The Crossword Murder (14 page)

“Oh! I think I heard something about her.”

The woman didn't respond, but her lips twitched in a quick, spasmodic tic.

“Well, I won't waste your time.” Rosco turned as if to leave, then appeared to remember a final question. “You wouldn't know, by any chance, if Shannon McArthur is contributing the rest of this week's puzzles? Because, if not, I have a few I've never published … As I said, Mother and I—”

“Mr. Housemann's office has made all necessary arrangements.”

CHAPTER 18

W
HEN
R
OSCO
STEPPED
into Lawson's Coffee Shop he spotted Belle exactly where he'd left her—in the window booth, her chin resting in the palm of her left hand as her right hand drummed the
Herald'
s crossword puzzle with the tip of a red Bic pen. She was lost to all thought other than the idiosyncratic groupings of vertical and horizontal letters. Rosco moved to the table and was tempted to slide into the banquette beside her, but thought better of it and slipped into the facing seat.

“Rosco!” In her surprise, she nearly yelped the name. “Look at this puzzle! Just look at it!” She spun the paper around and pushed it toward Rosco. It had been completed in red ink with no sign of errors or amended answers.

Rosco picked up the paper, glanced at it, then turned it over as if searching for something else.

“Where did you find the answers?” he eventually asked.

Belle began to laugh, although she sensed the timing was wrong for a smart-aleck remark about his vocabulary. “Sometimes I get lucky and I don't make mistakes. Besides, it's Tuesday. The
Herald
puzzles are usually easier at the beginning of the week.”

Rosco smiled. Belle seemed to have worked past the shock of JaneAlice's beating. He studied the paper. “I can't believe you did this in ink and didn't make any mistakes.” He pointed to 36-Across. “I mean, what is this? A-C-Y-L? That's a word?”

“ACYL? Sure it's a word. A little rarefied perhaps, but a word nonetheless. It's used in certain laboratories. It's a chemical term … a radical derived from an acid …” Belle grabbed the paper from Rosco. Excitement floated on her words: “But that's not important. Look at some of these other answers, and tell me I'm crazy.”

“You're crazy,” he said, trying not to smile too broadly.

“I'm serious. Look at this, 2-Down: CLUE, 12-Down: SCAN, 56-Down: OBIT, and 61-Down: TRAP; perfectly spaced. Don't you see? Briephs is talking to us from the grave. SCAN the puzzle for clues, TRAP the murderer!”

Rosco's smile grew. Belle was definitely fired up.

“I'm going to slap you if you don't take that grin off your face, and I mean it … Okay, 34-Down: MONEY; lending more credence to a blackmail theory. 3-Down: M AS IN
murder
. You can't ignore that … The big one in the center, 7-Down: NIGHTLY OVERKILL. And then Briephs misses something—and I don't think it's an accident. Right here.” Belle turned the paper and pointed. “8-Down:
The
last
STRAW, and then, LAST
laugh
. In any other puzzle Briephs would have connected those clues—made a pun or some arcane, etymological leap. He loved to play games like that. Why didn't he do it here?”

“I'll bet you have an answer to that question.”

“Yes! He was trying to get across two different ideas:
it's
the last straw and
he
will be getting in the last laugh.”

“I don't know, Belle. Where does this lead? Even if your theory is right, what do these clues point to? More importantly,
who
do they point to?”

“Wait! Wait! Here's the kicker. Remember I believed that Thompson would name his killer. And I also had a hunch that person would have fifteen letters in their name? The same number of letters that run across a daily puzzle?”

Rosco nodded.

“Well look at this, Mr. Private Detective.” She pushed the puzzle over to Rosco. “39-Across: STEVEN HOUSEMANN, fifteen letters. There's your murderer. Ha ha ha.”

Rosco picked up the puzzle and studied it. After a moment he said, “I don't know, Belle …”

“Come on, Rosco, this is highly unusual.”

Rosco pointed to 20-Across. “SENATOR HAL CRANE?” Then he added with a dose of sarcasm, “Gosh, maybe it was the Senator … No, he's in Southeast Asia, dang, can't be him. Wait, wait, look at this—55-Across: JOHN WILKES BOOTH! I'll bet that's our man.”

