The Crossword Murder (17 page)

“And who might Vance Kelly be?”

“Vance Kelly is playing John Wilkes Booth. He's an actor—the actor in Briephs' puzzle.”

Rosco set his wine down on the butcher-block table. “Correct me if I'm wrong; as per our meeting this morning, weren't you supposed to butt out of this investigation?” His tone had turned overly serious.

“Oh, come on, Rosco. It was completely natural for me to go there. You would have looked out of place—except, perhaps, for your lack of
haberdashery
… Anyway, I was able to talk to the actor, the stage manager and the director … Just your average Newcastle theatregoer.”

“The point is—as I believe I mentioned earlier—whoever killed Briephs is dangerous. How many times do I have to repeat that?”

“Do you want to hear what I learned or not?”

Belle's enthusiasm was too much for him. “Okay, but first we have to make a deal.”

“What?”

“Since you seem incapable of staying out of this case—or following simple orders—I want you to promise you will not look into anything else on your own. If you have any further brainy ideas, you have to clear them with me first. A deal?”

Belle let her eyes drift toward the ceiling. “Okay … it's a deal.”

“Right. I don't believe you for a second, you know.” He refilled their wineglasses, returned the bottle to the refrigerator, looked at her long and hard and said, “Well …?”

“Well, what?”

“What did you find out about our friend, John Wilkes Booth?”

Belle knew Rosco's curiosity had been primed, so she opted to make him suffer. She walked to the work island and sat on a stool near the
dolmades
, then picked up one and bit into it. “These are wonderful. I could eat the entire plateful. Where do you get them?”

“A place near my office … Well?”

“Oh, hold on—the meat loaf … I should put it in the oven or we'll never have dinner.” She placed her creation on the oven's center rack while Rosco drummed his fingers on the butcher-block table. “Do you think I should set a timer?” she asked.

“Couldn't hurt.”

“How long did the box say?”

“An hour and a half.”

Belle depressed the button on the electric timer until it read ninety minutes. “Well, that takes care of that. Now, what were we talking about?”

“I believe it was John Wilkes Booth.”

“Oh, right.” Belle's enthusiasm wouldn't allow her to stall further. “First off, he's large—and strong, certainly strong enough to handle Briephs. Second, he's been to Briephs' house—more than once—so he knows his way around. Third, he point-blank admitted he thought it would be good preparation for his role to kill someone. And four—this is the best—he asked if I was a cop.”

“The best?”

“Of course, don't you see? If he believed Briephs had died of natural causes—and if he hadn't heard anything about JaneAlice, why would the police be on his mind?”

Rosco appeared truly amazed at what she'd discovered. “How did you get all this?”

“People like to talk to me, I suppose. Vance also invited me to the show's opening night on Saturday.”

“Vance?” Rosco was unable to disguise the jealousy in his tone.

“I assume he's younger than I am, Rosco. You'd hardly expect me to call him Mr. Kelly, would you?”

“I guess not,” Rosco mumbled, then picked up his wineglass and began pacing the kitchen. “But where's the motive? And don't forget Housemann's name also appeared in that puzzle.” He turned to face her. “Besides, if your crossword theory is correct, we only have two-fifths of the picture—”

“Wait! I forgot another important part of our conversation:
Sic semper tyrannis
.” Belle said this with a definitely gloating tone.

“And that would mean?”

“Literally, ‘Thus to tyrants'… But I looked it up; it's also the motto of the state of Virginia. In that context, the inference is ‘Death to tyrants.'”

“I see.” Rosco looked bemused. “And because this ‘Vance' spouts Latin, he's now a prime suspect?”

“That was Booth's statement when he assassinated Lincoln.”

“I take it then, that your hunky young star was reciting a line from the play. Maybe to impress a bright and attractive woman …?”

Belle looked crestfallen.

“It's okay,” Rosco said. “I'll store the information away for later consideration. At the risk of sounding domineering, though, I'd prefer that you not tangle with questionable types. This is a murder case.”

“What about Shannon McArthur?” was Belle's quick response. “How did that interview go?”

