A Crossword to Die For
Page 23
He strode in the direction of a person who seemed to be the foreman. “You’ve got to stop this! People can’t hear themselves think!” Stark shouted above the noise of the backhoe.
The man merely turned and peered down at him. He was far bigger than Stark, and thirty to forty years younger. His hair and face were the same color: a tawny, reddish pink. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the senior warden of—”
“A warden, eh? Well, we ain’t got no escaped prisoners here, warden.” The man also raised his voice above the din, but it was clear from his posture that he was the one on solid ground and not his visitor. “I only hire top-notch workers. Can’t afford not to. Not with the time schedule we’re on, and all … You know, I would have took you to be retired there, warden—”
“No, you misunderstood. I’m—”
“You gotta speak up—”
“Of the church! I’m the warden of a church, not a prison!” Stark bellowed. “Of the church down there!” He pointed insistently. “The one your machinery is—”
“Take it easy there, mister—”
Stark’s blue eyes flashed with rage. “Don’t you know that this is the Sabbath day! It’s Sunday!”
The foreman’s face broke into an easy smile. “This could be Independence Day and New Year’s rolled into one, and my crew would still be working. We’ve got to get these foundations dug before the November freezes set in or we’re toast; and right now we’re behind schedule … Architects! You gotta love ’em … They give the owner a pretty picture, and bing-bang, you’ve got a whole new hole to dig …” He made to move off, but Stark grabbed at his arm.
“Your machinery’s damaging our church!”
The man stared hard at the hand clinging to his arm. Stark released his grasp, but maintained his confrontational stance. “Sue the owner if you want, fella, but don’t go hollerin’ at me. I don’t make the rules. I just follow them … And that’s the same thing I told all the other folks who’ve been barging in here with complaints. You want a stable; you want a pool, a pump house, guest house, summer kitchen, you name it … just call me up. But don’t come here and start yellin’ about destroying the community, or not giving local laborers a chance to work—or ruining a neighboring building. Or history—I don’t know nuttin’ about history.” Again, he began to walk away, then stopped himself and gazed curiously at Stark. “I never heard of a church that needed a warden … What kind of a place is it anyway? Like a rehab house?”
“It’s an Episcopal church, a very old church, and you—”
“Yeah, I know … I know … We’re wreckin’ the neighborhood. Talk to the owner, if you want, fella … But right now, I’d suggest you leave before you get hurt. This here is a construction site—”
“I can see that,” Stark countered testily. “That was my line of work before—”
“Well, there you go then, pops. You know exactly what I’m up against. Winter setting in and a homeowner breathing fire … Architects! Yeesch. And there’s more rocks in this ground than I got in my head for takin’ on this friggin’ job in the first place.” He walked off before Stark had time to respond.
It was dark by the time Milton Hoffmeyer pulled into his own narrow lane. His hands clutched and reclutched the steering wheel as he stared unhappily at his home. White shingles, a freshly swept porch, light streaming from the ground floor windows, the curtains hung just so. Milton’s wife was far more fastidious than he; and he knew when he walked in the door he’d smell the familiar aroma of Sunday night supper: a soup with dumplings she’d made by hand and an apple crisp with fruit picked from their own trees. The apples would be the strongest scent, winey and redolent of autumn. The linoleum floor would be immaculate, the tea towels beside the sink pressed and clean, the countertop spotless as though no one had been chopping or peeling or slicing.
Another spasm of misery attacked him. Although he hadn’t expressed the opinion as vociferously as John Stark, he was just as upset about the changes being worked on the Quigley house. Why does “progress” need to barge in here? Milton thought. And why now—just as I’m thinking of retiring? How come we let big spenders from Boston or Newcastle buy up our land and change it? All they do is make us feel small, make us feel old and useless.
“Is that you, hon?” he heard as the kitchen door swung open. “Whatever are you doing skulking out there in the car? Come in before you take cold.” Backlit, his wife appeared featureless, but her shortish hair fluffed around her face like a fuzzy white halo, and her entire persona seemed to emanate good.
Hoffmeyer dragged himself from the car.
“That vestry,” his wife sighed goodnaturedly. “It’ll be the death of you.”
“It’s not the vestry this time, May—”
“Not one of your regular rows with John?” She stood aside to let her husband pass through the door. His long back was bent and dispirited. “I swear, I don’t know why you two like bickering so much. You’d think you would have had enough of it by now. Enough of it several decades ago. Maybe enough of it when you were young—”
“It’s not a disagreement with Stark this time, May. It’s all that mess up at Quigley’s—”
“Uh-oh … That sounds like John talking—”
“I hate to admit it, May, but I think he’s right …” Hoffmeyer shook his bearlike head.
“Nothing you can do, Milton. Besides, that church has been around a mighty long time—”
“John’s concerned about structural damage. He went up to the site—”
“Oh dear, I hope he doesn’t get himself into mischief. You know how bullheaded he can be.” She closed the kitchen door behind them, and returned to her place at the stove. “What do they say? If it ain’t broke …” May stirred her soup, adding a pinch of salt, a pinch of thyme, a generous pat of yellow butter. The problematic issue of the senior warden disappeared in a cloud of scented steam. “We had a call from young Milt while you were gone. He sounded real happy, real upbeat. He said his campaign’s going great guns. The latest polls said he was holding his lead.” She smiled as she worked, all troubles banished. “Just think of that … a grandson who’s almost in public office. Public office! I still can’t believe it … Milton Hoffmeyer the Third, United States Congressman. Don’t those words have the grandest ring. He said he’d see us on Election Day … Now, you go and wash up. Supper’s almost ready.”
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The Answers
To download a PDF of the answers, please visit openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords/answers
FATHER’S DAY
SIGNS OF THE TIMES
IT HURTS SO …
WORDS TO THE WISE
USE YOUR HEAD!
ONCE THE GAME IS OVER …
About the Author
Nero Blanc is the pseudonym of Steve Zettler and Cordelia Frances Biddle, who are husband and wife and serious crossword buffs. Biddle is also the author of the Martha Beale historical mystery series, which is set in Philadelphia, Zettler and Biddle’s hometown. Their website is www.crosswordmysteries.com.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2002 by Cordelia Frances Biddle and Steve Zettler
Cover design by Tammy Seidick
ISBN: 978-1-4976-7172-0
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10014
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