And a Puzzle to Die On (17 page)

There were still trick-or-treaters out when Cora hit Danbury. That bothered her. It was nearly eleven, for Christ’s sake. What were their parents thinking? Cora had a good mind to stop the next gaggle of ghouls and send them straight home. She’d had enough with trick-or-treaters tonight. It occurred to her she was considering hassling teenagers because she had so little else practical to do. She was on, she realized, a fool’s errand. And the only reason she was on it was because she couldn’t bear to sit home doing nothing. Not with someone throwing fastballs through her window.

Cora’s acquaintance with the Bible consisted largely of placing her hand on it when testifying in court, but she seemed to remember something about people without sin casting the first stone. Cora would have bet long odds tonight’s stone-caster was not sinless.

Cora patted the purse on the seat beside her. She was comforted by the cold steel outline of her gun.

Cora pulled the Toyota to the side of the road, snapped on the overhead light. She surveyed the printout
from MapQuest. Wondered if she’d missed the last turn. No, the directions said three stoplights. She knew she’d only gone through two.

Spider-Man and Batman approached the car and requested candy. Cora switched off the overhead light and peeled out, leaving the superheroes in the dust. She hung a right at the next light, and it was as if someone had suddenly pressed the wealth button. The street was better lit, the houses larger and farther apart. The lawns spacious, the hedges trimmed.

Cora spotted a brass number on a gatepost. It was 8. She wanted 12. Cora slowed, drove down the street.

The house had a horseshoe drive, accessible through two gaps in a tall hedge. It led to a sprawling two-story colonial. A Ferrari was parked out front. Cora pulled up behind it and got out. She went up to the front door and rang the bell. She waited, rang again.

The door was flung open by a woman in a blue flannel robe. Her hair was up in curlers. She had some sort of mud plaster on her face. She looked like a ghoul.

“Trick or treat,” Cora said.

The ghoul gaped at her.

“Don’t recognize me? I recognize you. Even with the war paint. You were in Dr. Jenkins’s office this morning. According to vital statistics, he’s not your husband.”

The woman started to slam the door.

Cora blocked it with her shoulder. “Bad idea. I outweigh you. I could also wait till your husband gets home and talk to him, but that’s not gonna do either one of us any good. What do you say we have a little chat?”

After a moment, the ghoul snarled, “Come in.”

“Good decision.” Cora pushed past her through the foyer and into an ostentatious living room hung with what appeared to be original art. The furniture was some period or other, most likely Louis Quatorze. A plasma TV was the only modern touch. It was tuned to the Home Shopping Network.

Cora snickered.

The woman grabbed the remote, switched the TV off.

“Home Shopping, eh?” Cora said. “The good thing about that mud pack is, I can’t see you blush.”

“What do you want?” the woman demanded.

“Anyone throw a stone through your window?”

“Huh?”

“Just wondering. You were in Dr. Jenkins’s office this morning. And I was in Dr. Jenkins’s office this morning. Someone threw a stone through my window. I was just wondering if someone threw a stone through yours.”

“Who
are
you?” the woman shrilled.

Cora nodded. “You either don’t know or that’s a very good bluff. My name’s Cora Felton. I’m a private investigator. I’m looking into the case of Darryl Daigue.”

“Who?”

Cora grimaced. “That’s the trouble with the mud pack. I really can’t tell if you’re lying. I wonder if I could wear one playing poker.”

“Cut the comedy. You got something to say, say it.”

“You’re on the parole board.”

“Yeah. So?”

“And Dr. Jenkins is on the parole board.”

“What about it?”

“Anyone ever try to swing your vote?”

“Now, see here—”

“Don’t get all indignant. I’m not accusing you of anything. It just occurred to me, you’re married, and Dr. Jenkins is married, and some unscrupulous person who wanted to rig the parole board might take advantage of that.”

“You’re way off base.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“There is no way I could spring a prisoner unless I could sway the whole board. Believe me, that would never happen.”

“You mean someone would veto you?”

“You’re damn right they would. Parole is not a free pass. It’s an
earned privilege
. And we take it damn seriously.”

“And the name Darryl Daigue means nothing to you?”

She hesitated a moment. “I didn’t say that. There is a prisoner named Darryl Daigue who’s appeared before us. I don’t remember the details. I do know he wasn’t released. Believe me, that’s all I know. Now will you get the hell out of here?”

“My pleasure.”

Cora got in her car, drove out the other end of the horseshoe driveway.

A black sedan was parked across the street, its lights off.

Cora pulled out of the driveway and hung a left without a glance in the direction of the sedan. She drove to the first stoplight, hung a right. She drove a quarter mile to the next stoplight, hung a right. She drove two stoplights, hung a right. She drove one
stoplight and hung a right onto the street where Ida Blaine lived.

Half a block away from the house, Cora cut her lights, pulled to the curb, and got out. She walked up next to the black sedan, rapped on the window.

A flat-faced man with a broken nose and cauliflower ears looked surprised as hell to see her.

“You throw a stone through my window?” Cora asked.

The squashed-in face gawked.

“Naw, I didn’t think so. You got your job.” Cora pointed to the house. “Just a hint. She’s in pajamas and robe and she’s
not
going out. If you’re getting paid by the hour, don’t let me rain on your parade. But I promise you, nothing’s happening tonight.”

Cora beamed at the discomfited private eye, and walked back to her car.

