Dead Man's Puzzle (8 page)
Authors: Parnell Hall
Cora glowered at the puzzle and considered Overmeyer the most annoying, stupid, idiotic, exasperating man she’d ever met. And she’d never met him. But he ranked right up there with some of the ones she’d married. The man deserved to die a thousand painful, gruesome deaths. Arsenic was too good for him. Surely something more diabolical could have been planned for the dead man from hell.
Cora gnashed her teeth and looked at the dead man’s puzzle:
The theme entry read: “Flip me over onto my back. Upside head take a whack.”
Boy, if the son of a bitch were only here, Cora would take such a whack. The two poems had to be the worst meaningless drivel she’d ever encountered. “At noon I can not be done. So I should try to at one.” And “Flip me over onto my back. Upside head take a whack.” It should at least be “Upside
my
head.” Probably didn’t fit. Or maybe he was afraid she’d do it and wanted to maintain deniability. “No, not
my
head. Did I say
my
head? I didn’t say
my
head. How about
his
head? Take a whack at
his
head, if you want.”
Cora had been so eager to get the puzzle back from Sherry. At the same time, she had been conflicted about the possible result. If it meant anything, she’d have to take it to Chief Harper. Which she could get away with if it was important enough. If it was dropping a significant clue in his lap. The theft of the puzzle would be forgiven in exchange for unveiling the culprit.
On the other hand, if the puzzle was meaningless, she didn’t have to show it to Chief Harper. In fact, she
couldn’t
show it to Chief Harper. It would be suicide to show it to Chief Harper. If the poem was meaningless, she would keep quiet and pretend it never happened.
Well, there it was, and if there was a meaning hidden within it, Cora wouldn’t know it. Nor would any other sane, rational person on the face of the earth. Which wasn’t fair. If the guy was going to hide the damn thing behind his poker-playing-dogs picture, it ought to mean something.
Only it didn’t.
It really wasn’t fair.
Cora Felton saw him as she came out of Cushman’s Bake Shop. He ducked back into the shadows, but that was what gave him away. Cora was always on the alert for elusive surveillance tactics. Not that she was often followed, but when she was, she knew it.
In this case, she knew the shadow. Becky Baldwin was right. The man snooping around was none other than Sherry Carter’s worthless ex-husband.
So. Dennis Pride was watching her. Had he followed her to the bake shop? Or just spotted her going in and waited for her to come out?
Cora was tempted to grab him by the scruff of the neck and demand to know what he was doing. But he’d probably lie. And then she’d waste her time figuring out what he was doing, why he was lying, and the whole nine yards. It was easier just to see for herself.
She hopped into her red Toyota, backed out of her parking spot, and drove slowly out of town. In the rearview mirror, she could see a black sedan pull away from the curb and follow. Cora went by the gas station, took a left on Holcomb Road. The sedan put on its blinker. Cora grinned in satisfaction, stepped on the gas, hurtled down the road. After a few seconds, she took her foot off the accelerator, let the engine slow the car. The Toyota had gone from twenty to eighty to thirty in the wink of an eye, and when the black sedan came into view, Cora was driving safely within the speed limit, though way down the road. It occurred to her that it would be really neat if Dennis had been smoking dope. After all, the guy was in a rock band, and if he was really stoned, her car seeming to teleport ahead would be a weird trip.
Cora was coming up on Overmeyer’s cabin. To her right was George Brooks’s house, a mansion by comparison. She could barely see it from the road. The driveway disappeared amid oak and maple trees. It was only from the cabin one had a direct view. Cora figured Brooks would plant bushes or hedges as soon as he got around to it. Assuming he couldn’t buy the land.
Cora slowed as she reached the cabin but didn’t turn in the drive. She went on by, pulled up at the side of the road, parked by the grove of trees. She slid across the front seat, slipped out the passenger door, dropped to the ground, and began crawling through the underbrush back toward the cabin. It was rough going. Her drawstring purse kept snagging on bushes and branches. But she wasn’t about to leave it in the car. It had her smokes and her gun. She wasn’t sure which she needed more.
