A Puzzle in a Pear Tree (6 page)

8

“IT’S A PIECE OF CAKE,” CHARLIE FERRIC, THE ART TEACHER, declared to the gaggle of actors and actresses assembled in the town hall lobby. There were five Josephs, six Marys, and a couple of dozen shepherds and wise men. Two Josephs, two Marys, four shepherds, and six wise men were in costume. The rest were not.

Sherry Carter was one of the lucky ones in costume who would pose first and get to leave. Though, actually, luck had nothing to do with it. Cora Felton, who was taking Sherry to the beauty parlor, had come along and twisted Charlie Ferric’s arm.

The other costumed Mary, clearly a high school girl, was having a grand time pulling the beard off one of the Josephs, who was running his hands over her blue-and-white robes in a most secular manner. This naturally involved a good deal of pinching and tickling and shrieking and giggling.

“If it’s so easy, why do we have to rehearse?” one of the other Marys protested. She was feisty and argumentative, perhaps due to the fact that Cora’s meddling had aced her out of a costume. Her curly brown hair, sea-green eyes, and dimpled chin made her quite attractive, in spite of her metal braces.

“We’re not rehearsing, just posing,” Charlie Ferric answered. “It’s easy, but it’s important to get it right. You, for instance, will be posing without your earrings, because the Virgin Mary did not wear earrings. Can you take off your braces?”

“Well,
duh,
of course not,” she said saucily.

This wit prompted gales of laughter from the flirting Joseph and Mary.

“Then keep your mouth shut,” Charlie Ferric snapped.

At the young woman’s offended look, he added, “Not now, my dear. When you’re posing. And that goes for the rest of you. No anachronisms. Do you know what that means?”

“Yeah, no braces,” she shot back, and snuck in a tug at Joseph’s beard. Mary squealed and batted her hands away. The young man, clearly the more popular Joseph, seemed to revel in this.

Charlie Ferric shook his head. “Let’s ask the expert. Miss Felton, would you mind telling this young lady what an anachronism is?”

Cora, who knew perfectly well what an anachronism was, but whose mind short-circuited every time she was asked for a definition, had an instant of icy panic. Then her eyes twinkled. She shrugged. “Gee, I was going to say no braces.”

The kids hooted gleefully.

Charlie Ferric bore this unexpected sabotage stoically. “It means nothing out of period,” he persisted. “No watches. No eyeglasses or sunglasses. No Walkmans. Believe it or not, we had one last year. The principal came by, noticed one of the shepherds’ heads kept bobbing. The principal, for goodness’ sakes. That’s not gonna happen this year.”

Charlie Ferric put his hands on his hips, gave them his stern look. Cora Felton suppressed a smile. Charlie was tall, gawky, and plump in the middle. He reminded her of an angry ostrich.

“How come Dorrie gets a costume and not me?” the girl with braces demanded. “Just because her parents are rich?”

“Maxine!” the Mary named Dorrie exclaimed indignantly. She wrenched herself free from Joseph’s grip, slipped, and almost fell before he caught her again.

“Dorrie, you’re such a spaz.” Maxine laughed. “Relax. Lance doesn’t love you for your money, do you, Lance?”

Lance’s beard made it impossible to tell if the remark bothered him, but he seemed to hug the Virgin Mary a little tighter.

“Can we get on with it?” the less popular Joseph complained. “My beard itches.” From his whiny voice, Cora recognized him as the nerdy light man from the tech crew.

“Oh, knock it off, Alfred,” the perky young Mary named Maxine said. “At least you got a costume.” She turned back to poor Mr. Ferric. “And just why do we have to be in costume at all? We already tried it on and we know it fits.”

“I want you to get used to wearing it. It’s cold out there. You’re going to be out there for an hour. If you’re cold, you’re not wearing enough underneath. Trust me, an hour’s a long time.”

“Yeah, fine, I promise I’ll dress warm,” Maxine said. “Look, Dorrie’s my ride, and I don’t want her finishing first and running off with Romeo. Let me go out there now, I promise I’ll be good, when we get back I’ll be done. Otherwise, you’ll still have to deal with me, and some people think I’m a bitch.”

