The Crossword Connection

by Nero Blanc

  “Sir, the police have been summoned by an automatic alarm system; all activity in the shop is being monitored by video cameras. It would be in your best interest to move slowly and calmly. In fact, you may care to leave before the police arrive.”

  It was Al Lever to whom these words were directed.

  Lever’s gaze took in the customers’ horrified faces before his glance came to rest on Hudson’s manager. “I am the police, fella,” he said. He pulled his gold detective’s badge from his jacket and held it in the air for all to see. Audible sighs emanated from everyone except Rosco, who was laughing. Al glowered at him.

  “Well, officer,” the head clerk simpered, “your gun must have set off our metal detectors. You are carrying a weapon, I presume?”

  Lever only nodded. He returned the badge to the breast pocket of his navy blue windbreaker.

  “And how long will you be with us today, sir? I wouldn’t want you to reactivate the alarm on your way out.” The manager had become meekness itself. It was never wise to antagonize a law-enforcement officer … or a potential customer.

  “Ten minutes, max.”

  The head clerk retreated through a rear doorway to reset the alarm while Rosco pointed to the street. “We’ve got company, Al.”

  Outside, a black and white patrol car came to a screeching halt, blue gray smoke drifting up from its fat tires. Two uniformed policemen jumped from the vehicle and positioned themselves behind a parked car, guns drawn.

  “Arrgh,” Lever moaned, “I’ll go talk to them. A day off. Is it too much to ask? One simple day of blending in like any other civilian?”

  Rosco thought it better not to mention that a poplin windbreaker combined with blue chinos, spit-polished brown Oxfords, and a cropped hairstyle didn’t make for a blend-in appearance any more than a baseball cap imprinted with DEA or a rain jacket that spelled FBI. Instead, he said, “I appreciate your forsaking your day of leisure, Al.”

  “For you, Polly—crates …” Lever chugged outside and spoke to the cops.

  A few minutes later, everything had returned to normal at Hudson’s Diamond Exchange, and the wedding bands had been retrieved from the locked case.

  “How do they get that writing inside there?” Lever asked as he inspected the engraving of Rosco and Belle’s initials and their pending wedding date on the interior of the larger of the two bands.

  “Hudson’s has the best engraver in town,” Rosco replied.

  The manager signaled agreement with a smug smile while Lever replaced the rings on the gray velvet pad. His hand trembled.

  “Are you all right, Al?”

  “Look, Rosco, I’m not sure about all this. Why don’t you hang onto the rings. The wedding’s a week away. I’m going to lose them. I know it.”

  “Have you ever lost your badge?”

  Lever shook his head.

  “Your car keys? House keys? Credit cards? Your service revolver?”

  Lever shrugged his shoulders, but his expression remained stubborn.

  “Come on, Al, You’re the best man. The rings are your responsibility. It’s the only thing you have to do.”

  “I know, but I’m getting very nervous about this.”

  “You …? You’re getting nervous? I’m the one who’s getting married. You don’t see my hands shaking … yet.”

  “Yeah, but look who you’re marrying. How could you go wrong with Belle? I’m just scared to death I’m going to lose the rings somehow.” He added quietly, “She’d kill me if I did. You know she would.”

  “You’re not going to lose them. Just put them in a safe place. Let your wife hold onto them—”

  “Now, there’s a less-than-brilliant notion. She loses her car keys on a monthly basis.” At that moment, Lever’s pager sounded with an annoying beep that once again attracted the attention of everyone in the store. He reached to his hip, shut off the noise, and glanced at the phone number displayed on the LED readout.

  “I can’t get a moment’s peace.” Lever looked at the sales manager. “Can I use your phone?”

  “Certainly, Officer.”

  The clerk produced a cordless telephone. Lever punched in the number without referring back to the pager; clearly it was a number he recognized. “Duty calls,” he muttered to Rosco, then paced the floor for two or three minutes, all the while issuing inaudible orders to the person on the other end of the phone.

  Rosco, along with everyone else in the store, watched the performance in silence. Finished, Lever disengaged the line and returned the phone to the sales clerk.

