Corpus de Crossword (7 page)

 34.  Allotted; abbr.

 35.  Roman 2,051

 36.  Had been

 37.  Cherry stone

 39.  God of love

 40.  Mr. Torme

 45.  Certain Siouan

 46.  “Up a creek without a___”

 48.  Inklings

 49.  Stringed instrument

 50.  Buoy

 51.  Adored

 52.  Blocks

 53.  Memo point

 54.  Unpredictable star

 56.  With 63-Across, Grahame setting

 59.   CM ÷ II

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CHAPTER 9

Belle Graham pulled the envelope from the mailbox on her porch. The accompanying bills and junk mail she tucked under her arm as she examined the small, precise lettering and the almost arrogant determination with which her name had been spelled out in full: MRS. ANNABELLA GRAHAM. Not the ambiguous Ms., and not simply Belle, as everyone in Newcastle seemed to know her. Whoever had sent this missive had done their research and wanted the fact known.

Without opening the envelope, she knew what it would contain. As the now nationally celebrated crossword editor of Newcastle's
Evening Crier
as well as an equally publicized amateur sleuth, Belle had become a target for both practical jokers and the marginal types obsessed with the famous—none of whom she took as seriously as she'd been advised.

“What do you think, Kit?” she said to her multicolored dog frisking around her feet. “Hallowe'en in the offing …? I'll bet we get a lot of these kind of cryptic messages before October thirty-first … Clue:
On the graveyard shift
… A
skeleton in the closet … Ghost writer
…
Oooooo.”
Belle laughed and shook her head. Her pale blond hair danced; her gray eyes shone. “What people do with their spare time! It's certainly not as productive as playing with a puppy, is it, Kitty?”

Belle chuckled again, strolling the length of the porch to look out on the peaceful view of Captain's Walk in Newcastle's refurbished historic district: a congenial street lined with nineteenth-century homes originally built by sea captains and whalers. The city's early wealth and prominence, its role as a seat of the Massachusetts county that bore its name, was due to its harbor and ocean trade.

Kit kept her “mom” company. The puppy was a “Heinz 57,” a foundling and a serendipitous addition to Belle's life. Rosco, her husband, was the other happy improvement, and as unstinting as Kit in his love. Together, these three creatures, two with two legs, one with four, made a devoted family.

Belle bent down to pick up a fraying tennis ball. Kit yipped in anticipation. Belle made a toss, but the projectile didn't go where either she or Kit had anticipated. Instead it skittled back along the porch, caroming hard against a window pane. Belle winced. “One of these days, I've got to learn how to throw … I'm a danger to myself. I'm a danger to our home.”

The dog made the rapid and necessary adjustments in attack, retrieved the ball, and dropped it at Belle's feet. “I think we'll wait for Rosco to get back from work, Kitty. I'm not in the mood to replace windows.”

A quick bark of protest.

Belle shook her head no. She then wrapped her sweater tighter against the cool air, breathed in the refreshing scent of sea air, lifted her face to the golden New England sun, shut her eyes, and whispered: “I'm so lucky. I'm so, so lucky …”

Then she and Kit walked or romped—depending on foot shape and energy level—back inside.

Belle preferred to construct the
Crier
's daily cryptics at home, where she was surrounded by her collection of reference material: the O.E.D., of course, but also two antiquated—but much beloved—sets of Encyclopædia Britannica, a number of foreign language dictionaries, a book of song titles, the plays and sonnets of William Shakespeare, and another shelf devoted entirely to poetry. The latter wasn't necessarily part of her current craft; Belle had once intended to become a poet. It was after exposure to the compendia now lined up in her home office that she'd decided her poems would never measure up. Better to admire from afar.

She and Kit walked into the room, a converted rear porch that had been crossword-themed to within an inch of its life. Black and white squares (scuffed by puppy claw marks) were painted on the floor, the curtains (slightly askew) mirrored the motif, the canvas covers of the two deck chairs were white and black—to say nothing of the in-the-works puzzles that covered the desk, the empty plate with a crossword design, ditto a calendar, a notepad, a lamp shade, a coffee mug. Belle took such surroundings for granted; newcomers were startled, to say the least.

