Wrapped Up in Crosswords (13 page)

“I take it that he didn't listen,” she replied. Her tone was dry but loving, and she gave her husband a quick, indulgent smile.

Abe shrugged. “Hey, you married him. You know what a hard case the guy is.”

“Thank you for your input, Mister Helpful,” Al remarked.

T
HERE
were so many gilt-edged plates on the dining room table, it was nearly impossible to see the damask cloth covering its surface. Sara's rule for this “light collation” was that the meal be treated with childlike abandon. The courses could be enjoyed in succession or eaten at the same time—or even indulged in reverse order. So bowls of creamy oyster stew sat beside pie plates which in turn sat next to dinner platters heaped with smoked turkey and escalloped leeks and vegetable terrine. There was eggnog in crystal punch cups, cut-glass pitchers of warmed mulled cider, and champagne in delicate flutes. Above all, there was joy and the occasional spontaneous singing of Christmas carols.

“I'm going to begin with my gift to Albert,” Sara announced at last. “And then we can go around the table clockwise.” She walked to the sideboard and retrieved a shallow, rectangular box. “You have to guess.”

Al gently shook the present. “Cigars,” he said. “It's an educated guess.” He smiled at her. “I can smell them.” He opened the package, and then stared at Sara in wonderment. “These are Cuban … the real deal. How did you—?”

“You forget, Albert, that my brother's a U.S. senator. I'd prefer not to go into too many details, so I suggest you simply enjoy them.”

Al gazed at the cigars and then looked back at Sara. “But these must have cost a fortune, Mrs. B. I thought we'd agreed that our gifts should be reasonably priced—”

“I am an old lady, Albert, a very
rich
old lady who has, alas, no direct heirs. If my gift embarrasses you, I apologize, but since I can't take it with me, I feel it's only fitting that I treat my friends as I would family. Indeed, in the years since my son died, all of you at this table have become as close as family. Closer, perhaps. One can never choose one's relatives. True friendships are another thing. They require what I refer to as the ‘acid test'—which in my case can be a tart tongue and a critical eye. I still wince when I remember how I treated our Belle when I first met her. Although, I think she's forgiven me.” Sara smiled at Belle, who beamed in return. “She's become the granddaughter I never had.” Then, with customary asperity—the mistress of White Caps didn't believe in ‘overindulging emotions'—she turned to Bartholomew, who was seated to her left. “Your turn.”

As Sara had guessed, his offering was “gentleman's hosiery,” in this case a pair of red socks for Rosco. They were embroidered with smiling Santas and green holly leaves.

“I know you eschew any woolly footwear, dear boy,” Bartholomew stated. “But I couldn't resist. It was the jolly faces of Father Christmas festooning them that attracted me. I hope they'll become a memento of the year our local Saint Nicks were nearly carted off to the hoosegow by the Massachusetts constabulary.

Belle then walked to the sideboard and presented Bartholomew with the tin of homemade biscuits, and the gift rendered Newcastle's normally verbose gossip columnist speechless as he seemed consumed by a wave of emotion. “And you baked them yourself!” he finally managed to murmur. “I can't recall anyone
making
something for me. How very, very kind. I've never … I've never … and what a clever shape … Bones for the ‘cur'—” Words again failed him. He pulled out a voluminous linen handkerchief and wiped tears from his eyes, and Belle couldn't decide whether to bend down and give the little man a hug or to pretend he hadn't lost his composure.

It was Sara who saved the day. “There there, Bartholomew. You and I are becoming two peas out of the same pod. We'll be crying into our soup soon if we don't take care.”

“It's just that …” Bartholomew gulped noisily.

“I understand. The season produces strong sentiments. But I believe we're better off reacting to whatever stirs our souls rather than turning our heads and hardening our hearts. My grandmother—if you can believe such an ancient person existed—used to tell me that the greatest of emotions was courage. Because without it, we can experience no other to its fullest …”

As Sara spoke, Martha stared at the plates in front of her; her cheeks were flushed a bright and anxious pink.

“I suppose,” Kerr said as he wiped a final tear from his eye, “that it would be polite to pass them around?” He handed the tin to Rosco. “Although I'm sure you've already sampled them.”

