by Nero Blanc
The succinct reply was a less than promising, “Yes.”
“Perhaps you can help me, then,” Belle began, although Tina’s wooden expression didn’t suggest she was in a benevolent mood. “I received a fax from this store at around eight o’clock this morning. Were you working then?”
“I start at seven when the store opens.”
“Oh, good. So you were here . . .” Belle smiled again. “You don’t happen to remember who sent it, do you?”
Tina’s long frame stretched taller and more austere, reminding Belle of time-lapse photography of some exotic botanical specimen—a Venus flytrap or other carnivorous plant. “It is not Papyrus’s policy to peruse private faxes or cover sheets for the purpose of obtaining telephone numbers. Our customers rely upon confidentiality and discretion when they bring a document into our emporium . . . Sorry.”
Belle doubted the sincerity of the apology; she smiled for a third time. More flies are trapped with honey, she thought, expanding her metaphor. “This wasn’t actually a letter, Tina; it was a crossword puzzle.”
“Oh!” Tina said in new state of awareness and excitement. “You’re Annabella Graham. You’re the crossword lady at the Evening Crier. I do the puzzle every day.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” Belle said, attempting to cover her impatience. “So, you do remember who sent the puzzle? The reason I ask is that the crossword was good enough to publish. The Crier always pays constructors for their work—but I need a name to accompany the check.”
Tina thought for a moment while Belle grinned for a fourth time.
“Well,” Tina began, “this is against Papyrus policy, but seeing as how you’re trying to do a favor . . . It was Ricky. He also sent one last week, didn’t he?”
“Well, someone did. And darn it if that name wasn’t omitted, too.”
“It was Ricky, all right. A nice kid but kind of dopey, if you get my meaning. I didn’t think he had the smarts to make up a crossword puzzle. So he’s trying to get them published, huh?”
“That’s what I assume, but unfortunately, I haven’t been able to contact him. You wouldn’t happen to know his last name, would you?”
“ ’Fraid not.”
“But you know his first name? Even though he’s only sent two faxes?”
Tina let out a long laugh. “It’s not what you think. He’s a kid, like I said . . . comes in the store a lot . . . You know, to get things photocopied for the motel.”
“The motel?”
“Sure. Blue Hill Cabins.” Tina pointed vaguely toward her right. “It’s about a quarter of a mile from the interstate on the old Boston Post Road. There used to be a gas station near the cabins, and some kind of mom-and-pop restaurant that finally went belly-up . . . you know, when the highway built all those fancy rest areas and commercial traffic moved east . . .”
Belle looked blank, and Tina sighed again. “I’ve lived in this area all my life,” Tina continued. “There used to be other places like the Blue Hill—tourist cabins, they called them way back when. They were nice . . . secluded, low-key, kind of quaint . . . vacationers could spend a week there without breaking the bank . . . Newcastle was a different town in those days . . .” Tina’s glance finally refocused on the bright lights and aggressive merchandising of the super-store around her. “Anyway, Blue Hill gets their rate sheets printed here—not that much changes in that respect. Ricky’s sort of their delivery kid and all-around helper.”
“Well, perhaps I’ll visit the cabins and see if I can find him.”
“Oh, you’ll find him all right. Look for a Red Sox hat and he’ll be the kid under it. And he is a kid, too . . . kind of small for a guy . . . His puzzles are really good, huh?”
“Remarkable.” Belle smiled for a fifth time. “Thanks, Tina, you’ve been a big help.”
She left Tina to her memories, quit the store, climbed into her car, and entered the westbound traffic lane without noticing the blue Range Rover pull out directly behind her.
Exiting the interstate onto an unkempt and sadly empty side road—the remainder of the once-great Boston Post Road—the Blue Hill Cabins’ entrance lay several hundred yards on her right. Belle angled into a parking space in front of the office, a small freestanding two-story building that looked as if it had three rooms, a bedroom upstairs, and an eat-in kitchen and office on the first floor. Two neon signs hung in the front window; one said OFFICE, the other VACANCY; both were still lighted. Tina was right; the world had lost all interest in places like the Blue Hill.
