You Have the Right to Remain Puzzled (3 page)

T
HE BROKEN WAGON
wheel sign was the only thing Cora remembered about Wilbur’s Antiques. This was not surprising. The white, two-story frame building looked exactly like ninety percent of the houses on the main street of Bakerhaven, which differed from each other only in their choice of black or green shutters. Wilbur had opted for green, the same color as the paint on his sign, which was short and to the point:
ANTIQUES
, it declared, in upper- and lower-case script. The
A
had a pointed top rather than round. The sign was rectangular, about a third wider than it was high.

The sign perched on the broken wagon wheel, which was missing at least two of its spokes. Any missing from the top half would have been hidden by the
sign. The wagon wheel was held up by two-by-fours, which kept it at a slight angle from the perpendicular.

Cora pulled up next to the curb and stopped. Her red Toyota was the only car on the block. Apparently, the sign was not packing them in. Cora walked over and peered at the back of the sign, noted that the top spokes were all there. She continued along the front of the house until she could see the barn behind. It was white with green trim. The scene of the crime.

Cora reined herself in. Mustn’t make fun. This was important to the gentleman, needed to be treated seriously.

Cora went up the front steps. The windows on either side were not promising. One held a rather ratty Christmas wreath. The other a green vase. Neither instilled in Cora the desire to buy anything.

The front door was wood, not glass, allowing no view of the treasures within. It was also locked. Cora could understand why a man who’d been robbed might be security conscious; still, the whole setup didn’t seem conducive to sales. Cora couldn’t help wondering how long it had been since anyone had actually
bought
an antique there.

Cora knocked on the door. There was no answer. She knocked again. It seemed from somewhere deep within a faint voice said, “Coming,” but it might have been a TV, a creaking floorboard, or her imagination.

The door was flung open by a man Cora knew. Or at least recognized. She had seen him eating lunch in the Wicker Basket, dinner in the Country Kitchen, a muffin in Cushman’s Bake Shop. In fact, Cora couldn’t recall a time she
hadn’t
seen him eating. In light of which, he was most unfairly thin. His face was also most unfairly unwrinkled, considering his age, which
had to be close to ninety. He had suspicious eyes, and a narrow line of a mouth that turned down at the corners. It was hard to imagine anyone buying anything from him.

His manner was not welcoming. “What do you want?” he croaked. It was the vocal equivalent of Dorian Gray—only his voice had aged.

“I want to help you,” Cora said.

That took him aback. Whatever he’d expected, that wasn’t it. He made no move to invite her in. Instead he seemed even more suspicious. “Help me what?”

“I understand you had a theft. Several chairs were taken. So far the police have no leads.”

“You want me to hire you to find my chairs?”

“No.”

“Then what’s it to you?”

“It’s a puzzle. I like puzzles.”

“Right. You’re the crossword puzzle person.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see the connection.”

“There’s no connection.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I asked Chief Harper if he had any cases he needed help with. He told me about your robbery.”

“Oh, so he’s given up, has he? Palmed me off on you?”

It was all Cora could do to keep her frozen smile in place. “I prefer to think he called in an expert.”

“If he had, he’d be paying you. He paying you?”

“No, he isn’t.”

“There you are.”

“Yes, I am.” Cora smiled. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wilbur, but your case isn’t interesting enough for me to put up with abuse.”

Cora turned, went down the front steps.

Wilbur was caught off-guard. “Hey! Hey!”

He stumbled out on the stoop after her.

The door slammed.

Wilbur stopped dead, let out a string of invectives that would have befitted a drill sergeant welcoming the raw recruits.

Cora smiled up at him from the foot of the steps. “I take it you don’t have your keys?”

Wilbur compared her to creatures of limited intelligence but impressive sexual prowess.

Cora waited for him to sputter to a halt, then suggested, “How about a back window? You got a ladder?”

Wilbur seemed on the verge of suggesting unorthodox uses for the ladder. Instead he muttered, “In the barn.” He clomped down the steps and trudged in that direction.

Cora tagged along behind.

Wilbur reached the barn door, picked up a rock. He turned back to Cora. “You planning on robbing me?”