The black sedan had pulled over just past the driveway to the cabin. Cora approached from the passenger side, yanked open the door, slid into the front seat. “Hello, Dennis.”
Cora had wanted to blow his mind, and she wasn’t disappointed. Dennis could not have looked more surprised if his guitar had vanished in midset. He gawked at Cora, his mouth open. He wore a suit and tie, and his long hair was slicked back. It was his salesman’s costume, his guise as the hardworking son-in-law of Norman Wallenstein, president and CEO of Wallenstein Textiles.
“Not much to say, huh? Strong, silent type. I usually like that in a man. In your case, I’ll make an exception.”
“What are you doing here?”
Cora frowned, shook her head. “Oh. Bad question. Just the worst. I
live
here. I have a
right
to be here. Unlike some people.”
“I have a right to be here.”
“You mean because Sherry’s gone? On her honeymoon?”
Dennis winced, scowled.
“You may have a
right
to be here. You don’t have a
reason
. And I think Brenda Wallenstein Pride, your current wife, the one who
hasn’t
divorced you yet, would bear me out on that. So if you haven’t any reason to be here, what the hell are you doing following me around?”
“I wasn’t following you around.”
“Well, you were doing a pretty good impression of it. Going where I go. Stopping where I stop. Waiting to see what I do.”
“Maybe I just wanted to see the cabin.”
“Huh?”
“There was a murder here. Or hadn’t you heard?”
“Yes. There was a murder at the cabin. That’s back there, Dennis. You drove right by it.”
“So did you.”
“I thought you weren’t following me.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t know your car.”
“Give it up, Dennis. Sherry’s married.”
“So am I.”
“Yes, you are. Now, that may not mean anything to you, but it does to her. You’re out of her life. You’ve got no business here.”
“I’d like to solve the crime.”
That caught Cora up short. “I beg your pardon?”
“You got no idea who killed him, do you? No one does. No more than I do. It’s up for grabs. Figuring it out. It’s important. It’s what a responsible person would do.”
“Too bad you don’t fall into that category.”
Dennis smiled. “I understand your attitude. This is your territory, you don’t want anyone treading on your space. But we’re after the same thing. We both want this killer caught. What do you say we pool our information.”
Cora stared at him. There was a glint in his eye that never came from liquor or cocaine. She knew it well. The sign of obsession so great that logic and reason would not prevail. The man could only be dealt with like an obstinate three-year-old determined to have his own way.
Instead of laughing in his face, Cora said, “What information do you wanna pool?”
“You first.”
She took a breath. “Overmeyer was most likely poisoned.”
“That’s not news.”
“It isn’t official.”
“It may be unofficial, but everyone knows.”
“Well, now it’s confirmed. Your turn.”
Dennis shook his head. “Huh-uh. You tell me something no one knows, I’ll tell you what I know. Otherwise, forget it.”
Cora glared at him in contempt.
“Consider it forgotten,” she said, and climbed out of the car.
“Your client’s insane.”
Becky Baldwin raised her eyebrows. “What else is new?”
“I’m not kidding. He’s certifiable. It’s a real problem.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Cora snorted in exasperation. Becky Baldwin’s law office was over the pizza parlor, and aromas had a tendency to seep up. Today’s special was the supreme combo—chicken, sausage, and pepperoni. Cora would rather have been eating it than discussing Dennis Pride.
“It’s worse than usual. He’s snapped. He thinks he’s an amateur detective, trying to solve the crime before the cops.”
Becky smiled. “A sure sign of dementia.”
Cora suggested uses for Becky’s law books unlikely to have helped her pass the bar.
“What are you getting so pissed about? He’s my client.”
“Exactly, and you can’t control him. He’s on probation, and here he is running around making trouble.”
“Unfortunately, he’s within his rights.”
“He may be within his rights, but he’s out of his mind. I mean more than usual. I don’t know how to get through to you if you’re not going to take this seriously.”
“I’m taking it seriously. What do you want me to do?”
“Bring him in. Give him a talking-to.”
“I do that every week.”
“This time make an impression.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Wear your black leather dominatrix outfit. Just make him listen.”
“How do you know about my dominatrix outfit?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Yeah.”
