A Clue for the Puzzle Lady (33 page)

Apparently it wasn’t. Sherry blushed. “Oh. I’m afraid she’s … indisposed.”

“Indisposed?”

“Aunt Cora sometimes drinks too much.”

“She’s on a bender?”

“How delicately you put that. She’s at the Country Kitchen right now, refuses to go home.”

“Her car’s in the driveway.”

“I went and got it. To keep her out of trouble. You have a problem with that?”

“I find it commendable.”

“You do?”

“If she’s as out of it as you claim.”

“Claim?”

“Some people function better on alcohol than others.”

“Are you advocating drunk driving?”

“No. If your aunt’s in no shape to drive, I’m happy she isn’t.”

“You have to argue everything I say?”

“I wasn’t aware that I was.”

“I’m sure you weren’t.”

“If your aunt’s in such bad shape, why didn’t you just bring her home?”

“She wouldn’t come.”

“Perhaps I’d have more luck. You wanna take a run over there?”

“With you?”

“I won’t bite. And I don’t like leaving you here alone.”

“I can cope.”

“I’m sure you can. Kevin Roth was just a nut. Suppose the real killer takes a disliking to your aunt?”

“Let’s go get her.”

They got in Aaron Grant’s car, drove to the Country Kitchen. During the ride Sherry seemed particularly reserved. Aaron put it down to what she’d just been through, tried to draw her out.

“I can’t wait to see your aunt,” he said.

“Uh huh,” Sherry said. If that. She barely made a sound.

“I wanna hear what she says when we tell her the clue wasn’t a clue.”

“I already told her.”

“Oh? When did you do that?”

“When I took her car.”

“You told her about it. So what did she say?”

“I’m not sure it even registered.”

“Oh?”

“I told you. She’s pretty drunk.”

“So what did she say?”

“Something like, So that’s why he took her shoes off.”

“Her shoes?”

“That’s what she said.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It probably doesn’t mean anything. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“So I see.”

Aaron pulled into the Country Kitchen parking lot. They got out of the car and went inside.

Cora Felton was no longer in the booth.

Sherry looked around. The crowd at the bar had thinned out—apparently most people had either moved into the dining room or finished their drinks and left.

She went up to the bartender. “My aunt’s gone. Did you call the car service?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Then how did she leave?”

“I have no idea. Frankly, I didn’t even notice she was gone. It’s been busy.”

“When’d she leave?”

“Like I say, I don’t know.”

“Well, when was the last time you saw her?”

“Actually, not that long ago. Right after I threw out that reporter.”

“Reporter?”

“Yeah. What’s his name, from Channel 8.”

“Rick Reed?” Aaron asked.

“Yeah, that’s him. Came in with his crew for a drink. Must have seen her sitting there, ’cause one of them went back to the van for a camera. When I saw what they were up to, I threw them all out.”

“They filmed her?” Sherry said. Her voice was dismayed.

“I don’t think so. When I saw the camera, I made ’em stop. I don’t think he even asked her a question.”

“And she left right after that?” Sherry said.

“Not right after. She came up to the bar, tried to get another drink. Of course I wouldn’t serve her.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes ago, maybe. I just assumed she went back to her booth.”

“Uh huh,” Sherry said, distracted. She tugged Aaron away from the bar, said, “You think he filmed her?”

“I
know
he filmed her,” Aaron said. “He’s really pushing the get-Chief-Harper-off-the-case angle. He’ll tie her in with him, use this to make ’em both look bad. You think she left with him?”

“I sure hope not. Let’s find out.”

Sherry and Aaron went to the cashier, and waited impatiently while the young woman slowly processed a MasterCard.

When the customer moved off, Sherry cleared her throat and said, “Excuse me, but I’m looking for my aunt.”

The cashier popped her gum. “Uh huh.”

Aaron Grant smiled at her. “You couldn’t miss her. White hair, wire-rimmed glasses. She was drinking in the bar.”

“Oh, her,” the cashier said. She smiled at Aaron Grant. “She just left.”

“How?” Sherry said.

The cashier frowned at the interruption, managed to convey the fact that Sherry had just asked the stupidest question in the world. “How?”

