Lethal Luncheon (Puzzle Lady Mystery, a short story) by Parnell Hall Page A

not that keen on foreign words in puzzles, I hope that doesn’t offend you.”
    “Hell, no,” Cora said. “Frankly, I’m not that keen on English words, either.”
    “Ah, yes, of course,” Betty said, with zero comprehension. “Well, if you’ll just sign in there.” She pointed to a long table on the side of the room behind which a formidable looking woman presided over name tags, pens, magic markers, and a guest list. “Cecily will be glad to help you.”
    “I’ll be happy if Cecily doesn’t bite my head off,” Cora whispered, as she and Sherry walked over.
    Cecily, however, had no such intention. On seeing Cora, the dragon lady’s face dissolved into a succession of smiles, winks, and titters, each one more hideous than the last. “Ah, Miss Felton, how are you? It is such an honor to have you with us. You don’t have to sign in, I will do it for you. You don’t even have to print your name tag. We did it in advance.”
    Cecily held up a name tag with the blue outline Hello, my name is. The name Cora Felton had been printed in the middle in block capitals by some machine or other.
    “You, young lady. I have you right here.” Sherry watched while Cecily located “Cora Felton Guest” on the list and checked it off. “Here’s a magic marker. Try to print neatly.”
    “This is my niece. Sherry Carter.” Cora Felton beamed. “I think she should print that on the name tag instead of ‘Cora Felton Guest,’ don’t you?”
    Cecily found that enormously funny. “Now, what you do need to print is the name of your dish. Use one of the folded cardboards. Then we can stand it up in the buffet line.”
    Cora, who had forgotten what she had supposedly cooked again, said, “Sherry, could you do that for me? Sherry has such nice handwriting, and mine is atrocious.”
    “Of course,” Cecily said. “Just put the name of the dish, and then Cora’s name, so people will know who cooked it.”
    “In theory,” Cora said under her breath.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “And what do we do then?”
    “Put the dish on the buffet line, and find your place at your table.” Cecily consulted her chart. “You’re at table ten. You’ll find place cards by your plates.”
    “They have assigned seats,” Cora groused, after she and Sherry had stowed the fish amidst a myriad of casseroles, pastas, roasts, and assorted side dishes.
    “You’re lucky you’re not sitting on a dais,” Sherry whispered back.
    “Amen to that. So where’s table ten?”
    “The tables have stands in the middle with numbered cards on them. Do you think it might be a clue?”
    Cora muttered something that couldn’t possibly have been a clue in any crossword puzzle in any daily paper in the country, and pushed ahead of Sherry into the middle of the room.
    The tables were round and seated eight. Most were already filled. Cora and Sherry got to theirs to find six people waiting. All were women. Some were as old as Cora. None were as young as Sherry. All were nicely, if casually, dressed in sweaters and blouses and pullovers and smocks.
    The two empty plates at the table sported place cards. One read “Cora Felton.” The other read “Felton Guest.”
    Cora and Sherry sat down and smiled at the women around them, who all began talking at once. It was impossible to hear anything, but hidden somewhere in the cacophony was the sentiment that they were happy to have, if not Sherry, at least Cora there.
    When the noise had died down, a rather large woman with a triple chin seated directly across the table from Cora declared, “We waited for you.”
    The women were all wearing name tags, so Cora was able to identify the speaker as Marcy Fletcher. From that simple statement Cora was able to ascertain that waiting for her had been Marcy’s idea, that none of the other women were particularly pleased about it, and that Marcy blamed Cora for making her endure their wrath.
    “That was too kind, but not at all necessary,” Cora said. “You must be