The Crossword Murder (30 page)

“Come back east!” Genie had laughed in response to her friend's woeful phone call. “We have plenty of room, and you know Tom adores having you visit … Besides, there's the Commodores' dinner dance at the Yacht Club on October first. You can shake up the musty old place, and find some fabulous guy with scads of money!… After that, you and I can charter a boat … sail to Nantucket … You'll forget California ever existed … And, yes, Jamaica, the guest rooms
are
equipped with Jacuzzis and steam showers … We're not as primitive in Massachusetts as you might imagine …”

Now, as she sat safely in one of those peaceful guest suites, there was no question in Jamaica's mind that leaving
Crescent Heights
was the smartest thing she'd ever done.

Jamaica gave herself another wink, unconsciously replicating Cassandra's come-hither look, then scooped up her ermine stole from the settee, sailed down the stairway, and stepped into the Peppers' baronial living room.

“Ahhh … There she is. And, looking as luscious as ever … You're going to knock their socks off, Jamaica!”

Compliments came easily to Edison Pepper, or “Tom,” as he was known to both the elite and humble of the city of Newcastle. Late forties with an athletic six-foot-four frame, eyes the color of sun-spattered steel, and perfectly tousled graying hair, Pepper had risen from humble origins to become a phenomenally successful investment banker whose newest venture, Global Outreach and Lender Development Fund, was proving an extraordinary boon to Newcastle's not-for-profit institutions.

Investing their endowment capital with the G.O.L.D. Fund permitted the organizations an enormous return on their money. Everyone from the local historical society to the hospital's new multimillion-dollar children's wing was benefiting handily. With his easy charm and manicured good looks—accentuated this evening by a hand-tailored dinner jacket, watered-silk bow tie, and hefty diamond studs—Edison “Tom” Pepper, was Newcastle's hero.

“It's hard to believe you could look more lovely in person than you did on the set of
Crescent Heights
, but it's true. You're making my knees knock.” Tom gave Jamaica a light kiss on the cheek and again called upstairs to his wife, “Genie, Jamaica won the battle … I'm off to the conservatory to fetch that bottle of champagne.” He glanced at Jamaica. The smile he gave her was dazzling. “Why not? My driver is chauffeuring us tonight.”

Genie entered the living room at the precise moment Tom was exiting. Although she was easily five years younger than Jamaica, it took only one glance at Tom to make her realize how potent were her friend's charms. “Two Peppers and one Nevisson, as per your request, sire,” Genie said as she tossed her lithe body on a Sheraton sofa whose gold satin upholstery matched the color of her ball gown. Then she raised her voice and called toward the conservatory: “And I defy you to say I'm late.”

“I didn't want us to miss the champagne,” her husband's distant words replied.

“Thanks to your careful advance planning, we won't.”

“Let's make this a festive affair, Genie,” he called back. “Please.”

The tone had a finality that made Genie grimace—a reaction she tried to hide by adding a quick, dismissive laugh. “I was going to say that if you don't walk away with a husband tonight, the men in this city need to have their heads examined … but now I'm not so certain a stuffy Yankee spouse is what you need.”

“Who said I was in the market for a mate?”

“Ah, ‘my dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living?'” Genie laughed more freely, all tension suddenly gone. “You were marvelous as Beatrice in
Much Ado
… When was that? Three years ago? Four?”

Jamaica sidestepped the issue of years, instead answering with an airy: “‘Done to death by slanderous tongues …'”

“That's not true! You got fabulous reviews. Even in New York.”

“And you, Genevieve, should never have left the stage.”

“Thanks for the compliment, but that was a long, long time ago.”

Jamaica forced a smile. “Don't remind me … A youthful summer playing everything from Shakespeare to O'Neill—”

“And who was always cast as a lead?”

“Supporting players are just as important as the show's star.”

Genie grinned. “But they don't get offers from Hollywood studios … Anyway, you look absolutely stunning. I wish I could get away with wearing risqué evening gowns, but Tom is always harping about ‘appropriate dress' … I'm afraid I'm in serious danger of becoming a dowdy old wife.”

Jamaica managed another thin smile. “You, old? Never.”

“Next year, I'll be pushing forty.”

