A Clue for the Puzzle Lady (8 page)

“The one on the front page of the morning paper?”

Cora Felton frowned. “Huh?”

“You didn’t see the paper this morning?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“So I see. For your information, your picture’s on the front of the
Bakerhaven Gazette
, under the headline CROSSWORD CLUE.”

“That’s not good.”

“No kidding.”

“You get so much further with people if they don’t know what you’re after.”

It took a moment for that to register. “I don’t think you understand me, Miss Felton. The problem with the story is not that it will hamper your investigation, it’s that it will put you in danger.”

Cora Felton smiled. “I don’t think I’m in any danger.”

“Oh, no? You come snooping around the crime scene, first thing in the morning. The only person here is the caretaker, and he’s busy working on a mower. Suppose the killer was lurking around?”

Cora Felton’s eyes twinkled. “That’s very interesting, Chief. The killer returns to the scene of the crime. You happen to read a lot of detective fiction?”

Chief Harper was not amused. “It’s not funny,” he said. “It’s serious. If you’re going to run around posing as a reporter—”

“I never said I was a reporter. If the caretaker got the wrong idea, that’s hardly my fault.”

“You’re missing the point. You shouldn’t be talking to the caretaker in the first place.”

“I think you’re missing the point, Chief. Have you examined this grave? Obviously not, if you don’t know whose it is.”

“What about it?”

“There was no clue in the name, but look at its position.”

“Position?”

“Yes. Look where the road goes.” She pointed to the dirt road that came up from the gate and bisected the cemetery. “See where the road forks left to go up to the caretaker’s shed? At the same time it forks right to go over to the graves on the east side of the hill?”

“Yeah. So?”

She pointed. “Well, it’s hard to see from here, but the road running east-west is right up there. And if you count down from the road—one, two, three, four.” She spread her arms, smiled. “Well, this is the fourth gravestone in the row.”

He looked at her. “Four down?”

“It’s possible.”

“What about
queue?”

“It’s possible too. There are a number of possibilities. It’s too early to throw anything out yet. But here’s the problem.” She pointed again to the road coming up from the gate. “If you look at the road over there and count this way, well, this is the third row over. Which is wrong, if we take the message to mean the fourth grave in row five. This is actually the
fourth
grave in row
three.”

“And what do you make of that?” Chief Harper said. And felt angry with himself for asking. He shouldn’t be discussing this with the woman, he should be kicking her out of there and telling her never to come back.

“It would seem to indicate that our premise was
wrong. That four down line five did not indicate the gravestone where the girl was found. That leaves two other possibilities.”

“Two?”

“Yes. One, you take the premise that four down means four down from the road. Like I said before. If this is line three, then line five is two graves over. Which would make four down line five the grave just on the other side of her husband’s.” She consulted a small notebook in her hand. “Which happens to belong to a Morton Pressman, who died in nineteen forty-eight.” She nodded. “The second possibility—and the one that I like better—is that four down means starting from this grave. So, if you’d like to count with me,” she said, leading him along, “we go one, two, three, four down here, and then over two to line five. Which is the grave of Barbara Burnside, who died in eighty-four.”

“Oh,” Chief Harper said.

There was something in his voice.

Cora Felton looked at him. “What is it, Chief?”

“I knew Barbara Burnside. Went to school with her way back when. She died young. In an accident. Drove her car off the road. I was on duty at the time. Wasn’t chief, of course, just a cop. I responded to the call. Was there when they pulled her out.”

“An accident?” Cora Felton asked.

“Yes.”

“Was there anything about it—”

“No, there wasn’t,” Chief Harper said. “It was Saturday night, she’d been at a party, and she’d been drinking. Had a fight with her boyfriend and went home. She was driving drunk and angry and way too fast. Just one of those things.”

“So death was ruled accidental?”

“Death
was
accidental. Now, look. I know you’d like to make a mystery out of this. But I assure you, the dead girl has nothing to do with Barbara Burnside.”

“Uh huh,” Cora Felton said. She didn’t sound particularly convinced.

“But that’s not the point. The point is, you can’t be
doing this. Running around crime scenes, looking for clues. That’s a matter for the police.”

