You Have the Right to Remain Puzzled (21 page)

H
ENRY
F
IRTH TWITCHED
his nose and smiled.

Cora wasn’t fooled. The prosecutor had always reminded her of a rat. Now he reminded her of a smiling rat. It was mostly his pencil-thin mustache. It occurred to her he must not be married. A wife with any artistic sense would have made him shave it off. Yet, here he was, once again, sticking his ratlike nose into everybody’s business.

“What’s this all about?” Cora demanded. It was not the first time she’d asked.

“Let’s wait for your attorney.”

“I don’t need my attorney. I need a cigarette. You’re not letting me have one. That’s tantamount to torture. As I’m sure my attorney will point out.”

“Let’s leave that to her, shall we?”

“I don’t know why Chief Harper called you in. We were having a perfectly nice discussion.”

“You’re the defendant in a murder case. It’s a delicate situation.”

“It’s not a delicate situation. It’s a load of hogwash. It’s got nothing to do with this.”

“I’m glad you think so. You were shot at. That is a crime. It requires investigation. You are one of the people called upon to testify. It is crucial that none of the testimony you are to give should in any way compromise your position as a defendant.”

Cora’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “I can think of something that might compromise your position as a prosecutor.”

“Be as rude as you want,” Henry Firth said. “You’re not provoking me. We’re waiting for your lawyer.”

Becky showed up ten minutes later. She looked like a million bucks in a casual cream-colored silk shirt that complemented her understated makeup. Cora figured she’d taken the extra time to achieve the effect.

Her attitude, however, was no-nonsense. “All right, what’s the story?”

“Your client was apprehended breaking into Wilbur’s barn.”

Cora waved her hand. “Pffft!”

“There. As my client so correctly says, pffft! I’m not sure if that’s an official legal pleading, but it ought to be. Do you have anything else?”

“There was a shot fired.”

“By my client?”

“I’m not making any claims. I’m just presenting facts.”

“You’d better present ’em in a way that accounts for
your detaining my client. Otherwise, you are going to be one unhappy prosecutor.”

“Nonsense. We have a case of breaking and entering and shots fired. It has to be investigated. Your client is at worst a principal and at best a witness. We need her story. Unfortunately, she is a defendant in a murder investigation. So we’re being very scrupulous and dealing with her through her attorney, even though she herself feels there is no need.”

“You tell him that?” Becky asked Cora.

“I saw no reason to ruin your evening.”

“Blowing your defense would probably ruin it more,” Becky said. “You mind if I confer with my client?”

“Go ahead. I’ll be right outside.”

Henry Firth went out and closed the door.

“All right, what have you done now?” Becky demanded.

Cora gave her a short rundown of the situation.

Becky was not pleased. “You broke into his barn?”

“It sounds bad when you say it like that. You should try an amused inflection, like, ‘You broke into his barn?’ ”

“I’m trying very hard to keep you out of jail. You’re not helping much. Now I gotta defend you on a breaking and entering charge.”

“No, you don’t. I already admitted the breaking and entering. There’s nothing to defend.”

“You
admitted
it?”

“I told Chief Harper. It seemed the thing to do. Being caught red-handed, and all.”

“What did I tell you about not making a statement except in my presence?”

“That was about the murder. This is just a break-in.”

“Cora—”

“It’s all right, dear. Since I’ve admitted it, we’re in a nice position. I have nothing to hide, I can tell ’em what they want to know, and go home.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“If that were going to work, they’d have done it already.”

“They would have. But Ratface wouldn’t let me talk without you present.”

“You wanted to talk, but he made you wait for me?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I hate it like hell, but that’s what happened. So what’s up?”

“I don’t know. Let’s get him back and ask him.”

Becky went out and returned with Henry Firth. The prosecutor seated himself at the head of the table. Becky sat next to Cora.

“Miss Felton, you now have your attorney present, as I suggested. I am going to ask you some questions with regard to the break-in at Wilbur’s Antiques.”

“Alleged break-in,” Becky amended.

Henry Firth smiled. “Well, I think the break-in is pretty much a fact.”

“I thought Mr. Wilbur wasn’t pressing charges.”

“That doesn’t mean there wasn’t a break-in. Come on, now. No one’s taking this down. Let’s not be technical.”

“You’re not going to be technical and construe any of my client’s answers as incriminating?”

“Only if she’s done something wrong. You haven’t done that, have you, Miss Felton?”

“No, but I’m about to. Talk to us like equals, not morons.”

“I’d be glad to. We’d be on slightly more equal footing if
I’d
broken into someone’s house in the middle of the night, but I’ll let it pass. Since no one’s pressing charges, let’s say you were there legally. What happened then?”

“This is not binding on my client?”

“With regard to breaking and entering? No. That charge has been dropped.”

