by Nero Blanc
Three minutes later Rosco was in his Jeep and heading toward Newcastle proper. He punched star-1 into his car phone. Belle answered on the first ring.
PUZZLE 3
16
Belle polished off her last deviled egg simultaneously with inking in the crossword puzzle’s final clue. “Well,” she said. “Well . . . well . . . well . . .”
She licked her fingers as if a delightful residue of beaten hard-boiled egg yolk and mayo remained there, sighed contentedly, then glanced up at Rosco, who had been hovering near her shoulder—when he wasn’t pacing the floor of her office or pretending to read one of her foreign-language dictionaries. “It’s almost painfully obvious, isn’t it?” she asked, but was rewarded with a perplexed grin.
“Well, it’s a crossword, if that’s what you mean,” he answered slowly.
“No, I mean the clues! The references . . . these quotations . . .” The hand holding the pen flew around in the air, describing loops and dips of frustration at Rosco’s seeming obtuseness.
He shook his head; the grin spread. “I think we have to change your diet, Belle.”
“Are you crazy?” she demanded. “I couldn’t possibly give up deviled eggs. I’m addicted to them!”
“Maybe it’s too much brain food.” Rosco laughed. “Let’s start from the beginning. What’s so obvious?”
“The Merchant of Venice . . . The references are as plain as the nose on your face.”
Rosco thought for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “I’m with you . . . Shylock, right? . . . And . . . and Portia . . . And she said something about mercy—”
“And what was Shylock’s profession?” Belle’s tone was solemn and patient.
“A loan shark?”
“Well, ‘usurer’ . . . but it’s the same diff—”
“Look, Belle, I know you love these games, and I appreciate your enthusiasm . . . Really I do. But some nut planted this on Tom Pepper . . . And if it has no bearing on the case, then I should let him know. The man’s in a lot of pain. In fact, I’m worried about his mental health.”
Belle’s large eyes seemed to grow in size and luminosity. “But that’s just it, Rosco! This crossword puzzle has everything to do with Pepper . . . He’s an investment banker, right? A merchant prince? A man who gambles on potentially problematic ventures? . . . That’s exactly what Shylock did! Whoever constructed this puzzle is comparing the two men—and it’s not a kind comparison . . . The person who delivered this cryptic to Tom is sending a message saying, ‘You’ve got money’ ‘I have something you want.’ ”
“Where? Where does it say that?” Rosco scanned the clues and answers.
“Well, it’s an inference,” Belle admitted, then added a reluctant: “I’m pretty familiar with the play . . .”
Rosco raised his eyebrows, chuckled, strolled to a window, and turned back to level a scrutinizing gaze at Belle.
“Actually, I know most of Shylock’s lines,” she said softly.
“Curiosity?” he prodded. “Parental encouragement? No, wait . . . You had a cruel high school teacher who forced you to memorize entire passages of text before you were allowed out on the basketball court. Or no, better yet, you dated the sixteen-year-old sap who considered himself the reincarnation of Laurence Olivier.”
Belle stared at her desk. “I did Shylock,” she murmured.
“ ‘Did’? What do you mean ‘did’?”
“I acted the part . . . in school . . . tenth grade, in fact . . .”
“You were an actress? Well, live and learn . . .” Rosco started to laugh again, then realized his reaction might be misconstrued. “What I mean is: That’s a man’s role. Besides, I thought you were into poetry—”
“The boy acting the part got sick.” Belle’s eyes remained fixed on her cluttered desk.
“There weren’t any other guy kids to take his place?”
“I was the only person who knew the part.” The reply was barely audible.
This time Rosco allowed himself a hearty chuckle. “Aha! Just as I thought! That little ferretlike brain of yours memorized the entire play—just for fun!”
Belle glanced up; her cheeks were endearingly pink and shiny. “I was the prompter, Rosco, I had to learn the lines.”
He laughed harder. “And how did you fare as the old Venetian merchant?”
Belle grinned. “Terribly . . . I decided to act old by wobbling around and limping a lot . . . but I can still recite most of the speeches . . . Want to hear?”