“She had no car,” Aaron translated. “Did someone pick her up?”

“I don’t know. She just went out the door.”

“Did she leave with the reporter?”

“You mean the
TV
reporter?” The cashier’s eyes were wide. “Isn’t that something? You could have knocked me down with a feather. He comes walking in here, large as life.”

“Right,” Aaron said. “Rick Reed from Channel 8. Did she leave with him?”

The cashier practically guffawed. “Her? Not likely. She could barely walk. Anyway, Charlie threw him out.”

“Charlie?”

“The bartender. Can you believe that? They wanted to film right here in the restaurant. And Charlie says no. I gave him a piece of my mind. I could have been on the eleven o’clock news.”

“You said she left after that?”

“Sometime after that. I’m not quite sure.”

“But you saw her go out the door.”

“Yeah, like I say, barely walking.”

“And you didn’t call a car for her?”

“No, I didn’t. But she might have called herself.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. She made some calls.”

“Calls? You mean more than one?”

“Oh, yeah.” The cashier gestured at Sherry, shifted her gum to the left side of her mouth, and spoke to Aaron as if Sherry weren’t even there. “She went out right after this woman here. I thought the old lady was gone. Then she came in and used the phone.”

“Right after I left?” Sherry said.

The cashier only had eyes for Aaron. “Then later she made another.”

“Another phone call?”

“Uh huh.”

“Either time she used the phone, did she get through?” Sherry asked.

The cashier shrugged. “I couldn’t see.”

Aaron Grant smiled at her. “It’s important.”

The cashier smiled back. “I’m sure it is, but I really couldn’t see. But she was certainly in there long enough.”

“Which time?”

“Both of ’em.”

Sherry left Aaron charming the cashier, and checked out the phone booth. She spotted the phone book hanging from the cord. Sherry scooped it up, turned to the back, looked up car services. There were three listed.

Sherry dug quarters out of her pants pocket, began dropping them in.

She got lucky on the third listing.

“Reynold’s Ride,” a woman’s voice said.

“Yes. I’m calling about a pickup at the Country Kitchen.”

“What about it?”

“The call was from my aunt. Cora Felton.”

“What’s the matter? Didn’t it show up?”

“Yes, it did. I’m wondering where it went.”

“Where it went?”

“Yes. I’m trying to find my aunt. I understand she took one of your cars. I need to know where she went.”

“Oh.”

“So can you tell me where she went?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“You don’t know?”

“Of course I know. You can’t hire a car without giving a destination.”

“So where did she say she was going?”

“I’m not supposed to give out that information.”

“Please. You have to help me.” Sherry’s voice broke. “Frankly, my aunt’s had too much to drink. And I know this is going to sound crazy, but she’s got some wild theories about these murders, and I’m afraid she’s going to get into trouble. Help me. Please.”

After a pause the woman said, “Is your aunt the Puzzle Lady? The woman in the paper?”

“Yeah. That’s her.”

“I thought I recognized the name. All right, I’m not supposed to tell you this. But, to tell the truth, I wasn’t happy dispatching the car to her in the first place.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because of where she wanted to go.”

“And where is that?”

“The cemetery.”

Clara Harper could hardly contain herself. She was right. Her father was wrong, and she was right. Just when it looked like tailing Jimmy Potter was a big waste of time, look where he wound up. If this didn’t clinch the case, nothing would. It was a classic. The killer returns to the scene of the crime.

While Clara Harper watched from the woods, Jimmy Potter crossed the meadow and climbed over the fence into the cemetery. Clara gave him a couple of seconds’ head start, then followed.

Clara wasn’t entirely happy crossing the field. The sun had gone down but the moon was full, and the meadow was wide open with no cover. Clara kept low, scuttled across. Moments later she was crouching down behind the fence. She raised her head, peered over. The side of a small, wooden building blocked her view. Jimmy Potter had approached the cemetery from the far side, and gone over the fence in back of the caretaker’s shed.

Clara crept to the edge of the shed, peered around.

And saw nothing. Just rows and rows of graves. And the road, twisting away to the right and disappearing into the darkness as it circled down to the gate.

Where was he?

