A Clue for the Puzzle Lady (32 page)

“Hello?”

The voice came from the living room.

Kevin Roth turned.

Aaron Grant came in the door.

Aaron must not have heard the shot, because he stopped short, gawking at the sight of a man with a gun.

Kevin Roth’s face registered surprise.

Then recognition.

Then rage.

This
was the man who had made all the trouble. The reporter.

Kevin Roth hesitated, not sure where to aim the gun.

It was all the opening Sherry needed. Before Roth could make up his mind who to shoot, she reached behind her, then lunged forward and brought the heavy iron frying pan from the stove down on his head.

“Sherry, I’m sorry. I completely forgot.”

“Brenda—”

“No, really. It was just so unimportant. They were in town last week, he called up just to take a shower.”

“A
shower?”

“Sherry. I know you always think I have a thing for Dennis. He’s very cute, but forget about it. They were passing through, had no place to stay, and I wasn’t gonna let ’em. I had a date. I let him take a shower and clean up if he agreed to be gone by the time I got back. And he was, but he must have gone through my address book.”

“Brenda—”

“I know, I know. I should have said something. But like I told you, I know their itinerary, and he’s not around. I can look up where he is if you want.”

“I want.”

“Sherry, don’t be like that.”

“I’m sorry. A lot’s happened, and I don’t have time to get into it. I’ll call you when things calm down. Right now, I need to know where he is.”

“Hold on.”

Sherry could hear Brenda put down the phone and her footsteps walking away. Moments later she was back.

“They’re in Florida.”

“Are you sure?”

“They have a gig tonight in Fort Lauderdale. Last night too. Trust me, they’re there.”

“They’re playing tonight?”

“That’s right. Two sets. At ten o’clock and midnight. I have it right here.”

“Uh huh,” Sherry said. “That itinerary list the hotel?”

It did. Sherry got the number, called it, asked the front desk to ring the room.

He answered with a grunt. Slurred, hostile. “Yeah?”

Sherry broke the connection.

So.

That made it official.

Dennis was in Florida.

Dennis wasn’t the Graveyard Killer.

Dennis was just Dennis, up to his old tricks again, harassing her with drunken phone calls.

It occurred to Sherry that Dennis was not going to play well tonight. Assuming he managed to make it on stage.

Sherry went back in the kitchen where Aaron Grant was standing guard over Kevin Roth, who was lying facedown on the floor. “Did he move?” she asked.

“No. Did you make your call?”

“Yeah. I called Florida.”

“Huh?”

“I called New York and Florida.” She handed him the cellular phone. “I’ll pay you when you get your bill.”

“It’s no problem,” Aaron Grant said. He was curious, but didn’t want to pry. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” Sherry replied. When Aaron said nothing, she said, “I got a crank phone call. With a killer on the loose, I had to make sure that’s all it was.”

“And it is?”

“Yeah, it’s nothing. I knew it, but I had to make sure.” She looked around. “So, where’s the police?”

“They’re all out.”

Sherry frowned. “What?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you when you ran off with my cell phone. They’re all out. I left a message.”

“They’re all out?”

“It’s an emergency. Chief Harper’s daughter’s missing.”

“What?”

“She never came home from school. He’s worried sick.” Aaron jerked his thumb at the body on the floor. “He’ll be relieved to know she didn’t run into him.”

“You spoke to Chief Harper?”

“No. Dan Finley. Why?”

“Then you don’t know about the clue.”

“The clue? Oh, yeah, Dan told me about it.”

“What?”

“Sure.
Four d line five
. The girl wrote it herself. Dan told me.”

“Dan Finley knows about it?”

“Sure. Everyone knows about it. He was the first to know. He took the call.”

“But …”

“But what?”

“That’s what I can’t understand. This lunatic, this drunken madman, is in my house holding a gun on me. And all the time I know it makes no sense because the clue is not a clue. And if
four d line five
is not a clue, there is no lead to Barbara Burnside at all.”

“Then how can he be the Graveyard Killer?”

“He’s not. At least, I don’t think he is.”

“Then what was this all about?”

