Authors: Parnell Hall
Cora was offended. “I don’t see why you’re upset with me.”
“Oh, you don’t?” Chief Harper settled back in his desk chair, tapped a pencil into his hand. “Let’s find a reason. You suspect a murder, demand an autopsy, which produces poison. You send me out to the quote scene of the crime unquote, in the guise of looking for a computer, and within minutes direct me to the hiding place of a gun.”
“I don’t think that’s a fair assessment of the facts.”
“Where am I wrong?”
Cora reached into her floppy drawstring purse, pulled out her cigarettes.
“You can’t smoke.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Yes, it is. You finesse me into letting you smoke when I want your help. This is a slightly different situation. You’ve been brought in for questioning.”
“That’s a little unfair, Chief. We’re having a nice conversation here. No one’s charging anyone with anything. No one’s advising anyone of their rights.”
“You’re sparring, Cora.”
“I’m doing nothing of the sort. You just think I am because you’ve got this notion in your head that I set this all in motion because I knew about the gun.”
“Are you claiming you didn’t?”
“Of course I didn’t.”
“You didn’t go to the crime scene, search around, find a gun, leave it where it was, and go suggest Barney autopsy the body?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“And you didn’t find it there
after
he autopsied the body, leave it there, go and get me, and suggest we search the place?”
“That’s partly true, Chief.”
“Oh?”
“I suggested we search the place. That’s true. It’s the bit about finding the gun that isn’t.”
“You just walked into the cabin and within minutes found the guy’s hiding place?”
“It was the logical place to look.”
“Under a box of junk?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“The junk had no reason being in that closet
except
to hide something under it.”
“That’s a fine explanation. I’m not sure I believe it, but I certainly admire it.”
“So, what’s the scoop on the gun, Chief? Since I found it, it’s only fair I know.”
“I’m assuming you know already.”
“What? It’s a thirty-two-caliber Smith and Wesson revolver with one empty shell in the cylinder, and it hasn’t been fired recently. Aside from that, I haven’t a clue.”
Chief Harper looked at her narrowly. “And how do you know that?”
“Give me a break, Chief. I was there when you found it.” Cora reached in her drawstring purse, pulled out a gun. “It’s a Smith and Wesson, just like this. Except smaller. Mine’s a thirty-eight, so it’s a thirty-two. If it had been fired recently, you’d have known it, but you didn’t, so it hadn’t. As for the empty shell in the cylinder, that’s a guess. But if there wasn’t, you wouldn’t be taking all this interest.”
“How’d you know it was only one?”
“I didn’t. I figured if it was more than one, you’d tell me.”
“There were two.”
“Really? That’s interesting.”
Harper frowned. “You make it sound so logical.”
“You think it’s more logical I killed someone with Overmeyer’s gun, then slipped him a whacking dose of poison to cover up the fact I’d done it?”
“You think someone did that?”
Cora shrugged. “It’s as good a guess as any. So, you tracing the gun?”
“Dan’s running it now. He should have something soon.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Well, that’s timing.”
“Yeah,” Cora said. “A movie moment.”
Dan Finley poked his head in the door. The young officer was a Puzzle Lady fan. “Hi, Cora. You under arrest?”
“Not yet. He’s working on it.”
“You trace the serial number on that gun?” Harper asked him.
Dan shook his head. “It’s old. Before they had computers. It’s going to take some time. Anyway, Becky Baldwin’s here to see you.”
Harper frowned. “Why?”
Dan shrugged. “She’s a lawyer. She must have a reason.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I was distracted. I’m trying to trace a gun.”
“Send her in.”
“With Cora here?”
“Why not. Be interesting to see if she objects. Send her in.”
Becky Baldwin was probably not everyone’s idea of a lawyer. Too young, too blond, too thin, too stylish, too attractive, she looked more like a supermodel than an attorney.
Becky took in Cora with a glance, said, “You want her here?”
Harper shrugged. “It’s your show. Do
you
want her here?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Now there’s a compliment,” Cora observed. “Mind if I quote that on my résumé? ‘Doesn’t matter.’ ”
“I have a legal problem,” Becky said.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Cora told her. “He’s a cop. You’re a lawyer. What could be better?”
“Maybe you
should
wait outside,” Becky said.
Cora pantomimed zipping her lip. “No, no. I’ll be good.”
“What do you want?” Harper said. “I hate to hurry you, but I have this homicide.”
“Really? I hadn’t heard.”
“It hasn’t been released yet. Old Mr. Overmeyer died. Turns out it was murder.”
“Well, if you arrest anyone for it, could you give ’em my card?”
“That would be illegal.”
“Relax,” Cora said. “You’re the only lawyer in town.”
“Are you working on this?” Becky asked.
“At the moment I’m a suspect. If he arrests me, I’ll give you a call. Somehow I doubt that’s going to happen.”
“If you uncover the murderer . . .”
“I’ll be sure to recommend you,” Cora said.