Before entering the office, Belle studied the cabins dotted among the trees as if they’d been perched at the edge of a dense, impenetrable forest. Against the invading greenery, the units looked tiny, but she could imagine how spruce and tidy they must once have seemed: a bed-sitting room, a kitchenette, the sound of the wind in the pines at night, the ocean only a few miles away. Affordable family fun, the brochures must have advertised. Only two cars were parked in front of the cabins, and they looked as weary as the buildings.
Belle stepped into the empty office. There was a registration area cluttered with papers, a side table holding several magazines, and two folding metal chairs. A small TV sat on the reception desk pointed in the direction of an overstuffed chair. Belle tapped on a plastic button nailed to the desk and a gong sounded in a back room curtained off from the office with a floral-printed sheet. After a long minute a man with a melon-shaped stomach and a poorly fitting toupee emerged from the back. He retrieved a toothpick from a shot glass on the desk, placed it in the corner of his mouth, and eyed Belle up and down.
“Checkin’ in, honey?” He gave her a lecherous smile.
“No . . . I’m looking for Ricky.”
The man laughed, making his stomach roll from side to side. “Must be Ricky’s lucky day . . . a cutie like you lookin’ for him . . . Who is it wants him?”
“Ah, well . . . I’m . . . from the school . . . and—”
“Ricky dropped out of school a year ago,” he announced.
“Of course . . . I knew that.” Belle cleared her throat. “It’s just that . . . for that reason . . . well, we like to follow up on the kids who leave us. To see if we can change their minds. I’m sure you know that education is a vital factor in success.”
This brought a boisterous belly laugh from the desk clerk. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t say ‘success’ was a priority for Ricky.”
Belle could feel a line of sweat form at her hairline, but she refused to break eye contact with the man. “May I talk to him?”
“Be my guest, honey . . . He’s down the road apiece at that doughnut shop near the interstate . . . We used to have a nice little eatery nearby . . . local folks, not a big chain.” His hands waved irresolutely in the air. “But progress is progress . . . People like ‘brand recognition’ nowadays. I can’t compete with HoJo and Motel 6.” He gave Belle another leer and added, “If anyone can get that bozo to shape up, I guess it’d be a looker like you . . . And, hey, if you ain’t doin’ nothin’ later . . . stop back, okay? We got some vacancies. Take a load off your feet.”
“School business doesn’t leave me much free time.”
“I know how it is.”
Belle smiled her sixth fake smile of the morning, then hurried out to her car and drove back toward the interstate and the Whole Earth Doughnut Company, a glossy, glass-facaded building devoted to satisfying the human urge for comfort food. She parked near the shop’s east entrance, then realizing her car would be easily visible from the building’s interior, decided to leave the windows down. There was something so pleasant about the aroma of sunbaked auto—a last gasp of summer irresponsibility.
The Whole Earth Doughnut Company was awash in the mingled perfumes of cinnamon, sugar, chocolate icing, fruit jam, and coffee—not exactly health food but a good deal more tempting. Behind the counter were an impressive array of three dozen different types of doughnuts, sweet rolls, crullers, and plate-sized spiral confections thick with frosted goo. Belle consid
ered one of the spirals, but instead opted for a time-trusted jelly doughnut as she perused the customers. A retirement-age couple sat at a windowside table, three construction workers hunched over coffee and crullers nearby, and a young man with a Rex Sox cap sat alone at a counter staring moodily through the far window. His confection choice was chocolate-coated and dotted with a plethora of multicolored sprinkles. Belle wondered if this was part of a “nutritious breakfast” she grabbed her doughnut and walked toward him.
“Are you Ricky?”
“Yeah . . . who are you?”
“I’m the lady you sent the fax to.”
“Wow . . . cool . . . How’d you find me here?” Ricky looked around the Whole Earth as though he’d previously considered such a public and impersonal place the ultimate hideout.
“I work for a private detective agency on occasion . . . what you might call a subcontractor . . . We specialize in finding people who wish to remain hidden.”
“Cool . . . Subcontractor,” Ricky repeated. “Way cool.”