“Well, she knows more than she's letting on. I'm sure of it. And it wouldn't surprise me if she and Housemann were linked romantically.”

Belle grabbed another grape leaf and gobbled it down. “This is great … Housemann and Shannon McArthur … and Betsey and Briephs.”

Rosco shook his head. “One big happy family.”

“That's what Vance said!” She pointed at Rosco, waved her finger and laughed. “He was talking about the theatre, but still …”

Rosco pondered this for several moments. Eventually, he said, “I'll go talk to Betsey Housemann tomorrow. See where that leads us.”

“Good idea.”

“Anyway, there's no point in letting all this spoil your dinner. What else is on the menu besides meat loaf?”

“Salad and parslied potatoes. Is that okay? But it's a bottled dressing. Sorry.”

“Sounds great.”

“Feel like washing some lettuce? It's in the fridge.”

“Sure.” He moved toward the refrigerator. Lying on the nearby counter was Garet's postcard from Egypt. Rosco picked it up and laughed. “Why do these camels always look like they want to tear your head off?”

Belle spun around. She could feel tension rising in her voice, but was unable to soften it. “Don't you know it's impolite to read other people's mail?”

“I didn't flip it over. I was just looking at the camel.”

“Give me that.” Belle yanked the postcard from his hand opening an inch-long paper cut at the base of his thumb.

“Ouch,” Rosco muttered as he brought the palm of his hand up to meet his mouth.

Belle ripped the postcard into several pieces and dumped them into the trash basket beneath the sink. She stood quietly for a moment, then said, “Here, let me look at your finger.” She took Rosco's hand, but the move only served to rekindle the attraction they'd experienced earlier.

Rosco eased his hand away. “It's all right.”

“No. Run it under warm water. I'll get a bandage and some Mercurochrome.”

Rosco did as he was told while Belle returned with a first-aid kit. She dabbed disinfectant on the cut, then covered it with a bandage.

“Don't think you've fooled me for a minute,” she said when her equanimity had returned. “I recognize this for what it is; a cheap trick to get out of washing the lettuce.”

CHAPTER 22

R
OSCO
'
S
ALARM
SOUNDED
at seven A.M. with its habitual twenty seconds of blaring electronic buzz before dutifully switching over to
Imus in the Morning
. He flipped off the chatter, brushed his teeth, threw on his running shorts, T-shirt and sneakers and headed out for a three-mile run along Newcastle's waterfront. The half-hour jog gave him the opportunity to relive his previous night's dinner with Belle. They'd had a good time discussing books and movies and where they'd most like to travel—if they had the money. Throughout, their mutual attraction had remained on the back burner, the only spicy element of the evening being Belle's fiery-hot meat loaf. After helping her clean up, Rosco had returned home at eleven-thirty and gone directly to bed; on the one hand, he was pleased their relationship was stabilizing into friendship; on the other, he felt disappointed they hadn't met ten years earlier.

Following his jog, he showered and headed to the Parthenon, his neighborhood coffee shop, for breakfast. From there he went to his office and arranged an afternoon meeting with Betsey Housemann at her home. She seemed anxious to talk to him, which he found strange but refreshing; it was pleasant to imagine he'd be meeting with someone at least superficially cooperative. Rosco had next planned to call Belle and thank her for dinner, but before he could lift the receiver, the phone rang. He answered with his standard greeting: “Polycrates Agency.”

“I'm trying to reach Mr. Polycrates.” The voice was that of an older man, decidedly nervous, and colored with a marked British accent.

“This is Rosco Polycrates, how can I help you?”

“Thank goodness you're in. My name is Bartholomew Kerr. I write a column for the
Herald
.”

Rosco remembered JaneAlice's mentioning Kerr's name. However, Steven Housemann had interrupted before she could explain his relationship with Thompson Briephs. “Yes, Mr. Kerr, I recognize your name. I've read your column.”

Kerr's voice continued to crackle uneasily. “I need to see you. It's urgent.”

“Of course. May I ask how you got my name?”

