A Puzzle in a Pear Tree (17 page)

30

JUDGE HOBBS SURVEYED HIS COURTROOM WITH DISPLEASURE. It was packed, which was unprecedented for a simple arraignment. But the venerable jurist understood the situation perfectly. The defendant was an attractive young woman. The defense attorney was an attractive young woman. And the crime was sensational. How often does the Virgin Mary get bumped off? The TV guy had even tried to bring his camera into court. Judge Hobbs had put an end to that. Even so, the TV crew was doubtless hanging out on the front steps waiting to shoot interviews.

Judge Hobbs scowled, picked up his gavel, banged the courtroom quiet.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Somewhat against my better judgment I have allowed spectators for whom there are no seats. This privilege is not irrevocable. If you can’t be quiet, you can leave. I would imagine most of you are here because you expect a show. Well, you’re not going to get one. I’m sorry to be a killjoy, but this is not fun. A girl has been murdered. A young woman has been charged. This is an arraignment for the purpose of binding her over for trial.”

Becky Baldwin rose to her feet. “I object to that, Your Honor.”

Judge Hobbs froze with his mouth open and his finger raised, midpontification. He turned to the defense table in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Excuse
me
, Your Honor,” Becky Baldwin rejoined. “But I object to Your Honor making statements as to the outcome of these proceedings. Surely the defendant has some rights.”

“And I assure you none of them will be violated,” Judge Hobbs said dryly. “Now, if you will allow me to proceed . . .”

“Certainly,” Becky said, and sat down.

Judge Hobbs scowled, nettled. He turned to the prosecution table, where Henry Firth sat fumbling with his papers. “Mr. Prosecutor, what have we here?”

A little man with a thin mustache and a twitchy nose, Henry Firth had always reminded Cora of a rat. He located the document he wanted, looked up, and said, “Your Honor, this is the case of the
People versus Sherry
Carter
with regard to the death of Doris Taggart. We ask that the defendant be bound over on the charge of murder in the first degree and attempted murder in the first degree.”

Becky shot to her feet. “Make up your mind,” she said. “Is it murder or attempted murder?”

Judge Hobbs banged the gavel. “Young lady, I will thank you to address the court and not opposing counsel.”

“Your Honor, I will thank you to address me as
Ms.
Baldwin rather than by a pejorative sexist term.”

“Then you’re outta luck,” Judge Hobbs informed her. “If you were a male attorney your age, I’d address you as
young man.
If you want equal footing, you can’t have it both ways. Now, then,
Miss
Baldwin, what is your problem?”

“Speaking of having it both ways, Your Honor, the prosecutor is charging the defendant with murder
and
attempted murder. Any crime that is committed is also attempted. Not that my client did either. Still, this would seem like a case of the prosecutor gratuitously piling up the charges.”

Judge Hobbs cocked his head. “Mr. Firth?”

Henry Firth’s smile was a smirk. “That is not true, Your Honor. What we have here is a case of mistaken identity. The defendant killed one woman under the belief that she was another. In order to cover all bases, we are charging the defendant with murder in the case of the decedent, and attempted murder in the case of her intended victim.”

“How about jaywalking, in case neither of those charges sticks?” Becky Baldwin suggested.

Judge Hobbs scowled. “Young lady, if I call you Ms. Baldwin will you show me some respect? The prosecutor has a legitimate point. That doesn’t mean I’m going to recognize it, but it’s certainly legitimate.”

“Oh, really? And just whom, may I ask, is the defendant accused of attempting to murder?”

“That would seem a reasonable question, Mr. Prosecutor.”

“She’s accused of attempting to murder Miss Rebecca Baldwin.”

There was a rumble of voices in the court. Judge Hobbs silenced it furiously with the gavel.

Becky Baldwin smiled. “You see why I wanted you to address me by name, Your Honor? The prosecutor is accusing my client of attempting to murder
me.
The absurdity of such a claim goes to the heart of their case, which is equally absurd.”

Judge Hobbs frowned. “This is a simple arraignment, and I intend to keep it that way. Mr. Prosecutor, I ask that you drop this attempted murder charge, which can always be reinstated at another time, and arraign the defendant solely on the murder of Doris Taggart. Is that acceptable to you?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Very well. The defendant is hereby charged with the murder of Doris Taggart. Does the defendant wish to enter a plea?”

“The defendant does not,” Becky Baldwin said.

Judge Hobbs blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“The defendant does not wish to respond to any such charges. Such charges are absolutely without merit, and I ask that they be dismissed.”

“Miss Baldwin, this is not a probable cause hearing, this is a simple arraignment.”

