Authors: Parnell Hall
Dead Man's Puzzle (10 page)
Dennis Pride scrunched down in the front seat of his rental car and peered over the dashboard with binoculars. He could see the roof of Overmeyer’s cabin through the trees. No one was around. He had been watching the cabin for two hours and no one had come near.
There was a car in the driveway next door. The owner was home. Brooks, according to the mailbox. The view from the Brooks house to the Overmeyer cabin was unobstructed. Anyone trying to search the place ran a good chance of being seen.
As Dennis watched, Mr. Brooks came out on the porch. He skipped down the steps, got into the car. It was a Lexus. That figured. Brooks was ten or fifteen years older than Dennis. Not old enough to be old in any negative sense, just old enough to be superior. And here he was owning a nice spread in Connecticut. And without marrying the boss’s daughter to do it. At least as far as Dennis knew.
Brooks was going to work late on a weekday, wasn’t a nine-to-fiver, clearly had his own cash.
Dennis resented the hell out of him.
Brooks came out of the driveway, hung a left, headed his Lexus back toward town.
As soon as Brooks was gone, Dennis started his car, drove down the road toward the cabin. He went right on by, pulled into Brooks’s driveway. He got out, went up on the porch, knocked on the door. He waited a minute, knocked again.
The door was flung open by a woman in her nightgown. At second glance, it was a rather sheer nightgown. And the woman clearly had nothing on under it. If she was aware she was making a spectacle of herself, she didn’t let on. She was an attractive young woman, and her eyes were bright. She smiled and said, “Yes?”
“Excuse me. It’s about your neighbor next door.”
“Yes?”
“I understand he died.”
“Oh.” She nodded solemnly, lowered her voice. “Yes, he did.”
“I’d like to ask your husband a few questions. May I come in?”
“My husband’s not here.”
“Oh. I’m sorry I missed him. Perhaps I could ask you?”
She frowned. “Ask me what?”
“About your neighbor. Mr. Overmeyer.”
“Okay.”
She stepped aside and ushered Dennis into a perfectly ordinary, modestly furnished, upper-to middle-class living room, not unlike those of most of the clients he called upon in the course of his job for Wallenstein Textiles. The living room pleased Dennis, made him feel one up on Brooks. He sat in an easy chair just as if he were about to open his briefcase and whip out the latest textile samples.
She sat opposite him on the couch. She asked no questions, just waited for him to go ahead.
“Mrs. Brooks, do you know anything about your neighbor?”
“No.”
“You know he’s dead, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t know anything else?”
“No.”
Dennis took a breath. “Mrs. Brooks, the police think Mr. Overmeyer was murdered.”
“Yes, I know.”
Dennis opened his mouth, closed it again. “You do?”
“Oh, yes. It was on the news.” She pointed to the high-definition TV, in case Dennis wasn’t clear what news she meant.
“So, you know he’s been killed, you just don’t know any details?”
“Details? What details?”
Dennis felt like a man drowning. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t want to spook the woman, but he didn’t want to let her get away with not answering, either. Was she being deliberately vague and obtuse, or was she just oblivious, like she seemed to be to her attire? Or lack of it. “Yes. Details. Like when he was killed. Or how. Or who did it.”
“Probably the man.”
Dennis blinked. “Man? What man?”
“The man in the cabin.”
“Mr. Overmeyer’s cabin?”
“Yes.”
“What man was that?”
“The man in the cabin,” she explained.
“There was a man in the cabin with Mr. Overmeyer?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“When what?”
“When was the man in the cabin?”
“I don’t remember. It was dark. I saw him in the window. I went out on the porch and looked. It wasn’t Mr. Overmeyer. It was a man. He was looking for something.”
“How do you know he was looking for something?”
“He climbed on a chair. Stood right up high.”
“He climbed on a chair to look on top of something?”
“I couldn’t tell what he was looking at. I went to see.”
“You went to Mr. Overmeyer’s cabin?”
“Yes. I put on my slippers so I wouldn’t hurt my feet, and I walked on the grass.”
Dennis felt his pulse quicken. “You went to the cabin and saw this man?”
“No. He ran away.”
“What?”
“He ran out the door and drove away.”
“You saw him leave?”
“Yes.”
“What did he look like?”
“It was dark. I couldn’t see.”
“But you saw him searching the cabin, and you saw him drive off?”
“Yes.”
