Read Arsenic and Old Puzzles Online
Authors: Parnell Hall
Arsenic and Old Puzzles (25 page)
“Of course not. Alan’s much too young for me. You, on the other hand, are just the right age.”
Becky’s eyes blazed. “
I’m
not breaking up his marriage.
You’re
breaking up his marriage.”
Becky had raised her voice. A woman coming out of Cushman’s Bake Shop turned her head to look, then quickly averted her eyes.
Cora suppressed a smile. “Come on, Becky. If your client’s got a nutso girlfriend it’s hardly anybody’s fault.”
“It is if you keep pissing her off until she makes her boyfriend fire me.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“How do you know?”
“Clearly Arlene doesn’t want publicity. Firing you would just make more. Plus she’d lose her leverage on keeping him in line.”
“You miss the point. Alan’s got no money. She does. Her money’s paying me.”
“Then I certainly hope no one’s trying to kill her. It would be a shame to get killed and wind up paying for it.”
“The whole idea they’re secretly married is a lot of hooey.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Really?”
“If they were married, their money’d be community property. You could get your retainer out of him.”
“I already have a retainer. I’ve been retained to do a job. You’re making that job incredibly difficult.”
“You’re retained to defend Alan Guilford from a murder rap. What’s so hard about that?”
“You keep throwing monkey wrenches into the works. Getting him to accuse his brother. Getting his brother to accuse him. You’re stirring up a hornet’s nest and creating a bunch of bad publicity, which is just exactly what Alan doesn’t want.”
“Wow. Monkey wrenches and hornet’s nests. I must really have you flustered.”
“Oh!” Becky Baldwin stomped her foot in frustration just as two women came out of Cushman’s Bake Shop.
Cora turned her back on Becky. “See, Barney, I told you I’d need help.”
“Huh?”
“Walk me to my car.”
“Why?”
“It’s okay, Barney,” Cora said. She smiled. “Someday you’ll understand.”
“I hear Becky
bawled you out in front of half the town.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“My wife told me. But everyone seems to know.”
“Just what does everyone seem to know?”
Harper looked embarrassed. “Understand, this is not coming from me. This is just what I heard.”
“Yes?”
“It was over Barney Nathan.”
“Really?” Cora said. “Well, that’s a fine state of affairs. Here I am, minding my own business, having a cup of coffee. A woman yells at me, which is something over which I have no control, and the next thing you know everyone is spreading malicious gossip.”
“Believe me, I’m not spreading anything.”
“Then how’d you hear it?”
“I told you. My wife told me. I haven’t told anyone.”
“You told me.”
Harper opened his mouth, closed it again.
“What’s new with the case?” Cora said.
“Aside from the nephews hurling outrageous accusations at each other on TV? A lot of negatives. The husband and wife of the philandering couple who got killed have ironclad alibies. At the time they were seen by dozens of coworkers, couldn’t possibly have done it.”
“They were a long shot anyway.”
“Nephew Sebastian is another story. He’s an unscrupulous conman, and he’s pretty good at it, because his rap sheet is rather short. You just know there’s more to it than that. The guy’s got four convictions spread out over twenty years; those weren’t just the isolated instances when he decided to go bad.”
“That’s a rather uncharitable assessment of the gentleman’s character.”
“Indeed. Anyway, I’d be willing to peg him for this crime, if he didn’t happen to be in Seattle when the killings started.”
“Are you sure?”
“Relatively sure. I can’t find anyone who can verify his presence, but there’s some pretty strong circumstantial evidence. Someone flew from Seattle to Bradley on the day in question using a ticket purchased in the name of Sebastian Guilford. With airport security these days, it’s difficult to fly with someone else’s ID.”
“It can be done.”
“Granted. There’s also the e-mail.”
“What e-mail?”
“The one from the police, telling him his aunt was killed. The one we didn’t send.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know, but I know where it was sent from.”
“Where’s that?”
“The Bakerhaven Public Library.”
“How’d you figure that out?”
“I had a computer nerd check out every public computer in town.”
“Really?”
