A Crossworder's Delight

by Nero Blanc

  “Yes. I am.” E.T.’s red hair bristled. “One hundred percent.”

  Rosco turned to Mitchell. “Do you have another copy of the poem? In a book, perhaps? Something we can check E.T.’s theory against?”

  “Man, nobody ever believes me,” E.T. grumbled. “I have the entire poem memorized—punctuation and everything …’cause it helps learn that stuff for school.” He pointed again.

  “Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,

  Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride

  On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere …”

  “See they’re all commas.… So even if a book says the line’s different, this copy has been tampered with. I know I’m right. I don’t care what some other book says.”

  Rosco leaned in close to the frame and perused the semicolon E.T. had indicated. He then ran his eyes around the frame, studying every inch carefully. After a moment he said, “If someone has replaced the original with a forgery, there’d be evidence of tampering on the back of the frame.” He looked at Mitchell. “Do you mind if I take it down and see what the other side looks like?”

  Mitch’s “Fine by me” was quickly overlapped by Morgan’s “Let’s leave it where it is, Rosco. We all have work to do cleaning up after the decorators and tree-trimmers and what have you. The Longfellow’s back in place. Let’s just say we’re glad it is and allow our little problem to disappear. Our former problem, I should say.”

  “Morgan,” his brother responded with unaccustomed force, “I’d like to know what’s going on. If someone has replaced the original with a fake, we have a right to know—and so does our insurance company.” He patted E.T. on the shoulder. “There’s a screwdriver and a pair of pliers in the center drawer of my desk. Would you get them for us?”

  E.T. was off like a shot.

  “This is a ridiculous waste of time, Mitch,” Morgan argued.

  “You’re the one who decided to insure the poem for twelve thousand dollars,” Mitchell fought back.

  “We don’t need to discuss whether or not the sum was an appropriate one in public. Besides, it was you who told me that the piece’s true value couldn’t be objectively calibrated. You said we had to bear in mind what it represented in terms of the inn’s history—”

  “All the same—”

  Morgan’s sigh of frustration curtailed his brother’s speech. “All right, have it your own way. Let’s wrench the thing off the wall, pry open the frame, and see if our anonymous jokester played fast and loose with Mr. Longfellow’s punctuation marks … or whether our young, poem-loving snow-shoveler has made the tiniest of errors.… However, I suggest we try not to mar that nice antique desk in the process. I believe it’s one of your favorite pieces, Mitchell.”

  “If I might interrupt,” Rosco stated calmly. “I’m no expert on printed artwork, so I can’t tell you whether someone replaced your original with a darned good fake, Morgan, but I do know that the framing has been tampered with. The poem wasn’t simply taken and then returned intact.”

  Morgan grew quiet, although his irritation still glimmered below the surface. “What makes you believe that?”

  “Here.” Rosco pointed to the lower left-hand corner of the frame. “You can see that the marks on the glass left by years of cleaning don’t quite match up with the edge of the framing any longer. There’s been some slight movement.”

  Morgan nodded, his expression now inquiring but still just as aggravated. “Well, perhaps whoever our prankster was jostled the frame—which caused the glass to move.”

  “I agree, that’s a possibility,” Rosco answered after a moment, “but if that were the case, we’d see evidence of movement at the top of the frame, not the bottom. Gravity would make the glass drop, not rise. It’s my feeling that since the glass has risen slightly, the frame was laid flat and the backing removed, therefore relieving the tension between glass and frame.”

  E.T. came bounding in with the screwdriver and pliers clutched in his left hand. “Got it.”

  “You shouldn’t run with a screwdriver in your hand, E.T.,” Rosco advised. “It’s very dangerous. What if you’d tripped?”

  “But this was an emergency!”

  “Not that much of one. The poem isn’t going anywhere.” Rosco took the screwdriver, handed it to Mitchell, and placed the pliers in his back pocket. “Why don’t you loosen the wall screws, Mitch, while I hold the frame to keep it from falling.”

  As Mitchell worked on the screws, he said, “Well, this is certainly a two-man operation. That lets our single guests off the hook.”

