by Nero Blanc
Rosco’s fingers tapped the desk again. “Yes, Sara, I do. But you know me well enough to realize I’d dissolve my relationship with Mr. Pepper in a second if I believed he’d broken any laws.”
“Oh, dear,” Sara repeated. “This is why I needed to speak with Belle first. It was the crossword, you see . . . that one she brought to my house . . . the one with all the monetary clues.”
Rosco felt another prickle of fear. Vauriens dead, Fogram, Genie, Jamaica missing. “What did you discover, Sara?” he asked.
She pondered the request for the merest split second. “Your Tom Pepper is nothing more than a high-rolling con man, Rosco. That’s the information I needed to share with Belle.”
“What—” Rosco began, but Sara cut him off.
“I have now conferred with several old and trusted friends, all of whom had the misfortune to invest in your Mr. Pepper’s G.O.L.D. Fund. Although initially reluctant to broach the subject, they eventually overcame their embarrassment. Money is not something we WASPs are comfortable discussing . . . At any rate, the result of my inquiries is this: The G.O.L.D. Fund is a total sham. It’s no more than a sophisticated Ponzi scheme—similar to the one perpetrated on the world some eighty years ago by that horrible Charles Ponzi.”
Rosco stared into space. “You’re certain about this?” he finally asked.
“Do you mean about Mr. Ponzi’s fraud or the ‘reliability of my sources’—I believe that’s the correct term? Is that what you’re asking me?”
Rosco hesitated. “Yes, I guess that’s what I’m asking.”
Sara’s reply was frosty. “Neither I nor my friends are in the habit of spreading malicious rumors—”
“I didn’t suggest they—”
Sara barreled past the comment. “My friends and I have concluded that Pepper has been using monies from new investors to repay clients with a prior claim: an ever-revolving pool of the naive, the hopeful—or the greedy. Naturally, the scheme relies upon maintaining the strictest secrecy as to investors’ identities. It wouldn’t do for them to publicly discuss their portfolios’ shortcomings—which made my ferreting out of information all the more arduous.”
Again, Rosco tried to interrupt; and again, Sara ignored him.
“After a good deal of heated discussion amongst my companions and me, we reached the opinion that it’s a matter of weeks, or perhaps even days, before Pepper’s entire machine collapses. I needn’t remind you, young man, that these people are among Newcastle’s wealthiest individuals . . . They sit on the boards of every corporation and charitable institution in this town. How this nouveau snake charmer was able to hoodwink them will remain a mystery to me. I spotted him as a ne’er-do-well at first meeting . . .”
Suddenly Vic Fogram and his panicked telephone call fell into place. But recognizing the connection between the Red Admiral’s owner and the CFOs of Newcastle made Rosco feel a deeper concern for Belle’s safety. “Belle was aware of your activities, I take it?” he asked.
“Of course! But, as I mentioned, we thought it wise, given your position with Pepper—”
Rosco groaned in frustration. “I wish you’d had the confidence to share your suspicions with me earlier.”
Sara didn’t respond for a long and wounded moment. When she spoke, her words sounded surprisingly chagrined. “You don’t think this Pepper character would—”
“Pepper’s brother-in-law is dead, Sara. His wife is missing, along with Miss Nevisson and a saloon owner who also had invested with him. I don’t know what type of crime—or crimes—we’re dealing with, but I do know that amateurs and homicides don’t mix . . . Now, what exactly were you and Belle planning to do with the G.O.L.D. Fund information?”
“I hope I haven’t done anything to put that girl in jeopardy . . .” Tears, or what sounded like tears, clogged Sara’s voice.
“I’ll find her,” Rosco said.
“I know you’re crazy about her.” The redoubtable lady paused; Rosco could hear worry slowly give way to pragmatism. “It’s high time you two made a stronger commitment to one another.”
Rosco shook his head. A quiet smile crept over his face. “I’m working on it, Sara. I’m working on it . . .”
“In my day—”
“Sara!”
Silence again filled the phone line, broken, at length, by Sara’s contrite: “Belle’s extremely fond of you, you know.”
“I know,” Rosco answered.
“And she’s a perfectly lovely girl.”