Movement off to the left. She caught it with her peripheral vision. At least she told herself she did. Maybe it was her sixth sense. Maybe it was her intuition. But she knew he was there.

She crept from behind the shed and, keeping low, crossed the road and picked her way through the gravestones.

Five rows in, she stopped and listened. Peered around. Saw nothing. Heard nothing.

It was then that it occurred to her where she was. The fifth row from the road.
Line five
. That’s what the old woman had said in the newspaper. And if this was the fifth row from the road, it was just two rows over from the one where the bodies were found.

Clara felt a sudden chill. It was thrilling. She’d wanted her father to take her to the grave, and he’d refused. Although he hadn’t actually forbidden her to go, had he? And here she was, just two rows away.

Was that where Jimmy was? If the killer really was returning to the scene of the crime, wouldn’t it be that particular grave? The one where the young women were found. Why not? He wasn’t anywhere in sight. It was as good a place to start as any.

So where was the grave? If she remembered correctly, it was two rows back from where she was, and closer to the gate. Exactly how close, she wasn’t sure. The only thing she knew was it would be four graves higher than the grave of Barbara Burnside. Which would be in this row. So she should stay in this row.

Clara Harper started making her way toward the gate, trying to stay in line five. It was hard, because the row wasn’t entirely straight. Sometimes a choice had to be made—was the grave in the row that one or that one? Of course she was distracted by the fact that she was constantly looking around, trying to spot Jimmy Potter. And she had to read all the gravestones, looking for the name Barbara Burnside. She was so wrapped up in what she was doing she almost went by it.

The crime scene ribbon saved her. Once she spotted
that, the Barbara Burnside gravestone was no longer an object.

So, this was it.

This was the murder scene.

This was where the two young women had been found.

Clara Harper slipped under the crime scene ribbon, crept up to the grave. Knelt down in front of the headstone.

“Hi.”

Clara jumped. Blood drained from her face. The voice had come from behind her. She turned her head. Looked up.

Jimmy Potter towered above her. He looked gigantic, silhouetted in the bright moonlight. He was smiling, a smug, enigmatic smile.

He was holding the knife.

The Reynold’s Ride driver wasn’t convinced. “Lady, you sure this is where you wanna go?”

“Yes, I am,” Cora Felton said.

“But the gate’s locked. There’s no one here.”

“I can see that. You think I can’t see that?”

“And you don’t want me to wait?”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“I could wait.”

“I’m not paying you to wait.”

“How are you going to get home?”

Cora Felton ignored the question, rummaged through her purse. “Now, where’s my money?”

“If you don’t have money, lady, I’ll need to take you to someone who does.”

“I’ve got money. Where’s my money?” Cora Felton came up with a wallet. “Oh, here we are. Now, how much was the ride?”

“Eight dollars. Don’t you remember? You argued about it.”

“Well, such a short ride.” Cora Felton pulled a ten out of the wallet, thrust it at the driver. “Here you go. Keep the change.”

“Eight bucks is too much so you’re giving me ten?”

“Not your fault. You gotta eat.”

Cora Felton jerked open the door.

“Lady, I don’t like leaving you here.”

“I’ll be fine,” Cora Felton said. She climbed out of the car, slammed the door. Took a step and staggered.

The driver, watching through the rearview mirror, frowned, killed the engine, opened his door.

Cora Felton saw him getting out. She waved her finger in his face. “No, no, no. You can’t stay here. You have to go.” She nodded at him as if he were a small child. “Santa Claus won’t come if we stay up and watch.”

“Lady—” the driver protested.

“Go on,” Cora Felton said. She waved her hand. “Go, go, go.”

The driver reluctantly drove off.

Cora Felton watched him go. Then she walked up the road to the front gate and climbed the fence.

She had trouble getting over. Her purse snagged on a nail and held her back. At first she wasn’t aware of it, wondered why she was making no progress. When she realized, she had to climb back down to unsnag it, and start all over again.

The second time she made it over but lost her balance, and fell to the other side, landing in an undignified heap. She got up, brushed herself off, straightened her glasses, adjusted her clothes. By the time she finished she’d managed to smear dirt on just about everything.