A Crossworder's Delight (8 page)

ACROSS

  
1
. Comic's bit

  
4
. Place to wipe your feet

  
7
. Manuscript modifiers; abbr.

10
.  Playwright's monogram

13
.  Three-match link

14
.  Eggs; in biology

15
.  Certain mushroom

16
.  Knock on the door

17
.  Giant baseball player?

18
.  MAMA'S DESSERT

20
.  Lengthen

21
.  Electron tube

23
.  Bug

24
.  Beef & potato dish

25
.  MAMA'S DESSERT

28
.  Caesar's 102

29
.  The Caribbean is one

30
.  MAMA'S DESSERT

36
.  Ordinance

40
.  Too much in France

41
.  Façade

43
.  _____ Cruz

44
.  Miss Loos

46
.  MAMA'S DESSERT

48
.  French pronoun

50
.  Sup

51
.  MAMA'S DESSERT

58
.  Jaw

59
.  Surly

60
.  Movie light

62
.  Erase

63
.  MAMA'S DESSERT

65
.  _____ Magnon

66
.  Pub pint

67
.  Here in Paris

68
.  Employ

69
.  Argentine president Juan's wife

70
.  Drs.

71
.  Born

72
.  Salary

73
.  Bro or sis

DOWN

  1
.  Fine

  2
.  Prank

  3
.  Crock's cousin

  4
.  Fan's job?

  5
.  Mickey's wife of a year

  6
.  Latin-American dance

  7
.  Acclaim

  8
.  River basins

  9
.  Retreat

10
.  Miss Garbo

11
.  Cake maker

12
.  Gush

19
.  Eternity; abbr.

22
.  Trick

24
.  Remain active

26
.  Petty quarrel

27
.  Yank's foe

30
.  RR stop

31
.  Coffee server

32
.  Hawaiian staple

33
.  Anger

34
.  Holiday quaff

35
.  H.S. subj.

37
.  Allow

38
.  “These _____ the times…”

39
.  Had been

42
.  Dainty

45
.  Matterhorn; e.g.

47
.  Hired coach

49
.  Fir kin

51
.  Tot

52
.  Pelts

53
.  James Hubert Blake, familiarly

54
.  A general monogram?

55
.  Rejuvenate

56
.  Better

57
.  Tennis shot

58
.  Study & study

61
.  Hockey score

63
.  Can material

64
.  Thin-rail link

To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit
openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords

Nine

L
AWSON'S
Coffee Shop didn't seem like Lawson's without Martha Leonetti there to sass her favorite customers. Oh, the bright pink vinyl banquettes were the same, as were the coral-colored formica tabletops, the other waitresses' rose-hued uniforms, the chrome fixtures behind the counter, the chrome napkin dispensers arranged neatly upon it, and the chrome and leatherette swiveling stools, but a definite vitality was lacking. And not even the robust voice of Kenny, the fry cook—or “King Kenny,” as Martha liked to call him—could make up for her absence.

Hunched over a copy of the “Angel in Disguise” crossword recipe that was spread before her, Belle surveyed the scene. “I don't like this, Rosco,” she said.

“What? The coffee's no good because Miss Wisenheimer didn't pour it? Or do you mean the grilled cheese, which you've hardly touched because you're too busy filling in small white squares with a red ballpoint pen?”

Belle's response was to gaze past her husband, staring at the windows and the snow that was now tumbling from the skies in earnest. Outside, the world appeared to be vanishing under this weight of white. “No,” she admitted. “I don't like having Martha up at the inn instead of here. I missed our Breakfast Bunch gathering this morning, missed Sara and Al—and you—trading quips and laughter.… I guess I'm just a person of habit.”

Rosco took her hand. “Speaking of habits … I wish you'd remember that if you say you're going to beam in with me via cell phone, you're supposed to do it.”

“You don't need to worry about me, Rosco. I'm a good driver.”

“I realize that, but you worry when I'm doing something you consider unsafe, don't you?”