“I know that, too, Sara.”
“I’m not intruding, Rosco. I’m simply stating obvious facts.”
“Let’s return to your information on Pepper,” Rosco answered.
“Oh, I supplied the police department with all my findings,” was Sara’s airy reply. “That delightful Lieutenant Lever spoke with me.”
“What?” Rosco didn’t know which statement was more astonishing: Sara’s admission that she’d already told Lever—or that she described him as “delightful.”
“We had a most erudite conversation.”
“With Al?”
“Is there another Lever on the force?”
Rosco shut his eyes tight. He was beginning to think he’d been trapped in an ancient Burns and Allen routine.
“I informed the lieutenant that accusations of fraud could, and would, be backed up in a court of law. I told him that my friends—all leading lights in this city—were more than willing to come forward with evidence. No one will ever accuse Sara Crane Briephs of being an apathetic citizen . . . Albert said he would begin proceedings directly.”
Rosco mouthed a nonplussed “Albert?” while Sara’s disembodied voice reasserted itself. “Now, the more pressing problem is what has happened to your Belle?”
“I’ll drive over there right now.”
“I know you don’t appreciate me meddling in your affairs, Rosco, but I feel I should also mention that Albert wholeheartedly agrees with me on the subject of Belle’s security.”
Rosco raised disbelieving eyebrows. “I’m on my way, Sara.”
“Good boy,” was her lofty response before the line went dead.
Rosco shook his head and muttered, “Albert?” as he punched in Belle’s number.
Her answering machine picked up on the first ring, sounding six beeps to indicate she had previous messages. “Belle?” he found himself almost shouting. “Are you there? This is important . . . I have to talk to you . . .” He waited ten more seconds until silence forced the machine to cut him off. He punched in a second number.
In the middle of the first ring a typically harassed voice barked: “Lever.”
Rosco’s reply was sarcastic. “Hello, Albert.”
Lever chortled. “That’s some classy old dame, Polly—Crates . . . We had a nice little chitchat about you and your lady friend.”
“So I gathered.”
“She wants you two to get hitched, she tell you that?”
“I believe Sara might have mentioned it.”
Lever’s laughter grew.
“Did you bring in Pepper yet, Al? Or have you decided to go into the marriage-brokering business?”
“You never read the sign on my door, Polly—Crates? It says ‘homicide,’ not ‘bunko.’ ”
“I meant the department, not you personally, Al. Although it wouldn’t do you any harm to get up and move around once in a while . . .”
“Temper temper, buddy . . . The information on Pepper went straight to the DA’s office as soon as Mrs. Briephs’ chauffeur drove it over. The DA started drooling like a wolf over a baby lamb. He loves this stuff. Called a judge—not Lawrence—and got a warrant issued in five minutes flat . . . I’m afraid the DA doesn’t think much of your employer.”
“Former employer, would be more like it . . . So the bunko boys hauled him in?”
“That’s the odd part, Polly—Crates. Somebody must have tipped him off . . . The squad car arrived at Pepper’s estate forty-five minutes ago, but it seems your boy’s f
lown the coop. Disappeared into thin air.”
“What?”
“The butler maintained he hadn’t seen his boss since he went out for a drive at around nine o’clock last night. Never came home. The boys searched his house—zippo. We put out an APB, but after twelve hours? Hell, he could be anywhere.”
Rosco let out an exasperated sigh.
“It gets worse,” Lever said. “Here’s another little tidbit we learned this morning . . . The truck that killed Vauriens?”
“Yeah?”
“It turned up at two A.M. in a vacant lot near the interstate . . . Reported stolen three days ago in Brockton . . . Abe Jones dusted it for prints, but there wasn’t a single one. Interior and exterior—all slick as a whistle.”
Rosco let the information sink in. “Do me a favor, will you, Al?”
“What’s that?”
“Put out an APB on Belle, too.”
“Lost girlfriends, Polly—Crates . . . you know how the saying goes . . . Besides, I don’t think Mrs. B would—”
“Mrs. ‘B’?” Rosco’s tone was incredulous.
“A sweet old lady like that, what else are you going to call her?”
