A Puzzle in a Pear Tree (14 page)

24

PAMELA DODDSWORTH WAS WAITING FOR CORA AT THE FOOT of the stairs. Her face was drawn and pale, in stark contrast to the bright and festive striped candy canes, silver tinsel, and colored balls and lights on the Christmas tree behind her. Pamela seemed every bit as upset as her daughter, Maxine. Perhaps more so.

She also
looked
like Maxine. The resemblance Cora had noticed at the crèche seemed even more pronounced today. Besides the green eyes, curly brown hair, and turned-up nose, Pamela Doddsworth was also dressed like Maxine, in slacks and cable-knit sweater. Neither was as stylish as Maxine’s, however. That, coupled with Pamela’s age, gave her the appearance of a knock-off copy of her daughter.

“How is she?” Pamela demanded. “She won’t talk to me. Just lies there. I feel so helpless. Did she talk to you?”

“A little.”

“She won’t talk to me at all. And I’m her mother.”

“That’s
why
she won’t talk to you.”

“Do you have children?”

“No. But I used to
be
one. When you’re a teenager, parents are a real drag.”

“She talked to her father.” Pamela didn’t bother to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Jonathon was here this morning. Went on up, stayed about a half an hour. Said she was upset, but she’d be okay.”

“That’s probably about right,” Cora said.

“Oh, is it?” Pamela said. “The man’s been gone for years, then he waltzes in and takes charge. My daughter will speak to him, but she won’t speak to me. Of course not. All I’ve done is raise her. Care for her, give her what she wants. While he’s off in England playing cops and robbers. Just a little boy who never grew up. Then he comes back and she acts like he’s never been away.”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Or it doesn’t. It could make a person miss him or hate him. Apparently, in her case, she missed him.”

“And I’m wrong to resent him? How’d you like to marry a man and have him leave you?”

Cora frowned. “I would have to stop and count the number of times that’s happened. But the alimony helps.”

“Yeah, well, the alimony’s damn small, considering I have a girl to raise. Although I suppose Jonathon feels the pittance he pays gives him paternal rights.”

“You say he was here?” Cora prompted, in an effort to steer the conversation away from Pamela Doddsworth’s litany of grievances.

“Yes, he was. He showed up yesterday, large as life, as if he owned the place. Let himself in the front door. I’m sitting in my living room, the key turns in the lock. And in he walks, just as if he never left.”

“He kept his key?”

“Yes, he did. All these years. Just to annoy me.”

“Did you ask for it back?”

“Soon as he came in the door. And he wouldn’t give it to me. How do you like that? Wouldn’t give it up. I told him a thing or two. At least today he rang the bell.”

“He was here yesterday and today?”

“Yes, of course. And she talked to him both times.”

“She
had
asked him to solve the crime,” Cora ventured.

“And what did he do? He just galloped in like some white knight to save the young damsel in distress.”

“So what did he tell you?”

“I should be asking you. I’m sure he tells you more than he tells me. I might be invisible for all he cares. Comes in, uses the computer, uses the phone, raids the refrigerator, and off he goes, without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“That was yesterday?”

“That was today. Right after he talked to Maxine. I tried to draw him out. At least see if she was okay. And he was so rude, like you wouldn’t believe. ‘Woman, I have work.’ That’s what he said. As if I were the hired help. He marches into the office, sits down at my desk as if he owns the place, and picks up my phone. Before he dials he looks at me, and says, ‘Out.’ ”

“Is there an extension in the house?”

Pamela’s eyes faltered. “I tried that once. When we were still married. He didn’t like it.”

“You didn’t try today?”

“I let him alone. Anything I did would only make it worse. And Maxine would be blaming me.”

“You talk to him when he was done?”

“Not at all. He bolted out of the office and drove off as if he’d just cracked the case. Which he didn’t, of course. He never solved a case that quickly in his life. Not his way. Bumbling. Plodding. Methodical. That’s Jonathon Doddsworth. He lulls his prey by acting like he couldn’t find his couch in the living room. Then bores them to death through dogged persistence.”

A regular Columbo, Cora thought. “Why did he run out?”

“Probably to avoid me.” Pamela’s lip curled up, revealing straight, pearly white teeth, the only clear edge she had on her daughter. Maxine evidently had her father to thank for her braces. That, too, probably was on Pamela’s list of grievances.

Pamela sighed, then leaned in confidentially. “If you could do me a big favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Beat him. Solve the crime first. You’re clever. You figure things out. Figure it out before Jonathon. If he solves the case, I’ll never hear the end of it. He’ll be a god-damn hero in my daughter’s eyes. Then he’ll go back to England and leave me here. And Maxine will go off to college, and I’ll be the wicked, unsympathetic mother, and she’ll never come home again. Except for money. And that will be that.”