This sally drew appreciative whoops and laughter from not only Marys and Josephs but shepherds and wise men alike. Even grumpy Alfred got a kick out of it, and Cora had to suppress a smile.

Charlie Ferric caved in with what good grace he could muster, and led the first group, consisting of two fully dressed Nativities, one extra plainclothes Mary, and one amused Puzzle Lady, out the town hall front door and down the steps.

The village green was a rectangular block bounded on three sides by the town hall, the county courthouse, and the Congregational church. All three were white, wood-framed buildings, dripping with icicles and crusted picturesquely with snow. The church boasted a steeple, the courthouse pillars, and the town hall a clock tower. The clock had not worked since 1962.

During the summer the green featured the statue of an anonymous horse and rider—or at least anonymous in that their names had long since worn off the brass plaque. In the winter, the wooden stable was placed to hide the horse. Of course, if one were to walk around, the horse and rider could be seen in the back, poised in midair, as if the stable were some gigantic steeplechase obstacle the animal was about to clear, or, more likely, as if they were a slapstick comedy horse and rider, hurling themselves directly into the wall.

The sight of the stable seemed to inspire Charlie Ferric. “You see? Isn’t that something? The only problem is getting there. There should never be anything in front of the stable but the white new-fallen snow.”

Maxine whispered something to Dorrie and Lance. From their reaction, Cora figured it must be something scintillating about virgin snow.

Charlie Ferric pretended not to notice. “So we always walk around the green and come up on the stable from the back.”

“It’s getting cold,” one of the shepherds complained.

“Yes, it is,” Charlie agreed placidly. “And we’ve only been out a couple of minutes. So dress accordingly. All right, if you’re all set, then follow me.”

Charlie set off around the square. The road had been plowed for cars to go by, but not enough for them to park. Parking around the green was off-limits in the Christmas season.

Charlie reached the front of the courthouse and instructed, “Try to walk in my footsteps. Aim for the tail of the horse.”

That instruction prompted furious whispering and loud guffaws.

Charlie gave the troublemakers a look, then set off across the green in long, practiced strides, lifting his big feet clear of snow rather than dragging them through it. The actors, clomping along in huge rubber boots, blazed their own trail. Cora Felton brought up the rear.

They reached the horse, made their way alongside it to the back of the stable.

Charlie Ferric held up his hands. “Don’t crowd. Don’t push. Stay in single file. Come up here, one at a time. Here’s the latch for the back door. It swings out from left to right. Before you go in, hang up your coat, stash your boots on this little ledge, and put on your sandals or slippers or whatever you wear.”

“I have bare feet,” one of the shepherd boys said.

“Then we’ll visit you in intensive care. One hour in bare feet isn’t happening on my watch. Get some footwear or get a replacement. All right, first group, let’s step up one at a time, take our places on the set. The rest of you watch through the door so I don’t have to say everything twice.”

Sherry Carter hung up her coat, kicked off her boots, and pulled slippers onto her feet.

“Fine,” Charlie said. “Step right in, let me position you. Mary, you kneel down here behind the bale of hay. That’s your makeshift crib. You’re on the floor, cradling the Baby Jesus. Joseph, you stand behind her, holding her up.”

Charlie placed one of the Josephs. From her kneeling position, Sherry couldn’t see which one, though she assumed it was the techie, Alfred.

“Mary, the baby’s lying in the hay, you have one arm under the neck, so you’re not actually holding the baby, it only looks as if you are. Get your legs into a comfortable position beneath you, and lean on Joseph for support. Don’t try to look up. Your head is down, gazing at the Baby Jesus. Good.

“Joseph, you’re supporting her, but slightly at an angle, looking down at the mother and child. You got that? Good. Where’s my wise men?”

Cora watched in amusement as the wise men were positioned. The group of boys, clearly cast to fit the costumes, consisted of one tall boy, one short boy, and one plump boy. They wore their kingly robes of purple and white, red and gold, green and blue with great dignity, except when the tall boy periodically snatched off the plump boy’s hat.

