Last Puzzle & Testament (10 page)

“What?”

“That’s how long we’ve got to pull this off.”

“Pull what off?”

“Come here.”

Sherry yanked Cora out of the chair, dragged her through the living room to the front window, propped her against the wall, and pushed the curtain aside. “Look,” Sherry said. She jammed Cora Felton’s eyeglasses on her nose, pointed her in the right direction.

Outside in the driveway were Chief Harper’s police cruiser, Daniel Hurley’s motorcycle, Chester Hurley’s pickup truck, and half a dozen cars filled with Aaron Grant, Becky Baldwin, bank president Marcus Gelman, and the rest of the Hurley heirs.

“There.” Sherry yanked Cora away from the window. “They’re all waiting for you. And we’re going in the bedroom, and I’m pulling the first available dress over your head, and slipping a pair of shoes on your feet, and you’re going to walk with me out to your car as if you hadn’t a worry in the world.”

“Uh huh,” Cora mumbled, as they entered the bedroom. She was beginning to wake up a little. “And then they’re going to ask me about the murder?”

“Well, not right away.”

“No?” Cora said, as Sherry pulled the Wicked Witch of the West dress off over her head. “Why won’t they ask me?” She scowled as her mind slowly began to work. “And why are there so many people here?”

Sherry grimaced.

“Well, that’s the other thing …”

The procession wound its way around Lilac Lane and up the hill to the Hurley mansion. Arthur Kincaid led the way in a vintage Mercedes that still ran smoothly but had seen better decades. He was followed closely by the Applegates and the Hurleys, who kept vying for position as though the order of arrival at the house might in some way affect the outcome of the will. Phyllis Hurley Applegate was hanging right on his bumper in a Ford Fairlane with Pennsylvania plates, so as not to be edged out by Philip Hurley, tailgating her in a Chevy rental. The maneuvering involved considerable shouting and honking, and an occasional rude gesture.

Behind them came Chester Hurley, who had given a ride to the woman with the flat face. Chester’s battered Ford pickup was more rust than metal, and clearly had no shocks. The woman jounced stoically along on the front seat, her head nearly hitting the ceiling on every bump.

Next came Cora and Sherry’s red Toyota. Sherry was driving with one hand, and propping her aunt up with the other. Cora was wearing a seat belt, but her head and shoulders kept lolling forward in an unlikely position for anyone even remotely conscious, and Sherry was acutely aware of the fact that Aaron Grant’s Honda Accord and Becky Baldwin’s compact rental were following close behind. As if that weren’t enough trouble, Sherry had to keep watching out for Daniel Hurley. He was weaving in and out of the procession on his motorcycle with boyish enthusiasm.

Bank president Marcus Gelman’s black Mercury sedan and Chief Harper’s police cruiser brought up the rear.

The Hurley house was impressive in daylight. An imposing and majestic structure, it was set back on the top of the hill in front of a circular drive. The sprawling three-story mansion featured garrets and cupolas and eaves and balconies. Recently painted blue with white trim, it resembled an elaborate wedding cake of Victorian design. The sheet of plywood over the window to the right of the front door was like an ugly scar.

Chief Harper took a look at the people piling out of the cars and shook his head. “I don’t like this,” he said. “This is a crime scene.”

Cora Felton, who had been slumped on Sherry’s shoulder, perked right up. “Crime scene? Where’s the crime scene?”

Cora lurched toward the front porch, and nearly went head over heels off the first step, before Sherry managed to grab her and unobtrusively pull her back.

Fortunately, Arthur Kincaid had everyone’s attention. “This may be a crime scene. But at this point the breaking and entering would seem somewhat moot.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Chief Harper said. “The man is dead.”

“Yes, but he didn’t die here.”

“Come on, come on,” Phyllis Hurley Applegate said impatiently. “Open up. Let us in.”

“Let who in?” Philip Hurley said. He pushed in front of his sister. “Don’t let yourself be rushed, Mr. Kincaid. We’re all going in, but we can certainly take our time.”

“I’m not so sure we’re all going in,” Chief Harper said. There were immediate cries of protest.

Marcus Gelman pushed forward. A balding, chubby man in a three-piece suit, he clearly would have been more at ease in his air-conditioned bank. He tugged a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiped the perspiration off his brow.

“Hold on now,” he said. “I would like to make my position clear. I am here to carry out the instructions of the late Emma Hurley, wh sma sao was one of my bank’s largest investors. If you intend to stop me from doing so, Chief Harper, then you better do so legally and officially, so as to relieve me of my responsibility. Aside from that, I am charged with following the instructions of Arthur Kincaid. And if he tells me to open the door, that is what I am going to do.”

This declaration was met with rumblings of approval from the heirs.

“All right, all right,” Chief Harper said. “Let’s calm down. I didn’t bring you out here just to bar the door. I may not like this, but I didn’t say I wouldn’t go along. The only question is, Who’s going in? Mr. Kincaid, as the solicitor, who do you want in there?”

“It’s who Emma Hurley wants in there,” Kincaid pointed out mildly. “That’s all of the heirs with the exception of Kevin Holbrook and Mildred Sims, who have been given specific bequests and are not playing the game. But all the rest. And of course Miss Cora Felton, who is judging the event.”

Cora Felton was standing next to the front porch with an owlish expression on her face. It was an expression Sherry knew well, Cora’s I-am-sober expression, an expression, that to Sherry, indicated anything but. Sherry was standing with her arm unobtrusively around Cora’s waist, keeping her from listing in any direction.

“And I will be accompanying my aunt,” Sherry said.

“Why?” Phyllis Applegate demanded. “There’s nothing in the will about
you
.”

“I’m her assistant. I help edit her puzzles. If she’s going to be the judge, she needs me to keep score.”

