by Nero Blanc
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER - 1
CHAPTER - 2
CHAPTER - 3
CHAPTER - 4
CHAPTER - 5
CHAPTER - 6
CHAPTER - 7
CHAPTER - 8
CHAPTER - 9
CHAPTER - 10
CHAPTER - 11
CHAPTER - 12
CHAPTER - 13
CHAPTER - 14
CHAPTER - 15
CHAPTER - 16
CHAPTER - 17
CHAPTER - 18
CHAPTER - 19
CHAPTER - 20
CHAPTER - 21
CHAPTER - 22
CHAPTER - 23
CHAPTER - 24
CHAPTER - 25
CHAPTER - 26
CHAPTER - 27
CHAPTER - 28
CHAPTER - 29
CHAPTER - 30
CHAPTER - 31
CHAPTER - 32
The Answers
“Crossword buffs will welcome Nero Blanc’s Death on the Diagonal, in which crossword editor Belle Graham and her P.I. husband, Rosco, investigate a suspicious fire at the stables of a prominent family in Newcastle, Massachusetts. Six crossword puzzles add to the detecting fun.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Treat yourself to a pleasant diversion . . .”
—Chicago Sun-Times
Praise for the
Crossword Mysteries
Another Word for Murder
“Catnip for crossword fans.”—Kirkus Reviews
“Combines the cerebral (six puzzles tied to nursery rhymes) with a fine investigation . . . an entertaining, robust entry in a unique series.”—The Best Reviews
“A solid mystery featuring likeable characters that keeps you guessing to the end.”—Roundtable Reviews
Anatomy of a Crossword
“A delight for both amateur sleuths and crossword puzzle aficionados. Blanc provides a breezy mystery set against a realistic entertainment industry background.”—Booklist
“Crossword buffs won’t want to miss Anatomy of a Crossword.”
—Publishers Weekly
“An engaging, cerebral who-done-it for the armchair detective.”—Midwest Book Review
Corpus de Crossword
“Another dandy puzzler.”—Publishers Weekly
“The well-drawn characters in Corpus de Crossword are people we all know . . . The mood roller-coasters from pathos to laugh-out-loud funny, and the plot twists and turns before it delivers the final punch.”—I Love a Mystery
A Crossword to Die For
“Nero Blanc serves up six actual puzzles and one solid mystery . . . Surprising revelations and ten-dollar words abound as another body turns up, a mysterious French woman causes problems, and the couple begins to receive hints via puzzles faxed from Belize.”—Publishers Weekly
“A Nero Blanc mystery is always fun to read . . . This book, in fact this series, is highly recommended.”—BookBrowser
The Crossword Connection
“Unique entertainment.”—Bucks County (PA) Courier Times
“Another neat whodunit, along with some clever crosswords . . . Blanc builds the suspense slowly and surely, challenging the reader with a dandy puzzler.”—Publishers Weekly
Two Down
“A snappy, well-plotted story that combines the best elements of the puzzle mystery and the village mystery . . . Two Down works well as an homage to Agatha Christie and Ngaio Marsh as the solid plot never strays from its course and features a surprising yet plausible ending.”—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“[An] engaging crossword mystery . . . The [six puzzles] are an interactive touch that add to the problem-solving fun.”
—Publishers Weekly
The Crossword Murder
“Evoe! At last puzzle fans have their revenge . . . Super sleuthing and solving for puzzle lovers and mystery fans.”
—Charles Preston, Puzzle Editor, USA Today
“A puzzle lover’s delight . . . A touch of suspense, a pinch of romance, and a whole lot of clever word clues . . . What’s a three-letter word for this book? F-U-N.”—Earlene Fowler
“Addicts of crossword puzzles will relish The Crossword Murder.”—Chicago Sun-Times
A Crossworder’s Holiday
A lethal short story collection with crosswords included—and a bonus recipe!
“Wonderful . . . Even if you’re not a puzzle fan, the characters are so likable, you will have trouble putting this book down.”
—Romantic Times
A Crossworder’s Gift
Five short stories for a long winter’s night—with puzzles included!
Crossword Mysteries by Nero Blanc
THE CROSSWORD MURDER
TWO DOWN
THE CROSSWORD CONNECTION
A CROSSWORD TO DIE FOR
A CROSSWORDER’S HOLIDAY
CORPUS DE CROSSWORD
A CROSSWORDER’S GIFT
ANATOMY OF A CROSSWORD
WRAPPED UP IN CROSSWORDS
A CROSSWORDER’S DELIGHT
ANOTHER WORD FOR MURDER
DEATH ON THE DIAGONAL
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibilty for author or third-party websites or their content.
