And a Puzzle to Die On (9 page)

“I didn’t tell you the first time.”

“Is that right? No, I don’t believe you did. Just why are you interested, Miss … ah, Puzzle Lady?”

“It’s Felton. Cora Felton. Gleason was a witness in a case I was looking into. I wanted to talk to him about it. If I can’t talk to him about it, I wanna know why.”

“What’s the case?”

“Not important. Particularly in view of what you just told me.”

Walpole’s eyes narrowed. “You were thinking maybe someone didn’t
want
Gleason to talk?”

Cora smiled. “An absurd notion, I know. I’d just like to rule it out.”

“Well, you certainly can. The guy got buzzed and missed a turn. He’s a poster boy for one of those don’t-drink-and-drive groups.”

“So you got no objection to pulling his file?”

“Not at all. But I gotta tell you, the only way it’s gonna help you is if you’re getting paid by the hour.”

Sergeant Walpole went into the outer office, came back with a manila file, plopped it on the desk. “Here
you go. Knock yourself out. But I tell you, you’re wasting your time.”

Cora flipped open the file. There was an accident report, filed by the officer on the scene, describing what happened, including one of those little line drawings of a street with every conceivable intersection, turn, curve, or type of highway. On the diagram the officer had dutifully drawn a little block car with a triangle front, and arrows showing the direction. The direction was easy. He also had to draw the tree.

For DESCRIPTION OF ACCIDENT the officer had written:
Car going east on Red Oak Road. Driver speeding. Skidded on turn. Lost control. Hit tree
.

“No mention of alcohol,” Cora said.

“No reason for it. He wasn’t arresting the guy.”

“Wasn’t alcohol a contributing cause to the accident?”

“Oh, sure. It’s in there. That’s just the preliminary report.”

Cora flipped a few pages to the medical examiner’s findings:
Severe trauma, head and chest. Ribs crushed, lungs punctured. Heart compromised. Veins and arteries severed. Spinal cord severed between C3 and C4. Skull fractured, brain crushed
.

Cora looked up. “Was there anything this guy
didn’t
die of?”

“Trust me, it wasn’t pretty.”

“Blood alcohol point one two five,” Cora read.

“That’s legally drunk. Unfortunately, not too drunk to drive a car.”

Cora turned the page over, frowned. “Is this an autopsy?”

“It’s the medical examiner’s findings.”

“Yeah, I know. But what does it entail? According
to this, he looked at the guy and drew blood. Which he checked for alcohol. Weren’t any other tests performed?”

Sergeant Walpole was beginning to be
less
than pleased at having the renowned Puzzle Lady in his police station. “What more do you want? A drunk drives his car off the road. What should we be checking for? Traces of cyanide?”

“Cyanide works much too quickly. He could never have driven the car.”

“I was kidding.”

“I know. Could I see the crime scene?”

“It’s not a
crime
scene. It’s a
motor vehicle
accident.”

“Drunk driving’s a crime, isn’t it?”

Sergeant Walpole started to retort, then smiled and shrugged. “Damned if it ain’t.”

It was a nasty curve, a hard right at the bottom of a steep hill. If you went into it too fast, the car would skid sideways, cross the oncoming lane, mount the shoulder, and smash into the guard posts lining the curve. If the car were going way too fast, it would
take out
the guard posts lining the curve.

Gleason’s blue Chevy had taken out four. The guard posts had been replaced, but they were easy to spot, as the wood was newer and lighter in color.

Behind the guard posts just a few feet off the road was Ricky Gleason’s tree. The mighty oak still sported a gash in its trunk, but otherwise stood proud and tall.

“Okay,” Sergeant Walpole said. “We’re here. What does it tell you?”

The turn showed Cora absolutely nothing, but she was damned if she was going to admit that to Sergeant Walpole. “Was the road wet or dry?” she asked.

“Dry, as I recall.”

“You recall right. At least, according to the officer’s accident report.”

“Then why the hell’d you ask?”

“Reports aren’t always accurate,” Cora replied breezily. “Let’s try a little experiment, shall we?”

“Experiment?”

“You mind standing over there by the guardrails and letting me know if anything’s coming?”

Cora’s red Toyota was parked behind Walpole’s unmarked cruiser. She hopped in, drove to the top of the hill, turned the car around.

At the bottom of the hill, Sergeant Walpole stood watching with some exasperation.

Cora stuck her head out the window, shouted, “All clear?”

Walpole hesitated a moment, probably deciding whether to help her or arrest her. Then he sighed, crossed the road, peered around the curve. It must have been clear, because he raised his hand, waved to her to come ahead.

Cora floored it.

The tires squealed in protest as Cora peeled out, leaving rubber, and hurtled down the hill.

The astonished look on Sergeant Walpole’s face gave way to one of sheer terror. Suddenly he was stumbling up the road, away from the newly replaced guard posts, as the madwoman in the Toyota sped right toward them.

Cora hit the curve, downshifted, let up on the gas, and spun the wheel. The Toyota shuddered, swerved to the left. Dry leaves spun out from under the wheels. Then the tires caught, screeched, held. In a flash she rocketed around the turn and onto a straightaway.

Cora hit the brakes, slowed the car, made use of a private driveway to turn around. She drove back to where Sergeant Walpole stood waiting on the high side
of the curve. The officer was sweating profusely. He looked like he’d lost a good ten pounds.

“What the hell were you doing?” he demanded.