“No, but that’s what I’m saying I did, so I don’t get the boys in Seattle in trouble.”
“The Seattle police broke into Sebastian’s apartment and looked at his computer?”
“See, that’s
exactly
what I don’t want people thinking. Luckily the computer nerd story is holding up.”
“There really was an e-mail?”
“Yeah, there was. Doesn’t mean he got it. Doesn’t prove who sent it. Frankly, I’d like to drag him down to the library, see if anyone recalls him hangin’ around.”
“You think he sent it himself?”
“Well, if he needed an excuse to be here. Or needed to prove he was there.”
“Can’t they tell if an e-mail’s been opened?”
“Sure. All that proves is someone checked his e-mail. It couldn’t be that hard to arrange. Speaking of arranging things, how’d you get the two brothers to accuse each other?”
“What makes you think that was me?”
“Are you kidding me? The Alan’s-trying-to-kill-Arlene theory is straight out of your playbook. And Sebastian didn’t have it before.”
“You don’t think much of that theory?”
“What, Alan’s trying to kill Arlene so he kills five other people? You think maybe he’s practicing up for when he actually is married to her? And no, I cannot find any record of a marriage between Alan Guilford and Arlene Winnington.”
“Too bad. It’s a nice theory.”
“Not that I’m washing him out as a suspect. He was the last person to see Charlotte alive.”
“A statement he volunteered.”
“Yes. Which he immediately tried to bolster by making up a story even
he
doubted. Charlotte asked him how he liked his pancakes, only he didn’t have pancakes, he had scrambled eggs and toast. Instead of bolstering his story, it casts doubt on it.”
“That’s the thing. It’s such a stupid lie, it almost has to be true.”
“Too bad we can’t ask Charlotte.”
“Yeah.” Cora shrugged. “That’s the problem with murder victims. They’re dead.”
“Hi, Becky. Glad
you’re here. I need a favor.”
Becky Baldwin looked up from her desk, blinked. “You want me to do
you
a favor?”
“Quick study. I always liked that about you. Call your client, get him in here. Him and his girlfriend. Get ’em both.”
“And just why should I do that?”
“It’s a favor. I’ll owe you one.”
“You don’t think you owe me one already?”
“Why?”
“For making trouble for my client. For making trouble for me.”
Cora waved it away. “You think I did that deliberately? I’d never interfere with your relationship with your client. Hell, I sent him to you in the first place. I got Chief Harper to scare him into hiring you. Come on, kid. We may have our differences, but we’re all in this together.”
“And just why do I want my client to come in here?”
“Because I asked you to.”
“No. What reason do I give
him
?”
“Oh. You want to fill him in on the case.”
“What do I want to tell him about the case?”
“That’s up to you.”
“Cora.”
“You just heard from me. I’m calling a meeting tonight at the Guilford house to discuss the crime. I want everyone there.”
“What if they won’t go?”
“Then my accusation will go uncontested. They can deny it, but not before it’s made the front page of the morning paper and the eleven o’clock news lead.”
“You’re going to make an accusation?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“You’re not sure?”
“Well, I don’t know who to accuse.”
“What?”
“Don’t tell ’em that part, will you?”
“What are you doing, running a bluff? Telling everyone you know who did it, and waiting to see who tries to kill you.”
“Hey, that’s a much better plan than mine. Except for the trying-to-kill-me bit. I hate it when that happens.”
Cora hopped in
her car, sped out to the Guilford house. A car passed her going the other way with two people in it who looked like Alan and Arlene. She hoped it was.
Cora drove by the Guilford house around the block, parked in front of Arlene’s. There was no car in the drive, a good sign. Cora got out, went up the walk, banged on the front door. There was no answer.
Cora came down off the porch, went around the house to the back door. It was locked. So was the kitchen window. A window farther down might have been open, but the ground fell away there and Cora couldn’t reach it. She looked around for something to climb on. The picnic bench looked promising, except it was long and clumsy. It was better than nothing. Cora lugged it over, placed it under the window. Due to the length of the bench and the slope of the land, it was on a slant. Cora climbed up. It was like standing on a slide. She caught her balance, reached up, and grabbed the windowsill. She pulled up with one hand, wedged her other hand under the window, and jiggled. It moved. Unfortunately, that was as far as she could push it.
