A Crossworder's Delight

by Nero Blanc

  “Furor loquendi!” he’d yell at them, which translated to “rage for speaking,” although he never revealed the truth. Or, “Furor scribendi!” which was “rage for writing.” The kids who teased him guessed that the furor part had to do with fury, so they believed he was cursing them out or putting weird hexes on them. What dopes. But then they also made fun of his curly red hair. One particularly stupid classmate had even likened him to a troll. E.T. hadn’t bothered to explain that the Vikings had the same wild red hair, and everyone knew you didn’t mess with a Viking warrior. At least everyone living in the British Isles and Western Europe during the ninth and tenth centuries. After all, where did the word berserk come from if not from the Norse berserksgangr? But, again, that was information E.T. Whitman kept to himself. If his classmates had no desire to be illuminated, why bother?

  He now squealed to a halt beside the inn’s carriage, house that had been converted into a garage with an apartment above it for the chef. E.T.’s tires didn’t actually make any sound in the new blanket of snow, but he supplied the noise himself: a sudden application of brakes, an out-of-control skidding across gravelly pavement, and a final, thudding crash. Sometimes he added a scream of alarm, or yelled, “Watch out below!” Today he had too much on his mind to create a big disaster.

  Instead, he opened a side garage door that led into a square room that had once held the inn’s saddles, horse blankets, bridles, and reins. Then he stepped around the mini-tractor used to cut the lawn, grabbed a snow shovel, and hurried toward the service entry to report for duty. The shovel was slung rifle-style over his shoulder, and he swaggered as he walked. He was small for a twelve-year-old, so the swagger took a certain amount of work.

  The “M and M’s”—E.T.’s private name for Morgan and Mitchell Marz—were not in the kitchen or pantry where he expected them to be. He wanted to check in with one of the twins personally, rather than simply telling the sometimes grouchy breakfast waitress, Joy Allman, that he was shoveling the walks, so he “parked his gear”—again his term—and hustled through the service doors into the guest area.

  The age of the building never failed to stop E.T. in his tracks: the stone hearths where he imagined Revolutionary War soldiers filling their clay pipes and recounting that day’s battle, the creak of the oak doorsills, the rattle of the ripply glass panes in the windows, the slanting stairs that certainly had ghosts still lingering on them.

  “Mr. Mitchell,” E.T. called out. “Mr. Morgan, I’m here to clear the paths.” Curiously, no one was about. Although at 8:56 on a snowy Saturday morning in a place visitors chose because of its relaxing ambience, maybe only a twelve-year-old would find the lack of people strange.

  “Mr. Mitchell? Mr. Morgan?” E.T. crossed the foyer and moved toward the front parlor where the famous poem sat enthroned in its big, elaborate frame. E.T. was certain he’d find one of the brothers there; it was where the morning newspapers were set out for the overnight guests.

  “Then he said ‘Good night!’,” E.T. recited softly but dramatically. “And with muffled oar, / Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore …” He loved the “muffled oar” part, and he made hand and arm gestures indicating he was pulling hard on two invisible oar handles. “A phantom ship, with each mast and spar, / Across the moon like a prison bar…” Those lines always gave him goosebumps, which, of course, was the entire purpose in saying the poem aloud. Needless to say, E.T. had all thirteen verses of Longfellow’s famous work memorized.

  “Till in the silence around him he hears

  The muster of men at the barrack door,

  The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,

  And the measured march of the Grenadiers …”

  E.T. entered the parlor. “Mr.—?” The words stopped in his throat as he looked at the desk and the wall above it. The poem was no longer proudly hanging there, and he could tell from the shattered glass ornaments that spread across the desktop and the greenery that lay trampled on the floor, that the picture frame had been grabbed a hurry. And there wasn’t a newspaper in sight.

