Wrapped Up in Crosswords

by Nero Blanc

“And who are you targeting as Martha’s Secret Santa and clandestine admirer?” Belle asked with a grin.

  “Why, Stanley Hatch, naturally.”

  Rosco shook his head. “I don’t know, Sara. He may not be ready just yet—”

  “Nonsense. Besides, I’m only suggesting friendship for two lonely people—”

  “But they may not want—”

  “I’ve already made up my mind. I’ll assign Stanley to Martha and vice versa. Didn’t you tell me that their two dogs get along?” With a touch of facetiousness, she added, “What more does anyone need?”

  “Well …” Belle began and looked at Rosco.

  “If you think I’m too aged to discuss the vagaries of sex-appeal, young lady, I’m not. But affection and love must have a basis in friendship and respect. Stanley’s alone and gloomy; Martha’s alone and despondent. If they develop nothing more than a comfortable companionship, that’s fine. But I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts that one day we’ll see something more. And if you’re concerned my little stratagem will be discovered, I assure you it won’t—unless one of you gives me away. And I further pledge that those will be the only names I fix—”

  The dogs interrupted with renewed vigor, and Rosco was suddenly alert. “What’s going on? This isn’t like them—” The words died in his throat. “The back door’s locked, isn’t it?”

  He glanced at Belle, who nodded. “And the front door?”

  “Well, you and Sara came in that way—”

  “Stay here.” Rosco hurried into the living room. The two women could hear him rifling through the coat closet. “Lock the door behind me, all right?”

  As Belle walked toward the main entry, she saw the revolver in his hand. Despite Rosco’s work as a private detective, it was something he carried only on rare occasions. “What’s this all about?”

  The dogs anxious barking increased, but neither Belle nor Rosco turned toward the sound.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said. “And don’t let the girls follow me.”

  Belle did as she was asked, but she needn’t have worried about Kit and Gabby. Neither one relinquished her post beside the office door. In fact, they seemed not to have heard Rosco leave by the front door—which was unusual in the extreme.

  “A prowler?” Sara asked, joining Belle, who merely shook her head in confusion.

  Minutes passed, punctuated by growls and spates of ferocious barking. Then, finally, Rosco returned by way of the rear door.

  “Are you going to tell us what the problem is?” Belle asked.

  He hung up his jacket and returned his revolver to its hiding place. He seemed unwilling to speak. “There was a prison break this morning … near Boston … a long way away, I know …” As he searched for words, Kit and Gabby were pawing at his trouser legs, all apparent worry gone. They greeted him as if he’d just returned from a mundane workday and were now preparing to devote himself solely to their canine concerns.

  “Well, whatever was bothering those two seems to be forgotten,” Belle observed with a small smile.

  “Probably a neighbor’s cat—or a raccoon nosing around the trash bin,” Sara stated. “Besides, no escaped criminal would come south, Rosco. The entire northeast corridor is far too densely populated for a serious vanishing act. If I were on the lam, I’d go to Maine—and thence to Canada—”

  “Where you’d hide in a snowbound cabin and subsist on hearts of palm and deviled ham,” Rosco couldn’t resist tossing in.

  “Perhaps a box or two of Melba toast would be a wise addition,” Sara replied, before continuing to “hatch” her Yule-tide conspiracy. Belle pulled the covered iron casserole dish from the oven, and Rosco proceeded to set the table for dinner while Kit and Gabby curled up on the kitchen floor.

  “Oh, I meant to tell you, dear,” Sara warbled while her friends made their final dinner preparations. “I glanced at your “Belle’s Nöel” contest puzzle in the Crier before I left home tonight—”

  “She can’t be bribed, Sara,” Rosco joked. “I already tried.”

  “My dear boy, I’d never consider such unlawful behavior.”

  Seven

  THE sky the next morning was an ominous gray, and a blustery wind from the northwest made the twenty-four degree temperature feel more like ten, but there still was no snow in the forecast. Al, Rosco and Abe had returned to the NPD evidence room at eight A.M. and once again suited up in their Santa costumes. Belle had pinned miniature Christmas trees and plastic holly leaves to a red, fleece dog jacket so that Gabby could also share in the holiday finery, and the three humans and single canine were back at it: collecting the gift toys the Newcastle merchants had gathered.

