to do was case the room for likely suspects.
Cora looked around. At the table in front of her was Marty Haskel, the cranky service-station man from the first planning meeting. Mr. Haskel was seated with three other men and was attacking his puzzle with a grim determination that made Cora’s blood run cold.
At the table next to Marty were the two women Cora had met at the crime scene. Charlotte, whose fake-fur coat hung over the seat in back of her, was working on the puzzle. Opposite her sat her large friend Betty, whose hair was a true testament to the curlers she had been wearing when Cora met her. Her brown hair hung down the sides of her long face in tight rings, making her look like a horse in a wig.
Charlotte’s husband was small like her, wore glasses,and looked like a graduate student. Betty’s husband was something else, however. Cora Felton sucked in her breath. This was a
player
. The man was big, like Betty, only more so. His face was hard as a slab of rock. It was solid, square, and there was a fierce scar on his chin. He looked as if he had been an enforcer for the mob until the mob had decided he was just too scary and let him go.
Then he muttered something in a high-pitched nerdy voice, and the whole image evaporated in an instant.
“Switch!” Harvey Beerbaum announced gleefully from the microphone. “Pass your papers to the
left.
”
There was a flurry and rustle as papers changed places.
From the snort of disgust nearby, Cora noticed that Marty Haskel from the filling station was less than thrilled with the puzzle he had just received.
He looked even unhappier three switches later when someone screeched, “Done!”
Cora looked, saw a young woman jumping out of her seat and clapping her hands. Cora scowled.
The young woman’s face was lit up, sparkling with exuberance. Even had she not been good-looking, there would have been something attractive in her ear-to-ear smile, her wide eyes, her look of boundless joy. The fact that she had blond hair, rosy cheeks, and a pert ski-jump nose was just the icing on the cake. She was the perfect blue-ribbon winner, a veritable poster girl for the tournament.
Except for one thing.
She was Paul Thornhill’s wife.
She was sitting next to him at the table.
She had won because her celebrity-contestant husband was on her team.
Instead of applause at her victory, there was considerable grumbling.
None more than from Marty Haskel. “Come on, come on, keep working,” Marty griped. “They still gotta check her paper. What if she got one wrong?”
Such hope was short-lived, however. Mrs. Thornhill’s puzzle, quickly checked, proved correct, and the game was over, much to Marty Haskel’s displeasure. The fact that the first-place prize turned out to be merely crossword-puzzle books did not appease him in the least. The man was obviously
miffed
.
Cora wasn’t too pleased herself. As far as she was concerned, the much ballyhooed Fun Night was a huge bust. Fun, hell. Cora couldn’t think of anything
less
fun than crossword puzzles.
Crossword puzzles and Harvey Beerbaum. What a deadly combination.
Cora clutched her drawstring purse to her chest and headed for the ladies’ room. There was a faint smile on her lips as she went in the door.
Cora had expected to find Fun Night utterly boring: She had prepared for that eventuality by sticking a silver flask of vodka in her purse.
B LITHELY OBLIVIOUS TO ANY SIMMERING DISCONTENT IN the crowd, Harvey Beerbaum was once again at the microphone. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, for something entirely different—and something that’s enormous fun—instead of sitting at your tables, we’re going to let you get up and move around. Before you do, however, our volunteers are passing among you once again to hand out the next puzzle. You’re probably wondering, if you’re getting another puzzle, why are you going to move around? Well, what you’re being handed is merely the
answer sheet
. So where’s the puzzle,
Cora looked around. At the table in front of her was Marty Haskel, the cranky service-station man from the first planning meeting. Mr. Haskel was seated with three other men and was attacking his puzzle with a grim determination that made Cora’s blood run cold.
At the table next to Marty were the two women Cora had met at the crime scene. Charlotte, whose fake-fur coat hung over the seat in back of her, was working on the puzzle. Opposite her sat her large friend Betty, whose hair was a true testament to the curlers she had been wearing when Cora met her. Her brown hair hung down the sides of her long face in tight rings, making her look like a horse in a wig.
Charlotte’s husband was small like her, wore glasses,and looked like a graduate student. Betty’s husband was something else, however. Cora Felton sucked in her breath. This was a
player
. The man was big, like Betty, only more so. His face was hard as a slab of rock. It was solid, square, and there was a fierce scar on his chin. He looked as if he had been an enforcer for the mob until the mob had decided he was just too scary and let him go.
Then he muttered something in a high-pitched nerdy voice, and the whole image evaporated in an instant.
“Switch!” Harvey Beerbaum announced gleefully from the microphone. “Pass your papers to the
left.
”
There was a flurry and rustle as papers changed places.
From the snort of disgust nearby, Cora noticed that Marty Haskel from the filling station was less than thrilled with the puzzle he had just received.
He looked even unhappier three switches later when someone screeched, “Done!”
Cora looked, saw a young woman jumping out of her seat and clapping her hands. Cora scowled.
The young woman’s face was lit up, sparkling with exuberance. Even had she not been good-looking, there would have been something attractive in her ear-to-ear smile, her wide eyes, her look of boundless joy. The fact that she had blond hair, rosy cheeks, and a pert ski-jump nose was just the icing on the cake. She was the perfect blue-ribbon winner, a veritable poster girl for the tournament.
Except for one thing.
She was Paul Thornhill’s wife.
She was sitting next to him at the table.
She had won because her celebrity-contestant husband was on her team.
Instead of applause at her victory, there was considerable grumbling.
None more than from Marty Haskel. “Come on, come on, keep working,” Marty griped. “They still gotta check her paper. What if she got one wrong?”
Such hope was short-lived, however. Mrs. Thornhill’s puzzle, quickly checked, proved correct, and the game was over, much to Marty Haskel’s displeasure. The fact that the first-place prize turned out to be merely crossword-puzzle books did not appease him in the least. The man was obviously
miffed
.
Cora wasn’t too pleased herself. As far as she was concerned, the much ballyhooed Fun Night was a huge bust. Fun, hell. Cora couldn’t think of anything
less
fun than crossword puzzles.
Crossword puzzles and Harvey Beerbaum. What a deadly combination.
Cora clutched her drawstring purse to her chest and headed for the ladies’ room. There was a faint smile on her lips as she went in the door.
Cora had expected to find Fun Night utterly boring: She had prepared for that eventuality by sticking a silver flask of vodka in her purse.
B LITHELY OBLIVIOUS TO ANY SIMMERING DISCONTENT IN the crowd, Harvey Beerbaum was once again at the microphone. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, for something entirely different—and something that’s enormous fun—instead of sitting at your tables, we’re going to let you get up and move around. Before you do, however, our volunteers are passing among you once again to hand out the next puzzle. You’re probably wondering, if you’re getting another puzzle, why are you going to move around? Well, what you’re being handed is merely the
answer sheet
. So where’s the puzzle,
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