A Crossword to Die For

by Nero Blanc

CHAPTER 30

  “‘Blood, sweat, and tears’ … and a specious ‘blue box’! Why did we let that hideous woman get away with making such absurd statements, Rosco? I thought we were going to ask tough questions—not let her do her how-you-say-in-English-French-flirt bit!”

  “Something was way off in there. The way she was talking in circles made me feel as if there was someone in the next room, listening in.”

  Evening had darkened into night, but she and Rosco continued to sit in the Jeep’s front seats, a host of unanswerable and rancorous questions wedged between them. After another few minutes of embattled silence, Belle spotted a weary meter reader approaching, a ticket at the ready for their long-expired slot. She dragged herself from the car, removed a quarter from her pocket, and said, “I have that, sir, we just pulled up a moment ago.”

  He replied, “Not a problem, miss,” and moved to the next meter.

  “You’re becoming a pretty good liar …” Rosco offered as she slid back into the car.

  “I’ve been taught by the best.”

  “And I’ve had better compliments,” was Rosco’s brief response.

  They remained speechless for several additional minutes. Finally Rosco placed his hand on Belle’s leg and said, “I shouldn’t have let you meet that woman … The emotions were running too high—”

  “We were supposed to get Marie-Claude to trip herself up,” was Belle’s irritable reply, “not play into her hands—”

  “We weren’t playing into her hands—”

  “It sure felt as if you were—”

  “You know that’s not the case—”

  “But that’s what it felt like!”

  “It wouldn’t have helped if we’d both chosen the confrontational route, Belle. One of us had to be the ‘good cop.’ And you know it could never have been you.”

  “But you told her we suspected Father had been poisoned, Rosco!”

  “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  “But for all we know, she’s the one who did it!”

  “True.”

  Belle grumbled a disgruntled: “Well? What now?”

  Rosco remained silent a moment. “What if the ‘blue box’ isn’t an invention?”

  “A valise containing ‘blood, sweat, and tears,’ Rosco? Come on! That’s the name of an old rock group. My father wouldn’t have known them from Adam!”

  “We can’t deny the possibility of a box matching that description—”

  “Oh, baloney! What Marie-Claude described sounded like a fancy makeup case … And judging from the incredible care—and time—she obviously devotes to her appearance, my guess is she was giving us a perfect example of one of her dearest possessions.”

  “Okay … You may be correct there … But bear with me a minute … What if this valise exists?”

  “With a bunch of blood and tears sloshing around inside?”

  “I’m being serious, Belle. Bear with me, please … And what if your father, in fact, was involved in a covert activity, and therefore acting as a courier—”

  “You mean running drugs?”

  “No. That’s not what I mean at all … What if the valise contained incriminating evidence of some sort—”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know … photographs … records … No, it would need to be something physical … something that needed to be given to another person … someone in law enforcement … FBI …”

  “Which would mean that whoever killed Father needed to steal the case, and that’s why it never appeared with his other luggage …” Belle groaned aloud. “But your supposition is based on the hypothesis that the spider lady was telling the truth.”

  Rosco didn’t answer for a moment. “I shouldn’t have let you meet her,” he finally said.

  “That’s not the point. The point is that you were playing into her hands. You still are.” Belle’s words caught in her throat. “Just like my father.” Then tears filled her eyes while her chest shook with a stifled sob. “Why do women like Marie-Claude exist? Why does anyone trust them?”

  Rosco made no move to assuage Belle’s sorrow. Instead, he let her give vent to her outrage and indignation, finally producing a folded handkerchief from his jacket pocket. She sniffled into it, dabbed at her eyes, and at last drew out a lengthy sigh. “Promise me you’ll never take up with a witch like Madame Araignée.”

  “I promise.”

  Belle looked at him, her mouth still tight.

  “I won’t, Belle … And I haven’t a clue why your father was involved with her … But then …” His words trickled off as he thought. “You know, we have only Marie-Claude’s word on it that she and your dad were involved …”

  Belle nodded slowly. “What’s your point?”

