You Have the Right to Remain Puzzled (11 page)

C
ORA RAN INTO
Mimi Dillinger outside of
CANINE CUTS
, the dog groomer in the mall. Mimi had Darlene in the stroller. A bag of freshly purchased Pampers hung from the handlebars.

“Oh, what a pretty dog!” Mimi exclaimed. “Darlene, look at the pretty dog!”

“Thank you,” Cora said without enthusiasm. For her money, Buddy looked thoroughly humiliated, all poofy and blow-dried with a blue bandana around his neck, and she was sure the little poodle couldn’t wait to get home and roll in the mud.

Darlene paid no attention to the dog, probably just to spite Mommie.

Cora sized Mimi up, ventured, “So, about the break-in . . .”

“The police don’t seem to be making any progress.”

“Oh, they have something now. Something interesting.”

“What’s that?”

“The corner of a hundred-dollar bill. It was discovered under the blotter of your husband’s desk.”

Mimi’s eyes twitched. “Oh?” she said cautiously.

Cora caught it. She wondered what the woman was trying to hide. “So, the police figured if there was money there, that was something might be stolen.”

“I see.”

“Yeah. Unfortunately, it was a dead end. Turns out your husband liked to keep a couple of bills under the blotter for emergencies.”

“A couple of bills?”

“Yes.”

“Any chance it was more?”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know. It’s just, if it was a lot of money, there might be a reason to break in.”

Cora nodded. “That’s a good point.”

“And you think the prowler stole the money?”

“No. Apparently your husband spent the bills and never bothered to replace them.”

Darlene chose that time to cry.

Mimi stooped, said, “There, there,” and stuck a pacifier in her mouth, a little more abruptly than a candidate for Mom of the Year. “So, this bill you found. You had no reason to test it?”

“Test it?”

“To see if it was real.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know. I just mean if it really was a clue. Wouldn’t you want to test it?”

Cora shrugged. “Not my department. You’d have to ask the police.”

“And the police told my husband about finding the bill?”

“Sure. That’s how they know where it came from.”

The baby squealed again.

“Oh, it’s time for her nap,” Mimi exclaimed. “I have to get her home.”

Cora watched Mimi load Darlene into the car seat of her Chevy. She wondered which fender Mimi had damaged.

She also wondered about the baby. It had been crying almost every time Cora had seen it. She wondered why this time it meant the baby needed a nap.

Could it be that Mimi had gotten uncomfortable with the conversation? Had suddenly realized she was asking too many questions? Or saying too much?

It was hard to say.

But it was certainly interesting that Mimi wanted to know if the police had tested the money.

And thought there might be more bills.

H
ARVEY
B
EERBAUM WOKE
up to the sound of breaking glass. The little cruciverbalist was dreaming. In his dream he had just won the American Crossword Puzzle Tournament, and Will Shortz was handing him the trophy. But he couldn’t quite reach it. It was slipping from his fingers. The prize slipping away. Victory so near and yet so far. The glass trophy shattering on the marble floor. Dashing his elusive dreams.

Wait a minute. The trophy wasn’t glass. And the floor of the Stamford Marriott wasn’t marble. And yet the sound . ..

Harvey sat up in bed. It
was
glass. He was sure of it.

Harvey slung his legs over the side of the bed, pulled on his slippers, which were right where he’d left them, at the edge of the shag rug. He slipped on his dressing gown, the extra-large, let out a bit in the mid-
dle to accommodate his portly frame. He carefully tied the sash around his waist in a bow, and padded to the top of the stairs.

A flashlight beam played around the living room.

A chill ran down Harvey’s spine. He should call the police. But the phone was in the kitchen. He’d meant to put an extension in the upstairs bedroom, but it seemed an unnecessary expense, particularly when he had a cell phone. Only his cell phone was in his briefcase. And his briefcase was in his study.

Downstairs.

Harvey took a deep breath. What could he do? He didn’t have a gun. No weapon of any kind.

