A Crossword to Die For

by Nero Blanc

  Belle reached over and touched Rosco’s arm. “I know what you’re going to say … If we can make a link between Father’s death and the deaths on Oak Lane—” She stopped speaking and shut her eyes. “Murder,” she eventually murmured. “I know we’ve been using that word … but I wasn’t fully aware of the implications until this minute … It’s a bizarre notion, Rosco … to think of someone plotting to kill my father …”

  They drove on without talking. At length Belle resumed the discussion. “So … So, I guess I should call Al and give my approval for an autopsy …” Again, she paused. “But what about looking into Debbie’s death, too?”

  “Let’s start with your dad. If Carlyle discovers traces of any toxic substances, it won’t be difficult to get the Kings Creek Police to cooperate.” He paused. “But let’s not mention our concerns to Mike or Rachel yet. They’ve got enough on their plates at the moment.”

  Rosco and Belle made a brief detour, stopping at a convenience store to purchase two liter-sized bottles of drinking water. They dumped the contents onto a nearby pot of geraniums, and continued to the Volsay home. Rosco angled the Jeep into the same spot he’d previously used. Rachel’s car was parked in front. “That’s a lucky break,” he said, “They’re back from the funeral home.”

  In the distance they could see Mike Hurley seated on the bench at the end of the street. His slumped position indicated a state of intense depression.

  “I feel so sorry for him,” Belle said as they stepped from the Jeep. “Perhaps I should go talk with him.”

  “I’ll do it. I think Mike needs a pal more than anything right now. I don’t know if I’m the right person, but I’ll give it a shot … Why don’t you try to get a tap water sample from Rachel’s house; I’ll work on the creek.”

  “Without Mike noticing?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  Belle tried for a lighthearted smile. “Should we coordinate our watches?”

  In answer, Rosco gave her a kiss. Then he stuffed an empty water bottle into a canvas satchel while Belle hid hers in her purse.

  She walked to the house. Rachel Volsay opened the door before she had time to knock.

  “I heard you pull up …” Rachel’s eyes pooled with tears as she spoke. “Deb looked wonderful … They did a good job. She looked, well, almost …”

  Belle stepped into the entryway and attempted to place an arm around Mrs. Volsay, but the gesture only served to increase the older woman’s bitter unhappiness.

  “I’m so sorry,” was all Belle could say.

  Rachel pressed a tissue against her eyes. “What brings you back here?”

  “We weren’t sure where the cemetery was,” Belle lied. “We didn’t want to be late tomorrow and I thought a phone call seemed too impersonal.”

  “Won’t you come in for a moment? I’ll make us some tea.”

  As Belle entered the living room, the front door swung shut, then Rachel Volsay disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ll only be a minute,” she called out. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  “I wonder if I might use your powder room first?”

  A disembodied voice provided directions. “Down the hall … first door on the right …”

  Belle found it, and closed and locked the door. She was surprised at her own nervousness. There’s nothing illegal in asking to use the rest room, she told herself. Why should Rachel Volsay suspect me of doing anything underhanded?

  Belle examined the room: a petite avocado-colored sink, a narrow shower stall hidden by a striped green and white curtain, a plush “commode cover” on the toilet seat. Pulling the empty bottle from her purse, she tried to place it under the sink tap but found the container too large. She moved to the shower stall, attempting to fill it there, but only about seventy percent of the water entered the bottle’s neck while the rest ran down her arms or misted against her dress. “Darn it!” she groused under her breath as she reached for a paper hand towel, found it inadequate, then turned the hem of her skirt inside out, sopping up additional beads of water—all the while growing more and more apprehensive and agitated. Beads of sweat started up on her forehead; the minutes seemed to stretch into a good half hour. Finally, she jammed the bottle back into her purse, flushed the toilet for effect, and reentered the living room. Rachel was waiting there with a plate of cookies and a tray containing sugar and milk. She pointed to an object on the floor near her feet. It was a small squarish valise covered in blue Naugahyde. “I assume this is what you’ve been hunting for.”

