A Clue for the Puzzle Lady (3 page)

“Barney’s doing an autopsy now. We’ll know more when we get the results. Right now we’re trying to ID her and canvass for witnesses.”

“That’s not enough.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This is serious, Dale. This is a
murder
. It has to be solved.”

“No kidding.”

“I’ll be right over. See what you’ve got.”

“I won’t be here. I’m going out.”

“Out? Where?”

“To investigate a murder,” Chief Harper replied, and hung up the phone.

Chief Harper put his head in his hands. He inhaled, exhaled twice. He felt as if the world were closing in on
him. Okay, he had to go out. Investigate a murder. Go do something. Anything was better than dealing with Henry Firth.

His eyes lit on the newspaper. He picked it up and flipped through, looking for the crossword column.

It wasn’t hard to find in a paper the size of the
Bakerhaven Gazette
. In less than a minute Chief Harper was looking at what was unmistakably the column of the woman he’d seen on TV.

The column was headlined: THE PUZZLE LADY. Underneath was a picture of a rather robust, elderly woman, with curly white hair, steel-rimmed spectacles, twinkling eyes, rosy cheeks, and a smile that was just a little bit enigmatic and a little bit smug.

Under the picture was the name
Miss Cora Felton
.

The puzzle was your standard crossword puzzle. If Chief Harper had counted, he would have found it to be a fifteen-by-fifteen square. He merely registered the fact it was exactly what he had expected.

Except for the theme.

The puzzle was entitled
Lost Her Knitting
. In addition to the puzzle, there was a short anecdote that preceded it. The anecdote was about a woman who had lost her knitting. Chief Harper read it, failed to see the point.

Oh well, at least he had the woman’s name.

He sighed, reached for the phone.

Before the phone rang, Sherry Carter was actually in a pretty good mood. She sat at the kitchen table, sipping her coffee and reading the crossword puzzle, and feeling quite content.

The move to Connecticut had worked out well. Sherry and her aunt had been able to find a modest but comfortable house at a rent that they could afford, living together wasn’t all that bad, and they hadn’t been there long enough to start going stir-crazy yet. In fact, they were only half unpacked, and were still living out of boxes. But Sherry didn’t mind. Setting up her computer and modem had been enough to keep her happy.

She had also gotten a job. Sherry had answered an ad in the local paper for a substitute nursery school teacher. She had no experience, but it was a private school so no teaching certificate was required. And the kids loved her. When she went for the interview, the children wouldn’t leave her alone. The woman who ran the school had hired her on the spot. So far she’d substituted twice, with great success.

Of course it wasn’t steady work, but Sherry already had a job. She was working at it, when the phone rang.

Sherry Carter was proofreading the Puzzle Lady column before faxing it off to the 256 newspapers that carried it nationwide. It was a job she’d done for nearly two years, ever since the very first column.

At the moment, Sherry Carter was checking one of the four long clues. There were two horizontal and two vertical, all of them ten letters each. Sherry was checking 16 across. The answer was
sweepstake
. The clue was
TV month opposite give
. The
TV month
was
sweeps
month and
opposite give
was
take
.

It was, all things considered, a relatively easy clue. But then the Puzzle Lady’s puzzles had not become widely popular by being difficult to solve. The puzzles were comfortably accessible enough to be enjoyed by the masses, while just challenging enough to be fun.
TV month opposite give
would do nicely. Though, it occurred to her, the Puzzle Lady would get letters from purists pointing out that sweepstakes should be plural.

Sherry Carter smiled. She leaned back in her chair, took a sip of coffee, felt at peace with the world.

The phone rang.

Sherry reached for it eagerly, hoping it was the nursery school asking her to come in. It was a little late for them to be calling, but there was still a chance.

“Hello?”

But there was no one there. Just the crackling open line. A moment later there was a click and then she got a dial tone.

Sherry hung up the phone and her smile faded.

The same thing had happened the night before. If it happened again she’d have to report it. Sherry wondered how long it would take to get repair service in a small town like this.

If it
was
a malfunction.

If it wasn’t Dennis.

