Puzzled to Death (12 page)

“You don’t understand. He keeps asking me to do crossword puzzles.”

“Cora,” Sherry said in exasperation. “It’s a
crossword-puzzle
tournament. You expect him to ask you to
dance
?”

“No, but—”

“Cora, I just left Aaron Grant with Becky Baldwin to come over here. I have no time for this nonsense.”

Sherry turned and stalked back.

Cora snorted indignantly. Well, if that didn’t beat all. Just whose idea was it to keep up the Puzzle Lady pretense, anyway? If Sherry didn’t care, why should she?

Of course, Cora
did
care. She immediately looked to see if Harvey Beerbaum was watching her, but he wasn’t. Fine, she told herself. She was just imagining it, like Sherry said. She just had to calm down, get her mind on something else.

Like the murder. That was the ticket. That was just what the doctor ordered. What she needed to do was case the room for likely suspects.

Cora looked around. At the table in front of her was Marty Haskel, the cranky service-station man from the first planning meeting. Mr. Haskel was seated with three other men and was attacking his puzzle with a grim determination that made Cora’s blood run cold.

At the table next to Marty were the two women Cora had met at the crime scene. Charlotte, whose fake-fur coat hung over the seat in back of her, was working on the puzzle. Opposite her sat her large friend Betty, whose hair was a true testament to the curlers she had been wearing when Cora met her. Her brown hair hung down the sides of her long face in tight rings, making her look like a horse in a wig.

Charlotte’s husband was small like her, wore glasses,
and looked like a graduate student. Betty’s husband was something else, however. Cora Felton sucked in her breath. This was a
player
. The man was big, like Betty, only more so. His face was hard as a slab of rock. It was solid, square, and there was a fierce scar on his chin. He looked as if he had been an enforcer for the mob until the mob had decided he was just too scary and let him go.

Then he muttered something in a high-pitched nerdy voice, and the whole image evaporated in an instant.

“Switch!” Harvey Beerbaum announced gleefully from the microphone. “Pass your papers to the
left.
”

There was a flurry and rustle as papers changed places.

From the snort of disgust nearby, Cora noticed that Marty Haskel from the filling station was less than thrilled with the puzzle he had just received.

He looked even unhappier three switches later when someone screeched, “Done!”

Cora looked, saw a young woman jumping out of her seat and clapping her hands. Cora scowled.

The young woman’s face was lit up, sparkling with exuberance. Even had she not been good-looking, there would have been something attractive in her ear-to-ear smile, her wide eyes, her look of boundless joy. The fact that she had blond hair, rosy cheeks, and a pert ski-jump nose was just the icing on the cake. She was the perfect blue-ribbon winner, a veritable poster girl for the tournament.

Except for one thing.

She was Paul Thornhill’s wife.

She was sitting next to him at the table.

She had won because her celebrity-contestant husband was on her team.

Instead of applause at her victory, there was considerable grumbling.

None more than from Marty Haskel. “Come on, come on, keep working,” Marty griped. “They still gotta check her paper. What if she got one wrong?”

Such hope was short-lived, however. Mrs. Thornhill’s puzzle, quickly checked, proved correct, and the game was over, much to Marty Haskel’s displeasure. The fact that the first-place prize turned out to be merely crossword-puzzle books did not appease him in the least. The man was obviously
miffed
.

Cora wasn’t too pleased herself. As far as she was concerned, the much ballyhooed Fun Night was a huge bust. Fun, hell. Cora couldn’t think of anything
less
fun than crossword puzzles.

Crossword puzzles and Harvey Beerbaum. What a deadly combination.

Cora clutched her drawstring purse to her chest and headed for the ladies’ room. There was a faint smile on her lips as she went in the door.

Cora had expected to find Fun Night utterly boring: She had prepared for that eventuality by sticking a silver flask of vodka in her purse.

