A Crossworder's Delight

by Nero Blanc

  “I know, in the encyclopedia.” Belle interrupted with a smile. “I promise we won’t let any of them near the stuff.” Then she cocked her head and regarded him with a mock serious expression. “However, I’m not certain we is the operative word for today’s activity, because as far as I can figure, I’m doing all the work.”

  “I’m reading you the clues and answers, aren’t I?”

  “Hmmmm …” was Belle’s noncommittal reply as she returned to concentrating on greasing and then flouring a loaf pan and checking to make certain the oven was set to preheat at 275 degrees. An avowed non-cook, her actions were slow and careful, like someone who’s just learned to drive.

  “So, is Lieutenant Lever going to arrest Charleston … um, Mr. Chew and the M and M’s?” E.T. persisted with the kind of lugubrious delight also reserved for preteen boys.

  “Not unless there’s a murder involved,” Belle answered as she broke an egg into another hand-me-down bowl and tried to decide what precisely was meant by “lightly” beating the yolk and white. “Lieutenant Lever’s head of homicide, remember? Stolen goods aren’t his domain. Besides, I imagine the statute of limitations may be expired.”

  “What kind of statue is that?” E.T. asked her.

  “Pardon me?”

  “What you were talking about … a statue of limitations.… Like, is it in a museum?”

  Belle chuckled. “Aha, caught you, Mr. Dictionary! Statute is from Late Latin: statutum, for law.”

  E.T. scribbled the word in a composition notebook he had nearby, then stared at the letters, memorizing them. “So, if Lieutenant Lever discovered that the lady who drowned in the chocolate works was murdered instead of falling in by mistake, he couldn’t do anything about it because of this statute?”

  “Homicide’s different,” Belle explained. “But you know what? You can ask Lieutenant Lever all about that investigation yourself tomorrow. He was up in Boston yesterday going over old records. He’ll be at Ms. Leonetti’s, too. With his wife and his dog, Skippy.”

  “Cool!” was E.T.’s enthusiastic response. Belle imagined his excitement was meant for the four-legged member of the Lever family rather than for what Al had discovered in Boston; which was quite a bit more than old Mr. Liebig had remembered. The dead woman had, in fact, been murdered; pushed into the chocolate vat by a jealous lover who then tried to ship out with the merchant marine before the body was discovered. Unfortunately for him, his ship’s departure was delayed by a week because a U-boat had been sighted lurking behind the Stellwagen Bank off Cape Cod, meaning that the perpetrator was dragged off the boat by the cops, tried, and convicted of murder in the first degree. On top of that, the deceased had been a Polish immigrant with only a marginal understanding of English, so any imagined connection Belle had created between the mystery woman and the cookbook was now null and void.

  Belle released a brief, frustrated sigh, then returned her focus to the cake. “Okay, what’s next?”

  E.T. studied the crossword. “Um … let’s see.… You’re melting the 21-Across, 26-Across, 56-Across, and 22-Down over a low heat …?”

  “Three-quarters of a cup of BLACK COFFEE … one-quarter of a POUND of butter … three ounces of UNSWEETENED CHOCOLATE.… Yup.”

  But instead of continuing to call out the recipe instructions, E.T.’s brow suddenly furrowed in surprise. “Hey … weird … I never figured this out before.… TIDINGS, which is the answer to 52-Across, that’s my middle name … Well, not quite, because I’m spelled differently—T-Y-D-I-N-G-S.… That’s kind of neat, though.… I can call myself Holiday news from now on.”

  “And what does the E stand for?” Belle asked. She didn’t expect an answer. E.T. was as secretive about the origins of his name as he was about his home life, but instead of changing the subject as he normally did, he unexpectedly scrunched up his face. “Ellicott,” he mumbled, “Because of my great grandfather, Ellicott Tydings.… I never knew him. He was called ‘Dutch.’”

  “Ellicott Tydings doesn’t sound like the name of someone from the Netherlands,” Belle remarked, but even as she said the words, a small gong went off in her head. Dutch, she thought. Of course! Maybe this mystery woman wasn’t married to a man from Holland as I imagined Mr. Liebig suggested … Maybe Dutch was a nickname—just like E.T. “I don’t suppose your great-grandmother’s maiden name was Dodge …?” Belle asked after a pause. “Or … or Swerve, by any chance?” She grimaced as she spoke; the query sounded daffy even by her standards—as well as another major long shot.

