You Have the Right to Remain Puzzled (7 page)

T
HE MAN LOOKED
like a crook. There was no other way to say it. He had a high forehead, a thinning hairline, a narrow face, a trim mustache, and shifty eyes. The type of guy you’d pick out of a police lineup. Even if you didn’t recognize him. Figuring he must be guilty of something.

Buddy seemed to think so. The toy poodle squirmed in Cora’s arms as if eager to get at the intruder.

Cora made no move to let the man in. For once she wished Buddy were a Rottweiler, snarling on his iron leash. “Yes?” she demanded, in as discouraging a tone as she could muster.

He looked up at her from the stoop. It occurred to Cora he’d have been looking up at her even had they been on the same level. A short man, his head
permanently cocked to one side, as if from a lifetime of looking up at people.

“Miss Felton? Miss Cora Felton?”

It was a question Cora didn’t want to answer. The type of question you said yes to and the next thing you knew you were named corespondent in a divorce complaint.

“What do you want?”

“I want to see Cora Felton. That would be you. It would be rather silly to pretend not to be, with your picture in the national news.”

“You’re not answering my question.”

“What do I want with you? My name is Benny Southstreet. I’m a crossword puzzle constructor. Perhaps you’re familiar with my work.”

“I can assure you I’m not.”

“That’s weird.”

“Not really. I know a lot less puzzles than you think.”

“Fewer.”

“Huh?”

“Fewer puzzles. As I’m sure you know.”

Buddy, offended on his owner’s behalf, contributed a warning growl.

Cora soothed the tiny poodle, and favored Benny Southstreet with an evil eye usually reserved for wayward husbands. “I’m terribly sorry. I don’t review people’s puzzles. I don’t introduce people to Will Shortz.”

“I know Will.”

“Oh?”

“At least, I’ve met him. At the tournament. I’m not sure he’d remember me.”

That was good. Cora’s own conversations with Will

Shortz had consisted largely of trying to avoid talking shop.

“At the risk of seeming redundant, what do you want?”

“Repetitive.”

“Huh?”

“Not redundant. Repetitive.” Benny Southstreet frowned. “Are
you sure
you’re Cora Felton?”

“Not at all. In fact, now that you mention it, I’m pretty sure I’m not. Why don’t you try the house down the road.”

“I was told you have a sense of humor.”

“By who?”

“By whom. I see. You’re doing it deliberately, to throw me off the scent. Well, it’s not going to work. You’re the Puzzle Lady, all right. No matter what verbal misconstructions you concoct.”

Cora concocted a verbal misconstruction usually not heard outside of a penitentiary shower room.

Benny took a step back. “I beg your pardon?”

“You have it. Now, unless you’d care to attempt the contortion I suggested, perhaps you’d prefer to take a hike.”

Benny smiled. “Nice try. But you know perfectly well who I am, and perfectly well why I’m here.”

“Of course. Because I’m psychic.” Cora put her hand to her head. “Wait, wait. It’s coming to me. You’re the serial rapist we were warned about.”

“Very funny.”

“You’re not? Damn. That’s disappointing. Well, do you
know
a serial rapist? I’ve been rather lonely lately.”

“Any time you get good and ready, you wanna tell me why you stole my puzzle?”

“What, are you nuts? I never stole any puzzle.”

“ ‘My Bad.’ ”

“Damn right, you’re bad. You’re also demented.”

“Ha-ha. You know what I’m talking about. You changed a couple of the first clues, and a few at the end. Like
Invasion site of 2003
for
IRAQ
instead of
Persia today.
As if that would disguise the fact that you ripped me off. It just shows you knew what you were doing.”

“I don’t even know what I’m
hearing.
What the hell are you talking about?”

“And then you change the theme entry from a clever little rhyme with a humorous twist to a boring, pathetic apology. It’s embarrassing to claim I wrote the damn thing. I have to keep explaining it’s not my fault.”

“Maybe you can write a little puzzle that does that.”

Benny stared at her. “Talk about divas! I’ve met rude celebrities before, but you take the cake! Christ, lady, didn’t you hear what I just said?”

“I heard you. I’ve seen you. And I’m done with you.” Cora chucked the little poodle under the chin. “Now get lost before I sic Cujo here on you.”

