by Nero Blanc
Like my father, Belle thought with a grim smile, then her brain jumped beyond Theodore Graham to Franklin Moss-back and his widowed wife, the keeper of an unusual collections of skulls. Marie-Claude … Can she really be a murderer? Perhaps even a serial criminal who likes to keep mementos of her victims in the forms of their skulls? There are such people, after all … Could it be that she really is a spider lady, killing the men she mates with?
Belle stared out the window at the scenery rushing past: a curving, sandy beach replete with families enjoying an August outing, a pasture inhabited by a contented horse, woods speckled with the furtive early beginnings of yellow, autumnal leaves. It was a pretty ride and surprisingly bucolic—especially given the population living in the area Amtrak referred to as its “northeast corridor.”
She purposely brought her glance back into the train carriage, then picked up the puzzle again. 32-Across:Je PARLE Français …26-Down: Yours on the Yon … A TOI … Belle shook her head in frustration. Am I supposed to believe that the perpetrator is French? But there was Debbie’s aunt at 48-Across; and Savante CEO at 60-Across. And the clincher: The WAR on drugs at 12-Across. What’s going on here? Belle’s brain demanded. Who is the constructor? And why does this person know these names?
Bridgeport, Connecticut, hove into view at that moment, and the scenery changed drastically, becoming gritty and gray and unwelcomingly citified. Abandoned tires, an occasional rusting bed frame, and other detritus littered the tracks and adjacent weed-choked dirt. Plastic bags in various states of decay either blew along the roadbed or hung from the limbs of malnourished sumac trees. Belle made a face of disgust and dismay. She decided to avoid looking out the window.
Okay, let’s examine the previous crossword I received: Words to the Wise. Let’s see what similarities I can find. She pulled the puzzle from an overstuffed manila envelope in her canvas book bag. Stuck to it were two of the cleverer submissions she’d decided to use in her collection. “Work comes later,” Belle muttered. She returned both crosswords to her satchel, and concentrated on Words to the Wise.
“Wise man’s tip, part 1, 2, 3 … hmmm … that could well refer to a professor … and here we have the French words ETE at 19-Down and PEU at 37-Down … Monsieur Gide at 46-Down …” Belle gasped and sat bolt upright; a new sequence of theories whipped around in her brain. What if Franklin Mossback isn’t dead? What if his wife tried to kill him … but he escaped … What if she’s unaware that he survived … And what if her “friendship” with my father was heating up before Franklin “disappeared in Guatemala,” causing him to believe my father was in collusion with his wife: lover and wicked female plot plodding mate’s death, etc.? What if …? And here’s FRANKLIN as the answer to 50-Across … Right in the puzzle … What if the reference is to Mossback and not the illustrious Ben?
Belle gasped louder. The person in the seat across the aisle scowled in response, but she was unaware of the censorious glance. Instead, another pair of startled questions leapt forward. What if Franklin Mossback killed my father—and then borrowed his identity? What if Mossback is the person Hal Crane’s ‘contacts’ ‘researched’…? But even as those queries formed, Belle found herself demanding an equally perplexed: But why did Mossback wait so long to take his revenge? And where does Debbie Hurley fit in? Or the Savante Group? And who constructed these crosswords and sent them to me?
At that exact minute, train number 85, the Northeast Direct, whooshed into the tunnel that would bear it under the East River and into Manhattan. The car was plunged into darkness, the overhead lights only flickering at rare intervals like sparks from a dying fire.
“New York,” Belle heard a conductor announce. “New York’s Penn Station … All doors out … We’ll have a twenty-minute layover for those remaining on board … no reading lights; the café car will be closed until we depart the station … All doors out, folks. New York’s Penn Station. Use all doors. Check luggage areas for any personal possessions … And take your time detraining.”
