Fool's Puzzle

Table of Contents

 

 

 

“Fool’s Puzzle
is a ripping read. It’s smart, vigorous, and
more than funny: Within its humor is wrenching
insight ... Not a word is out of place, not a haunting picture
missed ... A new voice to delight hungry mystery readers.”

—Noreen Ayres, author of
A World the Color of Salt

 

“[Fowler] made me laugh out loud on one page and
brought tears to my eyes the next. Benni Harper and her
extended family... live and breathe and occupy a real slice
of California that I haven’t seen before in the mystery field.
An exquisite sense of place ... I can’t wait to read more.”

—Margaret Maron, Edgar
^®
Award-winning author of
Bootlegger’s Daughter

 

“I thoroughly enjoyed Fool’s
Puzzle ...
Fowler’s
characters are terrific ... A super job.”

—Eve K. Sandstrom, author of
The Devil Down Home

 

 

 

A Benni Harper Mystery
by Earlene Fowler

 

“Fool’s Puzzle,” also known as “Drunkard’s Path,”
“Falling Timbers,” and “Country Husband,” is a popular
traditional quilt pattern made with two contrasting
colors. It is easily cut, but very confusing to set together.
The overall pattern is not apparent from a single block
but must be viewed as a whole.

 

 

Don’t miss Earlene Fowler’s next Benni Harper
mystery,
Seven Sisters,
available from
Berkley Prime Crime.

 

 

THE SADDLEMAKER’S WIFE
LOVE MERCY

 

 

 

 

 

FOOL’S PUZZLE
IRISH CHAIN
KANSAS TROUBLES
GOOSE IN THE POND
DOVE IN THE WINDOW
MARINER’S COMPASS
SEVEN SISTERS
ARKANSAS TRAVELER
STEPS TO THE ALTAR
SUNSHINE AND SHADOW
BROKEN DISHES
DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS
TUMBLING BLOCKS

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

FOOL’S PUZZLE

 

 

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

Copyright © 1994 by Earlene Fowler.

The Edgar
^®
name is a registered service mark of the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.
Quilt designs by Pepper Cory.

 

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-50023-1

 

 

Berkley Prime Crime
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The Berkley Prime Crime design is a trademark belongng to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

 

 

 

 

 

For my husband, Allen—
Without a doubt, I’d choose you again
and
For Mary Edith, sister, friend and
“partner in crime” since
the day I was born

As with most endeavors there are always people to thank.

First, I’d like to thank God for grace and blessings I did nothing to deserve.

I’d also like to thank my parents, family and friends for their support, the Fountain Valley Police Department, the staffs at the Huntington Beach and Newport Beach Public Libraries, Steve Bradley for expert gun advice, Darwin Sainz for sharing his knowledge on cattle, my agent, Deborah Schneider, for her hard work and for taking a chance on a new writer, my editor, Laurie Bernstein, for her expert advice and for never failing to make me feel like a million bucks and to Ann Lee, poet and friend, for her unwavering faith in my ability.

And finally, to Jo-Ann Mapson, writer, critic, friend and cowgirl extraordinaire. If there was a silver belt buckle awarded for teaching, you’d be wearing it.

FOOL’S PUZZLE:

A popular traditional quilt pattern best made with two contrasting colors. It is easily cut, but very confusing to set together. The overall pattern is not apparent from a single block but must be viewed as a whole. Also known as “Drunkard’s Path,” “Falling Timbers,” and “Country Husband.”

MY DAY DIDN’T start with murder, although the thought crossed my mind.

“Save me,” the voice on the phone whispered.

I jerked the instrument underneath the down comforter. Perfect temperature control was shattered, causing me to growl at my caller. “Go away.”

“You’re my last chance.” It was a harsh, old voice, as ratchety as a Las Vegas Wheel of Fortune.

I laughed in derision. “Tough luck.” It was cruel perhaps, but not without justification. I’d been burned by this voice before.

“I won’t be held responsible for what I do!”