  “Problems?” Rosco asked.

  “You might say that. Another homeless person showed up dead. The bus depot, this time.”

  Rosco took a beat to digest the news. “It wasn’t Gus Taylor, was it?”

  “Who’s Gus Taylor?”

  “A sometime resident of the Saint Augustine Mission. I spoke with him last night. I was looking for Carson’s dog.”

  “What?”

  “It was Sara Briephs’s idea.”

  Lever regarded his friend. “You and me need to talk, Polly—crates. What say we drive over to the scene together? And no, the body isn’t Gus’s. This time we’ve got a dead woman.”

  The two men exited the jewelry store, leaving the wedding bands resting peacefully atop the display case.

  Belle looked at her watch, the third time in as many minutes. Twenty to eleven, she thought; Rosco should have been here by now. She gazed out the windows of her home office and thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her ribbed green cardigan, an ancient favorite that normally seemed as comforting as a bowl of chicken noodle soup. A steady drizzle had begun to fall. Unconsciously, she buttoned the cardigan, then unbuttoned it again; finally, she stuffed her hands back into her pockets. Ten-forty, Saturday morning, she thought. Rosco and Al must have finished picking up the wedding bands by now.

  Her eyes moved from her own garden into the neighbors’ tidy yard, her glance encompassing their meticulously restored and renovated home, the fanlight over the door, the flower boxes decoratively placed beneath each eighteenth-century window. Today, the ordinarily pleasant property looked neither cheering nor warm. That poor, lost dog, she thought. How can it stay dry in weather like this? What will it find to eat?

  She shivered in empathy and left the window, looking at her watch for the fourth time as she wandered into the living room with its eclectic hodgepodge of thrift shop finds, then into the kitchen with its outmoded appliances, which Belle considered “charming” because she couldn’t cook. Her feet never stopped moving; soon she was back in the living room, where she repositioned her newest acquisition, a large and squashy armchair covered in a 1950s cabbage rose print. She examined her watch again. The hour had advanced exactly five minutes.

  Lawson’s, she suddenly thought. Perhaps Rosco went to Lawson’s coffee shop expecting to meet me there. Perhaps we had our signals crossed.

  She charged back into the kitchen, grabbed the phone book, running her fingers down the pages until she found the listing for Newcastle’s famous relic from the era of pink Formica luncheonettes.

  “Yup?” she heard at the other end of the phone. Law-son’s was not an eatery that stood on ceremony.

  “Martha?” This was the self-styled head waitress. Martha had a yellow beehive hairdo and serious undergarments that crackled when she moved. “It’s Belle. By any chance is—?”

  “Haven’t seen him, hon. I wondered when you two lovebirds were going to show up.” Martha knew everyone in town, what hour they dined at her establishment, as well as what they habitually ate. “Two orders of bacon,” she yelled to the unseen fry cook. “Extra crispy.”

  “Will you tell him I—?”

  “Sure thing.” The waitress pulled away the phone to talk to a customer. Belle heard the plinking sound of the cash register opening and then the drawer banging shut with metallic certainty. “Grooms get jitters. Give him some space, hon.” The phone went dead before Belle had a chance to ask Martha what
she meant.

  Belle left the kitchen, reflexively rearranging the new chair’s position as she passed. Give him space, she thought. Is Martha insinuating that I’m crowding Rosco? Am I?

  She twisted the chair into another angle and returned to her office. I can work, she assured herself. I can begin constructing a new crossword puzzle for the Crier. There’s no point in wasting time stewing over casual remarks. But this reasoning was specious, as Belle knew; Martha kept her ear to the ground. Despite Newcastle’s size, very little happened in the city the waitress wasn’t apprised of.

  “Give him space,” Belle repeated; then her thoughts shifted focus. Belle’s brain was never still for long. “Space,” she jotted on a scrap of paper, “time, capacity, opportunity, distance. Musical reference,” she added, “aviation.” The theme for a new cryptic had begun playing through her mind. “Lost in——,” she wrote. “Out of——out of time;” beside this entry, she scribbled “Edgar Allan Poe.”

