The Sudoku Puzzle Murders (8 page)

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Authors: Parnell Hall

BOOK: The Sudoku Puzzle Murders
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Mrs. Clemson wasn’t old for a widow. At least in Cora’s humble opinion. Cora’d never been a widow, always choosing to divest herself of her husbands while they were still alive. “Better an alimony in the hand than an inheritance in the bush” was Cora’s motto. And while there were some husbands she would have liked to kill, there were none she was willing to wait for to die.
“A shame,” Cora said. “He sounds like a lovely man.”
“He was,” Mrs. Clemson said. “And what a good provider. At the office every day, working longer and longer hours.”
“What did he do?”
“He was an office manager. For a Manhattan textile firm.”
“You say he worked hard?”
“Oh, yes. Even after he fell sick.”
“What did he have?”
“Respiratory arrest.”
“How old was he?”
“Thirty-nine. Can you believe it? Just thirty-nine.”
Cora
could
believe it. A thirty-nine-year-old office manager who spent more and more time in the city, and who undoubtedly had a young secretary, was well within the scheme of her matrimonial expertise, and a prime candidate for domestic surveillance, and a messy but profitable divorce. The death of such a spouse was, in Cora’s humble opinion, serendipitous, if not opportunistic. Respiratory arrest, indeed! Her tea, which moments ago had tasted delicious, Cora eyed with suspicion.
“Okay,” Cora said. “Let me walk you through this. You’re in bed. You hear the squeal of tires. You brace yourself for the crash.”
“What crash?”
“I know. There
was
no crash. But don’t you always brace yourself?”
“I suppose.”
“So you brace yourself for the crash. Which doesn’t come. That’s odd. You’re expecting a crash but you don’t get one. Why not? First thought, something in the road, driver swerved to miss it.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Clemson said. “That’s what I thought. Someone ran out in the road.”
“Who?”
“What?”
“Who would run out in the road? Are there children on the street?”
“Not that time of night. The Crowleys have a dog. They’re not careful. Let it out alone.”
Cora didn’t care about the Crowleys’ dog. Also, she sometimes let Buddy out alone, and didn’t like the implied reprimand. “When you got to the window you didn’t see anything?”
“No. Not even the car.”
“Except the one that was parked.”
“Yes.”
“What kind was it?”
“I really didn’t notice.”
Cora nodded. “So, it wasn’t a Volkswagen Beetle.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, that’s the type of car you’d notice. Distinctive shape, no way you could miss it.”
“That’s right.”
“And it couldn’t have been a sports car, either. You’d have noticed that.”
“I guess I would.”
“So we’re talking some sort of sedan. Not a Hummer, or an SUV. Not anything you’d be sure to notice. Just a nondescript, run-of-the-mill, everyday car.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And the Japanese man you saw staggering up the street … ?”
She frowned. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Who said he was Japanese?”
“You didn’t say he was Japanese?”
“No.”
“I thought you said he was Japanese.”
“I didn’t say he was Japanese. You said he was Japanese.”
“So, you’re saying he wasn’t.”
“No, of course not.”
“How do you know?”
“I’d have noticed. Just the way I’d have noticed if the car was a VW.”
“Very good,” Cora said. That was the analogy she was going for. Nice of the woman to make the leap for her. “And this was a man, not a woman?”
“Yes.”
“And you think he was drunk?”
“He staggered once. Righted himself, kept going down the street.”
“So you kept watching him?”
“No, I went back to bed.”
“With a drunk in the street?”
“He wasn’t coming my way. Still, I made sure the door was locked.”
“And the only thing you remember about him was he wasn’t Japanese?”
“I didn’t say that. That’s not the only thing I remember.”
“Oh?”
“He was well-dressed for a drunk. Not like a town rowdy. He wasn’t wearing a coat, just a suit jacket.”
“Anything else you can remember?”
Mrs. Clemson thought a moment.
“He had long hair.”
Brenda Wallenstein’s loft in Soho had been a graduation gift from her father. The spacious, open, floor-through had been the perfect thing for a young woman of artistic aspirations, who could afford not to work. Upon her marriage to Dennis Pride, a number of renovations had been rushed through. The bathtub in the kitchen, for instance, such a source of merriment in wilder days, proved inefficient for a young husband dressing for business. A bath with shower stall had been partitioned off. Brenda’s art studio, which had once encompassed the entire floor, was now confined to the front third of the loft, with the remainder divided into living, dining, and bedroom spaces. Bohemian touches still remained in such furnishings as the futon, the macramé wall hangings, the cinder-block bookcase, but the general effect was upscale.