“What do you need?” Harper prompted.
“Oh. Well, Sherry and Aaron finally got married and went on their honeymoon.”
Cora nodded. “Tough break. But it was bound to happen. I wouldn’t worry about it, though. There’s a lot of opportunities out there for a girl like you.”
Becky’s eyes widened, then blazed. “I didn’t say I was jealous. I said it’s a problem.”
“Why?”
“Sherry being out of town is a problem. I’m the attorney of record for Dennis Pride. There is, as you know, a restraining order keeping him away from his ex-wife. Which is just fine as long as she’s here.”
Cora’s eyes widened. “You mean . . . ?”
“With her gone it’s moot.”
“Dennis has been around?”
“All the time. Ever since she left. Haven’t you seen him?”
“I haven’t been looking for him.”
“Who has? He drops in to see me on the pretext of discussing his probation. Not that there’s anything to discuss. He’s got two more years running on his suspended sentence. I can’t wait till it’s over.”
“He’ll just hire you again,” Cora said.
“For what?”
“Anything he can think of. Hell, I wouldn’t put it past him to kill someone just so he needs representation.”
“Fine. I can use the work. The point is, he’s here, he’s going to get in trouble, and I’ve got no legal reason to force him to leave.”
“What do you expect me to do about it?” Chief Harper said.
“Couldn’t you bring him in, have a little talk with him, suggest he’s not doing himself any good?”
“You mean hassle him for no earthly reason?”
“That’s not the way I would have put it.”
“Really, Becky. There’s nothing I can do.”
“How about you, Cora?”
“Me? That’s a good one. You’re asking me to harass your client?”
“Again, that’s not the precise terminology I had in mind.”
“Gee, Chief,” Cora said. “You’ve got a murder investigation. Couldn’t you pick him up for questioning?”
“On what grounds?”
“I don’t know. You say he’s been hanging around since Sherry left. Was he here when the murder happened?”
“When did it happen?” Becky asked.
“Well, let’s see,” Cora said. “You brought me the puzzle—”
“Puzzle?” Becky said.
“Oh, hell.”
“What’s this about a puzzle?”
“There was a puzzle by Overmeyer’s body. It turns out it doesn’t mean anything. But it made me hassle Barney, and he found arsenic.”
“Overmeyer was killed how long ago, Chief?”
“Two nights ago. But that’s not the point. The point is, nobody knows it yet. So don’t tell anyone.”
Becky smiled.
“Of course not.”
Rick Reed, Channel Eight’s clueless on-camera reporter, was puffed up with his own importance. “Murder in Bakerhaven,” he declared. “In a Channel Eight exclusive, the death of Mr. Herbert Overmeyer, originally believed to be of natural causes, has been deemed suspicious by the medical examiner, and will be announced tomorrow as a homicide. The chief of police could not be reached for comment—” Rick raised an eyebrow insinuatingly at the implications of that—“but I am coming to you live from Bakerhaven with an exclusive interview with Bakerhaven attorney Rebecca Baldwin.”
The camera pulled back to include Becky, looking like a high-priced law firm’s brightest new junior partner in a stylish yet no-nonsense purple pantsuit.
Rick was pleased as punch to have her. “I am standing here in front of the Bakerhaven Police Station, where to date there have been no arrests in the murder of Mr. Overmeyer. That’s right, I said murder. Ms. Baldwin, what can you tell us about this affair?”
“Absolutely nothing, Rick.”
Rick Reed’s face fell. “That was my understanding.”
Becky smiled. “I am an attorney-at-law. At the moment, I am not representing a client. I would only be able to comment in the event that the police make an arrest, and that the arrested person contacts me.”
“You mean the killer?”
“Certainly not. I mean the accused. Anyone can be falsely accused and need representation. In which case I am sure I’d have a lot to say.”
“Isn’t it true the Overmeyer case is about to be announced as a homicide?”
“That’s hearsay, Rick. I’m not in a position to confirm it.”
“But is it not a fact that Dr. Barney Nathan conducted an autopsy on the body and discovered arsenic?”
“I’m not in a position to confirm that, either.”
“But wouldn’t that make it a homicide?”
“I would think so. Unless the arsenic was taken accidentally. Or voluntarily.”
“Are you aware that Chief Harper had no comment on the situation?”
“Chief Harper said no comment?”
“Chief Harper could not be reached for comment.”
“If you do reach him, could you find out who he suspects?”
“I certainly will. This is Rick Reed, Channel Eight News.”
The news crew lowered the camera.
Rick looked peeved. “I thought you were going to confirm the murder.”
Becky smiled. “You know I can’t do that.”
“You told me it was.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I can’t say something on TV if I can’t prove it. You know that.”
Rick looked like a little boy the smarty-pants girl on the playground tricked out of his milk money. “You said you’d give me an exclusive if I’d buy you lunch.”
“Are you trying to get out of buying me lunch?”
