And a Puzzle to Die On (27 page)

“There’s more?”

“The hits just keep on coming,” Cora said grimly.

“Wanna tell me about it?”

“No.” Cora shrugged. “What Sherry decides to tell you is her business. But if you print it, I’ll never talk to
you again. And if you tell Becky Baldwin,
Sherry
will never talk to you again.”

“Hold on, here it is,” Sherry said, pointing to the TV.

The face of Rick Reed filled the screen. The young, handsome, and generally clueless on-camera reporter stood in front of the Bakerhaven police station holding a microphone.

Sherry grabbed the remote control, turned the volume up.

“Once again, murder in Bakerhaven,”
Rick Reed was saying.

“He better not have anything I don’t,” Aaron said. Sherry shushed him.

“It happened late last night at a surprise party to celebrate the birthday of Bakerhaven’s most celebrated citizen, Miss Cora Felton, the beloved Puzzle Lady.”

“If he gives my age, I’ll kill him,” Cora declared.

A picture of Cora Felton filled the screen.

“It was a surprise all right,”
Rick Reed’s voice-over continued.
“The body of Peter Burnside practically fell in her lap.”

“See,” Cora bragged. “He couldn’t get me. He had to use a publicity photo.”

“You got a publicist?” Aaron asked.

“Naw. The ad agency for the cereal commercials.”

“Will you two shut up,” Sherry said. “I want to hear.”

“Ah, another Rick Reed groupie,” Cora said.

“Shhh!”

“Complicating the bewildering investigation is the fact that Peter Burnside was a resident of Danbury, Connecticut, with no ties to the town. Dale Harper, the Bakerhaven chief of police, is cooperating with the Danbury police force, but so far there are no suspects.”

On the TV screen, Chief Harper eyed the microphone as if it were some particularly odious vegetable his mother said was good for him.
“We are cooperating with the Danbury police, and we are cooperating with the media. As soon as we know anything, we’ll pass it along.”

“Is there any connection between this crime and the murder of Valerie Thompkins last night in Danbury?”

“Only that both victims lived there. But the crimes themselves happened miles apart.”

“Weren’t both their throats slit, Chief?”

“I have no comment at this time.”

“Does that mean you don’t know anything?”
Rick Reed persisted.

Chief Harper’s eyes smoldered, but his voice was steady.
“This is a picture of the victim.”

Peter Burnside’s face filled the screen. It had been carefully cropped at the chin so as not to show the slash in his neck. Still, the eyes were dull, glassy. The man did not look well.

“This is the dead man, Peter Burnside. We’re asking anyone who recognizes him, anyone who’s seen him in Bakerhaven, particularly yesterday—more particularly, last night—to get in touch with the police and tell us what you know. It goes without saying we’re particularly interested in anyone Mr. Burnside might have been with,”
the chief said.

“And there you have it,”
Rick Reed summed up.
“The police, clueless, appealing for help. This is Rick Reed, Channel 8 News.”

The TV went to commercial.

Sherry picked up the zapper, switched the TV off. “See? He’s got no more than you do.”

“Yeah, he didn’t even mention the stolen videotape,” Aaron said.

“Very funny,” Cora snapped.

The phone rang. Cora went into the kitchen, scooped it off the wall.

It was Becky Baldwin.

“Hi,” Cora said. “You see your boyfriend on TV?”

“Who?”

“Rick Reed.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“He’s taking you out to dinner.”

“A girl’s gotta eat.”

“I’ll say. What’s up?”

“You wanted me to find out about the dog.”

“You did?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How?”

“Called and asked them.”

“Whoa! They fall for that clever strategy?”

“Actually, they wanted to know why.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That I heard it was a break-in murder, and was it possibly a negligence case?”

“Cops like that?”

“It made me as popular as the plague. I managed to ask if there was a guard dog involved. I went all mushy when it turned out to be a toy poodle.”

“So where’s the dog?”

“The neighbor’s feeding it.”

“A neighbor took the dog in?”