Cora Felton, who had been there once long ago to pick up Sherry Carter, was impressed. “My, Brenda, you’ve done marvels with the place.”
Brenda eyed Cora suspiciously. “Why are you here?”
“Not the most cordial of greetings, Brenda, considering we have mutual interests.”
“Such as?”
“Keeping your husband away from my niece.”
Brenda put her hands on her hips defiantly. Her curves bounced loosely beneath a painter’s smock. Brenda could have passed for a Rubens model. Zaftig, or what the college boys called pleasingly plump. There was a smudge of oil paint on her left cheek. Some garish shade of orange. Cora shuddered to think what the woman was painting.
“What has Dennis done now?” Brenda demanded.
“Nothing.”
“That’s right, nothing. Because, if he had, I would have heard. From his attorney, Becky Baldwin, who is not apt to let anything be put over on her.”
Cora shook her head. “You’re pretty naive, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“My niece is going to marry Aaron Grant. Becky used to be Aaron’s girlfriend. If Becky still has feelings for him, she would have a vested interest in seeing the marriage didn’t take place. The best way to sabotage the relationship would be to turn a blind eye to Dennis.”
“Are you saying she’s doing that?”
“Not at all. But it’s the sort of thing a scheming, unscrupulous woman would be apt to think of.” Cora pursed her lips. “I don’t know why I thought of it.”
“Could it be because you’ve busted up more marriages than Angelina Jolie, Cora?”
“Give me a break. She only broke up one. Granted she gets more ink, but, trust me, I’m way ahead.”
“Come on, Cora. This isn’t like you. Has Dennis done something or not?”
“I don’t know. But he’s got long hair.”
“What?”
“He’s grown his hair, hasn’t he? He combs it back, he plasters it down. He tucks it under his collar. But all the same, it’s really long. If he were drunk, it would flop around. He’d look like he did in his Tune Freaks days.”
“You think he’s back with the band?”
“Do you?”
“What makes you think he’s back with the band?”
“I don’t. I’m bluffing. I haven’t seen him. I was guessing about his hair being long. Evidently it was a good guess. If it was short, you’d have asked me to leave. So I can assume it isn’t. I’m not shocking you, I’m confirming your worst fears. What makes
you
think he’s back with the band? Aside from the fact he’s growing his hair.”
Brenda sighed. Her body rippled underneath the smock. She flopped down on the futon, rubbed her head. “I get phone calls. I answer, they hang up. You know, like, ‘if my wife answers, hang up.’ Only it’s not a girlfriend. I hear talking in the background. Once I heard a drum. Then you come and ask me if he’s back in the band.”
“Actually, I have no evidence that he is. I just wanted to find out if he’d grown his hair.”
“Why?”
“Was Dennis home Sunday night around ten-thirty?”
“Oh, my God! What has he done?”
“You mean he wasn’t here?”
“I don’t know. I have to think.”
“Two nights ago. Ten-thirty. Where were you?”
“Damn!”
“What?”
“He came in drunk.”
“What time?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
“Not if you say something that makes sense.”
“I fell asleep watching TV.”
“What show?”
“I don’t remember. What does it matter?”
“It would help fix the time. You weren’t concerned when he didn’t come home?”
“I figured he was with the band.”
“You said he came home drunk.”
“I woke up, he was in the shower. He had an early appointment.”
“So?”
“He had hangover breath.”
Cora knew it well. “Did he make his appointment?”
“No one complained.”
“Are you sure?”
“If they had, I’d have known.”
“How?”
“Daddy’d have called me. He keeps his son-in-law on a very short leash.”
“Not short enough,” Cora muttered.
“What did Dennis do?”
“He might have broken into an antique store.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No, but I’m going on the flimsiest of evidence.”
“What’s that?”
“He has long hair.”
“Are you nuts?”
“And he was drunk.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Yes, it is. Which is why I’m being very careful to tell you I’m not making any accusations.”
“But you think he broke into an antique shop?”