“I told you. A little experiment,” Cora answered placidly. “The theory is, the guy drove too fast and went off the road. I took the corner at seventy, and made it just fine. I skidded a little bit, but I didn’t come near going off the road. I never even crossed the center line.”

“You’re sober,” Sergeant Walpole pointed out. He exhaled heavily. “At least I thought you were.”

“Hey, I’m a little old lady and I made the turn. You’re telling me a forty-three-year-old man can’t handle it? He’s gotta be pretty impaired.”

“He was.”

“Point one two five?”

“That’s legally drunk.”

“Maybe so, but it’s not a world record. I seem to remember people driving a lot worse than point one two five.”

The people she seemed to recall were all Cora Felton, who had been stopped for speeding several times in her less sober days. On those occasions the Breathalyzer had indeed registered far more than point one two five. The fact Cora was unable to recall any of these incidents with any degree of accuracy was not at all surprising.

“What’s your point?” Sergeant Walpole said peevishly. His nerves were rather frayed, and he’d had just about enough of the nationally famous Puzzle Lady.

“I’m saying Ricky wasn’t that drunk. I’m saying he could have made the turn. I’m saying there’s gotta be some contributing factor to the accident.”

“You mean like someone ran him off the road?”

“All I’m saying is, you got a traffic accident that isn’t accounted for by the facts in the file. The medical examiner’s report is damn skimpy. Makes you wonder if something was missed.”

“I assure you, nothing was missed.”

“I’d rather hear it from the horse’s mouth, Sergeant. Do you suppose I could talk to the doc?”

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted,” Sergeant Walpole said dryly.

They drove back to the police station, and Walpole called the medical examiner. He listened a moment, said, “Oh, is that right?… I see. When?… Okay, thanks.” He hung up the phone.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Cora asked.

“I’m afraid the doctor’s not in his office.”

“How come?”

“He’s in jail.”

“What?”

Walpole grinned. “Dr. Jenkins is also the prison doctor. One day a week he’s up at the penitentiary treating the inmates.”

“Oh.” Cora cocked her head. “By any chance, would that be Brandon State Penitentiary?”

“Yeah. Why do you ask?”

“Just a hunch,” Cora said sweetly.

Cora Felton lurched to a stop at the top of the driveway, got out, and slammed the door. She stomped up to the house, barged in, yelled, “I’m back,” over her shoulder as she clomped into the kitchen.

Cora flung her purse on the table, and threw open the cupboard over the sink. It was empty, except for a couple of disposable roasting pans.

Cora scowled, slammed the door, tried the cupboard next to the refrigerator. She was greeted by boxes of cold cereal. Cora muttered an appreciation of the product that probably would have cost her her TV commercial.

She banged the doors shut, bellowed, “Sherry!”

A faint “Yeah?” wafted from down the hall.

Cora stomped into the office where her niece sat typing. “Damn it, Sherry! Where’s the booze?”

Sherry looked up from the computer. “I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t play coy with me. You threw out my liquor!”

“You quit drinking.”

“That’s right,” Cora said. “I stopped drinking.
I
did.
Me
. I’m not in a twelve-step program. I didn’t join AA. I just
didn’t
drink. But I didn’t clean up the house. I didn’t throw out my booze.”

“It’s bad to have around—”

“No!” Cora interrupted. “See? There’s the problem.
You’re
telling
me
how to drink. That. Doesn’t. Work. Remember when we moved in together? Remember the first rule?”

“I don’t tell you what to drink.”

“That’s right. You don’t tell me what to drink. If I wanna drink, that’s my business. If I don’t wanna drink, that’s my business too. But you don’t make that decision, I do. And you don’t throw out my booze, I do. If I don’t, it stays. See the problem?”

“Aunt Cora—”

“Don’t placate me. Do you see the problem?”

“Yes, I do. Aunt Cora, why are you so angry?”

“You took my booze.”

“Before that. What made you angry enough to take a drink?”

“This goddamn case.” Cora took out her cigarettes, lit one up.

“You’re smoking in the office.”

“You wanna confiscate my cigarettes too?”

“Never mind. You were saying …”

“I wasn’t
saying
anything.”

“No, you were telling me why you were mad. Something about the case.” Sherry peered at her closely. “Cora, are you telling me you don’t want this case? You wish it would go away?”

“Cases don’t just go away.”

“No, but you can get out of them. No one says you have to do this.”

“I promised Becky.”

“Becky wouldn’t mind.”

“Now you’re talking for Becky Baldwin?”

“I forgot. You’re angry enough to argue anything. Okay, so tell me. What exactly is wrong with the case?”

Cora told Sherry about Ricky Gleason’s “accident.”

“So?” Sherry said. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Guy wasn’t drunk enough to wreck his car. He was barely drunk enough to slur his words.”

Sherry could see what had put Cora in mind of having a drink. “Some people hold it better than others.”

“Granted. But it takes a snootful to drive into a tree.”

“I think you’re making too much of this guy.”

“Me? You’re the one who Googled him to death.”

“It was a traffic accident. Months ago.”

“Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“It’s been twenty years. People die.”

“Yeah, but he died before I could find out what he knows.”

“Come on, Cora. You got it all backwards. If someone killed Ricky Gleason to keep you from finding out what he knows, they did it months before you started looking.”

“Interesting point,” Cora mused. “That makes me wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“When all this started.” Cora motioned to the computer. “Lemme check my mail?”

“Sure,” Sherry said, happy to have her calmed down. She slid out of the seat, let Cora take her place.