  Six

  ROSCO had just settled into his office chair and opened a hefty file folder to begin toiling away at his wrap-up of this latest insurance fraud case of his when the telephone rang—a welcome diversion, if truth be told. Anything that put paperwork on the back burner was just fine with Rosco. The call was from a near-frantic Mitchell Marz, informing him that someone had run off with the famous autographed Longfellow. Rosco knew the Marz brothers, of course; besides the Solstice Dinner and the awarding of the Holiday Decoration Competition prize, there were many pleasant meals he and his culinarily challenged wife had shared at the Revere Inn. But Mitchell spoke as if Rosco were not only a close family member, but as though the vanished poem had also been a cherished relative.

  Naturally, Rosco’s first bit of advice was to call the police. Mitchell told him that he and Morgan had already done so; someone from Robbery had arrived at the inn fifteen minutes earlier.

  “Who’d they send?” Rosco asked. Out of habit he reached for a pad of paper and pen. Although he seldom read the directions for new electronics gadgets, and rarely relied on maps when driving to unknown locales, he did believe in writing down everything that pertained to business. The human brain had an uncanny facility for remembering misleading details.

  “A Sergeant Fuller,” the obviously shaken Mitch answered.

  “Ohhh, boy,” was Rosco’s knowing response. Fuller had been with the Newcastle Police Department for nearly twenty-five years. When Rosco had worked for the NPD as a homicide detective, his path had crossed the Robbery Division, and Sergeant Fuller in particular, many times. Within the department, he was almost renowned for his slipshod work; and unless an honest pawn broker actually called to report a suspicious “fence” trying to unload something “hot,” it was rare that the man ever solved a robbery or recovered anyone’s lost property.

  “I’ll be right over,” Rosco added, returning the phone to its cradle.

  It took him a little over twenty minutes to work his way across town to the inn. The slick roads had already contributed to a few minor fender-benders, but Rosco’s trusty Jeep, with its four-wheel drive, sailed through the salted slush and icy patches easily. When he walked through the inn’s front door Mitchell was there to greet him. Behind him, several guests and a few members of the decorating clubs looked on in stunned silence. Sergeant Fuller was nowhere in sight.

  “Fuller already left, I take it?” Rosco asked. He couldn’t keep the sound of relief from his voice. The sergeant, like NPD’s medical examiner, Herb Carlyle, were touchy when it came to criticism—either overt or not.

  “No. He’s in the kitchen having some breakfast.”

  Rosco instinctively glanced at his watch. “At ten thirty?”

  Mitchell raised a single eyebrow. “I think it may be his second feeding—or third, judging by his girth. He doesn’t seem to be taking much interest in the theft; that’s why I decided to call you.”

  At that point Morgan appeared. His expression also displayed his concern over the vanished artwork, but he made a point of greeting the overnight guests and the returning decorators who’d braved the snow with a warm—if slightly forced—smile. “Sorry for this unfortunate disturbance, everyone. But if you make your way into the dining room, I can guarantee some dynamite chocolate-filled croissants our pastry cook just whipped out of the oven.… You know what they say about New England winters: extra weight’s what gets you through the cold.… And if you’re not partial to chocolate, we’ve got fresh cranberry bread and cinnamon buns …”

  When the group had moved away, he and Mitchell led Rosco into the front parlor. “I was warning Mitch about this type of problem just yesterday,” Morgan admitted with a beleaguered sigh. He stared at the wall where the Longfellow had been displayed. “This kind of situation isn’t good for business. People worry about security when something like this happens—as well they should.” He shook his head and looked bleakly at his bro
ther, but Mitchell avoided the appeal. “I’d be less than honest, Rosco, if I didn’t say that I disagreed with Mitch’s decision to call you. So far, the police department has been very subtle in their approach, and that’s just how I’d like to keep things.… How we’d like to keep things. Our patrons are here to escape the real world … not to have their faces rubbed in it. And the same goes for the decorating gang. Crime’s not a fun diversion if you run a hotel and a popular restaurant.”

  “Oh, you can count on Sergeant Fuller on being subtle,” Rosco responded with a thin smile. “Fuller’s investigative techniques can out-subtle the best of them.”

  As if on cue, Fuller entered the room carrying a paper plate with six strips of bacon on it. He nibbled on a seventh, which he held in his right hand. After he finished it, he licked his fingers, wiped them on his trousers, and said, “Hey Polycrates … I thought you were out of business.”

