The Crossword Murder (28 page)

She darted back into the altar room. Peter took a swipe at her with his hank of rope as she passed, but she was too quick for him. She worked her way around the altar, keeping Peter on the opposite side. They were now separated by a six-foot square block of stone.

“Well done, Belle. But it does no good. Twice around this altar and I guarantee you'll have no idea which arch is the actual exit.” He began circling counterclockwise forcing Belle to do the same. “The other three archways lead to dead-end rooms … and I do mean
dead.”
Peter rested his rope on the stone. “An appropriate place to die, don't you think? A sacrificial altar?”

Belle mustered all her strength and squared off against him. “You're wrong, Peter,” she declared. “I know a lot more than you think.” She kept her eyes glued to his. “For instance, I can tell you precisely which museums Briephs' stolen pieces came from, and I can tell you where this altar came from … That rope of yours? I can list fifty different synonyms for it. Tell me when to stop: lasso, cord, riata, lanyard, jute, leash, painter, line, guy, lariat, cordelle, longe, strand, ratline, string, vang, hemp, bola, noose—”

“What's that prove?” A look of confusion swept over Peter's face. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Belle kept her eyes locked onto his. “Nothing. I'm just explaining I know more than you think. Another example: three-letter Hawaiian words:
lei, hoi, ava, hee, hui, koa
,
aku, imu, poi
. I could go on with about ten or fifteen more, but I'd hate to bore you.”

“Who cares about this stuff?”

“Lots of people. Here's another one: four-letter Greek gods and goddesses: Ares, Hera, Leda, Cora, Nike, Hebe, Zeus, Eros, Gaia, Eris, and Leto. As you see, I have many facts at my fingertips. Like for instance”—she watched Peter's eyes closely—“I know exactly which of these doors leads back to the fountain.”

Peter's gaze inadvertently shot to the archway on his left. Belle smiled. “Thank you, you've been a big help.” She dashed through the opening, down another corridor and reemerged at the fountain.

“Very good, Belle,” Peter bellowed in pursuit, “but you'll never find your way out of that room alive!”

“Don't count on it.” Belle ran from archway to archway studying the floor. At the third entrance she saw what she was looking for: the dime Rosco had placed there. She grabbed it, then tore through the arch, past the four empty chambers until she came to the room containing Briephs' fax machine. She snatched up the receiver to call the police, but realized there wasn't enough time. She had to leave the house as quickly as possible. Hopefully, she'd be able to flag a passing motorboat.

Belle ran back to Windword's entry, reached for the door but stopped short of opening it. Through an almost invisible glass side panel she could see a moving shadow. He was waiting outside. Belle threw the dead bolt on the door just as he lowered his shoulder and plowed his full weight into the carved mahogany. The wooden doorjamb splintered and flew across the entryway while the entire door rocked on its hinges. Belle stood motionless as he stepped toward her and enfolded her in his arms.

“It's all over,” Rosco said.

CHAPTER 36

R
OSCO
HELD
B
ELLE
in his bear hug for a full minute, long enough for her to stop trembling. Eventually she lifted her face from his shoulder and looked at him.

“Where is he?” Rosco asked.

“I don't know.” She dropped her head back into his chest. “I thought it was Peter coming through the door. You don't know how happy I am to see you.” She clutched him tightly.

“I'm happy to see you, too … in one piece. You're not very good at following orders, are you?”

Belle stepped back and gave Rosco a wan smile. “I have something to tell you, Rosco … I got a letter from Garet. He said—”

“Is he armed?”

“Garet?”

“No. Peter.”

“Oh … He has a rope, but I think that's the extent of it.”

“We're in a certain amount of danger until we have Mister Peter, Peter Pumpkin-Eater under wraps,” Rosco said in an understated tone. “You can fill me in on this letter business later.”

“So you figured out the PUMPKIN-EATER clue?”

“Uh-huh. Then I checked with the mechanic at the marina. He said someone had dumped sugar in your tank—thus explaining the billowing white smoke. Peter must have gained access to your boat. It was a good way for him to keep tabs on us. We had to phone him every time we wanted to come out here.”

