A Puzzle in a Pear Tree (15 page)

26

CORA FELTON WAS SURPRISED TO SEE CHIEF HARPER’S cruiser parked in front of the school gym. Of course, the gym was where the sandbag had been dropped. But that was only an
attempted
murder. With an
actual
murder to investigate, Chief Harper had many things that were much more pressing. Why did he have to be
there
?

Cora didn’t want Chief Harper there because she was about to suffer the ultimate indignity—a private rehearsal with Rupert Winston. To work on her solo. Since Cora’s solo consisted of a total of four words (and that only if one counted
maids a-milking
as three), a private rehearsal seemed like overkill. Between Cora’s singing and Rupert Winston’s scathing direction, it would certainly be humiliating, and Cora didn’t need Chief Harper around to witness her humiliation.

Cora was in a foul mood as she stomped up to the gym.

There was a sign taped to the door. It read: REHEARSAL MOVED TO MUSIC ROOM, ROOM 127—USE MAIN ENTRANCE!!!

Cora’s first thought was,
What a relief.
Chief Harper wouldn’t hear her sing after all.

Her second was,
Why is he here?

Cora pulled the gym door open, slipped inside.

Dan Finley stood in the center of the basketball court. The young policeman was in his stocking feet, having removed his boots and overcoat. He was holding the blowgun in his right hand with one end on the floor, like a native posing with a spear. The blowgun was nearly as tall as he was. As Cora watched, Chief Harper walked up to him, handed him what appeared to be a dart. Dan did not look happy.

“Okay, try again,” Harper told him.

“It’s not that I’m not trying,” Dan Finley said.

“I know you are. You’re just not very good.”

“You wanna try it, Chief?”

Finley fed the dart into the blowgun, raised it to his lips. Aimed at the far end of the court, where a four-by-eight-foot piece of Sheetrock had been set up. The silhouette of a man had been crudely drawn on it with Magic Marker.

“A little higher,” Chief Harper corrected. “It has to arc.”

“I can’t aim that way.”

“Never mind accuracy. I want distance.”

Dan Finley filled his lungs with air. Wound up, and blew.

The dart flew from the end of the blowgun, arced through the air, and imbedded itself in the court, well short of the target. It didn’t even reach the foul line.

“Damn it,” Harper said. “Get that out of the floor. Is it going to show? The principal will kill me.” As Cora started forward, he wheeled with a guilty look. “Oh, it’s you! What are you doing here?”

“I have rehearsal.”

“Rehearsal’s moved. Didn’t you see the sign on the door?”

“No, and I didn’t see that hole in the floor, either. You mind telling me what you’re doing here, Chief?”

“We got the blowgun back from the lab. The technicians were all excited that they got such clear prints. I didn’t disillusion them, so they’re going to be puzzled when I don’t make an arrest. And guess whose prints they were?”

“You were telling me what you were doing here, Chief.”

Chief Harper pointed to a fifty-foot measuring tape laid out on the gym floor. “At the nearest point it’s thirty-six feet from the road to the crèche. I’m trying to see if this blowgun can shoot a dart thirty-six feet.”

“Is that the same dart?”

“It’s an exact duplicate. Considering Dan’s accuracy, I decided against his shooting a poison dart.”

“When you say exact duplicate . . . ?”

“It’s close enough. We’re not talking mathematical certainty here, we’re looking for possibility. Is it possible for a dart to go thirty-six feet? So far, it would appear it isn’t,” he concluded glumly, glaring at his young officer.

“Not to knock young Dan, here,” Cora said, “but how much experience as a dart blower does he have?”

“None. Which in itself is telling. There’s every indication it would take an expert. Assuming it can be done at all.”

Cora examined the setup. “You’re talking laterally, Chief.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re assuming the shooter is standing on the ground. The blowgun was found in the organ loft in the church. The window in the loft—you could open that, shoot from a greater height.”

“And from a greater distance,” Chief Harper pointed out darkly. “You’d lose more than you gained.”

“Maybe. I just mention it because this doesn’t seem to be working.”

“Well,
that
wouldn’t either.”

The back door clanged open and Rupert Winston sashayed in and immediately struck a pose. “Oh, there you are. Why am I not surprised? Do you have a timepiece, Miss Felton?”

“Why, is one missing?”

That stopped him in midsneer. “You’re joking. And an old joke at that. At least it’s a sign of life. If only you could channel some of that into your performance . . . You happen to be late for rehearsal.”

