A Clue for the Puzzle Lady (31 page)

Sherry turned around, drove out of town, took a left on Oak and went to Maple. The drive was closer to four miles, but that didn’t matter, as she was in no real hurry. She drove slowly down the road, looking for street numbers.

The houses here were nicer than on her road. There were stone and brick buildings, two-story colonials, with an occasional contemporary thrown in. Sherry was well aware of what they were worth. She’d priced houses like these before settling on the one she and Aunt Cora had rented.

Sherry spotted a house number. Three twelve. So, pretty near, and on the other side of the street, if odd and even numbers meant anything. Which, Sherry had noticed, in some streets in Bakerhaven they didn’t.

On Maple Street, however, they did. Three twenty-five Maple Street was a two-story white house with blue shutters. Aaron Grant’s car was not in the driveway. But a blue Subaru station wagon was. So his girlfriend was home. If the woman was indeed his girlfriend, and not actually his wife. Sherry couldn’t help noticing the children’s swing set in the backyard.

Sherry drove on by. Well, he never said he wasn’t. And, anyway, what difference did it make to her?

A few houses down the road Sherry pulled into a driveway and turned around. Yeah, that was enough driving for a while. That had done the trick.

As Sherry drove back through Bakerhaven, a police car passed her going the other way. It was the officer she’d met the other night when they were looking for Vicki Tanner. Sherry considered turning around and catching up with him, asking him where everyone was. But he seemed to be going rather fast. She kept going.

On her way home it got dark enough for her to turn on the headlights. She was reluctant to do so, as it was still light enough it would be easy to forget to turn them off. She shouldn’t have worried. When she pulled into the driveway, they shone on the garage. Sherry switched them off and got out.

Sherry locked the car. Cora Felton never locked it, in fact Cora made a big deal of the fact she didn’t have to, living in the country. But Sherry wasn’t taking any chances. It occurred to her it would be just her luck to have the car stolen when
she
parked it, so Cora could blame it on her. Not that Cora wouldn’t be blaming her enough as it was, when she sobered up and realized her car was gone.

The lights were on in the living room. Sherry’s first thought was that Aunt Cora was home. Then she realized that couldn’t be. There was no way Cora could have sobered up enough to have decided to come home. No, Sherry must have just left the lights on during the day without knowing it.

Sherry went up the front steps, unlocked the door, and let herself in. As she closed the door behind her, she felt a chill. Not from cold, from fear. From the sudden feeling that something was wrong.

She immediately felt foolish. The living room was exactly as she’d left it. Nothing had been disturbed. Not that there was much in the living room to disturb, but still. She was just jumpy. Everything was all right.

Sherry needed a drink. Not necessarily alcoholic. In fact, definitely nonalcoholic. But something to calm her jangled nerves. Maybe a cup of tea.

Sherry went in the kitchen to boil some water. On the shelf next to the wall phone, a light was blinking on the
answering machine. She pressed the button, played the message back.

Beep
.

“Hi, Sherry. It’s Margaret from the nursery school. Adrienne will be out of town, so could you take the four/ fives on Monday? I’m going out, so just leave a confirmation on my machine.”

Sherry smiled. She most certainly could.

She reached for the phone.

Beep
.

The voice leaped from the answering machine. Harsh, guttural, slurred, gloating.

“So. Thought you’d get away from me, did you? Thought I’d never find you? Well, think again. You think you’re so smart with your fancy puzzles. Well, guess what. I’m smart too. Real smart. What do you think of that?”

His last words were light, mocking.

Chillingly casual.

“Bye, bye, love.”

Sherry backed away from the answering machine as if it were alive. Her eyes were wide with horror.

Dennis.

Good God, it’s true
.

Dennis.

A floorboard creaked.

Sherry froze at the sound. A thousand thoughts tumbled through her head. There it was, the tired old cliché from book after book, movie after movie. So incredibly trite it couldn’t scare anyone.

But in real life …

Sherry was suddenly terrified.

He’s in the house
.

