by Nero Blanc
When they were out of sight, she continued her inspection of the inn’s porch. No sign of human intrusion was evident, although several windowpanes were missing—victims of wind-borne debris. Belle peered inside at the chilly, vacant reception rooms. Again, a sense of ineffable sorrow swept over her.
She shook off the feeling and retrieved the folded crossword from her purse, searching for clues she might have missed or misconstrued. 7-Down: Actress admirer; 16-Down: Bribes. The answer to 39-Across—Why?—was: AN ENDGAME. What did it mean? Surely whoever had called her to this spot possessed some answers.
The door closest to the promontory was slightly ajar. Belle pushed, but couldn’t move it. She leaned her weight against it; the door reluctantly gave way, and she forced her way inside. Several chairs and tables littered the interior, which was overhung with a pall of dust and gritty sand. Cobwebs obscured many of the windows; nesting material from birds or rodents lay festering on the grimy sills.
Belle studied the floor; there didn’t seem to be any trace of previous footsteps. Briefly, she wondered if the space was safe to walk across, then began gingerly edging her way across the room. She’d been summoned to the inn, there had to be a message somewhere.
In a blind corridor between rooms, she heard the thud of feet on the porch. Her heart pounded within her chest; she felt her mouth go dry. She waited, only able to half see the area she was approaching; the one she’d left behind was now invisible—as was the building’s exterior. The footsteps continued, navigating the porch’s rotten flooring and piles of castaway branches and leaves. It became obvious that her unseen visitor was seeking an entrance.
Slowly, she turned and began retracing her steps. Fear caused her ears to ring; she was aware of staring without seeing. She clutched the crossword in her hand as if its presence could ensure her safe passage. Bizarrely, she felt as though she were entering some grade-school test for which she’d memorized all the answers. DEW DROP INN, she wanted to say, AT ELEVEN AM.
Suddenly a gust of wind billowed through the dust-filled air; Belle realized that the door she’d entered had been pushed wide open and closed.
She froze. She simply could not force herself to move. Then she heard a dog barking; it was very near. No human voice responded, and the animal continued yapping. Belle drew a breath and walked toward the entry.
“Hey . . .” It was the woman in the jogging clothes. She shifted forward on her toes as if Belle’s appearance had badly frightened her. Then she stared disbelieving at the puzzle in Belle’s hand.
Belle found her own glance descending to the crossword. She realized how stupid she looked—trespassing in a derelict building with a sheet of graph paper clenched in her fist.
“You’d better be careful that your dog doesn’t fall into one of those holes on the porch,” she said, attempting a nonchalant smile.
“I tied him up,” the woman said. She didn’t move, and didn’t smile. In fact, her body language seemed downright challenging.
“Are you . . . are you one of the owners of the building?” Belle asked.
The dog started another spate of barking, and Belle remembered her mission. COME ALONE, the crossword had warned, but here she was talking to some disagreeable female while her equally contentious pet announced to the world that the Dew Drop Inn was less than deserted. Belle walked past the woman and yanked open the door. Annoyance at herself and this unwanted visitor made her shoulders rigid.
“What are you doing in here?” the woman demanded.
“Looking around,” Belle answered without turning to face her. “That’s not a crime, is it? Besides, unless you’re an owner, you have no more right to be here than I do.” She looked at her watch. It was one o’clock. The person or persons attempting to contact her had obviously decided against it.
“Those word games are a big waste of time,” the woman announced to Belle’s retreating back.
“To each his own.” The answer was frosty; Belle added an equally irritable, “Your dog doesn’t seem too happy.”
“My dog’s fine.”
Belle didn’t answer. If the woman wanted to pick a fight, she’d have to look elsewhere.
“Don’t you worry about my dog!” she called out. “Animals have as much right to run around free as humans do. It’s people like you who make their lives miserable, not the folks who own them!”