Despite this reasonable injunction, most of the other passengers immediately began grabbing carry-ons from the overhead racks, and clambering into the still-jostling aisles. By the time the train had actually stopped, they were anxiously pushing their way toward every available door. Belle suspected this was typical Big Apple behavior: No one appreciated being told what to do—especially if the suggestion was “take your time.”
As the train’s exterior doors slid open, the hot smell of the crowded platform blew in. In the dusty whirls produced by thousands of moving feet, sandwich wrappers and pizza-stained lengths of waxy paper danced in the air. Every trash bin was full to overflowing with empty soda cans and discarded newspapers. What a wasteful nation we are, Belle thought. She closed her eyes against the sight; she tried to close off her sense of smell, as well.
Okay, she thought, what have I got? Rosco’s going to be meeting me in less than an hour and a half. What am I going to tell him? That Mossback has the goods on his wife? That he also killed my dad—and that somehow he’s involved with this Oclen guy and Debbie’s aunt? Belle stifled the desire to growl aloud. “What a mess,” she said instead.
Rosco met her—as she’d all but ordered him to do—with a mock salute. “I take it you’ve solved all our problems.” He held her and kissed her. She kissed him back, lost for a blissful moment in their happy proximity, the pleasant lure of the future. “I’ve missed you,” she said.
“I only left this morning.”
“Well, I missed you anyway …”
Rosco kissed her again. “So what’s the emergency?”
In response, Belle retrieved the latest crossword. “I think Marie-Claude is guilty of something big … I just don’t know what …”
“And for that, you came all the way down here?”
“I—”
“Wait. I know … You had a brainstorm, but on the trip down you began to have second thoughts.”
Belle stared at her husband in amazement. “How did you know that?”
“It happens to everyone investigating a baffling case. You get a sudden flash of insight … Then the lightbulb goes out, leaving your brain darker than it was before.”
“What do you do when that happens?”
“I go with my instinct. You know … where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
Belle nodded. “Or where there are skulls … there are bound to be dead people.”
CHAPTER 29
Rosco pulled into a parking space on Nassau Street and stepped out of the Jeep. Before he could cross over to the sidewalk, Belle had jumped from the car and pumped four quarters into the meter.
“How appropriate that we’re off to Aaron Burr Hall,” he observed with a wry smile. “You look like you’re ready for pistols at twenty paces.”
“She’s guilty as sin, Rosco.”
“She may be.”
“Well, she’s guilty of something, because someone is clearly directing us back to Marie-Claude.”
Rosco studied his wife, then hesitated for a moment before speaking. “That may well be … But let’s not charge into the arena without a battle plan. We have no hard evidence—only a crossword full of SKULL references. If we’re too aggressive, if we play the wrong cards, she’ll clam up and we’ll have nothing. So … what is it we’re after? A confession?”
“That would be nice.”
He nodded. “Right. But we’re not likely to get that. Madame Araignée’s not stupid … And another thing …” He placed his hands on Belle’s shoulders. “If this woman killed your father … And if we become convinced of that, are you ready to look her in the eye? Personally, I would have some trouble with that.”
Belle thought. “I can control myself. I have to control myself.”
“Okay …” Rosco finally said. “Given the fact that she’s probably not about to confess, we have to find a hole in her story and exploit it. Keep your ears open for any contradictory statements—that’s when we push.”
Belle took Rosc
o’s hand and squeezed it.
Marie-Claude could not have been more accommodating and gracious when Rosco had phoned her from the train station. “Bien sur,” she’d laughed in her husky voice. “Of course, I will meet with you both … I shall greet darling Teddy’s daughter at long last. I will clear the decks … That is the American expression for ‘to begin again’—n’est-ce pas?”
Now, face to face, she made every effort to appear as hospitable and helpful as her telephone persona. “I cannot express the plaisir of finally seeing the daughter … la fille de my dear friend …” She took Belle’s hand and held it, even though Belle instinctively flinched.
SKULLS, she thought, a crossword full of SKULLS. Belle remained in this outlandish position of guest and hostess only because she told herself that she was here to catch a murderer. A murderess.
