by Nero Blanc
Rosco groaned for a third time; his mouth, he realized, felt as if a dentist had padded it with wads of cotton and left them there. “You wouldn’t have any idea how to get out of here, would you, Kit?”
He looked around in an attempt to get his bearings, but nothing about the place seemed remotely familiar. Old stone walls, an open-timbered ceiling, a hard-packed dirt floor that had probably been there for a hundred years. He could have been on Ninth Street or in Alaska for all he knew. Rosco twisted his hands to the left side of his torso and peered at his wristwatch. It took a beat for the date and time to register in his conscious thoughts. “It’s Wednesday …? What happened to Tuesday?”
Kip barked again.
“Have you been here since Tuesday, too?” Rosco studied the room, noting for the first time the many bowls of half-eaten kibble, the water left in mismatched pots, the newspapers serving as dog toilets. “I guess we’ve both been consigned to the dungeon.…”
He placed his feet flat on the floor and began working his back up the wall until he was standing: wobbly and in pain but erect. His head felt worse than it had when he’d been sitting. His first instinct was that someone had clobbered him. He moved his jaw from side to side; the ache in his temples increased, and another spasm of nausea attacked him. Rosco let it pass, then hopped to the door, turned around until his hands reached the doorknob, and grasped it. It wouldn’t budge. He yanked hard, but the door was locked, its movement so restricted, he assumed it was bolted from the other side.
“What do you think, Kit, if I scream my head off, the cops will be here in no time?”
The puppy cocked her head to one side, producing a look of confusion.
“Never mind, it was a rhetorical question.”
Rosco moved slowly back across the room and attempted to look up through the window. He saw metal grating and sky but nothing else that would indicate whether the basement’s locale was in some deserted part of Newcastle, the burbs, or deep in the country. He noted there was no exterior noise, or if there was, it was too faint to hear. By the absence of sirens, grinding bus gears, and irate horn blasts, he guessed city living was no longer a consideration.
“Well, Kit, looks like we’re here for a while. I don’t suppose you have a deck of cards?”
Since Kit had no tail to speak of, the act of wagging what there was only served to make her hindquarters jounce around like a kite in the wind. But she seemed very happy; Rosco wasn’t such a dud after all.
CHAPTER 25
Belle stepped off the elevator on the fifth floor of the Crier building and, as usual, the offices were chaotic: editors racing from door to door, barking brusque questions about their reporters’ abilities to fill pages intelligently or their combined reluctance to drop a well-chosen line of text, grilling fact-checkers, muttering about possible lawsuits, and hollering out deadlines. “Check the clock, people, check the clock!” was the favored dictum on this particular Wednesday. The maelstrom was the reason Belle preferred to create her cryptics at home; silence was not one of the luxuries afforded by the Crier workplace.
“‘Stand by Your Man.’”
Belle snapped her head sharply to her right and stared at the person who’d spoken. “What did you say?”
“‘Stand by Your Man.’ The Tammy Wynette song? That’s what you were humming on the elevator. A little touchy for the bride-to-be, aren’t you, Belle?”
It took her a beat to recognize the speaker as Wally, one of the pressroom runners. She forced a careless smile. “Sorry, Wally, you’re right. I guess I am a little over-stressed with the party details. I didn’t even know who was talking to me.…”
“Hey, no problema, I felt the same way walking into my wedding day … but, hey, five years and still going strong.” Wally tapped his wedding ring and winked. “Buona fortuna, Bellissima! Gotta run.” He trotted down the hallway and ducked through the glass-paneled door of the pressroom.
Belle watched him leave, her expression turning wary again. Bellisima, she thought, as she walked the length of the hall to a door marked Jerry Powers. She knocked twice and stepped in without waiting for an answer. Like Rosco, Jerry, the Crier’s entertainment editor, was in his late thirties; unlike Rosco, he was panicked about approaching the dire fortieth year and was already addicted to hair dyes, gels, and absurdly expensive stylists. He was also a coffee addict.