  The phone rang. She peered at her watch as she snatched up the receiver. It was 11:02. “Rosco! I was getting worried.”

  Stony silence met her.

  “Rosco?”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Annabella.”

  Belle forced a smile to her lips. “Father! It’s nice to hear from you. I didn’t expect—”

  “It’s clear you were anticipating a different messenger, Annabella.”

  Belle set her shoulders. “Father, what I was trying to say is that I didn’t imagine I’d speak to you before your arrival for the wedding.”

  “That is precisely what I wish to discuss, Annabella.”

  Her shoulders grew firmer, her spine straighter. We’ve been through this conversation already, she thought. My “questionable choice in mates” Rosco’s “lack of an Ivy League education” his “career.” I don’t want to participate in this dialogue again. She changed the subject with a noncommittal, “How is the weather in Florida?”

  “Benign.”

  Belle’s expression turned wry. Benign was not a condition she would have imagined her father capable of recognizing.

  “However, I did not telephone long distance to enter a discourse on meteorology. I phoned to discuss your espousement.”

  Belle nearly groaned aloud. “I appreciate your concern, Father, but I wish you’d wait and pass judgment after you meet Rosco. He’s a fine man, and I love him—”

  “Love is not the only ingredient in a marriage, Annabella.…”

  Belle looked out the rain-gray windows. That poor dog, she thought as she half listened to her father’s plodding lecture.

  “… I simply ask that you consider this decision thoroughly, Annabella. You made a mistake once before—”

  “I have considered it, Father.”

  Silence echoed on both ends of the phone. Another stalemate, Belle realized, one more in an endless line. She took her eyes off the window and let her glance wander over her office: the foreign-language dictionaries lining the bookcase, the OED, her cherished 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica. These were ostensibly the tools of a cryptic-constructor’s trade, but they were also a legacy. She’d been raised to value intellect above all other attributes and to believe that the walls of academia were the only foundation that mattered. Those thoughts inevitably carried her to Rayanne and a contemplation on her parental conversations.

  “You warned me not to judge a book by its cover, Father. Perhaps, you should wait until you meet Rosco before evaluating him.”

  The voice on the other end of the line was not amused. “I was referring to scholarly works, Annabella. However, the purpose of my call is to inform you that I may not be able to attend the festivities. My sciatica has been bothering me again, and I fear a long train journey—”

  Guilty relief rushed over Belle, but she did her best to temper the reaction. “You could always fly,” she offered.

  “That’s out of the question, I’m afraid, Annabella. You know how little I like airplanes.”

  “But they’re different nowadays, Father. They’re far more comfortable—”

  “Just as unsafe, however!”

  Belle didn’t respond to the accusation. Concerning the perils of air travel, her father had always been adamant. “Whatever you feel is best. I wouldn’t want you complicating your condition.”

  The conversation continued for another short minute. There was no more mention of Rosco and no further critique of Belle. Father and daughter concluded in polite formality. “I hope you’ll improve quickly,” she said.

  “It’s an arduous trip,” was his noncommittal reply.

  Belle dropped the receiver back into the cradle and wasn’t surprised when it immediately rang again. One of the problems with her insistence upon having a single phone line with no additional services was a frequent busy signal. “Rosco? Sorry, my father called.… Where are you? I’ve been worried.…”

  The line crackled with static, but no voice was heard.

  “Rosco? Your cell phone connection’s awful.…” She waited for a response. None was forthcoming. “Rosco? Hello?”

  Only silence ensued.

  “Hello? Rosco?” Belle waited a moment, then banged down the phone, disgruntled. “Why can’t telemarketers leave you alone on the weekend?”

  CHAPTER 8

  The police photographer snapped a series of pictures of the dead woman while Rosco stood near the wall, watching the procedure. The flash ricocheted across the wet asphalt and drenched walls behind the Newcastle bus terminal. With each shot, the twin fire escapes at the rear of the converted nineteenth-century building cast angular shadows along the browned bricks, making the crisscrossed ironwork loom like enormous arachnids.

