Puzzled to Death by Parnell Hall Page B

of the striped balls. The shot caromed around the pocket and didn’t go in.
    “First time here?” the man on the barstool asked.
    Cora Felton smiled. “I didn’t even know they had a place like this in Bakerhaven.”
    “That’s cause they don’t.”
    “What?”
    The man was smug. “This here’s Clarksonville. Just over the town line. Bakerhaven zoning don’t cut no ice with us.”
    “Tell me something,” Cora said. “Don’t you think it’s a little strange, Joey here shooting pool and his wife’s newly dead?”
    He grinned. “Well, you gotta remember. Joey’s a celebrity, with his wife getting killed. Earlier, when he’s talking about it, just about everyone bought him a beer. ’Course, he had to drink ’em just to be polite. At any rate, he’s pretty snockered now. I wouldn’t hold playing pool against him.”
    Cora watched Joey line up another shot. After he missed, Joey grabbed his bottle of beer by the neck, took a swig.
    “What’ll he do when the game’s over?” she asked.
    “If he wins, he’ll play the guy who put up the next quarter.”
    He didn’t win. Joey scratched on the eight ball, threw his cue down in disgust, and headed for the men’s room.
    Cora was waiting when he came out. She followed him to a booth where four empty beer bottles and three full ones were waiting. Sliding into the seat opposite him, she said, “Hi, Joey.”
    Joey Vale looked at Cora Felton as if she were a creature from Mars. “Who the hell are you?”
    “I’m Cora Felton. I’m here to help you.”
    “Help me? You’re here to help me?”
    “If you want to know who killed your wife.”
    Joey’s eyes widened. They were very red, whether from crying or alcohol Cora couldn’t tell. “You
know
?” he murmured incredulously.
    Cora felt a pang of guilt. “No, I don’t. But I intend to find out.”
    Joey bobbed his head. “Good, good. You find out.” His interest wandered to the beer bottles on the table. He stared at them, probably trying to figure out which were full. Cora could practically see his mind working, trying to come up with a means of determining this.
    “Who do you think killed her?” Cora asked.
    Joey looked at her in alarm. “Didn’t do it,” he mumbled. “I didn’t do it.”
    “I know you didn’t. So who do you think did?”
    “Kill him,” Joey muttered. “Kill the son of a bitch.”
    “Who?” Cora prompted. “Who you gonna kill?”
    Joey’s face crumpled. “Poor Judy. Poor little Judy.” This time his hand unerringly snagged a full bottle of beer. He took a huge swallow, held the bottle in both hands.
    “You had a fight with Judy,” Cora said. “You accused her of seeing someone.”
    “Billy Pickens.”
    “Yes. Billy Pickens. Is he here tonight?”
    “Better not be.”
    “Do you think he did it?”
    “Did what?”
    “Killed your wife?”
    Joey’s face reddened murderously. “Son of a bitch? That son of a bitch killed my Judy?”
    “No, no, Joey. I was asking if
you
thought so.”
    Joey looked bewildered again. “Why would he do that?” His face twisted. “Poor Judy …”
    “Yes. Poor Judy.”
    Cora was not entirely unhappy with the conversation. Incoherent as Joey Vale was, he’d confirmed what his neighbors had said. That he suspected the man seeing his wife was Billy Pickens. And Judy Vale had had a visitor last night, because she’d turned out the front light. In alllikelihood that visitor murdered her. Joey Vale might not be able to come up with a reason why Billy Pickens would have strangled his wife, but Cora Felton could come up with several. In Cora’s estimation, Billy Pickens was rapidly moving to the top of her suspect list.
    Right behind Joey Vale himself.

A ARON G RANT PARKED HIS CAR IN THE DRIVEWAY, SKIPPED up the front steps, and rang the bell.
    Sherry Carter opened the door with a grin.
    “You look happy,” Aaron observed. “What’s up?”
    “Cora’s snooping,” Sherry said, ushering him in.
    “Oh?”
    “She’s out