At the moment, he was standing in front of his fax machine watching the paper spit out. When he saw he had company, his hand reflexively smoothed the moussed hair along his forehead.
“Hold on a second, will ya, Belle? They’ve changed the release date on the new Spielberg film. Man, I hate these last-minute modifications. Stevie, Stevie, Stevie, give me a break, will ya, pal?” Jerry tore the fax from the machine and walked to his desk. “Let me make a note about this permutation before I forget it.… Dontcha just love Hollywood?” He scribbled something on a desk calendar and looked up. “What’s up, cute stuff?”
Belle felt her jaw begin to tense. “Jerry, I need to make a switch in today’s crossword puzzle.” She handed him an envelope containing the “Stand by Your Man” puzzle. “This needs to be slotted instead.”
“Ho-ho-ho, hardy-har-har … You’re kidding, right?”
“No. It’s very important.”
“No can do, Bellie. I can’t make that kind of a change at this late date. You know that. I’m up to my ears here. First, Stevie Spielberg and then you.”
“Everything’s the same size, Jerry. It’s a simple swap. One for one. It’s been formatted.… Lift out the old puzzle, drop in this new one.”
“Nix. I don’t have the time. Nix, nix, nix.”
Belle coughed slightly. “This comes down from up top.”
“What are you talking about, up top?”
Belle had expected trouble. Jerry was fun to talk to, and he always had an amusing story or two, but, despite his caffeinated demeanor, he was intrinsically lazy, and she’d anticipated that he’d balk at the notion of additional work. She found herself searching for a logical explanation, one that Jerry would buy. Her mysterious caller had been adamant about the crossword appearing in Wednesday’s paper. “Thus, dear Bella-Bella,” he’d said, “I see the puzzle, but neither you nor your friend the cop see me.”
“Look, Jerry,” she said, slightly raising her voice to cover the lie, “the switch is absolutely necessary. There are legal ramifications. Legal’s in on this.”
“Legal? What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m trying to save you time. I got called by Legal at dawn this morning. They have a problem with the cryptic I constructed for today’s paper.” Belle began to rack her brain in an attempt to recall which puzzle had been slated for Wednesday’s Crier, although she realized that the odds that Jerry had looked at it were remote. “Let me explain. Today’s puzzle—”
“What about it?”
“Have you studied it?”
“Ahhhh …”
“Never mind, it’s not important, but the thing is, Legal has a problem with it and wants it pulled. There’s no point in going into all the details now, but if you don’t believe me, call Legal yourself.” Belle knew the last thing Jerry would want to do was get on the phone with the Crier’s lawyers. It was a good way to kill an hour.
“You’re sure about this?”
“I wouldn’t be standing here wasting your time if I weren’t. ‘We’re gonna get sued up the ying-yang’ was the term used. They’re sweating bullets up there.”
Jerry snatched the manila envelope from her hands. “Damn, I hate these changes. Why can’t Legal leave well enough alone?”
“Beats me. Hey, I had to draw up a whole new crossword for them … quick time.”
Back in her office, Belle closed the door and locked it, something she’d never done before, although the effort did little to mute the pandemonium issuing from the central corridor. She flopped into her chair and lay her head on the desktop. She felt like crying but knew it was useless, as we
ll as a sign of weakness. All she could do now was wait, wait until the Crier hit the newsstands at four-thirty, wait for this schizoid to buy the paper, recognize the puzzle he’d asked for, and finally recontact her.
She slowly sat erect and looked at the bank building across the street. At the far eastern side of the sixth floor, seven adjoining windows, each containing a single large red block letter. Viewed together, they spelled For Rent.
“That’s it,” Belle said aloud. She reached for the telephone directory and began flipping through the pages. “Peterman … Peterman … ah, here we go; Peterman Brothers Real Estate—Argus Enterprises.” Belle punched the numbers into her phone and waited. It was answered on the first ring.
“Argus Enterprises. How may I direct your call?”
“Yes, I noticed you have residential lofts for sale by prospectus on Fifth Street, across from Margaret House for women? I wonder if I might take a look at them?”
