Puzzled to Death (5 page)

Good Lord. In public Becky Baldwin and Sherry Carter were barely civil. There was no question as to how they felt toward each other. Why on earth would Becky Baldwin be calling on her now?

She wasn’t.

When Sherry Carter opened the front door, Becky smiled, a frosty, reserved smile, and said, “Hello. Is your aunt in?”

Sherry Carter blinked. “Yes.” After a moment she added, “Won’t you come in.” Sherry smiled when she said it. Still, there was no masking the impression the words had been painfully extracted from her. Sherry stepped aside, said, “Cora, Becky Baldwin’s here to see you.”

“Is that so?” Cora said, coming to Sherry’s aid. “Well, in that case, let’s bring her in the kitchen.” Cora escorted Becky through the living room, talking as she went. “It’s the only room in the house where you can really sit down. I mean, look at this mess. It’s not like we just moved in, but we still haven’t unpacked. I guess a part of me can’t believe I really left New York. Now, this,” Cora said, entering the kitchen, “on the other hand, is a bit of all right. It’s the main reason we took the house. Not that I can cook, mind, but Sherry’s a regular Julia Child. And it’s a great place to hang out. Would you care for a
drink? I’m having a Bloody Mary, but we also have coffee.”

“Ah, thank you, no. This isn’t a social visit. The fact is, I need your help.”

“My help?”

“Exactly,” Becky said. “I’m the attorney for Joey Vale. He’s just been arrested for the murder of his wife.”

“You’re representing him?” Sherry said skeptically.

“Is that so surprising? I’m basically the only game in town.”

“Yes, I know,” Sherry said, and cursed the fact. Becky had been visiting her old home town several months earlier when circumstances had conspired to make her stay. She had wound up practicing law in Bakerhaven. “I just mean, what can you do? Isn’t it an open-and-shut case?”

“No case is open-and-shut,” Becky replied grimly. “Even if my client were guilty and the police had all the evidence in the world against him, there would still be room to maneuver. Not that that’s the case. Personally, I believe my client’s innocent, and I mean to get him off.”

“That’s the spirit,” Cora applauded. “I don’t believe it for a minute, but it’s the proper attitude to take.”

“Which is where you come in,” Becky Baldwin said.

Cora frowned. “What do you mean, me?”

“I need help,” Becky said. “There are no private investigators in town. I can’t afford to hire someone out of Hartford or Danbury and pay the travel time. It isn’t cost-effective. It makes no sense. You, on the other hand, are right here.”

Cora’s blue eyes had widened. “You wanna hire
me
?”

“I need a private eye. You’re the closest thing Bakerhaven’s got.”

Cora shot a glance at Sherry, didn’t like what she saw.
“I got bad news, Becky,” she said dutifully. “I’m not for hire.”

“I never thought you were,” Becky Baldwin said. “I just thought it would appeal to you. I mean, here’s a man going to be tried for his wife’s murder. You know the investigation’s going to be inadequate. Not their fault—the police don’t have the manpower, they can’t do the job. The true facts may never come to light.”

“What true facts?” Cora asked. “A guy pops his two-timing slut wife. It’s hardly the crime of the century.”

“What if he didn’t do it?”

“Then I’m sure you’ll get him off.”

Becky shook her head. “Not as things stand. Which is every lawyer’s nightmare. Your best isn’t good enough, and an innocent man goes to prison.” She shivered, and Sherry wondered how many hours she’d practiced
that
in front of a mirror.

“What’s his story?” Cora asked, fascinated. At Sherry’s look, she added, “Not that I can do anything. But if it helps to talk it through …”

Becky slid gracefully into a chair, said, “I think I will take that coffee.”

Cora sat opposite her, leaving Sherry to get the coffee. She hesitated just a moment, then crossed to the automatic-drip coffeemaker, poured a cup, and stuck it in the microwave. She was aware of the fact that Becky was silently watching her and hadn’t answered Cora’s question. Sherry punched in twenty seconds on medium high. “Cream and sugar?” she asked.

“Black is fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Sherry jerked her thumb at the microwave. “You got twenty seconds. Will that give you time to think up a story?”