“You paint too gloomy a picture,” Cora said. But she feared it was true.

“Will you help me?”

“I intend to solve this murder. I don’t know if that will help you.”

Pamela looked at her sharply. “Why do you say that?”

“I’m not doing it to hurt your husband. And I wouldn’t arrange things to see that happen.”

“I’m not asking you to. Just make sure he doesn’t solve it first.”

“That may be the thing I can’t arrange.”

Cora left the Doddsworths’ with an uneasy feeling. Jonathon Doddsworth might be methodical and plodding, but he was certainly making quick work of it. What had he learned from his phone calls that had lit such a fire under him?

And what was he up to now?

25

SHERRY CARTER OPENED THE DOOR TO FIND JONATHON Doddsworth all bundled up in a fur-lined overcoat, wool scarf, and tweed hat. “I’m sorry,” she said. “My aunt isn’t in.”

Doddsworth smiled, a most disarming smile. “Actually, I came to see you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Might I come in? It’s rather nippy out here. And, as you can see, it’s beginning to snow again.”

“Well, ah, yes, of course. Come in,” Sherry said.

Doddsworth stamped the snow off his boots, stepped inside. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all.” In point of fact, Sherry had been constructing a crossword puzzle column, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. “You must be frozen. Come in the kitchen. I’ll make some coffee.”

“That would be civil of you. But I don’t drink it. Now, if you had some tea . . .”

“Of course.”

Sherry sat Doddsworth down and put the kettle on. The
Bakerhaven Gazette
lay on the kitchen table. VIRGIN MARY ICED screamed from the front page.

Doddsworth shuddered.

Sherry flushed and moved the paper. Aaron Grant had already called to apologize for the headline, even though it was none of his doing.

Doddsworth unwound his scarf, shrugged off his overcoat, put his hat on the table. His head was bald on top, and his bristly muttonchops were flecked with gray. But his eyes were hard.

Sherry sat down opposite him. “So, is this your first time back? Since you moved to England, I mean.”

“I was back shortly after the move. To see if my family might follow me. No luck, alas.”

“Where are you staying?”

“A motor inn just out of town.”

“Not a bed-and-breakfast?”

“I don’t need some old biddy fussing over me. Plus I get cable telly. A far cry from the BBC. Still, I fancy the news.” His eyes drifted to the
Gazette.

“Did you see my aunt?”

Doddsworth frowned. “What, this morning?”

“No, on television. Aunt Cora does commercials.”

“Go
on
! I say, that’s a lark.” Doddsworth allowed himself a brief smile, which swiftly faded. “I wonder if we might examine your statement a little.”

“Feel free. But I’ve told you all I know.”

“You have made a full, frank, and open disclosure to the authorities?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Then you should have no difficulty doing so again. If I might just ask a few questions to illuminate certain matters . . .”

“Fire away.”

“When you arrived to relieve the Virgin Mary you had no notion it was Dorrie Taggart?”

“I thought it was Becky Baldwin.”

“When did you learn of your error?”

“Not until Becky came walking into town hall. Everyone assumed I knew, so no one told me differently. Up until then, I thought it was Becky who was dead.”

“I see. And what can you tell me about Aaron Grant?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I understand you two have been stepping out.”

The kettle whistled.

“There’s your tea!” Sherry exclaimed. She leaped up, took the kettle off the stove. “Sleepytime, Earl Grey, or Red Zinger?”

“Earl Grey would be splendid, thank you.”

Sherry poured the tea, set the cup and saucer on the table. “Milk? Sugar? Lemon?”

“Milk and sugar, if you please.”

Sherry produced them. Doddsworth sloshed in milk, added three heaping spoonfuls of sugar, stirred the mixture around. Before he was done, his saucer held nearly as much tea as his cup.

“Had time to think of an answer yet?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“About dating Aaron Grant.”

“It’s no secret I’ve been seeing Aaron Grant.”

“Is this a serious relationship?”

She considered telling Doddsworth that was none of his business. Decided not to. “I would say so.”

Doddsworth nodded gravely. “And what would young Mr. Grant say?”

Sherry bristled. She restrained herself with an effort. “You’ll have to ask Aaron.”

“I certainly intend to. I was wondering what you imagined he might say.”

“Is this part of your
police
investigation?”

“Oh, absolutely. Relationships are at the heart of any crime. Far more material than eyewitness testimony. Which is often inaccurate and apt to be wrong. The only way to comprehend a crime is to comprehend the people involved. At the moment I’m attempting to ascertain the relationship between you and Aaron Grant. In analyzing that relationship, I am naturally taking into account the degree of cooperation encountered when posing the question. Your constant avoidance is in itself quite telling. As is your indignation.” Doddsworth smiled thinly. “But, please, let’s be friends. Let’s move the conversation to less delicate terrain. You were at the rehearsal last night?”