Rosco noted that, in person, Marie-Claude had chosen to drop the intimate term “Teddy.” Belle only noted that the French woman wouldn’t release her hand. Franklin Mossback—and my father, she silently recited. What is this lady hiding? Then those queries led immediately to: How could Father have tolerated this phony and fawning behavior? What on earth was the attraction?
But two could play at this game. Belle kept her many objections in sight even as she turned an enigmatic smile upon her father’s paramour.
The ruse worked; Marie-Claude completely misread Belle’s seemingly benign expression. “So lovely,” she said. “So much like your dear papa. The family resemblance is undeniable.” A small tear slid down her perfectly made-up face.
Belle stifled a grimace and finally pulled her hand free. She looked at Rosco, who shrugged his shoulders in an attitude that said: She’s a pro, what can I say? You were warned ahead of time. Belle tightened her lips and decided to take charge of the situation. This wasn’t a Parisian salon, after all—or a time to share loving reminiscences. “Professor Araignée, my husband and I have reason to believe that my father did not die of natural causes.” She watched for a reaction, saw nothing, then continued, “We believe, in fact, that he was murdered.”
“Ah, mon Dieu.” Marie-Claude raised her eyes heavenward. She looked as though she were about to swoon. “But non… He … He … suffered from the coeur… from the heart attack, n’est-ce pas?” With her well-honed instincts for female competition, she’d already deduced that Belle wasn’t going to be as soft-hearted—or as malleable—as she’d hoped. Instead, Marie-Claude looked toward Rosco, hoping his reaction would be more indulgent. “But surely it was a heart attack, non?”
“That was the police’s initial—” he began.
“But the failure of the heart is not a gunshot wound, monsieur … or the stabbing with the knife.”
As Belle opened her mouth to speak, Rosco noted how dark her gray eyes had become, and decided to intervene. “You are absolutely correct, Professor Araignée. There is some thought that … Well, perhaps a sophisticated poison—”
“Ah, mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Mon cher Teddy … How he must have suffered …”
Rosco watched Belle’s expression grow more and more irate while Marie-Claude uttered a plaintive:
“What terrible fiend would do such a—?”
This time it was Belle who answered. Her voice had turned measured and hard. “We have reason to suspect that someone—possibly a person with whom you are well acquainted—believes that you are either directly involved in my father’s death or know who is.”
Marie-Claude gasped, her eyes grown wide with horror. “Moi? How can that be? Who is this person? Why would I have wished …? But no, c’est impossible—”
“Impossible or not,” Belle continued in a sterner tone, “there is someone who strongly suspects your collusion.”
“Collusion?” Marie-Claude looked to Rosco to rescue her from this attack. “What is this word ‘collusion’? But, of course, I must know who my accuser is!”
Belle all but growled; Rosco reached out a hand to calm her, but she only frowned in response. Why did Rosco mention the possibility of poison? her brain demanded. Aren’t we here to interrogate Marie-Claude—instead of playing into her hands?
“I understand, dear girl,” Marie-Claude finally began, “dear belle fille, that you are—how you say in English?—discomfited at meeting me, perhaps, even of discovering my existence in your father’s—”
“These charges have nothing to do with my personal feelings, Professor—”
“Non?” Marie-Claude allowed herself a tragic smile. “Then you are a better woman than I.”
Again, Rosco stepped into the breech. “Professor Araignée, in light of what we now suspect regarding Dr. Graham’s death—”
“The case of poison, yes?”
“Yes,” Rosco answered while Belle remained ominously quiet. “In light of that situation—as well as other potentially criminal issues—I’d like to question you again in regards to your husband’s disappearance. My wife and I have reason to suspect that the two deaths may be linked.”
“Franklin and Teddy?”
Rosco nodded.
“As I said, monsieur, we were in Guatemala … François went away in an aeroplane—”
“Where was he going?” Belle interjected.
