You Have the Right to Remain Puzzled (12 page)

T
HE
F
OUR
S
EASONS
Motel was just the kind Benny Southstreet would choose. The sign read,
CABLE TV: $29.99
. That, Cora figured, was either an expensive TV or inexpensive room. Cora drove right in as if she owned the place, pulled up in front of Unit 7.

The service cart with linens and toiletries was outside the open door to Unit 8. The chambermaid was inside. Cora realized
chambermaid
was a rather sexist concept. Surely a man could hold the position.

He didn’t. The chamberperson was a woman, not much more than a girl, from Cora’s perspective, though perhaps in her early twenties. She had freckles, red hair, and green eyes. She was chewing gum, which, in Cora’s humble opinion, made women seem unattractive. Not this one. She seemed bright and perky.

Cora put on her friendliest smile. “Hi there.”

“Oh, hello.”

“Cleaning the rooms?”

The girl popped her gum. “You must be psychic.”

“I’m Cora Felton.”

“Yes, I know. I’m Marge O’Connell.”

“Hi. So what’s it like?”

Marge frowned. “What’s what like?”

“Cleaning the rooms.”

“Why?”

“I have a . . .” Cora hesitated over the bogus relationship. She’d been about to say “niece,” but Sherry was her niece. Cora couldn’t bear to claim a granddaughter, even an imaginary one. “I have a friend whose daughter’s looking for a job. She’s right out of high school. Nice girl. Bright. Wants to put some money away before college.”

Marge looked amused. “Does she, now?”

“Yes. So I was wondering if you could give me a few tips on the trade.”

“You’d like some pointers on the fine art of being a chambermaid?”

“What are the hours? What’s the pay? Do they try to take advantage of you?”

“You mean sexual harassment?”

“Yes.” Cora noticed the girl’s eyes were twinkling. “You’re putting me on?”

“Well, Mr. Haney’s close to ninety. His wife’s close to a hundred, wears the pants in the family. I’m not sure he remembers what sex is. Anyway, I bet your friend’s daughter could outrun him.”

“Sounds good. Well, don’t let me keep you.”

Marge took a set of towels off the linen cart. She turned around to find Cora standing there. “You’re still here.”

“I was wondering if I could watch you work. Get an idea what the job is like.”

Marge put her hands on her hips in a saucy manner, and popped her gum. “Yeah, sure. Which unit you interested in?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Give me a break. You’re an amateur detective. Always snooping around. What is it this time? A murder?”

“I really can’t say. You know how it is.”

“You mean you have a client.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Is that what you can’t say?”

“I can’t say.”

“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Could you answer a question?”

“Depends what it is.”

“This is Unit 8.”

“That’s your question?”

“No, that’s an observation.”

“What’s your question?”

“You working your way up or down?”

Marge was working her way up. Cora sat in her car and smoked while Marge cleaned Units 9 and 10, and was there to intercept her when she finished 11.

“Pretty impressive,” Cora said. “You did those rooms in fifteen minutes each.”

“That’s with an audience,” Marge said. “Ordinarily, I’d take my time.”

“You didn’t seem hurried to me. How about I put a stopwatch on you?”

The girl’s mouth fell open. “Is that it? Old man Haney sent you to check up on me?”

“I wouldn’t do that. Scout’s honor.”

“Then what’s with the watch?”

“Nothing. I’d take it off and put it in my purse, except I’d never find it. Go ahead. Do the room. I won’t make a peep.”

Marge walked up to the motel door, put the key in the lock. Cora was right behind her.

“So, you’re interested in this room?”

“Did I say that?”

“No, you didn’t. You expect to watch me clean it?”

“Would that be a problem?”

“Not unless you get me fired.”

“I’m not here to get you fired.”

“You could do it anyway.”

“Yeah, but I’d really have to try.”

The girl smiled. “Okay, you can look. But you’re not touching anything.”

