Authors: Parnell Hall
Dead Man's Puzzle (18 page)
Brooks looked guilty. Of course, Brooks should have looked guilty. But was he guilty of murder or just cheating on his wife? Cora couldn’t tell. She’d had husbands cheat on her, but none of them had killed her, so she really had no way to judge.
“You were less than candid when you spoke to us before,” Cora said.
“I didn’t lie.”
“No, you didn’t. But you didn’t volunteer anything, either. Not that confessions of marital infidelity are high on anyone’s list. Still, with one’s wife killed, the matter is bound to come up.”
“Damn it.”
“Just a minute,” Chief Harper put in. “Let’s not let this degenerate into a fight. Mr. Brooks, it has been fairly well established that you were having an affair with a Sarah Finestein of Fifteen Charles Street. Do you wish to deny it?”
“This has nothing to do with—”
“Maybe not. Your wife has been killed. It has been suggested that you are having an extramarital affair. It would be far better to admit to it now than deny it and have it pulled out of you in court. It might, in fact, help you avoid court.”
“Mr. Brooks,” Cora said, “no one’s suggesting you killed your wife. But once a motive is raised, it needs to be dealt with. It would be nice for all concerned if it was dealt with quickly and expediently and without involving the press.”
Brooks said nothing, looked straight ahead.
“Here’s a promise. If you killed your wife, we’ll get you. If you didn’t kill your wife, we want to help you. Anything you do to help us will help you. So, tell Chief Harper about your affair.”
Brooks lowered his head, looked miserable.
Cora felt sorry for him. Had to remind herself she’d felt sorry for Melvin once upon a time.
“It just happened. It had been hard, taking care of my wife. Always exhausted, stressed out. And . . . well, she didn’t like to be touched.”
“Did she have a therapist?”
“Yes.”
“Psychiatrist or physical therapist?”
“Psychiatrist. We tried a physical therapist, but, like I say, she didn’t like to be touched.”
“That must have been a financial drain.”
Brooks looked up in anger. “Yes, it was hard. Yes, it cost a lot of money. Yes, it was physically and emotionally draining on me. But I loved my wife. I took care of her the best I could. I could never hurt her.”
“You were at the Town Hall the other night,” Cora said.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I heard the commotion. I came out to see.”
“Why did you care?”
“What?”
“Since your wife died, you’ve been grousing around barely conscious. You haven’t paid attention to anything in days. Why’d you care enough to go look?”
“I heard voices. Woke me up. People in the B and B. And outside the window. Saying there’d been a killing. So I went to see.”
“Why did you care?”
“I figured it was probably the same person who killed my wife.”
Cora nodded. “Good answer.”
Cora Felton sat and stewed.
What was it all about?
Like she’d told Chief Harper, too many clues.
The computer. Why a computer? What was the connection between Overmeyer and a computer? Overmeyer never had a computer in his life.
The stock-pooling agreement? Overmeyer looked the least likely person to own stock. Well, that wasn’t fair. The only time Cora saw him he was dead. Still, having searched his cabin, she could not imagine a less likely insider trader.
However, he must have something because of the heirs. You don’t get that many heirs for nothing. When heirs show up, there’s property. Whether it be a stock holding, or the proceeds from a convenience store robbery, or an oil well in the backyard that no one knew was there.
Cora wished Sherry and Aaron were back. She thought of calling them, but that wouldn’t be fair. Disturbing them on their honeymoon. She’d already disturbed them once, about that stupid puzzle. The one that didn’t mean anything. The
second
one that didn’t mean anything. The first one didn’t mean anything either. Stupid old man, leave a crossword by your body in case you get killed. Leave a second one behind a picture in your bedroom. And neither one means a thing? That’s really annoying.
Even more annoying is the guy with the info on the stock-pooling agreement who gets killed before he could divulge it. If he weren’t dead, Cora’d like to wring his neck. When will these morons ever learn? Didn’t they ever read a murder mystery?
She considered making herself a cup of coffee. Shuddered at the thought. Maybe a cup of tea. She didn’t want tea. She wanted a nice Scotch and soda. But there was no Scotch in the house. It was a while since she’d given up drinking. A while since she’d had the urge. She knew she had to fight it. Sherry’d been reluctant to go on her honeymoon, not wanting to leave her alone. Sherry’d never forgive herself if she came back and found her aunt had fallen off the wagon while she was gone.
Cora rubbed her head. What she needed was a deus ex machina, a theatrical device to fly in one of the Greek gods to tie up loose ends and send the audience home happy. That didn’t seem likely. More likely some devil would swoop down and offer her a drink.
There came a knock on the door. Buddy went ballistic.
Cora frowned, slipped her gun out of her purse. It wasn’t late, but she was living alone. “Except for you, Buddy,” she amended, so as not to offend the toy poodle in case he could read her thoughts.
Cora went to the door and opened it.
It was Jimmy Potter, the librarian’s son. He looked younger than his years.
“Is it too late? I didn’t want to come too late. But I thought you’d want to know.”
“It’s not too late, Jimmy. What did you want to tell me?”