Chief Harper was apologetic. “I spoke to Sam. There was no reason for him to take that attitude.”

“Did I complain?” Cora asked.

“You don’t have to complain. There’s still no call for it.”

“Am I in a Marx Brothers movie? Chief, I didn’t complain about Sam. Who told you he gave me trouble?”

“Oh. Sam did. Said you reported a busted window. Looked like trick-or-treaters. Even your niece thought so. So he yanked your chain.”

“That’s his version?”

“Version?”

“Did Sam mention he was less than cooperative because I was investigating Darryl Daigue?”

“I believe he expressed his annoyance.”

“Was that before or after you read him the riot act?”

“You’re in a pretty bad mood this morning.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? I’m investigating a twenty-year-old murder case where nothing makes sense.
Everybody and his brother agrees the guy in jail did it, with the possible exception of the guy in jail. Nothing I can come up with seems to cast any doubt on the guy’s guilt, but someone doesn’t like me digging. Actually,
no one
likes me digging, but someone in particular, because of the rock. And, no, I don’t think it was trick-or-treaters, in spite of what Sherry said. I think it’s someone telling me to mind my own business.”

“I didn’t throw that rock.”

“Oh, very funny, Chief. You’re forgetting this
is
my business. Becky Baldwin hired me.”

“Yes, as I recall she hired you to see if there was any chance of getting Darryl Daigue out of jail. Isn’t the answer no?”

“It would be if so many people weren’t pushing it.”

“Ah. Reverse psychology. So whoever threw that rock had just the opposite effect.”

“You got a problem with that?”

“No, I see your logic. It’s just, none of this makes Darryl Daigue any less guilty.”

Cora reached into her drawstring purse, flipped a folded piece of paper onto Chief Harper’s desk.

He eyed it suspiciously. “What’s that?”

“A license-plate number of a Danbury P.I. I’m not asking you to trace it, Chief. I just thought you should have it.”

“You mind telling me why?”

“Not at all. The private dick would appear to have been hired by Quentin Hawes to keep an eye on his wayward wife, Ida Blaine. Who happens to be one of the parole board members who turned down the application of Darryl Daigue. And who appears to be a little too chummy with Dr. Jenkins, who just happens to be one of the other parole board members who turned
down the appeal of Darryl Daigue. Who also happens to be Darryl Daigue’s prison physician, not to mention the medical examiner who signed off on the one-car accident of Ricky Gleason, the counter boy Darryl Daigue claims not only could have given him an alibi, but was most likely the actual killer.”

“You told me all this before.”

“I like to recapitulate. It’s so confusing, even I lose track.”

“Uh-huh. And what’s this guy having his wife shadowed got to do with anything?”

“Nothing. Except the P.I.’s car would appear to be a dark sedan.”

“You think it’s the car that was following you?”

“There’s one thing that points to it.”

“What’s that?”

“Car picked me up at the doc’s. At least, that’s the first time I noticed it. And this lady was also at the doc’s.”

“Wait a minute. You said the husband put a tail on this woman ’cause she was involved with the doc.”

“Yeah, but I could be wrong.”

“No kidding.”

“I mean, the reason. If the dick’s not tailing her ’cause she’s stepping out on hubby, it could be for the same reason he’s tailing me.”

Chief Harper struggled to digest that. “Cora, this is convoluted, even for you.”

Cora sighed. “I know. The case is driving me batty. If that isn’t bad enough, I have to put up with Harvey Beerbaum’s birthday surprise.”

Chief Harper choked on his coffee. “Birthday surprise?”

“Yeah, he’s got all these famous people sending me crossword puzzles. I mean, it’s embarrassing. I don’t even know these people and they’re sending me Happy Birthday crossword puzzles. What am I supposed to do, send them crossword puzzle thank-you cards?”

ACROSTIC
by Emily Cox and Henry Rathvon

“That’s a charming idea.”

“Says who? They either gotta be individual, which is a pain in the fanny, or I risk offending ’em by sending everybody the same one.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, yeah? Look at this.”

Cora dug in her purse, came out with a folded page. She smoothed it out, showed it to the chief.

“Recognize this? It’s an acrostic.”

“Like the ones last Christmas?” Chief Harper asked.

“Don’t remind me.”

“I assume this one doesn’t tell you you’re going to die?”

“Not likely. Look who wrote it.”

“Emily Cox and Henry Rathvon? Who are they?”

“I don’t know them personally. They just happen to do the acrostics for the
New York Times
Sunday section. They have one in every other week. They’re not just acrostics constructors. They’re
the
acrostics constructors. Sherry went nuts when she saw their names.”

“Your niece is a bit of a puzzle buff, isn’t she?”

Cora’s smile slipped only a second. “Well, she oughta be. With all the work she does on my puzzles. I couldn’t get the column out without her.”

“So what’s the puzzle say?”

Cora smiled. It was a good time to repair her puzzle-making image by parroting what Sherry had just told her. “An acrostic is a quote. And the first letters of the clues give you the title and the author of the quote. In this case, Lucille Ball.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Not at all. It’s a famous quote. Emily and Henry took it and made it into a puzzle.”

“Really? What is it?”

“ ‘The secret of staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly, and lie about your age.’ ”

Chief Harper grinned and scratched his head. “Well, how do you feel about that?”

Cora shrugged. “Not the worst advice I’ve ever had.”