Read Online And a Puzzle to Die On by Parnell Hall - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Parnell Hall
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Could I see the crime scene?”
“It’s not a
crime
scene. It’s a
motor vehicle
accident.”
“Drunk driving’s a crime, isn’t it?”
Sergeant Walpole started to retort, then smiled and shrugged. “Damned if it ain’t.”
It was a nasty curve, a hard right at the bottom of a steep hill. If you went into it too fast, the car would skid sideways, cross the oncoming lane, mount the shoulder, and smash into the guard posts lining the curve. If the car were going way too fast, it would
take out
the guard posts lining the curve.
Gleason’s blue Chevy had taken out four. The guard posts had been replaced, but they were easy to spot, as the wood was newer and lighter in color.
Behind the guard posts just a few feet off the road was Ricky Gleason’s tree. The mighty oak still sported a gash in its trunk, but otherwise stood proud and tall.
“Okay,” Sergeant Walpole said. “We’re here. What does it tell you?”
The turn showed Cora absolutely nothing, but she was damned if she was going to admit that to Sergeant Walpole. “Was the road wet or dry?” she asked.
“Dry, as I recall.”
“You recall right. At least, according to the officer’s accident report.”
“Then why the hell’d you ask?”
“Reports aren’t always accurate,” Cora replied breezily. “Let’s try a little experiment, shall we?”
“Experiment?”
“You mind standing over there by the guardrails and letting me know if anything’s coming?”
Cora’s red Toyota was parked behind Walpole’s unmarked cruiser. She hopped in, drove to the top of the hill, turned the car around.
At the bottom of the hill, Sergeant Walpole stood watching with some exasperation.
Cora stuck her head out the window, shouted, “All clear?”
Walpole hesitated a moment, probably deciding whether to help her or arrest her. Then he sighed, crossed the road, peered around the curve. It must have been clear, because he raised his hand, waved to her to come ahead.
Cora floored it.
The tires squealed in protest as Cora peeled out, leaving rubber, and hurtled down the hill.
The astonished look on Sergeant Walpole’s face gave way to one of sheer terror. Suddenly he was stumbling up the road, away from the newly replaced guard posts, as the madwoman in the Toyota sped right toward them.
Cora hit the curve, downshifted, let up on the gas, and spun the wheel. The Toyota shuddered, swerved to the left. Dry leaves spun out from under the wheels. Then the tires caught, screeched, held. In a flash she rocketed around the turn and onto a straightaway.
Cora hit the brakes, slowed the car, made use of a private driveway to turn around. She drove back to where Sergeant Walpole stood waiting on the high sideof the curve. The officer was sweating profusely. He looked like he’d lost a good ten pounds.
“What the hell were you doing?” he demanded.
“I told you. A little experiment,” Cora answered placidly. “The theory is, the guy drove too fast and went off the road. I took the corner at seventy, and made it just fine. I skidded a little bit, but I didn’t come near going off the road. I never even crossed the center line.”
“You’re sober,” Sergeant Walpole pointed out. He exhaled heavily. “At least I thought you were.”
“Hey, I’m a little old lady and I made the turn. You’re telling me a forty-three-year-old man can’t handle it? He’s gotta be pretty impaired.”
“He was.”
“Point one two five?”
“That’s legally drunk.”
“Maybe so, but it’s not a world record. I seem to remember people driving a lot worse than point one two five.”
The people she seemed to recall were all Cora Felton, who had been stopped for speeding several times in her less sober days. On those occasions the Breathalyzer had indeed registered far more than point one two five. The fact Cora was unable to recall any of these incidents with any degree of accuracy was not at all surprising.
“What’s your point?” Sergeant Walpole said
“It’s not a
crime
scene. It’s a
motor vehicle
accident.”
“Drunk driving’s a crime, isn’t it?”
Sergeant Walpole started to retort, then smiled and shrugged. “Damned if it ain’t.”
It was a nasty curve, a hard right at the bottom of a steep hill. If you went into it too fast, the car would skid sideways, cross the oncoming lane, mount the shoulder, and smash into the guard posts lining the curve. If the car were going way too fast, it would
take out
the guard posts lining the curve.
Gleason’s blue Chevy had taken out four. The guard posts had been replaced, but they were easy to spot, as the wood was newer and lighter in color.
Behind the guard posts just a few feet off the road was Ricky Gleason’s tree. The mighty oak still sported a gash in its trunk, but otherwise stood proud and tall.
“Okay,” Sergeant Walpole said. “We’re here. What does it tell you?”
The turn showed Cora absolutely nothing, but she was damned if she was going to admit that to Sergeant Walpole. “Was the road wet or dry?” she asked.
“Dry, as I recall.”
“You recall right. At least, according to the officer’s accident report.”
“Then why the hell’d you ask?”
“Reports aren’t always accurate,” Cora replied breezily. “Let’s try a little experiment, shall we?”
“Experiment?”
“You mind standing over there by the guardrails and letting me know if anything’s coming?”
Cora’s red Toyota was parked behind Walpole’s unmarked cruiser. She hopped in, drove to the top of the hill, turned the car around.
At the bottom of the hill, Sergeant Walpole stood watching with some exasperation.
Cora stuck her head out the window, shouted, “All clear?”
Walpole hesitated a moment, probably deciding whether to help her or arrest her. Then he sighed, crossed the road, peered around the curve. It must have been clear, because he raised his hand, waved to her to come ahead.
Cora floored it.
The tires squealed in protest as Cora peeled out, leaving rubber, and hurtled down the hill.
The astonished look on Sergeant Walpole’s face gave way to one of sheer terror. Suddenly he was stumbling up the road, away from the newly replaced guard posts, as the madwoman in the Toyota sped right toward them.
Cora hit the curve, downshifted, let up on the gas, and spun the wheel. The Toyota shuddered, swerved to the left. Dry leaves spun out from under the wheels. Then the tires caught, screeched, held. In a flash she rocketed around the turn and onto a straightaway.
Cora hit the brakes, slowed the car, made use of a private driveway to turn around. She drove back to where Sergeant Walpole stood waiting on the high sideof the curve. The officer was sweating profusely. He looked like he’d lost a good ten pounds.
“What the hell were you doing?” he demanded.
“I told you. A little experiment,” Cora answered placidly. “The theory is, the guy drove too fast and went off the road. I took the corner at seventy, and made it just fine. I skidded a little bit, but I didn’t come near going off the road. I never even crossed the center line.”
“You’re sober,” Sergeant Walpole pointed out. He exhaled heavily. “At least I thought you were.”
“Hey, I’m a little old lady and I made the turn. You’re telling me a forty-three-year-old man can’t handle it? He’s gotta be pretty impaired.”
“He was.”
“Point one two five?”
“That’s legally drunk.”
“Maybe so, but it’s not a world record. I seem to remember people driving a lot worse than point one two five.”
The people she seemed to recall were all Cora Felton, who had been stopped for speeding several times in her less sober days. On those occasions the Breathalyzer had indeed registered far more than point one two five. The fact Cora was unable to recall any of these incidents with any degree of accuracy was not at all surprising.
“What’s your point?” Sergeant Walpole said
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