by Nero Blanc
“No. No business name or address,” Rosco answered.
“Well, that’s screwy right there. I’d never send anything out without my shop’s name. How do you think I get return business? So what’s going on? Someone trying to steal your honey from you? Mystery admirer?”
The thought that there might be some truth to Faye’s question gave Rosco a slight chill. He shook it off with an uneasy smile and continued. “Do you have any idea which florist might use blue and cream-colored ribbons?”
“Do you have the ribbon?”
“In my car. I’ll get it.”
Rosco turned to leave, but Faye stopped him. “You might try Holbrook’s,” she said. “They’re on Paine Boulevard, near Tenth Street. They’ve been around forever. Old Mr. Holbrook’s ninety if he’s a day. It sounds like the bland type of ribbon he might use. He does a lot of funerals. Were the roses red or yellow?”
“Those are my only choices?”
“Well, in long-stem, that’s ninety percent of the business. Every now and then, white.”
“The box was empty.”
“Hah! Hah!” Faye laughed and rolled her eyes. “And that’s what your honey-pie told you? You’re in bigger trouble than you think, sweet pea.”
It took Rosco only a few minutes to drive over to Holbrook’s Florists. The shop itself was almost identical to Faye’s in assortment of blooms and aromas. However, because the building was almost two hundred years older, there was a feeling of serenity and peace that was lacking in Faye’s establishment. The ceiling was low, and the walls paneled with an antique mahogany that seemed to mimic the darkness of the South American jungle from which it had come. The fixtures were polished brass, and the cash register was antique, turn of the century, rather than a glowing computer screen. Clearly, Mr. Holbrook was accustomed to dealing with Newcastle’s most affluent citizens, and Rosco found himself wondering how many times Sara Crane Briephs had patronized this particular business.
A small bell signaled his arrival, attracting the attention of the sales clerk, a man in his late thirties who reeked of Brooks Brothers: gray slacks and pale blue dress shirt whose French cuffs were adorned with conservative nautical-motif links. A navy blue bow tie and braces stitched from matching blue silk finished off the picture.
“Good afternoon, sir. Is there anything I can help you with today?”
The man’s politeness was almost more than Rosco could stand. He produced the blue and cream-colored bow and said, “Yes, I was wondering if this ribbon might have come from your shop.”
“Most definitely. In fact, I tied it myself.”
“You seem awfully sure. You don’t want to look at it a little more closely?”
“No. There’s no need. It’s Holbrook’s ribbon. We special-order the line from Paris, and I recognize my own handiwork. It’s from a long-stem rose order.”
“I’m impressed,” seemed to be all Rosco could think of saying.
“One’s own artistry is often the easiest to recognize. May I ask to what this pertains?” The man glanced at his watch and then looked back at Rosco with the chagrined smile of a person who has just committed a grievous social error. “I apologize; we’re due to close in five minutes. Sunday’s hours are necessarily more abbreviated than weekdays. But please, I’m not trying to rush you.”
“I’m a private investigator.” Rosco handed the clerk a business card. “A floral box with this ribbon was delivered to a friend of mine earlier today. I’m trying to determine who sent it.”
“We haven’t delivered any long-stem orders today.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. And we surely would have included a card.”
“But you tied the ribbon?”
The man took the ribbon from Rosco and looked at it more closely. After a moment, he said, “Yes, I definitely tied it. When I tied it, would be a much more difficult question to answer, however. You say it was delivered today?”
“Yep.”
“Obviously not by us. What did the driver look like?”
“It was left on the porch.”
“And you didn’t see the truck, I take it?”
“Nope.”
“Were the roses fresh? Maybe it’s a delivery we made earlier this week, and the roses were recycled, if you will. It does happen, I’m sorry to say. Were they yellow or red?”
“There weren’t any roses.”
“What was in the box then, if I may ask?”
“Basically, it was empty.”
The man appeared shocked. “And you believe Holbrook’s would have forgotten to put the order into the box?”