Marie-Claude affected an innocent shrug. “François was a man given to privacy. He liked being privé with his work. I assumed he was doing some piece of field research—”
“Assumed,” Belle said. “You use the word in the past tense. Do you no longer believe that was the case? Or are you convinced that his body will never be found?”
Marie-Claude looked from Belle to Rosco. Her eyelashes appeared to tremble. “You must forgive my English,” she said to Rosco. Belle, she ignored.
The subject of this snub deepened her scowl, but continued her interrogation. “Were you there, Professor? With your husband in Guatemala when his plane departed?”
“We had traveled to the airport together … However, I boarded a commercial jetliner for the States. François had leased a small, single-engine plane. So very petit, so very dangereux. His disappearance was not noticed for more than a week, and only then because I had not heard from him. Although, such instances were—how shall I put it?—not uncommon in our … our marriage.” She paused, looking again at Rosco, who nodded once but didn’t say more.
Marie-Claude continued. “The American Consul did what he could … The local police sent out a photograph of François, contacted other airports and so forth, but I do not believe they took my husband’s disappearance seriously …” Her voice began to crack; she heaved a heartfelt sigh, then resumed her tale while Belle continued to sit in stony silence. “François’s body was never found—”
“And that’s when my father became such a comfort to you? I believe that’s the term you used when my husband initially spoke to you?”
Marie-Claude turned to Belle. Her eyes were full of sorrow. “You are angry with me, I know. Je comprends tous… And maybe you are also a little jealous, non? But you have no cause to suspect me of evil, mademoiselle … madame, I should say.” Marie-Claude tried for a conciliatory smile; Belle didn’t reciprocate. “I was exceedingly fond of your father, and he was—”
This time it was Rosco who interrupted. “I realize I’ve asked this before, Professor, but at the risk of repeating myself, I’d like to try and clarify a few additional issues … My wife’s father arrived in New Jersey at around noon on the twelfth. That leaves six hours before he met you. Originally, you said you didn’t know where he spent the time. I ask you to think back … Are there any hints he might have dropped—?”
“Non.”
Belle stifled a frustrated groan. “Perhaps you’d like to hazard a guess, madame? I find it very hard to believe you have no idea whatsoever.”
“But he did not speak of such things! And I did not ask. Why would I? I assumed that he had only just arrived by train that evening, and then come directly to see me. At any rate, it did not matter. He was here to see me. That is all I needed to know. You find
it puzzling, non?”
“Did you discuss his argument with the CEO of Savante?” Rosco asked.
Marie-Claude gazed at Belle, and then at Rosco; her lips twitched. “I told you, monsieur, when you originally posed the same question … I told you what Theodore’s reaction to his … his confrontation had been … Now I will say only that Teddy talked of his strong dislike of makers of pollution … You know how firm was his passion in his research project, and his deep desire to protect the ancient sites in Mexico …”
Belle looked away. She didn’t believe a word this woman was saying. And the more she listened, the more impossible it was to imagine her father in the thrall of someone so obviously conniving. For a moment, she considered getting up and walking out of the room and away from this exercise in futility. Belle sighed aloud. There had to be some trick she could employ, some means of tripping up this devious woman. “You obviously knew my father very well, madame. So you would have recognized a notebook he always carried with him—”
“Mais, oui! Black with funny white markings … Like the ones schoolboys carry—”
“And he had it with him when he left here?”
“But of course, ma chère Annabella. But then, you must know how much he loved to watch the birds!” Marie-Claude smiled and continued with a blithe: “And he also had with him his very proper blue box.”
Belle looked in Rosco’s direction. “What blue box?” he asked, although it was to Belle that Marie-Claude directed her response:
“Your cher papa did not not tell you about this most important valise?” She held out her hands to indicate a rectangular object fourteen or so inches long. “A shiny lock and a small, precise handle? Very dangereuse, he said. ‘It contains blood, sweat, and tears.’ An absurd concept, no?”
