A Puzzle in a Pear Tree (29 page)

50

CORA FELTON SLIPPED OUT OF BED AT THREE A.M. SHE dressed in the dark, then tiptoed down the hall so as not to wake her niece. In the foyer she pulled on her boots and her overcoat and hat, and stealthily let herself out the front door.

The temperature had dropped, and a bitter wind was whipping the freshly fallen snow, leaving patterns on the lawn. Cora tugged her coat around her, hurried to the Toyota. The door was frozen shut—it didn’t want to open even after she had popped the lock. Cora put her weight into it and it gave with a low, cracking groan. She slid into the front seat, started the engine. It protested mightily, then caught with an earsplitting roar. Cora eased back on the gas, prayed she wouldn’t pop the fan belt. Which, her ex-husband Frank had been fond of telling her, would make the car overheat before she’d gone five miles. Cora had no time for that now. Nor had she time to warm up the engine, another of Frank’s many automotive precautions. Cora put the car in gear, pulled down the drive. She didn’t turn on the headlights till she reached the road.

She drove quickly through town and out onto Culvert Drive, where she’d scouted Rupert Winston’s rental house the day before. It was a small two-story, white with green shutters, like most of the houses in town, and had a brick chimney, constructed, no doubt, with Santa Claus in mind.

There was a light on in the living room. The rest of the house was dark. Cora tiptoed up the front steps and tried the door. Locked. She tried to peer in the living room window, but the shade was drawn.

Cora went around the house. The moon was almost full. Her boots left footprints in the snow.

The glass storm door on the side of the house swung open. The wooden door to the kitchen proved to be unlocked also. Cora went inside, found a welcome mat on the linoleum floor. She scraped off her boots, stepped in, and pulled the door closed.

The kitchen, she noted, had fluorescent lights. She didn’t want to turn them on, but there was no need. Light from the living room spilled into the hallway. Cora followed the light, stepped through the door.

The living room cried Actor. Bookcases were crammed with plays. A poster of Olivier as Hamlet dominated one wall. A framed certificate of nomination for some theatrical award or another—Cora could tell from the masks of comedy and tragedy in the upper right- and left-hand corners—was displayed over the mantelpiece. Next to it hung a framed theater program, no doubt from the show associated with the award.

On the coffee table sat a half-full glass of water. Next to it sat a case of pills. A daily reminder case, with little compartments for each day of the week. Cora noted that the slot for last night’s pills was open, and the receptacle was empty.

A faint scent of bitter almonds filled the air.

Rupert Winston sat on his couch. His head lolled back at an impossible angle. His features were contorted. A streak of saliva dribbled down his chin.

He was clearly dead.

51

DORRIE TAGGART LOOKED GORGEOUS. HER GOLDEN HAIR WAS tastefully arranged against the red satin lining of the casket. Her cheeks were rosy. Her lips were ruby red. She might have been Sleeping Beauty, waiting to be awakened by a kiss.

The coffin lay before the altar. The Taggarts sat in the first pew, Horace Taggart stiff as a ramrod, Mindy Taggart weeping and clinging to his arm. Across the aisle from them, Pamela Doddsworth was attempting to console Maxine, who kept batting her hand away.

Students filled the next few pews. Cora Felton noted the boyfriend Lance Ridgewood, the techie Alfred Adams, the young actress Laura, who had taken over the part of Nina in
The Seagull
, and the teenager playing Konstantine, whose name Cora did not know. All seemed properly awed by the occasion.

Becky Baldwin sat with Rick Reed, who had not been allowed to film but was hoping to grab interviews after the service.

Dan Finley sat behind them.

Just in case.

Also on hand were Chief Harper and his wife and daughter, Jimmy Potter and his mother, wannabe amateur detective Harvey Beerbaum, out-of-favor-since-arraigning-Sherry Judge Hobbs, dapper doctor Barney Nathan, prosecutor Henry Firth, art teacher Charlie Ferric, and Mr. Hodges the music teacher—Cora had never heard his first name.

Cora and Aaron sat flanking Sherry, for moral support. Cora hoped Sherry wouldn’t need it.

Jonathon Doddsworth rose from beside the casket, tears in his eyes. He walked to the pulpit, leaned on it, looked out over the congregation. His voice was husky. “I knew Dorrie. Knew her as a little girl. She used to play with my sweet daughter Max. So long ago. So very long ago.”

He sighed heavily, stroked his muttonchops. “I’m not much good at speaking. Not much good at much. I’ll give it a go, for Dorrie’s sake.

“I’ll do the best I can.”

Doddsworth took a breath, seemed to organize his thoughts. “Rupert Winston died last night.”

This announcement produced only minor rumbling from the congregation. Clearly, everyone had heard the news.

“Apparently by his own hand,” Doddsworth continued. “Bit of a stunner. Could it be true? Or something else entirely?” He paused and looked out at the assemblage.