M
IMI MADE UP
her mind. She’d been stewing about it all day, ever since she dropped Chuck off at the train. Somehow, she’d managed to hold off during breakfast. And then during the ride in the car. Of course, she didn’t want to talk in front of the child. Not that the child could understand, but still. That had been sufficient excuse to put off the decision.

The night before, he’d come home drunk—well, not
drunk
drunk, but certainly tipsy—after his evening out. She couldn’t say anything then. Break in on his mood. When he’d tumbled into bed and gone right to sleep, she’d been almost grateful.

What a day. What an awful day. This morning she’d peeked under the blotter, to see if it was still there. And it was. She’d barely heard anything the other women said in the bakery. All she could think about was the
money. She’d have to ask him about it. There was no way out. She had to ask him. And no matter what he said, it would be bad. Because she’d have to explain how she found it. It was too much on top of the dented fender incident. He’d been so good about that. To try his patience with something else. He’d be angry. Very angry.

Still, he had the money. He was the one in the wrong. How could he justify that? Was it her fault for pointing out his transgression? Could he really hold that against her?

Of course he could. He could hold anything against her if he wanted to. That was the way men were. Or at least the way Chuck was. If he had a bad day, it was her fault.

No, that wasn’t fair. Chuck was a good guy. But there was no reason to deliberately rile him.

Like today. Making a doctor’s appointment for four forty-five. Yes, it was the only one she could get. And, yes, Darlene was running a fever. And Chuck had been nice about taking a cab home. Even so, she wished she’d been able to pick him up. Though she’d dreaded picking him up at the station, because she wouldn’t want to bring up the money until they got home, and she’d feel awkward not talking about it. Just as she felt awkward about the cable TV guy flirting with her, if that’s really what he was doing, at any rate getting a little too familiar. She felt awkward not mentioning that, though not nearly as awkward as she would have felt mentioning it. So she hadn’t looked forward to the ride home in the car.

Of course, she hadn’t
deliberately
scheduled the four forty-five appointment. That was the one she was offered. Surely they wouldn’t have been able to give her
an earlier one just because she had to pick up her husband. Of course, she hadn’t asked. She would have felt funny asking. Everyone had problems. They couldn’t rearrange the office schedule just to accommodate her.

Darlene had strep. Thank God. If it had been nothing, she’d have felt terrible about the appointment. Instead, she felt terrible about being glad Darlene had strep throat. Still, she felt vindicated as she stopped off at the pharmacy to pick up the antibiotic.

Now Mimi parked the car in the garage, took Darlene out of the car seat, and went in the house to tell her husband his child was sick and ask him what five thousand dollars in cash was doing hidden under the blotter of his desk.

Chuck was indeed already home. His jacket was over the back of a chair, his briefcase on the floor by the portable bar.

Mimi took a breath, braced for the occasion. With a child in one arm, and a bottle of medicine in the other, she stalked into the office.

Chuck was on the phone when she came in. He had a glass of scotch in one hand. He saluted her with it, said, “Just a second, Dave. Hi, honey, be right with you. Look, Dave, my wife is home. I gotta get off the phone. Anyway, I checked out the movie money and you’re in the clear. It’s not counterfeiting if the bills can be distinguished from the real thing by reasonable effort. You just have to make a few changes. For starters, the serial number. I talked to the producer myself. The stuff is gonna be bundled, there is absolutely no reason for a different number. It’s not gonna play on camera. If it did, they could always use a real bill on the outside of the pack. The guy doesn’t much care. He says it’s like how all movie telephone numbers are 555. Anyway,
if you’re doing ten million in hundreds, just run the same bill with the same number. Your problem is, you’re doing too good work. Cut a few corners for a change.”

Chuck put down the phone, smiled at his wife. “So, how are you?”

Mimi was totally at sea. How could she bring up the money now? Chuck had just accounted for it. If it really was the money under the blotter he was talking about. Was that money fake? It must be. But how could she tell? She couldn’t ask. She’d have to admit she’d been snooping. Which she could get away with if he was in the wrong. But to admit to going through his things and
finding play
money . . .

Chuck frowned. “Honey? What’s the matter? You look upset.”

Mimi was having a panic attack. What could she tell him? What could she say?

Then she remembered.

Mimi slapped on a concerned face, and tried not to sound relieved.

“Darlene has strep throat,” she told her husband.

