Another Word for Murder

by Nero Blanc

  Belle looked at the old lady and smiled in gratitude and love. “You’re a peach, Sara, do you know that?”

  “When I wish to be. Only when I wish to be.”

  “No, all the time.” Belle touched her friend’s hand, and as she did she caught Martha’s eye. Belle was surprised to see two tears rolling down the rouged and powdered cheeks of Lawson’s famous wiseacre and skeptic.

  “You know what?” she murmured. “That damn guy nearly got away with murder. And he would have, too, if it weren’t for certain people sitting right here at this table.”

  “But what were Dan’s plans for Bonnie?” Belle interrupted in a small voice, although she’d intuited the answer already.

  “Another homicide, in all probability,” Al said. “He couldn’t have left her alone to blab to the whole world, which she would have done eventually. Especially if he had no plans to take her with him.”

  “Who knows,” Abe added with a taut and unforgiving shrug, “maybe that’s why he was heading back toward Newcastle when the Feds picked him up on Friday.”

  “And to think that the brother Karen never met didn’t even exist…. ” Belle continued in her subdued tone. “He was just another one of Dan’s manipulative fictions. Dan had to know how much that hurt her—”

  “As opposed to his affair with Bonnie?” Abe interjected. “Or the circumstances surrounding his ‘loving’ marriage? Or the fact that he was living high off the hog all the while knowing that his wife and step-daughter would be left with nothing?”

  “Except his expensive collection of automobiles,” Sara said.

  “Which is what ultimately did him in,” Jones continued in the same embittered voice. “He just couldn’t let his precious LT-5 Corvette burn up in the ravine. He had to take it with him. It was a car thing all along. I believe I said that a month ago at this very table.”

  “And to think I once considered that Karen might have arranged to have her husband killed,” Belle admitted with a guilty sigh.

  “We all came to that conclusion,” Lever told her. “Your hubby, too. Speaking of whom …” A genuine grin began spreading across Al’s face as he looked out the window and across the street. Rosco was in the process of parking his “new” car directly in front of the fire hydrant.

  Martha followed Al’s gaze, she looked at Rosco’s car, then she glanced down at Belle. “Oh, honey …,” she murmured in real sympathy, “I’m so, so sorry … but you should never let men go shopping by themselves…. You never know what they’ll drag home…. ”

  Belle and Abe and Sara turned in their seats and watched as Rosco flipped down the sun visor to display a police parking permit he considered part of his NPD retirement package. Studying the scene, Abe Jones couldn’t help but laugh. “I guess there’s a certain amount of truth to the adage that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

  “Well, I think it’s a … it’s a … delightful vehicle, Belle, dear,” Sara offered in a hesitant manner while Belle stood and dropped her napkin on the table. Instead of looking mournful, however, she was smiling brightly, almost seraphically.

  “Where on earth did he find it!? It’s an exact double for the red Jeep he was driving the day I met him.” She hurried out of Lawson’s, rushed across the street, and gave her husband a long and loving kiss. Through the window, their friends could see the couple in excited and animated conversation. Whatever anyone else’s assessment of Rosco’s surprise purchase, it was clear that both husband and wife were thrilled.

  Al chuckled as he leaned back against the pink vinyl seat. “The ride’s twenty years old, only has forty thousand miles on it, and no body-rot, from what I could tell.”

  “You knew about this scheme in advance, Albert?” Sara asked. Her chiding tone conveyed the fact that she thought he’d taken a mighty chance in not persuading his friend that a more modern and comfortable vehicle might have been a wiser choice.

  Al ignored the gentle rebuke. “He bought the Jeep yesterday, Mrs. B. When he called me to describe his great ‘discovery,’ I knew there’d be no stopping him. He had it detailed this morning—thus his excuse for not joining us for breakfast.”

  When Abe Jones’s laughter finally subsided, he asked the question they were all wondering. “Where in blazes did Rosco find it? It’s like a clone of his old car.”

  Lever rolled his eyes. “Where does he find anything, Abe? Poly—crates lives a charmed life; you know that…. But I’m not sure the vehicle you’re looking at was always red…. ”

  “WHO KILLED COCK ROBIN?”