  “As it were,” Rosco couldn’t help but add.

  “Unless … Mr. Heath and Miss Cadburrie were working together,” E.T. observed as he rubbed his chin and furrowed his brow. This, combined with the snow hat still stuck on his head, made him look like a miniature version of Sherlock Holmes. He began to pace the antique Oriental rug. “Both of them were acting weird when they checked out, didn’t you think, Mr. Mitchell?”

  “To tell you the truth, E.T., I didn’t notice,” was Mitch’s distracted reply while Morgan added an impatient:

  “Well, I did. Their checkout times had a two-hour differential. And I don’t believe I saw them say more than a few words to each other for the entire weekend.”

  But E.T. wasn’t about to give up. “My point exactly, Mr. Morgan.… All very suspicious behavior, very suspicious.”

  The twelve-year-old’s solemn tone made Rosco smile to himself as he took the frame from the wall and laid it facedown on the carpet. As he straightened he said, “There’s your answer. The paper backing is completely gone. Cut clean, very smoothly; probably with a razor or sharp knife.”

  The other three stared down at the back of the frame.

  “I told you so!” E.T. said proudly. “Someone put a phony in there. I’ll bet you a hundred dollars.”

  “My hunch is that’s not going to be the case, E.T.,” Rosco said as he bent over once again and began to pull the retaining nails from the sides of the frame with the pair of pliers. “I think what we’re seeing on the poem is simply a speck of dirt just above the comma—which only makes it look like a semicolon. How, and why, the speck got there is now the big question.”

  After he’d removed the last nail, Rosco lifted the backing board from the frame. This exposed another thin, flat inner frame, about an eighth of an inch thick and an inch wide all around. It was fashioned from wood and had a wood backing. Rosco also removed this inner pocket, then carefully lifted the poem and turned it over. The semicolon E.T. had pointed out still existed, but the moment Rosco blew lightly on the paper, the speck flew away, and the punctuation mark returned to its original comma.

  “So it is the poem that’s always been here …,” Mitchell said as bewilderment spread across his face. “Nothing’s been stolen, after all.… But … but who would go through all these shenanigans simply to play a trick?”

  Rosco picked up the inner frame. “I’m guessing that this served as a secret hiding place—meaning that there was something concealed behind the poem; something more valuable. Perhaps another piece of artwork or stock certificates or even cash.”

  “Or a treasure map!” E.T. chimed in.

  Rosco gave him a conspiratorial nod. “Anything’s possible.”

  Morgan turned toward Mitchell, then offered a reasonable “Well, whatever was behind the poem has been there since our father attached it to the wall back in the 1940s.”

  “You’re certain of that?” Rosco asked.

  “Absolutely,” Mitchell answered for his twin. “Look at the screws that held it in place. Our dad shellacked them; that coating is now cracked, peeling and unsightly—”

  “What my brother means is that he never would have condoned such a unfortunate mess,” Morgan said, although the tone had become charitable rather than sarcastic.

  Mitchell gave a small smile in response. “Visuals aside, Rosco, when our father placed the Longfellow here, he coated the screws with shellac. We were just kid
s then, so I couldn’t tell you why he decided to attach the frame to the wall in such a semipermanent fashion.…” Then Mitchell looked at his twin brother. “I know what you’re going to say. Anyone can throw on a coat of varnish; that the poem could have been removed on any number of previous occasions—when we were away in college, for instance.… But my point is that Dad must have had a reason for covering the screws with a material that would reveal if the piece had been disturbed … as a kind of … a kind of primitive warning device—”

  “More hidden treasure maps, huh?” Morgan chided. The tone had grown less kind.

  “Dad didn’t know he was going to die when he did, Morgan! Maybe he did possess something of value, and felt that this spot was—”

  “What he had was this property, Mitchell, a couple of youngsters, and a wife who worked her fingers to the bone to keep up the—”

  “Well, someone knew about this secret compartment.” Rosco interrupted the brothers before their argument could intensify.

  Morgan released an irate snort. “It wasn’t us!”

  “I’m not accusing you or Mitch of anything,” Rosco answered. “I just think it would help if we all knew what sort of thing were looking for.”