  The look E.T. gave Belle showed how completely loopy he thought the question was. “Swerve? You mean, like turn away to avoid from slamming into something? Like what I do on my bike when I see an icy patch …? Man, and I thought Ellicott Tydings Whitman was a dorky—”

  But Belle’s brain had already made another startling connection, and she hurried to the window-side table where copies of the crossword recipes lay scattered among the cake ingredients. “Old Mr. Liebig couldn’t remember the young woman’s name …,” she muttered to herself as she began scanning the puzzles. “When I went to Legendary, trying to discover who’d created this book, he didn’t have a clue … but then when he and his son brought the chocolate village to the inn, he suddenly …” Belle’s eyes were racing through the across and down clues and solutions. “I assumed it was a surname he was recalling.… He said Swerve; I immediately thought he meant Dodge.… as if his thought process had made a natural verbal transference, because Dodge is such a solid Massachusetts name.… But maybe—”

  “What are you talking about, Belle?” E.T. demanded. Her mumbled monologue had clearly lost him.

  Belle turned to face the boy. “Maybe it was your great-grandmother who made this book, E.T. I know it’s a huge, huge leap, but—”

  “Huh?” E.T. squinted at this book in Belle’s hand.

  “What’s another word for swerve?”

  E.T. thought. “Veer?”

  “And what sounds like veer?”

  “Steer … deer … clear … near—?”

  “No, silly, a woman’s name.”

  E.T.’s mouth fell open. “V-Vera. That was my great-gran’s name.”

  “And was her husband the man whose nickname was ‘Dutch’?”

  E.T. could only nod in reply while Belle beamed at him and pointed to one of the puzzles. “Look … here in the “ANGEL IN DISGUISE” recipe … read the solution to 43-Across.”

  “VERA,” E.T. said. Then he studied Belle. There was decided skepticism in his expression. “Well, sure … but that doesn’t prove anything, because the puzzle says it’s the answer to VERA Cruz.”

  Belle ignored the argument as she began riffling through the crosswords. “And the daughter she created this for … is called … EVA … ANITA … GRETA … LENA … PENNY … TESS—”

  “No, my grandma’s Lee,” E.T. admitted in a small voice. It was clear he found the name as unhip as Ellicott Tydings.

  “LEE,” Belle whispered in awe. “Here it is at 24-Down in “Holiday Slay Ride.” “We’re supposed to think the reference is to Robert E., the Gray general listed in the clues, but if I’m correct in my assumption—Oh wow …!” She gazed at E.T., her eyes glistening with tears. “I’ll bet this book was made for your grandmother,” she told him. “I’ll just bet it was. And we’re going to take it to her right now.”

  E.T. response to this suggestion was to stiffen his shoulders and draw away. He stared at the tabletop as he spoke. “We can’t.”

  Belle gulped, and also drew back. “Oh, E.T … How dumb of me! It didn’t occur to me that perhaps your grandmother isn’t living—”

  “Oh, she’s around, all right,” the boy stated as he continued to gaze fixedly at the table.

  Belle’s shoulders sagged in consternation and regret. You dope! she berated herself. No wonder this kid doesn’t talk about home. His mother’s probably at odds with his grandmother; his dad’s caught in the middle, and they’re all crammed into one house, living too close to o
ne another to have enough breathing room to think straight. Why can’t I learn that not everything in life is peaches and cream? Belle gently shut the little cookbook. “Well, that’s fine.… Maybe you can tell your grandmother about it sometime. When you feel like it, I mean.… I can keep it for you for a while. I’m sure Mr. Mitchell and Mr. Morgan wouldn’t mind … or … or you can tell your mom and let her decide—”

  “That’s just it!” E.T. burst in. “I don’t have a mom … or a dad. It’s just Gran and me. And she doesn’t … well, she doesn’t care about books and things like that.” He swiped manfully at his eyes while Belle perched on a chair beside him. If he hadn’t continued to stand so rigidly apart, she would have put a comforting arm around his thin, unhappy shoulders.

