A Crossworder's Delight
Page 6
Rosco placed the screwdriver back in the display box and said, “Yeah, well, I guess now the joke’s on us.”
Angel in Disguise
Sift together: ¾ cup flour; ¾ cup 30-Across sugar; ¼ cup cocoa
Combine and beat until soft mounds appear: 1½ cups 46-Across; 1½ tsp. 25-Across; ½ tsp. salt; 1½ tsp. 18-Across
Beat in until stiff: ¾ cup additional 30-Across sugar, 2 tbsp. at a time
Sift in dry ingredients; then fold in: 1 cup 51-Across
Gently pour batter into 10 inch ungreased 63-Across
Bake at 325 degrees for 50 minutes
This will serve 14, if your guests aren’t greedy …
Angel in Disguise
ACROSS
1. Comic’s bit
4. Place to wipe your feet
7. Manuscript modifiers; abbr.
10. Playwright’s monogram
13. Three-match link
14. Eggs; in biology
15. Certain mushroom
16. Knock on the door
17. Giant baseball player?
18. MAMA’S DESSERT
20. Lengthen
21. Electron tube
23. Bug
24. Beef & potato dish
25. MAMA’S DESSERT
28. Caesar’s 102
29. The Caribbean is one
30. MAMA’S DESSERT
36. Ordinance
40. Too much in France
41. Façade
43. _____ Cruz
44. Miss Loos
46. MAMA’S DESSERT
48. French pronoun
50. Sup
51. MAMA’S DESSERT
58. Jaw
59. Surly
60. Movie light
62. Erase
63. MAMA’S DESSERT
65. _____ Magnon
66. Pub pint
67. Here in Paris
68. Employ
69. Argentine president Juan’s wife
70. Drs.
71. Born
72. Salary
73. Bro or sis
DOWN
1. Fine
2. Prank
3. Crock’s cousin
4. Fan’s job?
5. Mickey’s wife of a year
6. Latin-American dance
7. Acclaim
8. River basins
9. Retreat
10. Miss Garbo
11. Cake maker
12. Gush
19. Eternity; abbr.
22. Trick
24. Remain active
26. Petty quarrel
27. Yank’s foe
30. RR stop
31. Coffee server
32. Hawaiian staple
33. Anger
34. Holiday quaff
35. H.S. subj.
37. Allow
38. “These _____ the times…”
39. Had been
42. Dainty
45. Matterhorn; e.g.
47. Hired coach
49. Fir kin
51. Tot
52. Pelts
53. James Hubert Blake, familiarly
54. A general monogram?
55. Rejuvenate
56. Better
57. Tennis shot
58. Study & study
61. Hockey score
63. Can material
64. Thin-rail link
To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords
Nine
LAWSON’S Coffee Shop didn’t seem like Lawson’s without Martha Leonetti there to sass her favorite customers. Oh, the bright pink vinyl banquettes were the same, as were the coral-colored formica tabletops, the other waitresses’ rose-hued uniforms, the chrome fixtures behind the counter, the chrome napkin dispensers arranged neatly upon it, and the chrome and leatherette swiveling stools, but a definite vitality was lacking. And not even the robust voice of Kenny, the fry cook—or “King Kenny,” as Martha liked to call him—could make up for her absence.
Hunched over a copy of the “Angel in Disguise” crossword recipe that was spread before her, Belle surveyed the scene. “I don’t like this, Rosco,” she said.
“What? The coffee’s no good because Miss Wisenheimer didn’t pour it? Or do you mean the grilled cheese, which you’ve hardly touched because you’re too busy filling in small white squares with a red ballpoint pen?”
Belle’s response was to gaze past her husband, staring at the windows and the snow that was now tumbling from the skies in earnest. Outside, the world appeared to be vanishing under this weight of white. “No,” she admitted. “I don’t like having Martha up at the inn instead of here. I missed our Breakfast Bunch gathering this morning, missed Sara and Al—and you—trading quips and laughter.… I guess I’m just a person of habit.”