“Your Honor keeps using the word
simple.
There is nothing
simple
about it. Why should this young woman be forced to endure a stigma on her good name just because the prosecutor has chosen to accuse her on a frivolous whim? We demand to know on what grounds he asks that Ms. Carter be arraigned.”

“Mr. Firth?”

“I’m not prepared to put on evidence at this time. If Your Honor would schedule a probable cause hearing—”

“Ms. Baldwin. Is it acceptable to you that the defendant be arraigned on murder and released on her own recognizance pending a probable cause hearing?”

“Absolutely not, Your Honor. Unless the prosecution can explain on what evidence Ms. Carter is being arraigned.”

“I said I wasn’t prepared to put on proof,” Henry Firth shot back irritably.

“I’m not asking you to put on proof. I’m asking you if you have grounds.”

“Of course I have grounds.”

“What are they?”

Judge Hobbs banged the gavel. “We’ll have no more banter between counsel. Mr. Prosecutor, could you state briefly on what grounds you’re asking the defendant be bound over?”

“Certainly, Your Honor. As a result of the search warrant issued by you, red envelopes matching the ones used to send the threatening puzzle poems were found secreted in Miss Carter’s house.”

Becky’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “The defendant had
red
envelopes? Why didn’t you say so? I understand completely your charging her with murder. I of course withdraw all my objections.”

“That will do!” Judge Hobbs snapped. “Young lady, any more sarcasm out of you and I will take you at your word. Mr. Prosecutor, what else are you prepared to show?”

“I’m prepared to show that the defendant had the most opportunity to kill the decedent. Both were playing the Virgin Mary in Bakerhaven’s live Nativity. The defendant relieved the decedent. Miss Carter bent down and took hold of Miss Taggart, whereupon the decedent fell dead.”

“You’re prepared to show this by competent witnesses?”

“I will be, Your Honor.”

Judge Hobbs nodded. “Miss Baldwin, nice try. I find there is sufficient reason to believe the prosecution would prevail in a probable cause hearing. The defendant is hereby arraigned on a charge of murder and released on her own recognizance.”

31

RUPERT WINSTON POPPED TWO PURPLE TABLETS INTO HIS mouth and washed them down with Evian water. Rupert frequently popped pills during rehearsal. Whether they were medicinal, recreational, or merely a sugar candy prop to further his image was the subject of much speculation. His abrupt mood swings merely fed the fire.

Tonight, with one of his actresses charged with murder, it was clear the man was going for high drama. He jammed his plastic pillbox back in his briefcase, leaped onto the apron of the stage, and addressed the cast of the Christmas pageant as if he were Henry the V and they were his British troops. “Nothing has changed,” he declaimed. “I have told you the show must go on. Now I tell you it must go on with us
all.
We must rally round Miss Carter. It is clear she has been unjustly accused. We support her, we embrace her, she is a valued member of our cast. This accusation is patently false; we must put it from our minds and pay it no heed. I’m sure all the ladies dancing will do the same.

“As for Miss Baldwin, she has informed me that she will not be intimidated and intends to go on with the play.”

This declaration was delivered in a way that under other circumstances might have prompted applause. As things were, Winston’s audience regarded him with mute skepticism. Becky, proud and defiant, sat beside Dan Finley. If she resented the young policeman’s continued presence, she gave no sign.

“All right, people,” Rupert continued. “We’re gettin’ down to crunch time. We’re on in three days. This will be a stop-and-go run-through, with attention to detail. If there are any kinks, now is the time to iron them out. I want to warn you, this will be slow going. That is why we have chairs in the audience. I want no one backstage except the actors about to enter, and I will tell you when to go there. When I do, please have your props ready, and take your positions quickly without talking. We have an enormous amount of work to do.

“All right. Places, please. That’s Becky Baldwin onstage, Jimmy Potter offstage left with the pear tree.”

Becky Baldwin detached herself from Dan Finley and made her way onstage. To her credit, she strode right out, with no apparent trepidation about falling objects.

Jimmy Potter took his position stage left.

Rupert Winston gestured to the music director, who played a trill.

Becky Baldwin sang sweetly,
“ ‘On the first day of
Christmas, my true love gave to me.’ ”

Jonathon Doddsworth barged in the side door.
“ ‘A
partridge in a pear tree,’ ”
the inspector declared tonelessly, preempting Jimmy Potter. “Sorry to intrude. Police business. Mr. Winston, I need a copy of the schedule. Of the Nativity actors. I understand you drew it up.”

“Why do you want that?” Rupert demanded irritably.

“As a witness list. Do you have it?”

“It’s probably at home.”

“Ah. Then let’s fetch it, shall we?”

Rupert blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I need the list. My rental’s outside. I’ll run you round.”

