Punning with Scissors

Book 2: Crossword Puzzle Mystery

by Becky Clark

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery

Synopsis

1 DOWN: A PERSON OF INTEREST
 
Quinn Carr has been quietly creating crosswords for the Chestnut Station Chronicle in her small Colorado town since she was in high school, but she has yet to solve the puzzle of how to make a living from her passion. So she lives with her parents and works at the local diner, catering to regulars like The Retireds, a charming if cantankerous crew of elderly men. The most recent member to join the group is a recently retired tailor, the unfortunately named Hugh Pugh.
 
4-LETTER WORD FOR “IMPALE”
 
But Hugh’s misfortune dramatically increases when he’s arrested for stabbing his husband with a pair of fabric shears. With a cryptic crossword clue left at the crime scene, Quinn seems tailor-made for solving this murder. The local police may be determined to pin the crime on the kindly tailor, but Quinn will use her penchant for puzzles and what her therapist calls her “obsessive coping mechanism” to get the clues to line up and catch the real culprit—before the killer boxes her in. . . .
 
“FRESH, FAST, AND FURIOUSLY FUN . . . Becky Clark writes with wry wit, a keen eye, and no shortage of authority.”
—Brad Parks, Shamus Award-winning author on Fiction Can Be Murder
 
Includes original crossword puzzles!

 

 

Release date: May 11, 2021

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 304

Sample

Chapter 1

Quinn Carr unlocked the door to the Chestnut Station Diner to let Jethro and the Retireds in. They all tried to push past her, drooling, scratching their butts, and sniffing the air. All except the dog, of course.

Jethro made his rounds, nose, jowls, and long bloodhound ears brushing the linoleum as he checked the entire diner for anything amiss, ending at the kitchen doorway to accept his slice of bacon. Normally he got it from Jake Szabo, the owner and cook, but today Quinn had to handle the diner alone.

The Retireds kept their jowls and long ears off the floor as they shuffled their way to their regular table, joking, complaining, and teasing each other with the ease and privilege bestowed upon old men who’d known each other for decades. This was their domain. The diner afforded them their modern-day fiefdom. They presumed they had dominion over all they could see, and sometimes they did, but only when Quinn allowed them to keep a precious coffeepot on their table.

Quinn followed Jethro to the kitchen, where she stepped around him and offered a crunchy strip of bacon already waiting for him.

She’d only been at the diner a few months since she’d boomeranged back home under less-than-ideal circumstances, but learned almost immediately that the key to working there—and the key to her entire life—was her overzealous attention to organization. Making sure bacon was ready for Jethro first thing. Table condiments perfectly filled and centered. Floor spotless and ready to be trod upon by today’s diners. Pantry items stacked together with like items. Spices alphabetized. She even took it upon herself to color-code the plastic bins for food prep, bringing in her label-maker when she realized with horror that Jake didn’t even own one.

Her therapist believed this to be an “obsessive coping mechanism not conducive to her treatment frame.” Quinn believed it to be a natural way to live her life and do her job.

She stood in the doorway, watching Jethro gobble down his bacon paycheck, while she adjusted her high ponytail in yet another useless attempt to collect the stray tendrils tickling her cheek.

“One of these days I’m calling the health department about that dog.” Wilbur’s voice boomed across the room and landed on her. This morning he sounded even more like a cement mixer with a tumbler full of rocks than he normally did.

Silas limped past him. “I’d think you’d call them about Jake’s food.”

“I’m telling Jake.” Quinn came out from the kitchen carrying a full coffeepot. Jethro trailed after her; sad, droopy eyes ever vigilant for more bacon. She opened the front door of the diner and ushered Jethro out, thumping him on his side as he passed her. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

As one of the town dogs, Jethro had a cushy life of doing absolutely nothing. He was owned by none, loved—and fed—by all.

Herman cocked a quizzical eye at Quinn, still holding the door. “Jethro is a dog. I doubt there’s a Venn diagram overlapping with anything the two of you would do.”

“Don’t be so literal, Herman,” Bob said, smoothing his movie-star hair.

“Yeah, Herman.” Larry shuffled, slightly stooped, to his seat, dragging a chair from a neighboring table with him.

“Yeah, Herman,” Quinn repeated. “If I had time and didn’t have to start catering to every single one of your whims this morning, I’d absolutely draw you a Venn diagram showing just how much Jethro and I have in common.” She began pouring coffee for the Retireds already sitting.

A man Quinn didn’t know took the chair Larry had dragged over next to him.

“Coffee?” Quinn asked. After he nodded, she said, “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Quinn.”

The man held out his hand and smiled up at her. “Hugh Pugh.”