Rosco took her hand. “Speaking of habits … I wish you’d remember that if you say you’re going to beam in with me via cell phone, you’re supposed to do it.”
“You don’t need to worry about me, Rosco. I’m a good driver.”
“I realize that, but you worry when I’m doing something you consider unsafe, don’t you?”
Belle sidestepped the question by returning to the puzzle. The recipe was the real deal, an old-fashioned chocolate-pecan angel food cake created by a genuine cook. “69-Across: Argentine president Juan’s wife,” she muttered. “5-Down: Mickey’s wife of a year … 53-Down: James Hubert Blake, familiarly. You really need to know your history to keep up with this gal.…” Even as Belle spoke, she wrote in EVA, AVA, and EUBIE.
Rosco gazed at her and chuckled. “I’m looking forward to having you meet E.T. Whitman. He seems as much of a word freak as you are. And, boy, was he ever impressed when I told him I was your husband.”
“Happy to oblige.” Belle grinned, then picked up her sandwich. “Who would name a kid E.T.? It’s like Ima Hogg.”
“Yeah … I bet he doesn’t have an easy time of it at school. I’m sorry to say that Morgan Marz seems kind of hard on him, too.”
Belle continued to eat, swishing her French fries in a puddle of ketchup. “Morgan’s not always easy on Mitch, either.… So, what’s your take on the disappeared Longfellow?”
“Listen, my children, and you shall hear, Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,” Rosco quoted dramatically. “On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five …”
Belle chuckled, continuing the stanza in her own theatric tone. “Hardly a man is still alive—” Then her words abruptly ceased and her eyes grew wide and worried. “Wouldn’t it be awful if this cookbook were connected to the woman who drowned in the chocolate vat? The one old Mr. Liebig remembered.”
Rosco shook his head. “I’d say that was a long shot. You told me the woman was working on the catwalk above—”
“Cleaning machinery,” Belle interjected.
“Exactly, cleaning,” Rosco continued. “I don’t want to seem snooty, but someone hired for that type of job … well, let’s just say that the members of my family who first arrived in this country grabbed any kind of work they could. It was always menial.… No slur intended, but they weren’t crossword constructors.”
“I hear what you’re saying, Rosco. I know creating puzzles requires a certain level of education, not to mention a command of the English language … but when that woman died, we were at war. I’ll bet a lot of literate people took work that might have been beneath them just to make ends meet when their loved ones were far away fighting. And besides, maybe she didn’t fall. Maybe she was pushed. A love triangle situation, or—”
The arrival of Stanley Hatch curtailed the rest of Belle’s hypothetical scenario. “Mind if I join you two?”
Rosco and Belle immediately slid over to make room. From the focused manner in which Belle studied Stan, Rosco sensed she was about to bring up the subject of Martha. He nudged his wife’s foot under the table. It was one thing for Sara to act as matchmaker; women her age were entitled to meddle. Belle, however, was nearl
y a half century younger.
Belle’s reaction to this warning was to raise her eyebrows in an exaggeration of innocent denial.
“I need some advice,” Stan stated somberly. “It’s about Martha.”
Belle shot her husband a triumphant glance, then graced Stan with her sweetest and most naive expression. “What about Martha?”
“Well, you know we ended up being Secret Santas last year …”
Which was totally manipulated by Sara, Belle thought but didn’t say.
“And we’ve been sort of … well, you know, spending time with each other now and again since then, and—”
“You mean dating,” Belle tossed in with another syrupy smile, and Rosco poked her foot again.
“Well, yeah … I guess … sure … ‘dating’ …” Stan looked so tenuous that he reminded Belle of a young deer who’d been caught in the headlights without the reassuring presence of mom nearby. Then she decided, no: A fawn would have more self-assurance.
“And, well …,” Stan continued, “… what I want to know is: Would it be appropriate for me to get her a gift this year? No Secret Santa. Just me to her. And something personal, like a pretty piece of clothing or well … something.”