On the other side of the stable, Charlie Ferric installed two shepherds, one standing, one kneeling in the straw. The kneeling one was shivering in bare feet, and would not make that mistake again.

“Excellent!” Charlie cried. “That’s the pose you hit, and that’s the pose you hold. Whether someone’s watching you on foot, whether someone’s driving by on the road, or whether there’s no one there at all. Assume you’re being watched, and act accordingly.

“Which means not to act at all. Which can be your biggest challenge. There’s always a couple of kids think it’s the height of fun to stand in front of the crèche and try to make you laugh.”

“I thought no one was supposed to walk on the green,” Sherry said.

“That’s
just
what I don’t want,” Charlie said. “No one
is
supposed to walk on the green, but if they do, you can’t point it out to them. All you can do is hold the pose and try not to laugh. If they throw snowballs—”

“You’re kidding!”

“It’s been known to happen. Don’t worry, they’re usually not that accurate. If they aim for you, they’ll probably miss.”

Cora Felton was grinning from ear to ear.

“I suppose it’s too late to get out of this?” Sherry said.

“If it weren’t, I wouldn’t have brought the subject up. I’m kidding, of course. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. No one’s supposed to walk in front of the stable anyway, and—Hey! What are you doing there?”

Chief Harper clomped up to the crèche in his boots. “I’m sorry, but I have to talk to your Virgin Mary. Is she about done?”

“Oh, you messed up the snow,” Charlie Ferric moaned. “Chief Harper, look what you did to the snow.”

“Relax, Charlie. It’s supposed to snow again tonight. Is Miss Carter done?”

“As soon as she turns in her costume. There’s a lot of girls waiting for it.”

“I won’t be a minute. Come on. Jump down.”

“Gotta get my boots,” Sherry said.

“Of course,” Chief Harper muttered. “It couldn’t have been easy.”

Sherry changed into her boots, pulled on her coat, and she and Cora joined the chief in front of the stable. “This better be good, Chief. Charlie Ferric may not bawl you out for messing up his snow, but whaddya want to bet he takes it out on me?”

“I’m sorry, but I need your help.”

“With what?”

“With the puzzles.”

“You need
her
help with the puzzles?” Cora said.

Sherry shot her a warning glance.

“Yeah,” Chief Harper said. “You’re the computer whiz. The guy at the high school said the acrostic grid was generated by a computer program, but he didn’t know which one. Neither did Harvey. So, can you pinpoint the program for me?”

“I can give it a try,” Sherry said.

“Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”

Chief Harper turned and plodded away, cutting a brand-new trail through the snow.

“I thought you already had that program,” Cora said, watching him go.

“I do,” Sherry told her. “I bought it on the Internet the day you got the first puzzle.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“Force of habit,” Sherry muttered irritably.

“Right,” Cora agreed. “You didn’t wanna admit you’d already mastered the program backwards and forwards, and probably knew as much about it as the people who created it.”

A burst of giggling erupted from the crèche. Cora and Sherry looked, saw that the second Joseph, presumably Lance, was kneeling behind his girlfriend, Dorrie,
and
Dorrie’s friend Maxine, supporting both Virgin Marys.

“Suppose the three of them will wind up posing together?” Cora mused.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Come on. I gotta turn in my costume.”

“So what you gonna tell Chief Harper?” Cora asked Sherry as they walked back to town hall.

“I’ll call him tomorrow, give him copies of the puzzle grids. I just won’t mention when I printed ’em out.”

“Which was slightly before he asked you?”

“Hell, I printed the first one out before the second one even arrived.” Sherry shook her head. “I feel bad about misleading him.”

Cora shrugged.

“What difference could it possibly make?”

9

“WE’RE LATE,” SHERRY SAID IRRITABLY. “THIS IS AARON’S parents. I don’t want to be late.”

Cora Felton eased the Toyota around a curve in the road. “We’re not late. We’re right on time.”

“It’s a quarter to seven.”

“So?”

“The invitation was for six o’clock.”