Amid this tirade, Belle marched to her car, slid into the driver’s seat, and locked the doors. A subcontractor for the Polycrates Agency, she told herself. What a joke! If Genie and Jamaica are alive, I’ve probably done them more harm than good.
21
Rosco hit the roof—as Belle had anticipated he would. “What do you mean you went out to Allyn’s Point? Alone?” his voice demanded through the telephone line. Fear for her safety magnified the outrage in his tone.
“If someone actually kidnapped those two women, Belle, that person is playing for keeps. And if—as you suggested in another scenario—this is an extortion scheme targeting Pepper and his millions, and the women are already dead . . . Then you’re still dealing with a hardened criminal . . . and a sadistic one, to boot . . .” He waited a second or two, then added, “Belle, are you listening to me . . . ?”
“I am, yes.” She stared out her office window. She knew he was right, but that didn’t make the dressing-down any easier to take. In fact, her own criticism of herself made his more difficult to accept. Besides, she hadn’t even told him about the threatening phone call. Not that she was about to share that piece of information posthaste.
“You should have called me, Belle,” Rosco concluded. His anger had given way to old-fashioned worry.
“The puzzle read, ‘Tell no one.’ ”
Rosco sighed. “Belle, you’re a word person—some might say an egghead . . . but you’re not a cop.”
In spite of herself, Belle bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you should have basic training in law enforcement before dealing with criminals.”
“Tom Pepper told you he didn’t want the police brought in on this—and you listened to him.”
“That’s because I used to be a cop. I know what I’m doing.”
“As opposed to me? The egghead?” Belle’s question was delivered in the flat, challenging tone of a statement.
Rosco paused. Belle could hear him breathing slowly and deliberately. “Look, you’re a very smart person, that’s all I meant,” he said. “I can’t quote Shakespeare. You can. French and Latin phrases don’t roll off my tongue. You can jump hoops between languages. On the other hand, I’ve been through the police academy, and I’ve been out on the streets . . . I’ve learned to anticipate problem situations.” The particular stress he put on “problem” painted a vivid picture of just what those times entailed. “I also know when to carry a gun, and how to use it if I have to.”
Belle didn’t speak immediately. Instead, she continued gazing through the window. Midafternoon was giving way to dusk. The sky was still blue, but the color looked heavier and darker, as if the panes of intervening glass had been tinted an amber brown. “Rosco, I may not have sufficient experience with criminal investigations, but everything in that crossword indicated that I’d been designated as a liaison. If I hadn’t gone alone—”
“Why you, Belle?” Although Rosco’s tone was gentle, Belle found herself growing irritable again.
“Why not me? You’re working for Pepper. Most folks consider us to be . . . to be . . .” Annoyance at the situation wouldn’t permit her to say the word “couple” instead she opted for a noncommittal “involved.”
“Only people we know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you’re presupposing this kidnapper—or extortionist—is a local who’s attuned to the personal relationships of every citizen of Newcastle.”
Belle could see Rosco’s point, but her stubborn streak refused to concede the argument. “Then why were those first two crosswords sent
to me, the third to Tom, and the fourth delivered to me again?”
Rosco’s response was a weary: “Those are questions we don’t have answers for yet.”
“But I do! The first puzzle comes to me; I answer the clues, but fail to respond—or so the constructor assumes . . . Ditto with the second crossword . . . although, meanwhile I decide to publish it—and talk to Bartholomew Kerr . . . The puzzle’s printed version and his gossip column don’t appear until yesterday—Friday . . . But in the meantime the constructor becomes frustrated at my seeming inattention and targets Pepper, knowing he’ll pass the puzzle along to me—”
“You’re making a big assumption—”
“No, I’m not, Rosco! This is common sense. I know I’m right!”
“No, Belle, you don’t know it. You believe it . . . That’s a whole different thing . . . I don’t mean to lecture you, but it’s important not to jump to conclusions here—”
“You play hunches all the time. You told me so yourself . . . Besides, Sara ‘wholeheartedly’ concurred that the crossword Pepper received had direct bearing on the case. ‘Wholeheartedly’ was her term, not mine.”