“It may surprise you to learn there really is a John Wilkes Booth right here in Newcastle. I told you, Briephs was backing an experimental musical theatre piece about Mary Todd Lincoln. Naturally, there's an actor playing Booth. Thompson had invited Garet, my husband—”

“Thank you, I
know
who Garet is.”

Rosco's tone surprised him as much as it did Belle, and it brought on a long, uncomfortable silence. Eventually Rosco broke it by looking out the window. “Sorry,” he said.

“No-no,” Belle stuttered. “I realize you know who Garet is. I'm the one who should be sorry. Anyway, Thompson had invested a great deal of money in this Mary Todd Lincoln show. According to Garet, he had some grandiose ideas about taking it to New York, so it
is
possible.”

“What's possible?”

“That if Briephs wasn't killed by Steven Housemann, he might have been killed by John Wilkes Booth.”

“Did you get something to eat?”

“Just coffee.”

“No wonder you're wired. Booth is no longer among the living, in case you hadn't heard.”

Rosco waved to one of the aging waitresses, who hollered, “Be with you in a minute, angel. Hold your horses.”

“Angel?”
Belle repeated with a raised eyebrow.

“Martha calls
everyone
angel, even parking scofflaws. What would you like to eat?”

“Well,
angel
, it's a little late in the day, but the French toast looks awfully good.”

When Martha arrived at their table Rosco ordered French toast for two along with two large glasses of grapefruit juice. After the juice and fresh coffee arrived, Rosco again picked up the completed puzzle, studying Belle's near-perfect handwriting and the fifteen letters that comprised Steven Housemann's name. “I don't know,” he said, “I suppose it's possible that Housemann killed Briephs, but there seem to be too many other folks who harbored a real dislike for the man—people who might even have wanted to see him out of the way. I'll need to talk to all concerned before pointing fingers. Plus, Housemann's name appearing in this puzzle is hardly enough evidence to warrant an arrest. And, as I said, John Wilkes Booth is dead.”

“What about the actor playing the part?”

“Belle, let's be reasonable.”

Belle chewed on her lower lip as she pulled the puzzle back to her side of the table. Again, she rested her chin in her upturned left hand while she studied the paper. “You're right, this only confuses the issue.” She picked up her red pen and began doodling on the margin of the
Herald
. Rosco remained silent and when she finally brought her eyes up to meet his, she saw a warm smile on his face. “What?” she said.

“Nothing, I was just wondering what the hearts were for.”

“What hearts?”

“The one's you're scribbling next to the puzzle.”

Belle's face turned as red as the Bic ink. She dropped the pen on the table and sat up straight. “Nothing, I was just doodling. Don't you ever doodle?”

“Powdered sugar and maple syrup?” Martha asked as she stood before them with two orders of French toast.

“Sounds good to me.” Rosco smiled, then looked to Belle.

“Please,” she said as she glanced down at the eight pieces of French toast before her. “Yikes! I can't eat all this.”

Martha placed the syrup and sugar on the table and moved off behind the counter. After she left, Rosco said, “I'm sorry about the puzzle, Belle. In the back of my mind I've been hoping you'd be right.”

“I am right,” she said after swallowing a mouthful of French toast. “These are only two puzzles. And the answers are ludicrous. Absolutely ludicrous. You don't put the name of your editor in chief in a puzzle. Or your uncle! It just isn't done!” Belle had regained her enthusiasm as quickly as she'd lost it. “I guarantee you this will make sense when I figure out the answers to the other three puzzles. So, hand them over.”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I didn't get them.”

“What! Why not?”

“According to Housemann, the other puzzles have vanished. Apparently, JaneAlice was the only person who knew where they were. Now that she's unconscious, nobody at the
Herald
can find them.”

Belle dropped her fork on her plate, brought her hands to her face and slowly shook her head. Then she glanced at the
Herald
building. “So, who do you think has them?” she said.

“No telling.”

“This proves I'm right, doesn't it?”

“How do you figure that?”

“Well, whoever killed Briephs recognizes that his—or her—identity is about to be revealed. JaneAlice was attacked because someone believed she possessed the remaining puzzles. You have to see that, Rosco.”

