Stalking the Puzzle Lady Mass market paperbound - 2006

Excerpt

1

He couldn't believe it! She hadn't answered his letter. True, he hadn't left a return address, but there were so many other ways. And a clever woman could find them. And she was not just a clever woman, she was a brilliant woman. When it came to delving, investigating, figuring things out.

So why hadn't she?

The thought that tortured him was, What if she had? What if she'd devised some clever means of communication that he was too slow to grasp? What if she had already answered him in one way or another? What if her answer was waiting for him right now?

But what kind of answer could it be? An ad in the Personals column? What Personals column? And what newspaper? How would he know?

No, there was only one way she could communicate. Only one way he expected her to. Only one way that made sense.

After all, she had a nationally syndicated crossword-puzzle column. And how simple it would be to slip a word or phrase into the puzzle. Meaningless to everyone else, but a wink and a nod to him. And wouldn't that be delicious. To have a secret. Their secret. In plain view, on display, for everyone to see. If only they had perspicacity to glean the hidden meaning. To crack the secret cypher.

Each morning he snatched up the paper, flipped to the Entertainment section, and solved the puzzle, always in under five minutes. For the next half hour he would study what he'd done, searching for a clue.

Which never came.

It infuriated him. Was it possible she hadn't gotten the letter? He had written care of the paper, not having her address. It was only a local paper, but still, they would forward it, wouldn't they? And the breakfast cereal company. He had written her care of that too. She was the spokesman for the company. Surely they would send her mail.

If not, he would have to get her home address. He hated to do it. It would make him seem like an obsessed fan. Like that nutcase who kept showing up at David Letterman's.

And it wasn't that way with him. It wasn't that way at all. He was her confederate, her peer, her equal. Theirs was a true meeting of the minds.

If only he could arrange the introduction.

Should he nudge the breakfast cereal company?

Perhaps.

Or maybe it was time for a special delivery.


2

"I'm tired of living a lie."

Sherry Carter looked at her aunt in amusement. Cora Felton did not look like a liar. The white-haired, bespectacled lady looked like everyone's favorite grandmother, the type that baked pumpkin pies at Thanksgiving, cookies at Christmastime, and cupcakes for no particular reason on any given occasion. Sherry, of course, knew better. Cora smoked, swore, gambled, had only recently given up drinking, and was somewhat hazy on the subject of how many husbands she'd had. "Mine or other people's?" was her usual deflection.

"Good lord, Cora. Do you have another husband I haven't heard of?"

"It's entirely possible, but that isn't what I meant." Cora pointed at the computer screen, on which Sherry was composing a puzzle in Crossword Compiler. "I'm tired of being the Puzzle Lady. I'm tired of feigning an expertise I have not got."

Sherry nodded approvingly. "See? You even sound like the Puzzle Lady. Do you realize how much more elegant and refined your speech has become since you've been doing it?"

Cora responded with a remark that could hardly be considered elegant or refined by any stretch of the imagination.

"Aunt Cora!" Sherry remonstrated.

"Oh, pooh," Cora retorted. "I'm the Milli Vanilli of the crossword-puzzle community. A hollow subterfuge that has stretched way thin."

"You're mixing metaphors."

A toy poodle scampered into the office and yipped around Cora's feet. She bent down, scooped him up. He nestled against her chest, nuzzled under her chin.

"Look at me," Cora complained. "I used to be tough as nails. Now I'm a dotty old woman with a dog."

"We don't have to keep the dog," Sherry pointed out. "He's here on a trial run."

"Shh! He'll hear you!" Cora hissed. "Buddy, don't listen to her. Cut it out, Sherry. I'm not getting rid of the D-O-G just to make a point."

"And just what point are you making, Cora?"

"I'm not comfortable taking credit for something I don't do. I think it's time you were recognized for your work."

"I don't want to be recognized."

"Why not? It's not like you're hiding from your ex-husband anymore. Dennis knows you're the Puzzle Lady. He also knows where you live. What have you got to lose?"

"My privacy, for one thing."

"Oh? But it's all right for me to lose mine?"

"It's not the same thing, Aunt Cora."

"Why not?"

"You don't do anything."

"I beg your pardon?"

Sherry shrugged. "I create the puzzles. Losing your privacy is your entire contribution to the project."

"Oh, for Christ's sake!"

Cora jerked a pack of cigarettes out of her floppy, drawstring purse.

"I thought you weren't going to smoke in here," Sherry observed.