  Across

  1. Evil

  4. Toss

  7. Boxing org.

  10. French salt

  13. Operate

  14. Water off Mass.

  15. Mr. Rossi

  16. Record label

  17. Fib

  18. Birth of 1817, in Concord, Mass.

  20. Dr. Tacete

  21. Who’ll be the clerk? “I,” said the——

  23. ——Steven

  24. Wood preserver

  26. Loafed

  28. Who’ll make his shroud? “I,” said the—

  29. Play hockey

  32. Mr. Silverstein

  34. Quiz

  35. Montana capital

  37. Gnawed away

  39. Who’ll dig his grave? “I,” said the——

  40. Who killed Cock Robin? “I,” said the——

  42. Who saw him die? “I,” said the——

  45. Discourage

  46. Desert sight

  48. Mr. Kojak

  51. Set down

  53. Types

  54. Mary Chase classic

  56. False

  58. Some poems

  59. Fright, often

  60. Mr. Anan

  64. French one

  65. Cut out

  68. Place for toys

  69. State & Main; abbr.

  70. Put on

  71. Tiger league?

  72. Jor. neighbor

  73. Pre DDE

  74. “Rah!”

  75. Born

  76. “All——king’s harses …”

  Down

  1. Who’ll toll the bell? “I,” said the——

  2. Where Bombay is

  3. Bambi, e.g.

  4. Mr. Boone

  5. Lucy’s pal

  6. Hand warmers

  7. Who’ll bear the pall? “I,” said the——

  8. Feather stole

  9. Treat harshly

  10. Drug

  11. Internet missives

  12. Who’ll bear the torch? “I,” said the——

  19. “As many as——grow in the wood”

  22. Who’ll carry his coffin? “I,” said the——

  25. Head of France?

  27. Thick

  28. Aster or rose

  29. No——

  30. Gardens

  31. “——the king’s men…”

  33. Goof

  36. Appropriately

  38. Paddles

  41. Actors org.

  42. Passing fancy

  43. SM-MED——

  44. Quite so

  45. Who’ll be chief mourner? “I,” said the——

  47. Who’ll be the parson? “I,” said the——

  48. Who’ll sing his dirge? “I,” said the——

  49. Hangouts

  50. Mr. Hemingway

  52. Murders

  55. Test part

  57. Collection

  59. Verdi opera

  61. Last words?

  62. Who caught his blood? “I,” said the——

  63. In the matter of

  66. Alphabet run

  67. “A pocket full of——”

  To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Crossword Mysteries

  CHAPTER 1

  Although his name might suggest otherwise, Moon-dog was a proven champion. He was an e
ight-year-old gelding, a commanding seventeen-hand Dutch Warmblood and a world-class jumper, with enough blue ribbons to fashion a debutante’s satin ball gown. He had been foaled and trained at Glen-Rosalynne Farms in Louisville, Kentucky, then sold to an Oscar-winning film director with a three-hundred-acre ranch overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Santa Barbara, California. The film director had jumped Moon-dog—shooting schedules permitting—in every major competition from coast to coast for a solid year before he’d suddenly grown tired of the entire equestrian thing and decided to scrap one toy for another and try his hand at offshore sailing instead. He sold Moon-dog for $100,000—about a quarter of the price of the boat—to an investment banker in Newcastle, Massachusetts, a medium-sized city just to the west of Cape Cod across Buzzards Bay.

  The banker bought the animal for his sixteen-year-old daughter because her primary equitation horse, a gray Thoroughbred mare by the unlikely name of Willow-whisp, had yet to finish above second—meaning the beast had yet to win the banker’s daughter a single blue ribbon. Not one! And this despite Daddy paying a trainer one hundred bucks a day, rain or shine, show or no show. Naturally the situation was both galling to the banker and a source of extreme exasperation to his daughter, Tiffany.