“I got the pictures. The ones you asked me to take. It took a while, because they didn’t all want to do it. Of course, Mr. Brooks I understand, but some of the others weren’t very nice.”
“No, they’re not. I should have warned you.”
“It’s okay. But I didn’t get everybody. I got
almost
everybody. So I figured I should bring you what I got.”
Cora took the photos out of the envelope, leafed through them. “Who didn’t you get?”
“The old man. Mr. Goldman.” Jimmy shook his head from side to side. “He said things that weren’t very nice.”
“I bet he did.”
“Do you want me to try to take his picture again?”
“No, Jimmy. You did fine.”
“Good. I wasn’t sure if I should get the pictures printed or keep trying.”
“You did the right thing.”
Jimmy turned back in the doorway. “Oh. I know it wasn’t what you wanted, but I got his bio.”
“Whose bio?”
“The man who got killed. Not Mr. Overmeyer. The other one.”
“The bartender?”
“Uh-huh. Preston Saumuels. I looked him up. He’s an actor. A real one. On TV.” Jimmy was impressed. “He’s been on
Law and Order
.”
Cora smiled. Every actor in New York had been on
Law & Order
. So Preston Samuels was an actor. Of course he was. Most bartenders were actors. Just like most waiters. And most taxi drivers. Before they started wearing turbans and having names with no vowels. New York City was awash with actors. Just walk into any bar or restaurant, you could find—
Cora blinked.
Could it be that easy?
Jimmy walked down the path, got on his bike, and pedaled off. Cora had forgotten Jimmy didn’t have a car. He had biked all the way out here just to give her the photos.
It occurred to her that Greek gods came in all packages.
Deus ex machina indeed.
McCorly’s Pub on Amsterdam Avenue was as Irish as you get, with shamrocks over the bar and Shane MacGowan and the Pogues on the jukebox. Cora found herself watching her feet for fear of stepping on a leprechaun.
The bartender had a green Mohawk. Cora wasn’t sure if that was Irish or punk.
“What’ll you have?” he said as Cora bellied up to the bar.
The words
gin and tonic
hovered on her lips. She bit them back, said, “Give me a Diet Coke.”
The bartender filled a glass, stuck a lemon wedge on it, slid it in front of her. Cora figured that would set her back a few bucks.
“You hear about Preston?” she said.
He looked surprised. “You know him?”
“Oh, yes. He used to drop by my house.”
The bartender sized Cora up, reevaluating his late co-worker as part-time gigolo. “Is that right?”
“Are you an actor, too?”
The guy practically swallowed his tongue. Clearly the poor young man thought he was being propositioned.
“I have some connections,” Cora said. “Used to throw theater work his way.”
The bartender was more uneasy than ever. Good Lord, everything she said was worse.
Cora bit the bullet. It pained her to say so, even if it wasn’t true. “A sweet boy. His mother asked me to look out for him. I feel so bad for him.”
The mother card saved her. Cora could see the bartender visibly relax.
“That’s hardly your fault. Just an unfortunate accident.”
“Accident?”
“Well, whatever you want to call it. I guess he was killed, but that’s like accidental. Just a huge stroke of bad luck.”
“Yeah,” Cora said. “As if things weren’t hard enough for an actor.”
The bartender blinked. “Excuse me?”
Cora grimaced. What an awkward transition that was. She wondered if it was the proximity of the liquor that was distracting her, making her not herself.
“Oh, the hell with it,” she said. “I’m trying to pump you for information, I just keep messing up.”
The bartender blinked. “What?”
“I’m a private investigator. I’m looking into his death.”
“You’re not an actress? You look familiar.”
“Aw, hell.”
His eyes widened. “I’ve seen you on TV. In commercials. For breakfast food.”
“Yeah. I hate it like hell, but it pays the rent.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Someone killed Preston and I don’t want him to get away with it. I need your help.”
“What for?”
“You ever bartend the same time as Preston? You know, work the same shift?”
“Sure. There’s always two people on the bar. We worked a lot of the same shifts.”
Cora reached in her drawstring purse, pulled out the photos Jimmy had taken of the heirs. She spread them out on the bar.
“Who are they? Circus freaks?”
“Look ’em over, will you?”
“Okay.” The bartender scanned the photos.
“Seen any of them before?”
“I’d like to say yes.”
“But . . . ?”
“The answer is no.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Hey, it was a long shot.”
“Yeah.” The bartender cocked his head. “Who are those people?”
“I don’t know.” Cora picked up the photos, stuck them in her purse. “But they’re greedy as hell.”
Cora sat in the living room and didn’t drink. The fact there was no liquor in the house made it easier, but still. With Sherry and Aaron gone and no man in her life, she was lonely. All alone with a mystery that didn’t add up. It was hard to take.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that if Sherry were there, it would be different. Sherry had always been there for her. Solving the crossword puzzles. The fact that Sherry didn’t interpret them, just solved them, didn’t matter. It was just the fact that she did it. Sherry solved the puzzles, and then Cora would take over. It wasn’t the same if Harvey solved the puzzle. Or if Sherry solved the puzzle halfway around the world and then faxed her the answer. At least, it didn’t seem the same.
