A Clue for the Puzzle Lady (28 page)

“Yeah, I know,” Timothy said. “It was the way he humiliated her.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Foster offered her a chance to pass. Just barely, with a D minus, but still, better than flunking the course.”

“Wait a minute. Her teacher offered to change her grade?”

“That’s right. If …”

“If what?”

“She did what he wanted.”

“And what was that?”

“Corrected her final.”

Crocket blinked, stunned by the anticlimax. “What?”

“He gave her back her final, asked her to correct it.”

“Her final?”

“Yeah. Her math final. The one she flunked. Foster asked her to correct everything she had wrong and hand it in again.”

“Why didn’t she do it?”

“She was going to. She just couldn’t bear it.”

“How do you know?”

“That’s why she came over. To ask me to help her. You gotta understand, Dana wasn’t very good at math.”

“She came here to ask you to help her with her final?”

“That’s right.”

“And you wouldn’t do it?”

“What do you mean, I wouldn’t do it? Why wouldn’t I do it? Actually, there was nothing to do. I got an A on that final. All she had to do was copy my answers.”

“She didn’t have to write out the problems?”

“No, just the answers. Pretty stupid, huh? Did he really think she wasn’t gonna get ’em from somebody else?”

“And she came over here to do that?”

“Right.”

“Then why did she run away?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes,” Crocket said, trying hard to be patient. “But when I asked you why she ran away, you said this teacher might have been a reason. But, if all she had to do was write the answers, and she came here to get ’em, and you were willing to give ’em, well, what went wrong?”

Timothy thought a minute, then swiveled his chair around. “I think it got to her. The sheer stupidity of it. See, it was multiple choice,
a, b, c
, or
d
. So if the guy only wanted the answer, that’s all you gotta write. But, no, just to be mean, the guy says you gotta write out the whole answer. As if the answer meant anything without the question. See, I think Dana would have been willing to write the letters. Or even write out the problems, though it would have been more work. Because there would have been a point. But writing the answers, just
for the sake of writing them—well, that’s like writing ‘I was a bad girl’ on the blackboard a hundred times.”

“So Dana never corrected her test?”

“She started, got fed up, and quit. That’s why I say, maybe that was the last straw, made her run away. I don’t really think that, I think it’s pretty stupid, I only say it ’cause you’re pressing me for a reason.”

“Uh huh. But you say Dana started to correct her test?”

“That’s right.”

“And that’s when she got upset and left?”

“Yeah. ’Cause it was stupid.”

“I see,” Officer Crocket said. He furrowed his brow. “Was there anything in the test itself that might have upset her?”

“No. How could there be?”

“I don’t know, I’m just wondering. Do you happen to have the test?”

“Of course.”

“Could I see it?”

“Sure.”

Timothy Rice jerked open the drawer of a file cabinet by the desk. Crocket noted that despite the clutter in the room, his papers were neatly filed.

Timothy pulled out the math exam. “Here we go.”

Officer Crocket came, looked over his shoulder.

It appeared to be a typical final exam. Half a dozen pages, typed, mimeoed, and stapled together. On the top it said:
Algebra II Final Exam, Mr. Foster
. Next to that, circled in red pencil, was the inscription:
96
– A.

Timothy noticed Crocket looking at the grade. “Got one wrong,” he said. “Careless. Misread a sign.”

“Ninety-six isn’t bad,” Crocket said. “So, Dana started copying off this?”

“Right,” Timothy said. “Writing down the answers. As I recall, she got the first three right. Actually, not that bad. Three out of four. Seventy-five percent. If she kept up like that, she’d have had a C. Unfortunately, she had the next four wrong. Her grade on the test was forty-six. That’s pretty bad when you consider it’s multiple choice.

Even if you didn’t know anything and just guessed, by the law of averages you’d get a twenty-five.”

“Uh huh,” Crocket said. “Show me what Dana did.”

“She just did problem four. She started five, never wrote the answer. This is the one she did.”

He pointed to it.