B
ENNY
S
OUTHSTREET COULDN’T
believe it. The woman lied to his face. First she rips him off, then she lies to his face. The great pooh-bah of puzzles and cereal. A liar and petty thief. Here he was, a decent, honest, hardworking puzzle constructor, getting ripped off by the queen of words herself. She probably figured she was so high-and-mighty no one would take his word against hers.

Even though he had the documentation. Even though he could prove his case. Who would listen? The grid was the same, and most of the entries. And most of the clues. The theme was different, but not that different. There was no way it was a coincidence. No way. It was a ripoff, plain and simple, and she would not, no, she would
not
get away with it.

Scrunched down in the front seat of his rental car,

Benny Southstreet watched Cora Felton’s Toyota pull out of her driveway and head for town. The yappy little dog’s nose was out the back window. That was a break. Benny had puppy biscuits in his pocket just in case, but he was happy not to have to use them.

The minute Cora’s car was out of sight, Benny slipped out of his car and crept up the drive. It was early evening, not yet dark. Anyone in the house could have seen him coming. But Benny was sure it was empty. Cora’s niece had gone out about an hour earlier with a young gentleman, and from what Benny had been able to pick up nosing around town, they were the only ones who lived in the house. Even so, Benny knocked on the front door. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say if anyone answered it. Luckily, no one did.

Benny tried the knob. The door was unlocked. He figured it might be. People in the country so seldom locked their doors. Benny slipped inside, began his search. In a modest ranch house, it wasn’t difficult. The office was the first door down the hall.

There was a pile of papers on the desk. Benny pawed through them. Many were crossword puzzles, none of them his. Benny frowned, glanced around the office. The bottom shelf of the bookcase caught his eye. The oversized paperbacks looked suspiciously like crossword puzzle collections.

They were.

One of them looked damn familiar. Benny had sold so many puzzles to so many magazines it was hard to keep track. But he could have sworn he had one in that collection. He pulled it out, leafed through.

There it was! “My Bad,” by Benny Southstreet.

There! That proved it! All he had to do was call the police and—

Get caught for breaking and entering.

Not only that, he’d be accused of planting the puzzle book. Even if he wasn’t, the fact that she had it wouldn’t prove that she used it. It would certainly raise the inference. But he wanted proof.

All right. When she changed his puzzle into hers, most likely she did it on the computer.

Benny checked out the icons on the screen. Sure enough, the Puzzle Lady had Crossword Compiler. Benny called it up, clicked on
OPEN
to see a directory of the puzzles. The title “My Bad” seemed almost too much to hope for.

It was. The puzzles didn’t have titles, merely numbers and dates. Benny clicked on “#5134, 5/06.” The puzzle that appeared was one he had seen in the paper. Benny couldn’t care less about solving puzzles. If he was going to, it wouldn’t be some ditzy old lady’s. But he’d been checking out her column since she stole his puzzle. And this was one of the ones he’d seen.

So, where was his puzzle? Had she deleted it?

She must have. Which made sense. She wouldn’t want to keep the evidence around.

Unless . . .

Benny clicked on an icon, opened Cora’s mailbox. Half a dozen e-mails came in, mostly spam. Benny didn’t want
RECEIVED MAIL
. He moved the mouse, clicked on
SENT MAIL
.

The woman who had given the puzzle to her husband was named Mimi Dillinger. There was no such person listed. But Benny knew e-mail addresses didn’t always reflect people’s names. He called up all the letters that had been sent in the last week, looking for one with an attachment. There was none. Well, another idea down the drain.

Benny guessed that was all he could do. Except he knew a bit about computers. With a little effort, he could figure out where Cora had been. Of course, that had nothing to do with the crossword puzzle. It would be a wholly unjustifiable intrusion into Cora’s personal space. There was no reason whatsoever for him to do so. Except in the hope of finding something scandalous and embarrassing about her. Like a penchant for S&M porn sites, for instance. Stuff he had no right or reason to know.

Benny opened Netscape Navigator, checked for recent use. Discovered Cora had just been on eBay. Well, that was certainly none of his business. He wondered what she had been trying to buy. It was easy enough to find out. He scrolled through the list of recently opened eBay screens, clicked on one.

Huh. Chairs. Cora was bidding on chairs. And who was she bidding against?

Benny glanced out the window just to make sure no car was coming up the drive, then busied himself at the keyboard.