And a Puzzle to Die On (26 page)

“Tell him, ‘No comment.’ ”

“That’s not going to satisfy him. You may have to take him out to dinner.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“He’s going to ask you anyway. It might as well be for a good cause.”

“Cora, you want to curb your irrepressible self for a minute, and look at what we’ve got?”

Cora pursed her lips. “I’m not sure you can curb something irrepressible.”

“God save me!”

“That’s what Chief Harper said.”

“Cora—”

“Okay, I’ll tell you what we’ve got. You and Sherry conspired to give me a job interviewing Darryl Daigue. The job was bogus in more ways than one. Sherry was paying for it. Darryl Daigue’s sister wasn’t. Either she’s lying about it, or somebody used her name.”

“Now why the hell would they do that?”

“So they wouldn’t have to use their own.”

“Exactly. But what does this have to do with the two killings?”

“Four killings. You’ve got four killings here. The murder of Anita Dryer. The quote ‘accidental’ unquote death of Ricky Gleason. And the two murders you just mentioned.”

“You’re saying they’re related?”

“If they’re not, why did they happen? Assuming all of this is cause and effect. It’s certainly linked. Darryl Daigue’s in jail for murder. Someone retains you to get him out. You hire me.” Cora waggled her hand. “Or whatever. I start investigating. I find that one of the witnesses to the original crime, and perhaps the actual perpetrator, died in a questionable car crash. The doctor who ruled the death accidental is Darryl Daigue’s doctor, and a member of the parole board that turned him down. Another member of the parole board is having an affair with the good doctor. She’s being watched by a private investigator. The private investigator is snuffed. When I call on the doctor, I find myself being tailed by another woman. She is subsequently killed. The private investigator is in possession of a check signed by the woman who is subsequently killed.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Becky interjected.

“I have the check right here.”

“No, no, you don’t,” Becky protested. “You have a
check that
purports
to be signed by the woman who was subsequently killed. For all you know, it could be a fake. A false clue that someone has planted. You certainly don’t wish to make any allegations based on this unsubstantiated evidence that may prove to be fake.”

“Does that cover our asses?”

“I believe that’s the correct legal term. The woman who purportedly wrote this check is a middle-aged widow with no known connection to any of the parties in the case.”

“With the possible exception of me,” Cora pointed out.

“You do seem to be the unifying factor. Not that I’m willing to concede the point.”

“God forbid. So the sixty-four-dollar question is, why should anyone want to kill a harmless woman with a little dog?”

“Sixty-four-dollar question?”

“Pre-inflation. Before your time. What happened to the dog, by the way?”

“How the hell should I know? I didn’t know there
was
a dog.”

“I didn’t mention the bloody paw prints?”

“I think you left that out.”

“Oh. Well, the toy poodle was running all over the place.”

“I don’t want to hear this.”

“Okay. But find out about the dog, will you? I’m worried about the dog.”

“How can I ask about the dog? I’m not even supposed to know about it.”

“You’re a lawyer, for Christ’s sake. Can’t you be devious?”

Becky sighed. “To think I was just trying to do
something nice for your birthday. Listen, why don’t you go home and get some sleep. You look terrible.”

Cora gave her the evil eye. “My ex-husband Melvin used to say that. It’s one reason he became my ex-husband Melvin.”

“This is a big mess, Cora. Don’t make it worse. Go home, take it easy, stay out of trouble. Can you do that?”

Cora nodded emphatically.

“Absolutely,” she lied.

Cora smashed the lower right pane of glass on Peter Burnside’s kitchen door. All things considered, that seemed the best pane to smash. It was small and conveniently located right next to the doorknob. Cora figured ninety-nine out of a hundred burglars would choose that pane. She broke it with her gun butt, reached in, unlocked the door.

The kitchen didn’t look like it had been searched. That meant the Danbury police had done either a very superficial job, or a very thorough one, putting everything back where it belonged. Cora would have bet on the former. She went to work, tearing the place apart.

The nice thing about burgling an apartment in the daytime was, you didn’t need a flashlight. Cora worked quickly, emptying the sugar canister into a bowl, making sure there was nothing in it but sugar, and dumping it back. She did the same with the flour, a slightly messier undertaking, which sent up puffs of powder, and turned her hands white. Cora had to be careful not to leave floury fingerprints. She washed her
hands in the sink, took a dishrag, and cleaned the counter. It was the most kitchen work she’d done in years.

Cora continued her search. There was nothing in the cereal boxes, nothing taped to the bottoms or backs of drawers. The ice-cube tray appeared to hold ice cubes. If there were diamonds frozen in them, as in some story or other she’d read, Burnside could keep them.

Cora moved on to the living room. Burnside had a TV with rabbit ears. Cora couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen rabbit ears. Everybody had cable or satellite, or something. At least he had a VCR. He didn’t appear to have any tapes, though. The TV was on a simple metal stand, with the VCR on the bottom shelf. There was no other place to hold tapes. Still, Cora would have expected some. Maybe with the rabbit ears the guy got such bad reception he never taped any shows, and just rented movies now and then. Anyway, it was odd.

The living room furniture had either come with the apartment or been gathered off the street. Cora couldn’t imagine anyone actually buying it. The couch was metal-framed, with burlap cushions. The coffee table was rickety wood. It occurred to Cora that Burnside must be a very poor detective. Aside from being dead.