“Are you implying there are other charges?”

“Are you implying your client’s done something wrong?”

“No, I’m not,” Becky said irritably. “She’s been charged with murder and she didn’t do that either. You want to speed things along? I’d like to get out of here and go home.”

“I’d like nothing better myself. Which is why I’m here. To advise you on your legal limits. I’m telling you Miss Felton can discuss being in Wilbur’s barn.”

“Without incriminating herself?”

“If she stole something from the barn, that would be illegal. If she killed someone in the barn, that would be illegal. In either case, she would be liable for prosecution. But as far as
being
in the barn goes, you have nothing to fear.”

“Good,” Cora said. “That’s all I did, and I’d like to go home.”

“I have a few questions.”

“With regard to the crime that didn’t happen?” Cora inquired sweetly.

“You’re forgetting the shooting. That’s certainly a
crime, and that certainly happened. What can you tell me about that?”

“Not a thing. I heard a shot. A bullet whizzed by my head. I took a step back, fell, and was knocked unconscious.”

“A bullet whizzed by your head?”

“Yes.”

“It was dark. How did you know?”

“I heard it. Right after the explosion. It was like nothing I’ve ever heard before. Like someone frying eggs in my ear.”

“You heard that?”

“For a second. Before the thud of the bullet hitting the wall.”

“The shot took you by surprise?”

“I’ll say.”

“No advance warning?”

“None at all. I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t see anything. Suddenly, bang!”

“No time to defend yourself?”

“How?”

“I believe you carry a gun.”

“So?”

“Did you draw your gun? Aim it at your attacker? Try to shoot back?”

“She told you what she did,” Becky interposed. “Move on.”

“She told me what she
did.
I’d like her to tell me what she
didn’t
do.”

“She doesn’t have to. Move on.”

“I’d like an answer.”

“Oh, stop haggling,” Cora said. “The answer is no. I didn’t go for my gun. I didn’t even
think
of my gun. I
thought, ‘Oh, my God, I’ve been shot!’ I started back and tripped.”

“You thought you’d been shot?”

“I thought I’d been shot
at.
I didn’t know whether I’d been hit. Whether any second a searing pain would go raging through my body. I wasn’t, and it didn’t. The point is, it all happened too fast for me to do anything.”

“You didn’t fire your gun?”

“Of course
I didn’t fire my gun,” Cora said irritably. “Could you get on to something that matters?”

“Oh, these questions all matter. Some of them are preliminary, but, believe me, they matter. The gun was in your purse?”

“You should know. You’ve got it.”

“Uh-huh.” Henry Firth popped his briefcase open, pulled out a plastic bag. “This was also in your purse. A crossword puzzle. It’s been solved, and the theme answer is suggestive. It suggests an antiques shop.”

“If you say so.”

“The puzzle has been solved in pencil. Is that your handwriting?”

“Actually, it’s my niece’s, Sherry’s. She solved the puzzle.”

“Uh-huh. And where did you get it?”

“It was stuck on the windshield of my car.”

“Where was your car?”

“In the mall parking lot.”

“What were you doing in the mall?”

“I went to Starbucks for coffee.” Cora saw no reason to volunteer the information that the coffee in question was actually a Frappuccino the size of Vermont. “When I got back to my car, the puzzle was on the windshield. I gave it to Sherry because she likes to solve puzzles. I don’t. I find solving crossword puz-
zles profoundly boring. If it ever gets out I said that, I will find you and I will kill you.”

“Never fear. The point is, this was on your windshield and it wound up in your purse. And it somewhat suggestively refers to antiques.”

“So far, that suggestion has come from you.”

“Do you deny that it was the puzzle that made you look in Wilbur’s barn?”

Becky held up her hand. “Oooh. Bad word,
deny.
You really didn’t want to use that word, did you? It suggests an adversarial relationship under which one needs to rely on the protection of one’s counsel.”

“I certainly wouldn’t want to do that.” Henry Firth reached in his briefcase, brought out another plastic bag, slid it in front of Cora and Becky. “Here’s a solution grid. Would you mind comparing it to the crossword puzzle in front of you?”

Cora looked. It was indeed a photocopy of a solution grid such as might appear in the newspaper. There were no clues, and the squares in the grid were not numbered. And the answers were typeset rather than printed by hand.

But the entries were identical. It was clearly the solution grid to the puzzle Cora found on the windshield of her car.

She frowned. “Where did you get this?”

“Be careful,” Becky advised. She, too, was frowning.

“I’m not making a statement. I’m asking a question.”

“And a very good question,” Henry Firth said. “That solution sheet came from Benny Southstreet’s briefcase. Which is rather interesting. The man accuses you of stealing his puzzle, and winds up dead. Then
you show up with another of his puzzles, taken from the briefcase found at the scene of the crime.”

