Puzzled to Death (38 page)

Cora’s heart skipped. “You want my bet or not?”

“And what do I get if I win? In the event you
can’t
name the killer?”

“What do you want?”

There was an icy tone of malicious triumph in Harvey’s voice. “
We
do the commentary. You
and
I.
Together
. At the
same time
. We
each
have a microphone. We can ask each other questions. Discuss strategies.
Challenge each other’s expertise.
”

Cora was too stunned to speak.

“So?” Harvey said insinuatingly. “Are you game? Do you still want to wager?”

“You’re on,” Cora said, and clicked off the phone. She grimaced at Sherry. “Don’t you just hate it when somebody calls your bluff?”

“You are in serious trouble.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Doing the commentary alone was going to be iffy.
This
you may not survive.”

“Can you help me?”

Sherry shook her head. “We could try a few rehearsals with me playing Beerbaum, but what’s the point? I’d either have to take it so easy on you it wouldn’t be useful, or I’d crush you like a bug.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“Wait’ll you hear Harvey. If I were you I’d call him back, say you want to call off the bet.”

“I can’t do that. It would be like admitting I don’t know anything.”

“You
don’t
know anything.”

“My point exactly.” Cora exhaled loudly. “I need a drink.” At Sherry’s look she put up her hand. “But I’m not going to have one. I’m gonna keep a cool head and catch a killer. Because that’s my only way out of this mess.”

Cora flung open a cupboard door, took out a box of chocolate chip cookies. “Come on. Let’s have a snack and see who wants to kill me.”

Cora and Sherry went back in the living room and took turns watching at the window.

An hour passed.

They finished the cookies.

This time they didn’t see a car. The doorknob simply turned.

Sherry, at the window, felt a sudden chill. She whirled in astonishment to discover her aunt snoring on the couch. Sherry rushed to her, shook her. “He’s here!”

“Mumph,” Cora mumbled, batting her arms away.

The front door swung open.

Cora’s floppy drawstring purse was on the coffee table. Sherry grabbed it, groped inside.

A figure appeared, silhouetted in the doorway.

Sherry’s fumbling fingers found the gun. She gripped the handle, yanked it from the purse. Good Lord, could she be doing this?

Maybe not. Her finger wasn’t even on the trigger. Where
was
the trigger? And what about the safety? Where the hell was that?

Her heart thumping madly, Sherry raised the gun.

“That’s far enough!” she cried. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

The intruder gasped and stepped back.

Leveling the gun, Sherry crept cautiously forward, found the floor light, and clicked it on, lighting the face of the intruder.

Billy Pickens.

“Y
OU WERE REALLY GOING TO PLUG HIM?
” C
ORA ASKED
Sherry.

“I wasn’t going to shoot him, but I wasn’t going to let him strangle me either.”

“Admirable sentiment,” Cora said. “I quite agree. Okay, Billy. Let’s have it, and it better be good. Why shouldn’t I turn you over to Chief Harper right now?”

“He’s probably not awake,” Billy said.

Cora cocked her head. “A sense of humor? Billy, are you surprising me with a sense of humor? Or should I take that as the bravado of a beaten man?”

“Take it any way you want,” Billy said. “But give it to me straight. Did you mean what you said on the air?”

“You know, everybody asks me that,” Cora said. “You wanna know if I peg you as the killer?”

“No, I wanna know if you know who the killer is. If so, maybe we could cut a deal.”

“A deal? Are you saying you
are
the killer?”

“Nah. But if you’re going to do what you said—make
some dramatic announcement tomorrow morning in town hall, explain the facts of the case, and tell who the killer is—well, can you leave me out of it?”

“Or you’ll kill me?” Cora asked. “Come sneaking up to my house to try to bump me off?”

“I just came to talk.”

“So you left your car way down the road and came creeping up to my house in the dark.”

“I didn’t want my car parked in your driveway in case the police came by.”

“This time of night? You really think that’s gonna happen?”

“Well, after what you said on TV … Did you mean it? Do you really know who did it?”

Cora Felton rubbed her forehead. “We’re going around in circles, Billy, and it’s gettin’ me dizzy. We’re not talkin’ about me, we’re talkin’ about you. Why shouldn’t I call the police, tell ’em you came sneakin’ up on my house?”

“Come on, look at me. I’m not even armed.”

Cora shook her head. “The killer’s a strangler, Billy. You bring your hands with you?”

“Why would I want to harm you?”

“If I knew you were the killer, Billy, you might have no choice.”

“Yeah, fine. But I happen to know I’m not the killer, so I know that’s not possible. So who is the killer?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“What?”

“What do you care, as long as it’s not you? Isn’t that enough?”

Billy exhaled in frustration, set his jaw.

In the silence that followed, Sherry said, “Why’d you move your car, Billy?”

The guilty reaction was almost comical. Billy Pickens looked like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Who told you that?”

“No one told me. I saw you do it. When we left your house, Aaron and I drove two blocks, stopped, and waited. Sure enough, right away you and your wife came out and swapped cars. Now, is she covering for you, or are you covering for her?”

Billy turned to Cora, his face the picture of alarm. “Is that it? Is that who you think it is? Do you think it’s Sara?”