  “Well, maybe the entire focus of our investigation is wrong … We’ve been going under the assumption that your dad stayed with Madame Araignée, that they had a long-term relationship—”

  “But she and Father had to be connected in some fashion. Otherwise how would she have known about his confrontation with Oclen?”

  “I don’t know …” Rosco admitted. “But I suggest we reexamine your hunches again … skulls in one crossword and another stating a definitive THREE MAY KEEP A SECRET IF TWO OF THEM ARE DEAD—”

  “But that’s the problem! My hunches keep disappearing on me!”

  Rosco leaned across the Jeep and took his wife’s face in his hands. “What do you say we shelve this discussion for tonight? I’ll treat you to a night in a local inn … a romantic dinner … candlelight … We’ll call Sara. I’m sure she’ll be happy to keep Kit for an extra day.”

  Belle gazed at him. “Okay …” Then she added a soft and conciliatory. “You’re a good person, Rosco.”

  “It helps to hear you say it.”

  The bedroom in the country inn in neighboring Lawrenceville was awash in chintzes and pastel-hued stripes and plaids: blues and lilac pinks and daffodil yellows. Belle was delighted at the welcoming scene. Rosco was happy she was pleased. “And lavender soap,” she murmured. “I love the smell of lavender.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, I’d forgotten until this very minute … You know, when we get home, I’m going to get a book on home decorating, and start from scratch. No more crossword-themed rooms—”

  “But your office is where I fell in love with you … Anyway, I’m not sure all this—” Rosco indicated the floral drapes, the pillow-laden chairs, the bed’s fluffy quilt and matching dust ruffle, but words seemed to fail him.

  “You’re right,” Belle interjected. “It is a bit over the top … definitely not a ‘guy look.’”

  “Al wouldn’t go for it, that’s certain.”

  Belle smiled at the notion, then the expression vanished.

  “I shouldn’t have mentioned Al, Belle. Forget what I said. Let’s just have a nice night; we can get back to business in the morning.”

  “No,” was her pensive reply. “We came to Princeton for a reason …” She paused in thought. “I want you to look at these two puzzles with me, Rosco. Maybe I missed something.”

  “How about we wait till tomorrow?”

  “How about we give them a half an hour—max? Then I’m all yours.”

  Rosco chuckled. “Half an hour … Promise?”

  “Scout’s honor. Besides, when have you known me to lose track of time?”

  Sitting side by side on the bed, Rosco scanned the printout at the top of the crossword. “Faxed from Belize,” he mused.

  “I gather the sender’s number belongs to a Central American version of an office superstore,” Belle answered. “At least that’s how I interpreted the logo … Which means that the puzzle could have been transmitted by someone using a phony name.”

  Rosco nodded as he scanned the SKULL clues. “But why wouldn’t this person simply contact us by telephone if he or she has information to share?”

  “Well, here’s what I’m beginning to wonder …” Belle began. “It might seem far-
fetched initially … When my father and mother lived in Princeton, I remember them talking about Woody Woo—”

  “Who’s Woody Woo?”

  “It’s not a who. It’s a place … an institution … the nickname for the foreign affairs school at Princeton—the Woodrow Wilson School. It used to funnel a lot of people into the State Department back when my father was here; maybe it still does. Anyway, my mother used to joke that it was a ‘Spy School—’”

  Rosco cleared his throat; he seemed about to speak.

  “Wait,” Belle said, “let me finish … Now, we’ve got Woody in Florida—”

  “And the boat, Wooden Shoe—”

  “Yes … and the boat … But what I’m wondering is this: If my father were part of a covert operation—is it possible that Horace Llewellen was his contact? And the name ‘Woody’ was an inside joke—a reference to Father’s Princeton days? Or maybe Llewellen graduated from the Wilson School?”

  “And therefore, Woody would have known what was in the blue box?”

  “I’m not addressing that issue yet … I’m only talking about the possibility of Llewellen/Woody being an undercover operator … Maybe he can’t contact us without blowing his cover … Thus the clues in the form of crosswords.”