“My heart bleeds.”

The explosive sound of the champagne cork interrupted them.

“The dowdy woman's husband doth call,” Jamaica said.

“I'm so glad you decided to leave L.A.,” Genie answered as they crossed the marble foyer to join Tom. Their high satin heels clicked over the polished stone. “… happy you called us …”

“I didn't realize how much I needed to escape until Tom picked me up at the airport yesterday. I feel as if I've been granted a reprieve … And I'm so looking forward to leaving for Nantucket tomorrow … A week of total privacy … Promise me you'll never mention Hollywood.”

“I promise.”

“Or Beverly Hills … or Wilshire Boulevard—or Catalina Island!”

“I swear!” Genie was beaming. “Scout's honor.” Then she changed tack by focusing on the planned cruise. Her demeanor became all business. “Of course, I would have preferred to take my own boat, but it's been stripped to the bones for racing … However, the yacht broker assured me the
Orion
is brand-new, besides being ‘extremely manageable for two gals'—his words.” Genie began imitating the broker's condescending delivery. “‘No backstay, Mrs. Pepper … a walk-through transom … nice taffrail seats. You two gals should have a blast out there …' However, I'm still concerned we're—”

“Are you two yammering about spinnakers and tidal charts again?” Tom handed each woman a flute of champagne. “Cheers! Here's to good friends.” He raised his glass, then draped a long arm over his wife's shoulders. “Stop worrying, Genie. It's the first of October. Don't most of the experienced sailors hereabouts continue to ply these waters until Thanksgiving?”

“Of course they do,” was Jamaica's pleasant rejoinder. “Nantucket's a piece of cake. Thirty miles from Hyannis … And an extra thirty or so from here—”

“I still feel we should practice on a day sail before attempting a longer cruise,” Genie continued. “Just to get a feel for the way the boat handles—”

“Genie … Genie … listen to your old pal … ‘piece of cake' like the lady says.” His tone had become perceptibly less patient.

Genie's body stiffened immediately. “Perhaps Jamaica's a better sailor than I, Tom.”

“Maybe she's just got bigger—”

“Hey, hey, you two! Break it up! I didn't come east to witness marital feuds. Besides, you'd better not get on this lady's bad side, Tom. Remember what the Bard said: a ‘tiger's heart wrapped in a woman's hide.'”

Pepper drained his glass. “That's my little wife, all right. She's quite a determined package—although you might not know it to look at her.” He bent down to kiss her, and for a moment they were so consumed with each other, their guest might not have existed. “Listen, darling,” Tom finally murmured, “if you get bored with your cruise, you can always head home. Or, hey, ditch the damn boat in Nantucket, and you and your buddy can hole up in that spa they have … I'll hire someone to sail the
Orion
back to Newcastle. This is your holiday, remember.”

“Why don't you join our little trip, Mistah Peppah, honey?” Jamaica's voice had been transformed by an accent as soft and creamy as magnolia flowers. “Fo'get about the elk or moose or whatevah it is you gonna be shootin' up theah in the no'thlands of Maine.”

Tom laughed heartily. “You know I wouldn't set foot on a boat if it was Noah's Ark and I was the last man on the planet! I'll spend my mini-vacation in a warm cabin on dry land rather that heaving my cookies on the high seas, thank you very much.”

“Come with us, Tom darling,” Genie added, continuing to nestle close to her husband.

She exuded such wedded bliss that Jamaica found herself sighing in envy. “You're a fortunate woman, Genie. And you're right. I have to find one of these for myself.” Then she shook her black mane and raised her glass in homage. “To Tom and Genie Pepper, who saved my life … Don't laugh, you two; I mean that!… No more
Crescent Heights
… no more Reggie Hack … no more pea-brained ingenues … Here's to good friends, and the glories of life in Newcastle.”

CHAPTER 2

Rosco Polycrates had not been placed in this world to wear dinner jackets, frilly white shirts, cummerbunds, mother-of-pearl cuff links and studs, patent-leather shoes, and do-it-yourself bow ties. But when Sara Crane Briephs, the reigning dowager empress of Newcastle's social set, had asked him to attend the Commodores' dinner dance at the city's exclusive Patriot Yacht Club, the invitation had come with one simple request: “Please, Rosco, don't be so
déclassé
as to wear a clip-on bow tie.”