Sherry’s eyes darted around the kitchen, anticipating an attack from any side, and looking for a weapon. There was a broom next to the refrigerator, a rolling pin on the counter top, an iron frying pan on the stove.

On the butcher block was a carving knife. Sherry picked it up, held it out in front of her. Tried to control her breathing, which was rapid and shallow. Tried to
convince herself there was no one there.
It’s an old house, the floorboards creak
.

It’s a prefab. Built on a slab. With no basement. The floorboards only creak if you step on them
.

Stop thinking so much
.

No, keep thinking. No basement means nowhere to hide. Except the garage. Was the garage door locked? Was that how he got in?

Sherry edged her way to the door. She meant to look out, see if the garage door was open. But down the hallway something caught her eye.

The door to her office. Was that a file folder lying in the doorway?

Holding the knife in front of her, Sherry inched her way down the hall. Reached the doorway. Peered around.

This time what she saw chilled her from head to toe.

The office was a wreck. File cabinet drawers were pulled open and emptied. Papers were torn up and strewn on the floor. The desk chair was tipped over, and the top of the desk had been cleared. The computer was smashed and in pieces, the keyboard in one direction, the screen in another, the body of the computer in another. The modem too was smashed, though it was still plugged in, and one of its lights was on. Lucky it hadn’t started a fire.

Sherry recoiled as if struck, overwhelmed by the sheer fury of it. The knife in her hand suddenly seemed very inadequate. She backed down the hallway toward the kitchen and the phone.

Not that the phone would do her any good. Not if the police weren’t there. Which she knew they weren’t. But surely they must have some sort of backup system. Some sort of call forwarding. Someone must be answering their phone.

Sherry reached the kitchen, slipped inside, raced to the wall phone, scooped the receiver up.

Her phone was dead.

Sherry nearly cried out. It was the last straw. More
than she could bear. She was suddenly gripped with an overwhelming motivation.

Get out of this house
.

Sherry slammed down the receiver, turned to the door.

A man was standing there.

He was holding a gun.

“Who are you?” Sherry cried.

She had no idea. The man standing in front of her was short, stocky, and balding. Not old, but older than her. He wore a black and white plaid shirt, tucked half in, half out of his gabardine pants.

He was obviously rather drunk. “You’re not her,” he snarled. “Where is she?”

“Who do you mean?”

He scowled. Waved the question away with his gun. “You know who. The old lady. Where is she?”

“You mean Aunt Cora?”

“Puzzle Lady. Where’s the Puzzle Lady?”

“She’s not here right now.”

“I
know
she’s not here right now. Where is she?”

For a second, Sherry debated actually telling him where Cora was. The odds of this man getting to the Country Kitchen seemed slim. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. The thought that stopped her was:
What if he did?

“She went out for a drink,” Sherry said.

“A drink?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

Sherry held her breath, waiting to see the effect of the lie.

For a second his face looked murderous. Then it contorted, and he looked as if he were about to cry. “Why is she doing this to me?”

“Doing what?” Sherry asked.

“You know.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t even know who you are.”

“Sure you do. Everybody knows.”

“Everybody?”

“Everybody. Police. Newspaper. Because of
her.”

“Uh huh,” Sherry said. She tried a gamble. “Would you like a drink?”

It didn’t pay off. He scowled. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Not at all. Like I said, I don’t even know you.”

“I’m Kevin Roth.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You know me now.”

It was like juggling hand grenades. Sherry had no idea what might cause him to explode. “Yes. I know you. You’re that poor man whose girlfriend got killed.”

“Not my fault,” Kevin Roth said.

“Yes, I know,” Sherry said. “You had a fight. Couples fight. Barbara ran off. There was nothing you could do.”

“Nothing I could do,” Roth repeated.

“Exactly,” Sherry said. She was beginning to sweat. Her hands felt clammy. Particularly her right hand.

The hand holding the knife.

That was what made the scene so bizarre. So far, Kevin Roth hadn’t alluded to it. Had given no indication that he’d even noticed it.