“No, she’s just feeding it. I suppose the ASPCA will step in.”

“Who’s the neighbor?”

“Hey, how much interest could an ambulance chaser show? I got the name of the next of kin, but the name of the dog feeder is a little remote. If you really
care, how hard can it be? It’s the next-door neighbor. There can’t be more than two.”

“Thanks, Becky.”

“You mind telling me what’s so important about this dog?”

“I told you. I’m concerned for its welfare.”

“Well, it’s fine.”

“And it’s going to stay that way,” Cora muttered, as she hung up the phone.

Cynthia Mayberry was the type of person who regarded every tragedy as an imposition upon them. A stout woman, with a habit of sticking her nose in the air, Mrs. Mayberry had taken the demise of her neighbor particularly hard. Police cars, ambulances, and news vans had tied up the street most of the day. Mrs. Mayberry hadn’t even been able to get out to market.

Plus she had to feed the dog.

“Not that I mind, you understand,” she whined. “But these are large lots, our houses are
not
that close together, and it’s an inconvenience to go traipsing over there twice a day.”

“Why didn’t you bring the dog here?” Cora asked.

She might as well have suggested strychnine. “
Here?
In my home?” Mrs. Mayberry glanced around the foyer, which was neat as a pin. Cora imagined the rest of the house was the same, though there seemed little chance she would get to see it. Not that she gave a damn. It had taken fast talking to get this far. “You
should never have been put in that position,” she commiserated.

“I suppose I shouldn’t complain,” Mrs. Mayberry said, then proceeded to do so. “But if the woman’s made
no
provisions for the dog—and from what everyone can tell, she
hasn’t
—well, that’s just not right. If you live alone, you have to consider what might happen.”

“That’s certainly true.” Cora had a vision of the decedent sitting at her makeup table thinking, “If I get killed today, what’s going to happen to my pooch?” She converted her smile of amusement into one of benevolence. “Well, I’m glad I can help you out.”

“Yes. And just what relationship were you to Mrs. Thompkins?”

“Oh, Valerie used to follow me around.” Cora hated lying, prided herself on her misleading truths. She smiled fondly. “Last time I saw her was with that poor dog. It’s hard to believe she’s gone.”

That was good enough for Cynthia Mayberry. “Well, I’m glad you’re willing to take him. He needs a home.”

“He certainly does,” Cora agreed, heartily. “Now, then, you’ve been imposed upon enough. If you want, I’ll just go over and get him.”

“You can’t get in. I have the keys.”

“I could bring them back,” Cora ventured. It was a tactful offer, not suggesting the woman give her the keys, but merely alluding to their safe return.

Cynthia Mayberry wasn’t biting. “No. I’ll have to go with you. You can drive me over.”

“Actually, my car’s parked out on the road.”

“You walked in?”

“I walked to Valerie’s. When I couldn’t get in, I cut across the lawn. I hope that’s all right.”

“That’s how I go to feed the dog.” Cynthia Mayberry made it sound like a lifetime chore. Cora figured the woman had done it twice at the most.

“If you want to keep the dog, I quite understand,” Cora said.

Mrs. Mayberry fell all over herself rejecting the suggestion. “No, no, no. I’m not equipped to do that. Actually, I’m not really a dog person, you know what I mean? Let me get my keys, I’ll take you over.”

Cora followed Mrs. Mayberry across the lawn. There was not exactly a path worn between the two houses. They had to find a break in the hedge that separated the properties.

Mrs. Mayberry headed for the back of the house. “The police closed the front door. You must have seen the ribbon. But I have a key to the back.”

Cora could hear the dog barking through the kitchen door.

“Quiet!” Mrs. Mayberry cried. Defensively, as if that had sounded too harsh, she added, “He yaps a lot.” Then, lest Cora change her mind, she added hastily, “I’m sure he’ll be fine with you.”

“Oh, I’m sure he will,” Cora agreed.

Mrs. Mayberry stuck her key in the lock. “Now, the main thing is to get in the door without him getting out.”