“Yeah. Chief Harper here was just telling me it’s been changed to the music room.”

“Is the sign on the door down? That will never do! I have more rehearsals this afternoon.” Rupert strode to the outer door, wrenched it open. “No, it’s right here. Apparently, Miss Felton, you are a double threat, who can neither sing nor read.” He turned to the policemen. “Gentlemen, please, go on with your game. I’m sorry we interrupted you. Miss Felton, this way.”

Room 127 turned out to be a minuscule music practice room with a piano and a couple of school desks. Mr. Hodges, the music teacher, sat at the piano. “Ah, you’ve captured her,” he said. “Good. I don’t have all afternoon. And how many more after her?”

“Just two. But they, at least, can keep a tune. I’m not sure what you’re going to do here.”

Mr. Hodges made a deprecating gesture, as if assuring Cora he was not the one impugning her talents. “Not a problem, not a problem. We just need the time to work. Miss Felton, I’m going to have you reproduce some tones for me. I’ll play the note, you hum the note. Are you ready? Here we go.”

Mr. Hodges played middle C. When Cora looked at him, he hummed, “Hmmm.”

“Hmmm,” Cora tried.

“A little higher.”

“Hmmm.”

“Little higher.”

“Hmmm.”

“That’s it. Again.”

“Hmmm.”

“Good. Try this.” He played another note.

“Hmmm.”

“A little higher.”

“Hmmm.”

“Excellent. Again.”

“Hmmm.”

They hit a few more notes. Then Mr. Hodges said, “Now, Miss Felton. The note you’re humming. You’re going to hum it again, then you’re going to sing on the exact same note, hmmm,
eight,
hmmm,
eight,
hmmm,
eight.
Now you try it.”

“Hmmm,
eight.
”

“You’re drifting.”

“Hmmm,
eight.
”

“You’ve lost the note now. Start again.”

It was beyond humiliating. Mr. Hodges put her through the musical equivalent of
See Spot run,
while Rupert Winston’s face ran the gamut of incredulous, scathing, pained expressions. Nonetheless, at the end of fifteen minutes Cora Felton warbled,
“ ‘Eight maids
a-milking.’ ”

Mr. Hodges said, “Perfect!” Granted, he’d been playing the melody note for note along with her; still, it was an accomplishment.

Cora escaped from the practice room with an incredible sense of relief.

Harvey Beerbaum sat in the hallway, waiting his turn.

“Et tu, Harvey?” Cora said. “I thought Rupert was happy with your performance.”

“He’d still like me to hit the notes.” Harvey lowered his voice, whispered eagerly: “You got anything new on the crime?”

“I’m kind of out of the loop, with Doddsworth in town.”

Harvey couldn’t hide his disappointment. He nodded glumly, went in the door of the practice room with no more enthusiasm than Cora had shown.

Before leaving the high school, however, Cora detoured back by the gym.

Dan Finley was up on a twelve-foot ladder, trying to aim the blowgun. He was not having much luck. The ladder was wobbly, and most of his energies seemed directed toward maintaining his perilous balance.

Chief Harper wasn’t helping him. The chief was off in the corner, talking to Jonathon Doddsworth. Cora spotted them, started over.

Chief Harper saw her, yelled, “Hey!” He flushed slightly and added, almost apologetically, “No shoes.”

Cora bristled. Doddsworth was wearing shoes.

Cora was wearing fur-lined slip-on boots. She stopped, yanked them off, padded across the gym in her stocking feet. “I notice you’re still poking holes in the gym floor,” she observed. “Does the height make any difference?”

“Not for Dan. It might if we had an expert.”

“Well, there you are,” Cora said. “Have a dart-blowing contest, and arrest the winner.”

“Most amusing, Miss Felton,” Doddsworth said. “Have you any suggestions of a practical nature?”

“I’d advise shutting down the Christmas pageant.”

“Because of the attack on Miss Baldwin?”

“For one thing.”

Doddsworth looked puzzled. Cora waited for Chief Harper to pick up his cue on her get-me-out-of-this-pageant jest, but he didn’t. Cora wondered what was wrong. “Any developments?” she asked.

“Nothing we don’t already know,” Harper answered. “No one remembers tying that sandbag off. No surprise there. Which leaves a lot of candidates. If it was done during rehearsal, it leaves half the cast. If it was done before rehearsal, it leaves all of them. And anyone else, for that matter.”

“Then how could the drop be timed?”