“Why not?” Belle asked brightly.
“Yeah,” Rosco added, “It’s not like anybody’s watching or anything.” This time Belle kicked him under the table.
Stanley scowled self-consciously, his tall body bending over the table. “I don’t want to put pressure her. I mean, you know how vivacious Martha is … always coming up with the snappy retorts, the life of the party, and all that; and I’m just, well, I’m just me, owner of a Mr. Fix-it shop, which isn’t exactly a sexy business.… She called me today—from the inn—but it was just to report the theft.”
I’ll just bet that was the reason! Belle told herself, but again didn’t reveal what she was thinking.
“There’s nothing wrong with owning a hardware store, Stan,” Rosco insisted. “It’s my very favorite place in the city.… But yeah, like you said, it’s not all that romantic as a profession, but—”
Belle jabbed her husband’s ankle with her toes again, halting this incredibly inappropriate mini-monolog, and finishing it with her own more suitable words. “But … but Martha loves the shop,” she announced.
“Really?” Stanley looked at Belle in wonderment. “She told you that?”
Belle gazed calmly back, avoiding Rosco’s surprised stare altogether. “Rosco and I are all thumbs when it comes to home-improvement paraphernalia,” she all but cooed. “And so is Martha. That’s why she loves Hatch’s. It’s like … it’s like … seeing a big Broadway musical for the first time—watching all those fabulous sets moving around, and people singing and dancing and dropping from the skies.… It’s so astonishing and delightful; you just don’t know where to look next.”
Rosco decided that the pragmatic Stanley was going to start guffawing at Belle’s over-the-top analogy, but Rosco was wrong. Stan bought it hook, line, and sinker. “Really?” he repeated with genuine pride.
“And all those beer-bellied stagehands pounding nails into broken scenery, not to mention long-legged dancers in net stockings.” Rosco added, but Stan was too far gone for the joke.
“So you’re telling me it’s okay if I buy Martha a real gift?” he asked Belle in a hushed but thrilled tone.
“I think she’d be horribly disappointed if you didn’t, Stanley,” was Belle airy reply. “Just horribly.” Then she added an equally breezy “In fact, I’d love to help you pick out that perfect token of your friendship.” Belle deliberately moved her foot in order to avoid Rosco’s next warning nudge. “I’ve got something really special in mind.”
Ten
IT was E.T. who ran up to Rosco and Belle as they stepped out of the Jeep. The twelve-year-old’s excited rush of words were aimed at Rosco, but his focus was wholly on Belle. “Mr. Morgan’s gone to Boston,” he stage-whispered in his best junior-spy voice, “which is really, really suspicious. Why would anyone go up there in all this snow? I bet he’s got the poem and is going to fence it! In fact, how do we know he’s really going to Boston? That’s only hearsay.” As if he’d just remembered his manners, he whipped off his hat and stuck out his hand, adding a self-important, “I’m E.T. Whitman. Your husband asked me to keep an eye on things.”
“Belle, I’d like you to meet another language aficionado,” Rosco said with a broad smile.
E.T. seemed to grow an inch or two, and his flaming red hair all but quivered with pride. “But if Mr. Morgan did go up there, it must have been for something totally nefarious.”
Belle grinned as she shook E.T.’s hand. Nefarious was one of her favorite words, too. “I’ve heard a lot about you, E.T. Thanks for helping.” She didn’t have the heart to tell him that Mitchell had already explained that his brother had had a long-standing commitment to attend the city’s traditional and contemporary furniture exposition, but Rosco knew he needed to set the record straight.
“Mr. Morgan’s considering purchasing some new furnishings for the inn,” he said. “That’s why he drove to Boston today. He had an appointment with a design consultant. He’s due back tonight. Mr. Mitchell told us all about it.”
