A Clue for the Puzzle Lady (19 page)

“Uh huh. That’s not what I want to talk about.”

“I’m sure it isn’t. So what’s your pleasure?”

“I was hoping you could help me with a puzzle.”

Cora Felton grimaced. “We’ve been over all that. Or has there been another clue?”

“No, there hasn’t. And that wasn’t what I meant.”

“Oh? What did you mean, then?”

“In the paper. In today’s paper. That’s why I asked if you read it. I was hoping for some help with that.”

“With the
Barbara Burnside
story?”

“No,” Aaron Grant said. “I told you. With the puzzle. With today’s puzzle.” He took the paper, folded it open to the page. “Here we are. Today’s Puzzle Lady column. Today’s puzzle is entitled
SHORTCAKE SHORTS
. It tells the story of a woman who served shortcake to her luncheon guests, and had one more guest than pieces of cake. A rather amusing story, I must say.”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your column. Your Puzzle Lady column. I need help with today’s puzzle.”

“You have to be kidding.”

“Oh, but I’m not. I started solving today’s puzzle, and I’m stuck on fifty-two across. Civil War boat. Seven letters. First letter
m
. Can you help me with that?”

“Now, see here,” Cora Felton said. “You did not hunt me up in the middle of a murder investigation to help you with crossword puzzles.”

“Oh, but I did,” Aaron Grant said. “It’s suddenly become one of the more intriguing aspects of the case. It’s a fact I need to know, and I’m going to have to insist on an answer. In today’s puzzle, what is fifty-two across, a seven-letter word for Civil War boat, beginning with
m?”

“I have no idea. You think I remember all these puzzles?”

“No, I don’t. But I think you could help me with a perfectly straightforward clue.”

“If I happened to remember it. Which I have no particular reason to do.”

“Uh huh,” Aaron Grant said. “Well, it seems to me a seven-letter word for Civil War boat beginning with
m
would have to be the
Monitor
. Wouldn’t that be right?”

“If you know, why are you asking me?”

“To see what you’d say. Look here, Miss Felton. I’m a
newspaper reporter. When I get a hold of a story, I don’t let go. You’re not going to get around me, and you’re not going to put me off. So why don’t you just come clean?”

“I beg your pardon? Come clean about what?”

“You can’t
do
crossword puzzles, can you?”

“Orange juice?” Aaron Grant asked.

Cora Felton grimaced. “Yes, I know. It’s too early for a
real
drink, and if I have any more coffee I think my head will come off. Besides, I need to keep my wits about me.”

“Surely it’s not as bad as all that.”

“Oh, no? I’m sitting here with a reporter. The one thing Sherry warned me about. And here I am, talking to the media.”

“This is off the record.”

“That’s what they all say. And the next day you’re in the
National Enquirer.”

“You talk as if this has happened before.”

“Only once. And it went away.”

“How was that?”

“I sat tight and the guy gave up. After all, it’s a very small story.”

“Not really. You’re a celebrity.”

“In a TV commercial. Big deal. That’s not the same as a movie star. It’s the difference between an amusing tidbit and a shocking revelation.”

“Uh huh. Wanna tell me about it?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Absolutely. You can clam up and tell me to go to hell.”

“What would you do then?”

“Go see Sherry.”

“That would not be good.”

“So here we are.”

Cora Felton took a sip of her orange juice, made a face. “God, that’s bad. Jerry, my first husband, got me on the wagon, made me drink this stuff. I’ve hated it ever since.”

“Bad associations?”

“No. I loved Jerry. It’s orange juice I can’t stand.” Cora took another sip, grimaced, and considered. “I don’t know what I can tell you. You seem to know everything already. It’s as if you’re here just for confirmation. Which is what reporters do before they print the story.”

“I’m not printing this.”

“So you say. Okay, let’s not go around again. So I can’t do crossword puzzles. Big deal. You gonna blow the whistle?”

“No, I’m gonna hear your story. As you say, I’m gonna hear it from you, or I’m gonna hear it from Sherry.”

“Sherry will not be inclined to talk to you. She’ll be inclined to talk to me. I don’t want that.”

“So you talk to me.”