"That only works when you agree with me," Cora snapped. "When you argue with me, I gotta smoke." Buddy squirmed and yipped. "Oh, was I squeezing too tight?" She set the poodle down. "All right, I'll go outside. You wanna come, too, or should I finish this conversation myself?"

Sherry followed Cora down the hall through the living room and out the front door of the modest, prefab rental she and her aunt shared together. The house wasn't much, except for the location. On a scenic country road in Bakerhaven, Connecticut, with no near neighbors, the one-acre lot was an idyllic setting.

Cora stopped on the front step, but Buddy pelted by and yipped around the yard. It was mud season, and the tiny poodle's white feet were rapidly turning black.

"You'll wash him off before he comes in the house?" Sherry said.

"Why is it always me?" Cora groused. "Why don't you wash him off?"

"I do when you're not here."

"Yeah, yeah. What's this crap about I don't do anything? How does that have anything to do with you owning up to what you do?"

"It's a partnership. I supply the work, you supply the image."

"I hate the image. I gotta be decorous in public, while you run around in jeans and a sweater. Is that fair? You're young and attractive and you happen to look good in jeans and a sweater."

Before Cora quit drinking she had often appeared far from decorous in public, but Sherry wasn't about to point that out. "What's really the matter, Cora?"

Cora puffed in smoke, watched the dog cavorting on the lawn. "I told you what's the matter. I'm tired of the deception. I'm tired of pretending to be something I'm not."

"Cora. You've hated the deception from the word go. Why do you want to quit now?"

"Oh."

"Ah! There's an oh?"

"It's the damn cereal company."

"The damn cereal company that put you on TV? You'd like to give that up?"

"Sherry . . ."

"What have they done?"

"They've come out with a new cereal."

"And they want you to promote it?"

"Yeah."

"That's wonderful, Cora. That probably pays our rent for a year. We might even think of buying this place, knocking it down, and building something better."

"I don't want to do it."

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing, it's not a new cereal. It's the same old cereal, it's just new and improved."

"So what?"

"I hate that. It's like saying, 'The stuff I've been selling you for years is crap, but, hang on, I got something better.' "

"All products do that. It's called progress."

"It's humiliating."

"No, it's great. The product launch is a gold mine. So you have to tape some TV ads. What's the big deal?"

Cora exhaled an angry drag. "They want me to tour."

"What?"

"They want me to make personal appearances." Her tone was scathing. "They want me to do supermarkets. Shopping centers. Malls. They want me to be there hawking their products. They want to let kids meet the Puzzle Lady. Like a Macy's Santa."

"What's wrong with that?"

"I'm not good with kids, Sherry. Kids have sticky hands and snotty noses. And a complete and utter lack of tact. They stand there and tell me to my face I look older than their grandmother. It's all I can do to keep from telling them that's 'cause their mother got knocked up when she was fifteen."

"I see your point. Can you do the ads and not the tour?"

"No. 'Cause they're shooting the ads on the tour." Cora snorted. "It's all this goddamned reality TV. They want real kids trying the cereal for the first time. Along with the Puzzle Lady. And I hate cold cereal. Give me ham and eggs and a buttered muffin."

Sherry Carter looked at her aunt. "You really want to do this? Tell people you're a fake, I mean?"

"I got some money put away. Not just from this, but from my alimony and property settlements. If ever there was a time, it's now."

"If you give it up, what are you going to do?"

Cora shrugged. "Hold a press conference. Do the Today Show. We could go on Oprah together, tell our story. I could abdicate the throne. Like the way I said abdicate?"

"I'm not going on TV, Cora."

"You may think you're not, but TV's gonna find you."

"You'd do that to me?"

"I'm not doing it to you. You pushed me out front for years. Was that doing it to me? It's just the way it goes. Hey, Buddy!" Cora yelled. The little poodle had ventured too far down the drive for her liking. He halted at the sound of her voice, scampered across the lawn.

"Fine," Sherry said. "That's not what I mean. If you're not the Puzzle Lady, what will you do?"

"Pretty much the same as I do now. I mean, it's not like I spend any time on crossword puzzles. All I do is film a commercial or two a year. At least until this damn tour came up."

"I don't think you've thought this through."

"Why not?"

"Right now people cut you a lot of slack because you're the most famous woman in town. Give it up, you'll be the most infamous woman in town. You're gonna spend most of your time apologizing to people for duping them. People don't like to be duped. It makes them feel stupid. People resent a person who makes them feel stupid. They could make her life a living hell."