“This all begins with puzzles. Jingly poems promise the death of an actress.
Die, leading lady, die.
Who are these obscene missives from, and to whom are they directed? They appear to be meant for Miss Baldwin. And they sound like the rhymes of a schoolgirl. Appearances can be deceiving. In this case, what is the truth?”

Doddsworth hesitated, looked out over the congregation. His eyes met Cora Felton’s. He took in her niece, sitting next to her, then looked to Cora again.

Her face was iron.

Doddsworth took a breath, then blurted out: “In this case, the truth is
exactly
as it seems. The poems were written by Dorrie Taggart, and they were intended for Miss Becky Baldwin, attorney-at-law.”

This announcement produced a loud reaction in the church. Mindy Taggart sat up straight, stared at him openmouthed. Doddsworth’s daughter, Maxine, twisted away from her mother and glared furiously at her father.

Cora Felton leaned back in the pew and heaved a sigh. It was out of her hands. It was all up to Doddsworth now.

Having taken the plunge, Doddsworth picked up the pace and pressed on rapidly. “I know, I know. You find that hard to fathom. I shall try to explain. Dorrie Taggart was quite mature, but she was in fact a girl. A young girl, in love with a young boy. I think it is safe to say the lad, by some casual remark or other, gave her the impression that he fancied Miss Baldwin.

“Well, Dorrie’s jealous reaction to that was purely adolescent. She penned silly, threatening jingles, and sent them to her ‘rival.’ One she placed in the pear tree presented to Miss Baldwin. The other she pinned to her costume. And that might have been the end of it. Except for one thing.

“Jesse Virdon.

“The tech director.

“Dorrie was the lead in the Bakerhaven High production of
The Seagull.
She had long rehearsals. They sometimes ran quite late. Dorrie would stay, even after the director left, working on her part.

“While the tech director worked on his set.

“Jesse Virdon was an unstable young man with a history of criminal activities, including offenses against women.”

This information, having already been released by the police, was no surprise, either, but its use in this context was. There came a low rumble of voices from the congregation.

Doddsworth rode over it. “We can assume Virdon made some advance which poor Dorrie rebuffed. And that he didn’t take her rejection well.”

There were audible gasps and whispers.

Doddsworth raised his voice. “We don’t know what caused Jesse Virdon to snap. Perhaps a lifetime of rebuffs. Perhaps insanity or rage. But snap he did. Jesse Virdon decided that Dorrie Taggart must die.”

Mindy Taggart cried out, a choking sob. Horace Taggart hugged her close and gaped at Doddsworth in amazement. Pam and Maxine gawked at him too. Maxine’s mouth was open. Her metal braces gleamed.

Doddsworth waited with patience until his audience was quiet enough for him to continue.

“Lo and behold, an opportunity presents itself. Dorrie Taggart is portraying the Virgin Mary in the live Nativity. She swaps places with Becky Baldwin. In light of the poems threatening Miss Baldwin, if Dorrie were to die, it would appear the killer had mistaken one young woman for the other.

“Jesse Virdon is portraying Joseph, but earlier in the morning, before Dorrie arrives. He will have no opportunity to kill her. But this is good. The actors on hand will be the likely suspects. Who would suspect someone who had already left?

“Virdon must pretend to leave, but actually remain. But how? His costume must be returned to town hall. It must be hanging there for the next Joseph. Which it was. So how did he stay?

“The Joseph costume is not elaborate. It’s basically a blanket, long hair, and a beard. He need merely find another. Bring it to town hall and put it on. He wears the other costume over his—after all, it’s quite cold. He goes to the manger, plays Joseph for an hour, until he is relieved by Alfred Adams. He returns to town hall, hangs the original costume on the hook where it should be.

“He walks out of town hall in his own costume and returns to the crèche. The actors in the stable will not see him, as the path leads to the crèche from behind. The only danger is that someone in the square may notice Joseph arriving twice. But barring that, Jesse is quite safe. The figure of Joseph, walking along the actors’ path at approximately a quarter past the hour, is what everyone expects to see.

“He reaches the crèche, wriggles underneath the platform it is mounted on.

“Waits for Dorrie to arrive.

“At eleven she does. Minutes later, Alfred Adams is relieved by Lance Ridgewood. Dorrie’s boyfriend. The youth whose advances Dorrie did
not
spurn. The perfect scapegoat. What could be better?

“Jesse Virdon has brought a poison dart. When the coast is clear, he emerges from his hiding place, opens the door in the back of the crèche.

“All of the actors are facing outward, away from him. Directly in front of him, Dorrie kneels on the floor of the stable, leaning against Joseph, her boyfriend, Lance. The Virgin Mary’s cowl is
not
hiding her face, as it was when she was found. Dorrie’s features are in plain sight.

“As is the side of her neck.

“Jesse Virdon raises the dart and gives it a toss. God knows he should have missed, even at that distance. For an unpracticed hand it could not have been an easy task. But foul luck is with him. The dart strikes Dorrie in the neck. She slumps against Joseph. The hood slips forward, hiding her face. Because she is leaning against Joseph, she doesn’t fall down. Jesse Virdon has murdered her, and no one in the tableau has noticed. Jesse Virdon eases the door closed. The deed is done.

