by Nero Blanc
30. Neck wreath
31. Oklahoma town
33. Kitchen meas.
34. Deli choice
36. Made a lap
37. Chocolate——
38. Vadim film
41. Espy
42. Sgt. Bilko, e.g.
43. Plowright film
45. Neth. neighbor
46. Traveling music?
48. Fuss
49. Fool
50. Certain blades
51. “Psycho III,” e.g.
53. Seaweed
55. Ray Lawrence film
57. “The——Thief,” Nichetti comedy
59. Tic-tac-toe winner
60. Char
64. Hurried
65. Select
66. Writer Bombeck
67. Put in a new lawn
68. New Zealand parrot
69. Superman’s vision
Down
1. Alias
2. Semi
3. Vane position
4. Comply
5. Ancestor, abbr.
6. Half of an Agnieszka Holland film title
7. Dramatist’s diary
8. Gat
9. Bridge position
10. Seagal film
11. Sixth-century date
12. Yen unit
15. Lumet film
20. Film trailer
22. Pacino and others
23. Construction battalion
24. Kubrick film
26. Heap
28. “Star Trek” division
29. Sixth sense
32. O’Toole’s film debut
35. Roger
37. Rebel org.
39. Land plot
40. Oasts
41. Golfer’s org.
44. Negative conjunction
46. Like a prison
47. Leaning
52. Flynn role
54. Reverberation
56. Bit
57. Second, abbr.
58. Pool stick
59. Goof
60. Med. grp.
61. Actor Aldo
62. Med. grp.
63. Actor Aldo
To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords
CHAPTER 12
“‘Just the Beginning,’” Belle murmured with an easy smile. “A clever title for a prewedding cryptic.” Unconsciously, she began humming and then singing a show tune from the Broadway musical Gypsy. When she reached the climax—and the puzzle’s complimentary phrase—she gave a loud, Ethel Merman flourish. “Everything’s coming up roses,” she sang out the song’s title, then thought, how appropriate! I’ve got to find out who created this crossword for Rosco. He’s being awfully cagey with his little secret.
Completely forgetting the deviled eggs, she hurried into her office with the puzzle, then grabbed her red pen. “Film titles … This is going to be fun.…” She murmured to herself as she worked. “6-Down: Half of an Agnieszka Holland film title … The answer is EUROPA; 10-Down’s solution is ABOVE THE LAW; 15-Down: DEATH TRAP …” Belle paused. Well-constructed though it was, the crossword was beginning to feel unsettling. 38-Across: BLOOD AND ROSES.
A chill ran down her spine; she put down her pen and stared at the paper before her. Similar and ominous messages appeared at 24-Down and 32-Down. She mouthed silent words while her brain made a quick leap to a frightening conclusion. The puzzle wasn’t an ingenious gift from Rosco; it was an angry, perhaps even threatening message, and it had been hand-delivered to her. DEATH TRAP, she thought. BLOOD AND ROSES. KILLER’S KISS … A crossword packed in an empty florist’s box. Belle grabbed the phone and punched in Rosco’s number. “Can you meet me at Lawson’s?” she said the moment he’d picked up the receiver.
Rosco noticed the tension in her voice instantly; any possible jests about her ritual Sunday time-out died in his throat. “What’s wrong?”
“Someone planted a crossword in a flower box and left it on my—” Her voice broke off suddenly. “Oh, jeez! I left the door open!”
“Belle! Wait! What’s going on?”
But the line was dead.
“Do me a favor, don’t do that to me again, okay? You had me worried sick, Belle. I called right back, but you’d obviously left the phone off the hook. I didn’t know what to think.”
Belle stretched her hand across the scarred cherry-pink Formica, which matched every other banquette table at Lawson’s coffee shop, and touched Rosco’s fingers. The two were facing each other and leaning so far forward their heads nearly met. Between them, a pair of laminated menus lay forgotten.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I’d assumed the roses were from you, and that you were outside waiting for me to finish the crossword. Then I started filling in the answers, and I realized …”
Rosco squeezed her hand. “Tell me again what happened. From the beginning.”