“It wasn’t on my agenda.”

Wilbur smashed a pane of glass with the rock, reached in, and unlocked the door.

“Is that how they stole your chairs?”

“Didn’t you read the report?”

Wilbur disappeared inside the barn, was back a moment later with a metal extension ladder.

“I read the report,” Cora said.

“Then you know.”

Wilbur dragged the ladder over to the house. It was built on a slope, so the back windows were higher than the front. Unopened, the ladder barely reached. He leaned it against the side of the house, climbed up, took a crescent wrench out of his pocket, and smashed one
of the windowpanes. He reached in, unlatched the window, pushed it up, and clambered over the sill.

Cora went around to the front door. She wasn’t sure if Wilbur would let her in, but figured he had to move the ladder.

After a few minutes he came out.

“Got your keys?” Cora needled him.

He gave her a look, trudged to the back of the house, took down the ladder, and stowed it noisily in the barn. He emerged with a hammer, nails, and some plywood. He tacked one sheet over the broken window, and locked the barn door.

“You’re gonna patch the other window from inside,” Cora said. “I know that because I’m a trained investigator. And I saw you put away the ladder.”

“You
ever solve
a case?” Wilbur asked her.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Too damn long.”

He went up the front steps into the store. Cora followed, found herself in a room full of junk. Granted, what Cora knew of antiques couldn’t have furnished your average breakfast nook; still, the stuff in Wilbur’s shop looked more likely to be piled up on curbside next to the recyclables than adorning anyone’s home or office. The demand, for instance, for a two-wheeled tricycle with no seat couldn’t be high.

As for the furniture, while it was certainly old, it was also cracked and covered with dust. Tables, dressers, desks, sideboards, etc., in various periods, styles, and materials were thrown haphazardly together. The desk with the missing drawer was grouped with the director’s chair with no back. Cora managed to restrain herself from buying them. She wasn’t sure
how long she could hold out against the allure of the ripped vinyl settee.

Wilbur shuffled behind what turned out to pass for a desk, though Cora wouldn’t have known it. He flipped open an appointment book, took out a pen, and wrote laboriously, moving his lips.

“Police . . . send . . . inspector. Refuses . . . to . . . inspect.”

“That’s hardly fair,” Cora protested. “I’m here. What do you want inspected?”

“You read the file?”

Cora took a breath. “Of course I read the file. You bought some chairs. You reported them stolen. From the barn out back. Under interrogation, you admitted you might have left the door open.”

Wilbur dismissed that with a brief, exceptionally pungent comment.

“You didn’t admit you might have left the door open?”

“If you knew that, when I broke the window, why’d you ask me if that was how the robber got in?”

So. The guy was sharper than she’d thought. “Why are the chairs important?” Cora asked.

“What?”

“Are these valuable chairs? How much did you pay for them?”

“Isn’t it in the file?”

“Is the file accurate?”

“You first.”

Cora flipped open the file. “It says you bought the chairs for fifty bucks apiece, but you claim they’re worth closer to a hundred.”

“They are.”

“Is that why you bought them? Because they were cheap?”

“Sure.”

“You were looking to make a profit on the chairs?”

Wilbur said nothing.

“That’s a hundred percent profit. If you sell ’em at a hundred bucks apiece. You report the loss to your insurance company?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“I assume you want to get your money back. Of course, you couldn’t get a hundred bucks a chair.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I don’t want the damn money. I want my chairs.”

“I understand. How’s that working out for you so far?”

Wilbur opened his mouth to retort, closed it again. Tugged at the sleeves of his sweater. Peered at her with crafty eyes. “Okay, lady. You wanna help, I’m glad to have you. Not that I’m letting Harper off the hook. It’s a police matter, and you ain’t police. If Harper thinks sending you out here takes care of it, he’s dead wrong. Now, do I gotta tell him that in person, or will you communicate it to him?”

“I can promise you it will come up in conversation.”

Cora had the impression she might have detected a smile at the corner of Wilbur’s mouth.

“All right, lady. Find my chairs.”

“How?”

“You’re the detective. You tell me.”

“Let’s look at the scene of the crime.”

“Why?”