PUBLISHERS NOTE: The recipes in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
DEATH ON THE DIAGONAL
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the authors
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime trade edition / July 2006
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2007
Copyright © Cordelia F. Biddle and Steve Zettler writing as Nero Blanc.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) I
nc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-0-425-21637-8
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design
are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
A Letter from Nero Blanc
Dear Friends,
Connecting writers to readers requires a special talent, and we’d like to acknowledge the many people whose savvy, humor, and insight—not to mention business acumen—have made our mysteries a success story. Each of you deserves an Author’s Appreciation Award. Lacking a suitable lexical offering, we’ll simply list you and extend a multitude of kudos from two very grateful authors.
Thank you to: Mary Alice and Richard of Mystery Lovers Bookshop; Jim at The Mystery Company; Sharon at Books & Company; Barbara and The Poisoned Pen; Creatures ’n Crooks and Lelia; Bonnie and Joe of The Black Orchid Bookshop; Augie of Centuries & Sleuths; Bruce and Turn the Page; Mystery Loves Company’s Kathy; The Mystery Bookstore’s Sheldon; Ed and Jean at M is for Mystery; Partners & Crime and Marshall; Richard at Head House Books; Joanne at Murder on the Beach; Booked for Murder’s Mary Helen; Tom of Murder Ink; Bridge Street Books’ Suzanne; Debbie at Mechanics-burg Mystery Bookshop; Angie of Voices and Visions; The Book Garden and Esther; Barry of Book’em Mysteries; Katie of Village Books; Kate at Kate’s Mystery Books; the many kind folks at Chester County Books, The Bookworm, and Baker Books; and, last but not least, Nancy of The Virginia Festival of the Book.
Getting to know you has been a delight,
Cordelia and Steve
CHAPTER
1
Although his name might suggest otherwise, Moon-dog was a proven champion. He was an eight-year-old gelding, a commanding seventeen-hand Dutch Warmblood and a world-class jumper, with enough blue ribbons to fashion a debutante’s satin ball gown. He had been foaled and trained at Glen-Rosalynne Farms in Louisville, Kentucky, then sold to an Oscar-winning film director with a three-hundred-acre ranch overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Santa Barbara, California. The film director had jumped Moon-dog—shooting schedules permitting—in every major competition from coast to coast for a solid year before he’d suddenly grown tired of the entire equestrian thing and decided to scrap one toy for another and try his hand at offshore sailing instead. He sold Moon-dog for $100,000—about a quarter of the price of the boat—to an investment banker in Newcastle, Massachusetts, a medium-sized city just to the west of Cape Cod across Buzzards Bay.
The banker bought the animal for his sixteen-year-old daughter because her primary equitation horse, a gray Thoroughbred mare by the unlikely name of Willow-whisp, had yet to finish above second—meaning the beast had yet to win the banker’s daughter a single blue ribbon. Not one! And this despite Daddy paying a trainer one hundred bucks a day, rain or shine, show or no show. Naturally the situation was both galling to the banker and a source of extreme exasperation to his daughter, Tiffany.
Both mounts, Moon-dog and Willow-whisp, were now boarded at King Wenstarin Farms, a show and breeding stable fifteen miles outside of Newcastle. It was a top-drawer place, as befitted the pricey animals residing there, but the lower stable in which the gelding and mare were housed had one disturbing complication on this particular early October evening, and that was the unmistakable presence of smoke.
Moon-dog was the first to smell it. In fact, he’d heard the unusual noises that had initially triggered the problematic situation, watched the culprit flee the scene, and so knew precisely how the predicament had begun. The only thing the animal didn’t know was how to unlatch the gate to his stall—or how the story would end.
Horses do not react well to smoke. As with most mammals, humans being one notable exception, their internal mechanisms take them rapidly to the logical conclusion: Fire! Danger! Death! This intelligent insight creates in them a burning desire to put large distances between themselves and the smoke as quickly as possible. Moon-dog first snorted and then began anxiously pawing at the straw that covered the dirt floor of his roomy box stall. The acrid smoke tickled at his flaring nostrils. He whinnied and backed solidly into the wooden gate that barred his exit. The iron hinges creaked, and the steel latch jumped, but both held the gate in place. It would be only two minutes before Moon-dog would begin to do some serious damage to the stall and to himself.
The large round clock positioned in the center of the immaculate wall that rose above the stable’s entry read 7:06 P.M., when Moon-dog began his nervous pacing and the building’s equally gleaming windows revealed a deep-blue sky and a bright full moon hanging low and orange as it turned the autumnal leaves a molten silvery red. The color eerily replicated the light from the fire that was now brewing in the tack room located at the west end of the stable. Known as the “small” stable, the space had room for only sixteen stalls, eight of which were presently occupied.