“I hope you don’t practice in the shower.”
“Hmm . . . there’s an idea I hadn’t considered . . .” Then she grew serious again. “I know this crossword refers to Pepper, Rosco, and I know it’s intended as some type of threat. My hunch is that Genie and Jamaica may not only be alive, but are being held for ransom . . . On the other hand—and this is a far crueler scenario—the puzzle could be a form of extortion preying upon the fears of an already terrified husband.”
“Say again?”
Belle’s lips pursed into lines of both sorrow and anger. “What if the constructor has no connection with Genie and Jamaica, and is only pretending in order to make Tom believe this is a kidnapping scenario?”
“The envelope was addressed to Genie . . .”
“But after her disappearance. If it had been addressed to Tom, it might not have received such a quick response.”
“Good point . . . So, what you’re saying is: The women are dead—accidentally drowned, as originally reported—and this kook is pretending he has them?”
Belle nodded unhappily. “Look at this,” she continued. “35-Down and 61-Down . . . Both clues have the word gold spelled out—but in capital letters—just like the acronym for Tom’s Global Overseas Lender Development Fund . . . And here: 27-Across: Femmes——, Jamaica Nevisson & others. The answer, of course, is the French FATALES, but in English that’s translated as plain old fatal . . . 23-Across: REVENGE is in the answer . . . 11-Down: the clue is Act of Vengeance actress . . . Whoever created this puzzle is an angry person.”
Rosco considered Belle’s words. “Not a pretty picture—either way,” he said after a long moment.
“Let’s hope the women are still alive and being held hostage.”
“As remote as that sounds, in my way of thinking, that’s a distinct possibility . . . Especially since we don’t have any bodies yet.” Rosco picked up the crossword and gazed at it. “I have to return this to Tom, Belle. He’s—”
“I’ll photocopy it before you go.” Belle jumped to her feet and reached for the puzzle.
“Ahh . . .” Rosco hedged, “that’s privileged information . . . You’re the only person I’m permitted to show it to. Technically, that makes you a subcontractor of the Polycrates Agency.”
“I like the sound of that. Subcontractor . . . I hope it pays well.” Belle smiled, then returned to her serious tone. “I think you should soft-pedal this idea with Tom, though, if you can . . . Maybe he won’t notice the revenge motif—or the several banking references. Because if I’m wrong . . . Well, it would be terrible to get his hopes up about Genie.” Belle thought for a second. “Pepper won’t reconsider calling in the police department, will he? They could be a help . . . maybe set up surveillance around his house . . .”
“No,” said Rosco. “He was adamant on that point. I think that receiving this crossword rattled him more than he knows. I guess he expected—maybe hoped is a better word—that the clues or answers would reveal some form of demand. Tom certainly must have recognized the word gold in the clues . . . But he’s a hard guy to figure out . . . I don’t know, maybe he’s already jumped to the kidnapping conclusion.”
Belle stared through the windows. From the flattened shadows in her yard, she guessed it was about noon. Friday’s Evening Crier would be hitting the stands in a few hours. “I think we’ll learn more after the Crier publishes that other anonymous puzzle I received—and also after Bartholomew’s column appears . . . If there’s a kidnapper or blackmail
er out there, we’ll be playing his game . . . That should bring him out of the woodwork.”
“Hey,” Rosco said in a low and gentle voice.
Belle turned back to face him. “Hey, what?” she said.
“I can see the wheels spinning. I only agreed to your publishing-the-puzzle scheme if you promised to stay in the shadows, remember? I want you to be careful . . .”
“Safety’s my middle name . . . Anyway, in a pinch I can always spout old Shylock . . . ‘Hates any man the thing he would not kill?’—par exemple . . . That should set any malefactor dozing . . .”
While Rosco returned to Pepper’s house, Belle drove to Sara’s home, White Caps. Their conversation on Monday had begun with Tom Pepper; and Belle had a hunch that a lady as ensconced in Newcastle’s hierarchy as Sara Crane Briephs would know everything about the man and his business dealings. Belle even suspected Sara might be able to describe the G.O.L.D. Fund’s intricate structure.