  “Six or seven inches of snow would be nice right about now,” Abe remarked as they loaded a cart full of goodies retrieved from Gilbert’s Groceries into the back of the unmarked police van. “Well, maybe it would be better if it held off until we get these toys delivered to the kids. But then …”

  “Forget about it,” Al said, tossing a football to Rosco, who stood in the back of the van with Gabby. “This ain’t gonna be no white Christmas. Weatherman’s predicting clear skies all week; which is fine by me. You two winter-sports bums can keep the snow.” He grabbed another football, took four or five steps backward, looked right, then left, and passed it into Rosco. Gabby leapt up in an attempt to intercept it. “You know, if we played for the Pats,” Al continued, “we’d be down in Tampa Bay right now getting ready for tomorrow’s game. Eighty degrees, sunshine, warm breeze off the Gulf …”

  “I hate to break it to you, Al, but we don’t play for the Pats. And, yes, Abe and I are looking forward to getting in our share of winter sports sometime soon. December’s almost over and we haven’t had anything resembling a frozen pond or freshly packed ski trail—”

  “My heart bleeds.” Lever handed the last toy to Rosco. “Speaking of which; your honey sure cooked up a doozy of a crossword competition for the Crier. No way am I scoring the ‘deluxe dinner for two’—with or without help.”

  Rosco pointed to the grocery entrance. “How about a ‘deluxe’ home-cooked job for Helen? You rustle up a nice filet of beef, do the lighted-candle bit, buy her an expensive bottle of champagne—”

  “Do I look like a cook to you, Poly—Crates?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, Al, you do have a certain chef-like girth … Kind of a Paul Prudhomme thing.”

  “Ho, ho.” Al walked off to return the shopping cart to the store while Rosco turned to Abe.

  “No snow, huh?”

  “Well, I don’t know about Christmas, but the Almanac’s been predicting a dry and unusually frigid winter when we hit January and February.”

  “Since when is the Farmer’s Almanac always right?”

  “How about since 1792?”

  Rosco considered this sobering piece of information. “Cold, huh?”

  “Does the word arctic mean anything to you?”

  Rosco grimaced and shook his head. “Okie-doke … What’s our next stop?”

  Jones flipped through a few sheets of paper on a stainless steel clipboard and said, “Papyrus, the office supply store on the other side of the interstate. Everything else is to the south, so we might as well start with Papyrus and get it out of the way.”

  “Sounds reasonable.” Rosco picked up Gabby and stepped out of the rear of the van while Abe closed and locked it. Then they circled around to the passenger’s side and slid into the front seat; Jones in the middle and Rosco sitting by the door with Gabby on his lap. “Sorry, she goes crazy if she doesn’t get the window.”

  “Buster’s the same way. Gotta ride shotgun.” Jones slipped on a pair of wrap-around dark glasses, making him look like the heppest Santa north of Rio de Janeiro. “Here’s something to consider,” he said as he gazed through the windshield. “Do you think dogs understand that we humans are actually driving the cars?”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean, visualize it; we walk toward a car—pooches and people, th
at is—then we jump into it. As far as dogs are concerned, the backseat is nothing more than another comfy couch, right? While the people settle themselves in the two Bark-O-Loungers up front. The dogs don’t bother to wonder what we’re doing. Why would they comprehend that we’re actually controlling the movements of the vehicle?”

  Gabby rolled her eyes and let out a low woof, thinking, Oh, brother. What planet is this guy from?

  Rosco had come to pretty much the same conclusion.

  “I mean, even now,” Jones continued, “here we are in the van, waiting for Al, and Gabby doesn’t know what the heck’s going on … No offense, Gabsters, but you don’t. Then, all of a sudden, Al opens the door and slides in behind the wheel; and the van mysteriously starts making noises. Then it begins to roll forward. How would Gab understand that Al is actually causing the movement?”

  “I think you’ve got more time on your hands than you should, Abe. Either that, or you’re sniffing too much formaldehyde down in the forensics lab.”

  “No, I’m convinced my theory’s right, Rosco. That’s why Buster gets so anxious and excited when I pick up my car keys; he thinks the darned thing’s going to leave without us if we don’t hurry up and get out of there.”