B
LITHELY OBLIVIOUS TO ANY SIMMERING DISCONTENT IN
the crowd, Harvey Beerbaum was once again at the microphone. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, for something entirely different—and something that’s enormous fun—instead of sitting at your tables, we’re going to let you get up and move around. Before you do, however, our volunteers are passing among you once again to hand out the next puzzle. You’re probably wondering, if you’re getting another puzzle, why are you going to move around? Well, what you’re being handed is merely the
answer sheet
. So where’s the puzzle, you might very well query? The puzzle, created by celebrity contestant Zelda Zisk—”

With a clatter of jewelry, Zelda surged to her feet and waved both meaty hands over her head to acknowledge a rather tepid applause that started only because her action seemed to demand it. She also laughed raucously, as if this were the funniest thing imaginable.

Harvey Beerbaum, to whom Zelda was a known
quantity, patiently waited for her to subside. “As I was saying, this quite unique puzzle can be found taped to the walls of the meeting room. It consists of fifty-two separate drawings, cartoons, sketches, or what have you, drawn by Miss Zelda Zisk herself, representing fifty-two famous people whose names are in common crossword-puzzle use. Your task, of course, is to identify these celebrities. Which is what makes this such an interesting challenge. Because cruciverbalists usually know words, not faces. Except for a few like Zelda Zisk, who is of course not playing, having contributed the puzzle.”

“I bet Pretty Boy’s playing,” Marty Haskel commented, loudly enough to be heard everywhere in the room.

A volunteer shushed him as she gave him the paper. Marty glared up at her.

“For this puzzle,” Harvey Beerbaum persisted, “you may work singly or in groups of two, three, or four.”

“Figures!” Marty Haskel snorted. “Might as well just hand little Miss Sunshine the prize.”

“And we have a time limit of fifteen minutes. Due to the nature of the puzzle, it is considered most unlikely that anyone will finish in that time. So the winner will be whoever accumulates the most correct answers at the end of fifteen minutes. Are the answer sheets all handed out? All right, then, ready, set,
go!
”

People shot to their feet and began milling around the town hall meeting room, inspecting the cartoon drawings on the walls.

In the back of the room, Aaron nudged Sherry. “You know, this is something you could do.”

Hearing him, Becky Baldwin frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

Sherry dug her elbow into Aaron’s ribs. “He’s kidding me. We play word games occasionally. He’s always trying to one-up me.”

“Yes, that’s Aaron,” Becky said, nodding complacently. “Whaddya think, Aaron? You think Sherry and I would have a chance against you with pictures?”

If the thought of Sherry teamed with Becky threw Aaron, he didn’t reveal it. “I’m not sure anyone would do well with these pictures,” he replied smoothly, “but let’s see what the
three
of us can do.”

So they joined the stream of people eagerly wending their way around the edges of the room.

“Okay, here’s a baseball player,” Becky Baldwin said, stopping in front of one sketch. “But he doesn’t look like anyone I know.”

“Mel Ott,” Sherry said.

Becky looked at her in surprise. “How do you know that?”

“Trust me. I’ve seen enough Puzzle Lady puzzles to know.
O-t-t
is an extremely useful three-letter word.”

“So we got one,” Becky said. “Number twenty-seven is
Ott.
”

“Not so loud,” Aaron cautioned. “We’re not really playing, but let’s not help anybody else.”

Number twenty-eight was a bearded man with glasses.

“Well, who’s that?” Becky Baldwin demanded.

“I have no idea,” Sherry said happily. The drawing was unrecognizable. It was a pleasure to be playing a game where she didn’t have to hide her expertise.

Sherry smiled at Aaron Grant and was actually feeling quite content until Becky Baldwin murmured, “Well, look who’s here.…”

Even then Sherry had no premonition of doom. Not until she saw the naked embarrassment on Aaron’s face.
The poor man looked positively discombobulated. Not to mention discomposed and disconcerted.

If Becky Baldwin noticed his discomfiture she didn’t show it; in fact, she looked pleased. She put on her sunniest smile, turned back in the direction she had been looking.

Sherry followed her gaze.