“That’s not fair,” Phyllis objected shrilly. “We’re not bound by your judgment.”

Philip Hurley laughed. “Good move, Sis. Real bright. Pick a fight with the judge.”

Arthur Kincaid put up his hands. “Please, let’s not bicker. We’re all here, we’re all going in. Including all interested parties. Aaron Grant is not an heir, but he’s covering this for the paper. And Becky Baldwin is my associate, and the attorney for the deceased Mr. Beasley. Aaron and Becky technically have no right to be here, but I would rather let them in than exclude them and have them ask why. Is that clear to everyone? Then let’s go.”

Marcus Gelman took a key from his pocket. He unlocked the front door. The Hurleys and Applegates nearly shoved him over in their haste to enter.

Chief Harper frowned. “All right now. We will have none of that. No crowding, no pushing. Arthur and I are going to go on ahead. You will all follow behind, giving us room. If you don’t, we will stop. If you want to see this through, then behave.”

In spite of this admonition, the Applegates and the Hurleys almost trampled themselves on their way up the front stairs. The rest of the entourage followed at a slightly more decorous pace.

Sherry and Cora brought u sorahtlp the rear, Sherry guiding her aunt with one hand on her shoulder and the other in the small of her back. Fortunately, no one was looking, for Cora resembled nothing so much as the heroine in a horror movie. Like Jeff Beasley, she recoiled from the knight with the ax in the foyer, and gaped at the hideous painting of old Evan Hurley at the top of the stairs.

“Where
are
we?” she muttered, utterly baffled.

“Shh,” Sherry whispered. She led Cora into Emma Hurley’s bedroom, where the heirs were already crowded around the rolltop desk.

“All right,” Arthur Kincaid said. “This is the desk described in the will. Emma said the first clue was in the rolltop desk. You will note that the top is down, that it locks with a key, that the key is in the lock.”

Arthur Kincaid put his hands on the bottom of the rolltop, pushed up. “It appears to be unlocked.”

The top slid up and back, disclosing the interior of the antique desk. On the desktop was a large blue blotter, a jar of black ink, and a pen. Above it were two small wooden drawers, and a series of cubbyholes.

“The drawers, look in the drawers,” Phyllis Applegate urged.

The first drawer contained several small stationery store items, such as pencils, erasers, and paper clips. The second drawer held scissors, tape, and a box of name tags that had clearly been used for wrapping gifts.

“Try the blotter,” Daniel Hurley said.

“Huh?”

“The blotter.” Daniel pointed. “It’s in a frame. Pull the frame off.”

Arthur Kincaid picked up the blotter. But he didn’t have to pull off the frame.

“Look!” the heirs cried.

Under the blotter was a manila envelope. Arthur Kincaid took it, undid the clasp, and pulled out a stack of papers. He held the papers against the envelope, so that it shielded them from the heirs. He took one look; then he held the envelope and papers against his chest.

“Chief Harper, I think I’d like you to witness this,” Arthur Kincaid said. “You too, Mr. Gelman. And you too, Ms. Baldwin. Due to the unusual nature of the circumstances, I would like another lawyer present.”

“What circumstances? What are you talking about?” Phyllis Applegate was bewildered.

“Why don’t you be quiet, Sis,” Philip Hurley snarled, “and you’ll find out.”

“That would be good,” Arthur Kincaid agreed. “And if you’d all stand back and give us a little room, I’ll be able to hold this up so we can all see.” He lifted the manila envelope and turned it around to show the paper on the other side.

It was a crossword-puzzle sssw pap grid, similar to those that appeared in the daily paper.

This sight was accompanied by
oohs
and
ahs,
and intakes of breath.

“Is that what I think it is?” Daniel Hurley said.

“I should think so,” Arthur Kincaid replied. “But I’m going to have our expert check it out. Miss Felton, what do you make of this? Is this Emma Hurley’s puzzle?”

Sherry nudged Cora in the ribs. Cora’s head jerked up. “Emma Hurley?” she mumbled.

“Yes,” Arthur Kincaid said. “In your expert opinion, is this the puzzle mentioned in her will?”

“Dunno,” Cora said. She crinkled up her nose, peered at the lawyer. “Is
she
the one?”

Arthur Kincaid frowned. “The one? What do you mean, the one?”

Cora Felton drew herself up, poked her glasses back on her nose, and elevated her chin.

“Well, she was murdered, wasn’t she?” Cora declared.

There was stunned silence.

The heirs gawked at each other, too astonished to speak.

Sherry jumped in. “Aunt Cora. Don’t be silly. Emma Hurley wasn’t murdered.”

“Oh?” Cora pouted. “I thought you said she was murdered. Didn’t you say murdered?”

“No, no,” Sherry said, trying to save the situation. “I said
Jeff Beasley.
The drunk. That’s who was murdered.”

“Oh.” Cora’s manner indicated this
clearly
wasn’t as good.

“Now, just a minute,” Arthur Kincaid objected. “That was an accident. Jeff Beasley wasn’t murdered.”

“So it
was
the old lady.” Cora nodded complacently. “I thought so.” With the prospect of a murder investigation she began to pick up steam. “And you want me to find out whodunit? Okay, let’s check motives. Who profits if she’s bumped off?”

Philip Hurley’s mouth dropped open. “My God, the woman’s plastered. Are you telling me
this
is our judge?”

Cora Felton fixed him with an evil eye. “Now, you see here, young man—” She broke off as she noticed Phyllis Applegate standing next to him. She blinked in amazement. “Why are there two of you?”

Before Phyllis could protest, Sherry jumped in. “Aunt Cora. This is not the murder. This is the other thing. The puzzle that you have to judge. savecould p They want you to take a look at the puzzle.”