“Now?” Rupert said incredulously. “I have rehearsal—”

“Have you back in a jiff.” Doddsworth put his arm on the director’s shoulder. “Come, now, there’s a good chap.”

Rupert twisted away furiously. He glared at Doddsworth. The two men stood toe to toe. The lithe, slender director and the hulking British policeman.

Dan Finley slipped between them like a referee breaking up a prizefight. “Now, now, boys. Mr. Winston, we gotta have that schedule. Whaddya say we speed things along?”

Grudgingly, Rupert gave ground. “Maybe I have one here,” he muttered. He went over to his briefcase, pawed through it, pulled out a paper.

“Ah, good show,” Doddsworth murmured, as if the production of the schedule had been completely voluntary. “Carry on. Sorry to intrude.”

Doddsworth practically bowed his way out the door.

“All right.” Rupert Winston rolled his eyes to let one and all see that he was carrying the weight of the theatrical world on his shoulders. “If we could
try
the opening again . . .”

The music trilled, Becky sang her line, and Jimmy Potter came marching out with plastic bush and paper bird, singing,
“ ‘A partridge in a pear tree.’ ”

In Cora Felton’s opinion, Jimmy did it very well, but Rupert Winston immediately sprang up onstage to give Jimmy a litany of directions. Cora could practically see poor Jimmy’s brain churning, trying to follow the nuances Rupert Winston was attempting to convey.

While this was going on, the gym lights went out. The stage lighting, which had been pink, faded into blue, and a spot came up on Becky Baldwin.

“That light’s not flattering Becky any,” Sherry whispered.

“That’s because she’s wearing street makeup instead of stage makeup,” Cora whispered back. “Even so, it’s pretty harsh.”

As if in response to Cora’s comment, the light on Becky dimmed a bit.

“That’s better,” Sherry said.

Dan Finley stood up in the audience. “Hey. Is someone up there aiming lights?”

“Oh, could we have one
more
interruption!” Rupert raged. “No. No one is aiming lights. Just replugging the board. Cast members! Pay no attention to the lights. If they don’t seem right for your scene, it’s because they
aren’t.
Alfred is merely working on the board.” He turned to the stage-left wings. “Alfred, do what you’ve gotta do, just don’t plunge us into total darkness. And
try
not to upset the policeman.”

From the wings came a reedy reply. “Yes, Mr. Winston.”

Aaron Grant slid into the seat next to Sherry. He shrugged off his drum, set it on the floor.

“Hey, shouldn’t you be with the drummers drumming?” Sherry whispered. “You’ll get into trouble.”

“Oh, now you’re an expert on trouble?” Aaron whispered back.

Cora Felton put her finger to her lips. “You kids do what you want. Just don’t get
me
into hot water.”

Cora slipped out of her chair, made her way to the far end of the basketball court. She looked back, saw that Rupert Winston was deeply engaged in metaphysical speculation on the nature of Christmas gifts. Cora quietly eased the door open a crack and squeezed through.

She found herself in a long hallway lined with metal lockers. She wondered vaguely if any of them might hold a clue. If so, she wondered what type of court order it would take to open them. Or if a credit card might do the trick.

Cora looked around, tried to get her bearings. The music practice room was down the hall. If she remembered correctly, there was a stairwell next to it.

There was. Cora pushed the door open, descended the stairs, found herself in another hallway. She made her way back toward the stage, passing the girls’ dressing room, where Doddsworth had found the clue
Wrong girl,
and climbed the stage-left stairs.

The work lights were out, the wings were dark. Onstage, Rupert Winston was still discoursing on the right and wrong methods of presenting a pear tree.

The stage-left wing was piled high with Russian drawing room furniture from the act 4 set of
The Seagull.
Cora picked her way around it, careful not to make a sound.

A wooden ladder attached to the front wall near the proscenium led to the lighting booth.

Cora climbed the ladder, peered inside.

A pair of battered work boots and paint-smeared jeans protruded from the booth. Alfred Adams, the nerdy tech assistant and erstwhile drummer drumming, lay half in and half out of the booth as he groped behind the dimmer panel to plug in a cable. Alfred’s face was contorted, and he was fumbling and mumbling, so engrossed in his task that he did not notice Cora. With a grunt of triumph, he straightened, spotted her, and jumped a mile.

“Easy!” Cora hissed. “I’m an old lady, and I don’t land well.”

“What the heck are you doing here?”

“Can you keep your voice down? Rupert won’t like it.”

The name of his director seemed to alarm Alfred. “I got work to do,” he pointed out defensively.

“Yes, I know. I’m going to get out of here and let you do it. I just have one or two questions first.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Why not?”

“Just don’t. Get out of here. Go away. Now.”