Rosco pulled a .32 caliber semiautomatic pistol from a holster attached to the back of his belt. He took Belle's hand and led her to the far side of the foyer. “I want you to stay with me. Do not, I repeat,
do not
, wander off.”

“That's not likely to happen. Peter probably knows this place better than Briephs did.” Belle pointed to the hallway leading toward the fax machine. “You can't go down there, Rosco. He could be hiding anywhere. The place has more doors than a high-school locker room.”

Rosco glanced down the corridor, then lowered his voice. “Well, he'll do one of two things—stand and fight or run for the hills.”

“He's not running anywhere. His foot is broken.”

“How did that happen?”

“Something fell on it.”

“Tough luck … Well, he's not going to come after both of us with a broken foot. My guess is he'll try to return to his boat and vacate the island as soon as he can.” Rosco squeezed Belle's fingers. “Let's give him a few minutes.”

Belle was shocked. “You're not going to let him get away, are you?!”

Rosco released Belle's hand and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small green wire. “I may not be a yachtsman, but I do know how to disable an engine. It's not much different than a car. A spark-plug wire's a spark-plug wire, on land or sea. Peter's not going anywhere without this baby; and he'll be a lot easier to handle if he's trapped on the end of the dock.”

“Speaking of your prowess on the high seas, how did you get out here?”

“Hitchhiked. On a lobster boat.”

Belle shook her head and chuckled softly.

“It wasn't much fun for me or the lobsterman. The combination of the smell, the waves and the bucket of fish guts he was using for bait was a little too much for me. I was hanging over the side the entire way out.”

Belle continued to smile until Rosco moved his finger to his lips, indicating that they should remain quiet. A faint sound of footsteps could be heard trudging unevenly outside; they were headed away from the house and toward the dock. “I think our friend is making his move,” Rosco whispered, then eased his way to the shattered entry and looked out in the direction of the pier. “Yep … As soon as he steps into the boat, I'm going to take him.” Rosco turned back to face Belle. “I want you to stay here, okay?”

“Aye aye, sir.”

After a minute he said, “Okay. He's trying to start the engine. I'll be back.”

Rosco slid silently through the broken door frame and Belle quickly positioned herself beside it. She watched him approach the dock, then slow his pace to a casual stride while Peter, suddenly aware that he'd been cornered, began frenetically twisting and turning the key in the ignition.

When the engine didn't kick over, Peter jammed the shift-handle back and forth in the gearbox, then tried the ignition once more. The motor refused to respond. Peter began pounding on the gauges, to no avail, then grabbed a long gaffing hook and heaved it at Rosco. It sliced the air like a harpoon, but Rosco sidestepped the weapon and moved closer to the launch. When he was alongside, he pulled the green wire from his pocket, then held it aloft in his left hand while his right kept a firm grip on his pistol.

“You're not going anywhere without this, Peter.”

Peter looked up at Rosco and seemed to deflate. He slouched down into the pilots seat and dropped his head in his hands. Then he began to weep. “He had so much. It's not fair. It's just not fair. I have nothing.”

“I'm taking you back to Newcastle, Peter. You can explain your motives to the police. Now, move to the bow of the boat. Slowly.”

As if he'd received the order from an otherworldly source, Peter stood and shuffled to the launch's bow. Then he slumped down on the bright orange cushions that doubled as flotation devices.

“Now, I'm not much of a boat person, Peter, so I'm going to have Belle motor us back to the mainland.” Rosco pulled a pair of handcuffs from behind his back. “And just to make certain we don't have any problems during the trip, I want you to put one end of these around your right wrist, and attach the other end to that front railing there.” Rosco pointed with his .32. “You can handle that, can't you? I don't want to use this pistol, but I will if I have to. You can believe that.”

Peter looked up at Rosco and nodded. Rosco tossed the cuffs to him and watched while Peter did as he was told.

“Okay, I'm going to get Belle. Sit tight.”

Rosco replaced his pistol in its holster and returned to the house.

“So, how did it go?” Belle asked from the doorway.

“As if you weren't watching the entire thing?”

“What do you have, eyes in the back of your head?”

Rosco laughed. “No. I just think I'm getting to know you too well.”

“How did you discover it was Peter who killed Briephs?” Belle asked.

