Lethal Luncheon (Puzzle Lady Mystery, a short story) (2 page)

“Please don’t wait on my account,” Cora said. “Go, I’ll be right behind you.”

That was all the invitation the women needed. As if Cora had fired a starter’s gun, Marcy was up and practically bowling people over to get a place in line. Charity, mousey Monica Nuthatch, and the mountainous Phyllis were right on her heels.

“Disgraceful,” Wendy said. She said it while tagging along behind.

“I wouldn’t want people to think I’m not happy to be here,” Cora said, “but would it be impolite not to sprint?”

“Not impolite, just imprudent,” Felicity said. “Your favorite dish is apt to be gone.”

“I’ll risk it.”

“Suit yourself.” Felicity hesitated. “But if you don’t mind, I had my eye on that spinach quiche.”

Rather sheepishly, Felicity got up and hurried toward the line.

“And just how does this all feed children?” Cora demanded of Sherry. “It seems to me they’re just feeding themselves.”

“They paid to be here. I think twenty bucks a head.”

“They paid to be here
and
cooked the food?”

“That’s right.”

“Because they like kids or because they like food?” Cora snorted. “How come we didn’t pay?”

“You’re the luncheon speaker.”

“Oh. Right. What am I gonna say, Sherry?”

“You’re gonna tell them about crossword puzzles.”

“I don’t
know
anything about crossword puzzles.”

“It’s all right. They don’t care. Just tell them anecdotes about your TV career.”

“What TV career? All I’ve done is a few commercials.”

“Cora,” Sherry said. “This is the fourth or fifth time we’ve had this conversation. Let’s go see if anyone ate your fish stew.”

There were nearly a hundred women ahead of them at the buffet table, but as Cora and Sherry queued up to get their trays, Betty Flagstaff swooped down on them.

“Oh, no, no, my dears,” Betty clucked. “Honored guests do not wait in line. Come, come, come.”

Betty plucked Cora and Sherry by the shoulders and marched them to the front of the line.

Marcy, who was still halfway back, gave Cora the fisheye as she went by.

“This is not winning us any popularity contests,” Cora whispered.

“Wanna object?” Sherry whispered back.

“No. I’m tired. I wanna eat.”

Cora and Sherry took trays and plates, worked their way down the buffet table. Progress was slow, as the women in front of them were taking their time choosing their dishes.

Cora loaded her plate with ravioli, pasta salad, fettuccine.

“Little heavy on the starch, don’t you think?” Sherry cautioned.

“You want me to put some back?” Cora said ironically.

“You might wanna leave room on your plate.”

“So I won’t eat the fish stew. I can have that at home.”

“I hope someone eats it,” Sherry said.

She needn’t have worried. By the time they got there, the fish stew was almost gone.

So was the spinach quiche. There were three pies. Two tins were empty, and the third pie was half gone.

“Damn,” Cora said.

“What’s the matter?”

“The spinach quiche looks good, but I don’t dare take it.”

“Why not?”

“Felicity wants it.”

“It’ll be gone by the time she gets here.”

“Right. If I have a piece, she’ll blame me for it being gone.”

“So you’re not going to have one?”

“No.”

“In that case, take one and give it to her.”

“I still won’t have one.”

“No, but you’ll be doing a good deed.”

“I’m not a Boy Scout. What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll take a piece and give it to you.”

“You don’t want quiche?”

“No.”

“Then why don’t you give your piece to her?”

“I want you to get credit for it.”

“Why?”

“It will make up for giving a lousy speech.”

Sherry and Cora were the first ones back to their table. Marcy came next, proudly bearing a heaping plate that could easily have fed a dozen children. The rest of the women followed with plates piled nearly as high.

Cora gave her niece a look which Sherry understood perfectly. Compared to the other servings, Cora’s seemed modest indeed.

Felicity was the last one back. “Missed the quiche, damn it,” she said as she sat down.

“No, you didn’t.” Cora presented the spinach quiche with a
ta-da
gesture. “Pardon my fingers. I haven’t had a communicable disease since my fifth husband, Melvin. He was a bit wild.”

Felicity was delighted to get the quiche, though somewhat put off by the comment. “It does look awfully good. Are you sure you don’t want it?”