Cora hopped down, looked around for something else. There was nothing higher except for the picnic table itself, and she wasn’t up to moving it without help. She took the other bench, lugged it over, placed it on top of the first one. She stepped back and surveyed her work. She had created a leaning tower of benches. The sort of thing one might climb on if it were the only way to escape a raging fire.
Cora put her foot on the bottom bench, tried to pull herself up to the second. Of course the bench itself was in the way. If she kept her foot on the bottom bench, she’d fall backward before she could reach the second. And if she tried to reach the second, her foot would slide off the first.
Cora took the top bench down, moved the bottom bench about six inches out from the wall. She lifted the other bench on top, pushed it up against the wall. This created a more precarious slide than the one she’d been attempting to scale. She put her foot on the bottom bench, pushed up, swung her knee over the second. The top bench lurched away from the wall, teetered for a moment on two legs. Cora flung her arm out, groped for the sill. She caught it with her fingertips, clawed her fingernails into the wood, and pulled. The bench shuddered, nearly collapsed in on itself, then swung back against the wall. Cora pulled herself onto the bench and stood up. She took hold of the window and pushed.
If the window had been locked, Cora would have broken the glass, but it slid up easily. She exhaled the breath she’d been holding, reached in, got a grip. With a little hop off the top bench, Cora heaved herself over the sill.
Cora was prepared to roll over onto the floor, but she never reached it. Instead she flopped unceremoniously into what proved to be a laundry sink. She climbed out, looked around.
She was in what must have been a maid’s room. It had a single bed, an end table, and a black-and-white TV.
The door was closed. It had a keyhole. If it was locked, Cora was going to flip out. It wasn’t. It led to the back hallway. Cora went out, set off in the direction she assumed the kitchen would be. She found herself in a dining room with glass breakfronts full of china, and an oak table that could have seated twelve, though there were only eight chairs around it now.
At one end of the dining room was a swinging door. Cora pushed her way into what proved to be the pantry. A door off the pantry led to the cellar, just like in the Guilford house. Only this cellar had a light switch right inside the door. Cora snapped on the lights, hurried down the stairs.
There were no graves in Arlene’s basement; it had a cement floor. There was a lot of junk, none of it likely to be hers: trunks; suitcases; an old bicycle; an air conditioner; a battered dresser, complete with a broken mirror.
In one corner were stacks of newspapers, mostly the
Bakerhaven Gazette,
but some from out of town. Cora checked the dates. None were more recent than last year.
One pile appeared to have been pawed through.
Cora looked at her watch. She was taking too long. She had to get out. She hurried up the stairs, went into the kitchen.
It was a large country kitchen with an eight-burner stove, a wall of refrigeration units, a butcher block table, and a whole wall of cupboards and cabinets. Cora wasn’t quite sure of the distinction between a cabinet and a cupboard, but there were a lot of places to look. She began opening doors.
Only one refrigerator had anything in it. Milk, eggs, mayonnaise, cold cuts. It didn’t look like Arlene did much cooking.
The cabinets were as bare as the refrigerator. A few cookies, some crackers, some cans of soup.
There was no pancake mix. Cora hadn’t expected there would be.
In the next cupboard, Cora found what she was looking for.
A bottle of maple syrup.
“Hi, Chief. Got
a minute?”
“Why? What’s up?”
Cora reached in her purse, took out the bottle of maple syrup. “Can I get this tested for fingerprints?”
“Where did you get that?”
“That’s not important. Unless the fingerprints are. In which case, I won’t mind saying.”
“All right. Whose fingerprints are on it?”
“I really can’t say.”
“Cora.”
“Because I don’t know. I can tell you whose fingerprints I’d
like
to be on it.”
“Yeah? Who’s that?”
“Charlotte Guilford.”
“You’re hoping to find the fingerprints of the victim?”