The Crossword Murder (15 page)

Finally she stood, moved to her filing cabinet and removed a piece of graph paper containing a crossword puzzle she'd created a few weeks earlier. On the top of the page she scrawled a disinterested “Wednesday's Puzzle,” with a black marking pen, initialed it BG, then crossed to her fax machine and entered a memorized number at the
Evening Crier
office. “Well, that takes care of that,” she muttered. “Now, on to more exciting things.”

From the lower drawer of her desk, she removed a beat-up copy of the Yellow Pages, flipped to the theatre section, and punched a number into her telephone.

“Plays and Players Theatre. How many I direct your call?”

“Yes,” Belle answered. “I was wondering if your Tuesday rehearsals were still open to the public?”

“Indeed, they are. From two to four. This afternoon included. No late arrivals, no early departures, please. And no talking. We have to be very strict on that count. It disturbs the actors. Are you bringing a class?”

“A class?”

“Are you a teacher?”

“No, I'm coming by myself.”

“Good. The director doesn't do well with children. Remember, no later than two, or you won't be admitted. Do you have the address?”

“Thank you. Yes.”

At one-fifty
P.M.
Belle slipped into a seat halfway down the aisle to the Plays and Players' small proscenium. The stage manager had handed her a sheet of paper listing the names of the actors and the director. It also explained the scene for that afternoon's rehearsal, “Booth's Final Hour,” and reiterated the need for absolute silence from those watching the proceedings. Since
The Trials of Mary Todd
, as the play was known, was due to open the coming weekend, the set had been completed; the scene took place in a dilapidated barn in rural Virginia. The part of John Wilkes Booth was being played by an actor who'd come down from Boston to perform the part. His name was Vance Kelly.

Just before two o'clock the stage manager informed Belle—she was the only visitor—that costumes and lighting had not yet been finalized and that the house lights would not be dimmed. He suggested she use her imagination. “That's what rehearsal's all about, isn't it?”

As if on cue, Eugene Abbott, the director, entered from the rear of the theatre. Moving regally down the aisle and speaking with such extreme British elocution that Belle believed the accent assumed, he addressed the near-empty room as if he were declaiming to an SRO crowd in Covent Garden. “Let's get started, people. It's after the witching-hour. Vance, you're on, love. Pick it up from ‘Damn this ankle …' if you would be so kind? Vance, are you there, sweetie?”

Belle watched Vance Kelly lumber onto the stage. He was tall, well over six feet with sandy hair draped across broad shoulders, and muttonchop whiskers appropriate to the Civil War era. The attempt at authenticity was marred, however, by the fact the actor also seemed enamored of bodybuilding. Decked out in high-top basketball sneakers, baggy blue shorts and a tight T-shirt, Vance looked as though he'd just returned from the local gym. “Gene,” he complained, “I'm not feeling the ankle thing today. I mean, the ankle's not working for me. Can't we play with something else?”

As instructed, Belle sat silently while the two men spent nearly thirty minutes discussing what scene they intended to rehearse. In the end, the director won, and for the next hour and a half Belle watched as they worked and reworked a scene where Vance limped across the stage, pistol in hand, raging at invisible Pinkerton detectives, until finally, an imagined bullet struck close to his heart, whereupon he draped himself over a wooden crate, mumbled, “Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once,” and then rolled onto the floor, dead.

At four
P.M.
the director turned a glowing smile upon Belle and said, “Well, love, we usually have a little
Talk Back
after these open jaunts so that you dear audience folk are given a chance to
parlaay vooo
with our actors. But since you're alone and the rest of our merry troop have off until half after four, I suppose you and Vance will have to have a tête-à-téte
a deux
. Don't be too rough on the dear lad. If you'll excuse me, I have to scoot to the little boys' room.”

Vance approached the rim of the stage and sat, letting his muscled legs drape the edge. “Why don't you move closer so I can see you?” he said. “I don't have my contacts in. How did you like it? Me, that is?” He spoke in a tone that implied he'd like to know Belle better.