“Can you hold? I’ll connect you with a sales consultant.”
“Thank you.”
Belle drummed her fingers on her desk. It seemed to take forever for a consultant to answer the line.
Finally: “This is Janice Lane, how can I help you?”
Belle repeated her request.
“Of course, Miss …? Or is it Mrs.…?”
“Miss … Miss Carol Lewis,” Belle answered.
“Ahhh … Like Lewis Carroll, only backward. Sorry, you must get that all the time.”
“Less than you might think,” Belle said, surprised that Janice had jumped so quickly to the Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland connection.
“Well, Miss Lewis, the lofts on Fifth Street will be truly spectacular living spaces when completed. Each is unique, with its own special view. The upper floors are designed to take full advantage of near-panoramic vistas of the harbor. Perhaps there’s a time early next week that would be convenient for us to meet?”
“I was hoping to view them today. I’m down from Boston and would like to catch the four o’clock train back.”
“I see, well … perhaps I could meet you there in say … forty-five minutes? How would that be?”
“To be honest, Miss Lane—”
“Please, call me Janice.”
“Okay, but I’m only a block or two from the Peterman offices. Maybe I could meet you there? We could drive over together?”
“Well, that’s a possibility, but we’re going through a good deal of remodeling here; especially of the outdoor spaces. It’s quite a mess. I’d hate for you to get your clothes dirty.” Janice laughed. “I mean this is a real disaster area; not a fortuitous first impression of Argus Enterprises.”
“That’s all right.”
“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’ll see you in a half hour or so? You obviously know where the building is?”
“Yes.”
“The residential real estate offices are on the penthouse level. Just tell the receptionist you’re here to see me.”
Belle’s phone rang a few seconds later. She hesitated, torn between a desire to reconnect with the mystery puzzle constructor—if this were indeed he—and equally angered and repelled by the situation. Emotion made her clench the receiver. By the time she picked up, the overzealous operator had already shunted the call to her private voice mailbox. Belle waited a couple of minutes, then entered her code and listened to a message from a harassed Al Lever.
“Dammit, Belle, where are you? You’re slipperier than Rosco … if that’s possible. No wonder you two are getting hitched. Listen, this isn’t funny. There’s a dangerous loony out there. If this guy’s nabbed Rosco, how hard is it going to be for him to grab you, too? I want you to check in with me ASAP, and I mean that. I’m on my way to the station house. Call me the minute you get this. Okay?”
After she hung up the phone, Belle mouthed a silent, “Sorry, Al.”
In reality, the Crier offices weren’t close to the Petermans’ headquarters, and Belle was hard pressed to get there in a half hour. From the exterior, the structure looked like any other post-World War II office building in Newcastle: nondescript brick, with rows of utilitarian windows that lacked both style and visual definition. The lobby was equally bland, although it was obvious that serious renovations were under way. A black and white marble floor was crisscrossed with runners of heavy brown paper, while a layer of grit covered everything.
Belle walked to the elevator bank, stepped into a waiting car, and pressed the button marked PH, then rode alone up seventeen floors to the penthouse. When the doors opened, she was greeted with a smell that seemed to blend new paint with freshly tilled farmland. A voice yelled, “Hey, Stu, these drawings call for six rhodies, not eight.”
Belle stepped off the elevator, waited for a worker to pass with a wheelbarrow full of dirt, and approached the reception desk. “I’m Bel—” She coughed. “Sorry, I must have picked up some dust.”
The receptionist smiled. “Don’t worry, honey, this place has been a mess for a month now. They’re redoing the terrace. It’s gonna look like the Amazon jungle by the time they’re done. You wait and see.”
“I’ll bet.” Belle watched a man wheel a young, multitrunked white birch from the service elevator and head down the hallway toward a door that opened onto the roof deck. “I’m here to see Janice Lane. My name is … Carol Lewis.”
“Oh, sure, she’s expecting you. Just follow that tree. Her office is the last door on the left. I’ll buzz and tell her you’re on your way.”
