And a Puzzle to Die On (28 page)

The other was because Sherry and Aaron were in it.

Cora slipped into the backseat of the car, and held up the dog. “Look what I got.”

“You stole the dead woman’s dog?” Sherry said.

“The one that made bloody paw prints all over you?” Aaron said.

“The very same.”

“Why did you steal the dead woman’s dog?” Sherry persisted.

“I had to get into her house.”

“Couldn’t you think of any other way without kidnapping her pet?”

“No, I couldn’t. I haven’t slept in days. My mind is barely working. You wouldn’t let me drive out here, if you’ll recall.”

“Of course not. You’re clearly not in possession of your faculties.”

“Hey, I got into her house, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, and now you’ve got her dog.”

“Actually,” Cora said, handing him to Sherry, “
you’ve
got her dog. I’ve got work to do.”

“Work?” Sherry said. “What the hell are we going to do with a dog?”

Cora smiled and patted Sherry on the cheek.

“Least of our worries.”

Cora crept up the driveway, crouching low behind the sight line of the hedge, just in case the annoying neighbor was watching. She didn’t think Mrs. Mayberry was suspicious, but in Cora’s diminished capacity she wasn’t sure she could trust her own judgment.

There were no lights on in the dead woman’s house. The light in the kitchen had been only for the dog. Mrs. Mayberry had turned it off when she left.

There was a crime-scene ribbon across the front door. Actually, two, crisscrossing, forming an X. Cora reached through, tried the knob. It turned, just as it had the night before. The only difference was, that time the lights were on. And there was a corpse.

Cora hoped there wasn’t a corpse now. If there was, she sorta hoped it was Cynthia Mayberry. Cora pushed such facetious thoughts from her sleep-addled brain, stepped carefully through the X, into the house. She closed the door quietly behind her, and plunged herself into total darkness.

Did she dare risk a light?

Cora knew she didn’t. On the other hand, she couldn’t see a damn thing.

Cora fumbled in her purse, came out with her new cigarette lighter. She fired it up, was amazed at how much light it gave off. She cupped her hand around the flame. Wished the light were smaller.

Actually, that was no problem.

Cora lit a cigarette, doused the lighter. There. By puffing on the cigarette she could illuminate things with the glowing end.

Of course, if anyone showed up, the smoke would alert them that there was someone in the house. But then, Cora figured, if anyone showed up, she was dead meat anyway.

Cora puffed the cigarette, headed upstairs.

Valerie’s bedroom was the large one on the right. It was a no-brainer—there was virtually nothing in the bedroom on the left. Valerie’s had a makeup table loaded to the gills. An unmade bed. Clothes hurled in all directions. At first glance, it appeared the bedroom had been ransacked. Then Cora realized that was just how the woman lived.

The bedroom’s two windows had lace curtains and roller blinds. The curtains were tied back, the roller blinds were up. Cora made her way to the windows, pulled the blinds down.

Cora’s cigarette was burning her fingers. She dropped it in a cup of water on the makeup table, took out the lighter.

Cora jerked open the drawer of the makeup table, discovered nothing but cosmetics.

She moved on to the dresser. The top drawer, as she had expected, held undergarments, ranging from lacy to extra support. Cora imagined the decision as to
which to wear related not so much to weight fluctuation as to state of mind.

The rest of the bureau drawers held nothing of interest. Slacks, blouses, and sweaters. A gray-and-white pullover looked particularly attractive. Cora wondered if it was in her size. Considered trying it on.

Cora remembered where she was, put the sweater back, closed the drawer.

Cora moved on to the closet. As she pawed through the hanging clothes, it occurred to her that if a man had been killed, she would be searching his office. Since it was a woman, she was searching her bedroom. That seemed sexist to Cora.

Cora took off the hat she’d tried on and put it back.

Cora found nothing in the bedroom. Nothing relating to the crime, at any rate.

She checked out the other bedroom. It had obviously belonged to the departed husband, and Valerie had clearly washed that man right out of her hair. There was a spread on the bed, but no sheets. There was nothing under the mattress.

The bed rested on a large area rug. Cora rolled back the corners, hoping for something.

A business card caught her eye. She picked it up, just as the light flickered out.

Cora snapped the lighter again, to no avail. She was furious. A brand-new lighter. Cora ascribed some activities to the lighter it could not possibly enjoy, then crammed it and the business card into her purse. She flipped the rug back into place.

Cora groped her way downstairs, holding the railing, headed for the living room. The crime-scene ribbon assured her she had the right door. She ducked under, and stood up.

Ghostly moonlight filtered in through the front windows. That, coupled with the fact Cora’s eyes had become accustomed to the dark, enabled her to make out silhouettes. There was the couch. There was the coffee table with the message
DUD
. And there was the outline where the woman had lain. Not chalk, on the shag rug, but tape of some sort, luminescent tape, an eerie outline in the room of death.

Cora shivered, wondered where to start.

She dug in her purse, came out with the book of matches from Burnside’s office. She struck one, cupped it, looked around the room. It occurred to her it would be a bitch searching under the couch.

Across from the couch was a TV and VCR. Cora hadn’t noticed it before—but then, she’d been busy. On a hunch, she clicked the VCR on, pushed
EJECT
. It was empty.