Rosco pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it long and hard. Sweet, he thought, erudite, delightful: what was the world coming to? “Just ask your guys to be on the lookout, Al . . . That’s all I’m saying.”
“Hey . . . Maybe she ran off with Pepper!” Lever laughed at his own joke.
“You’re a very sensitive guy, Albert. Anybody ever tell you that?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact.”
“Please don’t tell me who.”
29
As Belle buckled her seat belt, she had an eerie sensation; as if the atmosphere inside her car had suddenly shifted. She stared anxiously through the window, expecting to see lightning flickering overhead, while her skin and hair prickled as if affected by a rogue electrical charge. She glanced around the parking area of the Whole Earth Doughnut. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary—another early-autumn New England day on a sunny patch of asphalt near a busy interstate. A Lexus sedan and gray pickup truck arrived bearing two more customers for a midmorning snack. Belle noticed that neither person needed to stock up on extra calories as they waddled toward the entrance. Why is it, she wondered, that we humans reward ourselves with the very foods that most harm our bodies? Why aren’t we genetically engineered to yearn for carrot sticks or tofu squares? But the thought only made her wish she could duck in for another sugared treat.
Instead, she turned her key in the ignition and retraced her route to the secluded Blue Hill Cabins. There she circled past the office, searching for cabin fifteen, which she found sequestered within a patch of scruffy trees. Behind the small structure stood a dense woods that spread into the surrounding acreage. As Ricky had suggested, the site was well removed from the other cabins—a perfect place for a stakeout. Belle noted this with satisfaction as she silently repeated the phrase “subcontractor to the Polycrates Agency.” She considered her handling of Ricky and his peculiar employer pretty darn professional.
She parked her car facing the motel exit but close enough to cabin fifteen so that she’d be able to get a good look at the old lady who’d given Ricky the two crosswords. She then pulled out a map and slouched down in her seat in imitation of a tourist examining likely spots to visit. If it took all day before the woman showed her face, Belle would wait.
The idea of waiting patiently in one place, however, lasted all of eight minutes. Belle checked the clock, drummed her fingers on the dashboard, repositioned the map, checked the clock again, opened and closed the glove compartment, and after an additional seven or eight minutes muttered an exasperated: “This could take forever.”
She stepped out of the car and stretched stagily. Not a soul was in sight, and the October chill became noticeably colder as a raft of patchy clouds drifted in to block the sun. Belle shivered and closed her jacket around her neck. For good measure, she stretched again, arching her back slightly as if the muscles had stiffened after a long and arduous drive. A breeze rushed at the neglected trees, sending a noisy shower of autumn leaves scooting over the dry ground. It was the only sound in the deserted place.
Belle’s bravado began to desert her. Although she’d angled her car, preparing it for a hasty departure, she realized she was completely out of sight of the motel office. And if Mr. Hacket were busy watching television—a likely activity—she could scream her head off for a month of Sundays and he’d never hear her cries.
Anxiety made her tap the left front tire of her car with the toe of her shoe. The car was something she knew, and the act of touching it made her feel as if she had a backup, a solid means of escape. Unbidden, Rosco’s previous worries flooded her brain, but these she argued away by reminding herself that the operative words were “tomorrow” and “soon.” According to the crossword puzzle, no potentially criminal activities could possibly happen today. Belle tended to subscribe to logical, linear thought when it suited her.
She took two steps toward the cabin. A little voice in her head whispered: Curiosity killed the cat. This was immediately followed by a remembered quotation from Benjamin Franklin’s almanac: “The cat in gloves catches no mice.”
Belle wiggled her fingers, smiled smugly, then strode up the dirt path until she reached cabin fifteen and its small stoop fashioned out of graying cedar. Her shoes sounded a hollow clip-clop as she mounted the stoop—enough noise to arouse anyone inside. She listened at the door, heard nothing, raised her hand to knock, then stopped short and turned to glance behind her. She had the distinct feeling she was being watched.
Belle left the stoop and studied the woods behind her car. Overhung with bittersweet vines, the trees were in sorry repair; broken limbs lay entwined in the suffocating tendrils whose brilliant orange berries looked like a thousand restive, foxy eyes. Belle decided that nothing larger than a feral cat could be hiding among such a tortuous jungle.
