Authors: Parnell Hall
E
ARLY
F
RIDAY MORNING THE TOURNAMENT PLANNING
committee volunteers, heavily armed with ladders, hammers, nails, thumbtacks, and masking tape, descended on the Bakerhaven town hall like locusts. They festooned it from top to bottom with red, yellow, and blue balloons, red, white, and blue streamers, and a long blue and white banner proudly proclaiming
The Bakerhaven Charity Crossword-Puzzle Tournament
, in preparation for the contestants’ registration, scheduled to begin at noon.
At approximately eleven fifty-five it began to rain, a steady, drenching downpour that released over half the balloons, popped most of the others, and uncurled the streamers before washing them away.
Regrettably, one end of the banner tore loose. More regrettably, the other end held, creating a gigantic, soggy whip that lashed at anyone attempting to get up the town-hall steps.
Luckily, Fun Night didn’t start until eight o’clock that evening, so there was a chance the storm would blow
over, and under ordinary circumstances the contestants would just have holed up in their bed-and-breakfasts, inns, and motels until then. However, the Bakerhaven Charity Crossword-Puzzle Tournament was being run by committee, and the tournament welcoming committee, a splinter group formed by a vicious difference of opinion within the tournament reception committee, had in their infinite wisdom decreed that tournament contestants must register at the town hall on Friday afternoon before five o’clock.
This was utter nonsense, of course. The tournament was for charity, the contestants were paying to enter, the town wanted as many contestants as possible, and no one was going to be turned away, whether they met some arbitrary registration deadline or not. However, as a result of a deluge of officious memos on the part of the welcoming committee, which had gone out with the mailings, the majority of the contestants complied with their wishes and showed up at town hall before five
P.M
. Most of them, however, did not look happy about it.
None was less pleased than Cora Felton, whom the committee had decreed should be on hand with Harvey Beerbaum to greet each entrant. She and Sherry arrived at noon, a good hour before the first contestants, who began drifting in around one-thirty and continued to trickle in as the wet afternoon wore on. Most of them were people Cora had never seen before—crossword-puzzle enthusiasts who had shown up just for the tournament—but a few were locals, some of whom Cora recognized but could not place. She greeted them all with the trademark Puzzle Lady smile plastered on her face, apologizing for the inclement weather as if it were something over which she had some control, even as she attempted to dodge their dripping raincoats and umbrellas.
Her choice of such a mundane topic of conversation as the weather was not entirely accidental. Alarmed by the influx of so many puzzle experts, Cora was eager to deflect any conversation from her column. To her relief, none of the experts seemed inclined to discuss it. It was midafternoon before Cora learned why.
A man came in with a blue raincoat and blue rain hat. The brim, which turned up, was full of water, although the man did not seem to be aware of it. He made his way to the front of the room, where the Bakerhaven welcoming committee had pushed three tables together to form the registration area. Hanging from the front of the tables were the signs: A–H, I–P, Q–Z. Each table was manned by a beaming, welcoming committeewoman. Happy or not, the women displayed all outward signs of good cheer, as decided in their committee meeting.
The man in the blue raincoat approached the middle table, manned by Mrs. Cushman, the genial proprietor of Cushman’s Bake Shop, whose actual baking skills were suspect and whose pastries were rumored to be trucked in daily from New York City. The man leaned forward, sending a shower of water from his hat brim cascading down on the table. Mrs. Cushman yelped and immediately put her hands protectively around the name tags, which were in plastic pin-on holders and which she had painstakingly arranged alphabetically in rows. She was less concerned with the plastic bags containing giveaways—crossword-puzzle magazines, pencils, and flyers consisting largely of local advertising, the inclusion of which had been hotly debated by the committee.
“My, my,” Mrs. Cushman said, struggling to keep her smiling face within committee guidelines. “You could use a towel, couldn’t you?”
The man frowned. “Why?”
He wasn’t joking. His view of the world was clearly rather narrowly defined.
“Because of the rain,” Mrs. Cushman said politely. “Are you here to register?”
The man nodded yes, releasing a fresh stream of water, but Mrs. Cushman had already swept most of the name tags to safety. “Fine,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Ned Doowacker.”
