And a Puzzle to Die On (32 page)

Cora made a mental note to check if Valerie Thompkins’s maiden name might be Tambourine.

But that would make the girlfriend the victim, not the killer.

Okay, back to the drawing board.

The problem was that there was way too much information to process. Did Darryl Daigue murder Anita Dryer? If not, who did? Ricky Gleason, the other counter boy? If so, did someone kill him and fake a car accident? Was Dr. Jenkins covering it up? Did Dr. Jenkins fake the car accident? Or did Warden Prufrock fake it? Did Valerie Thompkins or Peter
Burnside have anything to do with the car accident? They had something to do with the blackmail tape. Were Valerie Thompkins and the detective killed for the blackmail tape? Did the blackmail tape have anything to do with the car accident? The connection was Ida Blaine, who was having an affair with Dr. Jenkins, who might be lying about the accident, and who worked at the prison of Warden Prufrock, the star of the blackmail tape.

Cora yawned.

Who threw the rock through her window? And why was Valerie following her? If she
was
following her, and not just parking at the vet. How about Ida Blaine’s husband, Quentin Hawes? Or Valerie Thompkins’s deceased husband, for that matter? Whose name was Fleckstein.

How did any of that make sense? Why did it all happen? For starters, why did someone hire her? More to the point, why did someone hire Becky? Was the twenty-year-old murder of a young girl by Darryl Daigue connected in any way to what was happening now?

Cora had the feeling the answer was right there, if she could just put her finger on it.

Her eyes closed, and she immediately fell asleep.

Cora Felton stomped out of the Danbury courthouse to the camera whir of the paparazzi. “Damn it to hell,” she muttered.

“Smile,” Becky Baldwin told her.

“I don’t feel like smiling.”

“Choose the expression you’d like to see in tomorrow’s paper. Preferably one that won’t end your commercial career. Unless you’re planning on auditioning for an acid reflux ad, that one’s not going to fly.”

Cora plastered a lopsided grin on her face, snarled out of the corner of her mouth, “If we weren’t on camera now, I’d wring your neck.”

“When clients do that, I usually refuse to represent them.”

“What do you mean, usually? You’re barely out of diapers.”

“Oh, how witty,” Becky said through a frozen smile. “If you can just hang on till we get in the car, I’ll rip your head off.”

“I
usually
fire lawyers who do that.”

“You’d have to hire them first, wouldn’t you? I don’t recall you paying me any money.”

“Picky, picky. Where’s your car?”

“Right down the street. You want a ride?”

“No, I want to be left on foot in Danbury.”

Cora stomped off toward Becky’s car.

Becky caught up. “I bail you out, and this is the thanks I get?”

“Well, did you have to look like that?”

“Like what?”

“It’s ten in the morning. You’re dressed for a dinner party. I slept in my clothes.”

“That’s one of the downsides of getting arrested.”

Cora and Becky pulled out as flashbulbs blazed.

“Why didn’t Sherry and Aaron come?” Cora asked Becky.

“They had a little spat.”

“About what?”

“You. The end result is, Aaron isn’t covering your arrest.”

“That puts him in a majority of one. So this won’t make the
Gazette
?”

“It will. They sent another reporter.”

“Wonderful.”

The women drove in silence a while, then Becky said, “What is it you’re not telling me?”

“What do you mean?”

“The buzz around the courthouse is they’d charge you with breaking and entering if they just had a little more evidence.”

“
More
evidence? You mean they have
some
?”

“They have suspicions. Valerie Thompkins’s house was broken into. A neighbor says he saw an elderly woman running through the bushes.”

“Elderly?”
Cora fumed.

“What do you care? It wasn’t you.”

“Right. Even so, I’d pin the jerk’s ears back.”

“You want to tell me exactly what you were doing last night?”

“I was sleeping in a cell.”

“I mean the night before.”

“According to the police, I was stealing a dog.”

“After that.”

“I really don’t recall.”

“Yeah. So, here’s the deal: I’m driving you home so you can take a shower and get cleaned up.”

“Sounds good.”

“Stay there, and stay out of trouble.”

“Killjoy.”

“You’ve got to, Cora. At least until you beat this dognapping charge.”

“You gonna baby-sit me?”

“No, I trust you to follow my advice.”

“Fine. Take me home.”

Cora was quiet until Becky turned into the driveway.

Then she said, “Hey! Where’s Sherry?”

“I have no idea.”

“The car’s gone.”

“I see that.”

“You’re not leaving me here without a car.”

“Why? You’re not going anywhere.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

Cora jerked the door open and stormed out.

“Hang on. I got something for you.” Becky reached to the floor of the backseat, picked up a paper bag, and pulled out a gift-wrapped box. “Happy birthday. Sorry it’s late, but I’ve been kind of busy.”

Cora’s mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me?”

“Well, actually, it took me a while to find something you haven’t got.” Becky pulled the car door shut.

“See ya.”

Cora stuck her head in the window. “Are you sure we shouldn’t wait for Sherry?”

“Very sure.”

Becky gunned the car down the driveway.

Cora went inside, flopped down on the couch. She lit a cigarette and contemplated her present. What had Becky gotten her?

She picked the box up and shook it. It rattled, like there was something small inside. She tore the wrapping off, lifted the lid, peered inside.

It was a single piece of cardboard, about the size of a business card. Except it was orange and it was blank.

Cora picked it up and turned it over. Her eyes widened.