Dennis could have kissed her. Here was his meal ticket. This was information the police didn’t have. Information he could barter with Chief Harper to be allowed to stay. What had been just a bluff was legitimate now.
She shook her head in remorse. “I should have stopped him.”
“No, you did the right thing,” Dennis assured her. “The man was dangerous. He might have hurt you.”
“He couldn’t hurt me.”
“Yes, he could. He probably killed Mr. Overmeyer.”
“Yes, but he couldn’t hurt me.”
Dennis frowned. “Why not?”
She pulled her negligee around her, said calmly, “I have my invisible cloak.”
Rick Reed was at his credit-grabbing best. “This is Rick Reed, Channel Eight News, live in Bakerhaven, with an exclusive report. There has been a break in the case of Herbert Overmeyer, the elderly recluse found poisoned in his cabin. So far the police have no leads, but Channel Eight News has come up with one.”
The camera pulled back to show Rick standing in a spotlight in front of the Bakerhaven Police Station, and aiming a microphone at a young man in a business suit and long hair. “I am talking to Dennis Pride, who has been assisting the police with their investigation. Mr. Pride, what is it that you have uncovered?”
Dennis was playing it modest. “You understand, I am not a professional investigator. I cannot speak for the police department. However, I have uncovered one small lead.”
“What is that?”
“It’s possible there is an eyewitness to the crime.”
“Why do you say ‘possible’?”
Dennis smiled. “Why do you newsmen say ‘alleged’? It would appear that there is, but appearances can be wrong.”
“Who is this witness?”
“The alleged witness? I couldn’t say. But I have every reason to believe a witness exists who can place the killer in Overmeyer’s cabin.”
“On the night of the murder?”
“Apparently so.”
“Why do you say ‘apparently’?” The minute the words were out of Rick’s mouth, he prayed Dennis wouldn’t make another “alleged” crack.
His prayers were answered. “Because the police haven’t released the time of the murder yet. Only one of many details the police are not giving out.”
“You want to help us with that?”
“The time of the murder?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Overmeyer was likely killed the night before his body was found.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Because that is the time at which a witness saw a suspect searching the cabin.”
“Searching the cabin? How did the witness know that?”
“The suspect was seen standing on a chair to look on top of a cabinet. If that’s not searching, I don’t know what is.”
“I see,” Rick said. Whether he did or not was a toss-up. “So why didn’t this witness call the police?”
“He or she didn’t want to get involved.”
“Why do you say ‘he or she’?”
“I don’t want to divulge the sex of the witness.”
“Do you
know
the sex of the witness?”
“Yes. I just don’t want you to know.”
“
How
do you know?”
“I can tell.” Dennis smiled. “Usually. Our rock band does a cover of Aerosmith’s ‘Dude (Looks Like a Lady),’ but I don’t think that’s the case here.”
Rick Reed blinked, totally lost.
“Anyway, the witness scared the guy off, didn’t know Overmeyer was dead, saw no reason to call the police.”
“There’s a reason now.”
“Yes, there is. And I hope the witness will do so.”
“
You
didn’t call the police?”
“What? Turn someone in? On hearsay evidence? I don’t think so. I encouraged the witness to go to the police. I hope the witness does so. In the meantime, I’m going to keep my eyes open.”
“If you find anything, bring it to Channel Eight.”
Dennis smiled. “You’ll be the first to know.”
“And there you have it,” Rick said. “This is Rick Reed, live in Bakerhaven, with this exclusive, late-breaking news.”
Cora choked on her pot pie. Granted, it was frozen in some places, scalding in others—microwaving wasn’t her thing—but after what she’d just heard, she probably would have choked on water.
The phone rang. Cora scooped it up. It was Chief Harper. Even over the line she could see the steam coming out of his ears. “Did you see it?”
“You mean Dennis?”
“Good guess.”
“Chief—”
“So, you had a great idea. Lean on Dennis and make him tell what he knows. Charge him with obstruction of justice, withholding evidence, and conspiring to conceal a crime. Gee, that couldn’t have worked out any better.”
“I thought he was bluffing, Chief.”
“I thought so, too. I still think so. But now he’s bluffing on the goddamn TV.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Meet me at the police station.”
“Now?”
“I’m calling from my car. Hurry up, before the son of a bitch gets away.”
“You want me to help you interrogate him?”
“I want you to stop me from killing him.”
Cora fell all over herself getting started. She tried to throw out her pot pie, but the garbage was overflowing. She’d have to dump it, if she just knew where. The hell with it. She tossed the whole thing in the sink, headed for the door.