Moon-dog’s antics swiftly attracted the attention of the other seven equine residents. Willow-whisp, three other mares, and three additional geldings trusted the chestnut-colored Warmblood, like baby ducks trust their mothers; and if the big guy wanted out, so did they. After fifteen additional seconds, all eight horses were rearing and bucking in their stalls, their eyes huge and terrified, and their whinnies panicked, while the smoke grew thicker and the brightness of the tack room fire illuminated the stable’s center aisle from one end to the other.
“Fire! Fire at the lower stable! We need some help down here!”
Orlando Polk, the barn manager, seemed to appear from nowhere as he shouted the warning up the hill toward the Big House and the horse farm’s owner, Todd Collins. Polk rightly surmised that the tack room’s telephone and intercom system had most likely been reduced to melted balls of plastic, and he also realized that trying to call the local fire-house, five miles away at best, would be a futile exercise. The barn would be ash long before the boys in helmets and waterproof gear could possibly arrive.
Orlando had been working at King Wenstarin Farms for six years. He was forty-two years old and had been around horses his entire life. He was proud to say he was one hundred percent Pequot Indian. He kept his raven black hair tied in a ponytail that reached halfway to his slim and sinewy waist, and his nose for smoke was as good, if not better, than Moon-dog’s. He was already cursing himself under his breath for not having smelled the fumes sooner. But even if he had, he couldn’t have stopped the blaze; it was spreading far too quickly, and he had a good idea why. Unlike Moon-dog, however, Orlando had heard no strange noises or spotted anything out of the ordinary. He shook off questions of how the fire had begun and concentrated, instead, on logistics. He realized that if the horses weren’t freed soon they would claw at the sides of their stalls, pointlessly attempting to climb their way out and tearing their pricey flesh, or worse, fracturing their fragile bones.
With this assessment in mind, he ran up the aisle to the double barn doors at the stable’s east side, shoving them open and outward and latching them in place before heading toward the structure’s west end. A less-seasoned horseman might have made the mistake of freeing the horses from their stalls before opening the doors, thereby creating pandemonium and probably getting trampled to death in the process, but Orlando prided himself on remaining calm in times of crisis. At least where horses were concerned.
As he raced back to open the west-facing doors, he passed the tack room, which was now completely engulfed in flame. The air in the building had turned as thick and dark as mud, but fortunately the stalls directly opposite the blaze were empty. No animal could have remained that close to the fire without killing itself out of fear. Polk pulled his shirt over his nose and mouth and forged his way to the western doors, but before he could reach them, they seemed to swing open on
their own. He then saw the farm’s owner, Todd Collins, yanking them back and securing the latches.
Collins was seventy-four years old with a lean and angular six-foot-three-inch frame, a full head of wavy white hair, and an ample, matching mustache. He’d made millions in the importation of Irish whiskey to the United States, and his passion was horseflesh, especially the elegant creatures trained in the hunter-seat equitation discipline. A limp that was the result of a riding spill four years earlier sometimes made strangers imagine Collins was a frail man, but they were wrong. Todd Collins was weak neither in body nor mind.
Orlando gaped at his boss, the fire now reflecting vividly in Collins’s craggy face and making him look as if he’d just stepped directly from the gates of Hell. Polk swore again, but too softly to be heard, while his boss’s irate eyes bore into him.
From Todd Collins’s point of view, it appeared as though Orlando had done nothing to try to save the horses or extinguish the blaze. At first sight, his barn manager seemed to be standing in the smoke dumbfounded, like a lost child.
“Dammit, man, get these horses out of here. What are you waiting for? An invitation? Get those stalls open. Force them out the other end. If any head this way stay with them; drive them through the smoke and up toward the Big House lawn.”
Orlando stood frozen for a second too long, and Collins grabbed his shoulders and shoved him toward the far end of the stable.
“You work the right side stalls; I’ll do the left,” Collins barked.
Orlando stumbled slightly, but then sprang into action, hurrying his supple dancer’s body from stall to stall, releasing the horses then swatting them hard on their rumps to direct them away from the tack room and toward the open east end of the barn. Collins duplicated the action on the other side of the stable until all eight animals had been safely driven from the building. The older man then turned to his manager and shouted, “Get to that sprinkler valve and turn it on. I don’t care if we flood the entire state of Massachusetts. I’m going to drive these babies down to B paddock. If the stable goes up in smoke, they’ll panic where they are now. We need to give them some distance.”