“I can tell you what I think. I have no proof. But it shouldn’t be hard to get. The police will take an interest, now that he’s pulled a gun. Basically, the bottom line is this. There was something not kosher about the Barbara Burnside accident years ago. It had nothing to do with the killings, it was something else entirely, but it was there. So when I started probing, I hit a nerve.”

“Probing?”

“I spoke to Ed Hodges and Billy Spires.”

Aaron Grant’s mouth fell open. “Why did you do that?”

“Because you couldn’t. Chief Harper ordered you and Aunt Cora to lay off. When the Burnsides came to me, I thought they deserved better.” Sherry jerked her thumb at Kevin Roth. “So I asked some questions, and this is the result.”

Aaron was incredulous. “Are you saying Kevin Roth
killed
Barbara Burnside?”

“Not exactly. But he lied about what happened, that’s for sure. When you wrote the story, he panicked, sent that note telling you to drop the investigation. Then he panicked again—maybe realized the note could be traced to his typewriter—and he came to the paper to try to get his letter back. He bawled you out for writing the story, right? Pretended that was why he came.”

“And all the time he’s looking around, to see if it’s still there, maybe he could steal it off my desk?” Aaron said.

“Exactly. It’s already occurred to him what he wrote could get him in trouble. So, when he finds out the cops are trying to get a sample from his typewriter, he freaks out.”

Aaron frowned. “And the truth about the accident?”

“I’ve had a lot of theories. Kevin Roth followed her in Billy Spires’ car, then ran her off the road. Or when he found her, she was still alive and he caved her head in with a rock.”

“I thought you said he didn’t kill her.”

“I mean he didn’t murder her and try to make it look like an accident. If she
had
an accident, and he added to her injuries, that’s a slightly different twist.”

“You think he did that?”

“No, I don’t. I think the explanation’s much simpler. I don’t think there ever was an argument. I think Barbara and Kevin got in the car and drove off. Kevin was driving. He was drunk and ran off the road. Barbara was thrown through the windshield and was killed. She hit her head on a rock. Kevin had his seat belt on and
survived. That’s when he ran back to the house, made up the story about the argument and her taking off in the car.”

“And the part about borrowing a car?”

“Never happened. That’s what he told the police because he had to account somehow for finding her. That he borrowed the car from Billy Spires. But Billy’s the weak link, because Billy doesn’t remember it like that. Billy remembers Kevin
telling him
he’d borrowed his car. After the fact. Well, if the keys were in it, Kevin could have taken it, but I don’t think they were. So there’s no evidence Kevin ever took the car at all.”

“But if it was just an accident,” Aaron persisted. “I mean, he tried to kill you.”

“He was drunk and stressed out. I know it seems out of proportion. But you gotta remember. If he did what I think he did—well, it isn’t murder, but it is manslaughter. It’s vehicular homicide, it’s driving while intoxicated, it’s leaving the scene of an accident. It’s falsifying a police report, compounding a felony, and conspiring to conceal a crime.” Sherry sighed, rubbed the palm of her hand, which was still sore from hitting Kevin with the iron pan. “But it’s more than that. It’s years and years and years of carrying around this terrible burden. Thinking it’s dead and buried, and then having it all blow up in your face. It’s enough to push someone over the edge.”

“I suppose,” Aaron said, dubiously.

There came the screech of tires in the driveway. Moments later, Sam Brogan burst into the house.

“All right, where is he?” He spotted Kevin Roth lying on the floor. “Aha,” he said. “Is this our killer?”

“I don’t think so,” Sherry answered. “But he assaulted me with a gun.”

“Why?”

“Guilty conscience,” Sherry said.

Sam Brogan looked at her quizzically.

“It’s a long story,” Aaron told him. “You find Chief Harper’s kid?”

“No. Everyone’s still out. It’d be a big relief if this was the killer.”

“Yeah, I know,” Aaron Grant said. He shook his head. “But it isn’t.”

Sam Brogan frowned. “So who the devil is?”

Cora Felton finally managed to call the car service. It was hard, largely because she kept forgetting that was what she was trying to do. She’d look up the number, then forget it, wander into the bar or the bathroom, find a quarter, lose a quarter, forget her purse, forget the number, forget she was even looking up a number, forget she was even trying to make a call. But in the end the stars must have aligned just right, because Cora, the quarter, the phone book, the phone number, and the phone all happened to be in the same place at the same time, and she managed to get through to Reynold’s Ride, a car service listed in the book.

