Puzzled to Death (30 page)

Chief Harper snorted. “Every now and then you come out with a sentence, the phrasing of which would drive a normal person nuts. You wanna talk this out or not? We only got a few minutes before we get to the morgue.”

“The morgue?”

“All right, so we don’t have a morgue. I mean the funeral home. You wanna talk it out or not?”

“Sure. You were telling me why you don’t like Ned Doowacker for the perp. And I see your point. The idea of him killing someone seems ludicrous. But say he could. Say he’s wacko—not that big a stretch. I could see him killing the women, but I have a problem with Paul Thornhill.”

“Me too,” Chief Harper said. “You put Doowacker up against Thornhill, Thornhill wins. Doowacker doesn’t wind up strangling him. It would take somebody young and athletic and strong.”

“Is that how you see it?” Cora Felton said.

“I certainly do. Now, who in this case is young and athletic and strong?”

“Lots of people,” Cora Felton said.

“No,” Chief Harper said. “One person. Billy Pickens. The man with the motive, the man with the means, the man with the opportunity.”

“Come on, Chief,” Cora Felton said. “You don’t suspect Billy Pickens anymore. Not with Paul Thornhill being
killed. It sends the investigation off in a whole different direction.”

“It did,” Chief Harper said, “but it just made a U-turn. If Doowacker met Judy Vale back in September, there’s a good possibility Paul Thornhill met her back then too. Say that was around the time Billy Pickens was involved with Judy. Say Billy Pickens strangled her. Say Paul Thornhill suspects this. Say
that’s
what Thornhill was chatting about with Mrs. Roth.”

“I’d say that’s a big stretch, Chief.”

“Yeah, but what isn’t? We got new facts comin’ in a mile a minute, and everything’s a jumble. Some of this stuff’s gotta play. Will you at least concede that it would take someone as strong as Billy Pickens to kill Paul Thornhill?”

“I’ll accept it as a reasonable premise, Chief. But Billy’s not the only strong man in town. It could be anyone who works with his hands. A mechanic, for instance.”

“You’re back to Marty Haskel?”

“Well, you’re back to Billy Pickens.”

“For good reason. Give me a reason for Marty Haskel to commit the murders.”

“The reason to kill Paul Thornhill is obvious.”

“And Mrs. Roth and Judy Vale?”

“I have no motive there,” Cora admitted. “But I’m not ready to concede your strong-man theory. Suppose Paul Thornhill was drugged? Then Ned Doowacker could have strangled him just fine. So could Thornhill’s wife. Or Billy Pickens’s wife, for that matter.”

“You pushing that?”

“I’m not pushing anything,” Cora said. “I’m really irritated that nothing makes sense. Like you say, it’s confusing to have these new facts thrown at us.”

“Yeah, like that little barbecue. Remind me to give Beerbaum a piece of my mind.”

“Why?” Cora Felton said. “Not that I like the guy, but how is that his fault? I mean, how could Harvey know the barbecue might be important until after Thornhill gets killed?”

“Even so,” Chief Harper grumbled. He slowed the cruiser, hung a left into the driveway of the Mosely Funeral Home.

Chief Harper had called ahead, so the porch light was on, and the proprietor was actually in the doorway.

Sal Mosely, a gaunt man with sunken cheeks and a thick black hairpiece, could have passed for a cadaver himself. “This is extremely irregular,” he said, as Chief Harper, Cora Felton, and Ned Doowacker came up on his porch.

“I know, Sal, but do us the favor,” Chief Harper said. “I’m bringin’ you business.”

Sal Mosely frowned.

“We got another one,” the chief told him. “Barney Nathan’s cuttin’ him up now. On second thought, you won’t get him, though. They’ll ship him home to New York.”

“Another murder?” Sal Mosely said, twitching slightly.

Cora Felton couldn’t tell if he was alarmed or if he regarded the prospect of a serial killer as a business opportunity.

“Right. And this guy,” Chief Harper said, pointing at Ned Doowacker, “is a murder witness. That’s why we need to see the body.”

“Of course,” Sal Mosely said. He stood aside and ushered them into a room with so many caskets in it that at first glance one would have thought the whole town of Bakerhaven had recently died. “Demonstration
models,” he explained. “The viewing rooms are back here.”

He went to the door, switched on a light, and led them into a smaller room hung with red velvet drapes, containing a single casket. He stepped up to it, raised the lid. Ned Doowacker whimpered.

After a moment’s hesitation, however, he stepped up, looked inside. “Never saw her before in my life,” he said, turning away.

Cora Felton, at his shoulder, said, “Of course he hasn’t. That’s not Judy Vale. That’s Mrs. Roth.”

Sal Mosely fell all over himself apologizing. “Of course, of course. I’m extremely sorry. When you said
the body
I thought you meant the last one. Mrs. Vale’s right through here. Come on.”

Sal Mosely opened another door, switched on another light, led them into a more starkly furnished and much cooler room. Here a casket sat on a slab.

“Sorry about the temperature,” Sal Mosely said, “but you understand, it’s been a longer time than usual with this one, what with her husband … er, incapacitated and all. Anyway, she’s all made up for a viewing, though whether that will happen remains to be seen. Extremely distressing, the way things turned out.”

“Yes, it is,” Chief Harper said. “If we could take a look …”

“Certainly,” Sal Mosely said. He moved to the casket, raised the lid.

The effect was startling. Particularly after Mrs. Roth. Despite the mortician’s best efforts, Mrs. Roth had seemed old, preserved, a wax figure, not really real.

But Judy Vale had died young. And she had been attractive. Alive, she had drawn men like moths to a flame.

Even in death, her beauty was evident. She had full lips
and a turned-up nose. Curly red hair framed a freckled face. It was a face that in life had been saucy, impudent.