Striding across the floor was a youngish-looking middle-age couple—a robust man with a full head of curly hair that had just begun to turn gray, and a slender, attractive woman with a slightly homely face. The man wore a blue suit, the woman a print dress with a pink knit pullover. He had his arm around her shoulder in a totally comfortable way. Both smiled as they came walking up.

Becky Baldwin beamed as she took their hands in hers. “Mr. Grant. Mrs. Grant. How marvelous to see you. I didn’t know you were puzzle people.”

“We’re not, of course.” Mr. Grant chuckled. “I can’t do puzzles, and Debbie can’t either. We’re just here to offer our support.”

Mrs. Grant put her hand on her husband’s arm. “Now, John, that’s not true. I can do crossword puzzles. I’m just very slow.” Her hazel eyes studied Aaron. “And what are you doing here? Writing it up for the paper?”

Aaron Grant seemed to have recovered his wits, but his face was still rather red. “Hardly. I’m just here like you to offer my support.” He turned stiffly to Sherry. “Mom. Dad. This is Sherry Carter.” After a moment’s hesitation he added, “Sherry’s Cora Felton’s niece.”

Aaron Grant’s mother clasped Sherry’s hands. “Is that right?” she said. “You know, I’ve seen you around town, dear, I just didn’t know who you were. It must be exciting
being involved with the Puzzle Lady. Please don’t take anything John and I said to heart. Just because we can’t do puzzles doesn’t mean we have anything against them.”

“Of course not,” Sherry Carter said.

There was an awkward silence.

Mr. and Mrs. Grant stood there, smiling at her.

Sherry Carter felt suddenly self-conscious. She had been perfectly happy to go to Fun Night in a sweater and slacks. Now she was acutely aware of Becky Baldwin’s impeccably tailored wool suit.

It didn’t help when Becky Baldwin casually addressed Mr. Grant by his first name, as if to point out her familiarity with Aaron’s family. “How’s business, John?”

“Can’t complain,” John Grant replied. “Still seem to be scraping by.”

“Oh, listen to him talk,” Mrs. Grant said, smiling affectionately. “A hard worker all his life.”

“Not at all,” John Grant said with a grin. “I’m just there. Sooner or later people figure out they need insurance. Not my doing at all.”

“And they just happen to come to John instead of the larger firms,” Mrs. Grant informed them. “Not his doing at all.”

“Anyway,” Mr. Grant said, “Becky, I hear you’re the attorney for Joey Vale.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“From Joey.”

“You spoke to Joey?”

“I sure did. He had a big policy on his wife.”

Becky groaned. “Don’t tell me.”

Mr. Grant smiled ruefully. “That’s right. Double indemnity. Pays off double for accidental death. Murder counts as accidental, so there you are.”

“I’m sorry,” Becky Baldwin said. “I knew he had the policy. I didn’t know it was with you.”

“You knew he had the policy?”

“Of course I did. I’m his lawyer. There was the question of fees.”

“Then you understand my interest in the case.”

“Of course I do. Murder is considered an accident, but
not
if the policy holder commits the murder. If Joey Vale’s found guilty of murder, you don’t have to pay.”

John Grant’s smile became warmer. “It’s not like we’re rooting against you, Becky, but that is a fact.”

“Yes, I know. I’m afraid he’s got a pretty good alibi.”

“Too bad,” John Grant said.

The three of them chuckled over that. Then Mrs. Grant said, “We won’t impose on you kids any longer. Nice meeting you, Sherry. I hope this tournament’s a big success.”

With that the Grants moved away in the direction of the coffee and dessert table.

“Well,” Becky Baldwin said cheerily, “shall we ID some more pictures?”

It was a moment before either Sherry or Aaron responded. Aaron still looked embarrassed and ill at ease.

“Well, come on, Aaron,” Sherry said. “It’s not like you’re a teenager. Once you’re grown up, it’s okay to have parents.”

“Particularly when they’re as nice as that,” Becky Baldwin said.

“Are
your
parents here?” Sherry asked. There was an edge to her voice.

Becky merely smiled. “No, they’re in Fort Lauderdale. My dad’s retired. They winter down south. I have the run of the house.”