The Crossword Murder (10 page)

Again JaneAlice remained silent.

“JaneAlice, I feel a certain desperation creeping into my voice, and I'm sure you're astute enough to hear it as well. If you cannot follow these simple directions, I'm afraid I'll have to resort to more drastic measures. Neither one of us wants that, now do we?”

“No …”

“So, you
will
put the puzzles in the locker?”

“Yes …”

“Good. Do it before midnight tonight. And JaneAlice?”

“Yes?”

“If you speak to anyone about this or fail for any reason to deliver the puzzles, I'm afraid you'll be joining your dear Tommy sooner than you expected.”

“But—”

“By midnight, JaneAlice.”

The caller hung up, leaving JaneAlice a trembling haystack of frayed nerves. She sat in her chair and dropped her head while her hand instinctively slid into the top left drawer and removed the manila folder containing the three remaining puzzles. They were Thompson's creations, his babies. She'd spent so many years safeguarding her boss's work—even from his own hands, sometimes—that she couldn't conceive of allowing the lunatic creature on the other end of the telephone to so much as touch the puzzles. But what to do with them? What to do? For a moment, she considered ripping them up, but then recoiled at the notion.

Minutes ticked past while her jittery mind struggled to find a solution. I can't contact the police, she decided. The killer was very clear on that point, plus the police would only laugh at me, and in doing so, mock Mr. Briephs' sacred memory. She reached up and switched on her desk lamp. The glare was harsh in the semidarkened office. Combined with the greenish fluorescent light seeping in through the glass panel on the door, it gave her the appearance of a woman possessed. You'll be joining dear Tommy much sooner than you expected, a demonic interior voice warned, oddly reminding JaneAlice of the crazed woman caller in Clint Eastwood's
Play Misty for Me
.

Suddenly a smile affixed itself to her thin lips. Of course! She'd separate Thompson's remaining children and scatter them in three directions, by mailing them to other parties. That way she'd be blameless; she could tell this revolting individual—if he or she called again—that the cryptics had vanished. It wouldn't be a lie, just a slight stretching of the truth … While the recipients of dear Thompson's handiwork would be equally safe from threatening phone calls. It was an admirable plan! Something one might find in a Bette Davis movie. JaneAlice was thrilled with her achievement.

She pulled three business-sized envelopes from her desk, folded the puzzles into thirds, carefully inserting one into each envelope. She then put her mind to the task of deciding who should receive the puzzles. After a minute, another thin and slightly crooked smile found its way to her lips. “Yes,” she said aloud, “Mr. Briephs would have loved this connection—
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
.” She carefully printed the names and addresses of her choices on the three envelopes, positively beaming at her own cleverness.

Then she walked to the hallway and dropped her dispatches into the
Herald'
s mail slot. A tremendous sense of accomplishment swept over her. She returned to her office, snatched up her purse and said aloud, “Tonight I'll stop and have dinner out … Go to the movies … To blazes with the Peter Pan bus terminal and its dingy lockers.”

CHAPTER 13

T
HE
A
THENA
R
ESTAURANT
boasted a bold and garish façade. Plaster columns fronted stuccoed cinder blocks, giving the place an aura of flimsy impermanence better suited to a movie set than a venerable New England city. The area was two blocks from the resuscitated City Pier, a spot that found more favor with tourists than with local residents. Nearby was the double-storied Fish House, boasting a red neon lobster in each of the ground-floor windows, an Italian trattoria of dubious culinary intent, and an outdoor Mexican cantina whose decor sported posters advertising beer and tequila. A gigantic cardboard mouse laboring under a vast sombrero stood guard by the front entrance. On this sultry summer evening, the street was packed with vacationing would-be diners; video cams were the accessories of choice.

“I haven't been down here since the pier was rehabilitated,” Belle said. She hoped her voice didn't betray her disappointment. She couldn't understand why she felt so absurdly let down. This is nothing more than a business meeting, she told herself. What did I expect?

But Rosco was too perceptive not to intuit her dismay. “It's a lot better than it looks from the street. You'll see. Besides …” He couldn't bring himself to mention that a quieter eatery might have provoked unnecessary gossip.

