A Puzzle in a Pear Tree (27 page)

The tech crew was not so lucky. Naturally, Rupert Winston had notes for them. Missed cues (for which Rupert had just minutes ago vented his spleen on the actors) he now blamed scathingly on the unfortunate Alfred Adams.

Rupert might as well have saved his ire. Alfred was a punching bag, so conditioned to receiving criticism that insults rolled off his back. The teenager listened to Rupert’s rant passively, serenely nodding at all the salient points. With no opposition, Rupert eventually wearied of his tirade. He ordered Alfred off to bed, blaming the techie’s miscues on sleep deprivation, and followed the poor boy out, reminding him for good measure of every early, late, or errant light. On his way he hit the switch for the house lights, plunging the gym into blackness.

Up in the rafters, Cora Felton let out her breath with a soft sigh. She’d been hiding in the light booth since the end of actors’ notes, until Rupert’s decision to retry one of the light cues had sent Alfred Adams scrambling obediently into the booth and Cora scrambling desperately into the grid. She had stayed there for the rest of the tech notes, waiting with mounting impatience for a chance to climb down.

But she hadn’t expected to climb down in the dark.

The grid over the stage consisted of a series of parallel two-by-twelve beams running upstage and downstage about eighteen inches apart. From Cora’s point of view, each beam was a two-inch step in the middle of a three-foot-wide, thirty-foot-deep hole.

Cora’s progress across the grid was slow. Only panic had gotten her out on it to begin with, and that had been with the lights on. With them out it was impossible. Even crawling, as she was, on her hands and knees, she’d grope for a beam that wasn’t there, tangle herself in a rope that was. Encounter a clamp or a light cord. Or a hole in the grid for lifting scenery through.

Cora slipped, fell flat, clung to a beam. Cursed.

Prayed for a light.

And then, like an answer from heaven, there was one. Cora couldn’t see where it came from, but she
could
see the grid. See the rope. See the beams. See the two-by-four nailed across them that had just tripped her.

See the stage below.

Good God, it was worse than in the dark.

Cora fumbled for handholds. Found an upright two-by-four. Clung to it. Pulled herself to her knees.

Looked down toward the source of the light.

The door was open. Light was streaming in from the foyer.

Someone had slipped in through the gym door.

Which was closing again.

Cora looked toward the light booth ladder ten feet away. She had to reach that ladder. On hands and knees, she crawled across the beams. Her drawstring purse hung down, bumped against the grid. She couldn’t risk sparing a hand to pull it up.

Just two more beams.

Cora reached the ladder. Grabbed it. Slung her leg over. Reached down, grabbed her purse, slung that over too.

The gym door clicked shut.

The light went out.

In pitch-blackness, Cora backed down the ladder to the loft. So where the heck was the other ladder? She groped along the platform, touched a two-by-four nailed flat along the edge as a handhold. She gripped it, slung her legs over the side, found the second ladder, climbed down.

Cora peered out into the darkness from behind a stage-left flat. She saw nothing, but she was convinced that she could hear a creak on the stage-right stairs leading up from the audience.

She reached into her purse, pulled out her gun, clicked the safety off.

The intruder was coming slowly across the stage, feeling his way cautiously in the dark.

Cora slipped back into the wings, crept downstage. Fumbled on the wall for the light switch. Found it, pushed it on.

The she stepped out onstage and leveled her gun at the intruder, trapped in the blazing, pitiless glare of the lights.

Jonathon Doddsworth.

46

“GREAT SCOTT! WHAT THE DEVIL ARE YOU DOING WITH THAT pistol?”

“I’m aiming it at you.”

“I can see that. Would you please put it down?”

“No. I like it fine just like this.”

Jonathon Doddsworth gawked at her. “Are you demented? Have you taken utter leave of your senses?”

Cora frowned. “You really need to brush up on your people skills. Perhaps you’re out of practice. Here’s a hint. Questioning a woman’s sanity is
not
the way to her heart.”

Doddsworth took a step toward her.

“Stay where you are,” Cora told him crisply, in a tone gleaned from TV shows. “Keep those hands where I can see them.”

“I don’t carry a weapon.”

“I do. Don’t make me use it.”

“You wouldn’t shoot me.”

“Yes, I would. Although I’d regret it. I regretted shooting Henry. My fourth husband. Cost me a fortune in alimony.”

“You shot your husband?”

“In the leg. A double disappointment. I was sorry I shot him and sorry I didn’t aim higher.”

“Miss Felton—”

“Keep those hands up.”

“I assure you, I’m unarmed.”

“Maybe so. But I don’t want you destroying the evidence.”

“What evidence?”