Rosco placed the ribbon into his jacket and scratched his head. “No. I’m just trying to figure it all out.”
“Well, Mr.…” The sales clerk looked at Rosco’s business card; the corners of his lip curled downward in disdain. “… Polycrates, clearly someone found a discarded Holbrook’s box and decided to play a practical joke on your friend. The ribbon is easily slid from the box and can just as easily be replaced.”
“That would appear to be the case. How many long-stem orders have you had in the last week or so?”
The clerk strolled behind the counter and opened a small cedar filing box. The lid kept Rosco from observing the contents, but clearly the clerk was flipping through the delivery records. Eventually, he looked up at Rosco.
“We had six long-stem orders last week. All were deliveries. None picked up here at the shop.”
“Could you tell me who they went to?”
“You must be joking!” He tapped the cedar box. “This is highly confidential information. I’m sure you can understand that not everyone who orders flowers, especially long-stem roses, is giving them to the person to whom they are wed.”
“I see.” Rosco glanced at his watch. “You close at three on Sundays, right?”
“Yes.”
He gave the clerk a half smile. “Well, it’s after three. How about I lock up for you?” He then walked to the front door, flipped the deadbolt, and turned back to face the clerk. “Now—”
“Sir, this is highly irregular,” the clerk protested.
“More irregular than you might imagine. We need to conduct a little business here, and I think it’s best if we weren’t disturbed.” Rosco reached for his wallet and placed two bills on the counter. “I’m in the market for something special for my fiancée, and I’m willing to spend two hundred dollars. Maybe you have what I’m looking for in the back room?”
The clerk stared at the money for nearly a minute before slipping it into his breast pocket and saying, “Let me see what I can find.” He slid the cedar box toward Rosco and retreated through the shop’s rear door. When he returned five minutes later, the box was open and Rosco was gone.
CHAPTER 14
Belle paced through her house. She was anxious and more than a little jumpy. Every noise seemed to portend danger; she imagined weird and conniving figures creeping near the windows to spy inside. I’ve got to get a grip! she silently warned herself. Who’d be stupid enough to creep through the shrubbery on a gorgeous afternoon like this? Everyone on the block must be working in their gardens or painting shutters or something!
Despite the pep talk, she continued stalking edgily through the rooms on the first floor. Completing a third tour, she stomped up the stairs, entered the bedroom, and barged into the bath that had been so exuberantly tiled in a black and white facsimile of a gigantic crossword puzzle. Belle shook her head irritably, sighed, tightened her lips in indignant anger at both herself and the situation, then returned to the steps, banging her feet on the treads as she descended. I’m behaving like a cranky kid, she thought, but the realization didn’t diminish the uncomfortable sense of vulnerability nor Rosco’s suggestion that someone had actually been spying on them.
She strode into her office and glared at the windows as if daring a pair of eyes to be peering back. “This is ridiculous!” she huffed aloud. “I’m not a coward. I won’t be a prisoner in
my own home.”
With renewed determination, she marched toward the front door, grabbed the tan canvas jacket she kept on the coat rack, jerked open the door—and stopped cold. The street was stunningly empty, the neighboring gardens deserted, her own little patch of flowers and grass devoid of all life but birds and squirrels, insects and worms. KIDNAPPED, Belle remembered. If anyone intended to snatch her away in broad daylight, Captain’s Walk on this astonishingly sleepy Sunday afternoon was the place to do it. Belle felt like whining in frustration.
She slammed the door shut, dumped her jacket on the floor, then slouched rebelliously back to her office. KIDNAPPED, she told herself as she whipped open her nearest English-language dictionary: “To seize or detain or carry away by unlawful force or fraud and often with a demand for ransom.” Ransom involves money, Belle reasoned; the victim is almost always a person of affluence which I, most definitely, am not.