His first thought was he could hide. But what if the prowler came upstairs? There was no lock on his bedroom door. Could he hide under the bed? Could
he fit
under the bed? Could he climb out the window? Could he yell for help? The neighbors were close enough to hear. But they’d be asleep. What was the chance they would wake up and get to him before a prowler could?

It came to him. The pool cue. He’d won it in a local tournament. A nontraditional prize, donated in someone’s memory, given in lieu of cash. Harvey didn’t play pool, knew no one who did. It made a strange trophy, a two-piece cue in a little case, not the type of thing one could hang on the wall. It was in the bedroom closet. On the highi shelf. Under a pile of sweaters and vests, put up until cooler weather.

There was a straight chair next to the door, where Harvey sat to tie his shoes. He fumbled for it in the dark, found it, picked it up, carried it quietly to the closet, set it down. As he stepped up he wondered, would it hold his weight? It always had sitting down, but that was different somehow. Harvey hadn’t majored in physics, nor done
well in math. Linguistics was his stock-in-trade. He knew all the synonyms for
weight-bearing,
just not the formulas.

Not to fear. The chair was sturdy. It didn’t even creak. Standing on it, Harvey reached for the top shelf. His hand groped under the sweaters, and moments later he was climbing down with the case. Hard leather with two push-button snaps, the kind that locked, unlocked, thank God. He popped them open, careful not to make a sound, lifted the lid.

Inside lay the two halves of the pool cue. Harvey took them out of the velvet pockets, screwed them together, Fast Eddie about to take on Minnesota Fats. He gripped the cue in the middle, the handle up like a club, and tiptoed out the bedroom door.

The flashlight beam no longer showed. Maybe the prowler was gone. Harvey prayed it was so. He hesitated a moment, then started down the stairs.

They creaked.

Harvey automatically stepped back off the tread. It was so loud anyone would hear. He was like a freight train, coming down the stairs.

Harvey cocked his head, listened. There was no sound. Either the prowler had heard and was laying low, or there was no one there.

Harvey waited in the dark for what seemed like forever, but was probably less than a minute.

A car door slammed.

An engine roared.

It faded in the distance.

Harvey let out a sigh of relief. Even so, he held the pool cue at the ready as he crept down the stairs.

He reached the bottom, switched on the lights.

Harvey blinked in amazement.

His dining room chairs were gone.

H
ARVEY
B
EERBAUM WASN’T
happy. “We have to go to the police.”

“And tell ’em what?” Cora said.

“What do you mean, tell ’em what? My chairs were stolen.”

“Why do you suppose that is?”

“I know why that is. Because of the stupid eBay auction.”

“Are you prepared to tell Chief Harper that?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“It’s probably a violation of sorts. Advertising things you don’t own.”

“You’re the one who told me to do it.”

“You’re absolutely right. I’m undoubtedly as guilty as you. I’m sure that will be some consolation when we’re both in the pen.”

“Damn it, Cora!”

“Such language.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m kidding. Nice to know you’ve got a pulse. Harvey, we know who took your chairs. This s.o.b. at aol.com.”

“Sbk,” Harvey corrected. “That’s right. So the police will know who to arrest.”

“Yeah. You and me. Which, I think you’ll agree, we don’t want. We also don’t want the police to arrest the guy who stole your chairs.”

“Yes we do.”

“No, we don’t. You just want your chairs back. If we get them, what’s the big deal?”

“My house was broken into.”

“Which wasn’t any fun. We should probably get a promise it won’t happen again.”

Harvey stared at Cora, then shook his head. “I can’t even tell when you’re serious.”

“Does it matter? The point is, we don’t want the police to arrest Mr. Aol.com.”

“It could be the other guy,” Harvey pointed out.

“What other guy?”

“The other guy who’s bidding.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Harvey’s eyes widened in comprehension. “Cora!”

“Harvey, let’s not get sidetracked.”

“Sidetracked! You let me tell you about the other bid. Though totally unnecessary, I take it.”

“Not at all. It was necessary for you to tell me so that I would know that you knew.”