  The flash popped a final time. Even at a distance, Rosco could easily see the woman’s face. She seemed far too peaceful, almost as if she were smiling.

  “Do they know how she died?” Rosco’s question was directed at Abe Jones, who’d arrived at the scene ten minutes before Rosco and Lever.

  “I haven’t altered the body position. I’m waiting for the ME. He’ll have to determine the cause of death.” As if he’d been reading Rosco’s mind, Jones added, “She looks kind of peaceful, doesn’t she?”

  “Well, death’ll do that for you.…” Lever coughed. “Maybe we’ll get lucky here. Maybe she died of natural causes … just had a heart attack and expired in her sleep. Money or ID?”

  Jones shook his head. “Neither … I hope you’re right about natural causes, but unfortunately, this scene bears a striking resemblance to yesterday’s. That’s why I thought you should be called before anything was moved … day off or not. Sorry, boss.” Jones pointed up and down the narrow street. “Like the situation with Freddie, we have a mainly deserted alley—especially after dark—and a body positioned on newspapers: the Evening Crier and Boston Sentinel. All we’re missing is the blood and the dog food.”

  “And the pint of booze.” Lever reached for his cigarettes.

  “Right. No booze this time. In fact, the woman doesn’t look too badly off. Wet, dirty overalls … not what you’d call filthy, though. We have some death stench.… That’s certainly not her fault. And her boots aren’t in great shape, but hey, I’ve seen far worse.”

  “A good deal of mud on them,” Rosco observed.

  “Probably from walking through the park down on Third. I’ll take samples and run a comparison.”

  Lever nodded. “Who found her?”

  “The lead came in on the tip line. Anonymously. But that’s another reason I wanted the dispatcher to notify you, Al. The call was traced to a pay phone at Eleventh and Hawthorne.”

  “The Crier building?” Rosco asked. Recognizing the location of Belle’s office, he made no attempt to mask his surprise.

  “Not the actual building,” Abe Jones answered. “There’s a pay phone on the corner. However, we’re talking about eight or nine blocks from here. The person who phoned didn’t want to be anywhere near the scene when we arrived. I dispatched one of my men to dust the
phone box for prints, but if the caller was cautious enough to establish a credible distance, I doubt we’ll find much. I also contacted Sister Mary Catherine at Margaret House Women’s Shelter. I figured she and Father Tom have a better handle on Newcastle’s street people than anyone. If she doesn’t recognize the woman, she should be able to provide other sources.”

  “Thanks, Abe.” Lever turned his attention to Rosco. “Do you know how we get in touch with this Gus character you told me about?”

  Rosco shook his head. “No. Apparently, he roams back and forth between here and Boston. Why?”

  “Just want to talk, that’s all. Maybe he knew her.”

  “Well, if he’s still in Newcastle, my bet is he’ll leave as soon as he hears about this.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions, Rosco. It’s possible she died of natural causes.”

  “Wishful thinking.” Jones nodded toward the end of the alley. “Don’t look now, Al, but your hopeful demeanor is about to evaporate.”

  Rosco and Lever followed Jones’s gaze and watched Carlyle plod heavily toward them. He carried a large black case in his right hand, a black umbrella in his left. If he’d had a hood on his coat, he would have looked like the Grim Reaper. When he reached the three men, he said, “What have we got?” No other salutation passed his lips. He gazed perfunctorily at Jones and Lever. Rosco, he completely ignored.

  “Dead Jane Doe this time,” Lever answered. “I was hoping the causes might be natural.”

  Carlyle remained standing while he scanned the scene in silence. He glanced up at the bus depot roof, briefly allowing the rain exposure to his face, then returned his gaze to the alley. “Natural cause is not a term I’d use, Al.… Homicide would be more like it. I don’t think the subject could have fallen—or jumped—and landed in this position. Partially under the fire escape, lying on newspapers?” Carlyle shook his head. “Don’t even hope for suicide. Looks like she’d made herself a bed same as our victim yesterday.”