“You don’t let him out?”

“Just on a leash. Otherwise, I don’t know if he’d come back.”

“I wouldn’t,” Cora muttered.

“What?”

Cora, realizing she’d actually voiced her thought, said, “I wouldn’t let the dear little thing off the leash, either.”

Mrs. Mayberry unlocked the door, and they eased in.

The dog was bouncing all over the kitchen. He seemed more happy to see Cynthia Mayberry than any living creature had any right to be. He was equally happy to see Cora. Evidently he had no bad memories of tracking blood on her legs.

Cora bent down, petted the dog. “Isn’t he a sweetheart? You know, I used to lie on the floor and let him climb over me.”

“His leash is on the doorknob,” Cynthia Mayberry said, making no move to touch it. “His bowls are by the kitchen sink. There’s a bag of dry food on the counter, if you want to take it.”

That didn’t suit Cora’s purposes. Everything she needed was in the kitchen, including the dog. Unless she could get him to run away, she was going to have to take him and go.

“Is there a carrying case?” Cora asked.

“What?”

“A dog carrier. I’m not sure he should travel in a car without a carrying case. Is there a case?”

“I have no idea.”

“Some dogs freak out. I’m sure I remember Valerie saying he wasn’t terribly comfortable without his case.” Cora had to admit she wasn’t
always
able to avoid the direct falsehood.

“I don’t see one. You’ll just have to take him on the leash.”

“I’d really rather not. Perhaps it’s in the closet.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Mrs. Mayberry threw open the door to a broom closet. “No, none here.”

“Of course not,” Cora said. “She’d take him out the front door. It would be in the coat closet in the foyer.”

“We are
not
searching the house,” Cynthia Mayberry declared.

“Oh, all right.” Cora bent down to the dog again. “Sorry. You have to stay.”

Mrs. Mayberry’s eyes widened. “You’re
not
taking him?”

Cora stood firm. “Well, if I can’t have his carrying case …” She let it hang in the air, then smiled. “I’m not asking you to search the house. I’m merely asking you to look in the foyer closet, where it should be. If it’s not there, I’ll take him on a leash. But if it is there, I want to use it. Some dogs throw up in cars. If he does, I guarantee you he’ll have a carrier by the door. I don’t mind taking him, but I don’t want him throwing up on my backseat.”

Mrs. Mayberry eyed the poodle as if trying to determine if he’d be ornery enough to do that. “Fine. We’ll look in the closet, but that’s it. We’re not going anywhere else. Whether we find it or not, you take the dog.”

“It’s a deal,” Cora said.

Mrs. Mayberry marched down the hall to the foyer with Cora and the dog right on her heels. She switched on the light, flung open the coat closet door. “Well, if it is here, it’s not in plain sight.” She moved some hat-boxes to see the top shelf, pushed aside some coats to see the closet floor.

Cora managed to sidle up to the front door, reach behind her, and undo the lock. She stepped away just as Mrs. Mayberry finished rummaging in the closet.

“See, nothing here.”

“I must have confused him with another dog,” Cora said. “I know there was someone who always used a carrying case. I thought it was her. Don’t worry, I’ll take him off your hands.”

Cora headed for the kitchen, hoping Cynthia Mayberry would follow before she noticed the front door was now unlocked.

In the kitchen Cora grabbed the leash, knelt down, crooned, “Here, boy.”

The dog jumped up on her and licked her face.

“That’s a good boy.”

Cora snapped the leash on. She stood up, tucked the dog under one arm, grabbed the bowls and dry food in the other, just as Mrs. Mayberry came into the kitchen.

“Hey, this is terrific,” Cora said. “If you could just open the door for me. Thanks. I’ll get out of your hair, you can lock up and go home. You don’t have to worry about the dog anymore.”

Cora talked her way out the kitchen door, hurried around the house, and down the long asphalt driveway. At the bottom she turned right, walked along the road.

Cora’s car was a block down the street, not right in front of the house. That was one reason she’d left quickly, because the car was not where she’d said.