As Belle approached the last door, Janice stepped out. She was slightly taller and older than Belle, a striking-looking African-American, with long hair braided into one thick plait and tied elaborately behind her neck. She extended her hand, and Belle immediately felt guilty for lying about her name and her desire to purchase a residential property.
“I’m Janice, Miss Lewis—”
“Please call me Carol.”
“Fine.” Janice tilted her head in the direction of several moving trees and smiled warmly. “I told you we were inhabiting a work in progress. You can see why I wanted to meet over on Fifth Street.”
“Well, I was just around the corner.” Belle also smiled. “What’s going on out there?” She nodded toward the windows behind Janice’s desk. On the terrace, eight or nine workers were carting dirt, planting trees, shrubs, and perennials, and constructing various levels of wooden walkways, arbors, and trellises. It looked as if they were trying to re-create a country garden—and succeeding.
“Ohh …” Janice said with a sigh, “the Petermans got tired of the old landscaping. I hate to say it, but they just tossed out the original plantings. We employees weren’t too happy … especially those of us with green thumbs. I saved a few plants for myself, but it’s their building … and it’s going to be spectacular when the project’s finished. The old soil had been expended. That’s why it’s such a mess; the landscapers had to replace it with new dirt brought down from the farm in New Hampshire … truck-loads of the stuff.”
“Whose farm?”
“The younger Mr. Peterman. Otto. He has a large place near Plymouth. It’s supposed to be beautiful. Anyway, why don’t we take my car for our tour? You can look at the brochure and the financials on the way. How’s that? I think you’ll be very impressed with what you see.”
“Sounds great. You must have quite a view here. Would it be all right if I stepped outside and took a look?”
“If you don’t mind getting a little dirt on you.”
Janice led the way out to the roof deck. It covered the entire south end of the building, measuring fifty feet by seventy feet, and seemed to encompass all of Newcastle in its view, with Buzzards Bay stretching out to the horizon.
“This is some undertaking,” Belle said.
“It is. Mr. Peterman considers himself quite the horticulturist.”
Belle reached into one of the large concrete planters, picked up a small clump of fresh earth, and brought it to her nose. “Hmmm, there’s nothing like t
he smell of country dirt. After living in a city so long, we forget.”
Janice laughed. “You sound just like Otto Peterman.”
“Janice!” an agitated voice called from across the terrace. “This is a restricted area. No one but employees allowed until we complete construction.”
A tall man in his late fifties approached quickly. He wore expensive suit pants and braces over a hand-made shirt; he had the aura of someone who had come from nothing and become very wealthy the hard way. Belle slipped the piece of earth into her pocket and struggled to one-handedly wrap it in a folded tissue.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Peterman,” Janice said. “This is Miss Lewis. I’m showing her the Fifth Street property, but she asked to see your garden first.”
Otto Peterman extended his hand to Belle. “Miss Lewis?”
“Yes.” Belle shook his hand.
“You look familiar. Have we met somewhere? The yacht club, maybe? The commodores’ dinner dance last year, perhaps?”
“No, I’m from Boston.” Belle could feel a bead of nervous sweat forming at her hairline.
“Really? I could have sworn I’ve seen you before. I do get the Boston paper. Maybe your picture was in it?”
“It doesn’t seem likely.”
“And you’re planning to move to Newcastle? What line of work are you in?”
“Ahhh …” Belle took a second to focus on Otto Peterman’s eyes. “You see, I just lost my fiancé, and—”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” was the uncomfortable reply. “Well… I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to step off the terrace. Insurance … I’m sure you understand?”
“Yes. It was nice to meet you.”
Belle and Janice reentered the building. “He’s a good boss,” Janice said, “but he can be a little short sometimes. I’m sorry to hear about your loss … your fiancé.” She placed a friendly and consoling hand on Belle’s shoulder, an action that made Belle feel even guiltier.
“He’s not dead, Janice … at least I hope not! He’s just … gone.”