She closed the dictionary with a bang. Could the crossword have been constructed as a different sort of warning? she wondered. Unlawful force or fraud. Was it possible there was a hidden message beneath the most obvious references to blood and death? She unfolded the puzzle and began perusing it afresh. There was ROSCOE with an “e” at 8-Down, the clue naturally being a slang synonym for gun: a Gat. SEN was the solution to 12-Down: Yen unit. But SEN was often the abbreviation for senator, and Senator Hal Crane was Sara’s well-heeled brother. Belle quickly dispensed with Rosco as a potential victim for the same reason she’d scoffed at considering herself. If a criminal wanted money, he—or she—would have to look elsewhere.
She stared at the letters again. Roger was the clue to 35-Down; RAY was the answer to 63-Down, ERMA at 66-Across. Belle sat back and thought for a moment. “Senator Crane,” she finally muttered. The illustrious brother of Sara Crane Briephs, the man upon whose yacht Belle and Rosco would be wed.
She reached for the phone, intending to call Sara, although how she intended to broach the subject of a potential—and questionable—kidnapping of a U.S. senator, she wasn’t certain, when the machine’s loud ring made her jump. Belle grabbed the receiver from its cradle, almost shouting a nervous “Yes?”
“Is this Annabella Graham?”
“Speaking.”
“My name is Elise Elliott. I’m a freelance journalist. I’m doing an article entitled ‘Novel Nuptials’ for the style section of the Boston Sentinel. The Sunday edition …?”
Belle was silent. She stared at her office in confusion; a moment before she’d been pondering federal offenses; now she was being asked to chitchat about wedding preparations.
“… I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday afternoon, Miss Graham, but it’s usually the best time to catch people at home. I wonder if I might ask you a few questions about your ceremony?”
“I … I have some important calls to make—”
“It won’t take a moment, I assure you. The story concerns couples who’ve chosen innovative settings for their nuptials. I read in the article on you in Personality that you were planning a marriage ceremony at sea?”
Reluctantly, Belle began responding to the reporter’s stock queries. “Yes, it’s Senator Crane’s boat, the Akbar,” she said, spelling the word. “The yacht was named for the great Mogul emperor—”
But Elise Elliott wasn’t interested in sixteenth-century India; instead, she interrupted with a cooing: “Will the senator be attending?”
Belle hesitated. Her brow wrinkled into a quick frown. SEN, she thought. Senator Hal Crane. “I’m not certain I should—” she began.
“Of course. Politicians are such busy, busy people, aren’t they? Was this wedding at sea your idea or should we credit the husband-to-be?”
“Ummm … Actually, it was my idea. He sometimes has a problem with the water … a touch of mat de mer.”
“That’s often the best way to conquer your terror; just put yourself straight in the line of fire.” Elise giggled, then immediately leapt to her next question: “Are you wearing a dress with a crossword design?”
“Pardon me?”
“In the Personality photo, your office is decorated with a word-game motif. I was wondering if you were continuing the black and white theme with your wedding attire.”
“I … ah—”
The reporter stopped her with another tinkling laugh. “You wish to keep your gown a secret, I see. That’s a wonderful touch! Traditionalists appeal to our readers.…” Belle heard the unmistakable sound of computer keys tapping out her response, but before she’d had a chance to object to this erroneous interpretation, Elise Elliott had moved on.
“I’m sorry for taking so long in getting your responses down, but this is a new notebook, and the computer commands are different from my old one. Ah … there … got it.… Now, would you mind sharing a quirky and intimate detail about your intended? I’m trying to keep a light and humorous feel to my story.”
Without thinking, Belle blurted out, “He doesn’t like wearing socks.”
“Oh, my, that is intimate!” Again, the tinselly laugh. “No socks, but a gun … This Roscoe of yours must be quite a pistol!”
Belle opened her mouth to speak, but before she could do so, Elise Elliott had rung off with a cheery: “Thank you so very, very much, Miss Graham. I hope I won’t need to trouble you again.”