Crocket looked over his shoulder, read:

4) The graph of 2x = 3y + 5 is a:

a) circle

b) parabola

c) hyperbola

d) line

“That’s the one she did,” Timothy said. “Then she started number five and quit.” He grimaced. “It was a little my fault. She started writing number five on the same line, instead of underneath. Foster’s a real stickler, would have made her do it again. When I pointed that out, Dana got mad. Said, ‘I circled it, for goodness sakes, that’s not good enough?’ She folded her paper up, crammed it in her pocket. Wouldn’t look at it again. She left right after that. That’s why I say, it’s stupid, but maybe that had something to do with it. Running away, I mean.”

“Uh huh,” Crocket said. “So, what did she write, exactly?”

“The answer. And the start of the next question. Here, I’ll show you.”

Timothy Rice took a piece of paper and a ballpoint pen. He wrote on the paper, held it up for Crocket.

Officer Crocket took the paper, read what Timothy Rice had written:

4)
D – LINE
(5).

He sat on the stool, sipping his drink, and pretended not to notice the young girl at the end of the bar.

She wore shorts and a tank top a size too small, and wasn’t that revealing in more ways than one? Her blonde hair was curly, her eyes were blue. An all-American girl. Young. Very young. Old enough to be in the bar, but just barely. She’d be carded if she wasn’t known, maybe even had a fake ID.

Very young.

Good.

He liked them young.

He smiled, sipped his drink.

She was watching him. Even without looking he could tell. She was interested. And he didn’t even have to make a move. He could just sit here, wait till she came up to him.

He raised his glass, sipped his beer. Casually, arrogantly. Gave her a little profile. He swallowed, exhaled, leaned back. Crooned a few notes. Soft, low, but audible enough to carry across the bar.

I’m the pied piper, follow me
.

He knew she would.

It was just a matter of time.

He picked up his glass, tossed down the rest of his beer, signaled to the bartender to draw another. He never once considered sending one to the girl. That was for losers. Not for him. Women bought
him
drinks. She’d buy him one before long. Maybe even pick up his tab.

He smiled at the thought.

A businessman came in and sat at the bar.

Between him and the girl.

Bang, right in his line of sight.

What arrogance! What colossal gall! Couldn’t the guy see what was going on here? Comes in, plunks his briefcase down, opens it up—why didn’t he just build a
wall
between them?—takes out a newspaper, unfolds it, and holds it up.

Unbelievable.

Who was this, the girl’s
father
come to protect her? The guy couldn’t do a better job of screening him off if he tried.

He was saved from having to say something by the bartender, who arrived to take the businessman’s order—martini, very dry—and the fact that after placing the order the guy found the page he wanted and folded the paper up.

And took out a pen.

It drew his eyes like a magnet to the newspaper on the bar.

To the black-and-white grid.

The familiar face of Cora Felton.

He frowned. His smile became a sneer. He inhaled, exhaled, clenched his fists.

The Puzzle Lady.

Thought she was such hot stuff, didn’t she?

The Puzzle Lady.

Thought she was too smart for him.

Well, he’d show her a thing or two.

He snatched up his beer, took a sip, wiped his mouth. He wasn’t concerned if the girl was watching him. She was no longer an object. He’d completely forgotten
about her, didn’t even notice. There was only one woman on his mind now.

Sherry.

She should never have done this to him. She should have known better. She should have learned.

She
would
learn.

He’d see to it.

She’d be sorry.

Dennis drained his glass, and called for another beer.

Mortimer Pinkham, the examiner of questioned documents, raised his eyebrows. “All this? You have to be kidding.”

“I’m not,” Chief Harper said. “How long is it going to take?”

“A detailed analysis would take some time. I assume you’re only interested in a match.”

“That’s right,” Chief Harper said. He opened his briefcase, took out two letters encased in plastic. “Here’s two more samples to match up.”

“Oh?”

“One’s another puzzle clue. I assume it will match the two you have. The other’s something else.”

“And what is that?”

Chief Harper passed it over. The examiner took it, turned it around, read the letter. His eyes widened. When he looked up, it was without his usual supercilious air. “This is a letter from the killer?”

