Free Last Puzzle & Testament by Parnell Hall Page A

now?”
    “Yes. Because everyone’s waiting for you.”
    “Everyone?”
    “They’re out there now. I figure we’ve got five minutes tops before they break down our door.”
    “What?”
    “That’s how long we’ve got to pull this off.”
    “Pull what off?”
    “Come here.”
    Sherry yanked Cora out of the chair, dragged her through the living room to the front window, propped her against the wall, and pushed the curtain aside. “Look,” Sherry said. She jammed Cora Felton’s eyeglasses on her nose, pointed her in the right direction.
    Outside in the driveway were Chief Harper’s police cruiser, Daniel Hurley’s motorcycle, Chester Hurley’s pickup truck, and half a dozen cars filled with Aaron Grant, Becky Baldwin, bank president Marcus Gelman, and the rest of the Hurley heirs.
    “There.” Sherry yanked Cora away from the window. “They’re all waiting for you. And we’re going in the bedroom, and I’m pulling the first available dress over your head, and slipping a pair of shoes on your feet, and you’re going to walk with me out to your car as if you hadn’t a worry in the world.”
    “Uh huh,” Cora mumbled, as they entered the bedroom. She was beginning to wake up a little. “And then they’re going to ask me about the murder?”
    “Well, not right away.”
    “No?” Cora said, as Sherry pulled the Wicked Witch of the West dress off over her head. “Why won’t they ask me?” She scowled as her mind slowly began to work. “And why are there so many people here?”
    Sherry grimaced.
    “Well, that’s the other thing …”

The procession wound its way around Lilac Lane and up the hill to the Hurley mansion. Arthur Kincaid led the way in a vintage Mercedes that still ran smoothly but had seen better decades. He was followed closely by the Applegates and the Hurleys, who kept vying for position as though the order of arrival at the house might in some way affect the outcome of the will. Phyllis Hurley Applegate was hanging right on his bumper in a Ford Fairlane with Pennsylvania plates, so as not to be edged out by Philip Hurley, tailgating her in a Chevy rental. The maneuvering involved considerable shouting and honking, and an occasional rude gesture.
    Behind them came Chester Hurley, who had given a ride to the woman with the flat face. Chester’s battered Ford pickup was more rust than metal, and clearly had no shocks. The woman jounced stoically along on the front seat, her head nearly hitting the ceiling on every bump.
    Next came Cora and Sherry’s red Toyota. Sherry was driving with one hand, and propping her aunt up with the other. Cora was wearing a seat belt, but her head and shoulders kept lolling forward in an unlikely position for anyone even remotely conscious, and Sherry was acutely aware of the fact that Aaron Grant’s Honda Accord and Becky Baldwin’s compact rental were following close behind. As if that weren’t enough trouble, Sherry had to keep watching out for Daniel Hurley. He was weaving in and out of the procession on his motorcycle with boyish enthusiasm.
    Bank president Marcus Gelman’s black Mercury sedan and Chief Harper’s police cruiser brought up the rear.
    The Hurley house was impressive in daylight. An imposing and majestic structure, it was set back on the top of the hill in front of a circular drive. The sprawling three-story mansion featured garrets and cupolas and eaves and balconies. Recently painted blue with white trim, it resembled an elaborate wedding cake of Victorian design. The sheet of plywood over the window to the right of the front door was like an ugly scar.
    Chief Harper took a look at the people piling out of the cars and shook his head. “I don’t like this,” he said. “This is a crime scene.”
    Cora Felton, who had been slumped on Sherry’s shoulder, perked right up. “Crime scene? Where’s the crime scene?”
    Cora lurched toward the front porch, and nearly went head over heels off the first step, before Sherry managed