Becky looked pained. “I’m not thinking up a story. I was waiting to include you in the conversation.”

“Oh, don’t wait for me,” Sherry said. “An innocent man’s life is at stake.”

“Oh, I doubt if they’ll execute him this afternoon,” Becky observed blithely.

“Due doubtless to your skillful representation,” Sherry countered.

The two women smiled at each other. Their looks could have frozen the coffee.

The microwave bleeped.

Sherry slid the cup out, set it on the table in front of Becky Baldwin. She didn’t sit but stood leaning against the counter near the sink, eyes on Becky.

Cora leaned back in her chair and waited, eyes bright.

“So,” Becky began. “Joey got home from work last night, accused his wife of playing around. They had an argument, he stormed out, went to drink in a bar. The Rainbow Room, a low-class dump on Jackson Road, five miles out of town. Joey was there till after midnight drinking beer and shooting pool.

“Then he went home to his wife. According to Joey, Judy was asleep when he got home. Lights in the bedroom were out. Joey had no wish to continue the conversation, so he pulled off his clothes, fell into bed.

“This morning the alarm rang at seven
A.M
. Joey slipped out of bed without waking his wife, pulled on his clothes, and went to work at a tool-and-die plant in Danbury. He was simply astonished when the police pulled him off the assembly line to arrest him.”

“That’s his story?”

“Yes.”

“What’s theirs?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What do the cops have on him?”

“Judy was supposed to play tennis this morning with a girlfriend. Cindy Fuller. At a racket club in Clarksonville. Cindy dropped by to pick her up, found her dead.”

“Where?”

Becky nodded sagely, as if Cora’s question confirmed her own judgment. “There you’ve put your finger on it. She was on the floor of the kitchen. And the lock on the kitchen door was broken.”

Cora Felton’s bright eyes narrowed. “Is that right?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Then how come they busted the husband?”

“That’s the problem,” Becky Baldwin said. “Chief Harper is not communicative. Apparently, it’s not the chief’s fault. That prosecutor who looks like a rat—what’s his name?”

“Henry Firth.”

“That’s the one. Don’t quote me on the rat line. Firth’s running around behind the scenes playing it all very hush-hush.”

“Your client make a statement?”

Becky Baldwin made a face. “Before I got to him. Told the police what I told you.”

“Now you’ve made him shut up?”

“Of course.”

“And you wonder why the cops won’t talk to you?”

Becky shook her head. “The defendant’s not supposed to incriminate himself. That’s the law. The police are supposed to clear crimes up and not play games.”

“It must be extremely frustrating,” Cora murmured.

“So can you help me?”

Cora sighed. “I told you I couldn’t. Even if I had the time, which I don’t. I couldn’t afford to work for you. I
have a public image that sells breakfast cereal. The headline
KILLER HIRES PUZZLE LADY
would be regarded as a bad career move.”

“Joey’s not a killer.”

“So you say. That’s not the point. Basically, you want to hire me to pump Chief Harper, and I don’t like the work.”

Becky’s eyes narrowed. “Chief Harper’s consulted you?”

“No, of course not.” Cora frowned. “Why should he?”

“No reason.” Becky swirled the coffee in her cup. Sherry noticed that she hadn’t touched it. “You know, the doctor’s not talking either.”

“Who?”

“The M.E. The medical examiner. Barney Nathan. Won’t give me the time of day. What do you make of that?”

“I wouldn’t make too much of it. Barney’s a cranky sort, that’s his normal demeanor. Look, if no one’s talking, how do you know about the woman who found the body?”

“That young cop—Dan Finley—spilled it before Harper slammed the lid.” Becky Baldwin got to her feet. “Look, if you can’t help me, I gotta move on. This is not going to be easy.”

“No, I don’t imagine it is.”

Cora Felton ushered Becky Baldwin out. Cora and Sherry stood at the window, watching Becky drive off. The minute the Honda was out of sight, Cora said, “Okay, let’s go!”

“Go?” Sherry echoed, bewildered. “Go where?”

“Are you kidding! It’s a murder!”