“Why are you here?”

Doddsworth scowled. Took an exasperated breath. “I’m examining the scene of the crime.”

“Oh, give me a break. There’s nothing to examine. Did you bring the money?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Cora quoted,
“ ‘You know and I
know she did it. Get five hundred dollars in small unmarked
bills. Bring it to the theater after rehearsal tonight. Perhaps
we can continue to share our secret together.’ ”

Doddsworth gawked at her, openmouthed.

“Got the money?” Cora asked sweetly.

“You? That was you?”

“Did you bring the cash?”

“Of course not.”

“I think you did. I think you have it on you right now. That’s why I’m not going to give you a chance to ditch it before the cops get here.”

“The police?”

“You think I want to hold a gun on you all night? The cops are going to take you in for questioning, inventory your possessions. I don’t know if you got the blackmail letter on you, but I’m layin’ odds you got the five C’s. What did you do, pull it out of an ATM? Or did you have to cash traveler’s checks?”

Doddsworth was sweating. “It’s stifling in here. I’m going to remove my coat.”

“Be my guest.”

He slipped his overcoat off, let it fall to the stage floor.

“What makes you think your daughter’s pregnant?” Cora inquired.

Doddsworth looked as though he might follow his overcoat. He was the picture of consternation. “How much do you know?” he asked Cora.

“I’m learning more every minute. That was a guess. An educated guess, but a pretty easy one. What would it take to make a law-abiding police officer act like a common crook? Obviously a desire to protect his daughter. That only makes sense if the case against her looks particularly black. Do you know Maxine’s pregnant, or just suspect it?”

“Damn you.”

“Damn
me
? You frame my niece for murder, and then damn me? You’re lucky I’m such an old softy, or you’d be dead right now.” Cora gestured with the gun. “Grab your coat and let’s sit down. I’ve been hanging in the rafters, and my leg is cramped like you wouldn’t believe.”

Cora marched Doddsworth down the stairs to the audience. The inspector tripped at the bottom, fell awkwardly in a heap, with his overcoat on top of him. Cora kept the gun trained, in case it was a trick, and watched for any sudden moves. But Doddsworth merely clambered to his feet. He and Cora sat on folding chairs, under the basketball hoop. The stage lights barely reached them, made them shadowy figures on the court.

Cora dropped her purse on the floor, kept her gun in her lap. “Okay, let’s talk turkey. I don’t think your daughter bumped off her best friend. You don’t either, but you’re not sure. That’s what’s killing you. But we’re more or less on the same page. The difference is, you’ll protect Maxine even if she’s guilty. I won’t. If she did it, she’s goin’ down.

“So here’s the deal. I’m gonna do some talking. You’re gonna shut up and listen. If you’re a quick study and pay attention, I won’t have to shoot you.

“Here’s what I think happened. Dorrie Taggart was killed under circumstances that implicate your daughter. Horace Taggart suspects her. He brought you in not for your help but to hang you out to dry. You know that, but there’s nothing you can do about it except try to solve the crime. Only problem is, everything you find only makes things worse. Maxine has the acrostic program on her computer, the red envelopes in her room. You go through her garbage, find a discarded early pregnancy test box. That’s when you decide to frame my niece. Only two girls had the opportunity to kill Dorrie. If it wasn’t Maxine it must be Sherry. So how can you set Sherry up?”

Cora shrugged. “Right away you catch a break. Sherry has the acrostic computer program too. She bought it the day the first puzzle arrived, so she and I could work on it. No matter. The fact is, she has it. And no one knows your daughter has it yet.

“So, one down, two to go. You call on Sherry, ask her about a pregnancy test. Sherry never
took
a pregnancy test, but that’s no matter. You’re smart enough to know you can create the story just by asking the question. ‘Suspect Sherry Carter today denied accusations that she was pregnant, and refused to take an early pregnancy test.’ Damning.

“Two down, one to go. The envelopes. You had every intention of planting them, but, bad luck, Sherry never left you alone in our house long enough. No matter. You’re comin’ back with your warrant. You’ll plant them right under our very noses. Sure enough, Dan Finley downloading computer files keeps me and Sherry occupied. All you have to do is distract Harper, then stick ’em someplace he hasn’t already searched.”

Cora shook her head. “Now you’ve got my niece strung up good, but you’re not too happy about it, because you know it ain’t gonna stick. Bet you a nickel your kid doesn’t have an alibi for the second murder, even if you were able to discuss it with her, which you’re probably not. So right now you’re runnin’ around like a British chicken with your noggin chopped off, tryin’ to find some way out, when, bang, you’re hit with a blackmail demand.