  Rosco was quiet for a moment. “Interesting theory. But how could Woody/Llewellen send the puzzles? There’s no way he could have motored that Hatteras from Sanibel to Belize in time. He’d have to cruise down the Keys and gas up in Key West before shooting across the Gulf. I imagine a trip like that would take over a week. At the minimum.”

  “Couldn’t he have just sailed up the coast to the next marina and taken a flight out of Tampa?”

  Rosco considered this suggestion for a moment, then said, “Okay … I agree, it’s a possibility, but right now you and I aren’t jumping on a plane to Belize to hunt down a mystery crossword constructor … Whoever sent these puzzles, sent them … and the one with the SKULL theme was intended to get us down to New Jersey and Marie-Claude … which, I’m sorry to say, brings us right back to our questionable valise.” Rosco pulled out his notebook as he reached for his cell phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “John Markoe, the Amtrak conductor who discovered your father … Al gave me his number. I’d like to see if he remembers an unusual-looking piece of luggage. He seems to have remembered everything else.”

  Rosco punched in numbers, and waited. Eventually he mouthed, “No answer, just a machine …” Then he left a message asking Markoe to return the call.

  “What about Shawn at the rental car company? Would he have noticed if my father were carrying anything out of the ordinary?”

  Rosco thought for a second. “It’s pretty late, but I’ll give it a try …” He punched in the listing, and was more than a little surprised when Shawn answered. The question he’d put to John Markoe was repeated. Then Rosco clicked off. “Strike out,” he said. “But that kid sure puts in some long hours …”

  Belle sighed. “There must be something we haven’t explored yet … or something we’re ignoring …” She studied the crossword puzzles again. “The only other New Jersey reference I can find is at 48-Across: Debbie’s aunt.”

  Rosco raised an eyebrow. “In Kings Creek … which might very well put us in range of the unaccounted miles your father racked up. You didn’t bring the address, by any chance?”

  Belle grabbed her book bag. “It’s 127 Oak Lane—”

  “That could well be where your dad went …” Rosco reached across the bed, took the file folder from Belle’s hand, and dropped it on the nightstand. “How about a drive to Kings Creek first thing tomorrow?”

  “As opposed to tonight?”

  “If you look at your watch, you’ll notice your half hour is up. And I doubt anyone in Kings Creek would appreciate a midnight visit.”

  Rosco turned the key in the Jeep’s ignition. “The Jersey map’s in the glove compartment.”

  “I can’t believe you just did that! You almost hit that poor kid.” Belle shook her head from side to side.

  Belle opened it. “Okay … first, we need to get onto Route 206 and head north. It’s back that way.” She pointed; and Rosco made a quick U-turn, narrowly missing a pedestrian with an ankle cast who was hobbling along the crosswalk on crutches.

  “I saw him.”

  “Right … And I’ll bet there isn’t a cop for twenty miles. I’d be in jail right now if I tried a stunt like that.”

  “There aren’t any cops around. I looked.”

  “That still doesn’t make it legal, you know?”

  Rosco only grumbled as he headed in the direction of Route 206. Finally, Belle spoke again. “This isn’t going to be easy … seeing Debbie’s aunt … and Mike …”

  When Rosco didn’t answer, Belle looked over at him. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’d be devastated if anything happened to you. I’ve never met Mike Hurley … I don’t know what I’m going to say.”

  Belle placed her hand on Rosco’s. “I guess, just that you’re sorry … All we really have to offer is our sympathy.” She also fell silent. “I’m going to make a suggestion … With the funeral tomorrow, why don’t we just wait a few days and then phone Rachel and ask her if Father went to Kings Creek?”

  “My instincts tell me it’s a good time to stop by, Belle. Number One: It’ll look more polite. We can offer our condolences in person, bring flowers or something … Number Two: If there’s anything fishy about the situation—or even an inkling that Mrs. Volsay knows more than she’s telling—it’ll be easier to detect the lies in person.”

  Belle’s shoulders tensed. “I don’t like this,” she said at last.

