And a Puzzle to Die On (8 page)

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“What do you mean by that?” Cora said suspiciously.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. Just take a look at it.”

“Where is it? On the computer?”

“No, I printed it out. It’s right there on the kitchen table.”

There were some pages next to Cora’s purse. She snatched them up.

On the top was the filled-in crossword puzzle grid.

“Yeah. So?”

“Look at the long clues.”

“Clues?”

“Solutions. The three long entries going across.”

Cora looked. Her eyes widened. “
Cora Felton!
What the hell is this? Oh, my God!
Chief Dale Harper? Puzzle Lady?
”

“Look at clue 17.”

“
The birthday gal. Cora Felton
. Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes. It’s a birthday card crossword puzzle.”

“But I don’t even
know
this Nancy what’s-her-name.”

“No, but someone else does. Look at 53 Across.”

Cora read, “
Constructor sending best wishes to the birthday gal. Harvey
. Son of a bitch!”

“He meant it nicely.”

“Nicely, hell.
Nicely
isn’t a crossword puzzle.
Nicely
is a gold necklace.
Nicely
is a ruby ring.”

“Cora, what does it hurt? I solved the puzzle for you. You can read it, you can thank Harvey for it, and we’re done with it.”

“I have to
thank
him for this?”

“You can hit him with it, if you’d rather.” Sherry dropped the onions in the pan. “So how’d it go with Harper?”

“It didn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told you. He warned me off the case. He was totally negative. Told me nothing that would help.” Cora grimaced. “Except …”

“Except what?”

“It’s a small thing. So small you’d miss it. Except there aren’t any large things. But when you got nothing, you’re desperate, and you’re grasping at straws.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Chief Harper sat in on the trial. He told me so himself.
He was interested, he sat in on the whole bloody thing.”

“So?”

“He was also a witness.”

“Yeah? So?” Sherry’s eyes widened. “You mean he shouldn’t have been allowed to?”

“Bingo. He should have been under the rule. If somebody’s gonna testify, he shouldn’t have been allowed to hear anybody else’s testimony.”

“Is that the law?”

“It’s the law if the judge says it’s the law.”

“And in this case?”

“I don’t know. I’d have to look at the transcript again.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t recall anything like that.”

“Then it wouldn’t matter?”

“Not at all. It’s just like the rape-kit nonevidence.”

“What do you mean?”

“Rape kit showed no sign of rape. Prosecution turned that around, and argued that rape often escalates to murder when the rapist fails to perform.”

“And this time?”

“If the judge didn’t put the witnesses under the rule, it’s probably because the defense didn’t ask for it. In which case, Becky could argue that Darryl Daigue had incompetent representation.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, except the prosecutor would be mad as hell. And Chief Harper would be right in the middle of a firestorm just for innocently mentioning he happened to sit in on the trial.”

Sherry added tomato sauce to the sauteed onions, sprinkled in herbs, stirred it around. “So what are you
telling me, Cora? This whole thing is bad news, you wish it had never happened?”

Cora shrugged. “No big deal. Most cases are like that.”

“I know. But this one in particular—would you rather bail out?”

“I wouldn’t leave Becky high and dry. That wouldn’t be fair.”

“No, but if you could get her to drop it.”

“If I don’t find out anything, I’ll sure as hell try.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Unfortunately, I have this tidbit about Chief

Harper. So I gotta come up with something else.”

“Such as?”

“This counter boy. Ricky Gleason. The one who went off with the victim. According to Darryl Daigue.”

“So what have you got on Gleason?”

“Nothing. No one remembers Ricky. He didn’t testify at the trial. He wasn’t important. No one even remembers his name.”

“Are you sure he existed?”

“Of course he existed.”

“How do you know?”

“Because
somebody
waited on the counter while Darryl Daigue was cooking burgers. And when Darryl Daigue was done, that somebody either stayed on the counter while Darryl went off with the girl, or went off with the girl while Darryl stayed on the counter. Ricky Gleason may be unimportant and unmemorable, but Ricky Gleason sure as hell exists.”

“Did you Google him?”

“What?”

“Did you Google Ricky Gleason?”

Cora glared at her niece. “What, are we back in high school? No, I didn’t
google
Ricky Gleason. I don’t know what that
is
, but I sure as hell didn’t do it.”

“I thought you were becoming computer literate. Google is an Internet search engine. You type in the name
Ricky Gleason
, push
Search
, and see how many hits you get.”

“Hits?”

“It’s easier just to show you.”

Sherry turned the heat down to simmer, led Cora into the office, and sat down at the computer. “You wanna check your mail first?”

“I can check my own mail,” Cora said irritably. “I’m a big girl now.”

“And you’ve never Googled? Well, don’t worry. Everyone’s nervous their first time.”

“You lookin’ for a fat lip?”

“Not at all. I’m just trying to help my innocent aunt. First you open your Internet provider.” Sherry clicked on an icon. “I like Internet Explorer because the Google window’s open on the home page.”