  Both mounts, Moon-dog and Willow-whisp, were now boarded at King Wenstarin Farms, a show and breeding stable fifteen miles outside of Newcastle. It was a top-drawer place, as befitted the pricey animals residing there, but the lower stable in which the gelding and mare were housed had one disturbing complication on this particular early October evening, and that was the unmistakable presence of smoke.

  Moon-dog was the first to smell it. In fact, he’d heard the unusual noises that had initially triggered the problematic situation, watched the culprit flee the scene, and so knew precisely how the predicament had begun. The only thing the animal didn’t know was how to unlatch the gate to his stall—or how the story would end.

  Horses do not react well to smoke. As with most mammals, humans being one notable exception, their internal mechanisms take them rapidly to the logical conclusion: Fire! Danger! Death! This intelligent insight creates in them a burning desire to put large distances between themselves and the smoke as quickly as possible. Moon-dog first snorted and then began anxiously pawing at the straw that covered the dirt floor of his roomy box stall. The acrid smoke tickled at his flaring nostrils. He whinnied and backed solidly into the wooden gate that barred his exit. The iron hinges creaked, and the steel latch jumped, but both held the gate in place. It would be only two minutes before Moon-dog would begin to do some serious damage to the stall and to himself.

  The large round clock positioned in the center of the immaculate wall that rose above the stable’s entry read 7:06 P.M., when Moon-dog began his nervous pacing and the building’s equally gleaming windows revealed a deep-blue sky and a bright full moon hanging low and orange as it turned the autumnal leaves a molten silvery red. The color eerily replicated the light from the fire that was now brewing in the tack room located at the west end of the stable. Known as the “small” stable, the space had room for only sixteen stalls, eight of which were presently occupied.

  Moon-dog’s antics swiftly attracted the attention of the other seven equine residents. Willow-whisp, three other mares, and three additional geldings trusted the chestnut-colored Warmblood, like baby ducks trust their mothers; and if the big guy wanted out, so did they. After fifteen additional seconds, all eight horses were rearing and bucking in their stalls, their eyes huge and terrified, and their whinnies panicked, while the smoke grew thicker and the brightness of the tack room fire illuminated the stable’s center aisle from one end to the other.

  “Fire! Fire at the lower stable! We need some help down here!”

  Orlando Polk, the barn manager, seemed to appear from nowhere as he shouted the warning up the hill toward the Big House and the horse farm’s owner, Todd Collins. Polk rightly surmised that the tack room’s telephone and intercom system had most likely been reduced to melted balls of plastic, and he also realized that trying to call the local firehouse, five miles away at best, would be a futile exercise. The barn would be ash long before the boys in helmets and waterproof gear could possibly arrive.

  Orlando had been working at King Wenstarin Farms for six years. He was forty-two years old and had been around horses his entire life. He was proud to say he was one hundred percent Pequot Indian. He kept his raven black hair tied in a ponytail that reached halfway to his slim and sinewy waist, and his nose for smoke was as good, if not better, than Moon-dog’s. He was already cursing himself under his breath for not having smelled the fumes sooner. But even if he had, he couldn’t have stopped the blaze; it was spreading far too quickly, and he had a good idea why. Unlike Moon-dog, however, Orlando had heard no strange noises or spotted anything out of the ordinary. He shook off questions of how the fire had begun and concentrated, instead, on logistics. He realized that if the horses weren’t freed soon they would claw at the sides of their stalls, pointlessly attempting to climb their way out and tearing their pricey flesh, or worse, fracturing their fragile bones.

  With this assessment in mind, he ran up the aisle to the double barn doors at the stable’s east side, shoving them open and outward and latching them in place before heading toward the structure’s west end. A less-seasoned horseman might have made the mistake of freeing the horses from their stalls before opening the doors, thereby creating pandemonium and probably getting trampled to death in the process, but Orlando prided himself on remaining calm in times of crisis. At least where horses were concerned.

  As he raced back to open the west-facing doors, he passed the tack room, which was now completely engulfed in flame. The air in the building had turned as thick and dark as mud, but fortunately the stalls directly opposite the blaze were empty. No animal could have remained that close to the fire without killing itself out of fear. Polk pulled his shirt over his nose and mouth and forged his way to the western doors, but before he could reach them, they seemed to swing open on their own. He then saw the farm’s owner, Todd Collins, yanking them back and securing the latches.