"I think you're wrong. I think our friends would come around."

"Maybe." Sherry said it without enthusiasm. "You're doing this just to get out of a tour?"

"Would you want to do a supermarket tour?" Cora countered.

"Don't be absurd."

"Well, at least we agree on one thing."

The phone rang. Sherry ducked back inside to answer it.

Cora sat on the front step to play with the dog. The concrete stoop was cold despite her tweed skirt. Cora didn't mind. She put out her arms, lifted the little dog up into her lap.

"You going to snub Mommie if she's not a celebrity? No, you're not. You won't care at all."

From the kitchen Sherry shouted, "Cora!"

"Ooh," Cora said. "I hope that's a poker game. Mommie could use a poker game. Come on, Buddy. Let's go in."

Cora set the poodle down in the living room, and went to answer the phone. "Who is it?" she asked as Sherry handed her the receiver.

"Don't know. He asked for Miss Felton."

"As long as he didn't ask for the darn Puzzle Lady." Cora took the phone, said, "Hello?"

"Miss Felton?"

"Yes."

"This is Charles Coleson, Truestar Investments."

Cora groaned. "Not again."

"Miss Felton--"

"I told you. I don't want to diversify."

"Yes, you did. And we haven't. We've kept all your stock right where you had it. That's why I'm calling."

"What do you mean?"

Cora could hear Charles Coleson take a breath.

"Miss Felton, I'm afraid I have some rather bad news."


3



Quentin Burns could not have been more annoying. "Is everything perfect? I want everything perfect. We are not going to shoot before everything's perfect."

Quentin Burns wasn't perfect. His chin was too weak, his nose was too short, and his eyebrows were most decidedly irregular.

He also wore a wig. Cora had dated men with weaves, implants, Rogaine IV drips, and hairpieces of all kinds, but there were good wigs and bad wigs. This was an obvious rug perched on a head with no right to have the jet-black hair it sported. The effect was unsettling, at best.

"Who is this geek?" Cora whispered to Florence Evans, a comfortable woman with a red bandanna around her head, and a black eyeliner in her hand. "Don't squirm," the makeup lady cautioned, but her eyes were twinkling. Flo had made Cora up before, and got quite a kick out of the Puzzle Lady. "That's Quentin Burns. He's the producer."

"For the ad execs, or the breakfast boys?"

"From the agency. He's running this campaign."

"Did he think it up?"

"I'm not sure he thinks."

Cora was boundlessly delighted by that remark, which almost reconciled her to doing the commercial.

Cora and the dorky ad man were filming in a soundstage in Queens, where the art department had designed a perfectly workmanlike replica of a kitchen. Why they couldn't simply film in a kitchen was more than Cora wanted to fathom. She sat getting made up, while chaos reigned around her.

"You've never met Quentin?" Flo asked.

"I try to meet as few of these people as possible. Oh, my God, he's coming over!"

He was. Quentin Burns swept down on the makeup chair like the wolf on the fold. Up close his hair looked like a black putting green. "Ah, there you are, Miss Felton. It's so good to meet you. I'm Quentin Burns, and I'm in charge of the shoot. If there's anything you want, anything at all, don't hesitate to ask."

Cora was sorely tempted to order a Tanqueray martini with a twist, in spite of being unofficially on the wagon. "That's very nice of you, but I'm fine."

"Fine? You're more than fine. My God, you're perfect. Isn't she perfect, Flo?"

"Actually, she could use a little powder on her cheek."

Quentin clearly had no sense of humor. He smiled dutifully.

"Tell me something," Cora said. "If we're doing this whole public-appearance tour to film a reality TV commercial, why are we shooting this?"

Quentin looked shocked. "Are you serious? This is the promo that promotes the promo. Didn't they tell you anything?"

"They told me not to curse on camera."

Quentin hoped she was joking. "Ah, yes. Well, this is the spot that gets them in the stores. It runs nationally to introduce the product, then it runs locally with the voice-over tag line, 'See the Puzzle Lady in person Saturday at Wal-Mart.'"

"I'm doing Wal-Mart?"


From the Hardcover edition.

Media reviews

"The pleasure is in the wordplay, at which Hall is a master. Across and down, the word is C-U-T-E." — New York Times Book Review

"If sweet-looking, gray-haired Miss Marple cursed, smoked, and carried a gun in her purse, she’d be a ringer for Cora Felton." —Booklist


From the Hardcover edition.