“Besides what?”

“Besides, they've got the best
avgolemono
—lemon soup—around.”

“I'm sure it's fabulous,” Belle answered with a prepasted smile as he opened the door and ushered her into the Athena.

Inside, the false notes of the exterior vanished. The tables were simple, covered with red-and-white-checked tablecloths and an abundance of glistening white napkins. Candles flickered in the discreet shadows while a quiet buzz of conversation kept time with the soft plink of silverware meeting china, and the gentle rhythm of bouzouki music that reminded Belle of sunlight spilling over the sea.

But it was the restaurant's walls that most entranced her. Divided into intimate alcoves, each was expertly painted with a mural, a modern-day view—or so she imagined—of Greece: an olive-tree-lined mountaintop overlooking a seductively blue Aegean, a grassy valley dotted with fallen columns, an island village whose ancient, and crooked houses were daubed in a white so pure it looked like frosting.

“I feel as if I'm on vacation,” Belle said. This time her smile was genuine.

“Have you ever been there? To Greece, I mean.”

“No … Prior to meeting you, my only introduction to the Greeks was reading Aeschylus and Sophocles—although his statement, ‘Silence gives the proper grace to women' rather turned me off.”

Rosco laughed.

“And you? Have you visited there? Your homeland, I should say.”

“Third generation, and I've never made it back. Neither did my folks … A widow struggling to raise four young kids doesn't zip around on trans Atlantic flights.”

Belle and Rosco gazed at the painted scenes. A wistful yearning passed between them that served to heighten their sense of isolation from Newcastle and their very separate lives.

“Are you married?” Belle asked without knowing why she did.

“I was. For a short time … a high-school romance that didn't stand the test of time. The usual thing … I was warned against it by my friends; she was, too.”

“I know all about the test of time,” Belle said, then fell silent.

Conversation halted until the waiter appeared with a wine list that Rosco ignored and a menu he also dispensed with. Instead, he ordered a bottle of Achaia, then rattled off a list of specialties. “The
taramosalata'
s great, ditto the
avgolemono, dolmades
and
kebab
.”

“Those seem like perfect choices.”

“But you can order anything you want,” he added quickly. “I didn't intend to make the choice for you.”

Belle grinned. “It sounds to me as if marriage made you gun-shy.”

“I'm just trying not to be … overbearing … I think that's a word that popped up in my divorce papers.”

“I'm a pretty independent person. It would take more than ‘overbearing' dinner suggestions to put me in my place.”

“‘Once burned' …”

“I know. ‘Twice shy' … I'm not a kid, Rosco.”

When the apron-clad waiter returned bearing the wine, corkscrew and glasses Greek-style in one hand, Rosco became suddenly businesslike. “So tell me what you know about Steven Housemann.”

Belle parried with her own no-nonsense question. “Not until you tell me what kind of stockings JaneAlice was wearing.”

“What …?!”

“JaneAlice Miller … It's a hunch I've been playing with: unrequited love becomes lethal—a perfect film scenario … Maybe she caught Thompson in a compromising position, and her mind snapped. If you tell me she favors support hose, I'll know I'm right. Plus … Have you noticed that her name has fifteen letters?”

“That sounds like too much late-night TV, Belle.”

Belle drew herself up indignantly. “I never watch television!”

Rosco laughed. “Not even Uncle Morty?”

“Okay, once, but other than that, never.”

“Oh, I believe you. It's just that you looked so … authoritative … like Thompson's mother, Sara. She must have been quite a firecracker in her day. I don't imagine there were many men in this town who could resist her.”

“Except her brother, the Senator.”

Rosco studied Belle, looking beyond the shining eyes and smiling lips. As JaneAlice had said, she was “lovely to look at,” but Belle also possessed a keen and perceptive brain, and she liked to laugh—all qualities he found disconcertingly attractive.

“You have a lot more background on this situation than I do,” he said to cover his lapse of professionalism. “Can we return to Housemann?”