“Tell me you didn’t show that puzzle to Sara.”
Belle remained silent, so Rosco pushed harder. “You showed that puzzle to Sara?” He could feel himself steaming up again. “When Pepper practically ordered me not to inform the police!”
Belle’s tone—and verbiage—turned immediately defensive and grand. “As a subcontractor of the Polycrates Agency, I felt it within my jurisdiction, yes . . . Anyway, Sara—”
“Where did you get that high-flown term ‘subcontractor’?”
“From you!”
Rosco’s frustration echoed through the telephone wire. “And so this employee of mine takes it upon herself to investigate a situation without informing her boss—”
“Well, you’re not my boss, for one thing. Let’s not get carried away—”
“Aha!” Rosco almost shouted. “Now we’re getting somewhere . . . So this nonemployee decides to investigate a case in which she has no jurisdiction . . . not to mention authority—”
But Belle was not to be bested. “Rosco! Two women’s lives are at stake!”
“We don’t actually know that, Belle—”
“Yes, we do!”
“Belle—”
“Okay, okay . . . my assumption is that this is a kidnapping . . . But isn’t that the only way for us to proceed? By hoping that these crosswords lead us to Genie and Jamaica?”
Rosco didn’t answer, and both, in their separate rooms, backed off. Belle glared through the windows. Evening was now marching forward; soon the panes of glass would turn black and cold. She flicked on her desk lamp, but the circle of light did nothing to dispel the sense of hastening gloom.
“Listen,” she said, “this latest cryptic arrived first thing this morning—today, Saturday . . . After the threatening phone call last night, it made perfect sense that I—”
“What phone call?” Rosco’s tone was again on edge.
Belle groaned. She couldn’t think of an answer that would assuage his fears. “I didn’t mean to tell you,” she said quietly.
“Well, that’s just swell,” was his exasperated response. “That’s just terrific! You put yourself at severe risk, and you don’t have the courtesy to tell me?”
“It had nothing to do with courtesy, Rosco. I knew you’d try to dissuade me from going.”
“You’re right! That’s exactly what I would have done—dissuade. And with good reason.”
“But I’m trying to tell you I had to go out to Allyn’s Point alone!”
“Speaking of points, that’s mine . . . Someone wanted you there alone—and that person is most probably a character you shouldn’t meet face-to-face.”
“But he—” Belle began, but Rosco overrode her.
“Belle,” he said, “If you love someone, don’t you want to protect them? Whatever it takes?”
Belle was silent for a long time. How could you stand on principle when someone said they loved you? “Yes,” she finally answered. “Yes, you do.”
“You worry about me, right?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Well . . . ?” he asked.
In response, she frowned at her desk, and at a well-thumbed Oxford edition of Shakespeare’s complete works lying open on its surface.
“What’s good for the goose . . .” Rosco said gently.
“Is good for the gander,” was her mumbled response. Then she added a quick: “ ‘Young blood must have its course, lad, / And every dog his day.’ It’s from Water Babies . . . Charles Kingsley . . . The poem has a goose in it. That’s why it came to mind, I guess . . . although there was this dog out at Allyn’s Point . . .”
“We need to talk about that, Belle,” Rosco answered softly. “Listen, what do you say I take you out to dinner? We can hash over the entire situation then . . . parameters, safety, appropriate information-exchange policy, subcontractors, the works . . .”
“Promise you’ll never call me an egghead again.”
“Only if you positively swear you’ll start considering the consequences of your actions.”
“I’m not sure I know how,” was Belle’s quiet response.
“That’s why I worry about you.” Rosco chuckled a little. The stalemate was broken. “Is half an hour okay? And maybe the Athena? Besides, I’ve got my own news to share. One item being that Genie Pepper’s half brother—and no friend of Tom’s—is the beneficiary of her generous life-insurance policy. The second being that he up and quit his job. No one in Boston has seen hide nor hair of him since last Saturday.”