“I didn't suspect him at first … Actually, I had a strong hunch it was Roth. Only a gut feeling … I had nothing to base it on—other than the fact that he was throwing every obstacle in the world in my path. So, after I talked to Lever, I caught Roth at the airport. He knew the entire case was about to break wide open, with regard to bad press, that is. Lever had already informed him of that. Roth's real loyalty is to the Senator, if nothing else. His concern was that the situation be kept from the media—that it not endanger the Senator's chance for reelection.”

“Briephs was blackmailing Roth, did you know that?”

“How did you come to that conclusion?”

“I have my sources.” Belle smiled smugly. “Roth was smuggling stolen artwork into the country for Briephs.”

Rosco shook his head. “You seem to know everything.”

“What I don't understand is, what could Briephs possibly have had on Roth?”

“Try nothing.”

“Nothing! What do you mean, nothing?” Belle looked at Rosco as if he'd lost his mind. He merely shrugged his shoulders. “Why would Roth risk going to jail?” she demanded. “There must have been something …”

“He laid it all out for me. He's an arrogant turkey, I'll give him that much. He hand-fed me every lurid detail: museums, middlemen, the works, then basically dared me to do anything with the information—and threatened to sue if I leaked any of his disclosures to the press. The plus side was that my visit eliminated him as a suspect … which made me reexamine the entire investigation. And that's how I came up with the Pumpkin idea and phoned the mechanic at the marina. Whoever beat JaneAlice had to be tipped off by the very first puzzle.”

Belle took his hand. “Great minds think alike … So, what was Roth's story?”

“He and Briephs went to Yale together. They rented a house when they were seniors.”

“You're certain?”

“Straight from the horse's mouth. They've known each other for over thirty-seven years. Briephs got Roth his first job—with his uncle, the Senator, when he was still a member of the House.”

“But why didn't Sara explain the relationship when you met her?”

“Because Roth never left her house the day Thompson died. She knew he hadn't murdered her son; consequently, she never imagined there would be a reason to suspect him. I don't think she knew how close their friendship had grown; otherwise I'm sure she would have suggested I speak with Roth from the beginning.”

“I can't believe Roth would risk his career like that.”

“First of all, Ol' Bulldog has a passion for this stuff that's just as strong as Thompson's was. He visited Windword at every opportunity. He told me so himself … And it wasn't simply to see his old friend. He only came out to sit and surround himself with the artwork … And according to Thompson's will, Roth gets it all. The house and everything in it.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope … And really, when you look at it from his standpoint, smuggling the stuff was a no-risk situation. He was doing his old Yale roomie a favor. Paying him back for past help and getting his own private museum in the bargain. There was no possible way he could have been caught. He knew that … Plus, there's always the thrill of getting away with an illegal activity. You'd be surprised how many criminals spring into action for that reason alone … And, as Roth so willingly explained, in the long run there's no way to obtain actual proof of his involvement—especially now that Briephs is dead.”

“And he gets to keep it all?”

“Not anymore … That's the other thing that eliminated Roth as a suspect, but explained his desire to conceal the crime. If Briephs is murdered—which he was—investigators enter the house. They discover the stolen pieces and return them to their rightful owners. Roth doesn't go to jail, but he loses his museum.”

Belle thought for a moment and then shouted, “Yes! There's still a way to get Roth! Peter witnessed Roth giving Briephs ‘a package.' This happened in the yacht club parking lot. According to Peter, the two appeared incredibly suspicious. Plus, he said he brought Roth out here cradling packages in his arms as if the contents were extremely fragile.”

“You're certain about this?”

Belle's excitement colored her words. “Peter told me! He watched the exchange!”

Rosco stood thinking. After a moment he said, “I don't know … At this point, Peter's a murderer. And unless he can positively identify a specific item, it's going to be difficult to convince a jury that an aide to a senior U.S. Senator was smuggling stolen artwork into the country—and exchanging it in public … We'll supply Lever with the information when we deliver Peter. It'll be up to the police and the D.A.'s office to pursue it … We can push them, but they might not be willing to plea-bargain on murder one, and that's the only way a defense lawyer would allow Peter to cooperate …”