“Of course,” Cora said. “You know who’s there at six o’clock? The hosts, setting up. Assuming they’re even dressed.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Silly? Sherry, I’ve thrown enough parties in my day. Believe me, I know. With Frank, all we did was throw parties. Which was good. It gave me someone to talk to besides Frank.”

“Aunt Cora—”

“Trust me, if the invitation says six o’clock, you don’t get there at six.”

“We’ll be lucky if we get there at all. Can’t you go any faster?”

“Not if you want me to stay on the road. It’s snowing, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Do you think I’m overdressed?” Sherry asked. “I’m afraid I’m overdressed.”

Under her winter coat, Sherry was wearing a blue evening dress with a scoop neck, a ruby pendant on a chain. Her glossy brown hair, fresh from the beauty parlor, featured highlights and loose curls.

“You look good.”

“Is the brooch too much?”

“Not at all. If you want it to be too much, you attach it to the front of the dress so it gapes when you lean forward.”

“Aunt Cora.”

“I believe that is the official definition of ‘too much.’ I only did that when I had to get married again.”

“Aunt Cora. This means a lot to me. Will you behave?”

“Don’t I always?”

Sherry refrained from comment.

“There’s one.” Cora pointed to a house hung with colored lights and a plastic Santa and sleigh. There were not many such houses in Bakerhaven. The approved holiday decorations in Bakerhaven consisted of the understated single candle and wreath in the window. Colored lights were frowned on in Bakerhaven. Illuminated Santas simply were not done.

“Does that mean they’ll be ostracized?” Sherry asked.

“Oh, absolutely. Christmas tree lights belong on Christmas trees, or hadn’t you heard?”

“Oh,
now
you’re an expert on Christmas trees?”

“Just because I don’t trim them doesn’t mean I haven’t seen one.” Cora fishtailed around a corner. Off to the left children were sledding on a hill. “Oh, look! Sledders.”

“Watch the road.”

“Aren’t they precious. Do you suppose one of them will grow up to be Citizen Kane?”

Sherry took a breath. “Cora, I know you like to fancy yourself irrepressible. But this is Aaron’s
parents.
I need to make a good impression.”

“So I shouldn’t get pie-eyed and start showing everyone your baby pictures? Never fear.” Cora turned onto Maple Street, headed out of town. “Will you recognize the house?”

“In this snow I’m not sure. But it will be the one with all the cars parked around it.”

“If anyone’s there yet.”

“Cora, it’s not like New York. If they say six o’clock, it’s because they expect people at six o’clock.”

A couple of miles out of town they came upon a house with half a dozen cars parked out on the road. The car ahead of them pulled in and parked.

“Satisfied?” Sherry asked her aunt crisply.

“As long as we’re not the first. If we’re the first, it gets around, people talk, invitations start to fall off.”

The Grant house had a single candle in each window.

“Fashionable,” Cora commented.

“Don’t be snide.”

“What’s snide about that?”

“Sorry, I’m just touchy.”

“Hadn’t noticed.”

Aaron’s parents met them at the front door. Mrs. Grant wore a black velvet dress and a string of pearls. Mr. Grant sported slacks and a blue blazer, a slightly more casual look than the suit and tie he customarily wore as the head of his insurance company. He seemed nice, though Sherry had never had a chance to really talk to him.

“Sherry, Cora,” Mrs. Grant said, extending her hands. “Glad you could come. Here, let me take your coats. Aaron, come and take their coats.”

Aaron Grant had been standing near the punch bowl, talking to one of the guests. Aaron was wearing a turtleneck and tweed jacket, and struck Sherry as a mature, handsome young man. Then his mother called him, and suddenly he was a little boy again, helping Mommy with the guests’ coats. Sherry fought back the image, smiled at Aaron before he scampered up the stairs to toss their coats on the bed.

The onslaught of more guests kept the Grants busy being hosts, and Cora and Sherry found themselves ushered into the party. A Christmas tree dominated one end of the living room. It had colored lights and balls and tinsel, a star on top, and presents underneath.

The living room and dining room were separated by huge double doors. The dining room table had been pushed up against the wall to hold the buffet. A table on the opposite wall served as a bar. A third table held the punch bowls. There were two of them, tidily labeled ALCOHOLIC and NONALCOHOLIC.