Belle sidestepped the question by returning to the puzzle. The recipe was the real deal, an old-fashioned chocolate-pecan angel food cake created by a genuine cook. “69-Across:
Argentine president Juan's wife
,” she muttered. “5-Down:
Mickey's wife of a year
… 53-Down:
James Hubert Blake, familiarly
. You really need to know your history to keep up with this gal.…” Even as Belle spoke, she wrote in EVA, AVA, and EUBIE.

Rosco gazed at her and chuckled. “I'm looking forward to having you meet E.T. Whitman. He seems as much of a word freak as you are. And, boy, was he ever impressed when I told him I was your husband.”

“Happy to oblige.” Belle grinned, then picked up her sandwich. “Who would name a kid E.T.? It's like Ima Hogg.”

“Yeah … I bet he doesn't have an easy time of it at school. I'm sorry to say that Morgan Marz seems kind of hard on him, too.”

Belle continued to eat, swishing her French fries in a puddle of ketchup. “Morgan's not always easy on Mitch, either.… So, what's your take on the disappeared Longfellow?”

“
Listen, my children, and you shall hear, Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere
,” Rosco quoted dramatically. “
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five
…”

Belle chuckled, continuing the stanza in her own theatric tone. “
Hardly a man is still alive
—” Then her words abruptly ceased and her eyes grew wide and worried. “Wouldn't it be awful if this cookbook were connected to the woman who drowned in the chocolate vat? The one old Mr. Liebig remembered.”

Rosco shook his head. “I'd say that was a long shot. You told me the woman was working on the catwalk above—”

“Cleaning machinery,” Belle interjected.

“Exactly, cleaning,” Rosco continued. “I don't want to seem snooty, but someone hired for that type of job … well, let's just say that the members of my family who first arrived in this country grabbed any kind of work they could. It was always menial.… No slur intended, but they weren't crossword constructors.”

“I hear what you're saying, Rosco. I know creating puzzles requires a certain level of education, not to mention a command of the English language … but when that woman died, we were at war. I'll bet a lot of literate people took work that might have been beneath them just to make ends meet when their loved ones were far away fighting. And besides, maybe she didn't fall. Maybe she was pushed. A love triangle situation, or—”

The arrival of Stanley Hatch curtailed the rest of Belle's hypothetical scenario. “Mind if I join you two?”

Rosco and Belle immediately slid over to make room. From the focused manner in which Belle studied Stan, Rosco sensed she was about to bring up the subject of Martha. He nudged his wife's foot under the table. It was one thing for Sara to act as matchmaker; women her age were entitled to meddle. Belle, however, was nearly a half century younger.

Belle's reaction to this warning was to raise her eyebrows in an exaggeration of innocent denial.

“I need some advice,” Stan stated somberly. “It's about Martha.”

Belle shot her husband a triumphant glance, then graced Stan with her sweetest and most naive expression. “What about Martha?”

“Well, you know we ended up being Secret Santas last year …”

Which was totally manipulated by Sara
, Belle thought but didn't say.

“And we've been sort of … well, you know, spending time with each other now and again since then, and—”

“You mean dating,” Belle tossed in with another syrupy smile, and Rosco poked her foot again.

“Well, yeah … I guess … sure … ‘dating' …” Stan looked so tenuous that he reminded Belle of a young deer who'd been caught in the headlights without the reassuring presence of mom nearby. Then she decided, no:
A fawn would have more self-assurance
.

“And, well …,” Stan continued, “… what I want to know is: Would it be appropriate for me to get her a gift this year? No Secret Santa. Just me to her. And something personal, like a pretty piece of clothing or well … something.”

“Why not?” Belle asked brightly.

“Yeah,” Rosco added, “It's not like anybody's
watching
or anything.” This time Belle kicked him under the table.

Stanley scowled self-consciously, his tall body bending over the table. “I don't want to put pressure her. I mean, you know how vivacious Martha is … always coming up with the snappy retorts, the life of the party, and all that; and I'm just, well, I'm just me, owner of a Mr. Fix-it shop, which isn't exactly a sexy business.… She called me today—from the inn—but it was just to report the theft.”

I'll just bet that was the reason!
Belle told herself, but again didn't reveal what she was thinking.