She recommenced her tale, inserting every detail she could recall.
Rosco interrupted briefly. “Was there a florist’s name attached to the card? Or on the box?”
“I didn’t look. I assumed it was a gift from you. It was a white box. Dented and nicked in places … I remember being concerned that the flowers had been damaged.…”
“Go on.”
“I shouldn’t have left the door wide open like that.”
Rosco paused before replying; his expression was grim. “No, you shouldn’t. You’ve gotten too much media attention, and we’ve joked about it, but … Even that headline from the British paper? ‘Cryptics Queen Clues Coppers,’ or something like that? To say nothing of the interview in Personality magazine. It’s definitely the kind of notoriety that could make an unbalanced mind fixate on you …” Rosco didn’t finish the thought. Instead, he said, “Let’s look at the crossword together. You were talking so fast I didn’t take in everything you said.”
“Sit beside me, okay?” Belle’s voice was soft.
Rosco attempted a lighthearted retort. “What will Martha say?”
As if she’d been awaiting her cue, the waitress appeared, her blond hairdo lacquered to perfection, her uniform rustling with determination. “Okay, you two lovebirds. Break it up.” Stuck into her frozen tresses was a pencil, which she removed to write their order. “What’ll it be?”
“We haven’t looked at the menu yet.” Rosco’s tone was duly apologetic; Martha was a force to be reckoned with.
She sighed mightily, the underwiring beneath the pink nylon facade creaking and groaning. “I’ll get you what you always order. Grilled cheese for my man; French toast for the lady.” She snatched up the menus before either Rosco or Belle had time to reply and bustled off, calling over her shoulder, “Your pal Lever should do something about this city, Rosco. It’s a sin when homeless folks are murdered in their sleep. They got enough trouble without waking up dead.”
Belle’s worried face relaxed in a wan smile. “Perhaps Al should ask Martha to find the criminals. She obviously knows everything else that’s going on in this town.”
“Somehow, I can’t picture her and Al working well together.”
Belle chuckled. “Maybe it’s imagining that confetti-colored uniform bouncing around in his unmarked brown police car.”
“I don’t think the car’s the issue.”
Both remained silent for a moment while the diner’s congenial Sunday hum circled around them: the eager chatter of children and grandparents, teenage girls giggling in fits and starts, a party of elderly men who finished each other’s jokes and stories. There was the clatter of restaurant crockery, the plink of warm spoons, waitresses calling to the fry cook, and the old-fashioned bell above the door that jangled exuberantly at each entrance and exit.
Rosco left his seat and slid in beside Belle. “Do you want to show me the crossword now or wait?”
Without replying, Belle pulled the hand-drawn puzzle from her purse. “‘Just the Beginning,’” she said, pointing to the heading. “I thought it was a wonderful ti
tle.” Her finger pointed to thematic clues. “It’s film oriented … and very well done: directors, actors, actresses. The clue for the long one at 7-Down is Dramatist’s diary; the solution is WRITERS NOTEBOOK. 20-Down is Film trailer, which is a PROMO, but then look at these solutions.” Belle’s hand hovered above the paper. “24-Down … and 32-Down …”
“KILLERS KISS,” Rosco read aloud. “KIDNAPPED.” He sat up straight; his gaze strayed to the window, to the parked cars in the street, the few pedestrians sauntering by. “I’m not getting a good feeling about this,” he said at last.
Belle paused before speaking; she’d always been an optimistic person. “Isn’t it possible this might be a prank, albeit a bizarre one? I haven’t actually been threatened—”
“You were scared enough to leave your house, Belle.”
“I know. But maybe we’re overreacting—”
“Threats come in all sorts of guises. KIDNAPPED could be construed as one; so could DEATH TRAP and KILLER. My gut tells me we’re dealing with a psychotic mind here, even if it is a prank. I mean, who frightens people just for the fun of it?”
Belle considered this. “Is there a possibility this puzzle could be tied to the crossword you brought me yesterday?”
Rosco thought. “That scenario would make me even more nervous than the idea of a loony-tune delivering a fake box of flowers.”
Belle studied him, her brow wrinkled in thought.