Despite Cora’s fears, more than a dozen guests were already there. Standing by the punch bowl was a beefy man with a jowled face, bald head, and enormous muttonchop sideburns. They were long, thick, and bushy, as might have befitted a Dickens scholar, a Dickens character, or even Dickens himself. He clutched a martini glass in a meaty hand that would have looked more fitting with a tankard of ale. He gestured with it as he talked, as if driving points home with vermouth and gin. The man had Chief Harper buttonholed, and it did not look as if there was any immediate chance of escape.

Sherry glanced around to find her aunt had rapidly bypassed the punch bowls in favor of the bar, and was already pouring some amber liquid or other over a glass of cracked ice. Sherry started across the room to add her customary word of caution, but Cora swept on to look out the patio’s glass double door. As she did, Harvey Beerbaum came up behind her, spun her around, and kissed her.

Cora came up for air, blinking and sputtering in shock and surprise. “Harvey Beerbaum! Are you drunk? What in the world’s got into you?”

Harvey grinned and pointed over her head. “Mistletoe. Can’t buck tradition, now, can we?” He chuckled. “You’d better move away, unless you want the men forming a line.”

“Well, you old rascal,” Cora said. “Is this a habit with you, or am I your first victim?”

“Oh, what a nasty word.” Harvey’s piggy eyes twinkled. “I admit I laid in wait for you. To catch you in something for once.”

Cora’s heart skipped, as it always did when Harvey alluded to their respective skills. The prospect of Harvey catching her in something was a very genuine possibility. However, Harvey seemed in an exuberant mood. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he declared. “I’ve got someone who wants to meet you.”

“Oh?” Cora said without enthusiasm. Harvey’s contacts in the crossword puzzle world were legion. Cora wondered which cruciverbal expert she’d have to deal with now.

Harvey marched her over to the punch bowl, where the beefy, bewhiskered gentleman was still taking Chief Harper to task. “Jonathon,” Harvey said, beaming all over his face. “Jonathon, here she is.”

At the interruption, the man wheeled around, depositing the remains of his martini down the front of his shirt. His raised eyebrows were black and exceedingly bushy. His inquiring eyes were sky blue. His face, round with baby fat, still managed somehow to look sly. “Yes?” he said crisply.

“This is Miss Cora Felton, the woman I told you about. Cora, may I present Jonathon Doddsworth III.” Harvey paused dramatically. Then, eyes twinkling, he announced, “Of Scotland Yard.”

Cora’s mouth fell open. “Of—”

“Scotland Yard. Yes,” Jonathon Doddsworth said. “Little out of my bailiwick, aren’t I? But my daughter’s here. I’m home for the holidays, so to speak. Not that this is my home anymore, not to put too fine a point on it.”

“You and her mother are divorced?”

“That’s the ticket. Ages now, more’s the pity. Yes, I’m back in Scotland Yard, and I daresay we have something in common.”

“You mean crime?”

“I do indeed.” Doddsworth smiled broadly. His teeth were somewhat crooked but went well with his face, gave him a warm, homey quality. His twinkling eyes made him seem friendly and attractive. “I understand you’ve had no little success in the matter.”

Cora practically simpered. “You’re too kind. Oh, this is my niece, Sherry. Sherry Carter. Absolutely invaluable in my investigations. Helps me with the computer. This Internet stuff gives me fits.”

“Beastly, isn’t it?” Doddsworth agreed, nodding hello to Sherry. He took a sip of his martini, was surprised to find his glass empty. “I must say, I find myself intrigued by your recent puzzles.”

As usual, Cora tried to keep her face from registering alarm at the drop of the dreaded word
puzzle
. “Whatever do you mean?”

“The acrostics, of course. I was just having a bit of a jaw with Chief Harper here. In a quandary, he is, over this business. And rightfully so. Seems a children’s lark, but who’s to say?”

“Is that how you see it?” Cora asked.