Harvey’s blank stare could have meant anything
from a total lack of comprehension to the contemplation of homicide. “So, if you were the other bidder . . .”

“We have only one to worry about. Because I didn’t take your chairs.”

Harvey looked sideways at Cora.

“No, I
really
didn’t,” Cora protested.

“How can I trust you?”

“Come on, Harvey. You may be upset, but don’t abandon simple logic.
Why
would I take your chairs?”

“I have no idea why you do what you do.”

“Harvey, don’t be cranky.
I
know I didn’t take your chairs, which helps me a great deal. The other guy did. I can concentrate on him.”

“And who’s the other guy?”

“Well, that’s the thing. Ordinarily, I’d have Sherry trace You’re El.”

“Your what?”

“You’re El. You’re El. You Are El. Like Toys R Us. It’s where the guy lives.”

“Oh. His URL?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“I have no idea what you’re saying. Or whether it might be the truth.”

“Harvey, that’s unkind.”

“Unkind? Did I steal your chairs?”

“Did I steal yours? Granted, I may have
caused
them to be stolen.”

“Cora.”

“The point is, Sherry’s not too keen on helping me right now.”

“How come?”

“Oh.” The answer was because the crossword puzzle
wound up in the paper. Cora couldn’t tell Harvey that.

“Prewedding jitters. Perfectly understandable, but a

pain in the fanny.”

“So there’s no way to find the bidder?”

Cora smiled. “Oh, I got a pretty good idea who he is.”

C
ORA
F
ELTON FINISHED
the last sip of the coffee just as crotchety old Mr. Wilbur shuffled into Cushman’s Bake Shop. The timing was no coincidence. Cora had been nursing her coffee a good half hour. The sight of the cranky antiques dealer was a blessed relief. Cora’s skim latte was like cold mud.

Cora flicked the Styrofoam cup in the garbage can, muttered a few parting words to the gaggle of women with whom she’d been conversing, yawned, stretched (wondering if that was overdoing it), and went out the door.

Cora’s red Toyota was parked across the street. Cora walked unhurriedly to it, opened the door, slipped into the driver’s seat, started the engine. She backed up slowly, and drove leisurely out of town.

The moment she was out of sight, Cora executed a
maneuver that would have done a NASCAR driver proud, going from zero to sixty in a heartbeat and not stopping there. Cora whizzed by two Subarus, one coming, one going, both drivers terrified, and covered the mile and a half out of town in what had to be the modern-day record.

Cora whizzed by Wilbur’s Antiques as if it were the finish line, slammed on the brakes, and skidded a U-turn into the Sunoco station.

“Fill her up,” Cora said, brandishing a hammer at the startled attendant, and set off down the road as if the devil were at her heels.

Wilbur’s Antiques was locked up tighter than a drum. A drum that had recently been broken into. With surprising strength, dexterity, and speed for a woman of her years, Cora pried the plywood off the barn-door window, reached in, and unlocked the barn door. She hauled out the extension ladder, propped it against the house, climbed up, and pried the plywood off the window. Cora reached through the broken pane, unlocked the window, pushed it up, and climbed in.

There was no time for a search. Cora barely noted the contents of the shop as she hurried to the front door. She unlocked it and stepped out. Learning from Wilbur’s example, Cora propped it open with a pottery gargoyle lawn ornament, an objet d’art too hideous for purchase.

Brandishing the hammer like a crazed serial killer, Cora flew around the house and vaulted up the ladder. The piece of plywood was hanging by a nail. Cora spun it over the window, pounded it back on. She practically slid down the ladder, grabbed it, wrestled it into the barn. She paused a moment to make sure no rattan
chairs were present, then locked the door and pounded the sheet of plywood home.

Cora was panting as she ran around to the front of the house. She’d been a fool to trust the gargoyle. Surely it had cracked under the weight of the door just to spite her. Or slipped out. One way or another the damn thing would be gone and the door would be shut.

It wasn’t. The gargoyle had held. It was a beautiful piece of pottery. She might even buy it.

