A Crossworder's Holiday (2 page)

Belle was so transported by these meditations that it took her a moment to realize she'd reached her destination. She looked up at the library's white and curiously windowless facade, and whispered an awestruck: “Oh my …” For a lover of words, the building cast a palpable spell; none other than Ralph Waldo Emerson had dedicated it; and he and other
litterati
of the age, Thoreau, Daniel Webster, and John James Audubon, had lectured in its noble second-floor Great Hall.

She entered, her copy of
Moby Dick
tucked in her handbag. The book seemed like a talisman, a tangible connection to the past. “What wonder then,” Melville had written of the island residents, “that these Nantucketers, born on a beach, should take to the sea for a livelihood!”

It required concerted effort for her to recognize that the year was not 1851.

Belle found Sir Brandon already seated at an antique reading desk beneath an electrified oil lamp. “I am indebted to you,” he announced as she approached. “My reputation rests on this seemingly unimportant scrap of paper. It's a matter of life and death.” In response to her startled expression, he added, “Figuratively, I should say, although …”

“Perhaps you should begin at the beginning,” was Belle's calm reply.

Drake sighed with the long, remorseful sound of a worried man. “My companions and I journeyed here to visit Timothy Hyde-Hare … You've heard of him, of course?”

“Should I have?”

“Perhaps not … perhaps not … Timothy is a reclusive, dare I say, eccentric fellow? He is also one of the world's great connoisseurs of art as well as an eminent—and exceedingly wealthy—collector. Every year he hosts a holiday weekend in one of his homes for five select antique dealers, his house here being that spectacular Georgian brick residence on Pleasant Street … As you can imagine, invitations are much sought after by those in the antiquarian trade. My four colleagues and I have been Timothy's guests for a number of years. The ‘A' list, if you will … an admirable position, but not without risk …”

Belle frowned; her facile brain had intuited the uneasy truth behind Drake's words.

“I see from your expression that you perceive us to be sycophants …” Sir Brandon continued, his frame bending as if bearing the weight of her scrutiny. “And you are correct when you assume that we folk ‘in trade' rely upon the largess of our patrons, however—”

Belle interrupted with a shake of her head. “What does your relationship with Hyde-Hare have to do with the crossword puzzle you showed me?”

“I'm coming to that,” Drake answered a trifle stiffly. “As I said, Freda, Portia, Rolf, Ashe, and I have been Timothy's hand-picked coterie for a goodly while … Portia Gibbons is not only famous for her
outré
hats, but for the rare and unusual Russian icons she purveys. Freda Karcher's forte is antique, Native American art; she can readily distinguish between the Santa Ana or Zuñi Pueblos. Rolf Peterssen—he's the rather rotund fellow—deals in Mogul paintings, specifically those charming domestic scenes of the Tanjore School. Ashe Saterlee is a connoisseur of silver, and has recently completed a monograph on George W. Shiebler; late-nineteenth-century design is Ashe's bailiwick. In short, we are all experts and considered such by our peers.” Sir Brandon's defensive tone suddenly changed to one of camaraderie. “What do you know about the machinations of the art world?”

Belle's expression grew wary. With personal involvement in the arrest of the murderer of another noted collector, she knew far more about the art and antiques trade than she wished to. “I've heard the business described as ‘brutal,'” she finally replied.

Sir Brandon didn't detect the reticence in her tone. “An understatement,” he groaned. “Gallery owners, museum directors, and moneyed patrons can be a most bloodthirsty breed … One day, they treat you like the proverbial film star, jetting you hither and yon, champagne on private aircraft, invitations to ‘redo' a ten-room ‘pied-à-terre'; the next, you're a nonentity. For that reason my four colleagues and I fiercely guard our ‘friendship' with Timothy. There are many waiting to take our places if we falter. And needless to say, our status affords us entrée to a charmed circle of the most affluent of collectors.”

“But how does this relate to your crossword?” Belle's question had a challenging edge that Drake mistook for disapproval.