“Sure, Chief. I wouldn’t want to step on your toes. Just let me know when you find the next clue.”

“If there’s another crossword puzzle clue, I assure you I’ll ask you about it.”

Cora Felton frowned. “Well, now. We were just discussing the fact it might not
be
a crossword puzzle clue. Suppose the puzzle did have to do with
graves
rather than
letters
. I would think you would want my help in figuring that out. Particularly since it’s my premise to begin with.”

Chief Harper thought that over. He didn’t like it, but didn’t feel like arguing. “If I find anything that supports that premise, I will let you know. In the meantime, Miss Felton, do you think you can handle the media?”

“I imagine I can do as well as you.”

Chief Harper flushed. “I wasn’t talking about stage presence. I understand you’re comfortable on camera. I mean, do you think you can downplay the puzzle angle of this crime? On the theory that’s the best way to foil the killer?”

“Yes, of course,” Cora Felton replied. “That’s all I wanted in the first place. Keep me in the loop, and I guarantee you I’ll do my best to keep out of the spotlight.” She shrugged. “Except …”

“Except what?”

Cora Felton smiled. “If I’m already on the front page of the paper, it’s not going to be easy.”

“Sherry, relax. I tell you, he’s not around.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure. The band’s on tour. They’re in Washington or Philadelphia or something.”

“And Dennis is with them?”

“Of course he’s with them. Where else would he be?”

Sherry was on the phone with Brenda Wallenstein, her roommate from college. Brenda was an artist with a loft in SoHo. Before Sherry and Dennis had split up, Brenda had let his band use it as a rehearsal hall.

“How do you know they’re on tour?”

“They were through here last week. Debbie told me the itinerary.”

“They’re really working?”

“They’ve got gigs. Small-time, but paid.”

“It’s hard to think of anyone paying to see Dennis.”

“You didn’t always feel that way.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“So how’s small-town life treating you?”

“Great,” Sherry said. “Couldn’t be better. I’m getting annoying phone calls, there’s been a murder, and a local cop wants to involve my aunt.”

“How is Cora?”

“Cora’s Cora. I love her, but at times I’d like to strangle her.”

“And she’s on the front page of today’s paper?”

“Large as life. I nearly had a stroke.”

“I’ll bet. And this cop wants her to solve a murder?”

“No, he just wants her to interpret a crossword puzzle clue.”

Brenda snorted. “That’s a laugh.”

“No kidding. The poor cop. He thought he was getting the Puzzle Lady. Instead he’s unleashed a modern-day Miss Marple. You should have seen her eyes light up when she realized it was a murder. She’s out there snooping now.”

“Uh huh,” Brenda said. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“What question?”

“About small-town life.”

“I thought I did.”

“Don’t be a goose. You met someone yet?”

“Brenda. I just got here.”

“You been there long enough to get a job.”

“I got lucky.”

“Oh? I thought you hadn’t been there long enough.”

“I was talking about the job.”

“I know you were. Haven’t you met anyone?”

“I’m teaching nursery school.”

“So?”

“So, the kids are young enough the parents are generally still together.”

“That’s cynical even for you. I wasn’t suggesting you make a play for the kids’ fathers. But, seriously, you met anyone yet? Or seen anything you liked?”

“Brenda, you’re awful.”

“So, shoot me. I’m a bad person. But I worry about you out in the sticks.”

“I’m just fine.”

“Oh, really? But you’re afraid Dennis might be phoning you?”

“I admit it’s a stretch. Still, I’m happy to hear he’s not around.”

“You’re glad he’s on tour and not strangling young girls?”

“She was hit with a blunt object.” Sherry sighed. “What a mess. I just hope the police solve this soon and leave us alone.”

The front doorbell rang.

“Uh-oh. I think that’s him now.”

“Who?”

“The cop. He called before, looking for Cora.”

“I thought she wasn’t there.”

“She isn’t.”

“Then why would it be him?”

“He probably didn’t believe me.”

The doorbell rang again, long, insistent.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“Oh? What’s he like? Young?”

“He’s middle-aged and married.”

“Too bad.”