  Gabby hunkered down into Rosco’s lap as if she were terrified she was sitting beside a madman.

  “You see, Polycrates, your problem is that you accept things as they seem on the surface. You’ve got to dig deeper. It’s like when I go to the video store with Buster and look for a movie. As far as he’s concerned, I’m just staring at the wall as if I were some sort of idiot. How could he have any concept of reading? About making a choice? How would he know that I’m trying to decide between a Jennifer Lopez film and a Sandra Bullock film?”

  “You’re right, I’d find that scenario baffling, myself.”

  “I can see I’m getting nowhere with you.”

  “Well, here comes Al. Why don’t you run the notion past him. He tends to be more open-minded than I am.”

  “Right,” Jones said sarcastically. “By the way, how’s the perfect gift for your own little lovebird coming along? You’re all squared away on that?”

  “I still have a logistical problem, but I’m working on it.”

  “And …?”

  “It’s still a state secret.”

  Lever slid in behind the wheel and started the van. Rosco and Abe looked down at Gabby for a reaction, but she opted not to give them the satisfaction of a response. Instead, she stared intently ahead.

  “Where to?” Al asked.

  “Papyrus,” Rosco and Abe said in unison.

  “Got it.”

  Lever eased the van into traffic, drove up the street for eight blocks, entered the interstate ramp, and headed north. The conversation between the three men revolved around how well the Pats might fare against the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, while Gabby ignored them and concentrated on the passing scenery. After five or six miles, Al glanced into the rearview mirror and said, “We’re being tailed.”

  “Huh?” Abe said.

  “We’ve got a Mass State Trooper on our tail.”

  “You’re kidding? How fast are you going?” Rosco asked.

  “Sixty-five … maybe seventy.”

  “This is a fifty-five zone, Al.”

  “Everyone’s going seventy, Poly—crates. Don’t tell me you poke along at fifty-five on this stretch.” Lever looked again into the mirror. “Oh boy, here we go … he’s got his flashers on. Did either one of you bring I.D.?”

  “It’s all back in my street clothes,” Jones said.

  Rosco followed with, “Me, too. You mean you didn’t bring your driver’s license, Al?”

  “There’s no pockets in these costumes, all right?” He began angling the van over to the breakdown lane. “I don’t see either one of you clowns with a wallet, either.”

  “Huh,” Abe said with a laugh. “We can’t even bribe this guy.”

  “Don’t worry, I can talk our way out of this,” Lever announced with a bit of false bravado. “I know how to handle these guys.” He brought the van to stop as the trooper’s cruiser pulled up and idled thirty feet behind them. Al opened the door, but before he could step out, the state trooper was on his bullhorn with a commanding order.

  “Sir, stay in the van. Do not exit the vehicle.”

  Lever looked at Abe and Rosco, and shrugged. Then, ignoring the trooper’s request, he popped out of the van, his red plush trouser legs flapping in the icy wind.

  The cruiser’s door flew open. The trooper leapt out and crouched behind the open window, his gun drawn and pointed straight at the lieutenant. “Get back in the van, fat man. You’ve got five seconds.”

  Lever instinctively raised his hands, then did as he was told. “Fat man?” he said incredulously as he slid back into the driver’s seat. “Fat man? Who’s this guy think he is? Where’s he get off with this ‘fat man’ stuff?” Abe and Rosco were now chortling, which prompted Al to add, “Hey, he’s twenty-three years old, max, and he has his weapon drawn. This is no laughing matter. We’d better find out what he’s up to.” He reached down and turned on the police radio. “What’s the Statie’s frequency?”

  Jones raised an eyebrow. “You’re asking me? I’m the lab guy, remember. That’s your department.”

  Rosco reached down and moved the receiver’s dial to the Massachusetts State Police frequency. “How do you guys get anything done?” he said, still chuckling.

  The radio crackled, and the young trooper’s voice echoed through the van’s speaker system. He was calling for backup. “I have the suspects … locked stationary … I-195 at the thirty-eight-mile marker. Canine present in vehicle. I.D. positive. Two Caucasians. One heavyset. One African-American. All dressed as Santa Claus.” A burst of static was followed by, “Backup on the way. Sit tight.”