Cora knew that before Marge said it. Cora had no intention of touching anything. Except the motel room door lock, which she hoped to fiddle with surreptitiously, twisting the little gizmo to unlocked, so that when Marge went in to clean 13 Cora could slip in and ransack 12. It occurred to Cora she had a perfidious nature, if that was what the word meant.

Marge clicked the door open, entered the unit. Cora went in right behind her, took a look, and stopped dead.

In the middle of the room were four rattan chairs.

“I
’M SORRY, BUT
this changes things,” Cora said.

The chambermaid frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Did those four chairs come with this room?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you know what they’re doing here?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, I have. They were stolen from a friend of mine.”

“Uh-oh.”

“So I’m going to take them back.”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. You can’t do that. You’ll get me fired.”

“For recovering stolen property?”

“I let you look around. Which was fine, as long as you didn’t touch anything. You take those chairs, I’m in trouble big-time.”

“I told you I wouldn’t get you into trouble. So let’s go find Mr. What’s-his-name, the manager, and I’ll explain the situation.”

“It’s Mr. Haney. And what are you going to explain?”

“I came here to see Benny Southstreet. You were cleaning his room. I looked in the door and there they were.”

“You know whose room it is?”

“Of course I do. Come on, give me a break. You knew I was snooping around. You really surprised I had something in mind?”

“You were looking for these chairs?”

In point of fact, Cora was looking for Chuck’s hundred-dollar bills. The idea Benny might have taken the chairs never occurred to her. “Absolutely. I came here to ask Benny about the chairs. He wasn’t here, but the chairs were. You think Mr. Haney will buy that?”

“It isn’t the truth?”

“It’s close enough.”

“Well, Mr. Haney isn’t here. He went shopping at the mall.”

“How about his wife?”

“She went with him.”

“Who
is
here?”

“Ralph.”

“I take it Ralph doesn’t have the authority to handle this?”

“Ralph barely has the authority to tie his shoes.”

“Okay,” Cora said. “We could call the police, but that would be messy, and we don’t want things to be messy.”

Marge shook her head. “Uh-uh.”

“Or I could wait until Benny Southstreet comes back and talk to him about it.”

“Perfect,” Marge said.

“Only he won’t be back till after two, and I’m not waiting around till then.”

“So come back.”

“Fine. In the meantime, we have these chairs.”

“What about them?”

“I don’t want to leave them here.”

“Well, you can’t take them.”

“In that case, you’re a witness. You’d better look them over carefully, because you’re the only one besides me who knows they’re here.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Hey, if these things disappear it’ll be my word against his. I’ll need you to back me up. You better be ready to identify the chairs.”

“Hey, listen, you tell your friend’s daughter this is one hell of a tough job.”

Cora grinned. “Kid, I like your style. Let me see if I can let you off the hook.”

“What do you mean?”

Cora fumbled in her purse, held up a disposable camera, and smiled her trademark Puzzle Lady smile, just as if she were doing a commercial for Kodak. “Let’s document the evidence.”

C
ORA HAD PURCHASED
a disposable camera, not because she gave a damn about photography, but because the dreamy new guy at the mall Photomat had looked promising, until the clueless son of a bitch had the gaucheness to inquire if her niece was married. Cora hadn’t taken a picture since.

The Photomat booth attendant seemed totally unaware of his previous faux pas. He shook his curly dark hair out of his eyes, favored Cora with a goofy, endearing grin. “Miss Felton, good to see you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Cora plunked the disposable camera on the counter. “How soon can I get prints of these?”

“One hour.”

“I’ll try to be back.”

Cora drove out to Harvey Beerbaum’s. The little
man was in the process of constructing some godawful crossword puzzle when she came in.

“It’s a cryptic,” Harvey said. “Care to solve it?”

The phrase
when pigs fly
occurred to Cora. “I got more important things, Harvey. I found your chairs.”

“Really. Where are they?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“What!?”