“Well, I got good news and bad news. The good news is, I wrote the blackmail note. The bad news is, I wrote the blackmail note. I happen to have enough ammunition to blow you out of the water. How do you like that,
Doddsy
?”

Doddsworth blinked, set his jaw.

“Not bad,” Cora said, nodding approvingly. “Mindy Taggart’s reaction was much bigger.” His face twisted. “Yeah, like that.”

Doddsworth’s lip quivered. “Who told you about Mindy?”

“Why, is it a secret? I guess it is. I guess people bought the story Horace put out, how the real lovebirds were him and your wife. That must have been tough for you to swallow. Being estranged from your daughter
and
branded a cuckold. No wonder you stayed away so long.”

“My daughter,” Doddsworth muttered. He heaved a huge sigh. His eyes glistened with tears. He rubbed his face awkwardly, brushing them away.

Cora’s mouth fell open. “Oh, my God!” she murmured.

Doddsworth’s head jerked up.

Angrily.

Defensively.

“You were making a deal,” he said evenly.

Cora looked at him. Her face softened. Her voice lost its edge. “I couldn’t understand why you would go so far. Take such risks. Planting the envelopes on my niece. Writing the message,
Wrong girl.
Even with your daughter in danger, it seemed a little much. After all, you’re a cop.”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know. A minute ago I wanted to watch you squirm. Now I just don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“The story keeps changing. But some of it’s true. You and Mindy Taggart did get together. The only question is when. And the answer is, you got together way before anyone thought. By the time Horace found out about you two, the affair was quite longstanding.”

Doddsworth said nothing, set his jaw.

“I should have known. The way you fussed over her at the Grants’ Christmas party. The way you fell apart when you saw her dead.” Cora smiled softly. “The way you tripped coming down the steps just now. Klutzy, like her.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about your daughter.” Cora paused, said gently, “Dorrie Taggart.”

Doddsworth’s face drained of color.

Cora shook her head. “It’s more than any man could bear. His one daughter killing the other. No wonder you snapped.”

Doddsworth’s mouth opened. No sound came out.

“So, let’s talk turkey,” Cora said, giving him time to recover. “There’s too many clues in this case. I don’t wanna bust my hump on the ones I have you to thank for. And vice versa. So you don’t waste your time on the poem about your daughter Max doing her best friend wrong. And I won’t waste my time on the
Wrong girl
letter. On the other hand, I didn’t plant the blowgun, and I bet you didn’t either. And I think I can safely say neither of us had anything to do with the attached note. It being about pregnancy and all.”

“Damn it, woman! Can’t you hold your tongue!”

Cora nodded. “Of course. The final straw. Both daughters pregnant. By the same man. What would that do to you? What would that do to Taggart? Or to your wives?”

Doddsworth trembled.

Cora said, “Well, it may be small consolation, but I don’t think Maxine is pregnant.”

“How do you know?”

“Just from talking to her.” Cora shrugged. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Cora raised the gun, looked at it thoughtfully, put it back in her lap. “So here’s the deal. You lay off Sherry, I’ll lay off Maxine. Whaddya say?”

Doddsworth met her gaze, held it several seconds. Then he sighed deeply. “There’s a problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Taggart’s scheduled Dorrie’s funeral for the day after tomorrow.”

“That’s Christmas Eve.”

“Horace doesn’t care. That’s when he wants it. It’s inconvenient, but I imagine most people will attend it.”

“I’m sure they will. So what’s the problem?”

“I’m giving the eulogy.”

Cora’s mouth fell open.
“What?!”

Doddsworth nodded. “That’s right.”

Cora stared at him. “No offense meant, but why in the world would Taggart
want
you to give the eulogy?”

“He wants me to say who killed her.”

Cora whistled. “What you gonna do?”

“The only possibilities are your niece and Maxine. I’m most certainly not naming Maxine.”

“You’re most certainly not naming my niece.”

“So what can I do?”

Cora frowned, gnawed her lip.

The gym door banged open and Santa Claus stood framed in the light from the foyer. His curly beard hung around his neck, but otherwise his scarlet-and-fur costume looked fine. His wide black belt held in his padded belly, which shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly.

But Chief Harper wasn’t laughing. “I don’t wanna hear it,” he snarled, forestalling any comments on his festive appearance. “I had a Christmas party at the children’s hospital. I was on my way home and saw the light.” He pulled the red Santa hat off his head, shook out the snowflakes. “What are you two doing here?”

Cora Felton surreptitiously shoved her gun in her purse. She looked over at Doddsworth, who returned her gaze miserably.

“Just checking out the crime scene,” Cora told Chief Harper.