You Have the Right to Remain Puzzled (19 page)

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Authors: Parnell Hall

BOOK: You Have the Right to Remain Puzzled

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B
UDDY WAS YAPPING
hysterically when Cora got home. Sherry’d left him shut up in the house. Cora wondered how long her niece had been gone. To hear Buddy, it was days.

Cora opened the front door. Buddy went through it like a shot, and proceeded to run crazy circles on the front lawn. Any urgent purpose he might have had for going out was forgotten in the simple joy of being alive on a sunny country day in Connecticut.

“Come on, kid, you’re making me dizzy.” Cora sank down on the front step, pulled her cigarettes out of her purse, lit one up. She took a deep drag, thought about the case.

It was strange not to be able to solve it. No, that was arrogant. It was strange not to have the first clue. It was almost as if being personally involved made it
impossible for her to think straight. If so, it was preferable to the onset of Alzheimer’s. Early Alzheimer’s. She wasn’t
that
old. No, sir. There were a few more good years in the old gray mare.

Stop with the
old gray mare.

“Sheesh!”

Buddy came trotting up, sniffed her legs.

“Hey, Buddy. Why don’t you go find a clue. Do something to solve the crime. Like not bark in the nighttime.”

Buddy studied Cora’s face, as if considering the concept.

“Doesn’t sound like much fun, does it? Okay, here’s the bit. Somebody killed Benny Southstreet and made it look like I did. Either that was entirely fortuitous—” Cora groaned. “Oh, for God’s sake, she’s got me saying words like
fortuitous.
The killer’s either lucky or good. If he’s lucky, it doesn’t help me. But if he’s good, it helps me a lot. Because I can learn from him. His actions will be directed, they’ll have a purpose. I can rely on cause and effect. The killer framed me because he wanted me framed. The question then is, why?

“The obvious answer is the chairs. The problem is the killer didn’t take them, I did. Though, as Becky points out, he might have been killed for not having the chairs. Which makes no sense at all.

“The other possibility is, he was killed for ripping off hundred-dollar bills from Chuck Dillinger’s study. The problem is, Dillinger says he didn’t. The saving grace is, murderers sometimes lie. If Dillinger killed him to get the hundred-dollar bills back, that works okay. Because I didn’t steal the hundred-dollar bills. So if Southstreet stole them from Dillinger, Dillinger could have killed Southstreet for ’em just fine.

“Except I had the gun. It really doesn’t work with me having the gun. With me having the gun, the only one who could have killed Benny Southstreet was me.

“Which is how it’s gonna look to a jury.”

Cora took a deep drag, blew it out. “Which is why I better start thinking straight in a hurry.

“For starters, why is Wilbur getting a free pass? He was supposed to be there at the time of the murder. According to his own statement, he
was
there at the time of the murder. We have only his own statement for the fact that he left without seeing Benny Southstreet.

“If he had seen Benny Southstreet, and killed him, why would he come back the next day and walk into the arms of the police? After he so neatly framed me. Why would he do that?

“Well, I have to assume he can reason too. So, he’s gotta ask himself how I got a line on Benny Southstreet and knew he was at the motel. His shop was broken into, and there was a message from Benny on his answering machine. If I was the one who broke in, then I know he had a two o’clock appointment with Benny Southstreet. And I would be sure to tell the police. He heads that off by admitting it. He comes back to the motel the next day, and tells the police he’s come to see Benny Southstreet because he tried to see him the day before, and Benny wasn’t there.

“How does that sound?”

Buddy was looking up at her, wagging his tail.

“Oh, my God, I’m talking to a dog!”

Cora ground out her cigarette in the dirt. She got up, went in the kitchen, fixed Buddy’s kibble. She opened a can of tuna fish, mixed some in.

“I know I’m not supposed to do this, but you’ve
been a real good dog, waiting for Mommie all day long.”

Cora set the bowl on the floor, watched the little poodle gobble it up.

“Now, how about a treat for Mommie.”