Quinn stifled a giggle, but none of the other Retireds did.

“Your folks sure had a warped sense of humor,” Silas said.

“That they did,” Hugh said. “They named my sister Sue, but she learned early on to go by Susan. I got used to it. Could be worse, I guess.”

This was all the encouragement the Retireds needed. They each began shouting and laughing, trying to outdo one another. If wordplay could be done, it could certainly be overdone. Quinn took the opportunity to go seat a party of four that had come in, which didn’t mean she was out of range of their conversation. Their voices carried throughout the diner like so much volcanic ash, erupting, then wafting down over unsuspecting diners.

“Fondue Pugh.”

“Gym Shoe Pugh.”

“Kazoo Pugh.”

“Voodoo Pugh.”

“Kung Fu Pugh.”

“Déjà vu Pugh.”

“Kangaroo Pugh.”

“Timbuktu Pugh.”

“Cardinal Richelieu Pugh.” Bob’s offering stopped them short.

“Who?” Herman asked.

Bob started to answer, but Wilbur clamped a hand over his mouth, only removing it when Bob gave it a good, solid lick.

“Are you going to hang out with these miscreants every day?” Quinn asked Hugh, pulling out her order pad.

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe just on Saturdays like today.”

Larry looked up at Quinn. “Hey. What are you doing here on a beautiful summer Saturday? Aren’t you normally off?”

“Yeah, but Jake couldn’t bear the thought of seeing you all, so he took the morning off. Was he supposed to clear it with you first?” Quinn used to be scared of these old men, but they had taught her to give as good as she got. And boy howdy, did she got.

The truth was Jake still hadn’t been able to fill the weekend cook and waitress position after the last pair, a husband-and-wife duo, just up and took off recently with no warning. When Quinn needed them the most, they were halfway to Boise. Chestnut Station, Colorado, was just a dusty blip in their rearview mirror. Quinn appreciated all the extra money she was making picking up weekend shifts, and she really liked feeling in control at the diner, but all work and no play was beginning to turn her into a bore, much to the chagrin of her friends. She was tired all the time, even begging off from going to a movie with Loma in order to watch The Rockford Files on the couch with her parents. Although maybe that was the depression talking. Regardless, Loma was getting annoyed by all the cancellations. As was Rico. When he wanted to go for Mexican food the other night—his treat—she opted for cheese and crackers in bed with Netflix on her iPad, and Fang in his bowl on her nightstand for company.

At least she still found the energy to create her beloved crosswords, a task she could accomplish in bed.

She realized Hugh was speaking to her. He hadn’t quite mastered the skill of attention-seeking as well as some of the other Retireds. “I just retired from my tailoring business.”

“Oh, yeah,” Quinn said, remembering. “My mom and dad went to your party. Nice to officially meet you.”

“Of course. You’re Georgeanne and Dan’s daughter. I should have realized. You look just like Dan.”

Quinn sighed. Every girl wanted to be told she looked like her dad.

Hugh continued speaking in his soft, calm voice. “It would be fun to hang out every day with these guys, but I want to be there to say goodbye to Creigh—my husband—when he leaves for work. He still has a few years before he can retire.”

“Wait. You’re Hugh and Creigh?” This time Quinn did laugh.

Hugh rolled his eyes while Bob launched into one of his know-it-all explanations. “Funny you should mention that—”

“Here he goes.”

Quinn took the opportunity to pour coffee and take orders from the party of four, but still, Bob’s story wafted down over the diner. Nobody seemed to mind, and in fact, the party of four turned to listen to him. Bob was a minor—very minor—celebrity in Chestnut Station, having spent his career on the stage. But he was revered in this tiny town on the Colorado plains for a series of local television commercials he did where he played second fiddle to a llama, a bucket of spicy chicken wings, and a chimpanzee dressed in a tuxedo. Everyone adored those ads. Bob pretended they never happened.

“I learned about ‘hue and cry’ when I was performing Shakespeare in the Park. I had to do some research for a role—”

“Was Shakespeare there?”

“In the thirteenth century—”

“When you were already an old man…”

Bob continued as if nobody had spoken. “If you witnessed a crime, you had to make a lot of noise and anyone in the vicinity was required to join in the pursuit. If they didn’t, they could be held liable for the robbery victim’s losses.”

Quinn listened to them squabble and poke fun at each other while she returned the coffeepot to the warming tray.

“You know that movie Grumpy Old Men?” Quinn asked them when she returned to take their orders.

“Is that the one where they all swim in a pool then get on a spaceship?” Wilbur asked.

“No, it’s the one where they’re all butt-kicking spies with Helen Mirren,” Bob said.