“If there’s a connection, Belle, it means someone’s watching us … peeking in the windows … something like that. I bring you a puzzle Saturday afternoon.… We chat about it.… The next day, this wacko delivers his own weird offering—”
“I meant a link to yesterday’s probable homicide.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“You recognized similarities in the two deaths, Rosco: the newspapers under the bodies—”
“So you’re suggesting that this hand-made puzzle is a follow-up to the printed crossword in the Sentinel?”
“I don’t know,” Belle said. “I admit the idea seems farfetched.… For the timing to work, the cryptics editor at the Boston paper, Arthur Simon, would have to be cognizant of the scheme.…” She paused. “Forget the suggestion. I’ve met Arthur. He’s a very straight arrow.” Belle hesitated again.
“No, no, the same thought went through my mind yesterday when I bought the Sentinel. But after we completed the puzzle, I realized how far-fetched—”
“Wait! Let’s return to your supposition—unpleasant as it is—that the person who delivered the flower box knew about yesterday’s death, perhaps was even a witness, then saw you at the crime scene, saw you buy the Sentinel, recognized the newspaper, and created a puzzle with coded significance.… Some message we’re not deciphering?”
Rosco pondered Belle’s suggestion. “You don’t happen to have the Sentinel crossword, do you?”
Belle’s face brightened for the first time in many minutes. “Always be prepared,” she said.
They laid the two cryptics side by side, looking for points of exchange; Belle even tried working the dual diagonals and reversing the puzzles and placing them head to foot. Nothing unconventional appeared. “I give up,” she finally admitted, while Rosco shook his head.
“I’m thinking we should delay our wedding, if only for a week or two.”
“Why?” Belle stared at him in bewilderment.
“If you’re being targeted—and I strongly suspect you are, given this flower box thing—it may not be wise to have a public ceremony. Psychos are psychos. I’d like to find this person before I let my guard down. Neither one of us needs to be distracted by this.”
“It’s not going to be public, Rosco. We’ll be aboard the Akbar, and then, with any luck, at Cleo’s. Besides, Al will be there the entire time.” She forced a grim laugh. “Even in his groomsman togs I don’t imagine he’d relinquish his official weapon.”
Martha brought their meal, banging the plates down with a jovial: “This should wipe those sad-sack looks off your faces.”
Belle and Rosco smiled reflexively, although the efforts were wan and lackluster. Neither began to eat.
“We can’t postpone our wedding, Rosco. That’s letting this weirdo win. And that’s probably all he wants: to disrupt things, have a little private power play.”
Again, Rosco was silent. Finally he said, “I want you to be careful. No opening the door to strangers. No walking along deserted streets. You need to be aware of who’s nearby at all times. If this kook is aware of our marriage—and, again, given the florist’s box and your recent notoriety—I’d say that was an excellent possibility, then the next six days could be critical. If he gets no reaction from this first puzzle, he’ll move into some other phase of his plan. Who knows what it might be?”
Questions flooded Belle’s brain, but each one was answered by the inevitable: If you achieve celebrity status—even as a minor-league celebrity—you become a target. “What do we do next?”
“I’m going to inform Al—”
She started to interrupt, but Rosco raised his hand in protest. “Lever believes you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Belle … something I’m inclined to agree with. He’ll be as concerned as I am.”
“I don’t want a patrol car encamped on Captain’s Walk, Rosco. That would look ridiculous.”
Rosco thought. “And it might make the situation worse. Especially if this nut case believes he’s scared you and decides to increase his fun.… Al will decide how he wants to handle surveillance.”
Belle’s expression turned grave. “Surveillance,” she murmured.
“I’m going to start checking out florists this afternoon. And, to be perfectly honest, I’d be a lot happier if you’d consider moving in with Cleo or even Sara.”
This time it was Belle who looked at the street. “I can’t do that, Rosco. I’m too independent to be a house guest. I’ll be fine at home. I promise.”
“I could stay over.…”
“You’ll have years of staying over come Saturday.”
“You might change your mind after we get our license tomorrow.”