“No, but—”
“Because I don’t recall promising to say anything in particular.”
“But I went on TV and said I had a homicide.”
“Relax. You do.”
“Can you confirm that?”
“Only by hearsay.”
“We’re not in court. Can you positively confirm the Overmeyer case is a homicide?”
“Absolutely.”
Rick thought that over.
“Then lunch is on Channel Eight.”
Cora hated takeout. At least in Bakerhaven. In Manhattan, takeout was a joy. At a mere touch of a button, she could have Thai, Japanese, Indian, French, Italian, Mexican, or Cuban arrive at her doorstep. Bakerhaven takeout consisted of mediocre Chinese you had to pick up yourself or the wedges of congealed sauce and cheese that had presumably been pizza before the pimply-faced high school boy bicycled great distances to deliver it stone cold.
There was a Burger King in the mall, but it wasn’t a real Burger King with a handy drive-up window where one could score a Whopper anonymously without comment, merely an adjunct of the food court outside the Cineplex, where one couldn’t help but feel self-conscious standing in line amid a gaggle of giggling teenage girls.
For a woman of Cora’s culinary talents (none), this presented quite a problem.
The solution was to go out to dinner. But Cora couldn’t stand dining alone. It made her feel like a lonely old spinster. She had no potential husband in tow. Her only current suitor was Harvey Beerbaum, whom she rated just ahead of the Ebola virus. She could always dine with the girls on bridge night, but that was only once a week, and what should she do with the other six?
Tonight, Cora had put off the decision forever, vacillating from one unappetizing choice to another, until by ten o’clock, ravenous, stomach growling, she had hopped in the Toyota and sped off to Starbucks for a venti Frappuccino, that scrumptious, life-affirming calorie fest, a guilty pleasure worth every wiggle it took to squirm inside her slinky party dress; after all, who was she trying to impress, anyway?
Starbucks was closed, saving her from herself.
If Cora was grateful, she did not show it. They were lucky she didn’t lob a brick through the window.
She went home, rooted through the refrigerator for some tidbits she might have overlooked. There were none. In the cupboard she found a box of cornflakes. On inspection, they were not Granville Grains, the company she hawked on TV. It didn’t matter. Cora hated cold cereal. Even so, she was past the point of being picky. If she had to eat cereal, she could eat cereal.
Provided she had milk.
She did. It smelled a little rank. She checked the date: only six days beyond expiration. Surely milk ought to hold up better than that.
Cora put the carton back in the refrigerator. It didn’t occur to her to throw it out. Not that she might be desperate enough to try it later, but disposing of rancid milk was beyond her expertise.
She found a bag of egg noodles. That was promising. Cora could recall eating egg noodles. Some of Sherry’s more delicious concoctions had included them. And Cora knew how to make noodles. You boiled water, put in the noodles. Wasn’t that right? Cora checked the package. It was. Of course, they said something about how many quarts of water, and adding salt, and stirring, and how many minutes, but that seemed overly technical.
Cora filled a saucepan with water, lit a burner, turned it on to high.
Waited for it to boil.
Which took forever. What was it about watched pots?
Cora sighed.
Sherry had a small TV in the kitchen for when she cooked. Cora switched it on, caught the end of a reality show where people were trying to lose weight.
“Send ’em over here,” Cora muttered.
The eleven o’clock news came on. Becky Baldwin’s interview played for the umpteenth time. The Channel Eight news team had no more insight into Mr. Overmeyer’s alleged murder than it had when it broke the story that morning. Chief Harper had yet to comment, but Cora could imagine how he felt. It would be a while before Becky Baldwin was back in his good graces.
The water was boiling. Cora dropped in the noodles, got a fork, stirred them around.
Cooking wasn’t so hard.
Cora got a dog biscuit, tossed it to Buddy.
The doorbell rang.
Buddy went yapping off in that direction.
Cora frowned.
No one came calling after eleven o’clock. Not in Bakerhaven. It just wasn’t done. Who could it be? Harvey Beerbaum? If it was him, his chances of marrying her would have dropped from next to nil to half-past hopeless.
Cora scowled at the door. Apartments in the city had peepholes. In the country, you never knew who was on your front stoop.
She pushed back the blind on the window, peered out.
Standing outside was a man in a stocking cap. That was a bad sign. It wasn’t cold enough for a stocking cap.
And Cora didn’t know him.
Cora fumbled through her purse, gripped the handle of her pistol. Wondered how she ever got along without a safety chain on the door. She really should install one. Of course, she only ever thought of it in moments she needed it.
Cora opened the door a crack. “Yes?”
“Miss Felton?”
“Yes?”
“I need your help.”
“Why?”
“I’m scared.”
“How come?”
“Mr. Overmeyer.”
“What about him?”
“He was killed.”
“How do you know?”
“It was on the news.”
“Oh?”
“You gotta help me.”
“Why?”
The little man shuffled his feet.
“I’m afraid I’m next.”