Sherry looked at her aunt in exasperation. “You just
got through telling Becky Baldwin you couldn’t investigate it.”

“I can’t investigate it for
her,
” Cora Felton said. “But you think I don’t wanna know?”

“I thought this was an open-and-shut case.”

“So did I. But if Becky wants to hire me, something’s up!”

“Aunt Cora—”

“Figure it out, goosey! Why would that woman want to hire me if Joey did it? What could I possibly find?”

“But—”

“Phooey!” Cora Felton exclaimed, flinging the front door open. “You don’t wanna come, fine! I’m outta here!”

Cora bounded down the front steps, jumped into the car, gunned the motor, and took off.

Sherry watched her go with mixed emotions.

Her aunt was about to stick her nose in where she had no business.

But her Bloody Mary was untouched on the kitchen table.

J
OEY AND
J
UDY
V
ALE LIVED ON THE WRONG SIDE OF
town, if a town such as Bakerhaven could be said to have a wrong side. To Cora’s surprise, it did. Cora gunned the Toyota rashly over the railroad crossing—the wooden bed of the trestle had worn low—and turned onto a street of decidedly less-desirable housing. The lots to the right were all close together and bordered on the train tracks. The lots to the left were similarly squished and abutted a power line.

Cora drove by slowly, looking for 23 Barlow Street. According to the guy at the general store, Barlow should have been the next street on the left.

It was. Barlow was a short street, curving down to a dead end at the fence around the power-line towers. Twenty-three was an exaggeration—there were only four houses on the road, with street numbers ranging from seven to forty-six.

Cora had no problem finding the Vale house. There
was a crime-scene ribbon across the front door, and two women in housecoats were on the front lawn, jabbering at each other in an animated fashion.

Cora snorted in disgust. How stereotypical. The men go off to work, and the women stay home. The fact Cora hadn’t worked a day in her life never crossed her mind.

Cora got out of the car in full Miss Marple mode and made her way across the street. “Well, ladies,” she said, “what seems to be the trouble?”

The women stopped gabbling, looked at her. The larger of the two, a horsey-faced woman in fat curlers and a pink scarf, said, “Well, look who it is. Hey, Charlotte, you know who this is?”

Charlotte, a smaller woman with curly blond hair, peered at Cora, then smiled in recognition. “Sure I do. She’s the one running the dirty game.”

Cora frowned.

“Oh, behave,” the woman in curlers said to her pal. “Really. Dirty game.” She shook her head, then turned to Cora, slapped on her hundred-watt smile. “It’s the Puzzle Lady, just like on TV. You here for the murder?”

“I sure am,” Cora answered. “You happen to know anything about it?”

“Anything?” the big woman in curlers said. “We know everything. He killed her, just like that. Oh, I’m Betty Felson, that’s Charlotte Drake.”

“Pleased to meetcha,” Cora said. “Now, what do you mean, he killed her? Who killed her?”

“Her husband, of course,” Betty said, and Charlotte nodded agreement. Betty seemed to be the more dominant of the pair. Cora wondered vaguely if that was due to her size.

“Her husband. That would be Joey Vale?”

“That’s right.”

“What makes you think he killed her?”

Betty snorted. “Well, who else? Damn near killed her many times. Not that she didn’t give him cause.” Charlotte’s chimed-in approval seemed slightly half-hearted to Cora. “Hey, I’m not saying playing around justifies murder,” Betty added. “If it did, we’d all be dead.”

This time, Charlotte’s protests were vehement. Betty ignored them. “All I’m saying is, Judy overdid it. Stuck it in his face, you know what I mean. Like she’d have a new boyfriend on the side, and like as not Joey’d find out about it. ‘Cause she wasn’t careful what she said, you know what I mean? She was indiscreet.”

“She’d tell her husband?” Cora asked skeptically.

“No, she wouldn’t,” Charlotte replied, clearly pleased to have the information. “And she wouldn’t tell us either. But I live right next door, and I could hear. When they’d fight, I mean. And he was coming to her with rumors. Something he heard somewhere else.”

“In the bar,” Betty contributed. “In the Rainbow Room.”