Belle hedged. Actors, she'd heard, tended to be prickly creatures. “Were those truly the last words John Wilkes Booth spoke?”

“Nah. I think the writer made them up.” Vance shrugged. “I mean, nobody was with him when he died. So he could've said almost anything. But it's pretty good stuff, don't you think? I mean, you know, for a writer …”

Belle opted not to mention the line had been lifted directly from Shakespeare's
Julius Caesar
. She only said, “Yes. It is good stuff.” Then she moved to the front row of seats.

“I didn't know Newcastle had such good-looking women,” Vance said with an exaggerated wink while Belle found a seat. “Why don't you come to Saturday night's opening. I can get you a ticket. I get two comps a show. There's a party afterward …”

“I'm married, actually.”

“Do you tell your husband everything?”

“Aren't these
Talk Backs
intended for discussions of the play?”

“Hey, I see a dynamite chick like you and my mind wanders.” Vance began to twist and flex his arms in an effort to make his muscles appear even larger.

“I guess the death of one of your backers must have been a setback for the entire company,” Belle said.

“Who? Briephs? Yeah. Bummer. Heart attack, you know. You can't be too careful with your body, know what I mean? Actually, Briephs recommended me for the part.”

“Really?” Belle looked past Vance, eyeing the set in an attempt to make her questions appear offhand. “So, you knew him before you came down from Boston? It's a wonderful set design, by the way.”

“Yeah. He saw me in a production of
Barnum
. I played a lion tamer. It was a great costume. Real stretchy … spandex, you know. It showed off my build but good. I got a lot of work from that gig. Commercials mostly. But what the heck, it's money, right? Maybe you saw the one for Advil? I was manning a jackhammer? No shirt?”

“Sorry.”

“Too bad. Do you work out? You're in great shape.”

“Not really … I understand Briephs had an unusual house. Did you ever have the opportunity of going there?” Belle twisted in her seat to study a techie working on the lighting grid suspended from the high ceiling. She appeared to be giving this piece of technical work her full concentration. “How does he do that? It would scare me to death to be up there.”

“It's nothing. Those guys do it all the time. That's what they're paid for. Like I get paid to perform.”

“So, did you ever see Briephs' house?”

“Yeah. He had a few parties for the cast when we first went into rehearsal … Also, some of the
Barnum
people … Weird place. What's all this about, anyway?”

“What do you mean?” Belle asked with a feigned bewilderment.

“All the questions about Briephs. You're not a cop, are you?”

“Me? No … what a thought.”

Belle again looked around the theatre, avoiding direct eye contact with Vance. The lighting technician had left, leaving her alone with the actor. He hopped off the stage and sat next to her. “Why so nosy, then?”

“N-Nothing,” she stammered. “I was just making conversation. We can talk about the play if you'd like. That's what these
Talk Backs
are for, I guess. I mean … how does it feel to play a murderer? What sort of preparation do you need?”

Vance placed his left arm behind Belle and rested it on her seat, then moved close. The move made her extremely uncomfortable, a fact he seemed to enjoy. “Well, I like to get into these roles. Ideally, if I was to do this thing right, I'd go out and kill someone … So I could internalize the feeling. By the way, you never told me your name.”

“It's Belle Graham.” Out of habit, Belle extended her right hand, which Vance took, planting a soft kiss on her upturned palm.

“That's how we do it in the theatre. We're a very intimate group. One big happy family. So, can I call you Belle, or does it have to be Miss Graham?”

“It's Mrs., remember?”

“Oh yeah, I must have forgot that part.”

At that moment, the director reappeared, calling a stagy, “All right loves, time to get at it again. I'm afraid I'll have to put an end to this little
Q
and
A
. The rest of our merry troupe has arrived. Mary Todd, where are you, honey-chile?”

“Gene,” Vance called back. “Belle here will be attending opening night as my guest; I'll need one of those house seats set aside.”

“Yes, love.” The director studied Belle. “You don't waste time, do you, love? Watch out for him, though, he's a brute. You may get more than you bargained for.” He waved a hand in the air as if chasing away a bothersome housefly. “All right now, off with you. We have our work cut out. But stay away from him until after the opening. I want him rested.”

