And a Puzzle to Die On (6 page)

Cora Felton frowned as Becky Baldwin ordered a tossed salad. Becky was young and thin, but was still ordering rabbit food. The fact Becky Baldwin was so glamorously slim
because
she watched her diet never occurred to Cora. She hesitated only a moment before ordering a double bacon cheeseburger with fried onion rings, then, in a fit of remorse, topped it off with a Diet Coke.

Becky and Cora were lunching in the Wicker Basket, a popular, homey Bakerhaven restaurant. It boasted red-and-white-checkered tablecloths. In all the times she had been there, Cora had yet to see a wicker basket.

“So,” Becky said, “why are we meeting here?”

“You’re buying me lunch. In lieu of paying my fee.”

Becky’s face showed disappointment. “You mean you struck out?”

That set Cora’s teeth on edge. “I did not ‘strike out.’ I have more than you asked for. Whether you wish to continue is up to you. But I do not have the smoking
gun that proves the man innocent. And it is quite possible I may never get it.”

Cora described her meeting with Darryl Daigue.

Becky showed interest. “He has an alibi for the time of the murder?”

“So he says. Unfortunately, he’s the only one saying so. You have his unsubstantiated word, which ain’t worth squat.”

“Even so. This wasn’t in the transcript. This wasn’t brought up at trial. And it should have been. His lawyer should have hit on it. It’s an alternate theory that accounts for the facts of the case.”

“That it is.”

“So, what’s the deal? Didn’t he tell his lawyer?”

“He claims he did.”

“Do you believe him?”

“What’s the difference?”

Becky frowned. “What’s the difference? If his lawyer withheld that, it would be malpractice. It would be grounds for a new trial.”

“So ask his lawyer!”

“Yes, that would be so easy, wouldn’t it?” Becky nibbled at her salad. “Public defenders tend to fall into two categories, Cora. Lawyers at the beginning of their careers, and those at the end. Darryl Daigue’s lawyer was seventy-two at the time of the trial. Do you know how old he is now?”

“Dead?”

“Good guess. But if Darryl makes the claim, and no one contradicts it, we might have something.”

“I suppose.” Cora didn’t sound convinced.

“What’s wrong with that? The lawyer suppressed something. I could get a new trial.”

“The lawyer didn’t suppress anything. He just didn’t put Darryl Daigue on the stand.”

“Which effectively suppressed Darryl’s testimony.”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” Cora muttered. “The thing is, a lawyer is supposed to look out for his client’s best interests.”

“So?”

“You haven’t met Darryl Daigue. Believe me, putting him on the stand would not be in his best interests.”

“He projects that badly?”

“He’s a creep. He’s a horror show. He’s thoroughly unlikable.”

“So? That’s something else to argue. How could the decedent possibly have been interested in such a man?”

“You’re rather young, aren’t you?”

Becky frowned. “What?”

“You never noticed some girls find bad boys exciting? A lot more than you’d think.” Cora raised her eyebrows, cocked her head. “It seems to me I remember a certain sophisticated lawyer lady riding around on a motorcycle with a young man who turned out to be a major creep.”

Becky flushed, said coolly, “You were telling me what you’ve got.”

“Which isn’t much. The guy claims he didn’t do it. What a shock. What a stunner. Caught me flat-footed. And you fault his lawyer for not thinking of it.”

“Anytime you’re through having fun.”

Cora took out her cigarettes, fired one up, looked around. “Hey, can I get an ashtray?”

The waitress hurried over. “I’m sorry. There’s no smoking in the Wicker Basket.”

Cora’s mouth fell open. “Since when?”

“Since New York passed the law.”

“This is Connecticut.”

“We try to keep up with the City.”

“Not with
this
. This is not
progress
. This is
repression
.”

“I’m sorry. You’ll have to put that out.”

“How? There’s no ashtray.”

“You could take it outside.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Cora stuck her cigarette in her glass of water, handed it to her. “Never mind the ashtray. Bring me a glass of water.”

Suppressing a smile, the waitress bore away the glass.

“You gotta watch yourself,” Becky told Cora. “By tomorrow the story of the prima donna Puzzle Lady will be all over town.”

“Ah, the price of fame,” Cora murmured sardonically.

“So, before we were so rudely interrupted, you were telling me where we stand.”

“Actually, I was telling you Darryl Daigue is unlikely to be innocent. Even if he is, it would be very hard to prove. If not impossible. And even if you could, he’s such an unattractive son of a bitch it would be very hard to work up any enthusiasm for getting him released.”

“Then you would advise me against taking his case?”

“Ah …”

“See?” Becky exclaimed. “There
is
something.”

“Well, that’s the thing. The way I see it, there’s only one real incentive for taking the case.”

“What’s that?”

“The warden doesn’t want you to.”

Cora told about the meeting in Warden Prufrock’s office.