  “Why did you come back?” Mike almost glared at Rosco as he spoke. “We didn’t expect to see you again until tomorrow.” Then his shoulders sagged deeper, and his spine curved forward. “Sorry … That’s rude of me. But I just … I just …”

  Rosco touched his shoulder. “Belle forgot something in Rachel’s house. And I spotted you sitting down here … and, well, you looked like you could use a friend.”

  Mike didn’t answer. Instead he stared at the creek’s far bank.

  After an uncomfortable silence, Rosco tried again. “So … I guess you’ll be heading back to Florida when … this is all over?”

  “My emergency leave’s up on Thursday …” The words were a monotone mumble.

  “Right …” Rosco struggled for words. “I, uh, really admire you guys … You give up a lot. I hope you’re aware of how much your work is appreciated by people.”

  Mike drew in a tortured breath. “To be honest, it’ll be good to get out of New Jersey—and back on the water. I need to air out my brain … Decide where I go from here …”

  “You’re lucky you like being on the water,” Rosco said after another weighty pause. “But I guess that’s what attracted you to the Guard in the first place, huh?”

  Mike nodded once, but didn’t offer a more detailed response.

  “Florida,” Rosco mused. “Most of your operations must be INS related? Illegal aliens, that sort of thing?”

  Mike shook his head. “Not me … I’m drug interdiction. We try to get the stuff before it hits the States. Fishing boats, small pleasure craft: They’re the usual means of transport … Texas used to be the main place of entry, but Florida’s catching up.”

  A ping went off in Rosco’s brain: Drug interdiction, fishing boats, pleasure craft, but he ignored the warning, instead, continuing with an affable: “That’s a lot of coastline to cover.”

  “More than any state in the Union.”

  “But you’re only down there temporarily, right?”

  “Yup … My home base is in Bayonne. We run the same type of ops in New York Harbor. And on the Hudson River …” He sighed again.

  “Dangerous job,” Rosco finally said.

  “If there are drugs aboard … sure, it can be …” Then Mike changed the subject, gazing wistfully down into the creek. “Deb used to catch sunnies here when she was a kid …”

  “Is that so?”

  “No fish in it now, though.”

  “I wonder why?” Rosco said. “The water’s clear as glass.” He climbed down the slope to the water’s edge, crouched and placed his hand into the flowing stream. “You’re right,” he called back, “there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of marine life.” He glanced over his shoulder; the bench and Mike were completely hidden from view.

  Rosco pulled the empty bottle from his sack, twisted off the cap, and plunged the bottle under the surface. The gurgling sound disappeared beneath the noise of shallow water rushing over the rocks. Nonetheless the bottle seemed to take forever to fill. He tilted it from side to side in an effort to expedite the process.

  “Picking up where Ted left off?”

  Rosco jerked upward to find Mike staring down at him. “Ahh … As a matter of fact, yes … Yes, I am … So … You were aware of what Ted was doing?”

  In answer, Mike turned and stalked back to the bench. Rosco capped off the bottle and climbed back up the creek bank, repeating his question. “Did Ted tell you why he was taking water sampl
es? Because I was under the impression that he wasn’t discussing—”

  “Yes. Yes. He told me.” The words were bitten and hard.

  “Ah …” Rosco again fumbled for words. If Mike was aware of Ted Graham’s efforts, then Debbie should have known also, meaning the possibility that the hit-and-run was more than accidental was now even stronger.

  But before Rosco could pose another question, Mike added a subdued: “Deb … She didn’t know anything about what Ted was doing …”

  Rosco continued to stare. “Meaning that you … that you and Professor Graham kept his research on MTBE contamination a secret? Meaning that Rachel’s also in the dark.”

  “Right … He didn’t want to scare them before he had better data.”

  Rosco could only shake his head. “How could you not talk to your wife?”

  “I don’t want to discuss this, okay?” Mike almost yelled. “I mean, maybe I did the wrong thing. Maybe Ted did the wrong thing. But it’s too late now, isn’t it? Nothing’s going to bring my Debbie back. It’s over.”