It was a Chance card from a Monopoly set.

A Get Out of Jail Free card.

Cora leaned back on the couch and grinned. Well, wasn’t that nice? Becky was right. It was the one thing Cora needed: a pro bono lawyer. Cora figured she’d better cut Becky a little more slack.

Particularly since she wasn’t planning on taking her advice.

Cora got up and went into the study. The computer was on. Now, how did Sherry Google people? By pulling up a word browser. But which one?

Cora clicked on an icon, and there it was. The word
Google
and an empty slot.

She typed in
Cynthia Mayberry
, the neighbor.

There were only two hits. Cynthia Mayberry had come in second in a pie-baking contest. She was also mentioned in her mother’s obituary.

Cora was disappointed. She would have loved to have nailed the woman with something.

Cora leafed through the book
Lifer
by A. E. Greenhouse, and Googled everyone associated with Darryl Daigue.

This was not particularly gratifying, either.

Darryl’s sister, Stacy, scored three hits, each of which consisted of some person named Daigue being mentioned in the same article as some other person named Stacy.

Jason Dryer
, on the other hand, yielded forty-eight thousand, eight hundred seventeen hits. This seemed promising, but turned out to be due to the fact that the name Dryer was also a word. Cora narrowed her search, checking only news instead of the whole Web. That yielded twelve hits. Scrolling down the page, Cora found one article actually relating to the man: an obituary notice.

The deceased was identified as Jason Dryer, of New York City. The address listed in the Bowery was most likely a none-too-reputable single-room-occupancy hotel. Jason’s age was reported as thirty-two. He was survived by his younger sister, Gwendolyn, of Boulder, Colorado. No other living relative was mentioned, nor was there any allusion to his murdered sister, Anita.

Cora tried
Gwendolyn Dryer
, with even less luck. A housewife named Gwendolyn was suing the manufacturer of a cordless hair dryer, an actress named Dryer was playing the part of Gwendolyn in Oscar Wilde’s
The Importance of Being Earnest
, and a meteorologist named Gwendolyn seemed to be of the opinion the weather might become dryer, but that was about it.

Cora tried
A. E. Greenhouse
. She came up with thirty-five hits, all of them relating to the book. There
were a few reviews, lukewarm at best. Aside from that, most were from local libraries simply listing the fact they had the book.

Cora dug in her purse again for her cigarettes. A card came out with the pack. At first she thought it was Becky Baldwin’s Get Out of Jail Free card, but then she remembered. It was the card she’d found under the rug in Valerie Thompkins’s spare bedroom. What with finding the porno tape, she’d completely forgotten it.

Cora turned the card over.

It was a business card, all right.

The card read:

A. E. Greenhouse

Author

Mason Westbourne, the editor of Pilgrim Publishing, couldn’t have been more irritating. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

“But I need to talk to Mr. Greenhouse.”

“I’m not allowed to discuss the affairs of my authors.”

“I don’t give a damn about his affairs. I just want to get him on the phone.”

“I’m sure you do. But you need to follow the proper procedure. You can write to Mr. Greenhouse care of Pilgrim Publishing. Give your name, address, telephone number, fax number, and e-mail address. If Mr. Greenhouse wishes to contact you, he may.”

“Whoa! Should we start over? Did I explain to you who I was?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Did I explain to you what this was with regard to?”

“I trust that is a rhetorical question. Because this
conversation has not been sufficiently long for me to have forgotten the gist of it.”

“You’re an editor?”

“Yes.”

“I hope your books don’t read like you talk.”

“Miss Felton, I’m not going to take offense. I know who you are. Someday Pilgrim Publishing would be honored to publish a collection of your work. Something your agent might wish to discuss—”

“Gee, I’d love to talk business, if it weren’t for a minor homicide case or two.”

“Miss Felton, if you were my author, you wouldn’t want me giving out your information to everyone who asked for it.”

“Fine,” Cora said. “Call Mr. Greenhouse. Tell him what I told you. Give him my phone number. Tell him to call me.”

“I really can’t do that. I strongly suggest you handle this the way I said. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take another call.”

“We’re not done.”

“Then I have to put you on hold.”

“No! No! No! You goddamned son of a bitch!”

“Gee, what did I do now?” Sherry said, coming into the kitchen.

“Where the hell have you been?” Cora snarled.

“Aaron and I went to lunch.”

“How can you eat, with me in jail?”

“Well, if I can’t, I sure hope you get a light sentence. What are you so worked up about?”

“Publishing nerd on the phone.”

“Not so loud. We may need to get published.”

“That’s what
he
said.”

“What did you say?”

“Told him I’d rip his lungs out, and—Well, Mr. Westbourne, it’s about time. Are you going to listen to reason, or do I have to sic my attorney on you?”

“Actually, that’s probably the best way to handle it. Have your attorney contact my attorney. Pardon me, but I have this other call.”

Cora’s face purpled. She slammed down the phone.

“I’d like to point out whatever that man said to you is not my fault,” Sherry said mildly.

“You took my car,” Cora accused.

“You weren’t here.”

“I’m here now.”

“So’s your car. Where are you going, anyway?”

Cora started to flare up angrily. She exhaled and collapsed into a chair. “Damn it, I don’t know. It’s so frustrating. Everything’s a dead end. See what Becky gave me?” She pointed to the card. “Free legal services. Unless
you’re
paying her and not telling me.”