A third-generation Greek American and former Newcastle police detective turned private investigator, Rosco's time on earth had made him more than savvy enough to know that a situation involving “self-tie bow ties” required a good deal of advanced planning—even though the salesman at Best Man Tuxedo Rentals had assured him that tying a formal necktie was no more difficult than lacing one's shoes. “Once you get the hang of it,” the man had said.

Rosco had opted to allocate a full hour to accomplish the complicated task. It was an activity that made him regret his lack of a fancy Ivy League education. U. Mass. grads just couldn't compete with Harvard alums when it came to this kind of elaborate getup. Those rarefied types could probably tie bow ties in their sleep—and they'd probably inherited the neckties from their fathers' fathers. On the other hand, Rosco's dad had been a commercial fisherman; he'd passed away when Rosco was a kid. Patent-leather shoes and puckery shirts requiring little gold buttons hadn't been among his possessions. Neither had self-tie bow ties.

“Okay, just like shoes,” Rosco muttered as he stood before his bathroom mirror, fiddling with a few fractious inches of glossy black satin. As he struggled, his mind skimmed over the events that had garnered this coveted invitation and resultant necktie battle. Two and a half months earlier, Mrs. Briephs' son, the much-lauded crossword editor at the
Newcastle Herald
, had been murdered. It had been a complex case, involving more than a few prime suspects and a series of bizarre crossword puzzles.

Rosco had finally apprehended the culprit; in doing so, he'd endeared himself to the elderly Mrs. Briephs. All spit and polish, with a personality that defied her eighty-some years, she'd found Rosco's youthful vitality, casual demeanor, and rugged good looks welcomely refreshing in her otherwise constrained world.

“Dang it.” Rosco tugged at the ends of the tie and started from the beginning. “Okay … just like shoes … but backward.”

For all the ugliness of the Briephs' case, there had been three very positive outcomes. One, Rosco had formed a lasting friendship with the redoubtable Sara. Two, the killer had been brought to justice. Three—and possibly the most important—Rosco had met Annabella Graham, the young crossword editor of Newcastle's other daily newspaper, the
Evening Crier
.

With an expertise in cryptics and a stubborn streak that had
insisted
the puzzles were connected to the crime, Belle had not only identified Briephs' killer, she'd also snared Rosco's respect, admiration, and deep affection. Fighting their mutual attraction had proven difficult from the beginning. Now most of Newcastle was of the opinion that Rosco and Belle had become “an item.”

“Aghhh.” He yanked the tie loose once more and pressed the ends flat to his chest. “All right, bucko, concentrate. It's the same as tying …” He looked down at his shoes as if to gain inspiration from their knotted laces, but realized he'd already slipped into a pair of rented patent-leather dancing pumps with tidy grosgrain bows. His feet looked as if they'd been clad in an oversized version of a little girl's party shoes. He sighed again and continued to grapple with the tie, thinking of Belle as a sappy smile spread across his face.

The Yacht Club dinner dance would be the first opportunity for Sara and Belle to meet. And although Rosco didn't particularly relish the idea of spending an evening dressed like a gigantic penguin, he was eager to ensure that the women's relationship developed well. Belle was more than capable of holding her own, but Sara could intimidate a striking cobra if she put her mind to it. If the
grande dame
took it upon herself to be
displeased
with a person, it could take that individual a lifetime to elicit even the frostiest smile. Rosco's fondness for both ladies made him acutely aware of the pressure he was facing. He had to make this dinner dance a success.

He glanced at his watch: six-thirty. The hour he'd set aside for tie tying had somehow managed to evaporate. He'd told Belle he'd pick her up at six forty-five, then Sara at seven, and deliver everyone to the Yacht Club by seven-thirty for cocktails and chitchat and whatever else they did in the halls of power, prestige, and nautical lore. He looked back into the mirror one last time and decided that although not
perfect
, the bow tie was
acceptable
. He grabbed his keys, ducked out of his apartment, and trotted over to his waiting chariot: a canvas-topped, four-wheel-drive red Jeep that predated the Sahara and Laredo models designed to attract the urban cowboys.