“She’s a national treasure,” Larry said.

“She’s British,” Hugh said, “but I don’t think I’ve seen that one. I think Creighton did, though. He sees a lot of movies. I love it when he tells me about them; it’s like I’m right there with him. When we got married our wedding was right out of Roman Holiday. We must have watched that one a hundred times.”

Hugh got a dreamy look in his eyes that immediately endeared him to Quinn.

“Are you ever going to get around to taking our order?” Wilbur rumbled.

“I was waiting for you all to take a breath so I could get a word in edgewise.” Quinn flapped her order pad at him. She knew, however, it would take at least ten more minutes for the six of them to order. They studied the menu, then asked a million questions they already knew the answers to, and then ended up ordering the exact meals they ordered every day. Hugh was the wild card, though, so she began with him. Maybe they could all change their routine.

“I’ll have the Mexican omelet,” Hugh said, without any prefacing questions.

Quinn scribbled it down. “Do you want guacamole with that?”

“Is it extra?”

“A dollar,” Quinn said.

“Scandalous practice, charging for guac,” Silas said. “Next thing we know, Jake will be charging us for breathing the air around here.”

“Good idea,” Quinn said. “I’m going to drop that in the employee suggestion box. Another revenue stream might get me a raise.” Turning to Hugh, she said, “So…guac or no guac for you?”

“No guac. Gotta watch my pennies now that I’m retired.” Hugh handed his menu to Quinn.

As she went around the table, Quinn was disappointed that Hugh’s quick and easy ordering hadn’t rubbed off on the Retireds. None of them changed their ordering routine. They asked all the same questions, she gave all the same answers, and they ordered their usuals. When she first began at the diner she joked with Jake that she was going to write up their orders, laminate them, and slap them down in front of each of them like she was a soccer referee “red carding” them for fouls.

She still might.

Knowing the Retireds would be at the diner until lunchtime anyway, Quinn got all the other tables’ orders started before theirs.

She made sure everyone knew she was working alone and pointed to the drink station so they could get refills whenever they wanted. She left a coffeepot on the Retireds’ table.

She’d become more comfortable in the kitchen since she’d had to recently learn short-order cooking by the seat of her pants, but it still could send her into an OCD tailspin. She knew when Jake accidentally broke a yolk when cracking eggs for an order of fried eggs, he’d just scramble them and serve them anyway. He’d flash his grin and nobody would seem to mind. But when Quinn broke a yolk when making fried eggs, she’d have to scrape the grill clean and start over. Cutting corners was not her style, no matter how much she wished it could be.

Today her eggs were fine and she only had to redo a couple of pieces of toast that weren’t quite the right shade of brown to her eyes, so she was feeling pretty good. Any breakfast shift where she could keep her baba ghanoushes under a dozen was a win in her book. And, yes, of course she had a book. Every evening she recorded her OCD status for the day. An important statistic for her was how many times she muttered baba ghanoush as her “safe word” to keep her from a spiral. She knew other people used positive affirmations like, “You can do it!” or “Don’t let the monster win!” but she preferred baba ghanoush, as it was more fun to say and didn’t seem very therapy-y to her. It had the added benefit of sounding more like an unusual expletive if she accidentally said it out loud, which happened more often than she liked.

She also marked in her journal how often she found herself counting things, or organizing, or touching her fingers to her thumbs, or alphabetizing while attempting to feel in control of herself and her world. She recognized that her OCD journal itself bordered on OCD behavior, but she had no safe word for that. It was also why she kept it hidden.

She carried a tray filled with plates to the Retireds’ table and began distributing them. As soon as the plates were in front of them, they began plucking things off them.

Herman bit into a piece of bacon before his plate even touched the table. “It’s cold. I knew it.”

Bob glanced up at Quinn. “Herman was just telling us how desperate he was for bacon.”

“There’s nothing more dangerous than a desperate man,” said Silas. “That reminds me of a joke—”

“Everything reminds you of a joke,” Wilbur said.

“How many vegans does it take to eat a piece of bacon?” Without waiting for an answer, he said, “Just one, if nobody’s looking.”

They’d all heard this joke fourteen thousand times, so nobody laughed but Silas.

Quinn turned to Herman. “This bacon came directly from the oven to your plate, which you just saw me walk out carrying. The only way I could make it hotter would be to build a fire in the middle of your table and cook it here.”

Silas laughed. “I think an irritated waitress might give that dangerously desperate man a run for his money.”

Quinn pretended to be annoyed by Herman and Herman pretended to be annoyed by Quinn.