“I promised.”

“Cora, please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Sort of. I know who took your chairs. I’m going to get ’em back. What more do you need to know?”

“You’re sure they’re mine.”

“Absolutely. If you don’t believe me, I’ll show you a picture.”

“You have a picture?”

“Not yet, but I will.”

“Cora—”

“The main thing is, I’ve seen your chairs and I’m going to get ’em back. Now then, did you make a report to the police?”

“Of course I did.”

“Too bad. When I produce the chairs they’ll wanna know why. If I don’t tell ’em they’ll accuse me of compounding a felony and conspiring to conceal a crime.”

“Are you doing that?”

“Of course I am. But it’s for your own good. You don’t want to advertise that your house is so easy to break into. You’ll have a gaggle of robbers outside waiting their turn.”

“A gaggle of robbers?”

“I know it’s geese, but I don’t think they steal things. Is there a term for robbers? What would it be, a theft of robbers?”

“So what can I tell the police?”

“Tell ’em you got new chairs.”

“That would be a lie.”

“So don’t tell ’em anything. It’s not like they’re gonna come running to ask if you got your chairs back. It’s an unsolved crime. If you don’t mention it, they won’t mention it.”

“And you won’t tell me who took them?”

“I can’t.”

“Was the person who took my chairs the guy who was bidding on them?”

“No.”

“What? Then how did you ever find them?”

“That’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

“I can’t tell you, Harvey. When I can, I will.”

“Does the person who took my chairs know that you’ve discovered that he took my chairs?”

“You’re assuming it’s a man?”

“Is it a woman?”

“I can’t tell you, Harvey.”

“Then why’d you bring it up?”

“To avoid the question.”

“What question?”

“Good. It’s working.”

Cora beamed at Harvey, and ducked out the door.

B
ENNY
S
OUTHSTREET WASN’T
back by two o’clock. Cora knew because she was there at one forty-five, hoping to beat Mr. Wilbur to the punch. But Benny wasn’t back.

Either that or he’d come and gone. What a revolting development that would be. Particularly if he had taken the chairs. No, they were there. Cora could see them through the gap in the curtain.

There was no sign of the chambermaid. She must have finished her rounds. Evidently it wasn’t a full-time job. That was something her feigned friend’s daughter ought to know.

Cora got in her car, drove across the street to the Ace Hardware parking lot, and settled down to wait.

Benny never showed. Neither did Mr. Wilbur. Two o’clock came and went without so much as a single car. By two-fifteen, Cora was fed up.

Okay, what now?

Well, for one thing, the photos would be ready.

Cora pulled out of the hardware store parking lot, headed for the mall.

She never got there.

A car going the other direction looked suspiciously familiar. Cora pulled into the next driveway, turned around, and gave chase.

Sure enough, the car was being piloted by a feisty redhead with a chip on her shoulder and fire in her eyes.

Brenda Wallenstein drove straight into town, pulled up, and parked. She got out of the car and walked down the side street to the pizza parlor.

And Becky Baldwin’s office.

Cora parked in front of the library, crossed the street, and peered down the alley. Sure enough, Brenda Wallenstein had not driven all the way from New York City just for a Coke and a slice. Instead, she went in the door with the modest sign
REBECCA BALDWIN, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW
.

Cora wished she could follow. Brenda was Sherry’s best friend. And her ex-husband’s wife. If this had anything to do with Sherry’s impending marriage, Cora had to know.

Could she follow her upstairs and listen through the door? Not a good idea. Becky’s one-room office shared the landing with a pediatrician. Cora would stand out like a sore thumb. On the other hand, it was a nice day. Becky would be likely to have her window open.

Cora knew right where the window was. Becky always made her sit on the sill to smoke. Cora hurried past the pizza parlor, and ducked around the corner.

Sure enough, the window was open. Cora wondered if she’d be able to hear.

She needn’t have worried. In college Brenda’d been a cheerleader who always projected to the back of the bleachers.