Belle found herself affixing another pasted-on smile. “I also happen to be a crossword expert, Ricky.” She stressed the word “expert.” “Those were very interesting puzzles you faxed me. Were you the constructor?”
“Huh?” He scratched his head and glanced at the construction workers as if they might have secret knowledge of the proper response to females’ peculiar questions.
“Did you make up those puzzles?” Belle said, looking for words she thought Ricky might understand. “Did you design them—or write the clues?”
“Who me?”
Belle gritted her teeth and broadened her phony smile. “Of course . . . you.”
“No,” he admitted after a long moment of silence, “I don’t know who made them up.”
“I see. Then how did you happen to send them to me?”
A look of panic darted across Ricky’s stealthy face. “I’m not gonna get in trouble, am I? Mr. Hacket, over at the motel.” He cocked his thumb in the Blue Hill’s direction. “He said he’d fire me if I got into any more trouble.”
“No, you won’t get into trouble.” Belle tried to sound reassuring, but in reality she had no idea how much difficulty Ricky might already be facing.
“What’ll you give me for telling?”
“Give you . . . ?”
“Yeah. What’ll you give me? Some old lady handed me twenty bucks to send them to you. Each time. Twenty bucks. That’s a lot of dough. And she paid extra for the faxes, too. So, what’ll you give me if I tell you who she is?”
“Some old lady?”
“Yeah.”
“How old?”
“Like old . . . you know . . . like my grandma, maybe.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“At the motel. Where else?” Ricky suddenly seemed to realize his demand for payment hadn’t been properly addressed. “Hey . . . hold on, what’re you gonna give me?”
Belle ignored the question. “She’s staying at the motel? In which cabin?”
“You gotta give me something first.”
Belle opened her purse.
“Nah,” he said, “I don’t want money.”
“What do you want, then?”
He grinned broadly, a swagger beginning in his still-scrawny body. “Come out to my car and I’ll tell you.”
Belle shook her head, put a twenty-dollar bill on the table, and said, “Just tell me what cabin the old lady’s in, Ricky.”
“Nah . . . I said too much already. You’re not gettin’ any more unless you come out to my car.”
“What’s in your car?”
“You’ll see.”
Belle thought for a second. “Okay, but just for a minute.”
She returned the twenty to her purse and followed him through the shop’s west entrance. At the rear of the building, almost hidden by a gigantic Dumpster, stood Ricky’s old and rusting gray Honda. The rear window was littered with Grateful Dead stickers. He smiled and said, “This is my ride. Pretty nice, huh? It’s a real solid piece of machinery. Just needs some new paint, is all. You’re not into the Dead, are you?”
Belle found herself growing increasingly impatient—and nervous, a sensation she didn’t like. “Look, Ricky,” she said, raising her voice and pulling herself erect as if her physical attitude could overcome his recalcitrance. “I didn’t come here to discuss automobiles or attempts at music. What is it you want?”
He chuckled and tried for a come-hither look. “Just a kiss . . . That’s all. You’re a pretty lady.”
“I don’t think so.”
Despite Belle’s authoritative tone, Ricky grabbed her upper arms and squeezed tightly, forcing her against the car. Although no taller than she was, years of wrestling with lawn mowers, saws, and other yard-maintenance equipment had made him a good deal stronger. Belle tried to twist loose, but he held tight.
“That’s it, Ricky,” she said. “You’re in serious trouble now.”
Ricky’s thumbs released their pressure slightly. “What do you mean?”
“Mr. Hacket hired me.”
Ricky leaped back, a horrified expression on his face.
“He wanted me to find out what you were up to. He’s not going to be pleased when he hears about this.”
“No. Wait. I was just joking around . . . Please . . . You can’t tell him . . .”
When Belle didn’t answer, Ricky’s worried speech rushed forward. “The old lady with the crosswords . . . She’s in cabin fifteen. It’s the last one on the left—kinda hidden by all the trees . . . Please don’t tell Mr. Hacket. He’s gonna fire me for sure.”
Belle took a minute to make it appear as if she was considering his request.
“Come on, lady,” he repeated, “please.”