Cora glanced around the kitchen. A
real
treat for Mommie, a belt of hooch, had been disposed of long ago. There was not a drop in the house. Second on the list—a distant second—was chocolate. A nice Whitman’s Sampler. That would give her brain a workout, detecting which candies held the mother lode, the gooey caramel centers Cora preferred infinitely to the coconut or cherry.

Cora knew without looking there wasn’t a candy in the house. She could always go out and buy some. As long as she was out. . .

There was a Starbucks in the mall. Cora didn’t drink Starbucks coffee—she was loyal to Cushman’s Bake Shop—but Starbucks had a caramel Frappuccino, a calorie-laden piece of heaven with whipped cream on top. Cora allowed herself one only on special occasions, or in times of dire stress.

Being a murder suspect, Cora decided, surely qualified as both.

T
HE MALL PARKING
lot was jammed, and it took Cora a while to find a space. She circled the rows, working it out in her mind. Not the case. The Frappuccino.

The problem was the size.
Grande
sounded too big.
Tall
sounded too small.
Venti
didn’t sound as large as
Grande,
but was actually larger. So the dilemma was, was it more important for the Frappuccino to
sound
small when she ordered it, or
look
small when she picked it up?

Cora was still working on the problem when she finally found a parking space two rows down from Starbucks.

She heard it as soon as she got in the door. The unmistakable sound of a baby in distress. Or hungry. Or displeased. Or unhappy. Or desperately afraid the adults in the immediate vicinity might be enjoying a
moment of peace and quiet. It sounded familiar. Which was not surprising. Any baby crying would sound familiar. But it sounded like a particular baby.

Sure enough, it was.

Mimi Dillinger stood, coffee in hand, Darlene on hip, talking to a young man in a gray suit and purple tie, who appeared smitten enough with her feminine wiles not to notice the spawn of the devil she held. Mimi ignored the baby, too, as completely as if it were someone else’s child that was making all that racket, and listened intently to what the young man was telling her. Of course, it occurred to Cora, she would have to listen intently just to
hear
what the young man was telling her. Even so, she seemed to have more than just a casual interest.

Cora perked up. Had she uncovered the young mother’s secret love life, after all?

Apparently not. Either that or it was rather kinky, because the guy sat down at a table with an attractive young lady in a nurse’s uniform, who didn’t look like she was up for a ménage à trois—but then, one never knew.

Mimi, left alone, descended on Cora. “You gave my husband a ride.”

Cora braced for an accusation. Did Mimi suspect her of sabotaging the car?

No, she didn’t. “I can’t thank you enough. I got a nail in my tire. That’s what I was doing at the garage.”

“Oh. Do you have one of those teeny spares?”

Mimi looked blank. “Teeny spares? I don’t know. I didn’t try to change it. Just drove to the garage.”

“Little hard on the rim.”

“That’s what the mechanic said. At least I think that’s what he said. Darlene was in a mood.”

“Hard to believe.” Cora waggled her fingers at the baby, was glad she didn’t bite them.

“Yes, well, I just wanted to say it’s horrible, this whole thing. I know you didn’t do it.”

“Spread it around. I’m hoping to taint the jury pool.”

Mimi wasn’t sure whether to laugh. “Ah, yes. Well, I don’t know if this helps, but about the break-in . . .”

“What about it?”

“You wanted to know why Chuck said the study. When nothing was missing. And it was the kitchen window that was broken.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, something’s missing.”

“What?”

“An ice pick.”

Cora’s eyes narrowed. “You’re kidding.”

“I just noticed. Because it was in the kitchen, not the study, and who notices an ice pick? But I opened the drawer to get a spatula, and it wasn’t there. The ice pick, I mean. Which doesn’t make any sense. Why would someone steal an ice pick?”

“You’re sure you didn’t misplace it?”

“How could I misplace it? I never use it. But it was in the drawer.”

“When’s the last time you remember seeing it?”

“I
don’t
remember seeing it. Why would I? It was always there. But—”

Mimi’s observations about the ice pick were preempted by a particularly loud wail from the baby, who needed to be either changed, fed, or strangled.