“Brenda, behave yourself. I gotta go.”

Sherry hung up the phone, hurried to the front door to let Chief Harper in.

Only it wasn’t Chief Harper. It was a rather good-looking young man in tan slacks and a blue sports jacket. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, his tie was pulled down. His brown hair was wavy and carelessly combed, falling down on his forehead. He had a jaunty air.

“Hi,” he said. “How’s it goin’? Is the Puzzle Lady in?”

“Who are you?”

“I called last night. Remember? You told me Miss Felton wasn’t in.”

“That was you?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re a reporter?”

“Yes, I am. I left my name and number. Did you give it to her?”

“I didn’t see her.”

“Oh?”

“She got in late. I’d gone to bed.”

“And this morning?”

“I haven’t seen her this morning.”

“Is she here?”

“No, she’s not.”

“Did you leave my name and number where she would find it?”

“I have no idea.”

“Oh?”

“It’s on the message pad. If she looked on the pad, she would find it.”

“Would she look on the pad?”

“I can think of one way to find out.”

“Oh?”

“Go back to your office and sit at your desk. If the phone rings and it’s her, you’ll know she got the message.”

He smiled, cocked his head, looked at her. She wore no makeup, and her hair was mussed. Her blue jeans had holes in the knees. Her red cotton pullover was loose, deemphasized her figure. And yet, he found her quite attractive.

Perhaps it was the fire in her eyes.

“That strikes me as somewhat hostile,” he said.

“Oh, does it now?” Sherry Carter said. “Well, why would you get that impression?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Yes, there’s a small problem. It’s on the front page of the
Bakerhaven Gazette
. Though, I suppose that has nothing to do with you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. I take it you are what’s-his-name who wrote the story?”

“Aaron Grant.”

“Oh. Thanks for your byline. You ever think of checking your facts before going to press?”

“Yes, I do. That’s why I tried to call Miss Felton last night. Too bad I wasn’t able to reach her.”

“So you just went right ahead.”

He frowned, then smiled and shrugged. “Hey, pardon me, but what’s the problem? The Puzzle Lady and I both
write columns. We both want them printed. We both want them widely read. Are you telling me she doesn’t
want
publicity?”

“There’s good publicity and bad publicity.”

“No, there isn’t. All publicity is good publicity. You get your name out, it’s good. You get your picture out, it’s better. Now, nobody’s gonna see my face, but they sure will see hers. And trust me, that can’t hurt.”

“And if the killer comes looking for her?”

“Give me a break. You must know that’s not even a remote possibility. Not that I wouldn’t love to play that angle up, but it’s really a stretch.”

“You’d love to play that up?”

“Yes, of course. What, you want me to lie and tell you what you want to hear? I would love a sensational angle like that. Not that I want to put her in any danger. But if she
were
in any danger, you think I wouldn’t want to report it?”

“Am I supposed to find your candor refreshing?”

“Are you a writer too?”

“Why?”

“The number of people who use the word
candor
is somewhat limited.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What?”

“I don’t think a number can be limited. I think a group can be limited. I think a number of people can be few. I think a group of people could be limited, or simply small. But then, I’m not a reporter.”

Aaron Grant found himself looking at her with interest. “What are you?”

“I’m a schoolteacher.”

“Oh? Why aren’t you in school?”

“I’m a substitute, actually. I only teach when they call me.”

“I see,” Aaron said. He cocked his head. “That’s interesting. A teacher. You must be good with words.”

Sherry frowned. “What’s your point?”

“You must know a lot of them. Your vocabulary must be infinite.”

“What is that, sarcasm? Irony?”

“No, just a simple statement of fact. Isn’t your vocabulary infinite?”

“I’m sure
yours
is.”

“No. I know only a limited number of words.”

Sherry found herself blushing. “Oh, yes. A limited number. I should have known. You’re very competitive, aren’t you?”

“I’m a reporter. Getting the story first is my job.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. You scored with
limited number
. You’re right and I’m wrong. You also get credit for making your point subtly, instead of hitting me over the head with it. Now, you wanna take your aloof, arrogant, highly competitive—You got any other good adjectives for me?”