“It would appear to be.”

“How do you know it’s not a prank?”

“I don’t think you want to know that.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“There are things I’m not releasing to the media, and things I am. I’m releasing something today. When you hear it, if you put two and two together, I can’t stop you, but it’s probably better you don’t know for sure.”

Pinkham’s eyes were still wide. “I see.”

“I gotta run over to the crime lab. I’ll be grateful for anything you can tell me when I get back.”

Chief Harper drove to the crime lab, created a small sensation by dropping off the hammer. He fended off all questions, and left instructions that it be processed for fingerprints, and that blood and hair samples should be recovered and tested against those of the decedents.

“This is the murder weapon?” the lab technician said incredulously.

“You tell me,” Chief Harper said.

Not really expecting much, Chief Harper drove back to the examiner’s office to find Mortimer Pinkham was actually through.

“Well, you’re lucky,” Pinkham said.

“How so?”

“Your three samples—the puzzle clues, the Barbara Burnside letter, and this new one, the one sending you back to the cemetery—were all typed on typewriters.”

Chief Harper was confused. “That’s lucky?”

“It is in this day and age. Everyone’s got computer printers. Three out of three typewriters is a real stroke of luck.”

“You can’t match computer printouts?”

Pinkham looked offended. “I didn’t say that. With a laser printer the paper is marked by the belts, pinchers, and rollers. And toner can have unique chemical composition. It can be done. It’s just much easier with a typewriter.”

“And in this case?” Chief Harper prompted.

“We’ve got three separate typewriters. I got an electric courier, a non-electric courier, and this new one, a nonelectric elite. Knowing that, I could throw out half these samples right away.”

“Fine, but did you get a match?” Chief Harper said.

“I sure did. Unfortunately, I only got one, but I guess that’s better than nothing.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the elite non-electric. I couldn’t match up the puzzle clues, and I couldn’t match up the Burnside letter. But this new one, the one about the cemetery, I matched up just fine.”

Chief Harper could feel his pulse racing. “Who is it?” he asked. “Which typewriter did you match it up with?”

“This one here,” Pinkham said.

He passed over a paper encased in plastic. Chief Harper took it, turned it around.

It read:
The quick brown Fox jumps over the lasy Dog
.

The word
lazy
was misspelled
l-a-s-y
. And the
F
in
Fox
and the
D
in
Dog
were capitalized.

Chief Harper looked at the tag on the top of the plastic envelope. On it, Dan Finley had neatly written:
Library reading room annex
.

Jimmy Potter walked along the road, humming to himself. He felt slightly guilty about leaving work, but there were priorities. Jimmy didn’t actually think the word
priorities
, but that was what he meant.

The two killings bothered him. That was an understatement. The killings
should
have bothered him. But it was more than that. They fascinated him too. The idea of the two girls lying there, stretched out in front of the gravestone. It just didn’t seem real, somehow. It just didn’t seem like it could really be.

Or that it could be connected to him. That he could have anything to do with it. That made no sense. He would never, never do anything like that. So why should anyone think so?

Why should anyone suspect?

How did they get after him?

Snooping around. Asking him questions. Making him type stupid things on his typewriter. What was that all about?

Jimmy had to figure it out. And soon. So he could stop the feelings he’d been having. Bad feelings. Feelings that shouldn’t be.

He’d liked helping that reporter. That had been fun. Finding him microfilm. Looking up facts.

Pointing him at someone else.

But it wasn’t his fault. That’s what people had to understand. It wasn’t his fault. There were things he could not help, things over which he had no control.

Things for which he should not be blamed.

That man. What’s his name? Kevin Roth. That was the one they should be looking at. That was the one they should suspect. He was the one Aaron Grant suspected, wasn’t he?

He was the one who got mad.

But why did he have to get mad at him? Make him so uncomfortable he had to get out of there. Had to go somewhere. Had to find some answers. See how it felt.

Jimmy Potter walked along the street, lost in thought.