Maybe, Cora conceded, the reason it didn’t seem the same was that there was nothing to find. The puzzles were extraneous. Held no clue.
Except to a computer nerd.
Now, why was that important?
Cora went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of milk before realizing it was the same milk she had rejected days before. She really should pour it down the drain. But then she’d have an empty carton, and what did she do with that? Was it recyclable? If so, where did she put it?
God, things were complicated.
What with some computer nerd declaring a computer puzzle.
What if it wasn’t? What if the guy had never distracted her in that manner? Sent her off searching for a computer that didn’t exist? What would the puzzle mean then?
The poem, unfortunately, was meaningless. The theme entry. That’s what Sherry called it. The verse didn’t mean a thing. Cora wondered what Sherry would think of that. As a constructor, she wouldn’t think much. It was a puzzle she could never turn in to the paper. The theme entry was a nonsense poem, probably the best the guy could do.
It occurred to Cora, maybe it had started out as something else, but the guy couldn’t fit the letters in. He was a poor constructor. That was entirely likely. Would Sherry be able to tell that? She knew everything there was to know about constructing. But so did Harvey, and he hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t said, “You know, the guy must have been trying to say something else.” That sort of thinking was outside of Harvey Beerbaum’s area of expertise. Sherry, on the other hand—
Cora grimaced. For God’s sake, she could get along without Sherry. The rhyme was meaningless drivel, not because she hadn’t unraveled it but because it was meaningless drivel. And no amount of scrutiny was going to make it anything else. Aaron and Sherry were on their honeymoon, and there was no reason to bother them. None.
Certainly not so late at night.
Only it wasn’t that time of night.
What time was it in Kenya?
Cora had no idea. That was part of Sherry’s instructions, wasn’t it?
Cora went into the office, leafed through the stapled sheets.
There it was:
http://
www.timeanddate.com
. The World Clock—Time Zone Converter.
Great. A Web site to find the difference between any two cities. Let’s see. She just had to type in—
Wait a minute.
Sherry had appended in parentheses, “(If that’s too much of a drag, just add seven).”
Sherry and Aaron were having breakfast in the dining room tent of the Masai Mara game reserve lodge. It occurred to Sherry the word
tent
was misleading. True, it had open-air sides, but it had marble floors and lavish dining tables, with ornate tablecloths, fine china, cutlery, and platters piled high with eggs, pancakes, toast, and a variety of breakfast meats.
“No bacon this morning?” Aaron said, passing the platter.
“It’s hard to eat bacon with warthogs trotting around on the lawn.”
“You think they’d be offended?”
“Probably not. It’s just the nagging suspicion this bacon might be one of them.”
“Now you spoiled my breakfast,” Aaron said.
Jonathan, their native guide, giggled. “Is not warthog.”
“Are you sure?”
He grinned a mouthful of white teeth, heaped a pile of bacon on his plate. “See? I hate warthog.”
“You’ve
had
warthog?” Sherry said.
“Yes. Tastes like chicken,” he said, and giggled.
Other guides at the table joined in.
“Where are we going today?” Aaron asked.
Jonathan looked pleased. “Baby lions. We look for lion cubs.”
Sherry’s backpack buzzed. “Uh-oh.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m getting a text message. That can’t be good.”
“No, it can’t. I don’t care what it is, we’re seeing lion cubs.”
“Absolutely.”
Sherry fished her international cell phone out of her backpack. “It’s Cora.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“She wants to know if she can fax me a puzzle.”
“I knew it.”
“Relax. How long can it take?”
“I’m not missing those lion cubs.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll solve it when we get back.”
“You promise?”
“That’s what I’m text-messaging her. I’ll solve it when we get back.”
Sherry sent the message, poured some coffee. Nibbled some toast.
The phone vibrated.
“Now what?” Aaron said.
“ ‘It’s already solved, I just want your input,’ ” Sherry read. She began typing.
“I can’t win, can I,” Aaron said.
“Do you ever?”
A monkey dangling from the flap of the tent seemed to be eyeing Sherry’s cell phone.
“Serve you right if he steals it,” Aaron said.
“Eat your breakfast.”
“Eat yours.”
“I am, I am,” Sherry said. She made a show of eating a few bites of her eggs before getting up.
She went out to the alcove, where battery packs and computers and cameras were hooked up to charge.
At the end, a fax machine was clacking.
Sherry retrieved the puzzle, studied it on her way back.
“Anything jump out at you?” Aaron said.
“You mean like a monkey?”
“I mean like anything you can tell Cora.”
“Not really.”
“Fine. Take it with you in the Jeep. You can read between the lions.”
Sherry groaned, laughed, swiped at him playfully. She scanned the puzzle. Smiled. “You’re right. Let’s not let it ruin our day. I’ll just drop her a hint, and we can forget about it.”
Aaron frowned. “You got it already?”
Sherry shrugged. “Not much to get.”
“What is it?”
“Look.”
Sherry typed in the message. Held it up for Aaron to see.
“How come it doesn’t rhyme?”