“Damn. All right, listen. Dennis claims he knows something.”
“You think he does?”
“I have no idea. But he won’t tell me unless I tell him something first.”
“Which you won’t do?”
“I’d rather be staked naked to an anthill.”
“Yeah, but you do that every week.”
“My, you’ve gotten feisty since your boyfriend got married.”
“Thank you.”
“So how about it? Think you can work your wiles on Dennis?”
“I’d rather be staked naked to an anthill.”
“Good point.”
“Well, speaking entirely as a lawyer, it occurs to me if Dennis doesn’t want to tell us what he knows, there’s not much we can do about it.”
“Right.”
“On the other hand, if he doesn’t tell Chief Harper, he’d be guilty of withholding evidence, compounding a felony, and conspiring to conceal a crime.”
Cora smiled.
“For a Barbie doll, you have a keen legal mind.”
Chief Harper’s office was filled with Overmeyer heirs. It was a veritable bonanza. The day before, he’d had only one. Today, there were no fewer than five clamoring for attention.
Cora stuck her head in the door. “Am I interrupting?”
Chief Harper looked as though he’d just been thrown a life-line. “Not at all. Come right in. These people were just leaving.”
A truculent gentleman in a three-piece suit took exception to the statement. “Leaving? I just got here. I have no intention of leaving until I find out what happened to my cousin.”
“
Second
cousin,” a middle-aged man corrected. His plaid jacket and red toupee clashed to the point of causing headaches, if not seizures.
The woman with him might have been drawn by Charles Addams. “Twice removed,” she sneered.
Since no introductions were forthcoming, Cora dubbed them Bozo and Cruella.
A blond woman in fishnet stockings and more makeup than the average chorus line batted her eyes at no one in particular. “It’s just so very sad.” Who she was and why it was sad for her were not readily apparent; still, if the woman wanted to think so, Cora couldn’t blame her for it. She
could
blame her for the makeup, which was simply god-awful. She looked like a hooker. Not necessarily female.
“Harumph,” said an elderly gentleman in the pack. At least that’s what Cora assumed he was saying. The actual noise might have been produced by yodeling with a collapsed lung. The man wore a white shirt buttoned to the neck and tan slacks belted to the armpits. He was shorter than Cora, which made him about four-fifths pants.
The Geezer, as Cora dubbed him, had captured her attention with his “harumph.” She waited for more. None was forthcoming. Apparently, he figured harumph covered the situation.
“Just a darn minute,” Bozo said. “I feel we’ve been gotten here under false pretenses. We show up for the reading of the will. No one said anything about a murder.”
“And there’s no damn will,” the pinstripe-suited man whined. Cora dubbed him Cranky Banker. “How do you like them apples? It’s up to us to sort the whole thing out.”
“Oh, yeah?” Cruella said. “As if that’ll happen now. It’s a murder. What do you think happens in those cases? They cut up the estate while they’re looking for the killer? I don’t think so. Isn’t that right, Officer?”
“It’s not my place to discuss the disposition of the estate.”
“Well, whose place is it? That’s what I want to know. Who’s the gentleman’s attorney?”
“By ‘the gentleman,’ you mean your dear departed uncle Overmeyer?” Cora put in.
“Who the hell are you?” Cruella demanded. “You better not be his sister. I know for a fact he had no sisters.”
There were many ways to Cora’s heart, but suggesting she might be the sister of an nonagenarian was not one of them. She cocked her head at Chief Harper. “Have you checked their alibis?”
That triggered an outburst of sputtered protests.
“Alibis?” Harper said.
“These people seem far too interested in the estate. One wonders if there might be something worth inheriting.”
“There’s no reason we should have to supply alibis,” Cruella said indignantly. “We were in Green Bay yesterday.”
“Look at that,” Cranky Banker said. “She says there’s no reason to supply alibis and immediately supplies one. I would look at her very closely if I were you.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Chief Harper said dryly. “Now, if you’d all just run along. Leave your names, addresses, and local contact numbers with the young officer at the desk.”
Chief Harper had barely got the gaggle of heirs out of the office before Dan Finley burst in to say he’d traced the bullet.