There were no messages scrawled on the bottom of the coffee table. The sofa cushions did not have zip-on slipcovers. The burlap was stitched on. There was nothing under the couch, nothing under the cushions. It was not a convertible couch. There was no place to hide anything.

An oil painting hung over the couch. There was nothing taped to the back of it.

The easy chair, if one could call it that, had a sterile, vinyl back and seat in a metal frame. Unless the chair itself was a clue, it held no secrets.

In the bedroom, Cora looked under the mattress, under the bed. In and under every drawer in the six-drawer dresser. The pile of junk in the bottom of the closet. The magazines in the bedside table.

The drawer in the bedside table held a tape for the VCR. Not a prerecorded tape, just a plain tape box. Cora turned it over, looked at the side of the cassette. On it was labeled in pen,
BEST IN SHOW
. Cora knew the movie. It was one of Christopher Guest’s mockumentaries, a takeoff on dog shows. She couldn’t imagine why Burnside had it, but it made her feel a little warmer toward the deceased detective.

Cora completed her search of the bedroom. Had to agree with the police’s assessment that it held absolutely nothing.

Except for the video. Why would a man who didn’t even have a decent aerial, have a TV and a VCR just to watch a comedy about a dog competition?

Cora took the tape into the living room, shoved it in the VCR, turned on the TV, and sat down on the couch.

The video played. It was the beginning of the movie
Best in Show
. It occurred to Cora unless Valerie Thompkins’s toy poodle was in the movie, the video probably had nothing to do with anything. She figured she should watch a little just to make sure.

There was a remote control on the VCR. If she had it she could speed through the tape. But that would mean getting up and getting it. Which would require moving. Making an effort.

Cora hadn’t been to sleep in over twenty-four hours.
Not since her birthday. Which meant she’d never been asleep at her age. The thought amused her. Not her age, but the thought that she hadn’t been asleep since she turned it. Cora wasn’t admitting her age, even to herself. It was a generic birthday, happened all the time, it didn’t mean a thing. Nothing to it.

So what was it she wanted to do? She wanted to get something. But for what purpose? Ah, yes. She needed to get the zapper, so she could speed through the crossword-puzzle clues. Find out who Harvey Beerbaum killed. Falling on them from a great height and squashing them like a bug. Or bugging them at great length, and squashing them in the fall. Hey, that was wordplay. It should earn her bonus points. Win her the grand prize. The blue ribbon. Best in show.

Cora’s eyes snapped open.

She had a panic attack. What happened?

With a rush it came flooding back. Murders, break-ins. Puzzles, real, and real life.

Where was she? What was she doing there? What time was it?

It was three-fifty. In the afternoon, since the sun was out. She was in Peter Burnside’s apartment. She’d broken in.

Why?

What was she doing there?

Looking for evidence.

Had she found any?

No. She was watching TV.

No, she wasn’t. The TV was off. That confused her. Had she turned it off and gone to sleep? Cora couldn’t imagine doing that.

Cora stumbled to her feet, negotiated her way around the coffee table to the TV.

It was off, all right. It hadn’t just blown a fuse, fried a tube, or had a power failure. It was switched off.

The tape had probably finished playing and rewound. Cora pushed the button, ejected it.

Nothing happened.

Was the VCR off too? Yes, it was. Cora snapped the power on, pushed
EJECT
again.

Nothing.

Cora stuck her hand in the slot.

The tape was gone.

Sherry Carter was sitting on the couch watching the five o’clock news when Cora burst in the door.

“Sherry! I’m in trouble!”

Aaron Grant came down the hall from the direction of the bathroom. “What’s the matter?”

“Jesus Christ!” Cora said. “What are you doing here? Don’t you
ever
work?”

“Are you kidding?” Aaron flopped down on the couch next to Sherry. “That detective bit the cake too late for this morning’s paper. I’ve been writing it up all day for tomorrow.”

“Get the hell out of here, will you? I need to talk to Sherry.”

“Aunt Cora.”

“Don’t ‘Aunt Cora’ me. Can’t you tell I’m upset?”

“If you’re in trouble, I want to help,” Aaron offered.

“You’re a reporter.”

“Off the record.”

“
You’re
telling
me
‘off the record’? That’s a switch.”

“Hey,” Aaron said. “All kidding aside. You said you’re in trouble, and I believe it. I’ll print only what you tell me to print. What’s wrong?”

“What isn’t?” Cora slumped into a chair. “I’m holding out on the cops. I’m holding out on my lawyer. I’m charged with breaking and entering, and I happen to be guilty. I’m also guilty of a lot of other things I haven’t been charged with yet. But that doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is, I think I blew it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think I bungled the case.”

“Wanna tell us how?” Aaron asked.

“I like how you include yourself,” Cora said. “I’ll tell you how, and you would not
believe
how off the record this is.”

Cora told of her adventure with the videotape.

“
Best in Show
?” Aaron said. “I like that movie.”

“So do I. But not enough to steal it. The tape’s important. I had it in my hand. I let it get away.”

“Because you can’t function on no sleep at all?” Aaron said. “That’s a serious drawback. Why don’t you go to Chief Harper, tell him what happened?”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not? He’d understand.”

“It would put him in a position where he’d have to arrest me.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“Yes, he would. I haven’t told you everything I’ve done, Aaron.”