Cora moved on to the end table. It held a bunch of magazines. She wasn’t sure, but she thought some of them had been on the coffee table. Yes, there was nothing on it now. The police had moved the magazines to turn the table over to photograph
DUD
.

Cora tipped the table up, peered under. It was still there. The same misleading message, leading no one anywhere.

There was a bookcase on the side wall. Cora was not surprised to find it jammed with romance novels and an occasional trashy best seller. Cora tried not to be too judgmental, particularly since she noticed one or two trashy best sellers she’d read.

Before Cora’s match burned out, she noticed the bookcase’s bottom shelves held videotapes. She struck another match, and scanned them. Apparently, the woman never recorded any shows. All the tapes on the
shelves were prerecorded movies, in their original colorful boxes.

Cora ran her finger down the rows, looking for the one odd tape, the one hand-lettered box. But there were none. Every single tape was a store-bought movie. Cora noted that, here, too, the trend ran toward sudsy romance and tearjerkers:
An Affair to Remember, The English Patient, Bridges of Madison County, Unfaithful
. The theme of infidelity also seemed to be running rampant. And—

Cora stopped.

Best in Show
.

Not a duplicate tape, like Burnside’s. Like all the rest, this was a professional copy.

Cora pulled it out.

Yes, there were all the dog people on the cover. Of course, that movie didn’t have to be in the box.

But it was.

Cora slid the tape out, read the title. It was exactly what it purported to be. A movie about dogs.

The match went out.

Cora shoved the tape back in the box.

Her finger hit something sticky.

She frowned, lit another match.

Slid the movie out of the box again.

There was a piece of Scotch tape around one end of the videocassette. Not all the way around, but just over the far end of the long thin side with the title.

The Scotch tape covered a small, rectangular indentation in the plastic.

Headlights flashed through the window, lit up the room.

Two cars hurtled up the drive.

Cora blew out the match, headed for the back of the
house. Too bad about the crime-scene ribbon. She plowed right through as she went out the living room door.

She sprinted down the hall to the kitchen, fumbled with the back-door lock. It clicked. Cora jerked the door open, shut it behind her.

Cora could hear footsteps pelting toward the house. She dived into the bushes, raced for the house next door. The other one. Not Cynthia Mayberry’s.

There were lights on in the house, so the people were still up. As Cora worked her way behind it, lights came on in Valerie Thompkins’s house.

Cora stayed in the bushes, reached the far end of the adjoining property. It was a tall hedge, wider and thicker than the one between Valerie’s and Cynthia’s houses. Cora kept in the shadows, worked her way down to the road.

Her car was gone.

“Where are you?” Sherry demanded.

“Where am
I
? Where the hell are
you
?”

“We had to get out of there. The cops showed up.”

“Oh, there’s a news flash,” Cora said. “That must have put you in great danger. The cops might have caught you two lovebirds parking. You’d have never been able to live it down. I, on the other hand, could have told ’em I came back for the dog’s toys.”

“Incidentally, the dog’s getting restless.”

“So am I. Where the hell
are
you?”

“We had to find a place Aaron’s cell phone would work. Or you couldn’t have called us.”

“Well, that’s just great,” Cora said. “You wanna pick me up before the cops do?”

“Where are you?”

“I have no idea.”

“What?”

“I’m in a phone booth outside an Exxon station on a corner with no street signs whatsoever.”

“Couldn’t you walk a block and find a sign?”

“I’m too damn tired. There’s cop cars looking for me. Come get me. How hard can it be. I’m within a mile of the house. I think I went in the direction your car was facing. At least at first.”

“You want me to cruise around till I find an Exxon station?”

“Yeah, and don’t drive off when you don’t see me. I hide from headlights.”

Sherry and Aaron drove into the station fifteen minutes later. The minute Sherry pulled the car to a stop, Cora slid into the backseat.

“Well, you certainly took your time.”

“You want this ride or not?”

The dog jumped all over Cora.

“He’s going nuts. Did you walk him?”

Sherry pulled out of the service station. “Are you kidding? Won’t the cops be looking for the dog?”

“Only if they’re smart.”

“You find anything?” Aaron asked.

“Just this.”

Cora handed him the videotape.

Aaron held it up by the dashboard lights. “
Best in
Show!” he exclaimed. “You found it!”

“Yes, and no. The tape I lost was a homemade dupe. This is a prerecorded tape.”

“Then what’s the point?” Sherry asked.

“I think it’s evidence.”

“How can it be evidence?”

“There’s Scotch tape on it.”

Aaron slid the videotape out of the box. “You’re right. It’s taped over.”

“Please,” Sherry protested. “I’m trying to drive. The word
tape
is really distracting. Videotape. Scotch tape. What are you two talking about?”

“Videotapes have a little plastic tab in the corner you can break off if you don’t want them recorded over,” Cora explained. “You do that if you’ve got something you wanna make sure you don’t erase. But if you change your mind, and you want to use the tape again, you put a piece of Scotch tape over the hole where the tab was, and you can record on it.”

“How do you know that?”

“My second husband, Arthur, was too cheap to buy new tapes. He used to get old discarded videotapes, put Scotch tape over the holes, and use ’em to record TV shows. Some of the tapes he got were pretty steamy. It made for some interesting montages.”

“But this is a prerecorded tape. You wouldn’t want to record on it.”