He paused and splayed his pampered fingers across the tabletop. “Timothy invented a ‘game'—a yearly auction of five objects from a field in which neither I nor my friends have sufficient background to bid knowledgeably. It's Timothy's way of
tweaking
our pride, you see … The problem is that one of these articles is always a brilliant fake. When word leaks out—as it invariably does—that a member of our group has been, well … humbled, the gossip turns nasty—not to mention, competitive … You do realize that an antiquarian's ‘marketability' rests on the buyer's belief in his or her experience. If a client is considering spending many thousands of dollars for a single item, absolute faith in the seller becomes imperative.”

“I take it that this is your ‘life-or-death' situation, then?”

“It may seem unimportant to you—this bartering over ancient objects, but when one's livelihood … one's very
name
…” Drake's voice trailed off. He sighed. “We arrived yesterday on the high-speed ferry from Hyannis: Portia first winging in from London, Freda from Dallas; Rolf and Ashe from Frankfurt and San Francisco, respectively, and I from Boston. After settling into our accommodations—if one of Timothy's homes cannot host us all, he provides a stellar alternative—we proceeded to his house for dinner. As on all previous instances, at the close of the evening, he conducted the auction. The only rules are that we discover the sham before the next evening—not an easy task in a remote locale such as this—and that we do not reveal our findings to each other prior to meeting again with our host.”

“And you believe you are now in possession of Hyde-Hare's fake?”

Sir Brandon lowered his courtly head. “When I discovered the crossword puzzle hidden inside my purchase, I feared the worst. It would be typical of Timothy to employ a word game to reveal the truth. I should add that none of my colleagues received any type of missive …”

Why submit yourself to such abuse
? Belle wanted to ask, and as if Drake had read her mind, he continued:

“I must also confess that dealers and collectors share a secret vice—an inherent passion for gambling. The dusty little watercolor purchased for a few dollars in a rummage sale might prove to be a long-lost Winslow Homer, the badly tarnished silver ladle a genuine example of Paul Revere's extraordinary craftsmanship … So, yes, Timothy's ‘game' can be as profitable as it is costly.” A small, embarrassed smile formed on Sir Brandon's face. “I suppose you could say that the chickens constantly hope to outwit the fox.”

Belle considered Drake's words as she made her decision. Discounting ordinary human vanity and ambition, there seemed nothing untoward in his behavior. “May I see the puzzle?”

Sir Brandon relinquished a sheet of graph paper that had become damp within his anxious clasp. Belle scanned the crossword with a professional eye, immediately recognizing that the constructor had created four fifteen-letter lines of the type traditionally employed for long quotations. A fifth, centered and shorter clue was part of the design.
QUIP, part 1
, 16-Across announced; 56-Across stated
QUIP, part 5
. Drake was quite correct in his assumption. The crossword contained a message.

“I happen to be quite skilled at reading upside down, and when I spotted your name in the guest register, I experienced a sudden ray of hope. As I explained, I have no facility with word games, but I'm well aware that many people are addicted to your column.”

Belle smiled briefly at the compliment. “I don't know if I'd use as strong a term as ‘addicted,'” she said before resuming her inspection of the crossword. “So, you're asking me to supply the answers?”

“If you would be so kind … and also …”

Belle looked up while Sir Brandon fidgeted nervously. “Also?”

“I beg you to tell no one of what you learn … I've never been duped before, you see, and I fear my reputation … My friends are more complaisant than I … Perhaps it's because they're younger and it's easier for them to laugh at misfortune. On the other hand …” His voice nearly broke. He was a very troubled man.

Belle changed the subject with a practical: “Could you describe the theme of this year's auction?”