Vance winked at her and said, “I'll see you Saturday.”

“Right,” she answered.

“
Sic semper tyrranis
, babe.”

“Pardon me?”

“A line from the show … something John Wilkes shouted. It's Latin.”

“I understood that part.” Belle smiled as naively as she could.

“‘Thus always to tyrants,'” the director translated.

Only after Belle was behind the wheel of her car did she begin pondering Vance's closing remark, and his statements regarding his preparation for his role. The actor's facetious tone had made it impossible to know whether the lines had been delivered in jest or not. Besides, there was the matter of the pilfered Shakespeare. No one trained in the theatre, she believed, could have failed to recognize the reference. And were the big muscles and overbearing attitude an act, or was he as dangerous as the director had implied?

Rather than clearing the waters, Belle felt she'd muddied them. And with that realization, she began worrying that she'd mucked things up for Rosco. Darn, she thought. Maybe, I should have let him handle this.

She pulled her car out of the parking lot and headed home, wondering whether to tell Rosco what she'd done. After four or five blocks she came to an intersection whose stoplight had failed. A police officer was directing traffic; his blue uniform shone like a large summer bloom against the dusty, dark bark of the heat-parched New England trees. As Belle waited her turn, a strange thought came to her: If Vance believed Briephs died of natural causes why would he ask if she was a cop?

CHAPTER 20

L
EAVING
B
ELLE'S HOUSE, ROSCO
had been beset by a spectrum of contradictory emotions. Because of his concern for her safety, he was happy she'd agreed to relinquish her puzzle theory—although, deep down inside, he'd begun to suspect there might be some truth to it. He reasoned that whoever had killed Thompson Briephs and attacked JaneAlice was no one to be trifled with, and that putting distance between Belle and the case was the wisest course. However, Rosco also found himself inventing scenarios that would force him to consult her again. These scenes invariably ended with the two of them sharing a late dinner; and his thoughts would rotate full circle.

As he drove to Lynchville to meet Shannon McArthur, Briephs' replacement at the
Herald
, Rosco warned himself not to involve Belle further. Then, as if that argument needed additional support, he muttered to himself, “Besides, she's married—she's married. Don't play with fire, Bucko.” This dilemma in its various guises lasted all the way to Lynchville and the steps of Shannon McArthur's home.

The
Herald'
s new crossword editor wasn't remotely what Rosco had anticipated. He'd envisioned a bookish woman in her mid-fifties with graying hair and horn-rimmed glasses, but she was closer to his own age—besides being rather attractive in a wholesome, no-nonsense manner. She had athletic shoulders, broad for a woman and well-muscled arms that looked as if they'd handled their share of tennis rackets. A white polo shirt and twill shorts completed the picture, making her appear as if she'd just stepped off the courts. The only discordant note was an abundance of hennaed brown hair. As she led Rosco through her house and into the garden area, the afternoon sun reflected off her curls, turning them an arresting carmine red that didn't match the camp-girl outfit or demeanor.

The back door of Shannon McArthur's house opened onto a wooden deck overlooking a marshy waterway and the ocean beyond. In typical Newcastle fashion, a skiff bobbed lazily at a dock—as did a half-dozen similar vessels at neighboring residences. The impression was that every resident of the city and its surrounding suburbs depended upon boats for transportation. Rosco wondered how he'd avoided this communal maritime fascination. He felt like someone who'd arrived late at a party and missed all the fun.

“Why don't we sit out here, Mr. Polycrates? It's cooler. Would you like something to drink … a beer or something?”

“I'm fine, Ms. McArthur. Feel free to call me Rosco, if you'd like.”

“Only if you call me Shannon.”

“All right.”

They sat in wrought-iron chairs alongside a matching circular table shaded by a green, white, and red canvas umbrella advertising an Italian vermouth. A pleasant breeze blew in from the salt marsh, rippling the striped fabric and turning the umbrella's wood pole until it squeaked. Even to Rosco's unschooled mind the sound was definitely nautical.