That response pleased Mrs. Cushman immensely. “Then I’m afraid you’re in the wrong line. This is the I–P line. You want the A–H line over there.”
“That’s silly,” Ned Doowacker retorted. “It’s not like there was anyone in line behind me. Why can’t
you
help me?”
“Because I don’t have your personal name badge.” Mrs. Cushman pointed to Edith Potter, the librarian, who was manning the A–H table. “She does. That’s why it’s alphabetical.”
“Oh.” Ned Doowacker wheeled around, sending an icy spray of water in all directions, and stomped to the next table, where Edith had already moved the name tags out of the line of fire and immediately produced his.
“Here you are, Mr. Doowacker,” Edith told him. “I’ve already checked you off the list. Here’s your name tag and your complimentary gift bag. Say hello to our cohosts and you’re all set.”
Ned Doowacker approached Harvey Beerbaum. Fortunately, Ned had already shaken off most of the water, for he bobbed his head up and down animatedly while he proceeded to take Harvey Beerbaum to task, to the best Cora could determine, for a puzzle Harvey had created over three years ago and could hardly remember, though Doowacker remembered it well, feeling that
one of the clues was misleading if not out and out improperly worded.
Cora couldn’t help smiling, until Mr. Doowacker wheeled on her. She braced herself, but the man just said bluntly, and apparently without the slightest concept of being rude, “I don’t do
your
puzzles. They’re way too easy.”
“How do you like that?” Cora grumbled to Sherry, after Ned Doowacker had banged out the front door—most likely, in Cora’s opinion, to reload his hat brim. “The man doesn’t
do
my puzzles. My puzzles are too
easy
.”
“It is rather amusing,” Sherry said.
“Amusing?” Cora grumbled. “It’s downright insulting. Am I supposed to smile and be nice while someone tells me that?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“You don’t? Well, guess what: He’s the first contestant all day to even
mention
my column. I mean, here I am, standing up there like a boob, introducing myself and shaking their hands, and none of them wants to talk about my column.”
“You don’t
have
a column.”
“That’s not the point. They
think
I do.”
“Cora, let me be sure I understand this. You’re taking umbrage at the fact no one’s showing you sufficient respect for a talent you do not in fact possess?”
“When you put it like that it sounds stupid.”
“Well, would you like to put it so it sounds smart?”
“Sherry, this is
your
work that’s being disparaged. Aren’t you hurt?”
“Why should I be? We have a mass-market column with a broad appeal. It’s syndicated to 256 newspapers.
Unlike
The New York Times
crossword, which starts out easy on Monday and gets harder every day, our column is consistent. The level of difficulty does not change. Basically, anyone entered in this tournament will find our puzzles too easy. Otherwise they wouldn’t be
in
the tournament.”
Aaron Grant came in the door, snapped his bright red umbrella shut, shook the water off, and hurried over. “Hi, gang. How’s it going?”
“Cora’s doing great,” Sherry replied. “She’s charming the experts. But she’s offended none of them takes the Puzzle Lady column seriously.”
Aaron grinned. “Gee, that’s tough, Cora. Why don’t you dazzle them with your linguistic dexterity?”
“All right, that’s it,” Cora snapped. “It’s bad enough I gotta put up with Beerbaum. I don’t have to stand here and be insulted by you.”
“No, you have to stand over there,” Sherry said, pointing to the tables at the front of the room. Another entrant was signing in, this one a tall, slender woman with wire-rimmed glasses. “Go welcome her, and try not to be too disappointed when she doesn’t read your column.”
“If she doesn’t, I’ll punch her out,” Cora declared. “I cannot believe the committee voted this a nonsmoking zone. I’m dying for a cigarette, and they won’t let me smoke.”
“Friendly
and
nice,” Sherry cautioned.
Cora muttered something that could hardly have been construed as either friendly or nice and stomped back toward the front of the room.
“If she gets through this, it’ll be a miracle,” Sherry told Aaron.
“If the tournament comes off at all, it’ll be a miracle,”
Aaron said. “The murder’s still wide open. Chief Harper’s got no leads, and I got no story. What’s this Fun Night scheduled for tonight?”
“Just what it sounds like. It’s not part of the tournament itself. Scores don’t mean anything tonight, except to win silly prizes.”
“Like what?”