Belle smiled and gave his hand a firm squeeze. “I’ll be fine, Rosco. I will.”
Martha reappeared. The hot smells of the kitchen followed her; it was a reassuring scent. “What’s up with you two? Wedding jitters got you that bad?” She looked at the congealing food with thorough disapproval. “You can’t put French toast in a doggie bag.”
It was Rosco who answered. “We don’t have a dog, Martha.”
CHAPTER 13
The scent was so dense it made Rosco sneeze. Not once, but twice. He felt the reaction was almost uncouth in the rarefied atmosphere of tuberoses, anemones, lavender, lily of the valley, sprays of white lilac, boughs of blooming cherry and apple, and a profusion of other hothouse floral treasures. He sneezed again and retrieved a rumpled handkerchief. He was certain he was going to bash into some vase or other fragile receptacle and send it crashing to the floor. He sneezed a fourth and louder time.
“Gesundheit.” The woman speaking had hair nearly as red as a satin Valentine’s Day heart. She was outfitted in a form-fitting lime-green blouse and equally skintight pants. Rosco pegged her age at somewhere between forty and fifty, although he imagined she habitually admitted to being “in her thirties” and was actually in her sixties. “Flowers will do that to you. Me? I’ve been around them all my life. What can I do for you? No, let me guess: wife trouble.”
Rosco looked too stunned to speak.
“I can pick ’em every time,” the redhead continued. “Guys like you come into the shop.… They don’t know their way around.… Never picked out a posy for the missus before.… But oops, they’ve found themselves in the doghouse, and they’re barkin’ to come home. Am I right?”
“Well, no,” Rosco admitted. “I’m not married.” But before he could add “almost, but not yet” to the statement, the redhead produced a low, voluptuous whistle.
“Real
ly,” she said. “A hunk like you. Go figure. I’m Faye. I’m the owner.” Then, as if working on a weekend afternoon didn’t suit her sense of her elevated status, she added. “Who else would be manning the fort on a Sunday? So, are we looking at a hospital visit, Mr.—?”
“Polycrates. Rosco Polycrates. I’m a private investigator.”
Faye became a whirlwind of nervous energy. Her red-taloned fingers danced across the cash register; her hair shimmied on her jittery shoulders. “I swear I wasn’t involved in anything that stupid kid did. I told the police that. The feds, too.”
Rosco opened his mouth to speak, but her words barreled right past him.
“Look, you hire people because you think they’re honest. Okay, okay … He had a cute bod; I’ll admit it. But that’s as far as it went.… When the bozo upped and disappeared, I was as surprised as everyone else. And, no, I haven’t heard a word from him. That’s the way it goes, isn’t it? They take what they can and then light out. Unlucky in love, what can I say?”
When Faye finally began winding down, Rosco managed to speak. “I don’t know anything about the ‘bod,’ the ‘stupid kid,’ the ‘bozo.’ I’m trying to hunt down an order that was delivered about midday.”
Faye caught her breath and glared; the misunderstanding had severely shaken her. “You should have made that clear the minute you walked in here, mister,” she spat out.
Rosco shrugged but didn’t respond to her accusation. “A white box of long-stemmed roses? There was a scratch mark on one of the corners where a shop sticker might have been lifted off. Do you place stickers on your deliveries?”
“Sure, but those long-stem boxes come from a wholesaler in Lennox. Every shop in town gets them from the same place; probably half the people on the East Coast, too. I’ve sent out three long-stem orders so far today. What was the address?”
“Captain’s Walk.”
“Nope. Sorry.”
“The box was tied with blue and cream-colored ribbon—”
Faye made a face. “What part of nope didn’t you understand? The order didn’t come from this shop. Nothing’s been delivered to Captain’s Walk in weeks. Besides, I’d never use those colors. They’re dowdy. I like reds, fuschias, purple, American-beauty pink. But you’re on the right track. Ya see, us florists use ribbons to identify ourselves. Call it our signature, because, when you think about it, there isn’t a whole lot of difference between the flowers.… A rose is a rose, and all that malarkey.… Forget the box, concentrate on the ribbon.… No sticker and no greeting card, huh?”