  Rosco shrugged, appreciating the fact that Fuller hadn’t extended his still-damp hand in greeting. “As long as NPD’s Robbery Division works with its calculated efficiency,” he said evenly, “there’s no shortage of work for the private sector.… How’s the bacon?”

  “A little crispy for my liking.” Fuller folded the paper plate around the remaining bacon strips. “Well my work here is done. I just stopped in to tell you gents that I’m off. I’ll keep you posted on what I turn up.”

  “Aren’t you planning to get someone in here to dust for fingerprints?” Rosco asked.

  “This wasn’t the Mona Lisa, Polycrates. Besides, it’s my feeling that any prints walked right out the door with the picture frame.” Fuller then turned and left.

  “What a piece of work,” Rosco muttered half under his breath.

  “That’s why I wanted to get you involved,” was Mitchell’s anxious reply. “Besides monetary value, there’s the sentimental significance. The poem has been in our family for years; our guests remember it—even their kids and grandkids. It’s one of our main attractions.”

  “Did Fuller do anything at all?” Rosco asked.

  It was Morgan who responded. Despite his defense of the police department, and his stated unwillingness to call in a private investigator, he was clearly as troubled about the situation as his brother. “Basically, he just looked over our security system—or lack thereof—and then criticized it, suggesting that nineteenth-century locks can be easily picked, which, of course, is true. He also berated us for not having sensors on the windows or motion detectors.” Morgan turned to his brother. “I told you we were walking on eggshells, here, Mitch.…”

  “Well, hopefully the insurance will—”

  “And what happens to our premiums, then, Mitch? Or our antiquated locks, or these wonderful old doors? Do you have any idea what the cost of upgrading—?”

  “So the poem was insured?” Rosco interrupted.

  Both men were silent for a moment. “Yes …,” Mitchell eventually offered, “for twelve thousand dollars.”

  Rosco let out a low whistle. “That’s a nice chunk of change.” He walked over and studied the wall where the poem had been hung. “It looks like it took a fair amount of effort to remove the frame. It was screwed in place, I gather?”

  “Our father did that back in the 1940s; it hasn’t been moved since,” Mitchell told him. “You can see by the discoloration of the surrounding area that we’ve been painting around it for some time now.”

  “Did Fuller question any of the guests? Or the folks doing the decorating?”

  “I don’t want the guests questioned,” Morgan said with some asperity. “Some are return customers and would feel insulted. Our first-timers would also. The same goes for the decorators—many of whom have been participating in the competition since its inception.” Then he attempted a smile accompanied by a more jocular attitude. “I seriously doubt that Newcastle’s most civic minded citizens are suddenly turning to lives of crime.”

  Rosco responded with his own small smile. “There’s a chance that the very reason a customer—or a decorator—might return to the inn, Morgan, is because he or she saw something they liked and decided on a repeat visit in order to steal it. Whoever got your poem had to bring a screwdriver. Not an item I go on vacation with, but I’ll bet your competitors had easy access to them.” He glanced at his watch again. “Have any of your guests checked out since the poem went missing?”

  “No,” Morgan told him. “And none are scheduled to leave until Sunday.”

  “Who discovered the theft?”

  “E.T.,” Morgan said.

  Rosco turned to face the two men. “E.T.?” The obvious reference to extra-terrestrial jumped to Rosco’s mind, but he knew it wasn’t the time for jests.

  “He’s a local boy who shovels our walks for us in winter, and cuts the grass in summer,” Mitchell offered.

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “He’s just a twelve-year-old kid,” was Morgan’s discouraged response. “What can he possibly tell you?” Then he again gazed pointedly at his brother. “Of all the weekends for this to happen … We’ve got most of Newcastle here, and a newspaper photographer due this afternoon. I told you no good would come of keeping all this valuable stuff on such prominent display, Mitch. Think of what this is going to do to our reputation.” Then he walked from the room without bothering to wait for his brother’s reply.