“Not over the phone. How soon can we meet?”

“Well, if you're at the
Herald
”—Rosco glanced at his watch—“I can be there in ten minutes.”

“No. Not here. May I come to your office?”

“If you'd like.”

Rosco gave Bartholomew Kerr the necessary directions. He promised he'd be there within the half hour and hung up.

Rosco considered making a few calls to gather background information on the journalist, but opted to sit tight for the moment. The man was obviously shaken; keeping their meeting confidential seemed a top priority. Rosco would respect his wishes until he discovered what he wanted.

Twenty minutes later, Kerr arrived. He was a tiny man, small-boned and frail and almost totally bald. What little hair he had was an ashy, ancient blond. Owlish gray eyebrows poked out from behind oversized, black-rimmed glasses. The lenses magnified his eyes to an absurd degree, making them appear like those of an insect photographed for
National Geographic
. Besides the too-large glasses, Kerr sported a gold Rolex watch that looked too big for his bony wrist and a diamond pinky ring that, again, seemed to weigh down his miniature frame. Rosco invited him in and pointed to a chair.

“Th-Thank you,” he stuttered. Sitting, his movements were precise as if no physical activity were accomplished without prior preparation.

“What's all this about, Mr. Kerr?”

The columnist reached into a slim leather attaché case and removed a folded piece of graph paper. He handed it to Rosco. “This was in my mail slot when I arrived for work this morning.”

Rosco unfolded the paper. On it was a hand-drawn crossword puzzle, fifteen letters square, with the clues scrawled along the side in what Rosco surmised was most likely Thompson Briephs' handwriting.

“Did this come by way of the Post Office or did someone drop it in your box personally?” Rosco asked.

“The postal service.”

“May I see the envelope?”

“I'm sorry, but I put it through the paper shredder. I know it was stupid. But you must understand, I became quite agitated when I realized what the missive contained. I can tell you the envelope wasn't written in Thompson's hand, though. The style was quite different—shaky, almost, as if the work had been done by a child.”

“Why did you bring this to me?” Rosco looked up from the puzzle for the first time.

“Mr. Polycrates, a newspaper is a tight-knit operation. When a man such as yourself begins asking questions, it's only a matter of time before reporters begin making their own inquiries. And when notes are compared … Well, let's just say, we have fewer secrets at the
Herald
than you might surmise.”

“I see. But why not go to the police with this?” Rosco imagined Al Lever chuckling at the puzzle and tossing it into a file somewhere, but there was no reason to share those suspicions with Kerr.

“Number 34-Across.”

Rosco glanced at Briephs' clues and read 34-Across.
“Herald snoopster?”

“I'm not terribly fond of these cryptics, Mr. Polycrates, but I recognize Thompson's peculiar sense of humor.
Herald snoopster
, containing fifteen letters, can only be one person: myself. It was one of Briephs' favorite gibes.”

Rosco decided to play dumb. “And what do think that means? Your name in this puzzle.”

“Please don't take me for a fool.” Kerr pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped away the moisture that had formed on his upper lip. “We're all aware that these puzzles were stolen from JaneAlice, and we're equally convinced that the police force doesn't possess either the imagination or perspicacity to recognize the connection between the theft and Thompson's death. I bring this puzzle to you in the hopes that it will clear my name of wrongdoing. Since it was mailed to me, I obviously couldn't have stolen it. Also my name appears in the word game. These facts should convince you that I had
no connection
whatsoever with Thompson's demise or JaneAlice's tragic attack.”

“Didn't you consider that this document could be dusted for prints?”

“Too late, unfortunately. I'm afraid that in my dismay I've considerably mangled the paper. I fear the only fingerprints that would remain legible would be my own.”

Rosco studied the creased and rumpled puzzle. He had to admit Kerr was correct. “May I keep this?” he asked.

“Absolutely. If you make inquiries, I'm sure you'll discover that Thompson and I had … shall we say, a
strained
relationship? I was not one of his admirers. However, as I stated, I hope in surrendering this piece of evidence to you, I remove my name from suspicion.”