  “You’re being raised by your grandmother?”

  “Yeah,” was the unwilling answer.

  “And you and your Gran don’t always agree on things?” Belle couldn’t think of another way to phrase the question. She wanted to ask about the circumstances concerning the boy’s absent parents, but she knew the timing was inappropriate; she also realized she should remain as neutral and nonjudgmental as possible.

  In answer to the question, E.T. nodded—once. “She just gets so … grouchy.”

  Belle thought for a moment. “Well sometimes, it’s hard for older people to raise children.… Sometimes, they don’t have the patience they need.…”

  E.T. considered this while Belle continued to speak.

  “And, maybe your grandmother misses having your parents nearby.… I mean, if they’re living and working in another state—” Or locked up in prison, Belle thought, but left unsaid.

  “But my dad and my mom haven’t been around for a long time! They died when I was a little baby. If I don’t miss them, I don’t know why Gran has to!”

  The lump that rose in Belle’s throat forced her to take a deep and steadying breath. Her own tears of empathy wouldn’t help the boy standing beside her. “I don’t imagine mothers ever get over the loss of their children, E.T.,” she told him, then paused, studying his face. “But you know something? You’re not your dad. Whoever he was, and whatever goods things he did in his life, you’re not him—and you’re not supposed to be. Who you are is E.T.; and E.T.’s one terrific and smart kid—even if he doesn’t like his name very much.”

  E.T. didn’t speak for a long while, but Belle could see he was processing everything she’d said. His posture and facial expressions shifted and changed as if he were reliving a series of events.

  “You know what, Belle?” he finally announced. “I think my Gran might like seeing this cookbook after all.… Do you think Mr. Mitchell would let her keep it—if it’s really hers, I mean? And maybe we could give her this cake we’re making from the book? She really loves chocolate.”

  “Absolutely!” Then Belle gave him the hug she’d wanted to all along. “And we’ll make another one for Ms. Lionetti, how’s that?”

  Eighteen

  FINDING herself standing on the old and sloping porch of Lee Whitman’s farm-house with the crossword cookbook in one hand and the still-warm “Christmas, Current” cake in the other, Belle began having serious misgivings about the mission she’d embarked upon. The home looked cold and unwelcoming; there wasn’t a hint of holiday decor in evidence; there wasn’t a lamp lit or the sound of a radio or TV issuing forth; if E.T hadn’t been standing staunchly at her side, she would have imagined the place deserted.

  “I think it would be a good idea if you knock, Belle,” he told her. “I’ve got my key, but Gran might not be too pleased if I just walked in with someone she’s never met. I don’t bring any friends over, so …” E.T. left the remainder of the thought unfinished while Belle produced a poor facsimile of a breezy smile and rapped loudly and energetically on the door.

  The woman who opened it two minutes later could only have been E.T.’s grandmother. Although no taller than he, she had the same slight and wiry build and the same curling red hair—now noticeably gray. Her face was also gray, and hard lines had etched themselves into her cheeks. “Yes?” She didn’t smile as she spoke; in fact, her expression seemed to grow even tighter when she saw her grandson.

  “Mrs. Whitman, I’m Belle Graham.… I’m the crossword editor for the Evening Crier,” she added hastily, hoping the job title might provide an air of legitimacy. “I met your grandson at the Revere Inn. He was instrumental in helping my husband investigate—I should say solve—the theft of …”

  In the midst of this explanation, Lee Whitman turned her stare from Belle and squinted at E.T. as if she expected him to be of little help in any situation, let alone a criminal investigation. The boy gazed back gamely, but didn’t speak while his grandmother returned her focus to the woman who’d just appeared on her porch. “That Marz family,” was the crisp reply. “They’re plain, hard-luck people. I remember my mother telling me that when I was just a girl. She was down there a lot, helping the widow—” The words abruptly ceased, and then as jerkily began again. “I guess it was because Mama was a war widow, and she understood how hard it was to be left on your own.” Then that effort also lurched to a halt. Belle could see Lee Whitman closing off every trace of emotional response. Nothing: neither the past nor future was going to cause her pain again.