“She can have mine,” Sherry said. “I’m not that big on quiche.” She cocked her head ironically. “I had chicken pox in the second grade, Cora.”

“Probably safe.” Cora handed her quiche to Felicity, and took Sherry’s.

Felicity, reassured the women were joking, accepted the quiche. For a moment conversation stopped as the women all dug in.

“Don’t eat so fast,” Sherry whispered out of the side of her mouth.

“Why?”

“As soon as you’re done you’ve gotta speak.”

“I’ll get you for this,” Cora assured her.

Sherry grinned, attacking the veal casserole.

Cora had just finished her portion of medallions of something that she narrowed down to veal, lamb, or venison, when Betty Flagstaff descended on the table with all the subtlety of a steamroller. She stepped up behind Cora and Felicity, clapped a meaty arm around each, and declared, “Is this something, or is this something?”

Cora was quick to admit that it was, indeed, something, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy Betty Flagstaff, “We are so delighted that you’re here, and so delighted that you’re going to speak. The women just can’t wait. I’m going to introduce you when they start dessert. That way there’s no chance anyone will finish lunch and sneak out for a cigarette. That would never do, now, would it?”

“Certainly not,” Cora said virtuously. “Well, if I’m going on, I’d better run to the Ladies.”

Cora pushed back her chair, grabbed her floppy, drawstring purse, and hurried in the direction of the Women’s Room.

She was in luck. No one was there. Cora whipped out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and took a greedy drag. How anyone could eat a huge lunch like that and not finish it off with a cigarette was beyond her. It would be hard enough under normal circumstances. To have to get up and speak while going through nicotine withdrawal was out of the question.

Cora took a last drag, held her cigarette under the tap water. She threw the soggy butt in the wastebasket and sailed out the door, just as two women came in. Whether they’d be able to breathe in the smoke-filled bathroom seemed a close point, but there was nothing Cora could do about that.

Cora returned to her table just as a loud blast of feedback attracted everyone’s attention to a lectern at the front of the room where Betty Flagstaff was wrestling with a microphone.

“Oh, dear,” Felicity said. “You’re going to miss your tiramisu.”

“My what?” Cora said.

Sherry cringed. It was no easy task keeping up the ruse that Cora was the Puzzle Lady, and not she. It would have helped if Cora had a slightly more extensive vocabulary.

“Your dessert,” Felicity said, pointing to the rich confection behind Cora’s plate.

There was one at each setting. The eight servings of tiramisu formed a circle in the center of the table.

“It looks obscenely delicious,” Cora said.

Felicity frowned at the adverb. It occurred to Sherry there were also times she wished Cora had a
smaller
vocabulary. .

Another blast of reverb quieted the room.

Betty Flagstaff, smiling the helpless smile of the electronically impaired, said, “Good afternoon, ladies. And welcome to this charity luncheon sponsored by Feed the Kids, Incorporated.”

“I like ‘Ink’ better,” Cora said.

“Shhh!” Sherry whispered.

“I’d like to thank my co-chairman, Felicity Grant, for making this afternoon possible. I may do the work, but Felicity writes the checks. I’d also like to thank our committee heads.”

Betty named them. One turned out to be Marcy Fletcher, who acknowledged her applause as if it wasn’t nearly enough.

“And now,” Betty went on, “it gives me great pleasure to introduce our speaker for this afternoon. It is someone you all know and love, whether you can do crossword puzzles or not. If you can’t, all I can say is, you’re just not trying. Because I can, and I graduated in the bottom third of my class.”

That self-deprecating remark drew an appreciative laugh.

“So, without further ado, allow me to present Miss Cora Felton, the Puzzle Lady, who has come here this afternoon to explain how to construct a crossword puzzle.”

Cora rose to applause, cast an I-told-you-so glance at Sherry, and marched to the lectern, wondering what excuse she would use to get out of explaining how to construct a crossword puzzle. It was not going to be easy. A blackboard had been set up to the left of the lectern. Clearly she was expected to use it.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. There are
some
gentlemen here, aren’t there?” Cora smiled. “Not that I’m looking to get married again, still one never knows.”

That remark drew a warm laugh. Cora took heart, plunged ahead. “Well, I can see that I’m going to have to talk fast, because that dessert that you’re digging into looks absolutely scrumptious.”