  It was Mitchell who next spoke. “I’m afraid we can’t help you, Rosco. If our father did hide something behind the Longfellow, the knowledge died with him. Of course, it’s possible that he confided in our mother, but … but I can assure you that she never shared the fact with us.…” In his effort to be helpful, Mitch again began to trip over his words. “After all, whatever D-D-Dad concealed there would belong to both Morgan and me now. And we w-w-wouldn’t … well, we wouldn’t have any cause to steal from ourselves, would we? And … and after nearly sixty years …? We would have removed it long ago if we’d known.”

  Rosco nodded. “You may not know what was stashed here, but someone possessed information about this secret compartment. Either that person found old correspondence detailing it, or they talked to a third party who knew about it. However the theft came about, it’s clear that our culprit was able to obtain specific facts that led directly to this poem. And I’m assuming the discovery was made fairly recently. Otherwise, you’re absolutely correct, Mitch, this would have occurred long ago.”

  “But why not steal the Longfellow, too?” Mitchell asked. “Why go through all this pretense and then return it as if the deed were no more than a prank?”

  “Maybe the snowfall forced the thief—or thieves—to alter their plans,” Rosco told him. “Or perhaps, leaving the poem behind was the intention, all along. After all, neither of you questioned whether the back of the frame had been disturbed. If E.T. hadn’t spotted that rogue semicolon, the mystery might have gone unnoticed for another sixty years.”

  Rosco lifted the inner compartment from the carpet and carefully rested it on the desktop. Then he pulled a chair close and seated himself while E.T. perched beside him and also began staring silently at the frame.

  “I don’t appreciate the insinuation that Mitchell or I were—or are—involved in this bizarre situation,” Morgan said after a long moment.

  “I didn’t suggest anything of the kind,” was Rosco’s quiet answer. Then he stood and began walking toward the door. “But someone is.”

  Sixteen

  THE moment Rosco and the two “girls” returned from their early Monday morning run, the phone rang. Belle, accoutered in corduroy trousers, a cotton turtleneck, and her beloved Irish fisherman’s sweater—all of which were dry and cozy—answered it while Rosco toweled off the drenched and bedraggled dogs. He then shucked off his own soggy running shoes and peeled the road-salt-spattered waterproof pants from his sweats. The discarded clothing fell in a heap by the door, as the dogs gave one final dramatic shake to punctuate their entrance.

  “No, no, it’s not too early at all, Stan,” Rosco heard Belle say before she cupped the receiver and mouthed an unnecessary It’s Stanley Hatch. For you. Then she held out the phone, straight-arm fashion, as if her husband’s sodden state were contagious and her nice, fluffy slippers might turn into grimy puddles if she stood too close. Coffee now or after your shower? she also mouthed, but Rosco was too intent on the information Stanley was delivering to reply.

  “Can you spell that name for me, Stan? Is it a U or an E-W?” Rosco cradled the phone as he reached for a pad of paper. “Uh … huh … And he was a buddy of the twins’ dad …? Okay, yep … I got it.… And that’s near Boston, I guess? On the way to Hull? Oh, yeah …? Well, tell her ‘hi’ from me.…”

  By now curiosity had turned Belle’s eyes into gray-black slits, and any notion of contagious sleet-water had evaporated. Who? she mouthed. Where is Stan? What’s going on?

  But Rosco’s sole response was to reply with his own silent Lawson’s, and to mimic eating breakfast. Belle almost swatted him, but he continued to talk into the phone with maddeningly incomplete sentences before finally concluding with an equally enigmatic “Thanks, Stan.… Hopefully he can fill in some missing pieces.”

  The receiver was only halfway to its cradle when Belle demanded a rapid “What? What pieces? And who’s the mystery her you’re saying hi to?”

  “Martha,” Rosco answered, as though nothing could be more obvious. “Stanley was calling from Lawson’s, where he’s having breakfast. She told him that the poem’s frame had a secret compartment, and that whatever was in it is missing.”