Becky listened with interest. “He did everything he could to talk you out of digging into Darryl’s case?”

“He sure did. He was also very interested to know who hired me.”

“Did you tell him?”

“No way. I told him I was working for an attorney. He wanted to know who. I told him I would relay that message, in case the attorney wanted to get in touch.”

“Did he like that answer?”

“Not at all. He did his best to impress upon me that Darryl Daigue had been such a naughty boy in jail, he was bound to stay there even if I proved he was an altar boy. He assured me I was wasting my time.”

“Why would he care?”

“He said he was afraid of the media hype of a Free Darryl Daigue movement.”

“That’s silly. I’m surprised he even talked to you.”

“Me too. Except …”

“Except what?”

Cora looked sheepish. “I had to surrender my purse when I went in to see him.”

“So?”

“I had a gun in it.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake. Why on earth did you take a gun?”

“I didn’t
take
a gun. I
have
a gun. I always have a gun. I don’t think about it. It never occurred to me it would make any difference. Frankly, I don’t think it did.”

“But the warden treated you like Typhoid Mary?”

“How does a young girl like you know about Typhoid Mary?”

“I have a law degree. It requires some basic education.”

“Anyway, the warden warns us off the case. The question is, are we going to go?”

“What’s your opinion?”

“My opinion is, you should see the perp yourself. Because I can’t really convey the essence of his personality through mere description. You have to decide for yourself if you want to function as his attorney.”

“I’d be his sister’s attorney.”

“Small distinction. But perhaps enough to help you sleep at night.” Cora shoved the last bit of burger in her mouth, pushed back her chair. “Come on,” she mumbled. “Get me out of this smoke-free hell.”

Cora got back to the house to find Sherry Carter at the computer creating a crossword for the Puzzle Lady column.

“How’d it go?” Sherry asked.

Cora shrugged. “Becky’s gonna think it over, let me know.”

“What’d you tell her?”

“Same thing I told you last night. Which isn’t much, when you come right down to it. She really ought to see the guy herself.”

“Think she will?”

“I would, if I were her. Of course, there’s a lot of things I’d do if I were her.”

“Aunt Cora.”

“Nothing wrong with men, dearie.” Cora shuddered at the realization she’d used the same form of address as the prison matron. “Actually, there’s a lot wrong with particular men. I mean in general. My second husband—”

“You were saying about the case,” Sherry prompted.
The idea of Cora envisioning herself as Becky Baldwin was uncomfortable, to say the least.

“I was saying the case is only a case if Becky calls it a case. Meanwhile, I’m off duty. You going to be long? I wanna check my e-mail.”

“I’ll check it for you.”

“You’re not gonna let me check my own e-mail?”

“You can read it. I’m just going to retrieve it.”

Sherry shrank Crossword Compiler to an icon, clicked on Cora’s mailbox. Cora’s e-mail server filled the screen.

“You have six messages,” Sherry announced. “And it looks like most of them are spam.”

“I get a lot of it. A surprising number of them seem to think I’m inadequately endowed.”

“It’s a computer-generated mailing. Don’t take it personally.”

“I don’t want to be embarrassed in the athletic-club locker room.”

“Oh, you’ll get over it,” Sherry assured her.

“You mind if I check my e-mail that isn’t about sexual fulfillment?”

“There’s only two. And they look like fan letters. They both came from your website.”

“How can you tell that?”

“They came to
puzzlelady
. Your personal e-mail is
coraf
.”

“Live and learn. So you gonna let me read my fan mail?”

Sherry smiled. “I don’t know. Who writes the Puzzle Lady column anyway?”

“Well, it’s my damn mailbox,” Cora groused.

Sherry clicked on the first heading, retrieving the body of the e-mail. It read:

Dear Puzzle Lady
,

Love your column. Keep up the good work. When are you going to update your website?

“You haven’t updated my website?” Cora said. “Shame on you.”

“Don’t look at me. It’s your fan.”

“Oh, now it’s
my
fan? What happened to ‘Who writes the Puzzle Lady column?’ That message is clearly yours. The other is probably mine. Scoot over and let me see.”

Sherry got up from the chair. “I’ve never seen you so eager to get on the computer.”

“I’m not eager to get on the computer. I just like to read my own mail.”

Cora sat down, moved the mouse, and retrieved the e-mail.

The message was brief.

Dear Cora
,

Best wishes
.

Nancy

“Why do all my fans turn out to be women?” Cora grumbled.

“Maybe it’s
my
fan,” Sherry said.

“Who could tell? It’s not much of a message.”

“There’s an attachment.”

Sherry pointed. At the far right of the screen, separated from the message by a vertical straight line, was a tiny icon.

“Aw, hell,” Cora said. “I’m not good with attachments.”

“Nothing to it. Just click on it.”

PARTY FAVOR
by Nancy Salomon

ACROSS