“That’s how crimes are solved.”

“Not this time. I had chairs. They’re gone.”

“Can I see where they were?”

“Not gonna help you much.”

“So whaddya expect me to do?”

“Find them.”

“With nothing to go on?”

“There’s a picture in the file.”

“You took a picture of the chairs?”

“No. It was in the auction catalogue.”

Cora pulled out the photo of a chair. It was a wooden straight-back chair, with curved arms and a woven seat. It looked decidedly uncomfortable. Cora wouldn’t have given ten bucks for it, let alone fifty. “They all look like this?”

“More or less. Some needed repair.”

“But they all went for fifty bucks?”

“It was a single lot. They all went together.”

“All right. You bought ’em at auction. You brought ’em home, you locked ’em in the barn.”

“That’s right.”

“When was the next time you looked for ’em?”

“It was a while.”

“Why?”

“I was busy. I bought ’em to sell.”

“Did you put ’em on the market?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“They needed work. I didn’t get around to it.”

“And then you did. The chairs were gone. There was no sign of a break-in. You reported this to the police.”

“That’s right.”

“Who would have wanted to steal your chairs?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Antiques dealer.”

“Why would an antiques dealer take those chairs and leave everything else?”

“I have no idea.”

“You have any enemies? Anyone out to get you? Any rival like to see you fail?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Why is that silly?”

“I fail because of a few chairs?”

“That was a generalization. How about it? Anyone you got a blood feud with looking to give you trouble?”

“No.”

“The chairs were stolen when?”

“It’s in the file.”

“Yes, it is.” Cora consulted the file. “About a year ago.” She snapped the file shut. “Okay. Thanks for your time.”

“You giving up?”

Cora smiled her trademark Puzzle Lady smile, though she doubted if Wilbur would recognize it. “Not at all,” she told him.

H
ARVEY
B
EERBAUM COULDN’T
believe his good fortune. Cora Felton hadn’t been at his house in months, and never alone. The last time was when he threw a garden party for the selectmen. Cora wasn’t a selectman, but Iris Cooper had suggested she come. Cora had been suspicious that Harvey had pressured the First Selectman to ask her. He had, but Iris didn’t let on. At least, not officially. Not in front of him. Now that he recalled, the two ladies had spent a good deal of the party giggling in the azaleas.

Harvey’s house befitted the portly cruciverbalist. The walls were hung with crossword puzzle momentos. A framed copy of the first puzzle he’d ever had published in the
New York Times.
A third-place trophy he’d taken in the nationals—he’d have won it, too, if he hadn’t written an
E
for an
A,
a simple-enough mistake
when one is solving a difficult Saturday puzzle in front of three hundred people with the knowledge that at any moment one of the other two finalists may shout, “Done!” and all will be lost.

Hanging from the ceiling was a huge crossword puzzle grid. Not the one he’d missed, but the one created by ace constructor Merl Reagle for a charity event, and then auctioned off to the highest bidder. Merl had signed it, too, in magic marker, making it well worth the two hundred dollars he had spent for it.

Harvey, thrilled by the company, fluttered about like a mother hen.

“It will only be a minute. The tea, I mean. I love the gas stove. So much faster than electric. Then we’ll have our tea. I wish I had some scones. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have picked some up at Cushman’s. So nice of you to drop in, of course.”

“It’s all right, Harvey. You didn’t even need to make tea.”

“Oh, but I did. I’d be a poor host not to offer refreshment of some kind. Now that you’ve stopped drinking—” Harvey broke off, flushed. “Do forgive me. I’m somewhat flustered. I don’t know what came over me. I would never make any assumptions of the kind. And I wouldn’t want you to think people were talking about you. Of course they haven’t been talking about you. Well, they have, but only in terms of your notoriety. I don’t mean notoriety, I mean fame.”

Cora, watching the little man prance back and forth from the couch where she sat to the stove where the watched pot never boiled, was rapidly losing patience. “Harvey, sit down. You’re driving me nuts. When the teapot whistles, you can get it.”

“It’s not the whistling kind.”

“I am. I’ll see it boiling, and I’ll whistle. Now sit.”