“There's nothing wrong with owning a hardware store, Stan,” Rosco insisted. “It's my very favorite place in the city.… But yeah, like you said, it's not all that romantic as a profession, but—”

Belle jabbed her husband's ankle with her toes again, halting this incredibly inappropriate mini-monolog, and finishing it with her own more suitable words. “But … but Martha loves the shop,” she announced.

“Really?” Stanley looked at Belle in wonderment. “She told you that?”

Belle gazed calmly back, avoiding Rosco's surprised stare altogether. “Rosco and I are all thumbs when it comes to home-improvement paraphernalia,” she all but cooed. “And so is Martha. That's why she loves Hatch's. It's like … it's like … seeing a big Broadway musical for the first time—watching all those fabulous sets moving around, and people singing and dancing and dropping from the skies.… It's so astonishing and delightful; you just don't know where to look next.”

Rosco decided that the pragmatic Stanley was going to start guffawing at Belle's over-the-top analogy, but Rosco was wrong. Stan bought it hook, line, and sinker. “Really?” he repeated with genuine pride.

“And all those beer-bellied stagehands pounding nails into broken scenery, not to mention long-legged dancers in net stockings.” Rosco added, but Stan was too far gone for the joke.

“So you're telling me it's okay if I buy Martha a real gift?” he asked Belle in a hushed but thrilled tone.

“I think she'd be horribly disappointed if you didn't, Stanley,” was Belle airy reply. “Just horribly.” Then she added an equally breezy “In fact, I'd love to help you pick out that perfect token of your friendship.” Belle deliberately moved her foot in order to avoid Rosco's next warning nudge. “I've got something really special in mind.”

Ten

I
T
was E.T. who ran up to Rosco and Belle as they stepped out of the Jeep. The twelve-year-old's excited rush of words were aimed at Rosco, but his focus was wholly on Belle. “Mr. Morgan's gone to Boston,” he stage-whispered in his best junior-spy voice, “which is really, really suspicious. Why would anyone go up there in all this snow? I bet he's got the poem and is going to fence it! In fact, how do we know he's really going to
Boston?
That's only hearsay.” As if he'd just remembered his manners, he whipped off his hat and stuck out his hand, adding a self-important, “I'm E.T. Whitman. Your husband asked me to keep an eye on things.”

“Belle, I'd like you to meet another language aficionado,” Rosco said with a broad smile.

E.T. seemed to grow an inch or two, and his flaming red hair all but quivered with pride. “But if Mr. Morgan did go up there, it must have been for something totally nefarious.”

Belle grinned as she shook E.T.'s hand.
Nefarious
was one of her favorite words, too. “I've heard a lot about you, E.T. Thanks for helping.” She didn't have the heart to tell him that Mitchell had already explained that his brother had had a long-standing commitment to attend the city's traditional and contemporary furniture exposition, but Rosco knew he needed to set the record straight.

“Mr. Morgan's considering purchasing some new furnishings for the inn,” he said. “That's why he drove to Boston today. He had an appointment with a design consultant. He's due back tonight. Mr. Mitchell told us all about it.”

The term
crestfallen
might have been invented for E.T.'s reaction to this news. His head and shoulders sagged; his smile drooped; even his springy hair looked deflated and flat. “Oh …” He looked at his feet. “Yeah … Mr. Morgan's always saying there's too much old stuff around …” Then E.T. seemed to recover a little of his feisty spirit. “We've had four and a half inches of snow since you left, Rosco, which makes almost seven. I measured it. None of the cars in the overnight lot have been moved or visited, and no one's carried anything into or out of the inn. That goes for the decorators, too, although they've all gone home on account of the weather. I've been watching everyone, and I can promise you nobody had the poem.” He paused and scowled in concentration. “Okay, here's my new theory: Mr. Morgan rips off the Longfellow, sells it in Boston, and then also collects the insurance money.… He waits until this weekend to grab it because it fits right in with his scheduled trip, and he knows the place is going to be full of potential culprits.” E.T. put special emphasis on the newest addition to his vocabulary. “And listen to this: he tells
me
to go out back and shovel the kitchen steps, and then
he
sneaks out the front door; probably with the frame all wrapped up and everything.… Because when I was done with the steps he was long gone. And footsteps in the snow show that he definitely visited the trunk of his car before driving off.”