Rosco choked back his laughter, then glanced at his wife, who looked both mortified and worried that her gift might inadvertently cause Bartholomew pain.

“Actually, Belle made them for Winston,” Rosco said quietly. “That's why they're shaped like bones.”

“But they're peanut butter and banana,” Belle chimed in. “And the ingredients are all natural. I guess people could eat them … Rosco, why don't you try one and see how they taste?”

“Ahhh …”

“I won't hear of it,” Bartholomew said with a grand gesture, retrieving the tin from Rosco. “Winston will be twenty pounds heavier before the New Year but contented, nonetheless. His thank you note shall be posted in the morning.”

“Now you, Albert,” Sara voiced after additional laughter had subsided. Everyone watched as Al presented Belle with a cookbook, which suddenly caused him to stammer in embarrassment.

“It's for making jams and jellies and fruit desserts and stuff like that. Not that I don't think you're good at … well, you know what I mean. Because we all know you're an egghead, and—”

“No pun intended,” Abe Jones interrupted.

Al gave him a look. “Mister Helpful rides to the rescue once again.”

But Belle was already laughing. “And you couldn't find a copy of
Culinary Clues for Nincompoops
?”

“No, Belle, really, I … what I mean is—”

“Sit down before your foot completely disappears into your mouth, Al,” Helen chortled as Belle responded with a genuinely grateful:

“This is terrific, Al, really. Yesterday, dog biscuits, tomorrow …” She began flipping through the recipes. “… fruit whips!”

“They're not for, like, animal training, are they?” Al asked.

“No,” Belle chuckled, “they're for people, and they sound divine.”

After that, Abe gave Sara a bottle of Passion Fruit Body Rub which promised to be “the elixir of romance.”

“Perhaps you failed to hear me mention the fact that I'm an old lady, Dr. Jones,” Sara teased, to which Abe's reply was a smooth:

“You're as young as you want to be, Sara. Anyway, women only grow better with time. That came highly recommended by the salesgirl.”

“I can only imagine. I've walked by the shop; I can guess she has a few whips of her own stored away.”

The gift exchange continued around the table, but just as Stanley and Martha were poised to reach for their gifts, an eruption of loud and angry barking intruded.

“Whatever can that be?” Sara asked. “Neither of my adjacent neighbors has a dog …” She listened more intently. “The sound seems to be coming from the conservatory. Goodness, that's an excited creature. You'll have to excuse me, but I think some investigation is in order.”

Sara pushed back her chair, but Al was already on his feet. “You're not going outside, Mrs. B.”

“I most certainly am, Albert. I'm not going to remain idly indoors while some poor creature may be trapped in my—”

“Rosco and I can handle it. There's no point in breaking up your nice party.” The two men exchanged a glance, then Al looked at Abe Jones. “Alert NPD, will ya? Tell them something's ‘trapped' in Mrs. B's greenhouse. We may need some backup over here.”

Fifteen

A
L
and Rosco could hear the hostile shouts of a man cursing a blue streak before they were halfway to Sara's conservatory. The oaths were mingled with equally angry snarls that sounded as though they were produced by an enraged mountain lion rather than a dog. The ferocious cacophony was at odds with the delicate two-story Victorian glass structure that glowed palely but serenely in the cold, dark night: a place of hothouse roses and geraniums “wintering over,” of orchids housed in a special wing, and ancient gardenia trees surrounding a pleasant rotunda. Coarse language and yelping bays had no home there.

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Poly—crates?” Al asked under his breath.

“'Fraid so, Al. But then again, it could be just a vagrant who broke in …” Rosco's tone was equally tense and hushed. “There's a couple of them around town with dogs—”

“Not animals that want to kill them.”

“True. But our cons didn't have a dog—”

“Change of disguise … ya get yourself a new accessory.”

“And hope that it doesn't bite your head off?”

The two walked on, more carefully now. Both had their weapons drawn.

“Mrs. B. would have a cow if her prize what-do-ya-call-'em got wrecked,” Al said under his breath.

“Dendrobiums?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“I think she'd understand, ‘Albert.'”

“Well, if there's any mishaps, I can always pin the blame on you.”

“You've got such a big heart, my friend.”