  “Well, your grandson was a wonderful addition to the case,” Belle insisted. She then reiterated E.T.’s role, concluding with a cheery “In fact, he was the one who untangled the entire riddle when he noticed a punctuation mark no one else had.”

  “Is that so?” said Lee Whitman, although the remark sounded bemused rather than impressed.

  “You should be very proud of him, Mrs. Whitman,” Belle continued with some force. “He’s an exceptionally bright boy.”

  But E.T. had had enough of this stalled chitchat. “Gran!” he piped up loudly. “Belle made a cake … a special chocolate cake—”

  “As a reward for being such a help?” was the caustic reply. “Money would have been handier.”

  But E.T. was obviously accustomed to this cynical behavior. “No, Gran,” he argued. “It’s not a reward. It’s a gift. For you.” Then he grabbed both the cake and the crossword cookbook from Belle and thrust them toward his grandmother. “And this book’s a gift, too. It’s got recipes made into puzzles.… Belle filled in the solutions … well, not these actual crosswords, ’cause she made copies of them … but look …” Forcing the cake into his grandmother’s hand, he opened the book. “There! See where ‘Mama’ is writing to her ‘dear daughter who so loves chocolate’? Belle thinks that’s you! ’Cause the puzzles have TIDINGS and VERA and—”

  “Oh!” Lee Whitman gasped as she stared down at the page E.T. held open. “Oh my word!” Her defiant posture was gone in a trice, and she lifted her eyes to gaze in disbelief at both her grandson and at Belle. “Oh, my … my … my …” Finally, she took the cookbook in trembling fingers. The knifelike lines in her face had vanished, and tears were beginning to drip down her cheeks. “Where did you …?” she began as E.T. turned the pages, and she gently touched each with a calloused finger as though afraid too much pressure might harm this wondrous object. “I remember Mama showing me this.… She was just so proud.… Made it during the war when Papa was … before Papa … but then the book just disappeared, and we … well, Mama and I never—”

  “Gran,” E.T. interjected with a twelve-year-old’s fidgety impatience. “It’s freezing out here. Can we come in and discuss all this history stuff where it’s warm?”

  “Well, Ellicott Tydings Whitman, of course you can come inside. What did you think? That I’d totally forgotten my manners, and I was going to force you and Ms. Graham to stand outside for the rest of the day? Come in … come in.…” She stood against the door, holding it wide for her grandson and Belle to enter. “And let’s have some of my mama’s lovely cake.” But those four words put a quick end to Lee Whitman’s offer. “My mama …,” she repeated in the barest of whispers; then she looked out into the snowy yard as th
ough she were staring into a past chocked full of memories. But instead of regret, her expression was suffused with a bittersweet joy.

  Swinging the door shut behind her, she regarded her grandson. She seemed to have grown both taller and gentler, as well as more “grandmotherly.” “Mama would have been proud of you, E.T.” Lee stated. “She loved words—just like you do. And she was brave, like you are, and determined, too—like you. And clever. All those smart genes missed me by a mile … and your daddy and mommy, too. But you ended up with every one of them.”

  By the time she finished this speech, Lee Whitman was beaming; and Belle could see that E.T. was beaming also. “So don’t you ever forget you’ve got one terrific brain. Why, you can do anything you put your mind to, E.T. Anything, at all.… Now, tell me what you did to help out the investigation at the inn. Don’t leave out one single detail. I want to feel filled up with pride. And we’ll all have a piece of Belle’s chocolate cake. ‘Christmas, Current.’ … It was was my favorite when I was your age.”

  BELLE’S eyes shone with tears as she recounted the story to Rosco that evening. They were sitting on the couch in the living room, a fire lighting up the hearth, and the two dogs curled up on the rug and basking in the warmth of the reflected blaze.

  “I don’t believe either of them could have imagined receiving a better Christmas present than the gift of each other,” she concluded. “And to think the catalyst was such a small thing—a little, unprepossessing homemade book of dessert recipes.… If Mitchell hadn’t found it at a yard sale and decided to add it to the inn’s library … if I hadn’t been wandering around as a useless member of Sisters-in-Stitches and asked to borrow it—”

  “But he did. And you did,” Rosco countered gently.

  Belle nodded. “Isn’t it amazing how many miracles there are in the world? We only need to stop once in a while to notice them.”