Ned Doowacker sucked in his breath. “Yes,” he whispered. “I know her.”

Cora Felton’s mouth fell open. She was light-headed, and her stomach felt hollow.

“So do I,” she said.

C
HIEF
H
ARPER DUMPED CREAM IN HIS COFFEE, STIRRED
it around, took a huge sip. He lowered his right hand, which he’d been holding up in Cora Felton’s face as if he were a cop on traffic patrol and she were an oncoming truck. “All right,” he said, “what’s your crazy theory?”

“I told you in the car.”

“I couldn’t listen in the car. You were babbling about freckles and yearbook photos and God knows what else. If I’d listened, I’d have driven off the road. Now I’m not drivin’, I’ve got my coffee, and I’m ready to listen. I just hope you’ve calmed down enough to make sense.”

Chief Harper and Cora Felton were having coffee at an all-night diner out on the highway, which at that time of night was the only game in town.

“I wasn’t babbling,” Cora said indignantly. “I was making perfect sense. You just wouldn’t listen. All I was saying was the paper published Judy Vale’s yearbook picture, which was ten years old, airbrushed, and black-and-white. So she’s younger, they took out her freckles, and
you can’t see her red hair. Of course I didn’t recognize her.”

“But now you do?”

“Sure I do. Judy Vale is the woman who stood up at the first tournament planning meeting and objected to the whole thing. Throw that in and it all makes sense.”

“I’m thrilled it makes sense to you. You mind explaining it to me?”

“That’s where she and Marty Haskel squared off. Not squared off, exactly, but had different views. He’s fighting to keep the celebrities out, and she’s fighting to close the whole thing down. At the time I thought nothing of it. Because I’m a bigot like everyone else. I wrote Marty Haskel off. I figured he works in a garage, does he really expect to compete with these puzzle whizzes? Turns out he did. Turns out he wasn’t just blowing smoke, he really does have a chance to win the thing. Apparently it means a lot to him, and when he said he didn’t want the celebrities in the tournament he was dead serious. And for good reason. You take the professionals out of the tournament, he wins it hands down.”

“What about Judy Vale?”

“She stood up and argued against it. The tournament, I mean. Said she didn’t see the point in it, and if it was just going to cause dissension, why should we bother? She was cute, spunky, and spoke pretty well.”

“So?”

“So, here’s another obstacle in the way of Marty Haskel winning the tournament. So Marty Haskel removes it.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? An hour after Marty Haskel finds out he’s number two in the tournament, number one is bumped off. Now, Marty can claim it doesn’t matter who’s number one, but I’ll bet you a gin and tonic it does to him. And
you were sold enough on the idea you went to see the standings and went to question Marty. And after you did, the only thing that convinced you he couldn’t have done it was the fact you couldn’t connect him with Judy Vale. Well, guess what. A great big connection just got dumped in your lap.”

Chief Harper frowned.

“And if it’s Marty Haskel, it accounts for the body winding up at my house. If there’s anyone Marty hates more than Paul Thornhill, it’s me. It’s my tournament. And I’m the big-time Puzzle Lady, who never even noticed him.” Cora’s eyes gleamed with excitement as she put all the pieces together. “So what are we gonna do now?”

Chief Harper took a sip of coffee, considered. “I know exactly what I’m gonna do.”

“You gonna bust Marty Haskel?”

“No, I’m not.” He took another sip of coffee, pointed his finger at Cora Felton. “You’re very good when you’re on my side. When you’re not, you’re not. That’s the problem. You can make black sound like white. The town meeting’s where the whole thing began? I don’t think so. Not according to Ned Doowacker.” Chief Harper shook his head. “That wasn’t where the whole thing began at all.”

H
ARVEY
B
EERBAUM CAME TO THE DOOR IN A BLUE SATIN
robe with the initials
HB
monogrammed on the pocket. It was chilly for the robe, and Harvey shivered as he blinked sleepy eyes at Chief Harper and Cora Felton.

“This better be important,” he griped. “I’ve got a tournament to run tomorrow. And
you
should be sleeping,” he added insinuatingly to Cora. “You have a
big
day.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Chief Harper said grimly. “Tell me, who’s in first place?”

“Paul Thornhill.”

“Not anymore,” Chief Harper said, and pushed on by.

Harvey Beerbaum, on being told of Paul Thornhill’s recent violent demise, was considerably chastened. “Good God,” he said, “I had no idea. I went to sleep early. Big day tomorrow. Need to be fresh. Well, this certainly changes things. Horrible understatement. I don’t know what to say. Everything seems wrong.” He led them into his living room, gestured toward the couch.

Cora, who’d never been in Harvey Beerbaum’s home
before, and never had a desire to, found herself repulsed by the furnishings. Crossword-puzzle art was everywhere. Framed puzzles, framed covers from puzzle books, even paintings of puzzles adorned the walls. Several trophies on the mantlepiece had Harvey’s name inscribed on them.

Cora looked at the hearth, wished the fire were lit. It was cold in the room. The glass doors to the patio were uncurtained, heightening the effect.

Harvey Beerbaum sat in a leather director’s chair with his back to the window. “Now then,” he said. “This is a tragedy, of course, but the tournament should go on. I assume that’s what you came to say.”

“Actually, no,” Chief Harper said. At Harvey’s expression he added, “Not that I’m saying it shouldn’t go on, but that’s not what I came to talk about. I came about the barbecue.”

Harvey Beerbaum blinked. “Excuse me? What barbecue?”

“The one you had last fall. With the players here. The crossword-puzzle people, I mean. Surely you remember.”

“Yes, of course. What about it?”

“Paul Thornhill was there?”