She realized she’d taken off her tweed skirt. It was hanging on the kitchen chair. She pulled it on, buttoned it. It was tight. Probably why she’d taken it off. What was that all about? Sherry’d been gone a week and a half. Cora was barely eating anything. Just a lot of fast food. And how could it be fattening, if it was fast?
Cora snatched her drawstring purse off the kitchen table, fumbled for a cigarette, and fired one up. Buddy took that as a signal to run in and out of her legs, yipping loudly. She flung some kibble in his bowl, noted that he had water, and darted out the door.
Cora’s head was coming off. Keep Chief Harper from killing Dennis? Who was going to keep
her
from killing Dennis? The idiotic, arrogant fool. Mystery witness indeed! Whether he’d actually uncovered one or just made it up was equally bad. Cora wanted to shake him till his teeth rattled and drop him off the roof. There just weren’t any buildings in Bakerhaven high enough.
Cora whizzed into town at thirty miles over the speed limit. She was unlikely to be stopped. The town cop was already there. Harper’s cruiser was parked in front of the police station. The chief was standing in its headlights. His face was red.
“All right, where the hell is he?” he bellowed.
“Easy, Chief. I don’t have him.”
“He was right here. Not ten minutes ago.”
“Maybe not.”
“I saw him myself!”
“Maybe it was on tape.”
“He said live. Live from Bakerhaven.”
“Yeah, but that’s Rick Reed. He was live when he taped it. God knows when that was.”
Chief Harper whipped out his cell phone, called information. “This is Chief Harper, Bakerhaven Police. Connect me with Channel Eight News.”
Cora’s eyes widened. “You can do that?”
“Depends on the operator. Sometimes they argue.” He barked into the phone, “This is Chief Harper, get me Rick Reed. . . . I don’t care what field he’s in, get him on the line. . . . Rick. The interview you did with Dennis Pride. When was that? . . . Oh, yeah, where’d he go after? . . . I’d like a better answer than that. I’m looking for some cooperation here. You help me, I’ll help you. . . . How? You got a lot of nerve, asking how. . . . I throw you a lead, now you throw me one.”
Harper snapped his cell phone shut. “Country Kitchen.”
Cora hopped in her car, followed Chief Harper to the restaurant. It was all she could do to keep up. When she pulled into the parking lot, the chief was already striding up to the door.
It was eleven-thirty. The dining room was nearly empty, but the bar was full.
Dennis Pride was the center of attention. People were gathered around and had apparently been buying him drinks. He was pontificating with the expansive gestures of someone half in the bag. It brought Cora up short to be confronted with such a drunk and realize she had once looked like that. Well, not exactly like that. Or she wouldn’t have snared—how many husbands was it now? Depended how you counted. Surely not that annulment.
Harper parted the throng, grabbed Dennis Pride by the lapels, and jerked him off his bar stool. He made a sound like a skydiving water buffalo, flailed his arms to keep his balance. His feet caught up with his head in a rapid series of tiny tiptoe steps.
“All right,” Harper said. “So, you’re cooperating with the police, are you?”
Dennis focused, recognized the chief. “Yes, I am. I certainly am.”
“Good. Cooperating means you got something, you bring it to me. You don’t spill it on television.”
Dennis was too drunk to take that as a rebuke. Instead, he threw his arm around the chief’s shoulders. “That’s right. We’re a
team
.”
“Right. So who’s the witness?”
“Oh. I can’t tell you that. That would be violating a trust.” Dennis stumbled over the word
violating,
still managed a steely, resolute gaze.
Chief Harper slammed him up against the wall. The air shot out of him, his stomach heaved, and for a second Cora thought he was going to throw up. He gasped for breath, swayed on his feet. If Harper hadn’t been holding him, he would have slumped to the floor.
Harper spun him around, handcuffed his hands behind his back. He spun him around again, leaned him against the wall. “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. When she gets here, she’s gonna tell you that a conviction of any kind will violate your probation and send you back to serve out your sentence.”
Dennis blinked, stared. “Huh?”
Harper yanked him out the door, dragged him down the front steps, slammed him up against the door of his car.
“Hey,” Dennis mumbled. “What the hell are you doing?”
Harper raised his fist.
Cora stepped in front of the chief, grabbed Dennis by the chin. “You need a translator, moron? We’re going to see your witness, or we’re going to jail. Your call.”