Becky Baldwin, on the other hand, was an attorney. She only raised her voice when necessary. Cora never heard her greeting, but it wasn’t hard to figure out.

“What the hell do you think I’m doing here?” Brenda stormed. “I don’t like being played for a fool. Do I look like a fool?”

Becky evidently refrained from comment.

“It’s a yes or no question, Becky. Does he have to check in with you or not?”

Apparently Becky sidestepped the issue.

“I’m not asking you to violate a confidential communication. I’m asking for a rule of law. Does a client on probation have to check in with his lawyer?”

Brenda must not have liked Becky’s answer because she had a few particularly choice comments regarding Becky’s chosen profession. Cora considered taking notes.

When Brenda slammed out the door unenlightened five minutes later, Cora was right on her heels. Keeping in the shadows, Cora followed Brenda back to her car.

Ordinarily, Cora would have confronted Brenda, demanded to know what the hell she thought she was doing. But it was a ticklish situation. Sherry’s impending marriage was fragile enough. The least little thing might shatter it. And Brenda was not a little thing. Brenda was a force of nature, an insanely jealous woman with the predatory instincts of a tigress. If she made a move on Sherry, Cora would reluctantly hurl
herself in Brenda’s path, sacrificing herself for her niece. But if the woman had no such intention, there was no reason to rile her. Let her leave town.

Brenda did head out of town. Unfortunately, it was also in the direction of Sherry and Cora’s house. Cora followed along reluctantly, plotting when to make her move. She had to cut Brenda off before the driveway, or there’d be hell to pay.

Why couldn’t Sherry be more like her? Cora wouldn’t let a jealous wife keep her from a perfectly good marriage. Even the wife of the groom. Well, that hadn’t been one of her finest hours. Had that marriage been annulled? Cora couldn’t remember.

They were coming up on the moment of truth, the point of no return, or whatever the hell other cliché Cora couldn’t think of at the moment. Basically, the road to Sherry and Cora’s house. Once Brenda took that, it would be impossible to cut her off without creating a scene right at the foot of the driveway. On the other hand, if Cora tried to cut her off now, she’d drive straight into the milk truck bearing down on them from the opposite direction. What the hell was a milk truck doing out in the afternoon? Didn’t people get milk in the morning? Of course a New York City girl, Cora got milk all day long, from the corner fruit stand. But here in the sticks . . . What, the milkman couldn’t make a living working three hours a day?

As luck would have it, the milk truck passed Brenda just at the turnoff.

And Brenda kept on going. Right out of town.

Suddenly Cora loved the milkman. She’d have bought him a beer, if she hadn’t stopped drinking. Could she buy him a glass of milk? Or would that be
coals to Newcastle, whatever the hell that meant? The type of thing Sherry would say.

Cora slowed the car, pulled into the driveway, turned around. She realized she was free-associating. Her mind was on overload, with chairs and money and weddings and eBay and thefts. Two thefts. One chairs, one money. Assuming any money was stolen. Wait. Three thefts. Two chairs, one money. One set of chairs recovered, one not. Well, not recovered, but found. She could prove it. Cora checked the dashboard clock. The photos were long done.

Cora drove out to the mall.

The Photomat booth was closed.

Closed? True, it was a one-man operation. But it was right in the mall. If the guy got hungry, he could call out for pizza. He didn’t have to close. Yet he had. Cora shouldn’t have been surprised. It was that type of day. The guy was closed for the same reason Benny Southstreet wasn’t at the motel.

It occurred to Cora maybe Benny had gone back to the motel. In fact, he surely should have gone back. He told Wilbur he would be there. He was simply late. If he wasn’t back now, he was really late. At any rate, she should check it out.