Cora pushed her way up to the counter, where she opted for a Venti Frappuccino, which could have passed for an intercontinental ballistic missile. She
plunged an extra-long straw through the caramel and whipped cream, took a preliminary sip, and sighed happily. God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.

It was even quiet. Cora glanced around, saw that Mimi and Darlene had left. Cora didn’t set much stock in the ice pick story, but it was nice Mimi didn’t blame her for the car. Not that Cora would have minded Mimi’s animosity; still, she hated to be accused of things she had actually done. Probably a carryover from her days of being named corespondent.

Cora came out the front door of Starbucks, to discover Paul Fishman bearing down on her from across the parking lot. Cora was momentarily embarrassed to be caught holding the huge coffee treat. Then she remembered the man was responsible for turning her in to the cops. She could drink whatever she wanted in front of him. No matter how handsome he was.

“Miss Felton,” he called.

Cora turned, fixed him with a gaze as frosty as her Frappuccino. “Yes?”

“I thought I saw you drive in. I was with a customer. I had to finish up with him.”

“What do you want?”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Paul held up a film packet. “I found them.”

Cora frowned. “Found what?”

“I felt so bad about it. You not getting your pictures, and all. On top of everything else. And it being my fault. So I looked around the booth for the extra set of prints, and darned if I didn’t find them. They weren’t where I thought they were because it was the day before.”

Cora blinked as she tried to untangle that verbal construction.

“I often run ’em. Because most people order two sets of prints because the second set is cheaper. Much cheaper. You didn’t, so I only put in one set. Sometimes I don’t notice, and leave the extra set in the envelope. But when I do notice, I take ’em out. Otherwise, no one would order ’em. Because they’d know they’d get ’em anyway.” He pressed the packet into her hands. “I gotta get back to the booth. Anyway, I’m not a bad guy, really, and I wanted you to have the prints.”

Cora frowned as she watched him hurry away. On the one hand, it was a nice gesture. On the other hand, he had a lot to make up for.

Cora wanted to look at the pictures. It was hard, holding her purse and a Venti Frappuccino.

Cora found her car, always a challenge in the mall lot, threw her purse on the passenger seat, stuck the Frappuccino in the drink holder, and pulled open the packet.

They were the same prints he’d given the police, again in reverse order, starting with the motel sign.

Cora flipped through them, looking for a clue. Not that she expected one. Still, the guy had gone out of his way to give them back. Surely they must mean something.

Yeah, Cora thought. In a book. Where the author wouldn’t be talking about them unless they meant something. In real life, they were just a bunch of pictures. Of the motel room and some chairs. Not to mention a rather nice shot of Sherry. Cora wondered if Sherry was out with Aaron. Had patched things up. If only.

Cora went through the motel room shots again.

There must be something. Was the gun in the picture? Surely the police would have mentioned that. Was the briefcase in the picture? Some article of Benny Southstreet’s clothing. Some take-out food. Anything.

A dog that didn’t bark.

Cora was losing it.

Cora tossed the pictures on the front seat, took a huge sip of Frappuccino. The mother of all ice-cream headaches ripped her brain apart. Oh, my God! What a wake-up call!

Cora took deep breaths, composing herself.

Ice cream?

Ice pick?

Yeah, sure.

Get a grip.

Cora leafed through the photos again. There must be something. But there wasn’t. Nothing but a lousy roll of duplicate prints.

Cora shoved the photos back in the envelope, took a cautious sip from her Frappuccino, and started the car.

She frowned.

Someone had stuck a flyer on her windshield. Cora hated that. The practice, common enough in New York City, hardly ever happened here. It was almost fitting that it should on this day of all days.

Cora opened the door, got out, reached over, and pulled the flyer from under the windshield wiper blade.

Cora looked at the flyer. Not that she cared what it was, but she always made it a point not to patronize the businesses that littered the parking lot with advertising. She hoped it wasn’t a store she liked.

It wasn’t.

It was a crossword puzzle.