor, rock stars and baseball and basketball players on the wall. No pinups, Crocket noted. Timothy’s mother probably collected the laundry once a week, prohibiting calendar art. Timothy had a TV with some video game or other—Crocket was not clear on the various distinctions—a hi-fi system for cassettes and CDs, and a computer and modem. The computer, centrally placed, seemed to dominate the room. Crocket got the impression that for
all the sports posters, not to mention his Indianapolis Colts T-shirt, Timothy Rice was more nerd than jock.

“All right,” Crocket said, when the boy finally ran down and stopped complaining. “I know this is difficult for you, but I just have a few more questions. I’m sure you want Dana’s killer caught.”

“Of course I do. I just don’t see how I can help.”

“Well, why don’t you let us be the judge of that. Just help us any way you can.”

Timothy Rice had sandy hair and tortoiseshell glasses. He pushed the glasses back up on his nose and said, “What do you want to know?”

“Do you remember her shoes?”

“What?”

“When Dana came to see you, just before she left—what kind of shoes was she wearing?”

“Why?”

“Because there weren’t any on the body, and they’ve never been found.”

Timothy shuddered. “Body.”

“I know. It’s upsetting. But if you could help us out. You happen to remember her shoes?”

“Sure. She was wearing sneakers.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Dana always wore sneakers.”

“Do you happen to know what kind?”

“Nike.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. She wore Nike. I wear Reebok. See?” Timothy hiked the leg of his blue jeans, lifted his foot. “See. Reebok. We used to kid about it. You know, like a commercial parody. Anyway, that’s what she wore.”

“What about her socks?”

“What about ’em?”

“What kind were they?”

“White, of course. What else do you wear with sneakers?”

“Uh huh,” Crocket said. “And when she came over here—the last time you saw her—did she give you any idea she was going to leave?”

“No, she didn’t,” Timothy said. “I’ve been over this a hundred times. She was upset, she was real unhappy, and she was complaining. But she never said anything about running away.”

“Why was she upset?”

“About her grades, of course.”

“Her grades?”

“Yeah. She had terrible grades.”

“Lots of kids get bad grades. They don’t run away.”

“I know.”

“Well, can you think of any reason why Dana did?”

Timothy Rice sat in his desk chair, swiveled it around, typed idly on the keyboard of the computer. The computer was off. “I guess it was Mr. Foster.”

“Who?”

“The math teacher.”

Officer Crocket felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. Good God. Something concrete. At last. The girl was involved with her teacher.

He tried not to sound too eager. “What do you mean, Timothy?”

“Oh. The math teacher scared her off. She flunked his course. Flat out flunked. Her other grades were bad, but this was the worst. He gave her a straight F.”

That was not what Crocket wanted. Now he tried to hide his disappointment. “Too bad,” he said. “But no reason to run away.”