“Before leaving the crèche, Jesse searches Dorrie’s coat, which is hanging just behind the door. He finds the third puzzle poem. He has no idea how to solve it. He figures it will be like the others. This is perfect for his plan.

“He’s already secreted a blowpipe in the organ loft of the church, to baffle the authorities. He sneaks back into the church and affixes the puzzle to the blowgun. Then he returns to town hall, strips off his costume, shoves it in his backpack, and pulls on his clothes. He hops in his auto, motors to the high school, and resumes painting the set. No one has missed him. He has committed the perfect crime.”

Doddsworth allowed himself a brief, self-deprecating smile. “Hard cheese for Jesse Virdon. I am on the scene. Horace Taggart brings me in to investigate. And, because of the acrostic poems, the Puzzle Lady becomes involved. As a result, Jesse Virdon has Chief Harper, Miss Felton, and me all nipping at his heels. A most uncomfortable position to be in. How best to throw us off the scent?”

The inspector shrugged. “What could be easier? The poems appear to target Becky Baldwin. Dorrie was substituting for Miss Baldwin. Indeed, the Virgin Mary who relieved Dorrie believed she
was
Becky Baldwin. All Jesse Virdon need do is underline the notion that the killer made a dreadful mistake and murdered the wrong young lass.

“Not a problem for the young technical director. Jesse finds a sandbag in the grid that’s not in use, unties it from the pinrail, and ties it off near his stage manager position. Then, when Miss Baldwin is warbling her notes, he drops the bag onstage. He doesn’t care where it falls. He isn’t trying to cosh her, he’s merely trying to create the
illusion
an attempt has been made. To further the illusion, he attaches a note to Miss Baldwin’s costume, proclaiming,
Wrong girl.

“But this note is telling. While Virdon is able to procure a red envelope, he lacks the skill to fashion a puzzle poem. Nonetheless, the police—and, alas, I—take this ‘evidence’ at face value, and, on the strength of Miss Carter’s alleged rivalry with Miss Baldwin, we arrest Miss Carter for the crime.

“Smooth sailing for Jesse Virdon. He has everybody fooled.

“With one exception.

“Rupert Winston was no dolt. He was an artist—sensitive, intuitive, keenly perceptive. He had noticed Mr. Virdon’s infatuation with Miss Taggart. He had cause to observe Jesse Virdon after Dorrie’s death.

“Rupert Winston did not like what he saw.

“Jesse Virdon appeared to fancy many of the girls in the play. In particular, the actress whom Rupert Winston had tapped as poor Dorrie’s successor in the starring role of Nina. If his suspicions were true, that girl would not be safe.

“On the night in question, after everyone else had left the theater, Rupert Winston confronted Jesse Virdon and accused him of the crime.”

Doddsworth grimaced. “Not a prudent move. Cornered, Jesse Virdon attacks. Seriously outmatched, and in fear for his life, Rupert Winston snatches up a length of wood and lays him out. Jesse Virdon drops to the stage floor, dead.

“Rupert Winston panics. It is just days before the Christmas pageant. The loss of a few rehearsals could be vital. If he tells his tale to the authorities, even if they believe he acted in self-defense, they will never leave him time to rehearse.

“What can he do?

“He ties a rope around Jesse Virdon’s neck and hoists him up into the grid. The idea is to make it look as if the young man hanged himself in a fit of remorse. It is a poor idea, not very well thought out—the wound on Virdon’s head will instantly contradict it—but by now Rupert Winston is desperate. He closes up the gymnasium, goes home, and waits to be awakened with the news of Virdon’s death.

“So who, you may ask, killed Rupert Winston?”

Doddsworth shook his head. “Irony of ironies, it was Jesse Virdon.”

That announcement produced an uproar entirely out of place in a church. The Reverend Kimble strode out in front of the pulpit and held up his arms for quiet. Even so, it was some time before Doddsworth was able to resume.

“Yes,” he told the congregation. “You heard me right. Rupert Winston’s killer was Jesse Virdon. From the tenor of Mr. Winston’s questions earlier in the day, Virdon realized the director had his measure.

“Jesse Virdon had access to poison—soon we shall learn from where. He had the curare that killed Dorrie Taggart, and also the cyanide that would kill Rupert Winston.

“Mr. Winston took a variety of medications. He had one of those weekly pillboxes with a compartment for each day. He carried it in his briefcase. Had it with him during each rehearsal. While Jesse Virdon was working on the set.

“What could be better? The daily pillbox told Jesse Virdon exactly what pills Rupert Winston would be taking, and when. Jesse Virdon had only to remove one and replace it with a similar-looking capsule containing cyanide. Rupert Winston, gulping down four or five pills at a time, would scarcely be likely to detect the substitution. Even less so, if he was slightly tipsy. So Jesse Virdon cleverly chose the night of the Christmas pageant. Rupert Winston was sure to be celebrating, and would never notice.