  The fierceness in the tone told Rosco to back off. He took a deep breath. “You’re right. Nothing will change what happened. But Ted was trying to help Debbie … help her family—”

  “I don’t want to talk about her, okay?”

  Rosco moved to sit next to him, but stopped. Instead he placed the water bottle on the bench and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Mike, I know how broken up you’re feeling. I do … But don’t you see, the companies that cause this type of pollution—in this case, Savante—have an enormous amount to lose. If they need to keep a secret, keep people quiet, what does it matter if innocent people—”

  Mike jumped up. “I told you, I don’t want to listen to this! And I wish Ted had never stuck his nose in here where it didn’t belong. All this hero stuff. Change the world? That’s not me. That’s never going to be me. Besides, what difference does it make anymore?”

  “I understand your feelings, Mike. Believe me … But it does make a difference … You can’t bring Debbie back. But you can help other people. You especially … Coast Guard personnel. A good-looking guy facing a terrible loss … You have a level of credibility, of trust and honesty, that isn’t afforded to most people … If you don’t want to talk about it now, fine. But don’t turn your back on this one, Mike. There’s too much at stake … Besides, you know how much the media loves those DEA ops you guys do … criminals brought to justice? This is just another battle front—”

  “DEA? DEA? Where do you get that? I’m not some … some agent. I run drug tests. I test bags of white powder to determine if they’re cocaine, heroin … whatever. That’s what I do. I told you I’m not a hero, and I’m not some secret agent waving a gun. I’m a chemical engineer.”

  CHAPTER 35

  “You’re a chemical engineer?” Rosco made no attempt to hide his surprise. His brain jumped to his discussion with Belle: The obscure crossword puzzle answers, the HCN/prussic acid/hydrocyanic acid debate—and her insistence that only a chemical engineer would be familiar with those terms.

  “Then it was you who constructed the puzzles.” Rosco stared dumbfounded at Mike. “And sent them to Belle …”

  Mike remained silent, so Rosco continued, “But how were you able to transmit them from Belize?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

  “THREE MAY KEEP A SECRET IF TWO OF THEM—” Rosco was interrupted by the ringing of the cell phone clipped to his waist. “Arrrgh,” he groaned. “I have to take this …” He paced rapidly along the creek bank until he was out of earshot, then flipped open his phone. “Rosco Polycrates.”

  “This is John Markoe, Mr. Polycrates. I apologize for not getting back to you sooner, but my Amtrak schedule can be erratic—”

  “Yes …John … Thanks for returning my call.” Rosco spoke slowly and carefully, using the time to refocus. “There are a couple of points I hope you can clear up.”

  “Shoot.”

  “This is back on August thirteenth, the day you discovered Dr. Graham’s body—?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m not likely to forget that one. No, siree-bob—”

  “My wife and I believe he was in possession of a blue box—or an unusual type of suitcase. Does that ring a bell?”

  There was a pause, then Markoe said, “That’s a tough one; I’m not sure I can recall exactly …”

  “We’re fairly certain he had it when he boarded the train, but it didn’t appear among the effects forwarded from Boston.”

  “No … Sorry … I can’t say I remember seeing anything like that. That doesn’t mean he didn’t have luggage matching that description, but you’d think I would have seen it if he had it—”

  “I see. Well, thank you—”

  “Now, that other message you left: wanting to know what the gentleman was drinking? That I can tell you.”

  “And …?”

  “It was peach nectar.”

  Rosco glanced back at the bench and Mike Hurley. “You’re sure of that?”

  “Absolutely. See, I thought it was a little odd, because we don’t sell that type of fruit juice on board. I mean, well, maybe it’s not so odd … Now, obviously the professor could have brought it with him … Myself, I’m a peach nectar junkie. That’s why I remember it.”

  “Is there a possibility the empty container might still be around?”