Cora slipped in, moved the gargoyle, closed the door.

Okay, where to start?

It would have been nice if the chairs were in the middle of the room, but then she would have fallen over them. And it made no sense Wilbur would leave stolen property out where anyone could see. Even so, Cora gave the shop a once-over. The merchandise was as ugly as ever, and there was no sign of the chairs.

There was a door on the side wall. Cora tried it, found a small staircase. Was there more shop upstairs?

No, it was the living quarters. But it was a close call. The layout suggested Wilbur’s domicile. But it had clearly been furnished from his wares. The writing desk, for instance, might have been worth more on
Antiques Roadshow
had it had all four legs, but the stack of cinderblocks seemed to be propping it up perfectly well. As for the bed, the brass headboard looked formidable enough to lash unsuspecting virgins to, though Cora found it hard to imagine even the dimmest of naive young lasses having anything to do with the old reprobate. Cora realized she was projecting—she had nothing to reprove him for.

Except his taste in furniture. Good lord. It was
doubtless pulled out of his shop, but even so. How many men had an ottoman in this day and age? And that lamp shade. Was the design an attempt to illustrate
Moby Dick,
or just a really ugly fish?

There were no chairs in sight. Which, Cora had to admit, ended whatever tenuous right she might possibly have to be there.

Cora glanced at her watch. She had made amazing time, fantastic time. It was a mere eighteen minutes since Wilbur had arrived at the bakery. Hell, the contrary old son of a bitch sometimes took that long just choosing a scone. And after all her work, it would be a crime not to look around.

Cora frowned. The poorest of rationalizations, but one’s own.

Certainly sufficient to rifle his desk.

The three-legged desk boasted a telephone and answering machine, surely the most modern pieces in the room. Except for the small box next to it, the function of which Cora could only guess at. A fax line? No, then it would need a printer.

Oh, well.

The pencil drawer had pencils, a small disappointment. It also had an assortment of standard pencil-drawer junk, from paper clips to pennies, to a plastic pencil sharpener, to a roll of 35-millimeter film, which appeared to be exposed, since it wasn’t in a can. Cora wondered briefly if she should take it in and develop it.

Very briefly.

The three drawers on the right side of the desk looked much more promising. At least they were deeper than the pencil drawer, could hold something more substantial.

The top drawer did. A laptop computer. Folded up,
but open a crack. Cora fished it out, set it on the desk, pushed up the top.

It was on.

That was weird. The computer in the drawer left on. Why would that be?

The answer immediately presented itself in the form of a small AOL mailbox icon at the bottom of the screen.

Of course. The machine near the phone was a modem, of the dial-up variety. Wilbur would plug it into the back of his laptop, and go on the Internet.

Should she connect the laptop? Why not? How hard could it be? She could go on-line and check his mail.

Wait a minute! She didn’t need to be on-line. She wasn’t going to pick up the guy’s mail, just check it.

Cora moved the mouse, clicked on the AOL icon.

The mailbox opened.

There on the screen was a list of the headings of the last e-mails Wilbur had received. All she wanted was his You’re El. Now, why wasn’t it there?

His last e-mail was open. It seemed to be a mailing from some sort of antiques society, where a lot of members wrote in. Now, didn’t Sherry call that something? Something to do with tennis. Now, what the hell was that? A McEnroe journal? Not likely. Ah, right. A list-serve.

Which didn’t really help her. Where was the damn heading? Not heading. Header. That was it.
VIEW FULL HEADER IN PREVIEW
. Cora moved the cursor, clicked on it.

And there it was. Proof positive.

Wilbur was
sb\@aol.com.

Now, was there anything else?

Cora skimmed through the e-mail, didn’t find anything interesting, aside from the fact that Wilbur had neglected to delete an offer of
HOT ASIAN NYMPHOS
, clearly an oversight.