The term crestfallen might have been invented for E.T.’s reaction to this news. His head and shoulders sagged; his smile drooped; even his springy hair looked deflated and flat. “Oh …” He looked at his feet. “Yeah … Mr. Morgan’s always saying there’s too much old stuff around …” Then E.T. seemed to recover a little of his feisty spirit. “We’ve had four and a half inches of snow since you left, Rosco, which makes almost seven. I measured it. None of the cars in the overnight lot have been moved or visited, and no one’s carried anything into or out of the inn. That goes for the decorators, too, although they’ve all gone home on account of the weather. I’ve been watching everyone, and I can promise you nobody had the poem.” He paused and scowled in concentration. “Okay, here’s my new theory: Mr. Morgan rips off the Longfellow, sells it in Boston, and then also collects the insurance money.… He waits until this weekend to grab it because it fits right in with his scheduled trip, and he knows the place is going to be full of potential culprits.” E.T. put special emphasis on the newest addition to his vocabulary. “And listen to this: he tells me to go out back and shovel the kitchen steps, and then he sneaks out the front door; probably with the frame all wrapped up and everything.… Because when I was done with the steps he was long gone. And footsteps in the snow show that he definitely visited the trunk of his car before driving off.”
Rosco gave the boy a pat on the back. “It’s a theory, E.T., but I’m not certain it holds water. Mr. Morgan is just as worried about the theft as his brother.”
E.T. frowned as if he wasn’t certain this were the case.
“Besides,” Rosco continued, “people don’t generally steal from themselves … at least, not any I’ve found.” Then he added a conciliatory “On the other hand, Mr. Morgan’s absence will provide plenty of opportunity to question the guests. Mr. Mitchell’s gathering them in the parlor for me.”
Belle looked at her watch. “Mitchell figured that most of the overnighters would be ready for some refreshments right about now.”
“Good thinking,” E.T. agreed, giving Belle a thumbs-up signal. “This is when Joy sets up the cocoa and cookies and stuff.” He snapped his fingers. “She’s another one we should be wary of. I’ve seen her dusting the poem, and spending a long time doing it, too. Very—and I mean very—suspicious. She may have only been trying to figure out how to get it off the wall.” Then he jammed his hat back on his head and pulled down the ear-flaps. “Well, I’ve got more shoveling to do.… Call me if you need me.”
“Roger,” was Rosco’s mock-serious reply as he and Belle shared an amused look and entered the inn.
The first thing that struck them as they stepped into the space was its lack of animation. The day before, all had been noise, excitement, and motion; now silence
reigned supreme. The utter stillness made the old building seem strangely eerie and forbidding.
“I’ve asked the guests to assemble in the front parlor, Rosco.” Mitchell’s voice preceded him, as did the echoing sound of his footfall as he approached the couple. “I encouraged the decorating clubs to leave a short while ago. I hope that’s acceptable. I felt that since we knew the participants fairly well, there was no sense in having someone risk a fender-bender or worse simply to answer questions.…” Then his habitual ambivalence and insecurity got the better of him. “The decorators will return tomorrow, however, after the snow plows have done their work. I’m sure f-f-folks will be happy to talk to you then.…”
“That’s fine, Mitch.” Rosco’s assured tone seemed to relieve Mitchell Marz, and he also assumed a purposeful air, quickly explaining that only five of the inn’s ten rooms were booked, and that because of the inclement weather, the three couples and two single guests had remained and were available for questioning. “They’re as shocked about this situation as Morgan and I are,” he concluded. “I can’t imagine any of them had anything to do with the theft.”
“What about employees?” Rosco asked.
“Except for Joy Allman, everyone has been with us for well over five years; and Joy’s been here three.”
“While we’re waiting for your guests to assemble, Mitch, why don’t you run through your list of employees. Would you suspect any of them at all?”
Mitchell shook his head. “First off, we have to look at opportunity. There was hardly anyone on duty when the poem disappeared—which was put at between midnight and nine—or rather 8:56—this morning when E.T. made his discovery. There’s Chef; he’s live-in; he has a one-bedroom above the current garage. And Joy was in early to set up breakfast.”