There was a car in front of Unit 12, which was a good sign. It would have been a better sign if the lines for the parking spaces had been painted with any degree of intelligence. But the car parked in front of Unit 12 was also parked in front of Unit 13. Cora had a vague recollection of seeing Benny Southstreet’s car in her driveway, but whether this nondescript Ford Taurus was it, she had no idea. If this was Benny’s parking space, he was in. But if Benny’s parking space was the empty one straddling Units 11 and 12, he was out.

Cora stepped up to Unit 12, knocked on the door.

No answer.

Cora tried the knob.

It turned!

Whoa!

The door was unlocked, just as she would have left it had the chambermaid been a little less vigilant. And here it was, an open invitation. Or at least an unlocked invitation. She could go in and search the room.

Except for that car. It would be a little embarrassing if Benny was here. Cora wasn’t clear on protocol, but it was probably considered gauche to break in on someone accusing you of plagiarism. She’d have to look it up in
Emily Post’s Etiquette.

Or on Google.

Cora knocked again, louder. She pushed the door open a crack, called, “Benny Southstreet!”

There was no answer.

Cora looked up and down the row.

A young man in a baseball cap stood watching her for a moment, then disappeared into the motel office. That, Cora figured, would be Ralph, the kid the chambermaid told her about. It would also be the end of her reputation.

If any.

Cora wondered if the young man was watching her through the office window. Just in case, she smiled and said, “Hi, Benny,” as she pushed the door open and stepped in.

The room was empty. The light was on. The bed was made; no surprise, she’d watched the chambermaid make it.

The four chairs were still there. Thank God. Cora
never would have forgiven herself if they’d been gone. But, no, they were right where she’d left them.

Cora looked around. Was there any evidence of Benny Southstreet having been there?

Yes. The briefcase on the desk. It hadn’t been there when the chambermaid had made up the room.

Cora popped the briefcase open. Did she have any right to search it? Absolutely. The man was a thief. He’d stolen the chairs. What else might he have stolen?

The jackpot would be hundred-dollar bills. That would sure rock ’em in their sockets.

There were none. The briefcase contained letters, computer printouts, and, ugh, crossword puzzles.

Cora closed the briefcase, having found nothing of interest.

Whoa! What was that on the nightstand? Benny Southstreet had a gun. A snub-nosed revolver. Looked like a .38. Cora picked it up and sniffed it. Unlike in mystery books, it had not been recently fired. Benny probably never fired it. He wasn’t the type. Though he might have used it to intimidate people. Good thing he hadn’t tried to intimidate her. Cora’s gun was bigger.

Cora put the gun back on the nightstand, and proceeded to take the motel room apart.

There was nothing in the bathroom. Nothing in the closet. Nothing taped to the bottom of the drawers of the desk or the nightstand. Nothing under the bed.

If Benny Southstreet had stolen the bills from the Dillingers’ study, they were on his person.

Cora went to the door and looked out. There was no one in sight. The assistant manager was probably watching TV, or playing Nintendo, or on-line poker, or whatever it was young men did in this day and age. It occurred to Cora that if there had been on-line poker
when she was married to Henry, it would have taken a good chunk out of the family fortune.

If there was on-line poker when she was married to Melvin, there would
be
no family fortune.

Okay. Moment of truth. She’d gotten Harvey into this. Maybe she couldn’t tell him who’d taken his chairs, but she could damn well get ’em back.

Cora went out to her Toyota, popped the trunk. Frowned. It was going to be tight. She brought a chair out. It just fit, but barely. Another might require some doing. Cora got a second chair, and, amid great sputtering, fuming, and imprecations the likes of which the motel had probably never heard, managed to nestle it next to the first one. She slammed the trunk, delighted to find it closed.

Cora stuck a third chair in the backseat from the driver’s side, a fourth from the passenger’s side. The chairs fit easier than the ones in the trunk.

Cora left the motel room door unlocked, exactly as she had found it.

As Cora pulled out of the motel parking lot, in the rearview mirror she could see the kid in the baseball cap come out of the office and stand there, watching her go.