“Yeah.” Cora Felton took another sip of orange juice, frowned. “Sherry always was a bright girl. Did well in high school, went to a good college. Dartmouth. Did well there too.”

“And?”

“Her junior year she met Mr. Wrong. Young, self-absorbed, played the guitar, wanted to be a rock star.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. A walking disaster. The type of guy everyone can see is bad news, except the girl involved.”

“What happened?”

“They got married, Sherry dropped out of school, took a job, supported him while he launched his career.”

“Did he launch it?”

“In a manner of speaking. He managed to put a band together that performed just enough small gigs to attract a few groupies. He also used the money Sherry earned to buy enough drugs to keep up the pretense that he was in a successful band.”

“How long did that last?”

“Till she got pregnant.”

Aaron Grant blinked. “Sherry has a kid?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“No, not like that.”

“What happened?”

“What happened was Golden Boy came back from a night of carousing stoned out of his mind and took exception to Sherry asking him where he’d been.”

“No.”

“Yes. He beat her up pretty bad. You’d think a musician would be more careful with his hands. But this guy wasn’t much of a musician.”

“She had a miscarriage?”

“If you can call it that. She got beat up and lost her baby, as a result of trauma. Basically, the creep killed their kid.”

“She left him?”

“And never looked back. Good thing too. I don’t think she could trust herself around him.”

“How’d he take it?”

“About how you’d expect. Swore he’d be good on the one hand, blamed her for everything on the other, and refused to let go. He still hassles her from time to time.”

“When did this happen?”

“The split-up?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s been a couple of years.”

“And he’s still around?”

“In a manner of speaking. He’s the kind of guy gets loaded, feels persecuted, wants to avenge all wrongs.”

“I know the type,” Aaron said thoughtfully. “So what did Sherry do, after she lost the baby?”

“Moped around for a while. She took it hard. She really wanted that kid. She finally pulled herself together and went back to school.”

“She went back to Dartmouth?”

“Yeah.”

“What did she study?”

“Linguistics.”

“Uh huh. How did she do?”

“Graduated with honors. Came to New York, found an apartment, got a job.”

“As what?”

“Copy editor. Right up her alley. It was freelance work, wasn’t steady, but it left her time to do other things.”

“Like what?”

Cora Felton glared at him. “You know like what. Crossword puzzles. She had a real knack for ’em. Solving ’em, and making ’em up.”

“So?”

“So, she tried to sell ’em.”

“How’d that go?”

“About as well as her marriage. Another huge disillusionment.”

“Why?”

“Maybe she set her sights too high. I don’t know. I’m sure if she tried hard enough she could have sold a few puzzles. Maybe even got one in the
Sunday Times
. But that wasn’t what she was after. She wanted a full-time job.”

“How was that?”

“A syndicated column. In the national papers.”

“Like you have now?”

“Right. Only she couldn’t get it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Why does one movie get made and a hundred others don’t? It certainly isn’t the quality. There was nothing wrong with Sherry’s stuff. It was terrific.”

“But?”

“You gotta understand Sherry’s head. She’s coming
off a bad marriage, she’s bitter, she’s disillusioned. She’s had it up to here with men.”

“I kind of got that.”

“Did you?” Cora regarded him thoughtfully. “Well, that’s what was in her mind. And that’s how she took her rejections. She regarded it as a sexist thing.”

“Was it?”

“Maybe. I mean, there is that mind-set. An editor looks at her and she’s so young and attractive how could she possibly be any good?”

“That’s a little simplistic.”

“Yes, it is. I’m sure there’s a zillion factors involved, but the bottom line is Sherry couldn’t sell her puzzles.”

“So what happened?”

“She gave up her apartment, moved in with me.”

“Where?”

“I had an apartment in Manhattan. Still do, actually. It’s just sublet. It’s a great apartment, I’ll never give it up.”

“Uh huh. And the column?”

“It just happened. Sherry came up with the concept. As a result of having struck out. Came to the conclusion it was all hype and all image. She needed a new image.” Cora shrugged. “I happen to photograph well. Look like somebody’s sweet old grandmother.” She made a face. “Truly revolting concept, but there you have it. Sherry went to work, put together the Puzzle Lady column. Wrote it around my picture, had me submit it under my name.”

“It was an instant hit?”