Sherry shuddered, instinctively rubbed her sore ribs, courtesy of her abusive ex-husband’s last little visit. He’d ambushed her outside her apartment, been waiting behind a parked car. She’d known at once she was in trouble. His long, blond hair was matted and snarled, his
leather jacket was torn, and there was a red welt on his chin. The typical pattern, par for the course. Having lost a fight at the pub, Dennis would redeem his manhood by winning one at home. But for once she got lucky. A passerby had called the police and a patrol car had gotten there before he could do much damage.

The bruises were almost gone.

It couldn’t be him.

Could it?

Sherry told herself, no, rationally there was no way Dennis could know that she was here. The house and phone were not in her name; even if he knew what town she was in—which he didn’t—there was no way he could get the number. It was a glitch in the phone line, plain and simple, happened all the time, and whoever it was would just call back.

She no sooner had that thought when the phone rang again. Only it didn’t reassure her. Quite the opposite. What if it was Dennis?

That was a frightening enough prospect that Sherry was tempted to let the answering machine pick up. She told herself she was being silly, reached for the phone. In spite of herself, she expected to hear his voice.

But it wasn’t for her.

“Cora Felton?”

Sherry heaved a sigh of relief. She hoped it wasn’t audible over the phone. “Who’s calling, please?”

“Is this the Puzzle Lady?”

“This is Sherry Carter. I’m Cora Felton’s niece. May I help you?”

“No, I need to speak to her. Is she there?”

“I’m afraid she’s sleeping, can I take a message?”

“Sleeping?”

“She works late. Can I take a message?”

“No, I’ll come out. You live at 385 Cold Springs Road?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Wake her up. I’ll be right there.”

“You most certainly will not. Leave us alone, or I’ll call the police.”

“I
am
the police.”

“What?”

“Sorry. I should have made that clear. I’m Dale Harper, I’m the Bakerhaven chief of police. I need to speak to Miss Felton. It’s a police matter. I’ll be right over. Please wake her up.”

Sherry Carter hung up the phone in mounting dread. The police? Cora was wanted by the police? What in the world had that woman done now?

Sherry rushed to the front window, looked out. The sky was dark and the rain was falling, but she could see the driveway clearly. The car was there, and, while it was parked across the driveway at something of an angle, it did not appear to be scratched. Her worst fears were groundless. So what was this all about?

Sherry hurried to the back hall. Pushed open the door on the right.

And there she was, sleeping soundly, the trademark enigmatic smile on her face, just as if nothing had happened.

Sherry grabbed her arm, shook her. “Aunt Cora!”

Cora Felton stirred, groaned, rolled over on her side, opened a bleary red eye. The odor of stale gin wafted up from the bed.

“Wake up, damn it!” Sherry said. “We’ve got trouble.”

“Ow! Too hot!”

“Hold still.”

“You’re burning me.”

“Aunt Cora.”

“What’s this thing on my head?”

“Leave that on.”

“What is it?”

“A shower cap. Your hair has to be dry.”

“Why?”

“Hold still.”

In desperation Sherry Carter was trying to wake Cora Felton up by holding her under the shower. It was only half working. Cora was conscious but barely coherent. She was also rather heavy, and Sherry was having a hard time holding her up.

“Stop squirming.”

“I’m not squirming.”

“You’re not helping. Aunt Cora, what did you do last night?”

“Do?”

“Yes, what did you do?”

“Didn’t do anything.”

“Then why do the police want you?”

“The police?”

“Yes. Why do the police want you?”

“Can’t remember.”

“You can’t remember why the police want you?”

“No. Can you?”

“Aunt Cora—”

“Oh, that’s too cold!”

“Aunt Cora. Did you have a run-in with the police last night?”

Cora sagged against Sherry’s arm. “You know, someone was just asking me that.”

“I was.”

“Oh.”

“Aunt Cora. Snap out of it. Think. What did you do last night?”

Cora Felton scowled. Cocked her head. Water ran down her cheek, cascaded off her chin. She took no notice. “Played some cards. Had some drinks. Met a man.”

“What man?”

“Nice man. Reminded me of Frank. My third husband. Nice man, but married.” Cora Felton nodded in agreement with herself. “So was Frank.”