Reflexively, Belle reached her hand into a tall white jar containing licorice sticks (second to deviled eggs as her favorite comestible) and began munching while dialing the phone with her free hand. She plopped herself down on her desk chair, tapped her feet, then cradled the phone against her shoulder, stroked Kit's ears, kept nibbling (Belle was a consummate multitasker), and when the answering machine at the other end of the connection picked up with a brisk male: “Polycrates Agency. Leave a message and we'll get back to you,” she mumbled a mouth-filled:

“Hi, Rosco, it's me … Just calling to say I love you heaps … Kit, too … Actually, she's not saying anything. But she looks as if she could … Well, that's it … See you later … Oh, it's Belle …”

She slid the phone back into place. “Darn, Kitty … I guess I'll have to get serious about work today … Your dad obviously is …” She pulled the mystery crossword from the envelope again and studied it for a long moment, squinting at the clues and silently mouthing a couple of the more obvious answers. Then she sat up straight, muttered a surprised: “Oh, I get it …” and almost simultaneously reached for the phone.

This time the voice at the other end was not recorded. “Briephs residence.”

“Hi, Emma. It's Belle. Is her nibs around?”

Only Belle—and maybe Rosco—could have gotten away with this irreverent tone when referring to Newcastle's grand dame, the illustrious (some might say imperious) Sara Crane Briephs.

“Indeed she is, Miss Belle.” Emma was as old-fashioned as her starched maid's uniform. “In fact, Madam was just about to phone you … She wondered if you'd do her the favor of lunching with her today.”

Belle grinned. “You bet. Tell her I've got something to show her.”

“We're having deviled eggs,” was Emma's calm reply.

“You certainly know how to weasel your way into
my
good graces.” Belle looked at her watch. “The usual time?”

“The usual time … Oh, Madam adds that if you wish, you may arrive earlier.”

“I'll be there in two shakes of a lamb's tail.”

This answer was relayed by the dutiful Emma, who concluded with a pleasant: “Madam asks me to tell you that ‘your timing suits her to a T.'”

Belle again replaced the receiver, started to slip the envelope and crossword into her jeans pocket, then suddenly reassessed her wardrobe. Something more formal than tattered jeans and her favorite thrice-darned sweater was in order when visiting White Caps for luncheon.

In a blindingly white apron and a rustling black taffeta uniform, Emma ushered Belle through the White Caps foyer just as she'd always done, parading past the formal sitting room and dining room hung with portraits of long-vanished Crane family members as well as a plethora of other oil paintings: romantic and verdant landscapes, moody seascapes, and a number of depictions of Crane-owned clipper ships plying the oceans during the lucrative era of the eighteenth-century China trade. The surface of every highboy, every mahogany table, and every chair glistened; unlit, the matching crystal chandeliers that hung at the center of the two rooms still managed to infuse the air with a shimmering glow.

The first time Belle had seen the house, she'd decided it looked just like a museum. Now she knew the home for what it was: an anomaly. A wonderful relic from another era—a little like its mistress.

“Madam is in the garden,” said Emma. “She's having a spot of trouble with an espaliered pear tree.”

“Not behaving this summer, was it?” Belle asked.

“Apparently not.”

“Poor tree.”

In answer, Emma merely smiled.

It wasn't until hostess and guest had gathered in a cozy and chintz-filled sitting room for after-dinner coffee that Belle produced the crossword. She and the doyenne of White Caps sat together on a camel-backed settee; before them was a table upon which rested a silver tray set with the items Sara deemed necessary for serving a hot liquid refreshment: an antique silver coffeepot, silver sugar bowl and creamer, silver spoons, two gold-rimmed porcelain cups. Mugs, whether crossword-themed or not, were unknown at White Caps.

“This came in the mail today,” Belle said as she produced the envelope.

Sara slowly put down her cup, folded her hands in her lap, and turned to balefully regard the young person beside her. Sara's white hair, although impeccably coiffed as always, shook with disapproval. “Belle, dear, you promised me—and you promised your husband—that you would be more cautious with these anonymous messages. You remember what happened before? That odious person who—”

“What's the chance of lightning striking the same place twice?” Although Belle's tone was playful, her manner was less so. No one—whether of the plant or animal world—liked receiving a scolding from Sara Crane Briephs.