“Puzzle books. T-shirts. A crossword-puzzle murder mystery some guy wrote. Stupid stuff like that.”
“Doesn’t sound like a story.” Aaron sounded dejected.
“Trust me, it isn’t. Uh-oh. Look who’s here.”
“Who?”
“Guy from the service station. What’s-his-name. Marty Haskel.”
It was indeed the cranky mechanic who had voiced his displeasure at the early planning meeting. He stomped in, flipped the hood off his rain slicker, unzipped it, and shook off the water. He then proceeded to the front of the room, where the only other entrant, the tall, thin woman, also happened to be at the A–H table and was asking Edith Potter, the librarian, several questions. Haskel stood behind her, folding his arms, tapping his foot, and occasionally turning and rolling his eyes for the benefit of anyone who might be watching.
“Would have made a great cabbie,” Sherry observed.
“What?” Aaron said.
Sherry jerked her thumb in Mr. Haskel’s direction. “In New York City. He’s the type of cab driver leans on the horn the second the light turns green.”
“Hey, lady, could I get my badge?” Marty Haskel demanded in a voice loud enough to be heard even in the back of town hall.
The tall, thin woman turned to see if he was some
expert whose rudeness should be excused because he was higher on the cruciverbal ladder than she. Finding he was not, she impaled him with a look, then turned back to resume her chat with Edith Potter.
Cora Felton, waiting with Harvey Beerbaum to greet the tall, thin woman, watched with amusement. Crossword puzzles didn’t interest her, but she would have been perfectly content to see a pair of crossword-puzzle people rip each other apart.
It was not to be.
The back door of the meeting room banged open, and Joey Vale strode in.
He was not wearing a raincoat. His navy blue pea coat was soaked, as were his sneakers and jeans. His wet hair was plastered to his head. Water trickled down his brow.
He took no notice. He stood, swaying, looked around the room. “So,” he declared in a loud, slurred voice, which left no doubt as to the state of his inebriation. “So, this is where they’re gonna do it. Crosswords. Judy’s dead, and you’re doing crosswords. Fine. Sign me up. I wanna do crosswords too.”
Joey headed for the front of the room, didn’t get there, crashed instead into one of the many tables that were set up for the contestants. He stumbled, fell to the floor. Moments later he pulled himself up by the side of the table, like a monster in a horror movie rising up after everyone figured it was dead. He staggered to his feet, stumbled toward the front of the room.
“Do something,” Sherry told Aaron.
“I am,” Aaron said. He had a cell phone out, was punching in a number. “Chief, it’s Aaron. Better get over to town hall.”
Joey Vale careened through the tables, crashing into
some, missing others, and eventually reached the front of the room.
Mrs. Cushman had moved the name tags as far out of harm’s way as possible to one end of the table and pushed the giveaway bags to the other end, leaving only the signin sheet exposed and vulnerable.
“What’s this?” Joey Vale cried, snatching it from her before she could protest. He wheeled from the table, out of arm’s reach, and peered at the list. “What do we have here? Ah, yes. Names. List of names. Is the name of the man who killed Judy on here? That would be worth knowing. But no one cares.” His face twisted in an expression of grief. “
No one cares,
” he told the room weepily.
Mrs. Cushman’s sign-in sheet consisted of two pages on a clipboard. Joey Vale flipped to the second page. He stared at it, or at least appeared to. Whether he could actually see it or not was impossible to tell. After a few moments he flipped the page back.
“Worthless,” he declared loudly. “Absolutely worthless.”
He pulled the pages from the clipboard, crumpled them, and threw them on the floor. He turned, hurled the clipboard against the wall.
By that point the committeewomen at the tables were backing away, which was probably wise. With his left arm Joey Vale swept the name badges on the middle table to the floor. With his right arm he swept off the giveaway bags. Then he put both hands under the edge of the table, lifted it up, and flipped it over.
Next he descended on Edith Potter’s table. He snatched up her clipboard and went through the same ritual with the sheets of paper, pulling them off, crumpling them up, and hurling the clipboard aside. He emptied the
tabletop before flipping the table. This time he managed to achieve a little elevation and wipe out a table in the next row.
Joey Vale was just descending on the third table when Chief Harper showed up to handcuff him and lead him away.