“Aunt Cora. Did anything happen with this man?”

“Nosy, nosy, nosy,” Cora muttered. “Ow! Too hot!”

“Aunt Cora.”

“Turn the water down. I’ll talk, I’ll talk. What do you want to know?”

“What happened with this man?”

“Probably nothing. Can’t remember. Can I get out now?”

“Aunt Cora, listen to me. A policeman is coming. You have to pull yourself together.”

The front doorbell chimed.

“Oh, my God. He’s here.”

“Who’s here?” Cora Felton lost her balance and slumped against the side of the shower stall. She clung to the soap dish, blinked up at Sherry through the water, smiled and said, “Oops.”

For a moment Sherry was tempted to simply give up and
let the policeman have her. It was just for a moment, and yet she felt a pang of guilt. Sherry could never do that to her aunt, no matter how exasperating she was. For all her faults—and there were certainly many—Cora was a kind, warmhearted woman, and Sherry really loved her. Cora had always looked out for Sherry when she needed her most, like when her marriage had broken up, and Sherry would always look out for her.

Even when it wasn’t easy.

“Aunt Cora, listen. A policeman’s here. And he’s looking for you. So here’s what you do. You sit there, you keep your mouth shut, you listen to what he has to say. I’ll do the talking. You just keep from falling off your chair.”

Sherry turned off the water, yanked Cora out of the shower, grabbed a towel.

Chief Harper stood in the breezeway dripping wet and wondered why they were taking so long to answer the bell. A red Toyota had been parked askew blocking the driveway, and he had been forced to pull in behind it and then sprint across the lawn to the kitchen door.

Which no one seemed to want to answer. There was of course a front door, but it was exposed to the rain, on the one hand, and not nearly as convenient, on the other. Chief Harper doubted if they actually used it. Still, it occurred to him maybe he should try that door. Instead, he pushed the kitchen bell again. He could hear it ring inside the house. So they had to know he was there, they were just making him wait. He shuffled his feet impatiently, looked around.

Three eighty-five Cold Springs Road was one of the prefabs built in the mid-50s, before the selectmen legislated against such structures. Other existing ordinances prohibited them from being built close together, required at least a one-acre lot. So the house, though modest, had no near neighbors. There was woods to either side, a meadow across the road. A wide front lawn. It probably looked nice when it wasn’t raining.

Where
were
they?

After what seemed like forever, the door was opened by an attractive young woman with short, curly dark hair. She wore a yellow pullover, blue jeans, and running shoes. To Chief Harper she looked like a college student, though he realized she must be older. Or maybe he was just getting older.

“Sorry about that,” the young woman said. “You’re the police chief?”

“That’s right,” he said. “Chief Harper.”

“I’m Sherry Carter. Miss Felton’s niece. We spoke on the phone. Please come in.”

Chief Harper did, found himself in a small anteway leading to the kitchen. He stood on the welcome mat, shuffled his muddy feet.

The young woman was all crisp efficiency. “Why don’t you just take them off? Let me take your raincoat. Here’s a towel.”

Chief Harper surrendered his slicker, slipped off his shoes, dried himself on the towel. He followed the young woman through a well-stocked country kitchen with a central butcher block table, and a sparely furnished modern living room piled with boxes.

“You must forgive me, the place is a mess. But then we weren’t expecting company,” the young woman said.

She led him through a door into a small study.

Cora Felton sat in an overstuffed chair, a blanket pulled up under her chin. Poking out from beneath it was the top of her dressing gown. There was a box of tissues on the table next to her, and her eyes were red. Otherwise, she looked exactly like the woman who smiled out of the newspaper every morning.

“Miss Felton?” he said.

She winced slightly at the sound, then raised her eyes and smiled.

The young woman hovered over her solicitously, patted her shoulders. “Please do sit down,” she told him, indicating a chair. “You’ll forgive my aunt if she doesn’t get up, but she has a cold. And what can we do for you?”

Chief Harper sat. “I’m Dale Harper,” he said,
somewhat apologetically. “The chief of police. I’m investigating a crime. I was hoping you could assist me with my inquiries.”