Puzzled to Death (33 page)

On the other side of the stage, Iris Cooper paced back and forth and glanced at her watch. It was five minutes after ten, past time for the tournament to begin. She had nudged Harvey, to no avail. He, like everyone else, was waiting on Chief Harper.

At ten-ten the chief finally came in the back door and pushed his way through the crowd. Following in his wake was the new widow, Jessica Thornhill. Fending off questions from the media, the two of them ducked under the restraining rope holding back the spectators, wove their way through the tables of contestants right up to the front of the room.

Iris Cooper descended on them instantly. “What’s the story?” she demanded. “Can we get on with it?”

“That’s what I want to talk about,” Chief Harper told Iris. “Let me make my statement.”

He stepped to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen. By now you are all aware of the tragedy that has struck this town. Last night there was a third murder. This time the victim was one of the contestants. In fact, a key contestant, the one who was in first place. I am referring, of course, to Paul Thornhill, whose body was discovered late last night.”

A general hubbub greeted this statement.

Chief Harper raised his hands to quiet the crowd. “I know there are rumors flying around. I would like to address them now. One, that we have a suspect under arrest.
This is not true. We have questioned people, and we will continue to question people. But at the present time, we have no suspect in these murders. As of right now I don’t know who did it. But I assure you, I intend to find out.

“Another rumor is that the killing of Paul Thornhill took place at the home of one of the tournament cohosts. This rumor is true. To the best we can determine, at some time last night, while Miss Cora Felton and her niece Sherry Carter were out, the killer lured Paul Thornhill to their house and murdered him in their backyard.”

The reaction from the crowd was even louder. Chief Harper waited for it to subside.

“Another rumor is that because of the killings, I intend to close this tournament down. I must say I have considered it, and it is an option. There are, however, other options. In this matter, I have been swayed by the wishes of Jessica Thornhill, Paul Thornhill’s widow. She has asked to be allowed to address you. I am going to let her do so now.

“Mrs. Thornhill?”

Jessica Thornhill stepped to the microphone. She was not dressed in black, although no one could possibly hold that against her. She was up from New York, not expecting to need black. Her blue wool dress was probably the closest she had.

Her hair was pulled back from her face and fastened with a rubber band. Her eyes were red, her cheeks raw from tears. Her voice shook when she first spoke, then steadied with her resolve.

“My husband is dead,” she began. It was here she stumbled for a moment before going on. “I want Paul’s killer caught. That is more important to me than any tournament. You must see that. Surely you can understand.

“But I understand how you feel too. You came here, you paid your money, you put in your time. I could refund your entry fees, and I am willing to do that, if it would help catch Paul’s killer. But I fear it would not. If you pack up and go home, what if the killer is among you? What if he is an out-of-towner who simply leaves?

“I could not bear that.

“I will not allow it.

“That must not happen.

“And you don’t want that either, merely to get your money back. You want to play the game.” Here again, her voice trembled. “And Paul would have wanted it too. This contest should continue for Paul’s sake. In his memory. At least, that’s how I feel.”

Jessica Thornhill swayed slightly, clung to the microphone. “But we have a problem. The police have an investigation to pursue. If the tournament goes forward, it ends this noon, and once it ends, you go home. With the same result as if we’d called it off. It will not do.”

Jessica snuffled, then braced with resolve. “So here is what I propose. We suspend the tournament—”

This announcement was greeted with howls of protest and a general swell of grumbling from the crowd.

Except from Cora Felton, whose heart leaped as if she had just gotten a death-row reprieve. Cora controlled herself, tried not to let the TV cameras catch her grinning outright.

“No, wait! Hear me out!” Jessica cried. “I didn’t mean forever. We suspend it for one day, and
one day only
, completing it tomorrow at this same time.”

The crowd hubbub lessened, as people digested this new wrinkle.

Cora scowled.

“Now then,” Jessica continued, “I know the hardships
this will cause. The out-of-towners will have to stay over another day, the local people will have to miss work. That is no problem. If you are staying over, I will pay your bill. Likewise, I will compensate you for lost wages.

“And I will also sweeten the prize. In addition to the other incentives, I offer
one hundred thousand
dollars for anyone with
any
information leading to the arrest and conviction of the murderer of my husband.”

Jessica Thornhill smeared a tear from her cheek. “I hope you are all willing to do that. For Paul.”

Whether they were willing or not, at least there were no audible protests. The mention of one hundred thousand dollars had silenced the crowd.

With one exception.

From out of nowhere, Joey Vale staggered forward. No one had seen him coming, as he had slipped through the rope while Jessica Thornhill was speaking, and suddenly he was there, lunging to the microphone before anyone could stop him.

He was a fright, even by his recent standards. His flannel shirt was buttoned wrong—the uneven tail hung out over a pair of ripped and filthy jeans. His work boots were unlaced and clomped as he walked—indeed, the fact they stayed on his feet at all seemed nothing short of miraculous. He was unshaven, his hair was matted, and his eyes were red. For ten in the morning, he seemed quite drunk indeed.

With a snarl, he wrenched the microphone from Jessica Thornhill. “Is that right?” he demanded of the crowd. “Is that how it works? She puts up money, and you all go along? A hunnerd—hundred—thousand dollars for the killer of her husband?” Joey regrouped and bellowed, “Well, how much for the killer of my wife? Doesn’t Judy’s murder count for anything? Just because I haven’t any money, doesn’t anybody care? You don’t, do
you? You care about that son of a bitch, but you couldn’t care less for her.”