  Collins was seventy-four years old with a lean and angular six-foot-three-inch frame, a full head of wavy white hair, and an ample, matching mustache. He’d made millions in the importation of Irish whiskey to the United States, and his passion was horseflesh, especially the elegant creatures trained in the hunter-seat equitation discipline. A limp that was the result of a riding spill four years earlier sometimes made strangers imagine Collins was a frail man, but they were wrong. Todd Collins was weak neither in body nor mind.

  Orlando gaped at his boss, the fire now reflecting vividly in Collins’s craggy face and making him look as if he’d just stepped directly from the gates of Hell. Polk swore again, but too softly to be heard, while his boss’s irate eyes bore into him.

  From Todd Collins’s point of view, it appeared as though Orlando had done nothing to try to save the horses or extinguish the blaze. At first sight, his barn manager seemed to be standing in the smoke dumbfounded, like a lost child.

  “Dammit, man, get these horses out of here. What are you waiting for? An invitation? Get those stalls open. Force them out the other end. If any head this way stay with them; drive them through the smoke and up toward the Big House lawn.”

  Orlando stood frozen for a second too long, and Collins grabbed his shoulders and shoved him toward the far end of the stable.

  “You work the right side stalls; I’ll do the left,” Collins barked.

  Orlando stumbled slightly, but then sprang into action, hurrying his supple dancer’s body from stall to stall, releasing the horses then swatting them hard on their rumps to direct them away from the tack room and toward the open east end of the barn. Collins duplicated the action on the other side of the stable until all eight animals had been safely driven from the building. The older man then turned to his manager and shouted, “Get to that sprinkler valve and turn it on. I don’t care if we flood the e
ntire state of Massachusetts. I’m going to drive these babies down to B paddock. If the stable goes up in smoke, they’ll panic where they are now. We need to give them some distance.”

  “Right, boss.” Orlando Polk turned and headed back into the burning barn, while Collins unlatched the gate at the far end of the paddock and began moving the horses farther from the blaze.

  By the time the manager reentered the stable, the entire building had filled with smoke. He pulled his shirttails up to cover his mouth and nose and worked his way back toward the tack room. The main sprinkler valve was located on the wall a few feet away from the room, but fortunately the fire had moved up rather than out and hadn’t yet reached the valve. The system was old and had been shut down only the prior week because of leakage over a few of the stalls—which had resulted in a work order but no actual repair as yet. By the time he reached the valve, he was choking and coughing uncontrollably. The smoke clogged his lungs, and his eyes felt as though they were burning up. Tears coursed down his cheeks as he reached for the round handle of the valve.

  But the moment he got his hands on the metal ring, a sharp pain shot through the back of his head. In the split second that Orlando remained conscious and aware of his surroundings, he heard a pinging noise he couldn’t quite identify and assumed it was produced by whatever had slammed into the back of his head. Then his thoughts returned to the sprinkler valve, and he was able to twist it open even while his body began crumpling to the dirt floor where it remained, inert as a rag, as water cascaded from the ceiling.

  After securing the horses in B paddock, Todd Collins hurried back to the lower stable. When he reached the east entrance, he found his trainer, Jack Curry, standing near the barn door, and noticeably out of breath. Jack was another large man, but only in his mid-forties and more solidly built than his boss. Curry loved to affect any posture and attitude that remotely resembled John Wayne. Stance, swagger, speech, laconic grin, penetrating scowl: Jack had each characteristic memorized, and his private impersonation brought results. People instinctively respected and trusted Jack Curry. In Todd’s opinion, the trainer was a class act; “the best damn horseman on the East Coast,” who also happened to have once been married to Todd’s eldest daughter, Fiona—the emphasis being on ex. In her father’s estimation “Jack was, and continues to be, the only man capable of steadying such a high-strung filly. And look at her now,” he’d add with a rueful shake of his white mane. “I swear, a brood mare has got more sense than that woman.”