Cora shrank the mailbox icon, closed the laptop, put it back in the drawer. After a moment she took it out of the drawer, opened it, clicked on the AOL icon, then clicked on
VIEW SHORT HEADER IN PREVIEW
. Wilbur wouldn’t necessarily remember whether he’d left the full header on or off, but there was no reason to take a chance on arousing his suspicions.

Cora put the laptop back in the top drawer, then searched the bottom two. She found nothing of interest. On inspiration she slid the drawers out, held them up, looked underneath. She found the bottoms of the drawers.

Cora returned the last drawer to the desk, stood up, and looked around.

Under the mattress, perhaps?

It occurred to Cora it might have been useful if she’d known what she was looking for.

The phone rang, snapped Cora back to reality. She glanced at her watch. Twenty-two minutes.

The phone rang again.

Should she pick it up, rasp hello, see what the person said?

Probably not wise.

The answering machine rendered the decision moot. Wilbur’s voice croaked,
“I’m not in. Whaddya want?”

A voice said, “Geez, you sell a lot of merchandise with that line?”

That had been Cora’s exact thought. She grinned,
until she heard, “This is Benny Southstreet, if you can’t tell. So, that info help, about who was bidding against you? There’s more where that came from. I’m a wealth of information. You won’t believe what else that woman’s been up to. You interested, call the motel. Four Seasons. Unit 12. I’m going out, be back after two. Give me a call, you’ll be glad you did.”

Cora was furious. That son of a bitch! Something else she’d been up to? Evidence of her plagiarism, no doubt. Of all the dirty tricks. And she couldn’t even defend the charge, since it was true. He’d probably planted something in her office.

Cora was roused from her musing by the sound of the front door.

Oh, my God!

Wilbur had been quicker than usual with his coffee. Of all the days. How was she going to explain her presence in his bedroom? She might have to seduce him. Cora shuddered at the thought.

Was there a window?

It didn’t matter if there was. It would be too high.

Says who? She could climb down.

Climb down what?

Who
cares
what? Just open it!

It wouldn’t open. It was nailed shut. Or stuck. Or never meant to open in the first place. It was too high anyway.

So where to hide?

The closet?

No, no closet. Metal standing closets. The kind that made a lot of noise and didn’t hold a lot of clothes. She’d climb in and the damn thing would tip over. Or he’d hear her and stick a broomstick through the metal handles and she’d be locked in there like Alec

Guinness in the oven in
Bridge on the River Kwai.
Granted, he got an Oscar; still, she’d never last like he did. Besides, he probably got to get out between takes.

Oh, my God, here he comes, what the hell to do?

Cora dived headlong under the bed.

It was dusty, dirty, and littered with knickknacks that probably dated back to 1962. Maybe she’d find Hank Aaron’s rookie card. No, that was the ’50s, not the ’60s. Like the Guinness movie. Was she really that old?

Shhh! Here he comes! Quiet! Head down!

Her head
was
brushing the box spring. Cora prayed Wilbur hadn’t brought home one of the hot Asian nymphos.

He hadn’t. He headed straight for the bathroom.

Why hadn’t
she
thought of the bathroom? If she had, he’d have found her, but she’d be more comfortable.

Go to the bathroom! Go, go, go, you old geezer! Close the door and stay in there forever!

He didn’t close the door. Instead, he turned on the water in the sink and began brushing his teeth.

His teeth? After a cup of coffee he brushes his teeth? He shouldn’t even
have
teeth. He’s gotta brush ’em at the sink,, right by the open door, where he can see someone crawling out from under the bed.

Like a commando, Cora slithered across the bedroom floor, avoiding antiques and antiques dealers alike, until she reached the stairs.

Stand up or slide down?

Compromise. Cora slid until her feet cleared the top step, then squirmed into a crouch, and scurried the rest of the way. She hit the ground running, zigged and zagged her way through the shop. A flowered vase
paid the price, toppling from a pedestal and shattering on the floor. Cora gritted her teeth, plunged on.

It was not until she was out the front door and hurrying down the street that Cora’s heart stopped pounding too hard for her brain to catch up and process what she’d just heard.

Oh, was Benny Southstreet going to get it!