Cora glanced over at her table to see if Sherry had taken note of the fact that she’d said
scrumptious
instead of
obscenely delicious,
just in time to see Felicity Grant fall face first into her aforementioned dessert.

T
HE COP
was not happy. And who could blame him? He had a room full of two hundred women who couldn’t go home until he said so.

The cop wasn’t sure if he should say so. He didn’t appear that adept at murders. A local chief from a small town, it was a good bet he’d never had one. His opening remark, “Did anyone see what she ate?”, doubtless would have been inappropriately funny, had the women not been so traumatized.

After the ambulance had taken Felicity’s body away, the cop managed to herd the seven remaining women from her table off to one side of the room. It was to them that he addressed the remarks regarding Felicity’s last meal.

Of the women, only Marcy Fletcher seemed composed enough to answer questions. “She ate exactly what we ate. No more, no less. None of us are falling over dead, now are we?”

That declaration was just insensitive enough to rouse some of the others out of their shock-induced stupor.

“That’s not quite true,” Charity said. “She had the piece of quiche.”

The cop zeroed in on that remark. “What piece of quiche?”

Cora groaned.

“She gave her a piece of quiche,” Charity said.

“Who did?” the cop demanded.

“I did,” Cora said. “I gave her my piece of quiche. I assure you there was nothing sinister about it.”

“You gave her your piece of quiche?” the cop said insinuatingly.

“Good interrogation technique, Chief. But I already told you I gave her my piece of quiche. Could we move on?”

“Why
did you give her your piece of quiche?”

Cora sighed. “She said she wanted quiche. But she was near the back of the line, and the quiche was almost gone. So I took a piece for her.”

“You took a piece of quiche just for her?”

“That’s right.”

“So you planned this in advance? You knew that you would be giving your piece of quiche to her?”

“Yes. That’s why I took it.”

The cop glanced around to the other women. “And no one else at the table had quiche?”

“Actually, I had quiche,” Cora said.

The cop’s eyebrows raised. “I thought you gave your piece of quiche to her.”

“I did.” Cora gestured to her niece. “But Sherry gave me her piece.”

“Why?”

“I wanted quiche.”

“And yet you gave your piece away.”

“I gave my piece away because Felicity wanted quiche. I took Sherry’s piece because I wanted quiche.”

Cora could practically see the cop’s mind whirling, processing that.

“You wanted to eat quiche, but you didn’t want to eat your quiche. You wanted to eat another piece of quiche. You wanted the decedent to eat your piece.”

“Oh, for God’s sakes!” Marcy cried impatiently. “This is our guest of honor. She didn’t come here to kill the woman who invited her with a poisoned quiche.”

Sherry smiled at the misplaced modifier. She figured it was a good bet she was the only one who noticed.

The cop certainly didn’t. “Maybe not,” he said. “But at the moment, it’s my only lead. Did anyone else give her anything to eat?”

Monica snuffled, choked back a sob. Her lip trembled. “I“

“What is it, my dear?” the cop asked.

“I ... I think I passed the rolls,” Monica blurted, and burst into tears.

Marcy threw her hands to her head in disgust. “Give me a break. So you passed the rolls. Big deal. I think you’re off on the wrong foot, officer. Who said it had to be one of us?”

“I never said it had to be one of you. I’m just asking questions.”

“But they’re all aimed at us.”

“Well, who else is there? You were the only ones at her table.

“We were the only ones
sitting
there,” Marcy said.

“Did anyone else come to the table?” the cop said. “Did a waiter come around?”

“It’s a buffet,” Charity said. “There aren’t any waiters.”

“Did you really suspect a waiter?” Marcy said sarcastically.

The cop put up his hands. “Just asking. Did anyone else come around?”

“Betty,” Monica blurted. She immediately flushed and turned away.

“Who?” the cop demanded.

“Betty Flagstaff,” Charity explained. “The co-chairman. She came by to talk to Miss Felton.”

“Miss Felton. That would be you,” the cop said, pointing to Cora. “And you were seated right next to the decedent, weren’t you? To pass her your quiche.”

“Yes, I was,” Cora said. She couldn’t tell if the cop suspected her or Betty Flagstaff.

“What did the co-chairman come to talk to you about?”