“Yes.”

“Were you there when the sandbag fell?”

“Yes, I was.”

“I have heard varying accounts of how close it came to striking Miss Baldwin. Can you tell me the margin by which it missed her?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t actually see it fall.”

“And why is that?”

“I was in the wings at the time.”

“Who was onstage?”

“Just Becky.”

“The other actors were all in the wings?”

“Yes, they were.”

“Who was in the audience?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, who would logically be? The director?”

“Rupert would either be in the audience or onstage leaning against the proscenium.”

“In either case, he would have been watching Becky Baldwin?”

“He would.”

“What about the accompanist? The piano player. Would he have seen where the sandbag fell?”

“You’ve got me. I don’t play the piano. If I did, I’d look at the keys. A musician probably doesn’t have to.”

“And the technical director—where would he be?”

“Most likely in the wings. In performance he’d be on the prompt book giving the light cues. In rehearsal I don’t know.”

“What about the light man? Wouldn’t he be watching?”

“He would, but he’d just been assigned a drum set. He was offstage with the drummers drumming.”

“Ah, yes,” Doddsworth said. “And I gather the other tech students were not there.”

“Then you know more than I do,” Sherry replied. “In fact, you know the answers to all these questions, don’t you? So why are you asking them?”

“To put you at your ease. To make you comfortable answering. So we can return to the questions that are bothering you.”

“Nothing’s bothering me.”

“Oh, but it is. You take offense even at the suggestion that you take offense. Clearly there is something about your relationship with Mr. Grant that you do not wish to discuss.”

“You’re dead wrong,” Sherry countered. “I do not wish to discuss my relationship with Aaron because it is nobody’s business but my own, and has nothing to do with the crime. I have been dating Aaron Grant. There is nothing particularly special about the relationship. Certainly nothing worthy of your attention.”

“I see.” Doddsworth sipped his tea. “And did this same Aaron Grant not at one time have a relationship with Miss Becky Baldwin?”

“I believe they knew each other in high school,” Sherry said evenly.

“You believe so?”

“That is my understanding. I didn’t live here at the time.”

“So you’re a more recent arrival. You moved to Bakerhaven, met Aaron Grant, began a relationship. At that time Miss Baldwin herself lived elsewhere, didn’t she?”

Sherry said nothing.

“She then returned to town, took up residence, renewed her old acquaintance with the young Mr. Grant. Her work drove them together. She’s a solicitor, is she not? And you, I believe, are a substitute preschool teacher.”

The phrase, delivered with clipped, British tones, hung insinuatingly in the air.

Doddsworth smiled at her over his teacup. “Would you take an EPT?”

That startled her. “What?”

“An early pregnancy test. Will you take one?”

“I most certainly will not! What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

“My job,” Doddsworth answered implacably. “With regard to the third poem. The one that’s not yet public. But of which you are doubtless aware. Have you heard the poem?”

“Yes, of course.”

“It refers to the difficulty of being a virgin while in the family way. Assuming the line does not suggest immaculate conception, one can conclude our Longfellow here is alluding to the inappropriateness of the actress playing a virgin.”

“Yes, of course,” Sherry said. “Dorrie Taggart was two months pregnant.”

“Yes, but did the killer know that? According to the postmortem, Dorrie was in the first trimester. She may not have been certain herself, let alone our killer. One must ask oneself, what if it is
not
Dorrie Taggart the killer is referring to? Who else might apply? Is there any other Mary who might find it hard to be a virgin?” Doddsworth steepled his fingers. “You, I believe,” he intoned, “are a divorcée.”

Sherry glowered.

“So,” Doddsworth mused, “if you were with child, what a sticky wicket that would be. You move to Bakerhaven, strike up a promising match with a young reporter chap. You are happy. Then his childhood sweetheart returns to town. She assumes a position of power, and proceeds to command more and more of his time. You find yourself with child, but instead of joy you are filled with apprehension. You are afraid to even broach the subject of your condition with the young man. Would you not agree that under such circumstances Miss Baldwin might be considered the chief obstacle to all your happiness? Would you not wish her dead?”

“I don’t believe this!”

“Will you consent to a pregnancy test?”

“Absolutely not!”

Doddsworth nodded serenely. “Your refusal is noted. I confess I find it intriguing.” He pushed back his cup and saucer, got to his feet. “Thanks for the tea.”

Sherry remained seated, said nothing.

Doddsworth slipped on his coat and hat, wound the scarf twice around his neck. He smiled down at Sherry quite paternally, then let himself out the front door.