“Steven Housemann takes a new bride almost as often as he purchases a new Mercedes Benz. His current ‘lady' is Betsey; my guess is that she may outlast him—”

“This doesn't sound like the man I met.”

Belle thought for a moment. “Steven's a very wily gentleman. He carved his career the hard way. There's nothing ‘old school' about him—although he'd like the world to believe there is. Briephs epitomized Steven's blueblood ideal: expensively educated … a certain lassitude of morals cloaked in courtliness—laissez-faire as the French put it. I never understood the relationship between the two men—not that it was any of my business—but Steven was definitely jealous of Briephs. Jealous and fascinated … ‘The desire of the moth for the star,' to quote Shelley.”

“But Housemann referred to Thompson's mother as ‘Sara.' I gathered they were close.”

“That's typical of Steven. He wouldn't call her that to her face. In fact, I doubt he's ever invited to her home unless it's with a horde of guests—a fund-raising benefit or such.”

“He seemed aware of her feelings toward Bulldog Roth, too.”

“He's a newspaperman. He's done his research. There's no love lost between Sara and Roth. Roth is a political hatchet man—one of the best in the trade. He's been with Hal Crane since his freshman days in office; Roth won't permit anything—I repeat
anything
—to come between the Senator and his bid for reelection.”

“He sounds more like a thug than a politico.”

Belle merely raised her eyebrows. “The obvious assumption would be that it's Roth's influence that strained the relationship between Sara and her brother … You met her; what was your impression of the doyenne of Newcastle?”

“Regal, but no-nonsense … I got the feeling she was quite a flirt in her day … She still is.”

“And politically?”

“Well, her brother's one of the most powerful Democrats in the Senate, so I suppose she's a—You don't mind if I use the L word?”

Belle shook her head.

“A liberal.”

Belle grinned. “You have a lot to learn about the denizens of Liberty Hill. They'd commit communal hari-kari rather than renounce allegiance to the Republican Party. They believe Hal Crane ‘betrayed his class.' Sara, as his older sister, leads the charge … I'm sure you've read that the Senator is in Vietnam at the moment, reestablishing cordial ties between our nations … Not the type of effort the country club set applauds.”

“Publicly, maybe … But don't forget, that's all about trade. There's oil in them-thar hills. I'd bet money on it.”

The
taramosalata
occupied them for the next few minutes. It was creamy and rich with the tang of the ocean and an aftertaste of salt that reminded Belle of diving through an ocean wave. She found herself licking the last traces from her fingers while Rosco watched wonderingly.

“My mother would have swatted me and my brother and sisters for doing that,” he said.

Belle laughed. “And my mother
insisted
I eat certain foods with my fingers … asparagus, for instance. That was how the
intelligenzia
in Italy did it. She and my father liked fashioning themselves after fallen European nobility … We even had a samovar.”

“That sounds like a demanding childhood.”

“‘Eccentric' might be a better word. Tenured professors can be like that … I won't bore you with the arcane subjects of their intellectual quests except to say they were happiest when engrossed in research—especially of long-dead cultures … I used to yearn for a bunch of noisy siblings to break the silence … or at least have supper with.”

“Where are they now, your parents?” Rosco said as he finished off his
taramosalata
.

“When Mother died, Father decamped to Florida. I didn't understand his choice then, and I still don't—which just proves the quirkiness of the human soul. Anyway, Father rarely journeys north, and I'm ashamed to admit I don't make the trek south as often as I should.”

Rosco didn't ask what had brought Belle to Newcastle; he guessed it had been her husband, but didn't want to pry. And Belle was just as happy to leave Garet out of their conversation; she shifted the focus away from her own history. “What about your family …? I'm sorry if I was insensitive in bringing up your father when you first interviewed me.”

“You don't have to be sorry. Dad died young—like I said, and I really don't remember him. He was a commercial fisherman. Like his father before him … My mom toughed out the early days of widowhood. Not much money but plenty of neighborly support—Immigrants like to stick together. She never remarried. That wasn't the way of her ‘people.' She's still living. And still very much in charge—even of my older sisters and younger brother. She's also a great cook.”