  “How did she—?” Belle began then stopped herself. Martha Leonetti knew virtually everything that happened in Newcastle; and the speed with which she gathered her facts was often truly startling. But then, Lawson’s was Newcastle’s favorite hangout for cops, DAs, judges, lawyers as well as the common citizenry, and Martha was not famed for her reticence or for the subtlety of her questions.

  “So Stan called to tell me about a war-time buddy of Mike Marz—”

  “The M and M’s dad.…”

  Rosco nodded. “The guy’s name is Charlie Chew, and he’s in a retirement community on the outskirts of Boston. He and Mike were thick as thieves after they came home from Europe, and Stan figures if anyone knows what Mike might have hidden behind the poem, it could be Mr. Chew.”

  Belle had a image of old Karl Liebig and his on-again-off-again memory, but Rosco beat her to the punch. “Stan says Charlie’s not only as sharp as a tack, but one of the nicest folks you’d ever want to meet. Stan’s been up there to visit on several occasions, but not since his own father passed away.”

  “Well, we’d better get a move on.” Belle was already at the coat closet and pulling out her boots.

  “What’s this ‘we’ business?”

  “Subcontractor of the Polycrates Agency, that’s me, remember?”

  Rosco’s response was a mock sigh. “How could I forget?”

  “Besides, you know how fabulously I get along with people of a certain generation.”

  Rosco shook his head. “Mind if I put some real trousers and shoes on before we get rolling?”

  “That was my next suggestion,” Belle said with a gleeful grin. “Oh, and maybe we should have breakfast, too. No point in forgetting a meal as important as that, is there?”

  BY conventional standards, the Nantasket Retirement Community, or NRC as it was known to its residents, was a giant step above the average old-age home. It overlooked Hingham Bay, which was seven miles southeast of Boston’s Logan Airport, making it convenient for out-of-town visiting relatives; although jet noise was an occasional irritant for the residents. As this depended largely on wind direction and landing patterns, the place could also be quietness itself: a vista revealing an expanse of sea water, a few gulls lofting along with the breezes, and a collection of ships and sailboats attractively decorating the distance.

  Nantasket’s main building consisted of a one-story structure fashioned from honey-colored bricks with sixty private suite apartments stretching along the cliff’s edge in a wide V pattern; thirty on either side of the central reception area. An enclosed walkway led to a sp
acious dining room that also had a partial seaside view, a workout room, a recreational lounge and library, a unisex hair salon, and an exercise pool. It was designed for active older people, the “fifty-five plus” crowd who enjoyed whipping up special meals in their private kitchens. Many still owned and drove their own cars. And although there was a nursing staff on duty at all times, the residents were more than capable of functioning independently.

  For those whose health and cognitive skills had declined, and who required more sophisticated medical facilities and an expanded professional staff, NRC-2 lay across the street. Charlie Chew was emphatically not a resident of NRC-2. At eighty-four years of age, he was as hale and hearty as he’d been when he’d been a “mere stripling” of sixty.

  Belle and Rosco entered the retirement community’s reception area just before noon. It had already been tastefully decorated for the holidays with garlands woven out of pine and cedar. A manger scene had been set up on the left side of the entry and a menorah to the right, and a large balsam pine tree had been placed in the center of the lounge.

  No ornaments had yet been hung on the tree, but a number of cardboard boxes sat at its base along with an aluminum stepladder.

  “This is a nice setup,” Rosco said to Belle as they walked toward a young red-haired woman sitting behind a long granite-topped reception desk. “It looks like our Mr. Chew has done well for himself.”

  A nameplate on the counter read “Kitty Katlyn, RN,” but the woman was not outfitted in a nurse’s uniform; instead she wore a demure blue suit and striped blouse.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Chew,” Rosco said. “He’s expecting us; Rosco Polycrates and Belle Graham.”

  “I’d recognize that face anywhere,” Charlie Chew nearly shouted from across the room. He was as tall as Rosco, thin and angular, and walked erect and with the confidence of a person who had spent a lifetime being in charge of most situations. “I’m a true crossword junkie, Ms. Graham,” he continued. “I have every one of your annual collections. First thing I do is rip the answer pages out of the back and feed them to the paper shredder.”