“It's possible.”

“Possible? Ha! You won't admit I'm right, that's all.” Again, Belle stared across the street. “Whose puzzles is Housemann publishing for the rest of the week?”

“What makes you think I'd know that?”

Belle speared a large corner of French toast and said, “I have confidence in you as an information gatherer. I've seen you in action. So, who is it?” She placed the toast in her mouth and smiled as she bit down.

“Shannon McArthur.”

A lightbulb seemed to go off in Belle's head. “You don't think she killed Briephs, do you? Just to get his job? There was a big scandal a year or two ago when Thompson accused her of plagiarizing some of his old puzzles.”

“JaneAlice alluded to that. Have you ever met this McArthur woman?”

Belle didn't answer. Instead, she leaned back in the banquette and silently chewed her French toast, keeping her eyes glued to the ceiling. Rosco watched her, almost hypnotized by the concentrated serenity of her thought process. When she returned her gaze to him, his expression made it clear what he'd been thinking.

“I'm married, Rosco” escaped from her mouth before she had time to reconsider. “I mean it's not that I don't—”

“I know,” he protested, covering poorly. “I was just … I was just wondering about … Now I forgot what I asked you.”

“Shannon McArthur. No, I've never met her. But this is what I was thinking. Look at this.” Belle wrote Shannon's name on the
Herald
, next to the hearts she'd doodled earlier. “There are fifteen letters in her name. We have to find those other puzzles. That's all there is to it.”

Rosco shook his head. “Two problems with that. First: If the person who beat up JaneAlice managed to obtain the puzzles, they're long-since destroyed. Second: This person is dangerous. He's killed once—possibly twice, if JaneAlice doesn't make it.”

“He—or she.”

“Right … Anyway, we have to face the fact that those remaining puzzles are gone, which means it's time for you to butt out … to put it bluntly. Even if your theory was right, there's no following up on it now. And I can't afford to see you hurt by this person. I'd never forgive myself. I feel bad about getting you involved as much as I have.”

In the back of her mind, Belle realized Rosco was correct. Most likely, the puzzles were gone. And from what she knew about Thompson Briephs and his quirky cryptics, the killer's complete identity wouldn't be revealed until all five crosswords had been solved.

She rested her chin in her palm once more and watched Rosco stab his last piece of French toast with his fork and slide it around his plate until he had trapped the remaining drops of maple syrup.

“I'm going to miss you,” she said with a gentle smile. “I was beginning to really enjoy playing assistant private eye.”

“I'll tell you what, I'll keep you posted on how the case progresses.”

“What will you do next?”

“Contact Shannon McArthur. You might be right, she has a lot to gain with Briephs out of the way.”

“And John Wilkes Booth? Don't tell me my efforts haven't produced at least one red herring?”

Rosco laughed, raised his hand, looked toward the counter and said, “Martha, check please.”

“Coming right up, angel.”

CHAPTER 19

B
ELLE STOOD ON
her small porch and watched Rosco maneuver his Jeep down narrow Captain's Walk and out of sight. After that she retrieved the envelopes and magazines from the letterbox hanging beside the front door and walked directly to her office in the rear of the house. She didn't pause for a moment or allow her glance to fall on a single “attractive” artifact or piece of “period” furniture.

Finally ensconced in the comforting world of her office, she sat at her desk, pulled a licorice stick from a glass jar and began perusing the mail that, typically, consisted of three catalogues, a magazine (a copy of
Preservation
) addressed to Garet, the phone bill, two pieces of junk mail, and a postcard from Egypt depicting an unhappy, snarling camel. Belle flipped the card over. It read: “A., Sorry I haven't written. Been busy. Lots going on. Letter to follow. G.” She tossed the card onto her desk, bit into her licorice stick, then sighed without being aware that she'd done so. “Garet,” she said aloud, “Garet … ‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds' …”

The perfectly stated Shakespearean quote suddenly seemed to represent the dry impersonality of all her relationships: mother, father, husband. Belle sat for ten full minutes slowly drumming her fingers on her desk as she pondered this unhappy revelation. For a split second, she felt almost defeated by a sense of loneliness.