Belle stared at the phone for only a second before grabbing the receiver again. Her fingers jabbed the numbers for Boston-area information, which she followed immediately with a call to the Sentinel’s main switchboard. “Does an Elise Elliott write freelance articles for you?” Belle asked as soon as the newsroom desk answered.
The voice that responded was harassed, tired, and abrupt. “Who?”
“Her byline would be—”
“Call back Monday, sweetheart. I don’t have time to hunt up every person who claims to write for this paper. If they don’t have an extension and voice mail, I don’t know them.”
CHAPTER 15
The alley was almost pitch black, the buildings that lined it eerily quiescent. Only one of these structures appeared inhabited; it had a single lamp glowing within a second-floor window, but the light it sent down toward the potholed pavement below did nothing to alleviate the darkness. Adding to the sense of midnight desolation was a furtive scuffle of living creatures darting around the base of the buildings: rats climbing over metal garbage cans, the yowl of a stray cat. Then came the sound of human movement: whispers, a sudden cough, an oath from a voice that sounded younger and healthier than the first:
“Friggin’ …! That’s gonna cost ’em! … New shoes … Just got them this morning, and I step into some friggin’—”
“Put a lid on it,” the older man growled, then broke into another spasm of coughing.
“I’m not doing this anymore. I already tore my friggin’ pants. It’s ten times darker than Thursday, and you said—”
“Shut up. We do this and get out.”
“Since when are you my boss?”
“Shut the hell up. You want the whole neighborhood to wake up?”
“What neighborhood?”
“Shut up, I said!”
“Nobody woke up Thursday, did they? And I mean, nobody!”
A distant siren screamed through the night; the speakers froze.
Finally, the younger man muttered an irate: “Our friggin’ luck if that friggin’ fire’s in the next friggin’ block.”
“I told you to stuff it, already!” his companion shot back.
The noise drew closer, wailing a dissonant scream that then passed and grew rapidly fainter. The man with the cough resumed his tirade. “We grab the bricks; we do the job. Bing bang and we’re outta here.” He laughed with a bitter, hacking sound. “A lotta bang for the buck. This’ll be the easiest hundred you ever made.”
“Yeah? That’s what you said Thursday, and look what happened. I nearly got mowed down.”
“This ain’t Thursday. I don’t want to hear about Thursday.”
“They’re gonna
pay for these shoes, though. Suede. You don’t wash slop like this off suede. I laid out sixty bucks for these.”
“I told you not to wear those stupid shoes,” the older man answered, then added, “The bricks’re over here. Just like the fella told us.” He kicked at something that toppled with a solid thud onto the trash-strewn sidewalk. “A whole pile of these mothers.”
“I got my gloves on me,” the younger man boasted.
“You and your dainty hands!”
“Fingerprints, my man.”
“On bricks? Fingerprints on bricks? You’re stupider than I thought. If anything, the bricks’re gonna leave marks on those dumb gloves. Then what happens when they catch up to you?” In the dim light, the cougher bent down and hefted a brick in his hand. “Every window,” he barked. “Just like the man said.”
“Every friggin’ pane of glass,” was the other’s gleeful reply. He also bent toward the bricks, then swiftly stood, hurling his missile at the building lit with the solitary lamp. The older man immediately followed suit. Glass exploded into the empty air as brick followed brick, and window after window shattered.
Grunts of surprise and anger quickly began emanating from the building under attack. A second light came on, then another, and another. Someone started to moan in a high, keening pitch; someone began screaming obscenities.
The two stationed on the street heard a stern and commanding, “Okay, guys, calm down. Calm down! I’ll handle this!”
“It’s the friggin’ priest,” the younger man swore, but his companion had already dodged off down the alley.
Father Tom surveyed the damage. Nearly every ground-floor window had been broken, and many on the upper level, as well. Glittering shards of glass covered almost every surface, including the steps beneath the stairwell window. The kitchen was a disaster.