“Yikes!” was all Belle could think to say.
22
The Athena Restaurant on Front Street in the resuscitated City Pier area had been the scene of Rosco and Belle’s first dinner together. With its cozy, romantic ambience, checkered tablecloths, and evocative, wall-sized murals of Greece, the eatery had remained a favorite; Belle and Rosco felt almost as if they’d been transported to some exotic vacation spot when dining there. Tonight, however, business intruded. Or, perhaps, discussing the Pepper case was easier than addressing the push-pull of their own emotions. Both of them had been deeply affected by their argument that afternoon; love, they knew, could make people unreasonable, sometimes possessive, often anxious. It could also bring joy beyond measure.
“So . . . let’s see . . . You were telling me that Billy Vauriens can’t be found . . .” Nervous energy and a sudden shyness caused Belle’s pale blond hair to bounce as she spoke. She smiled, but the expression was almost too bright. “Doesn’t his girlfriend find that odd?”
Rosco tried to match her impersonal mood. “Not from what she said . . .I gather they have a pretty loose arrangement.”
“I’d hate that,” Belle blurted out, then stammered an embarrassed, “For me, I mean . . . Or, rather . . .”
“I wouldn’t like it either,” Rosco said. “For myself, that is. . .”
“To each his own,” Belle answered.
“Absolutely,” was Rosco’s swift reply.
In the awkward silence that ensued, he divvied up the remaining dolmades; and the waiter removed the plate from the red-and-white-checked tablecloth, then poured white wine into their glasses. Rosco waited until he and Belle were again alone before speaking.
“You and Vauriens’ lady friend don’t have much in common . . .” he began, then attempted a less intimate tone as he watched her attack her last stuffed grape leaf. “Unless you’ve been kiting checks, that is.” Finally, he added a quiet: “I’m glad you didn’t starve out there on Allyn’s Point . . . Or harm yourself in any other way . . .”
“I was fine, Rosco. Really I was,” Belle murmured, before returning to the safer subject of Billy Vauriens. “I still don’t understand his situation with his boss.”
Rosco toyed with his glass. Belle could see he had something on his mind that didn’t include Genie Pepper’s half brother. Wh
en he answered, however, it was Vauriens’ situation he addressed. “I gather Billy’s part of a pickup crew for construction work. Nonunion, usually working off the books . . . sometimes only marginally skilled . . . They’re not the most dependable folks to hire.”
Belle followed his lead with an equally pragmatic: “So, why didn’t this boss question Vauriens about his decision to quit?”
“The guy’s got a site under construction. Probably running behind schedule would be my guess . . . He barely had time to talk to me. Anyway, he’s used to these part-timers coming and going. He’s got better things to do than keep track of them.”
“Hmm . . .” Belle nodded. “Hmm.”
Flat soup dishes containing avgolemono were placed in front of them. “Lemon soup.” She sighed. “You know how much I love this stuff.”
Rosco smiled as he watched her. “It’s not that hard to cook.”
“For someone named Polycrates, maybe!” Belle returned his warm glance, but her pronouncement suddenly brought a welter of disturbing thoughts—accompanied by the single damning and unshakable word Jamaica had leveled at her during the Patriot Yacht Club dinner dance; “transitional” clanged in Belle’s ears.
“So . . .” she continued after several moments, “after you went gallivanting all over Boston looking for Vauriens, then what?”
“Then I drove back to Newcastle, called Pepper, and told him I’d been hunting for Billy . . . It’s a good thing we were talking on the phone, because I’m not sure I would have been able to handle that much hollering in person . . . Pepper clearly despises his brother-in-law.”
“Half,” Belle corrected reflexively.
“Right . . . Genie’s half brother.”
“And Tom didn’t know anything about the five-million-dollar policy?”
“Not a peep.”
“And this forensics expert, Jones—what’s his first name again?”
“Abe.”
“That’s right,” Belle said. Rosco could see her searching for a mental association to remember the name.