Naturally, it was Emma who escorted Belle from the entry foyer through the long somber hall to Sara’s pleasant parlor. The grand old lady was finishing a tray lunch: tuna fish salad on crustless white bread—a quintessentially WASPy meal. A McIntosh apple and two gingersnaps completed the picture. Old-line New Englanders didn’t maintain their longevity by being lavish.
“A sandwich, Belle?” Sara asked while Belle took the same seat she’d occupied the previous Monday.
“I already ate, thanks . . . I think.”
Sara’s imperious blue eyes swept Belle’s face. “That is not an encouraging answer, young lady. The brain and the body need sufficient fuel in order to function properly. Without decent food, one cannot think.”
Belle suddenly remembered her luncheon menu. “I had deviled eggs,” she said. “Several . . . or maybe four or five . . .”
Sara’s face grew wistful. “My favorite treat,” she murmured. “You know, in my day, one could not attend a party—any type of party—without deviled eggs being among the canapés. Unfortunately, at my age, that amount of cholesterol is not . . . ah, well . . . plummier times . . .” Stoicism straightened the old woman’s shoulders and spine. “Now, Belle, what can I do for you? When you phoned to suggest this visit, discussing hard-cooked eggs was obviously not part of the plan.”
Belle hesitated for only a second. Subcontractor of the Polycrates Agency, she heard her brain repeating. The term, she felt, gave her a certain flexibility—and power. She pulled her photocopy of the newest crossword from her purse.
“This is the third anonymous puzzle I’ve completed in as many days, Sara. The first two came to me at my home, this third was delivered to Tom Pepper.” Then she added a knowing: “It’s highly confidential—as I’m sure you realize. I could get into a good deal of trouble for divulging information, but I’m convinced it pertains to the fire aboard the Orion, and the disappearance of Genie Pepper and Jamaica Nevisson.”
Belle passed the crossword to Sara, who perused it with her customary alacrity.
“I’d say that’s an understatement, Belle. If my son had seen this, he’d concur wholeheartedly.” She studied the word game further. “Gold referred to twice,” she said. “Insider trades at 50-Down . . . The love of money at 38-Down . . . Very intriguing . . . very intriguing, indeed . . . How can I help you with this investigation? I take it this is an investigation?”
Belle explained Rosco’s connection to Pepper, and her own subsequent involvement, while Sara nodded astutely. “And you suspect that I may have the skinny on Pepper and any potential enemies he might have?” she said.
When Belle smiled at this antique colloquialism, her hostess responded with a tart, “I am not so antediluvian as you think, young lady. Contrary to public opinion, I didn’t speak in iambic pentameter as a girl . . . Now, to return to Mr. Edison ‘Tom’ Pepper . . . I’m afraid that I’m in the minority in my dislike for him. Newcastle seems to have deified the man.”
“The other day you mentioned that you didn’t trust him, Sara, why is that?”
Sara pondered the question. “He makes money too quickly,” she finally said, then, responding to Belle’s quizzical expression, added: “My father was a wealthy man—a very wealthy man—but he didn’t believe in so-called speculation, nor in this execrable ‘leverage’ business, ‘stock options,’ ‘hedge funds,’ ‘skyrocketing technology stocks,’ et cetera: all the tactics these new portfolio managers quote—and espouse. Fortunes, in my father’s day, were made on tangible assets: railroads, shipping lines, oil fields, silver mines, commodities of trade . . . Pepper makes money from money; I’m afraid it seems like so much thin air to me.”
“But he’s greatly increased the endowment funds of many Newcastle institutions, hasn’t he?” Belle asked. “That new children’s wing at the hospital . . . isn’t it being constructed as a result of Pepper’s expertise in managing the hospital’s charitable gifts?”
Sara smiled a lovely, rueful smile: age acknowledging youth. “As I said, Belle, I’m in the minority . . . I’ve been told that Pepper promised to double his investors’ portfolios in the space of six months.”
Belle’s eyes widened. “That’s an enormous profit,” she said. “No wonder he’s treated like royalty.”