“Please tell me you didn’t just say ‘Google window.’ ”

“There you go. Just type
Ricky Gleason
right in the window and click on
Search Internet
.”

Sherry did so. A page of listings appeared.

“Hey, we got a hit,” Cora said.

“Yes, we did. Actually, we got twelve thousand seven hundred and three hits. These are just the first ten.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Not at all. See? There’s the number right there.” Sherry pointed to the screen:

Results 1–10 of about 12,703. Search took 0.25 seconds
.

“Of course, these aren’t the files, just the headers. You have to open the files.”

“You expect me to sit here and open thirteen thousand files?”

“That would be a little time-consuming,” Sherry said. “Why don’t we narrow our search?”

“How?”

Sherry typed in
Bakerhaven, Connecticut
after
Ricky Gleason
, and hit
ENTER
.

“Hey!” Cora warned. “You didn’t hit
Search Internet
!”

“I hit
Enter
. Same thing.”

“And you wonder why I can’t learn computer!”

Sherry peered at the screen. “Well, that narrowed it down a bit.”

“How many hits do we have now?”

“One.”

Sherry stood up, smiled, motioned to the chair. “Sit down and read your account of Mr. Ricky Gleason, of Bakerhaven, Connecticut.”

Cora sat down and looked.

Highlighted in blue on the screen were the words
DANBURY REGION ROUNDUP
.

Below, in black, were the words … 
Ricky Gleason of Danbury, Connecticut
 … 
Bakerhaven, Connecticut
 …

Below was a website address.

“Click on it,” Sherry said.

“Click on what?”

“Anything you can.” As Cora gave her a look, Sherry amended. “Anyplace your arrow turns into a hand you can click. Try the big blue headline.”

Cora did, clicked.

A new page filled the screen with a heading for the Danbury paper. Underneath was the whole article.

Cora scanned it quickly for the part she wanted. Sucked in her breath.

Ricky Gleason of Danbury, Connecticut, was killed instantly yesterday morning when his car went out of control and slammed into a tree. Gleason, 43, was born and raised in Bakerhaven, Connecticut. Mr. Gleason left no next of kin
.

Sergeant Walpole, of the Danbury police, was beaming. “The Puzzle Lady. Ain’t that something! You’re the Puzzle Lady.”

“Pleased to meetya,” Cora murmured, demurely.

It was clear that Sergeant Walpole was the one who was pleased. A hefty man with a bulldog jaw, and a gut that spilled out over his belt, the good sergeant clearly hadn’t had so much fun since the last police barbecue. “Wait’ll I tell my kids the Puzzle Lady was in my station. You know, they eat your cereal.”

“Is that right?” Cora said. She’d never eaten it herself. She wondered if the damn stuff was nutritious. “So, Sergeant, I was hoping you could help me out.”

“You get a speeding ticket? I can’t imagine that, nice lady like you. The thing is, if I fix it for you, it’d cause a stink, you bein’ famous and all. First thing you know, some investigative reporter trying to make a name for himself digs it up, and then there’s hell to pay.”

“I need help with a traffic accident.”

Sergeant Walpole looked astonished. “You had a traffic accident?”

“No. Ricky Gleason. Few months back. Car went out of control, hit a tree.”

“I remember that. Smashed all to hell. Him, and the car.” He glanced at her. “You’re not related, are you?”

“No.”

“Well, the guy was a mess, that’s for sure. Must have been doin’ ninety. There was a curve, a warning sign. He missed ’em both. Only thing he didn’t miss was the tree.”

“Seat belt on?”

“Oh, yeah. Held him right in place. So the tree mashed him flat. Must have been spectacular to see. Not that anyone did. Caught the tree dead-on. Front of the car stopped. Back of the car kept going. Flipped up. Top hit the tree. Mashed in the top of the car and the top of his head.”

“You see the wreck?”

“ ‘Course I saw the wreck. Anytime there’s loss of life, I get the call.”

“So what do you do?”

“Do?” The sergeant seemed nonplussed by the question. “I take charge. See that everything’s done right.”

“Such as?”

“Determine the cause of the accident. This one was a no-brainer. Literally. Guy’s brain was mashed in. Piece of cake. Guy just lost control. At that speed that’s not surprising.”

“How did you determine the speed of the car?”

“Skid marks, for one. Alcohol level for another. You figure a guy that drunk ain’t gonna be goin’ slow. Except for his reflexes.”

“How do you know Ricky was drunk?”

“Another no-brainer. Car smelled like a brewery.”

“You take his blood level?”

“I’m sure the doc did.”

“You don’t know what it was?”

“Not my job.”

“Would it be in the report?”

“Are you asking me to pull his file?”

“Is that something you could do?”

Sergeant Walpole picked up a thick rubber band from his desk, began stretching it around his fingers. “Could you tell me again why you’re interested in this?”