Sherry wanted to put it down. She had no desire to fight a man with a gun with a carving knife. But the gesture would call attention to it. And if he saw it, if it registered in his brain for what it was, how would he react?

Would it make him shoot?

Kevin Roth was clearly not doing well. His eyes behind his glasses were bloodshot red. The skin on his face sagged. As she watched, he lurched forward, slumped against the side of the door.

The move startled him awake. He gaped at her, as if seeing her for the first time.

“What are you doing with that knife?” he demanded.

Sherry nearly jumped out of her skin. She controlled herself with an effort. Said calmly, “I was going to put it down.”

He considered that. “Where?”

“On the table.”

“What table?”

She indicated the butcher block, using only her eyes. He peered at her, first quizzically, then followed where she was looking.

“Okay,” he said.

Sherry exhaled. Then slowly, very, very slowly, she moved the hand with the knife. Up. Up. Across. Over. To the butcher block table. And … down.

He watched, intently, like a lion watching the movements of a lion tamer.

When she’d set the knife on the table, Sherry moved her hand away slowly and stepped back.

She was now unarmed and totally helpless. Not that the knife would have done her any good. Still, she no longer had even that.

And now he lurched from the doorway into the room, coming straight at her. Was he going to grab her?

No, at the last moment he staggered to the side, veered off to the butcher block, snatched the knife up in his other hand.

His left hand.

His right still holding the gun.

Kevin Roth held the knife up, looked at it, as if observing for the first time the sheer size of it. It made him angry. Sherry could almost see his brain associating the size of the knife with the fact it had been in her hand. With the fact she had intended it for him.

The bloodshot eyes grew murderous again. The left hand raised the knife.

Sherry bit her lip to keep from crying out.

He stabbed the knife down viciously.

Sherry gasped.

He embedded the knife in the butcher block.

Sherry’s relief at not being stabbed was short-lived. The violent action had seemed to help focus his thoughts.

He scowled, peered at her quizzically. “Who are you?”

“I’m Sherry Carter.”

He scowled again, then pointed his finger.

With his left hand.

The hand not holding the gun.

“You’re the one. Billy told me. You’re the one. Coming around. Asking questions. Sending the police. Trying to get into my house. Because of you. You and the old lady. Where is she?”

“I told you. I don’t know.”

“You lied.”

He raised the gun, pointed it at her face. “Tell me now.”

It was the first menacing gesture he’d made with the gun. And it was very effective. Sherry could see his finger on the trigger. Could feel the tension in his hand. It would not be hard for him to squeeze.

Sherry involuntarily took a step backwards. Her foot caught on the leg of the table. She lost her balance, started to go down.

Falling over backwards, she flailed out with her arms. A reflex action, reaching for support.

Not reaching for the gun.

But that’s how it must have looked to him.

Kevin Roth jerked back.

Pulled the trigger.

The explosion echoed through the kitchen. The bullet whizzed over Sherry’s head. Sherry went down in a crumpled pile between the sink and the stove.

She looked up, saw Kevin Roth’s face.

Firing the shot had transformed him. He was no
longer a scared little man, acting out some revenge fantasy. He was the hunter, and she was the prey. She could see this in his eyes, as they bored into her.

Holding the gun in front of him, Kevin Roth crept around the table, stalking her. He stopped, raised the gun.

But Sherry Carter was no pushover. Even when Dennis was in a drunken rage, she always gave as good as she got. No matter how hard he hit her, Sherry never quit.

She didn’t now. Before Kevin Roth could fire again, Sherry got her legs under her, and lunged.

It nearly worked. He flinched back in surprise, and she flailed at his gun hand, knocking it down. He staggered, but didn’t drop the gun.

Sherry fell to the floor, rolled over, came up in a crouch.

But this time he was wary. He took a step back, out of range of her arms and legs, and raised the gun.

His finger tensed on the trigger.

Sherry balanced on the balls of her feet, prepared to dive out of the way.

To dodge a bullet.

She sucked in her breath, and—