“Indeed. Indeed . . . A prince among men . . .” Then Sara’s glance returned to the crossword. “These long quotations are interesting,” she said. “17-Across . . . fifteen letters . . .the answer’s a variation of Shakespeare’s famous line ‘What news on the Rialto?’ Are you familiar with the play The Merchant of Venice?”
Fortunately, Sara’s gaze was intent on the cryptic in her lap; she didn’t see how deeply Belle blushed. “Yes, I am . . .” was the reluctant answer.
“And so you’re aware of the financial deal Shylock strikes . . . a hefty loan predicated upon the safe arrival of several heavily laden trading ships?”
Belle looked up and caught Sara’s keen stare. “All of which sink before reaching port and discharging their lucrative cargo,” the young woman answered.
“And what happens to Shylock’s daughter—his dearest female companion—as this disaster unfolds?”
“She disappears,” Belle said. “And her name begins with a J . . .”
17
After he left Belle’s house, it had taken Rosco only twenty minutes to retrace his path to the Pepper home. He’d been informed by Anson that Tom was deeply involved with pressing matters surrounding the G.O.L.D. Fund and had given strict orders not to be disturbed—“under any circumstances,” according to the butler. The injunction brought Rosco a certain sense of relief; after his discussion with Belle, he had no desire to be called on the carpet about possible hidden meanings in the perplexing crossword.
With Anson hovering at his elbow, Rosco wrote the following on the back of the envelope containing the completed puzzle: Mr. Pepper—look this puzzle over and let me know your thoughts. I suspect it’s the work of a disturbed mind, but if you feel there may be more to it, give me a call.
He handed the envelope to Anson and left. Pepper would make his own inferences on the crossword’s clues and answers—or he would not.
Lieutenant Al Lever and his forensics expert, Abe Jones, weren’t due to start work at Mystic Isle Yachts until four P.M. As a result, Rosco gauged that he had plenty of time to drive out to Warren and investigate the elusive truckers, Moe Quick and Bob Stingo. Establishing their whereabouts would hopefully fill in a large piece of the puzzle.
Warren’s run-down neighborhoods were as unwelcoming as they’d been on Tuesday, and the Stingo house appeared consistently dark and unoccupied. Rosco banged on the front and rear doors, but the house’s interior remained silent. The home also emitted a morguelike chill, the feel of a building that’s been without heat or human habitation for several days. He stood pressed to the kitchen door for a couple of long minutes, but detected no odor of cooking gas, food preparation, or dishes either washed or piled in the sink. The house smelled only of standing water, cold concrete, and aged vinyl siding.
<
br /> He returned to his Jeep. The neighboring homes seemed equally devoid of life, although Rosco was certain he was being watched—if only by a nosy populace. He considered approaching one or two of those dwellings, then realized his current attire had “official snoop” written all over it. If he hadn’t been singled out as an undercover cop, he probably looked like something worse: a repo man or enforcer from a rental agency. None of these folks would open their door to such a heinous character, so Rosco turned his Jeep toward Duxbury Court and the Quicks’ mobile home.
Doris Quick seemed truly frightened to see him. Her ruddy complexion blanched; and she slammed the door in his face without speaking. But before Rosco had time to call out or knock again, he heard her voice whisper through the door. “Okay, okay, I’ll open it.” The inflection made it impossible to determine whether the response was intended for Rosco or someone within the trailer. She reopened the door, but only enough to show her eyes, nose, and mouth. “Sorry,” she said in a halting tone. “I . . . I thought you were someone else.” She attempted a smile but failed.
Rosco assumed his most wholesome demeanor. “Better safe than sorry, I always say.”
Doris studied him, trying to determine his motive. “I suppose you want my husband.”
“Right . . . Just for a minute or two, Mrs. Quick. Is he home?”
“Nope, he ain’t.”
“I thought I heard another voice . . .”
“You didn’t.” Her jaw muscles tightened. Rosco could see she wanted to slam the door shut again. “And I told you, I don’t like being called Missus . . . makes me feel older than I should.”