“Very easily, if it was someone in the wings. They just stand with their back to the pinrail, untie the rope, wait for the right moment, and let go.

“If it was anyone else, they couldn’t be backstage. They’d untie the rope, run it over a back beam, tie it off near the top of the back stairs. Then, during rehearsal they’d creep up the stairs, untie the rope, and let it drop. Which would fit in with the clue,
Wrong girl,
being found in the girls’ dressing room.”

“That’s not facts, just speculation,” Cora pointed out. “I could have told you that myself. Come on, you got anything
new
?”

A dart whizzed by, stuck into the floor by Chief Harper’s big toe.

“Jesus H. Christ! Dan, are you trying to kill us?”

“Sorry. That one got away.”

“Where were you aiming?”

“I was aiming at the target.”

“How could you miss by that much?”

“I was trying to get some distance. By swinging the blowgun like a whip.”

“Well, it didn’t work.”

“It went farther.”

“Farther
from
the target. This only helps if it’s accurate.”

“You think Sam might have better luck?”

The thought of cranky Officer Brogan wielding the blowgun did not cheer Chief Harper. “No,” he said glumly. “Keep trying.”

“I need a dart.”

Chief Harper tugged the dart from the floor and walked over to the ladder, leaving Cora alone with Jonathon Doddsworth.

Their eyes met.

Cora tried to size him up. A superb poker player, Cora was used to sizing up opponents. Sensing their strengths and weaknesses. Looking for an edge.

Doddsworth she couldn’t read. Oh, he was arrogant, overbearing, and self-important, as well as plodding, methodical, and slow—everything she already knew. But what lay behind his facade she couldn’t tell. She sensed the ruthlessness, the dogged determination his ex-wife had alluded to. But something else too.

Fear.

The fear she sometimes sensed in a card player, the fear that someone might call a bluff.

Was Doddsworth bluffing? Or did he really
have
substantial leads? Had Doddsworth known she’d question his daughter, and run out of the house as if he’d discovered something, just so his wife would report that fact? Was he that clever? That devious?

Or was he just that
good
?

Was he going about his business without a thought to what she was doing? And was this all in her mind?

It occurred to Cora that if she were playing poker with Doddsworth, she wouldn’t know whether to call, raise, or fold.

27

CORA GOT HOME TO FIND SHERRY WORKING ON THE COMPUTER.

“Hi,” Cora said. “How’s your day?”

“I’m trying to finish the Puzzle Lady column. I keep getting interrupted.”

“Sorry about that.”

“No, not you. Aaron took me to lunch.”

“You could have refused.”

“Don’t be silly. I was hungry.”

“That hardly counts as an interruption.”

“Then Doddsworth came by.”

“What did he want?”

“To know if I was pregnant.”

“Glad I asked.”

Sherry filled Cora in on Jonathon Doddsworth’s visit.

“What did you say?” Cora asked her.

“I told him to go to hell.”

“Probably not the most tactful answer.”

“Well, not exactly in those words. But I told him I sure as heck wasn’t taking any test.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Did I do the wrong thing?”

“No. But it’s a no-win situation. You either let him force you into taking the test, or you refuse and let him insinuate you have something to hide.”

“I know.”

“You’re not preggers, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Maybe you should take the test just to throw it back in his face.”

“I will not take the test. It’s a matter of principle.”

“Maybe you get your own home pregnancy test and do it by yourself. Quietly, without telling anyone. Just to make sure you pass. I remember when I was dating Henry—”

“Aunt
Cora
! I am not in the mood!”

“Well, you better be prepared. Doddsworth’s planning something. He and Chief Harper have their heads together, and, frankly, I don’t like it.”

“Where did you see ’em?”

“At my music lesson.”

“What?”

Cora told Sherry about the experiments in the gym.

“Granted, it’s not conclusive,” she said, “but it’s a good indication the blowgun had nothing to do with the dart.”

“Then why was it there?”

“As a red herring. To make it look like that’s how Dorrie was bumped off. When actually the killer placed the dart by hand.”

“That’s your deduction?”

“That’s how it looks. Now, without ruling out the possibility one of the wise men threw it, the only ones who could have done it are Maxine Doddsworth; Lance, the boyfriend; that tech geek, Alfred something; or you.”

“Or her,” Sherry said.

“Huh?”

“Or
her.
Dorrie Taggart. She could have done it herself. Knelt in position and stuck the dart in her neck.”

“Why on earth would she do that?”