There was, I noted with satisfaction, a hint of panic.

“You know you’ll pay if you try anything rash,” I cautioned. “I wouldn’t mess with her if I were you.”

“But I can’t take it anymore.”

“She’s your sister, Gramma.”

I glanced at the clock-radio on the nightstand next to my bed—seven A.M.—and on a day I didn’t need to be at the Folk Art Museum until ten o‘clock. We’d been officially closed for the last week as we set up our new exhibit, a collection of antique quilts owned by residents of San Celina County.

A blast of rain rattled the windows of my small Spanish-style house. The Pacific storm that had been camping for days off California’s Central Coast had attacked San Celina during the night. While little mouse soldiers marched double time on the roof, I tried to remember whether I’d closed the windows in my truck.

“She’s driving me crazy,” Gramma Dove complained. “She’s waxed all the floors twice. Follows me everywhere. Keeps rearranging my pots and pans.”

Now Dove’s voice took on her normal loud tone. Aunt Garnet must have left the room. “She’s trimmed all my plants down to nubs with those nasty little embroidery scissors of hers. Benni, she’s been eyeing my hair real strange.”

Dove’s long white braid had tempted her younger sister for years.

“She hasn’t seen your house yet. She loves craft festivals.”

“No way. I’ve got too much to do this week with the Folk Art Festival. I can’t babysit Aunt Garnet.” I struggled up, tucked the covers around me, and waited for the attack to begin. I didn’t have to wait long.

“Who bought you your first brassiere, young lady? Waste of money that it was. Who taught you all you know about poker? Who changed your dirty diapers?”

“You didn’t come to live with us until I was six,” I pointed out.

Another blast of rain slapped the bedroom window. I sank down under the covers and prayed the storm wasn’t as bad as it sounded.

She tried blackmail. “I never told your daddy what time you and Jack really came in after the senior prom.” She paused for emphasis. “Yet.”

I laughed, imagining her scheming look. “Dove, that was seventeen years ago. My virtue hasn’t worried Daddy for a long time.”

She went for the throat. “Your mama, God rest her soul, would have wanted you to help your defenseless old granny.” Her voice cracked dramatically.

“Mama would have been hiding over here with me. And you’re about as defenseless as a wolverine.”

I shifted the phone to the other ear.

“Who would have thought a son of mine would raise up such a coldhearted daughter?”

“Seems to me I recall spending most of my childhood tagging after you.”

“It’s a dollar a chip on Thursday,” she said, changing the subject once she knew she wasn’t getting her way.

“High stakes this year. Who’s coming?”

“Everyone but Clarence. He’s got some fevered bulls.”

Every year at Thanksgiving, Gramma Dove’s children, four sons and two daughters and their families, came from all over the country to meet at my dad’s ranch outside San Celina. Everyone wore their best boots and brought a hundred bucks for our no-holds-barred-kick-em-in-the-nuts-when-they‘ re-down poker tournament.

“What time are you going to be here?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, my mind drifting back nine months to the last time most of the family was together at Jack’s funeral. I’d sidestepped an invitation to my in-laws’ ranch too; after fifteen years of shuffling back and forth between the Harper and Ramsey ranches, the thought of going either place this year made me feel melancholy and a bit queasy.

Dove’s voice softened. A rarity for her. “Come up, honeybun. It’ll do you good.”

“I have a lot of work to get done before Saturday.”

She
tsked
under her breath but didn’t press it. “You seen Rita lately?”

“Not since she left here a couple of weeks ago.”

“Garnet’s chewing nails because she hasn’t called.”

Aunt Garnet’s twenty-one-year-old granddaughter, my cousin Rita, moved out from Arkansas two months ago with vague plans of attending college and starting a new life. On the spur of the moment and to everyone’s consternation, she broke a two-year engagement with a wonderfully suitable—Southern for wealthy—man. With a certain amount of doubt and apprehension, I was persuaded into letting her live with me. Aunt Garnet, Daddy and even Dove were convinced the company would do me good.