  Rosco found E.T. sprinkling rock salt on the wooden steps that led to the inn’s kitchen entrance. The boy was clearly impressed with Rosco’s credentials.

  “Wow, a private detective … That’s way cool. The police have already been here.”

  “I know. Sergeant Fuller.”

  “Fuller? That’s a good one. He sure was a lot fuller after he left. He spent more time in the kitchen than the parlor.”

  Rosco laughed. “I understand you were the first one on the scene?”

  “Yep,” he said proudly. “I reported it directly to M and M—that’s Mitchell and Morgan; the Marz men; the Martians.”

  “That must have been pretty shocking news for them. How did they take it?”

  E.T. folded his arms across his chest and gave Rosco a calculating laugh. “Yeah, I get it.… You’re thinking the M and M’s stole the poem themselves … for, like, the insurance money or something. And you want to know if they acted surprised when I told them it was gone. That’s way, way cool.” Then he thought for a second. “The problem is, I was the one who was upset. The M and M’s both kept telling me to calm down.… I guess I got a little hyper. I do that sometimes.… I mean, Mr. Mitchell was nice about it, but Mr. Morgan … well, I don’t think he likes me very much.”

  “I take it you didn’t see anyone walk out with the artwork, or act suspicious in any way?”

  “Nah. None of the guests took it, that’s for sure.”

  “You sound awfully certain.”

  E.T.’s face assumed a serious and adult expression. He pointed to a small parking area. “See those cars over there? They belong to the overnight guests. No footprints in the snow. No one’s opened a trunk or car door.” He then pointed to the another lot. “Now, those vehicles belong to the people who came in this morning to do the decorating. Look at all the footprints. I think we should get them all to open their trunks. I’ll bet that’s who stole it; one of them, anyway.”

  Realizing the twelve-year-old could be a good ally, Rosco said, “I like that theory, E.T.; you’re very observant. But you know, a guest could have just taken the frame straight to a bedroom. An employee living in the building could have done the same thing. Or, our culprit could have been someone who snuck in during the middle of the night and left long before you came to work.”

  “Culprit,” E.T. echoed. He appeared to enjoy the sound of the word. “Is that from, like, culpable?”

  Rosco chuckled. “You’d have to ask my wife. She’s the crossword editor of the Crier, and she spends her days parsing language.”

  E.T.’s eyes grew huge. He looked not only delighted but also awe-stricken, as if Rosco ha
d just mentioned he were married to a famous actress or pop star. “You mean, Belle Graham? That’s your wife?”

  “None other.”

  “Way cool …” Then E.T. grew suddenly shy, which he masked by standing straighter and returning to the subject of the missing poem and his own role of self-appointed investigator. “Well, we can’t make everyone open the trunks of their cars, because Mr. Morgan doesn’t want to make a big stink.”

  Rosco nodded. “No … I have to go on the premise that it’s already left the property. The sooner I can get autograph dealers apprised of the theft, the harder it will be to sell it. But I’m going to need someone to keep an eye out for suspicious behavior here at the inn.”

  E.T. puffed out his chest. “I’m your man, Mr. Polycrates.”

  Rosco handed him a business card and winked. “Call me Rosco.”

  Reading the card, E.T.’s face grew serious. “I guess you chose your alias because roscoe’s slang for a gun.… How come you didn’t call yourself Rosco Sten … or Gat … or Barker? Those words mean gun, too.”

  E.T., Rosco realized, was going to make a good match for Belle one day. “I’ll give it some thought … but for now, let’s keep our eyes peeled for a culpable culprit.”

  Seven

  THE storefront of the Olde Print Shoppe in downtown Newcastle was as picturesque as any tourist could wish: an old-fashioned floor-to-ceiling bay window bisected by mullions painted a glossy black. In summer, a dark awning and pots of red and pink geraniums completed the pleasing scene, but in the middle of a new snowfall, the enterprise looked almost too cinematic to be real: wisps of dazzling white drifting along the shiny panes, or, like frosting, lapping the base of the building and curling up the front steps—while the interior cast out a warm, pink light beckoning passersby to stop in for a relaxing perusal of its handsome and pricey artwork.