She approached the stoop once more, brought her fist up, rapped three solid times on the paneled door, then immediately jumped back. There was no point in letting some crazed old lady attack her with a broom. Three minutes passed, then five, then seven. The door remained solidly closed. There was no hint of movement inside.
Belle glanced toward cabins fourteen, thirteen, and twelve. Barely visible within the rustic compound, they also appeared vacant. “Okay,” she muttered aloud, “this is stupid. I’m alone.”
She studied her hands, found they were trembling, and stuffed them in her jeans’ pockets as if nonchalance were her middle name and trailing old ladies a harmless pastime. Then she walked to the cabin’s front window and tried to peer in. A dusty green shade had been lowered, and although it boasted a large rip, the cabin’s interior was too dark to discern. Belle pushed at the window frame, but it didn’t budge; peeling yellow paint flaked off on her hands.
She walked to the side of the cabin, where she spotted another locked window, then to the rear, where she found a second door. She tried the handle; the knob turned; the door opened about six inches. An inside chain lock prevented further movement.
Belle brought her face to the opening. “Is anyone home?”
No reply.
She pushed harder on the door, but the chain held fast.
“Hello . . . ? Ma’am . . . ? I have a message from Ricky. The fax didn’t go through. He says he needs a second copy of the puzzle.”
No response.
“I—” Belle began again, but at that instant she was snatched by the elbows and slammed face forward against the door.
“ ‘Something wicked this way comes,’ ” a voice hissed in her ear. “ ‘Open, locks, whoever knocks!’ ”
30
Pitched forward within her assailant’s grasp, Belle could see nothing but the cabin’s dark and mildewy siding. Flecked with slimy moss and red circles that she guessed were mold spores, it was an unappetizing sight, and made her suddenly remember the potential
harm lurking in such airless and vacant spaces: rabid rodents and poisonous ticks and spiders being her primary concerns. The irony of the situation didn’t go unnoticed. Here she was, caught by two brutal hands, and her brain insisted on dredging up information on Lyme disease and the lethal Hanta virus and how its flulike symptoms had finally arrived full-blown in the northeastern United States.
The viselike grip shoved Belle further earthward. “Why were you breaking into my cabin?” This time Belle recognized the voice as female, although definitely not “old,” as Ricky had indicated. It also carried a down-home accent that Belle pegged as being Texan or maybe Arizonan.
Again, she thought of the Hanta virus—spawned by this woman’s native land. Belle tried to hold her breath, then pushed backward mightily. But the movement only gained her a few inches; her face was still perilously close to the cabin walls. “I wasn’t trying to break in.”
Fingers dug into her elbows, finding the nerves and making her hands go limp while the woman’s upper body pressed hard against Belle’s back. “Right. This was a social call, huh? You’re into it deep, sister. Do you want me to march you over to the manager’s office and have him call the cops?”
Some small sag in Belle’s spine must have indicated her unwillingness to participate in that scenario. It was a reaction her adversary noticed instantly. “He tries to run a nice place,” the woman continued in an even tougher tone. “He’ll have a fit when he learns stooges like you are trying to filch things from guests.”
“I’m not a thief,” Belle spluttered. Her fingers were now numb; her chin almost rested on her chest; and the acrid scent of mildew and rotting wood singed her nostrils.
“Well, you’re not the dame who cleans. And you’re definitely not my fairy godmother. Let’s see, lawyer for my loser of a soon-to-be ex-hubby? I don’t think so . . . Private dick trying to get the goods on my ‘gentlemen acquaintances’? Don’t make me laugh.” The woman suddenly spun Belle around. She was tall and sinewy, anywhere from forty to fifty plus; an obsession with serious exercise was revealed in a skintight outfit: a powder-blue Lycra top and white stretch jeans tucked into Western-cut aligator-skin boots. The fabric looked as if it had been painted on. But the cowgirl routine was marred by the color of the woman’s eyes. They were as gray, translucent, and watchful as a weimaraner’s. “All right, I want some answers. Start talking. What brings you here?”