The prosecutor’s beady eyes gleamed and his rat nose twitched like he’d just smelled the cheese. “Which brings up a question the police probably should have asked before, but I feel impelled to ask now. Do you happen to have any
more
of Benny Southstreet’s puzzles?”

B
ECKY
B
ALDWIN SUMMONED
up what dignity she could muster, no small task considering how furiously she’d been blushing a moment before. “Are we agreed that was off the record?”

Henry Firth’s satisfied smirk at having managed to provoke her client was somewhat blunted by the colorful characterizations with which Cora had managed to describe him. The fact that she had not referred to him as a rat was not a matter of restraint so much as a seeming reluctance to use any un-X-rated word. “Absolutely. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s go back
on
the record.”

Henry Firth opened his briefcase again, took out another plastic bag. “Miss Felton, is this your gun?”

Becky opened her mouth to object, but Cora was in no mood to keep silent. “I have no idea.”

“It was in your purse.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. I’d like to know if it’s yours.”

“And I’d like to know why you’re asking the question,” Becky said.

“He’s asking the question because he’s a noodge who dots his
i
’s and crosses his
t
’s and wears belts and suspenders. I can’t tell you if that’s my gun because I have no way of knowing without looking up the serial number. It certainly looks like my gun, and if I’d found it in my purse, I’d probably think it was my gun, but when you hand it to me in an evidence bag, then I am highly skeptical. I have only your word for it the gun was in my purse, and that is, of course, hearsay evidence. Look, I wouldn’t want to imply that your questions are stupid, or anything, but why are we discussing this at all?”

“This gun has been fired, Miss Felton.”

“Then it isn’t mine.”

“Cora—”

“My gun hasn’t been fired in months. The last time was at a pistol range in Danbury. Won a fiver off a deputy sheriff named Claiborne. He wasn’t pleased.”

“Any chance you left a spent cartridge in the cylinder?”

“None. I clean and load my gun after I use it. Always have, always will. My ex, Melvin, taught me well. Son of a bitch.”

“This gun’s been fired recently. It smells of gunpowder, and has a spent shell under the hammer.”

“Then it isn’t mine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. I haven’t shot anyone lately. I’m sure I’d remember.”

“Then how do you account for the fact that the gun was found in your purse?”

“Once again I am hearing language I don’t believe you mean,” Becky said.
“Account for
is a nasty little phrase. I assume that’s not what you meant to say.”

“Then you assume wrong. The gun was in her purse. It needs to be accounted for.”

“Just a damn minute here,” Cora said. “Are you telling me you found a gun that’s been fired in my purse?”

“At last, a meeting of the minds. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you, Miss Felton. Now, before this goes any further, let me say I appreciate your position. You’re charged with a murder. The case against you looks pretty grim. You don’t have much of a defense.”

“Hey!” Becky interjected.

“You’d like to build up some support. Sway public opinion. Perhaps even the jury pool. At least raise the inference the crime was committed by someone else. What better way than to make it look like someone’s trying to kill you?”

“Now you’re claiming I fired the shot myself?”

“I’m not claiming anything. I’m just presenting the facts. If you can explain them, I’d be delighted to listen.”

“She’s not explaining anything,” Becky said. “She’s had a traumatic experience. She’s been knocked unconscious. She may have a concussion. Under the circumstances, when she was shot at it’s entirely possible she pulled a gun and fired a shot at her attacker and doesn’t remember it. I’m not saying she did. I’m just saying it’s entirely possible.”

“Mr. Wilbur only heard one shot.”

“Mr. Wilbur may
have fired
one shot. I’m not saying
he did. I’m just pointing out how much weight his statement is worth.”

“Mr. Wilbur might have fired the shot that whizzed by your client’s head and embedded itself in the wall?”

“We’re not making any accusations,” Cora told him. “We’re just listening to yours and pointing out how stupid they are.”

“Anytime you’re through having fun,” the prosecutor said.

“You call this fun? Trust me, I can think of things more fun.”

“I’m sure you can.” Henry Firth opened his briefcase again, took out a piece of paper. “Miss Felton, we ran a trace on the gun found in your bag. According to the files, this gun was registered to a Mrs. Cora Crabtree, of 890 Park Avenue, New York City.”

Cora nodded. “The best thing about Melvin was his Park Avenue address. I always hated being Cora Crabtree, though. Like I married him for the alliteration.”

Henry ignored this, reached in his briefcase again. “This is a photograph taken of two bullets on a comparison microscope. The bullet on the top is a test bullet fired from the gun found in your purse, the gun registered to Cora Crabtree. The bullet on the bottom is the one dug out of the wall in Wilbur’s barn. They are identical. There is no doubt about it. The bullet you claim whizzed by your head came from your gun.”