No golden retriever ever obeyed a command so quickly. Harvey perched on the edge of a chair, a bundle of nervous energy. “It’s not a teapot, of course. It’s a kettle. Not that I should be telling you words. Still—”

Even the hint of a discussion of syntax was more than Cora could bear. “Harvey, let me get right to the point. I happen to need your help.”

Harvey’s jaw descended to the vicinity of his navel.
“You
need
my
help? That’ll be the day. You do five puzzles a week, fifty-two weeks a year. You construct in your sleep. How could you possibly need my help?”

“Your water’s boiling,” Cora told him. “Would you like me to whistle?”

Harvey hopped to the stove, filled two teacups with hot water, brought the tray to the coffee table. On the tray was a wooden box with Heinz 57 varieties of tea.

“Which kind would you like? I’ve got Lemon Zinger, Earl Grey, camomile, Sleepytime—”

“Tea’s tea,” Cora told him. “You could give me ground oak leaves, I wouldn’t know the difference. Harvey, I need a favor.”

“Of course, of course. What do you need?”

“I want you to sell something for me.”

Harvey stopped dipping his tea bag in his cup. “I beg your pardon?”

Cora wondered vaguely what kind of tea it was. “On eBay, Harvey. I’d like you to sell something on eBay.”

“For you?”

“Yes, for me.”

“I don’t understand.”

Cora rolled her eyes. Of course he didn’t. It was too
easy. There was nothing to wrap his torturous mind around.

“It’s perfectly simple, Harvey. You’re a registered seller on eBay. You have an account.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s not a secret, Harvey. When you put something up for bids on eBay, it’s rather public.”

“You shop on eBay?”

“Ah. A meeting of the minds. Yes, Harvey. I buy things on eBay.”

“You’ve never bought anything of mine.”

“No, I haven’t,” Cora admitted. “But I’ve seen your offerings.” She repressed a shudder at the thought of the crossword puzzle cuckoo clock Harvey once had up for bids.

“And you have something you want to sell?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Harvey frowned. “What do you mean, in a manner of speaking?”

“Well, I don’t want to sell it. I want someone to sell it for me. I’ve never sold anything on eBay. I don’t have an account. But you do. So, if you could sell the item for me, I’d really appreciate it.”

“What is the item?”

“A chair.”

“What kind of chair?”

“A rattan wicker-back chair. With wooden arms.”

“Oh. Like mine?”

Cora followed his gaze to the corner of the room where a square wooden table sat framed by four meticulously placed rattan chairs. It would have been a perfect bridge table, if Harvey only played.

“Mine’s a different style. Not that it matters.”

“Do you have it in the car?”

“No, but I have a picture of it.”

Cora dug into her drawstring purse, handed over the picture of the chair.

“I see,” Harvey said. “So, you’d like me to advertise this: ‘Rattan chair, owned by the Puzzle Lady—

Cora put up her hand. “No, no. Don’t mention me. I have nothing to do with it. It’s just a chair. You’re selling a chair. Four chairs, actually.”

“Four chairs?”

“Yes.”

“How much do you expect to get for them?”

“I have no idea. It will be interesting to see how they go.”

“How much would you want for an opening bid?”

“I don’t know. Twenty bucks apiece.”

“That’s all?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to scare anyone off.”

“I understand. But that’s an inconveniently sized item to sell so cheap.”

“What’s inconvenient about it? You just scan the picture.”

“I mean in terms of shipping. It’s hard to move an item when the shipping cost exceeds the purchase price. It makes people reluctant to bid.”

“Well, we don’t want to do that. How about shipping cost included?”

Harvey’s eyes widened. “Are you crazy? If they go for the floor bid, you’ll wind up losing money.”

Cora sipped her tea. She’d chosen her tea bag at random, was surprised to find it had an orange flavor and wasn’t all that bad. “So what? It’s not your money.”

“No, but I’d hate to see you get taken.”

Cora smiled, patted his face. “You worry too much, Harvey.”

Harvey looked at her searchingly. “You’ve got something up your sleeve, haven’t you? Come on, Cora. It’s me. Harvey. Level with me. What’s this all about?”