Cora looked. It was indeed a photocopy of a solution grid such as might appear in the newspaper. There were no clues, and the squares in the grid were not numbered. And the answers were typeset rather than printed by hand.

But the entries were identical. It was clearly the solution grid to the puzzle Cora found on the windshield of her car.

She frowned. "Where did you get this?"

"Be careful," Becky advised. She, too, was frowning.

"I'm not making a statement. I'm asking a question."

"And a very good question," Henry Firth said. "That solution sheet came from Benny Southstreet's briefcase. Which is rather interesting. The man accuses you of stealing his puzzle, and winds up dead. Then you show up with another of his puzzles, taken from the briefcase found at the scene of the crime."

The prosecutor's beady eyes gleamed and his rat nose twitched like he'd just smelled the cheese. "Which brings up a question the police probably should have asked before, but I feel impelled to ask now. Do you happen to have any more of Benny Southstreet's puzzles?"

Chapter 52.

BECKY BALDWIN SUMMONED up what dignity she could muster, no small task considering how furiously she'd been blushing a moment before. "Are we agreed that was off the record?"

Henry Firth's satisfied smirk at having managed to provoke her client was somewhat blunted by the colorful characterizations with which Cora had managed to describe him. The fact that she had not referred to him as a rat was not a matter of restraint so much as a seeming reluctance to use any un-X-rated word. "Absolutely. Now, if you don't mind, let's go back on the record."

Henry Firth opened his briefcase again, took out another plastic bag. "Miss Felton, is this your gun?"

Becky opened her mouth to object, but Cora was in no mood to keep silent. "I have no idea."

"It was in your purse."

"If you say so."

"I do say so. I'd like to know if it's yours."

"And I'd like to know why you're asking the question," Becky said.

"He's asking the question because he's a noodge who dots his i's and crosses his t 's and wears belts and suspenders. I can't tell you if that's my gun because I have no way of knowing without looking up the serial number. It certainly looks like my gun, and if I'd found it in my purse, I'd probably think it was my gun, but when you hand it to me in an evidence bag, then I am highly skeptical. I have only your word for it the gun was in my purse, and that is, of course, hearsay evidence. Look, I wouldn't want to imply that your questions are stupid, or anything, but why are we discussing this at all?"

"This gun has been fired, Miss Felton."

"Then it isn't mine."

"Cora-"

"My gun hasn't been fired in months. The last time was at a pistol range in Danbury. Won a fiver off a deputy sheriff named Claiborne. He wasn't pleased."

"Any chance you left a spent cartridge in the cylinder?"

"None. I clean and load my gun after I use it. Always have, always will. My ex, Melvin, taught me well. Son of a bitch."

"This gun's been fired recently. It smells of gunpowder, and has a spent shell under the hammer."

"Then it isn't mine."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. I haven't shot anyone lately. I'm sure I'd remember."

"Then how do you account for the fact that the gun was found in your purse?"

"Once again I am hearing language I don't believe you mean," Becky said. "Account for is a nasty little phrase. I assume that's not what you meant to say."

"Then you assume wrong. The gun was in her purse. It needs to be accounted for."

"Just a damn minute here," Cora said. "Are you telling me you found a gun that's been fired in my purse?"

"At last, a meeting of the minds. Yes, that's exactly what I'm telling you, Miss Felton. Now, before this goes any further, let me say I appreciate your position. You're charged with a murder. The case against you looks pretty grim. You don't have much of a defense."

"Hey!" Becky interjected.

"You'd like to build up some support. Sway public opinion. Perhaps even the jury pool. At least raise the inference the crime was committed by someone else. What better way than to make it look like someone's trying to kill you?"

"Now you're claiming I fired the shot myself?"

"I'm not claiming anything. I'm just presenting the facts. If you can explain them, I'd be delighted to listen."

"She's not explaining anything," Becky said. "She's had a traumatic experience. She's been knocked unconscious. She may have a concussion. Under the circumstances, when she was shot at it's entirely possible she pulled a gun and fired a shot at her attacker and doesn't remember it. I'm not saying she did. I'm just saying it's entirely possible."