  Then the radio barked out further orders. “All units, switch to isolation frequency. Delta-Blue.”

  “So much for our eavesdropping.” Al turned off the radio. “Who comes up with these names? Delta-Blue; sounds like a stripper, if you ask me.”

  “Mr. Heavyset weighs in,” Abe gibed.

  “Ho, ho … At least the guy didn’t refer to you as a buff African-American.”

  Within thirty seconds, all traffic on both sides of I-195 had been shunted off the roadway, making the busy interstate resemble a deserted airport runway. After another thirty seconds, four more state police cruisers appeared in the southbound lane and came to a lurching stop beyond the separating guardrail. Two troopers jumped from each of the vehicles and positioned themselves behind the front and rear fenders, guns drawn and ready for action. Three more cruisers had joined the officer behind the van.

  “What do we look like, Bonnie and Clyde?” Lever complained. “I’m going to get out and talk to these guys. Whoever they think we are, they’re wrong.”

  “Hold on, Al,” Rosco said, reaching across Abe and placing a hand on the lieutenant’s red sleeve. “These guys look serious. Drawn weapons isn’t about doing seventy in a fifty-five zone. I’d hate to see someone get nervous and make a mistake. Let’s wait them out. Sooner or later they’ll run our plates through their computer and realize they’ve got the wrong guys.”

  Abe Jones shook his head. “The Staties don’t have any record on these being NPD plates—just like we don’t know the Blue-Delta frequency. You never know when you’ll need to keep official business to yourself.” He let out a rueful chuckle. “One big, happy Massachusetts family, right?”

  Eight

  IF the day hadn’t started well for Abe, Rosco, and Al Lever, things had begun in an equally hairy fashion at Lawson’s Coffee Shop. Kenny, Lawson’s head chef, who liked to refer to himself as “a fry cook,” but whom regular patrons called “King Kenny” because of his commanding height and demeanor, had arrived at five-thirty A.M. on the dot—just as he had for nearly three decades. Martha, also as usual, had reached the establishment at five-forty-five; and the other waitresses and kitchen help had b
egun filing in shortly thereafter. But all appearances of normalcy had ended there, because not five minutes after Kenny had unlocked the exterior basement door, it became clear to him that someone had broken into the coffee shop’s building.

  He was in the midst of suiting up in his whites, an immaculately pressed pair of white cotton trousers and matching jacket, and hanging his street clothes in his locker, when he noticed a curious fact: the basement was icy cold. He crossed to the furnace and checked it, but he found the machine running at a comfortable level. He then turned around in his deliberate and methodical manner and started to survey the entire room. In the still-dim light—Kenny didn’t believe in wasting electricity—his dark skin resembled polished jet against the starchy sheen of his uniform, and his stance was princely and authoritative.

  “Hi-dee-ho, your majesty,” Martha called as she breezed in through the basement door. She stopped and shivered slightly, and Kenny greeted her with a sonorous:

  “Something’s wrong, Marth. Someone’s been in here.” He and Martha had worked together for so many years they’d developed a number of nicknames for one another. “Marth” or “Madam M.” were favorites of Kenny’s, but they took on a somber formality when expressed in his rich baritone.

  Martha began flipping on light switches. “Place looks the same to me, Dr. K.”

  “It’s cold, Marth.”

  “So? It’s frigid outside. It’s a December kinda thing. The Almanac says—”

  “The basement is never this cold, doll.”

  George, the dishwasher, appeared at that moment. Like Rosco, he was part of the city’s large Greek-American population; unlike Rosco, he spoke heavily accented English. “Window broke,” is all he said, pointing up the cellar stairs he’d just walked down.

  Kenny, followed by Martha, who perpetually came to work already attired in her “Lawson’s pink,” went outside to investigate. The dishwasher followed; a newly arrived waitress, Lorraine, joined them.

  Sure enough, a crawlspace window had been displaced. The foursome—which had now grown to five—returned to the basement where they found the lost glass panel. The framing hadn’t been broken; it had been merely pushed in—not a difficult task since the putty and wood had grown spongy and useless with age. But the single pane of glass had been shattered when it fell onto the cellar floor.