  “And I don’t like the fact that your dad may have been murdered.”

  They drove on in silence, the heavy greenery of a New Jersey summer making the air feel thick and wet and slumberous. Belle yawned once, then twice.

  “Not enough sleep last night?” Rosco smiled.

  Belle grinned in reply. “Not hardly.” Then she pulled the Use Your Head! crossword from her book bag. “There are some far-fetched answers in this puzzle,” she mused aloud. “U-O-L-A.” She spelled it out. “As in UOLA Road, Truk Island… U-C-L-A would have made a lot more more sense, besides being an answer any crossword aficionado would recognize—”

  Rosco chuckled. “You’re sounding a trifle fanatical—”

  “I am fanatical … A person who creates a word game should use language that’s in common usage—unless, if you will, he’s extremely short on imagination … I mean, look at the entire lower-left corner here … UOLA instead of UCLA … The same thing’s true with the bottom right corner … 59-Down: Chemical symbol for prussic acid… I only got that one by completing the other words—”

  “You mean HCN, as in hydrocyanic acid?”

  Belle glanced up abruptly. “Don’t tell me you once considered a career in chemical engineering?”

  “High school science, actually. Mr. Manzo, the teacher, mixed up a batch of hydrocyanic acid one day and had us all take a whiff. HCN’s one of the deadliest poisons around, and you know what? It smells like peaches—or peach nectar, to be more precise.” Rosco chuckled. “Nobody went within ten feet of a peach or a peach product for the rest of the academic year.” He laughed again, but quickly noticed that Belle found nothing humorous about his story. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “My father was addicted to peach nectar.”

  CHAPTER 31

  “Peach nectar …” Belle repeated while Rosco grabbed his cell phone and placed another call to John Markoe’s home number. As it had the previous night, the Amtrak conductor’s answering machine picked up.

  “This is Rosco Polycrates calling again, John … I have another question regarding Professor Graham. Do you have any recollection of whether or not there was a beverage container on the tray table when you found the body: coffee, milk, beer, soda, whatever …? I realize you’ve supplied the police with a good deal of useful informatio
n, but there’s one further lead we need to follow … Please give me a call at your earliest convenience. I appreciate it.” Rosco reiterated his thanks, repeated his contact numbers, and rang off.

  “Why didn’t you just ask him if Father had a can of peach nectar?” Belle asked while Rosco switched off the phone.

  “I don’t want to put words in his mouth. Either he remembers seeing a fruit juice container, or he doesn’t. And trust me, Belle, if there’s any piece of information—large or small—that’s connected to this case, Markoe’s the guy to drag it out of his memory bank.”

  They reached Kings Creek at that moment, and began driving slowly along Main Street, which then bisected Central Avenue. Belle saw what she assumed was the library in the distance, shuddered, and averted her gaze. Instead, she studied the other buildings as they cruised by, noting with dismay that a number of the town’s commercial sites were vacant—victims to glossier chains or plain, old hard times. No more Edie’s Dresser Drawers; no more Tots ’n Teens; no more Knittin’ Bag: The locally owned retail shops that had once supported Kings Creek’s economy had seen better days.

  Rosco angled the Jeep into one of many available parking spaces while Belle willed herself not to look in the direction of the library.

  “You know,” she said after a troubled moment, “if my father was poisoned with this prussic acid, and if the substance was added to a can of peach nectar, it would have to have been done by someone who knew he loved the stuff.” She frowned in concentration. “Besides which, the person must have been traveling with Father—and carrying a vial of HCN.”

  Rosco set the parking brake and turned to face her. “Not necessarily, Belle … Those individual fruit juice cans are very easy to tamper with. They have a foil tab on top; it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to peel back the tab, add a drop of poison, and reglue the foil … However you’re on the money in assuming that someone knew he was fond of peach nectar … But that someone could have supplied him with an entire six-pack as far back as Florida—and your father didn’t consume the lethal can until he was nearing Newcastle … On the other hand, Marie-Claude could have given it to him the night before … Bon voyage! Have a nice trip!”