“Manuscripts and autographs.” Drake hefted the slipcase. “Herein resides an Ernest Hemingway letter, typed, signed, and dated April 9, 1931—along with a hand-addressed and stamped envelope bearing a cancellation mark of Key West … If genuine, it represents a unique piece of Americana, as well as being quite a bargain. Ashe purchased a letter from Sigmund Freud, signed ‘Sigm.'; Freda pounced upon the title page of Margaret Mitchell's novel
Gone with the Wind
—supposedly signed by cast members of the film. Personally, I wouldn't have touched it with a ten-foot pole. To my mind, it had reproduction written all over it … Rolf grabbed an original, signed drawing by E. H. Shepard—the artist whose work is synonymous with the Winnie the Pooh series … while Portia fell for Rudyard Kipling's corrected typescript of
The White Seal
…”

Belle let Sir Brandon continue his monologue while her eyes raced over the puzzle. There were numerous references to Nantucket, and four clues alluding to Drake's companions. She reached into her purse and pulled out her trusty red pen. Even when filling in crosswords, Belle liked to throw caution to the winds. A pencil would never do. “I'll need help with this,” she said. “3-Down is
SILVER COLLECTOR
? Can you tell me what that means?”

Sir Brandon looked panicky. “I don't believe there's a specific term,” he began, but Belle interrupted him.

“What about your friend from San Francisco?”

Drake's relief was evident. “Oh, Saterlee,” he said. “I see. You require his name.”

“Four letters,” was her patient response, to which Sir Brandon exclaimed a joyous:

“Ashe, of course! With an E, like the former tennis great …”

ASHE, Belle penned at 3-Down, then turned to 18-Down. “
GERMAN LAD
?” she asked.

“Rolf Peterssen.”

Belle wrote ROLF, then pointed to 25-Down and 28-Down, adding PORTIA and FREDAS at Drake's suggestion. Then she looked at 51-Down:
The___thickens
. “Ah, yes,” she murmured while inking in PLOT, then suddenly remembered the time—and the fact that she had interests on the island that weren't exclusively lexical.

She stood. “Sir Brandon, I told my husband I'd meet him back at the hotel. I'll take this with me if you don't mind—”

“Oh, my!” was his unhappy response. “But I was hoping, well, that we could keep this to ourselves … at least for the nonce—”

Belle frowned. “If my husband can't be trusted, then neither can I.”

“Oh, dear … I certainly didn't intend to imply that … well, oh dear me …” Drake shook his head. “Perhaps I might inveigle you
both
to take luncheon with me, and we could—”

“Sir Brandon, Rosco and I are here on vacation—”

“Of course … Of course, you are …” But instead of appearing apologetic for his intrusive behavior, Drake looked more alarmed. “I beg you to recall that time is of the essence,” he finally murmured in what sounded like the whimper of a small dog.

Belle folded the crossword and began to put it in her purse, but Sir Brandon stopped her. “Then, perhaps you and your husband might join me for a pre-prandial libation? We could meet at the Chowder House on Straight Wharf. I've been advised that it's quite an island tradition. We could complete the puzzle then … Until that time, I believe it's best if I return it to the slipcase. I wouldn't want my companions …” He left the sentence unfinished.

“I
T
doesn't sound like this guy's on the up and up, Belle.” Husband and wife were strolling down Main Street, their boots scrunching through dry and powdery snow while dustings of the feathery stuff blew in the breeze catching the sunlight in diamond-bright sparkles that billowed into the air. It was a scene almost too pretty to exist.

“I
thought
you'd say that,” Belle rejoined with a pensive nod. “And I've got to say I tend to agree … All the same …”

Rosco chuckled. “
All the same
, you're hooked.”

In response, a sheepish smile settled on Belle's face. “Well, you have to admit it's a curious story.”

“But what if Drake's the one trying to pull a fast one? What if he believes that—? Do you mind describing those other items Hyde-Hare auctioned again?”

“Besides Sir Brandon's Hemingway letter, there was one supposedly from Sigmund Freud, the title page of
Gone with the Wind
signed by cast members from the film—”

“Clark Gable et al.”

“I would have started with Vivien Leigh,” Belle said with a chuckle.

“What about Superman? He was in it too.”

“Superman?”

“The old one, the one on television—George Reeves.”

“Really?”

“Uh-uh … What else?”

“Any more obscure film lore up your sleeve?” Belle smiled again, then returned to Rosco's question. “What else … A chapter from Rudyard Kipling's
The Jungle Book
, a Shepard drawing of Eeyore and Piglet. The Mitchell was the one Drake felt most dubious about—”

“That's just it,” Rosco interrupted. “He all but pronounced it a fake, right?”

“Right.”