Alfred seemed unduly agitated. Cora perched thoughtfully on the edge of the loft, wrapped her arm around a beam, mindful of the fact a good quick push could send her tumbling fifteen feet to the stage. “Why don’t you wanna talk to me, Alfred? What is it you know?”

“Don’t know anything.”

“Then why don’t you wanna talk?”

“You kidding me? You’re the Puzzle Lady. When there’s a crime, you talk to people. Then they wind up dead. I don’t know anything, but if I talk to you, people will
think
I do.”

“Hey, you keep your voice down, no one will know you talked to me. Tell me what I wanna know, and I’ll get out of here.”

Alfred regarded her miserably, then sighed. “Whaddya wanna know?”

“About you playing Joseph.”

“I already told the police.”

“Tell me.”

“What?”

“Did you see anybody while you were posing?”

“Sure.”

“In cars or on foot?”

“Both.”

“Close enough to have thrown a dart?”

“Sure, but they couldn’t have done it.”

“Why not?”

“Dorrie wasn’t there. She didn’t come on till eleven. I got relieved at eleven-fifteen, so I was hardly with her at all.”

“But you were there when Dorrie relieved Maxine Doddsworth?”

Alfred sighed again. “Yes, I was.” He looked like he was going to weep.

“And what did you see?”

“Nothing. Dorrie taps Maxine on the shoulder. Slides in as she slides out. Their backs are to me. I can’t see them. And they’re not paying any attention to me. I could be a statue, for all those girls care.”

“Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do?”

“Yeah, sure. If it was Lance Bigshot, they’d find an excuse to turn around.”

“But they didn’t?”

“No.”

“When Maxine slid out, did she ever put her hand on Dorrie’s neck?”

“Don’t know.”

“Weren’t you watching?”

“Not for that. She might have, and she might not have.”

“Are you saying that because you’re afraid?”

“No. I just didn’t notice.”

“How come?”

“I was real cold. I was hassled. I had all this work to do.”

“What work?”

Alfred pointed. “Hanging lights. That’s what I should have been doing instead of playing Joseph. I tried to get out of it. Mr. Winston wouldn’t let me.”

“How come?”

“He’d had enough hassles about the schedule. Mr. Ferric—that’s the art teacher—Mr. Ferric made up the schedule. Mr. Winston made him change it.”

“Why?”

“For rehearsal. Mr. Ferric had actors scheduled for the Nativity when Mr. Winston wanted to rehearse. So Mr. Ferric told him to make his own schedule.”

“So?”

“So, after making such a stink about it, Mr. Winston wasn’t going to change it for anybody.”

“He changed it for Dorrie Taggart.”

Alfred shook his head stubbornly. “Dorrie didn’t ask him. She and Miss Baldwin did it themselves. That’s where I made my mistake. I should have just changed with somebody. But I didn’t know who to ask.”

Cora could imagine that. Alfred Adams, too much of a stickler to change the rules himself, appealing to the one who’d made them. “So you had to play Joseph
and
do the lights?”

“Right. And it’s a big job. The lights, I mean.” Alfred leaned in confidentially, gave the impression of lowering his voice, even though they’d been whispering to begin with. “Mr. Winston is a perfectionist. Everything’s gotta be done just right. I don’t just have to hang the lights. I gotta take ’em apart, wash and dry the lenses, put ’em back together again too. I mean, yes, they’re old and filthy, but, come on, give me a break. Here I am, fighting to get everything done before I gotta be Joseph.”

“And you didn’t get everything done?”

“No. Time just flew. Before you know it, Mr.

Winston’s tapping me on the shoulder saying, ‘Shouldn’t you be outta here?’ And I look at my watch and it’s already ten o’clock. I got fifteen minutes to get to town hall, change, and get in position.”

“But you were only five minutes late. How’d you get there so fast?”

“Mr. Winston drove me.”

“That was nice of him,” Cora admitted grudgingly.

“Oh, yeah? Mr. Winston didn’t do it for me. He just didn’t want Mr. Ferric to know his schedule screwed up.” Alfred winced. “Sorry. I shouldn’t say ‘screwed up.’ ”

“I’ve heard worse,” Cora assured him.

“Pssst!” came an angry whisper from below.

Cora and Alfred looked over the edge of the loft.

Glaring up at them from the shadows was the paint-smeared face of tech director Jesse Virdon. He had a headset jammed on his head. A thin cord ran from the earpiece to a power pack on his belt. “Alfred, for Chrissake!” Jesse hissed. “Where’s your headset?”

“There’s no cues,” Alfred protested. “I took it off.”

“Yeah, well, Rupert wants you to kill the lights that are aimed at the audience. It would have been nice if you heard me on the headset. If it doesn’t happen
right now
, he’ll be up to tell you himself.”