"Mr. Wilbur only heard one shot."

"Mr. Wilbur may have fired one shot. I'm not saying he did. I'm just pointing out how much weight his statement is worth."

"Mr. Wilbur might have fired the shot that whizzed by your client's head and embedded itself in the wall?"

"We're not making any accusations," Cora told him. "We're just listening to yours and pointing out how stupid they are."

"Anytime you're through having fun," the prosecutor said.

"You call this fun? Trust me, I can think of things more fun."

"I'm sure you can." Henry Firth opened his briefcase again, took out a piece of paper. "Miss Felton, we ran a trace on the gun found in your bag. According to the files, this gun was registered to a Mrs. Cora Crabtree, of 890 Park Avenue, New York City."

Cora nodded. "The best thing about Melvin was his Park Avenue address. I always hated being Cora Crabtree, though. Like I married him for the alliteration."

Henry ignored this, reached in his briefcase again. "This is a photograph taken of two bullets on a comparison microscope. The bullet on the top is a test bullet fired from the gun found in your purse, the gun registered to Cora Crabtree. The bullet on the bottom is the one dug out of the wall in Wilbur's barn. They are identical. There is no doubt about it. The bullet you claim whizzed by your head came from your gun."

Chapter 53.

"SEE?" BECKY SAID, as they drove away from the police station. "This is why you listen to your lawyer and don't make any admissions until you know what the facts are."

"I didn't make any admissions," Cora protested.

"All right, what about lies? What about assertions that can be proven false?"

"I didn't lie."

"You made assertions that can be proven false."

"That sounds bad. Can I go to jail for that?"

"No, but you can go to jail for murder. And one of the quickest ways to get convicted is by telling lies to the police."

"I didn't lie."

"You said someone shot at you."

"Someone did shoot at me."

"With the gun in your purse?"

"I admit that sounds bad."

"It not only sounds bad, it cooks your goose."

"Do people still use that expression?"

"This isn't word games, Cora. I'm interested in keeping you out of jail. Just for the record, impugning the character of the prosecutor's mother is generally considered a poor legal strategy."

"I implied she was lithe and vigorous."

"Cora."

"That was before I realized they framed me with my gun."

"How did that happen?"

"You're asking me? I was unconscious."

"That was after you were shot with your gun. Now, how did that happen?"

"If I knew how that happened, I'd know who shot me."

"I mean how could it have possibly happened?"

"The easiest explanation is there were two shots. While I was unconscious someone took my gun and fired the second one."

"That would mean Wilbur did it."

"Of course. He's the most likely suspect anyway. The fact he had the chance to fire the second shot puts him way at the top of the list."

"Who else is on it?"

"It's a rather short list."

"You're not being very helpful."

"What do you want from me, Becky? I've been framed for murder. I don't know why. I'm trying to work things out."

"I'm trying to help. If there were two bullets, how come the police only found one?"

"Because they didn't know there were two bullets. They found one and stopped looking."

"You mean... ?"

Cora shrugged. "I never looked for a bullet hole before. Except in a target. But to find a bullet fired into a wooden wall with not the best of light... I couldn't really blame Sam Brogan for missing one."

The cars were gone from Wilbur's Antiques. The place was dark and quiet.

"Where's your car?" Becky said.

"Just around the next corner. By the side of the road."

There was no traffic that time of night. Becky pulled a U-turn, came up behind the car.

Cora opened the door. "Thanks a lot. You're what I call a full-service lawyer."

Cora slammed the car door, stood there, and waved good-bye.

Becky didn't move.

Cora banged on the window. Becky rolled it down.

"Thanks for the ride," Cora said. "I can find my way home."

"I know you can. I want to make sure you get home safe."

"I'm a big girl, Becky."

"Yeah, but the police have your gun. It's probably the first time you've been unarmed in forty years."

"Hey!"