“How should I know? We’re talking possible here. It would have been possible for her to do it.”

“Good for you,” Cora said. “Living with me is finally starting to rub off. Yes, she absolutely could. If I use that, I’ll be sure to give you credit.”

“When has
that
ever been an issue?” Sherry said dryly.

A car came up the driveway, closely followed by another.

“Looks like we’re throwing a party,” Cora said.

Chief Harper and Jonathon Doddsworth got out of the first car. Dan Finley got out of the second.

“It’s the cops. I hope they have some news.” Cora opened the front door. “Come in, gentlemen. You’ll forgive us if we’re not prepared to entertain, but you might have called first. What’s this all about?”

Chief Harper didn’t answer. He avoided her eyes, walked in, tugged off his overcoat, and stood, fidgeting.

Doddsworth, by contrast, seemed utterly at home. The inspector stepped in, smiled a condescending smile, and gestured to Dan Finley as if he were the MC of some gala event. “Officer?”

Dan Finley looked as uncomfortable as Chief Harper, only more so. His face was pink with embarrassment. He had not removed his coat, and he was already starting to sweat. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a piece of paper. “Miss Felton. Miss Harper. I have a warrant, issued by Judge Hobbs, to search these premises for evidence pertaining to the homicide of one Doris Taggart. This warrant was issued on this day pursuant to allegation and belief of Chief Harper of the Bakerhaven police force. The order is legal and binding, and mandates a search of these premises. Please do not interfere.”

“You have
got
to be kidding!” Sherry exclaimed. Cora, on the other hand, looked fascinated.

“He’s not,” Doddsworth said. “We clearly have probable cause. Or, rather,
they
have probable cause. Chief Harper and his minion will be conducting the search. I, of course, have no authority here. But I certainly have a right to advise. Young man, I would start with the computer.”

Dan Finley gulped. “Yes, sir, I know.” He reluctantly plodded off toward Sherry’s office.

“Would you care to have a go, Chief?” Doddsworth said. “The longer you delay, the longer this will take.”

Chief Harper took a breath. “And where would you suggest that I look?”

Doddsworth considered the question as if it had been serious. “I’d begin here, move toward the bedrooms. There’s no call to disturb the ladies’ private items unless we really must.”

“Private items?” Cora cocked her head. “You’re going through my undies?”

“Not if we can help it,” Doddsworth assured her.

“Well, that’s a fine how-do-you-do. Judge Hobbs did this to me? Remind me to cross him off my eligible bachelors list.”

Dan Finley emerged from the office with a small black rectangle in his hand. “Got the computer disk,” he reported miserably.

“Did you search the office?” Doddsworth asked.

“No, sir. Just got the disk.”

“Well, chop-chop, lad, move your bum.”

Dan gave Doddsworth an agonized look, shrugged helplessly, and walked back down the hall.

“You’re taking my computer disk?” Sherry said.

“Oh, that’s not your disk. It’s his.” Doddsworth’s smile was smug. “The young chap just copied some data.”

Sherry’s face darkened. “If he messed up that computer—”

Sherry hurried down the hallway to the office, where Dan Finley was going through her desk drawers. “What did you do to my computer?” she demanded.

Dan looked up guiltily. “I didn’t do anything, Miss Carter. I just downloaded files.”

“What files?”

“The acrostic files.”

“Why?”

Before Dan could answer, Cora swept into the room. “All right, you. Would you mind telling me what you’re looking for?”

“Proof you wrote the poems.”

Cora’s mouth fell open. For once she was speechless.

“Not you. Her.” Dan pointed to Sherry. “The theory is
she
wrote them, and then
you
worked them into puzzles for her. That’s assuming she wasn’t able to do it herself.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I wish I were. Doddsworth has this theory, and he did some detective work and forced Chief Harper’s hand. Judge Hobbs bought it, and here we are.”

“Are you going to search the whole house?”

“We are if you’re innocent. We have to search till we find something. If you’re not guilty, we won’t find it.”

There came a triumphant “Aha!” from the living room. Moments later, an exultant Doddsworth strode in the door.

Chief Harper trailed in after. He looked sick. In his hand was a stack of red envelopes.

“Miss Carter,” Doddsworth prompted. “I believe Chief Harper has something to say to you.”

Chief Harper shuffled his booted feet. He seemed to deflate under Doddsworth’s piercing gaze. He cleared his throat twice. “Sherry Carter. You’re under arrest for the murder of Dorrie Taggart.”