“Hmm,” Cora said judiciously. “Very interesting. You give an excellent impression of a man concerned for his wife. Or a killer, trying to make himself
appear
like a man concerned for his wife.”

Billy started to retort, then considered. “If you know who the killer is, you know which. Stop playing games and tell me. Is it her?”

“Why’d you move the car, Billy?”

Billy glared at Cora for a moment, then snorted in frustration. “You know why I moved the car.” He jerked his thumb at Sherry. “She pointed out that the position of the cars in the driveway made it look like I must have gone out. We swapped them around so the question wouldn’t come up.”

“It’s come up now, Billy,” Cora said. “Sherry, run it by me again, what you saw with the cars.”

“Billy went out for pizza in the Nissan. After he came back his wife went out shopping in the mall. But when we came to see him, the station wagon was parked in the driveway and the Nissan was in the garage. The fact the cars swapped position would indicate both of them went out.”

“Exactly,” Cora said. “Your wife went out and so did
you. Now, where did you go that night at approximately the same time Thornhill was killed?”

Billy started to protest, realized it was futile. “I went looking for Sara.”

“Why?”

“She’d been gone too long. I was concerned.”

“Did it occur to you she might be involved in the killings?”

“No. Not the mother of my little girls. I know she couldn’t be. Still …”

“Still, you weren’t sure.”

“It sounds terrible when you say it like that. Let’s just say I was confused.”

“Let’s just say you
are
confused,” Cora corrected. “You see my problem here? If you’re not the killer, there’s no way you could have known Paul Thornhill was gonna die. So when you say, I was concerned where my wife was, it
seems
like it should make sense, because you’re concerned where she was when a man was killed. But if you didn’t know he was going to be killed, there was
no
reason to go out.”

Billy Pickens glowered.

“Thought up another lie yet?” Cora asked sweetly.

Billy sulked.

“I think payback is fair game,” Cora said, “and that’s what you were thinking. You had your fun with poor Judy Vale, and now you’re wondering if your wife’s playin’ around.”

“Now, look—”

“No, you look,” Cora interrupted. “I’m not interested in your marital problems. I’ve had enough marital problems in my day, and frankly, they bore the stuffing out of me. It’s late, I’m tired, you’ve worn out your welcome. What is it you want?”

“I told you. Tomorrow, if you make an announcement, can you leave me out of it?”

Cora Felton shook her head. “Billy, I can downplay it, soft-pedal it, temporize it, and call it alleged. But if you think I can tell the story of Judy Vale’s murder without mentioning you, you can forget about it. You had an affair with her. Your wife knows it, Judy’s husband knows it, the neighbors know it, and half of Bakerhaven knows it. Look on the bright side: Those two little girls you keep dangling in my face are too young to know it. If it’s a small part of the story, it’s gonna fade away. And if you or your wife is the killer, it’s gonna be pretty insignificant by comparison.

“So, do me a favor, willya? Sneak back down the road, get in your car, and go home to your wife and kids. I’m waitin’ for someone to try to kill me. If it isn’t you, get the devil out of here and give someone else a chance.”

“W
AKE UP, YOU’RE ALIVE.
”

Cora Felton opened her eyes to find her niece standing over her. Cora was on the couch in the living room. She yawned, stretched. “And no one tried to kill me?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not. And you’re due at the town hall in an hour with the solution to three murders. Otherwise, you have to play microphone tag with Harvey Beerbaum.”

Cora moaned. She sat up. “Aw, gee, Sherry. Did I really say that? That I knew who the killer was? What a stupid thing to say.”

“Yes. That seems to be Chief Harper’s opinion too.”

“Yeah, I remember. I don’t suppose
he
solved the murders last night?”

“You can call him and ask, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

“No, I guess not.” Cora groaned, rubbed her head. Her
hair looked like a rat’s nest. She fished a cigarette out of her purse, lit it, and took a drag. “Sherry. The puzzle. Thornhill’s puzzle. Did you do it for me?”

“Yeah, I did it.”

“And?”

Sherry grimaced. “And it’s not gonna help. Paul Thornhill didn’t even write it.”

Cora’s head shot up. “You’re kidding! Who did?”

“No one.”

Cora scowled. “What?”

“It’s an AutoFill.”

Cora winced and put up her hand. “Sherry, I have a headache. Could you try to talk in words that make sense?”

“Sorry. Sometimes I forget you know nothing about crosswords. Well, Thornhill did this one on the computer. He used a program like Crossword Compiler, and he created his grid. Then he filled in his long answers that were going to be the theme of his puzzle.

“Then he hit AutoFill. And the computer whizzed through the thousands of words in its memory and filled in the rest of the puzzle. It’s a pretty neat program. The only problem is the computer can’t differentiate, so it’s apt to use words no one ever heard of. For instance, here it throws in the word
Nahuatls
, which is out of place in such a simple puzzle.”

Cora gawked at Sherry. “You’re saying the computer wrote the puzzle?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t understand. I thought Paul Thornhill was supposed to be this young hotshot constructor.”

“Well, you wouldn’t know it from this. The clues aren’t very good. And his theme doesn’t even work. Here, take a look.”