The pair approached the building's corner, further slowing their pace, then slipped soundlessly through a half-open door. Between the colonnade of pillars supporting the arched roof, they could see a large man at the far end of the structure. He stood in profile, his back against an empty potting table; in his right hand was a revolver with which he flailed unsuccessfully at a large, shaggy yellow dog who repeatedly leapt toward him with swift and fearless lunges; the shredded sleeves of the man's jacket indicated that the animal's teeth had already connected more than once.

“What do we have here?” Al muttered. “Sure looks like ‘Santa' Scraggs to me.”

“Having problems with his reindeer, though,” was Rosco's quick reply.

“Yup. Seems like he and ‘Rudolph' are up to their eyeballs in a bit of a disagreement.”

“Probably not a sled dog.”

Al and Rosco moved into a low, crouching position, then raised their weapons, leveling them in Scraggs' direction. The yellow dog turned, suddenly aware of company, while Scraggs took advantage of this momentary respite.

“Call off your pit bull or he's dead meat,” he yelled. He pointed his large revolver directly at the dog, but the animal spun back toward him, hurtling into Scraggs's hip, and throwing him momentarily off balance. Righting himself, the escaped prisoner lashed out with his left foot, landing a fierce kick that caught the big dog under the chest and sent it spiraling backwards across the stone floor. But the animal recovered quickly and resumed its determined and even more aggressive attack, snarling louder and jumping higher. This time its teeth latched onto the hand holding the .357.

“Friggin' mutt!” the man screamed in pain. “I told you to call him off!” Scraggs tried to take aim again, but the pistol was already starting to slip from his bleeding fingers. “Friggin' mutt! Who puts an attack dog in a friggin' greenhouse? What are you bozos growin' in here anyways, marijuana?”

“Just hold it right where you are, fella. I'm a police officer,” was Lever's cool reply. He removed his detective's shield from his belt, and held it high in his left hand. The dim light gave the badge a greenish luster.

“You're under arrest,” Lever continued. “Now, put your weapon down. Nice and slow. You move too quick, it'll be the last move you make. In case you haven't noticed, my four-legged buddy here doesn't like quick movements … and neither do I.”

“Friggin' cops. What did you do, leave wild dogs in empty buildings all over the friggin' city? This is the second time I ran into the damn thing—”

The yellow dog barked noisily, then embarked on a deep and rumbling growl that forced Scraggs to shiver slightly.

“Friggin' mutt! Hidin' under a damn … I woulda shot it right off, except for I didn't want the noise to … If I'd nailed the thing at that coffee shop yesterday morning—”

“Drop your weapon, Scraggs,” Lever repeated. “Nice and easy.”

Scraggs considered his options for a long moment while his eyes darted from the dog's exposed teeth to Lever's and Rosco's weapons and back to the dog. Eventually the .357 clattered to the floor, but Al and Rosco hesitated before moving forward to cuff the prisoner.

“We better call animal control—” Al began when the yellow dog suddenly abandoned its threatening stance. In fact, it seemed to lose interest in Scraggs altogether, and instead trotted to Al's side where it sat and gave one hearty bark as if to say, “He's all yours.” Then it leaned its wide head against Lever's thigh and thumped its heavy tail against the floor.

“I'll be darned,” Al muttered. “If that face doesn't look exactly like Skippy's—”

“Skippy?” Rosco glanced at Lever, but Al's response was soft and incredulous. “Good boy. You're a good boy … Skip …”

“Cops and their friggin' werewolves,” Scraggs snarled as Rosco removed the handcuffs from Lever's belt and attached them to the fugitive's wrists. Lever said nothing. He continued to gaze in wonderment at the dog, who now seemed unwilling to leave his side. Whatever emotion human and canine were experiencing, it appeared to be mutual.

W
ITH
Scraggs in police custody, Rosco, Al, and “Skippy Two” returned to Sara's house. Only twenty minutes or so had elapsed since the escaped convict's rearrest, but the yellow dog and Lever had already started to bond. “A little thin, aren't you, boy?” Al almost cooed. “We'll have to get you some grub, but not to worry, Mrs. B.'s sure to have loads of leftovers. You like smoked turkey?”