“A promise is a promise, dear girl.”

Belle squared her shoulders and set her jaw. “I thought you'd enjoy helping me work through the cryptic … There's an intriguing through line”—she pointed, although the gesture had a defensive and palliative air—“here: 9-Down; the answer to the clue is SMOKESCREEN … and here at 31-Down: SMOKING GUN … and at 38-Across … Well, never mind … I guess I was mistaken about your interest.” She began to refold the puzzle.

Sara's stern demeanor softened slightly, but her tone remained assertive. “Stubbornness never helps a person advance in life, young lady—”

“Oh, right!” was Belle's equally energized reply. “You're one to talk.”

“Touché,” said Sara. “But being old and set in my ways shouldn't inspire the same behavior in you.”

“You're not set in your ways, Sara. That would mean you can't accept change. Stubbornness is a far different quality.”

Sara sniffed even as a private expression of pleasure began creeping across her face. “It takes one to know one, I suppose.”

“Stubborn,” Belle chided. “Synonyms: obstinate, headstrong, inflexible, willful, pigheaded—”

“Mulish,” was Sara's rapid reply. “Bullheaded, hardbitten—”

Belle laughed full out. “I've never heard that one before.”

“It refers to horses that are difficult to manage.”

“That's right. I forgot. You're so ‘old' you remember an era in which there were no automobiles.”

“Don't you get fresh with me, young lady.”

“I'll stop only when you stop referring to yourself as an obsolescent antique.”

Sara was silent a moment. Then she took the younger woman's hand. “I have every right to worry about your safety, dear girl …”

“And I'm grateful for your concern, Sara—”

“But you'd like me to butt out.”

Belle laughed again. “I wouldn't have used that precise term.”

“I like to keep
au courant
with my lexicon,” rejoined White Caps's regal owner.

“In all seriousness, Sara, I
am
careful. But you can see as well as I can that this puzzle was created for fun … Which is too bad, because if the constructor had remembered to add a name and contact number I would have been tempted to publish it—”

“I remain apprehensive about your receiving anonymous messages, my dear—”

“And
I
remain uneasy—”

“With a worried old lady breathing down your neck.” Sara lifted her head, pulling her ramrod straight spine even straighter. “Now, let's look at 38-Across …”

CHAPTER 10

Abe Jones had been with the Newcastle Police Department for slightly over ten years. He was the department's chief forensics expert—a position that had more responsibilities than Crayola had colors. He'd fallen into this line of work by accident—having had every intention of becoming a medical doctor, as his father had hoped. But as an undergrad at BU he'd dated a woman who just
happened
to be a member of a Boston undercover unit. She'd convinced him that police work would be a more exciting and rewarding career choice, not to mention risky, exhilarating, and action-packed: all the elements that appeal to young men. Later, he'd suspected that the lovely policewoman's function with the department might, in fact, have been that of a recruiter: Go out and seduce college students and sign them up. Nevertheless, she'd certainly won him over, and his career path was set.

But Abe was quick to discern that he was a lover and not a fighter, and had absolutely no desire to walk around for the rest of his life with a gun strapped to his side—or to get shot at, for that matter. A compromise was in order, and he'd decided to divide his studies between medicine and forensic science.

After all was said and done, he'd finished school with both a medical degree and a Ph.D.; and his work with the Newcastle Police Department often called upon the entire spectrum of skills that his studies provided: whether it was determining what bullet came from what pistol, if an assailant had been left- or right-handed, whose blood was on what shirt—or what DNA samples lifted from a set of truck tires might indicate.

Abe sometimes imagined running into the female who'd inspired his life in crime—although he knew from long experience that the relationship hadn't been destined to continue. She hadn't been the first woman to seduce him, and she wasn't likely to be the last. Abe was an exceptionally good-looking man; standing an inch over six feet, with dark skin and a winning smile, he resembled a young version of Harry Belafonte. He never,
ever
lacked female companionship—a fact that garnered a fair amount of envy as well as a steady dose of ribbing in the Newcastle PD, from the beat cops all the way through to the detectives.