“I haven’t seen it at all.” Jonathon Doddsworth set his glass on the table somewhat ruefully. Cora wasn’t sure if his expression reflected the fact that it was empty or the fact that he hadn’t seen the puzzles. “I’m relying on Chief Harper’s recollections, which I must say seem a trifle foggy. I know the verse is not Dylan Thomas—still, one might expect it to rhyme.”

“Oh, it does,” Cora said. “In a maddeningly schoolgirl way.”

“You wouldn’t by any chance have brought it along?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Aaron Grant, who had returned from taking their coats in time to hear the last exchange, said, “But Sherry could recite it. She has a fantastic memory for words.”

“Could you?” Doddsworth said. “I say, that would be positively smashing.”

The look Sherry shot Aaron was not kind. Showing off her linguistic prowess was the last thing in the world she wanted to do. “It’s exactly as you say. They’re simple children’s poems. The first is:

“Can you figure out the mischief
That I am going to do?
Are you apprehensive
That I might do it to you?

“Girls who harbor grievances
And cannot make amends
Never get the things they want
And come to gruesome ends.

“The second is:

“Did you get my message?
It appears that you did not.
Or is it conceivable
That you simply forgot?

“Well, here’s a brief reminder
To remember what I said.
I hope it doesn’t come too late
And you’re already dead!”

“Fascinating,” Doddsworth murmured. “Clearly threats, but maddeningly nonspecific. I understand the titles narrowed the field. You couldn’t recite them as well, now, could you, there’s a clever girl?”

“The first one was
Death of an Actress
by
Guess Who?
The second one was
Die, Leading Lady, Die
by
Me Again.
”

“And this arrived in a cryptogram grid, such as might be printed in the morning daily?”

Sherry nudged Cora with her elbow.

“An acrostic,” Cora supplied belatedly.

“An acrostic which had been generated from a computer program?”

“It appears so. As I say, my Sherry’s the expert on computer matters.”

“Yes. Miss Carter, might this perchance be a program of the sort one would be required to purchase?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Well, there you are.” Doddsworth nodded sagaciously. “The prankster purchased an acrostic computer program. You need only trace recent sales.”

“And how would I do that?” Chief Harper asked.

“Good lord, man. You’re a constable. Contact the retailer and demand the information. I can’t imagine them not obliging. Though surely you could get a court directive if need be.”

“Yes,” Chief Harper said dryly. “But there’s been no crime.”

“Quite so, quite so,” Doddsworth agreed amiably. “It would indeed be much more convenient were there a corpse. This actress you fancy—who would she be?”

“Becky Baldwin.”

“I’m not certain having Miss Rebecca chaperoned is such a good notion. Sort of puts our fellow off, so to speak. Why not lower your guard, and let nature take its course?”

Two teenage girls came bouncing up with a young man in tow. Cora recognized one of the girls as the sassy, plainclothes Mary from the live Nativity. Tonight she was bubbly and vibrant in a royal blue sweater, a short black skirt, and her braces.

“Hi, Daddy,” she said. “Enjoying the party?”

Jonathon Doddsworth’s face softened into a paternal smile. He put his arms around his daughter, embarrassed her with a hug. “That I am, Max. That I am.” As she wriggled free he added, “Is your mother here?”

“No, I came with Lance and Dorrie,” she replied, identifying her young friends, the Mary and Joseph from the crèche.

Doddsworth’s mouth fell open. “Oh, I say! Is that little
Dorrie
?” His voice grew husky. “But of course, Dorrie and Max. Same as ever. My dear girl, do you remember polo pony? I was the pony, and you and Max rode me, often at the same time. My, how you’ve grown.”

Dorrie, who could not have looked more mortified had Doddsworth whipped out her nude baby pictures, rolled her eyes. “Puh
-leeze
!” she said, mugging in a way she undoubtedly thought was cute, but which merely underscored her youth. Without her Virgin Mary cowl, Dorrie had straight blond hair, which flew out appealingly each time she tossed her head. She had sky-blue eyes, high cheekbones, and sensitive features. Her capped teeth gleamed. Her pink sweater and white skirt were the most fashionable designer labels. Though she was gawky, awkward, and somewhat socially immature, it was clear no expense had been spared to compensate.