“Okay,” Belle acquiesced, “but don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again. Not with anyone!”
“I won’t. Honest, I won’t. I swear.” Ricky looked as if he might momentarily begin to cry.
Belle stepped past him and began circling the doughnut shop toward her own car. When she was nearly out of sight, he called out: “Wait a minute, if you’re working for Mr. Hacket, how come you didn’t ask him where the old lady was.”
“I guess I forgot,” Belle answered, and disappeared around the corner.
As fortunate as she’d been to outmaneuver Ricky, it had taken time, and more important, it had forced her to leave her car not only unlocked but unattended. As a result, Belle was completely unaware of the shadowy figure who had slipped into the backseat in her absence.
28
“. . . I’ve been trying to reach her since eight-fifteen this morning, Rosco. It simply isn’t like Belle not to answer her phone. Especially as she was expecting my call . . .”
Sara Briephs’ voice emanated concern tinged with a hint of regal impatience. Before responding, Rosco glanced at his watch, then chose his words carefully; the last thing he wanted was to further rile an already perturbed lady.
“I haven’t spoken to her today, Sara, but last night she mentioned she’d be home all day working on tomorrow’s crossword for the Crier. She must be so deep in thought, she can’t hear the phone. You know how Belle is.”
Sara cleared her throat, then took a purposeful breath. “I see,” she began, “so your contact last night was only via the telephone?”
Rosco frowned at the air. Dealing with older people, especially those who adhered to a rigid etiquette, could be trying. He was about to respond that he and Belle maintained separate—and independent—lives when Sara’s voice continued with a swift:
“I hope you don’t think I’m prying, Rosco. I don’t mean to suggest that Belle might have . . . spent the night with you . . .” Her voice faltered ever so slightly, then charged ahead in typical Yankee fashion. “Heaven knows, I’m not accusing you of impropriety . . . or . . . or wantonness . . . I’m not an old hen, as some people believe; I’m well aware that relationships develop differently nowadays than they did when I was young. Intima
cy between a modern couple . . . well, no more need be said.”
Rosco shook his head, then glanced across his office. He tried to imagine a young Sara and her swains—an affluent group from a bygone era whose antics probably ran to such “crimes” as putting salt in the sugar bowl or hiding a gentleman caller’s hat. “You’re not prying, Sara,” he said. “Belle was at her home last night. I was in my apartment.” Then he changed the subject. “Did you speak to her answering machine? Ask her to pick up the telephone?”
“Absolutely! I’ve called four times, and each time mentioned that my message was urgent. If she were home, she would have heard me.”
Rosco smiled. He wondered if Belle was fully aware of the demands involved in her newfound friendship with Sara. “Perhaps the tape machine was muted so Belle could work undisturbed.”
“Oh, I sincerely doubt that. It’s not like her to be so spineless. The girl has extraordinary powers of concentration.”
“I wouldn’t worry, Sara. Perhaps, she’s at the market or—”
“For two hours? You know as well as I do that Belle can’t cook anything more complicated than deviled eggs.”
Despite himself, Rosco found a sense of unease creeping into his thoughts. “Well,” he began, “I’m sure there’s a logical—”
“I’d be a good deal more concerned if I were you, Rosco, especially given this G.O.L.D. Fund debacle.” Sara’s voice cracked suddenly. “Oh, dear,” she gasped. “Oh, dear. I didn’t intend to tell you yet.”
“What about the G.O.L.D. Fund?”
“Oh, dear,” Sara repeated. “Oh, my goodness. This is a dreadful dilemma.”
Rosco thrummed his fingers on his desktop. “Perhaps you’d better begin at the beginning,” he said.
After a long silence, Sara responded, “I don’t mean to sound secretive . . . or . . . or as if Belle and I have been scheming behind your back. But my news involves your present employer, Mr. Edison ‘Tom’ Pepper.” She paused again as if ordering her thoughts into organized ranks. “It’s simply that I’m afraid your integrity may be compromised if I disclose this information to you . . . You do have a privileged client-employer relationship with Mr. Pepper, do you not?”