“I wish. It took months of hard work. And it didn’t get syndicated overnight. First one small paper picked it up. Then another. Then another. Then the whole thing really took off.”

“Uh huh. Why’d you move?”

“I lived in New York all my life. I have a lot of friends. Not that many do crossword puzzles. But they all have TV. When the ad came out, my phone was ringing off the hook. That’s when that reporter found me, by the way, the one I told you about. Anyway, I made a lot of money
off of that ad. And it occurred to me I could sublet my apartment for twice what I pay. It seemed like a good time to get out of town.”

“How’d Sherry feel about it?”

“Well, you have to understand. This happened to coincide with one of Dennis’s little visits.”

“Dennis?”

“Her husband.”

“Husband or ex-husband?”

Cora waggled her hand. “Sherry spoke to a lawyer, went back to using her own name. Whether it’s finalized or not, I couldn’t say. Sherry doesn’t talk about it.”

“Uh huh,” Aaron Grant said. He frowned. Considered. “So this whole business—the crossword puzzle clues—they don’t really mean anything?”

“Well, not to me,” Cora Felton said. “They never did. But they do to Sherry, and that’s all that matters. She is the Puzzle Lady. As for me …” She smiled, shrugged. “I’m just a pretty face.”

“Must be tough.”

“Hey, I don’t mind. Just a little inconvenient now and then. Particularly with the police expecting me to solve two murders for them.”

“You came up with the shoes.”

Cora grinned. “Yes, I did. That I can do just fine. Murder mysteries are my element. Just keep the wordplay out of it, I’ll be happy as a clam.”

“And that’s the only reason you came up with the four-graves-down theory—because you didn’t want to talk about a crossword clue?”

“Don’t you know it,” Cora Felton said. “Imagine having the chief of police sitting there saying, Tell me what this means. The I’ll-work-on-it-and-get-back-to-you bit isn’t going to work forever.”

“Tell me something,” Aaron Grant said.

“What?”

“Why’d you do it?”

“What?”

“Agree to be the Puzzle Lady?”

Cora shrugged. “I couldn’t talk her out of it.”

“Why didn’t you just say no?”

“And break her heart? Sherry’s like a daughter to me. I’d do anything for her. Anything I could.” Her eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t let anyone hurt her, either.”

“I wouldn’t hurt her.”

“You will if you keep putting my picture on your front page. Sherry likes hiding behind the facade. Plus Dennis doesn’t know where she is, and she doesn’t want to tell him. She’s phobic about the media, and terrified of publicity.”

“So you think she won’t care for my Barbara Burnside piece?” Aaron said.

Cora smiled and cocked her head.

“I would say that was a pretty safe bet.”

Sherry Carter sat at the kitchen table, drinking her coffee and cursing Aaron Grant. Wasn’t that just like a man? After everything they’d been through the night before—driving around in the car, finding the body, calling the police, and deciphering the clue—never once did Aaron think to mention the one tiny detail, that he’d put her aunt on the front page again.

The
Bakerhaven Gazette
lay on the table in front of her. The headline,
MURDER LINKED TO BURNSIDE TRAGEDY???
,
in bold, black type.

Gee, Aaron, you think you might have mentioned that?

And how could he have done this to the Burnsides? Yes, of course, it was long ago. He’d been a child at the time of the accident. Too young to know Barbara Burnside, way too young to know her parents. But still, he should have known better. What an insensitive lout. She’d read him the riot act the next time he came around. If he had the nerve to show his face around here again.

Sherry heard a car turn into the driveway. Could it be him? No, most likely Cora. Which would be good. They
could talk this over, figure out what they were going to do.

Sherry went to the window, looked out. But it wasn’t her aunt. The car in the driveway was a news van from Channel 8. As Sherry watched, three men piled out, and the big, beefy one in the jeans and T-shirt began to unload a camera.

Sherry’s heart skipped a beat. This couldn’t be happening. Without stopping to think, she stormed out the front door onto the lawn.

“All right,” she said, “hold it right there.”

The youngest of the three men wore a tie and a Channel 8 blazer. He saw her and smiled a dazzlingly white smile that must have cost a fortune in dental caps. “Hi,” he said. “Is Cora Felton at home?”