Joey Vale whirled on a trembling Jessica Thornhill. “How about it, sweetie? You care who murdered her?”

Chief Harper pushed between them, flipped a high sign to Dan Finley and Sam Brogan in the crowd. The two descended on Joey Vale and marched him away.

It took a second for Joey to realize what was happening. When he did, he began kicking and screaming. As the officers hauled him off, Becky Baldwin detached herself from Rick Reed and the camera crew, who were filming this with glee, and followed him out the door.

Up front, as Cora Felton and Harvey Beerbaum moved in to console Jessica Thornhill, Chief Harper picked up the microphone from the floor.

“Sorry for the disturbance, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Before we were interrupted, Mrs. Thornhill was asking if you were willing to suspend the tournament for one day. Well, you’d better be, because that is now a police order. Due to an ongoing police investigation, this tournament is hereby suspended until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

A
ARON
G
RANT WOULDN’T LET
S
HERRY ALONE. “WHAT
have you got that you’re not saying?” he persisted.

“Nothing that you can print.”

“What have you got that I
can’t
print?”

“Aaron, that’s not fair.”

“Sherry, you’re talking fair? That newscaster’s on the air at six o’clock. I’m in the paper tomorrow morning. And I don’t have a single thing he hasn’t got. That gives him a good twelve hours’ head start.”

“Old argument, Aaron. You’ve used it before.”

“That makes it any less valid?”

Cora Felton came out of the town hall to find them arguing on the steps. “Ah, good, you two lovebirds are together. Aaron, can you give her a ride home?”

“Where are you going?” Sherry asked.

Cora Felton waved her hand airily. “That’s on a need-to-know basis, and Aaron here doesn’t need to know.”

“Oh, for goodness sakes,” Aaron said. “What is this, a conspiracy?”

“Of course it is,” Cora replied. “I’m finding out everything I can and giving it all to Rick Reed. Boy, are you newspeople paranoid.”

“Oh, is that right?” Aaron Grant said bitterly. It was the first time Cora could recall seeing him angry. “Tell me something, willya? Am I in or am I out? It was my understanding
I
was the good guy, withholding the juicy little tidbit about Billy Pickens and his wife swapping cars. Or is that how it works? Anything I happen to learn, you tell me if I can print. And anything I don’t learn, you don’t bother to tell me.”

Before Sherry could retort, Aaron’s parents came out the door. His mother smiled and started over, but his father, seeing the expression on Aaron’s face, grabbed her by the arm and piloted her down the front steps.

“Gee,” Sherry said, “I must have the plague.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Aaron cried, throwing up his hands. “Everything is
not
my fault.”

With that he turned and stalked off.

“What was that all about?” Cora asked, watching him head in the direction of the
Gazette
offices.

“I don’t know,” Sherry said. “But every time we have a fight, he brings up how he can’t compete with Rick Reed.”

“And Becky Baldwin’s still following Rick around?”

“Exactly.”

Cora shook her head. “Men are so stupid. I remember my husband Henry—”

“Could we leave Henry out of this?”

“Certainly. I left him out of everything I could. So Joey Vale’s back in jail again?”

“He’s certainly headed in that direction.”

“At least he’s making work for Becky Baldwin.”

“Yeah. I wonder if he can afford to pay her.”

Cora sighed. “Well, looks like I’m stuck with you. You wanna hang out here or you wanna come with me? I don’t have time to take you home.”

“Where are you going that you couldn’t tell Aaron?”

“There are people I need to see who wouldn’t talk to me with a reporter hanging over my shoulder.”

“Well, duh,” Sherry said. “You wanna be more explicit?”

“
Well, duh
?” Cora said. “Sherry, for a bright, mature woman, every now and then you sound like you’re back in high school.”

“Are you evading the question?”

“Well, duh,” Cora said. “Of course I’m evading the question. You think I wanna let you in on all my secrets?”

“What secrets?”

“Exactly,” Cora said. “I
have
no secrets. And I got only twenty-four hours to crack these crimes. It’s like working with a gun to my head. Worse than that, if I
can’t
solve ’em in twenty-four hours, not only do I fail, but I gotta do crossword-puzzle commentary for Harvey Beerbaum.”

“So who you wanna talk to?”

A jingle of earrings announced the approach of Zelda Zisk. The immense woman tripped lightly down the steps with awesome ease and dexterity. Her makeup, striking as ever, featured a heart outlined in eyebrow pencil on her left cheek. Her flamboyant topcoat was of royal purple and gold.

Cora could forgive her the excesses. When Zelda dressed that morning, she had no idea Paul Thornhill was dead.

Or did she?

Zelda was a large woman—strong enough to choke a man.

But why would she?

While Cora watched, Zelda Zisk lowered herself into a tiny blue Fiat and backed out of her space in the parking lot.

“Come on,” Cora told Sherry.

“Huh?” Sherry said, but Cora was already down the steps. Sherry hopped into the passenger seat as Cora gunned the motor, backed out, and zoomed out of the lot.

“Zelda Zisk?” Sherry asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Why Zelda Zisk? Do you think she killed Thornhill?”

“Someone did,” Cora said grimly.