Of course, the first thing the woman on the phone wanted to know was where she was. That threw her. She knew she was in the restaurant where she played bridge, but the direct question made her blank out the name, and she had to leave the phone booth and ask the girl at the cash register. The fact she was able to get back to the phone and retain the name Country Kitchen was another small miracle, but finally the deed was accomplished and the car was actually on its way. Which, to Cora Felton, meant only one thing.

One for the road.

Cora Felton went back in the bar, petitioned the bartender, but to no avail. It was the fourth or fifth time she’d done so. Still, Cora approached each new inquiry with a drunkard’s optimism—perhaps the gentleman had changed his mind.

The bartender had not. Cora lurched dejectedly away to meet the car service, but only got as far as the booth where she’d been sitting before seeming to recognize an old friend. There was something very familiar about that cocktail glass. Could it possibly be full?

Cora padded over, slipped into the booth. Picked up the glass. Frowned at it, raised it to her lips.

It was empty, and familiarly so. Cora had been sipping from that empty glass for the last half hour. Cora looked at the glass in disgust, set it back down, very carefully.

All right, time to do something. What was it that she was supposed to do? Oh, yes. Go meet her ride. Time to get up, get out of the booth, and go meet her ride.

Good. Now that she knew what she had to do, it would be easy. All she had to do was get up.

Cora smiled at the thought. She put her hands on the table to push herself up. Her head slumped down onto her arms, and she was instantly asleep.

In the lobby of the Country Kitchen the young cashier’s eyes widened as Rick Reed of Channel 8 News came in the door. The cashier blinked, popped her gum, tried to think of something to say, but he just flashed her a smile and pushed on by in the direction of the bar.

For Rick Reed, it had been a long, hard, unprofitable day, in fact, the worst day yet since Dana Phelps’ body had been discovered in the Bakerhaven Cemetery. In terms of the story, the only development had been the finding of the murder weapon. And he hadn’t even seen it. He’d learned about it secondhand, after the fact. He didn’t even have a picture of it to put on TV. He’d had to send Phil out to a hardware store to buy a hammer for
Ernie to shoot. He hoped the irritation hadn’t shown in his voice when he’d pointed to it on camera, described the murder weapon as “a hammer
like this one.”
That tape was running on the early news, and barring a miracle, would be running again at eleven.

Rick Reed stepped up to the bar and noted with irritation that the TV over the far end was set to ESPN. Still, he flashed his trademark smile at the bartender and said, “Hi, there, a scotch and soda. And is there any chance of switchin’ that to Channel 8?”

“If no one minds,” the bartender said.

He turned around to mix the drink, leaving Rick Reed to ask the people at the bar if anybody minded.

Rick Reed frowned. This was not the type of star treatment he worked so hard to cultivate.

Ernie and Phil trailed in from locking up the truck.

“Pair of drafts,” Phil said.

“Tall drafts,” Ernie amended.

“Is there any other kind?” Phil said.

“Hey, what’s with the TV?” Ernie asked. “They don’t get Channel 8?”

“Everyone gets Channel 8,” Phil said. “Hey, can we change the TV?”

“Get me a draft,” Ernie said, “I’m goin’ to the can.”

The cameraman stalked off in the direction of the men’s room, leaving Phil and Rick Reed to order the beers and petition the bartender for Channel 8.

Ernie was back moments later. “Hey, guys, get a load of this.”

“What’s that?” Rick Reed said.

The cameraman was grinning and pointing his finger. “Here. Take a look.”

He led them around the far corner of the bar to where the booths were.

In the center booth, Cora Felton lay with her head on the table, her glasses askew, her mouth open, her hand wrapped around an empty glass. She was snoring loudly and rhythmically, a veritable symphony of sound.

“Well, will you look at that,” Phil said.

“Yeah,” Rick Reed said. His mouth twisted into a grin. The day wasn’t a washout after all.

He nudged Ernie, lowered his voice, and jerked his thumb.

“Go get your camera.”

“Where’s your aunt?” Aaron said.

Sam Brogan had just driven off with his prisoner, leaving Aaron and Sherry nothing to talk about. Cora Felton seemed like a safe subject.