She left them to their food, but returned almost immediately with a full coffeepot and extra packets of stevia. As she bent over Herman’s cup, she dropped the packets next to his plate and whispered, “I noticed you were out, you old coot.”

He whispered back, “Thanks, whippersnapper,” and patted her hand.

An hour or so later, the door chimed again and Quinn peeked out the pass-through, the window from the kitchen to the dining room. She had been hoping the breakfast crowd would thin out soon, so she was thrilled to see Loma’s bright, wide grin instead of another party of four.

Loma stopped at the Retireds’ table to banter with them. Quinn always tensed the slightest bit when Loma wisecracked with the Retireds, because they were not the most “woke” people in the community. Casually sexist and racist things rolled trippingly off their tongues more often than they probably realized. Quinn knew Loma could shut down a disparaging remark with a grin and a quip because she’d seen her do it before. Many times. She hoped it wasn’t just her imagination, but it seemed like the incidents were much more infrequent since Loma started coming around more often.

Loma was Jake’s ex-wife, so she wasn’t a complete stranger around the diner, but now that she and Quinn had become friends, they saw her a lot more often, which seemed to be fine with Jake, despite the way the two of them bantered. Quinn wondered if Jake regretted their divorce. Loma didn’t seem to.

Loma made her way to the kitchen where Quinn artfully arranged an orange slice next to a stack of pancakes on a plate. “Hey, where’s Jake? Sleeping in?”

“I don’t know. I think he said he had some errands in Denver. I don’t pay attention to anything he says after he says ‘I’ll pay you extra.’” Quinn picked up the plate of pancakes and carried it out to the dining room. Loma followed her.

“More coffee, Mrs. Feinstein?” Quinn set down the pancakes and moved the syrup pitcher closer to her plate.

“Please.”

“Ooh, let me!” Loma said. “Always wanted the glamorous life of a diner waitress.”

“Knock yourself out. You can do it every Saturday and Sunday, if you feel you have a calling.”

Loma topped off Mrs. Feinstein’s cup, then said loudly to everyone in the diner, “Anyone else?”

Quinn watched, bemused. When Loma finished topping off coffee cups, Quinn asked her, “So…have you found your calling?”

Loma placed the pot back on the warming tray and accidentally brushed the side of her hand on the hot surface. “Nah,” she said, rubbing the red mark. “I’ll stick to interior design work. Less danger.”

“How’s it going out at the old Maynard place, anyway?” Quinn asked her.

Wiping her hands on the hem of Quinn’s apron, Loma said, “I’m having a ball out there. My rich Texans gave me a blank checkbook and very vague instructions, so I’m pretending it’s my house instead of theirs. I’m stretching out the work so they stay in Texas longer before moving in.”

Wilbur said, “the old Maynard place? That house must be over a hundred years old.”

“Rumor has it there’s buried treasure out there,” Larry added.

Herman scoffed. “You’ll believe anything.”

“I’ll keep my eye out,” Loma said.

“And you’ll give us a finder’s fee, right?” Silas said.

“Wrong.” Loma turned back toward Quinn. “Speaking of the old Maynard place, you want to help me tear down a wall next Saturday?”

“Do old men complain about bacon?”

Rico Lopez stepped into the diner, plucking off his duty cap with the insignia of the Chestnut Station police department on it. He placed it under his arm, then blotted his sweaty forehead with paper napkins extracted from the spring-loaded contraption on the nearest table. “August is not my favorite month.”

This comment set off the Retireds, who began arguing the merits of every month.

Rico walked over to Loma and Quinn. “Hello, ladies. Despite the temperature, I need three coffees to go.”

Quinn looked at his uniform. “All of you are working on a Saturday? Has the jaywalking task force come into some money?”

Loma elbowed her in the ribs. “Good one.”

“Very funny. These are your tax dollars at work. Donnie is coming off shift and Chief is prepping for a luncheon with the governor.”

“And what are you doing?”

“Fetching coffee. Duh.” Rico mopped his brow again.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have iced tea?”

“Positive. This is coming out of the coffee budget. There’d be paperwork if I switched to tea.”

Loma laughed but Quinn didn’t. “That’s hilarious.” Loma saw Rico’s puzzled expression. “Oh, I forgot.”

“Forgot what?” Rico asked.

“Forgot you couldn’t tell a lie.” She cocked her head at him. “You really couldn’t write that you bought a coffee even if it was a glass of tea?”

He wrinkled his sweaty brow. “Why would I get tea but say it was coffee?”

“Because nobody cares which it is?”

“But it was coffee.” He glanced over at Quinn, who just shrugged at him. She didn’t understand it much better than Loma.

Rico had never been able to fib. Quinn knew this ever since t. . .