  “I’d sincerely doubt it. The police left it on the train when they removed the body, so I tossed it.”

  Rosco thought for a second. “You don’t recall anyone sitting with my wife’s father, do you?”

  “The train was fairly crowded that day. I’m sure someone occupied the seat—at least for part of the ride … But to be honest, I couldn’t provide any type of description—”

  “Could it have been a man wearing a Yankees hat?”

  Another hearty chuckle. “Those hats are all over the train this time of year! Everyone in the world’s a Yankees fan by the time Labor Day rolls around.”

  Rosco resisted the temptation to say, Don’t count on it, instead closing with, “I appreciate your help, John.”

  He snapped the phone shut and clipped it back onto his belt on the right side. Prussic acid smells like peach nectar, he thought as his brain leapt to the crosswords and Mike. A chemical engineer… Instinctively Rosco tapped the left side of his belt, expecting to find a .32 caliber pistol, but he found nothing. He wasn’t licensed to carry a gun in New Jersey; he’d left it in Massachusetts. He squared his shoulders and walked back along the creek.

  “That was an interesting call,” he said as he approached. “John Markoe, an Amtrak conductor … his memory’s sharp as a tack. He was aboard when Professor Graham died … It seems he recalls a strong odor of something that smells like peach nectar.”

  Mike brought his eyes up to meet Rosco’s. “Look, I already told you: I don’t want to discuss this subject anymore. What happened to Ted Graham has nothing to do with me.”

  Rosco nodded. “Well, all I’m asking for is a little help here … You just told me that you’re a chemical engineer. Now, in a discussion with the Medical Examiner up in Newcastle, he ran through a number of poisons that could have been used to … Well, substances that might produce an appearance of heart failure. One of them was hydrocyanic acid, also known as prussic acid or hydrogen cyanide … Seems like it smells a lot like peach nectar.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “In your estimation, is that a substance that can kill people?”

  “I suppose.”

  “A good chance, would you say? I mean, given a large dosage, easy to camouflage, and all that?”

  “I’d have to look it up.”

  Rosco nodded thoughtfully. “All right … Well, let me ask you something else. When Ted died, you and Deb … you were in Florida, right? Eh, it’s a matter of record.”

  Mike remained icily still for a moment, then finally said, “No. I was up here. I told you, my work bring
s me up North a lot.” His voice grew softer. “Debbie was in Sanibel.”

  “But she flew up to see her aunt right after Belle left Florida?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Because she wanted to find Ted’s missing notebook.”

  Mike started visibly. “What do you mean?”

  “Rachel told Belle that Deb looked high and low for it … turned the house upside down—”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense … I mean, she told me … she said it was his bird-watching book. Why would she need to get it back?”

  “Maybe because she knew all about Ted’s research into MTBE contamination. Maybe because she knew how crucial his discoveries were. Maybe she believed there was a case against Savante.”

  Mike didn’t reply. He shut his eyes. A long sigh seemed to shake his frame.

  “So, here we have a peculiar situation,” Rosco continued. “A husband whose wife’s boss shared potentially dangerous data with him—with the stipulation that the data be kept secret. And a wife who was keeping the same information hidden from her husband. Doesn’t that seem foolish to you? Two people who ‘told each other everything,’ according to you?”

  Again, Mike made no reply.

  “Now, my guess is that Debbie was deeply involved with Ted’s efforts regarding her family and the Tollivers—”

  “But she never … She never—”

  “She never confided those concerns to you?”

  Mike’s head sank lower. “No.”

  Rosco remained silent a moment. “You may be interested to know that John Markoe just told me he remembered a guy sitting next to Ted—a guy wearing a Yankees cap … He said he can provide a description. I told him to contact the Boston Police.” Rosco paused, waiting for a reaction that didn’t come. “He also said that the police in Boston are holding several items in sealed evidence bags. One of which is an empty individual-sized can of peach nectar—which is a fruit juice Amtrak doesn’t sell in its café car.”

  “Why didn’t she tell me?” was all Mike said in response.