“He may have.”
“Was anything taken?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A samurai sword.”
Brenda gawked at her. “Why in the world would Dennis steal a samurai sword?”
“I don’t know,” Cora said. “But I intend to find out.”
Aaron looked guilty. Sherry might not have noticed, but Cora did. Cora was an expert on guilty. She could tell just by the way a husband came in the door whether he’d been out on business or pleasure. By the time she married Melvin, Cora had a divorce lawyer on speed dial.
Sherry and Cora were on the couch watching TV when Aaron got home.
“We ate,” Sherry said. “Dinner’s on the stove.”
“I got tied up at work.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Had a column to finish. Then they threw a rewrite at me.”
“If it’s cold, you can zap it in the microwave.”
“Yeah. Sorry I’m late.”
Aaron waited for a reaction. Getting none, he went on into the kitchen.
Cora watched him go. She sighed, shook her head, heaved herself off the couch. “Need a smoke,” she muttered.
Aaron was loading up a plate with lamb shank and risotto.
“Sherry’s some cook,” Cora said. “That lamb shank falls off the bone. At least it did. It’s probably congealed, by now.”
Aaron scowled. “Hey. I said I was sorry. Why are you giving me a hard time?”
“Why are you giving
Sherry
a hard time? You’re not even married yet, and you’re already playing games.”
“So I’m a little late.”
“You’re not a little late. You’re nearly two
hours
late. And you come skulking in all shifty-eyed and apologetic like you did something wrong.”
Aaron’s mouth fell open. “You think there’s another woman?” “No. I think there’s another
man.
”
His eyes faltered. “Oh.”
“Come on. Fess up.”
Aaron stuck the plate in the microwave, set it on HIGH for a minute and a half, and pressed START. He heaved a sigh. “Dennis is in the Country Kitchen.”
“Did you confront him?”
“No.”
“You just spied on him?”
“I don’t want him coming here. Bothering Sherry.”
Cora looked at him in exasperation. “You idiot.
He
isn’t bothering Sherry.
You
are. You let Dennis get to you, it’s as bad as letting Dennis get to her. Worse, really. It just drives a wedge between you.”
“You gonna tell her?”
“And now you’re keeping secrets from her, and lying about where you’ve been. What an
excellent
way to start a marriage.”
“What can I do?”
“You go eat your lamb shank and tell Sherry what a good cook she is. I’ll take it from here.”
Cora clomped through the living room muttering about being out
of cigarettes, and slammed out the door. She hopped in her car, drove to the Country Kitchen.
Dennis Pride’s car was out front. Cora pulled up next to it. She didn’t really expect to find a samurai sword in the trunk. But she intended to check it out.
It was dark where Dennis had parked. Cora couldn’t see in the windows. She tried the driver’s-side door. It opened. Quietly. The code alarm, if any, was turned off.
With the overhead light, Cora could see there was nothing on the front seat, nothing on the floor.
She opened the rear door, checked the backseat. Nothing.
The glove compartment beckoned. Of course, there was no way a samurai sword could be hiding there, so Cora had no excuse for snooping. Except curiosity. She opened the glove compartment, pawed through. She found nothing of interest, just a few automotive receipts and bills.
Cora closed the glove compartment, searched for the trunk release. It was on the floor. She pulled it, heard a satisfying click. She got out of the car, lifted the lid of the trunk.
The car had a trunk light, good in that she could see, bad in that there was nothing there. In the spare tire well? Not a sword. Cora checked it anyway, to no avail.
Cora closed the trunk, went to lock the door.
A cloud moved. Moonlight bathed the car.
The rear window on the driver’s side gleamed bright. Like it was cleaner than the rest. Cora looked closer. It was clean indeed. As if someone had washed this window and not the others. Which wouldn’t happen. You might wash the windshield and not the others. But the back window? No way.
Cora frowned. Something clicked in the back of her brain. The same sort of gift that made her so good at putting numbers in columns.
Automotive receipts.
Cora got back in the car, opened the glove compartment. Pulled out the bills and leafed through. She hadn’t kept them in order. Not that Dennis was apt to notice. Still, she’d mixed them up. The one she wanted wasn’t on top. It was the third one she came to.
It was a bill from Acme Auto Glass for a driver’s-side rear window installed that very morning.

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