Death on the Diagonal

by Nero Blanc

  “And they say hairdressers like to gossip.”

  “Oh, I don’t engage in gossip, Maxine,” was Sara’s lofty response. “As an amateur student of human behavior, I relish the opportunity to examine character. I only tend to verbalize these thoughts to determine if others are in agreement with my assessments.”

  Maxi raised both eyebrows as she studied her client. “You’re ready for the dryer, madam.”

  “More to the point, you’re probably ready for a little P and Q.”

  Brushed out, her white hair as fluffy and bright as a new cotton puff, Sara smiled into the mirror. “You make me look like a queen, Maxine.”

  “Well, don’t let it go to your head, doll-baby.”

  Sara chuckled and stood, but as she did, her right foot went out from under her, and she crumpled to the floor with a startled gasp of pain. “Oh, my knee . . . my knee just . . .” Involuntary tears sprang into her blue eyes. “Oh, how silly . . . oh!”

  Sara tried to rise, but Maxine grasped her shoulders, holding her in place. “Don’t you move, now. You know what they say? When older people take a tumble, they’ve gotta sit for a bit and figure out what happened.”

  Despite this injunction, Sara attempted to straighten her leg, then winced in agony and slumped back down.

  “I’m gonna call for an ambulance,” Maxi said, finally relinquishing Sara’s shoulders.

  “I refuse to be carried out of here on a stretcher!”

  “That’s for the EMTs to decide.”

  “It is not, Maxi! I’ll have nothing of it.”

  “Sara, if you broke a bone—which seems real likely—you’ll leave this shop as the pros see fit. And not how your regal highness wants.”

  “Will you call Belle for me, at least?”

  “I will, but I promise she won’t agree to take you to the hospital in that little car of hers—or drive you home.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  “Bad news,” the driver said as the other coconspirator slid into the passenger’s seat of the car. “He brought Polycrates in on it.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” was the trenchant reply. Before the person behind the wheel could continue with more gloomy news, a hand was raised. “Who do you want to be tonight? Bonnie or Clyde?” It was a game they’d played before.

  The driver considered the choice for almost a full minute and then answered a quiet, “Bonnie.”

  “Good, ’cause I’m feeling just like that hunky killer dude. I’m all revved up and rarin’ to go.” On the lap of the newly dubbed “Clyde” was a flat paper bag from Papyrus, an office superstore not far from their rendezvous.

  “Bonnie” pushed the shift knob into first gear and pulled away from the curb. “Slide down in the seat. The less people see us together the better.”

  “Oh, boy, you’re really getting into it. You mean like we’re strangers? Like we’ve never been spotted together?” Despite the words of protest, the request was honored. Clyde pulled a baseball cap down over a pair of deep-set eyes. “Better?”

  “This isn’t a joking matter. We can’t afford to have anything traced back to us.”

  “Look, you had to realize there was a chance he’d bring in a PI. That’s the way these things work. Be thankful it’s not the entire Newcastle Police Department.”

  The response was a distracted, “But he’s not a public kind of guy. I figured he’d stay mum as long as—”

  “So we have to try a little harder, Bonnie honey, be a little sneakier. What’s the gripe? Besides, like I said, a private eye ain’t no cop. Anyway, the whole thing’s given me a great idea.” Clyde depressed a button to close the car’s window against the cold evening air. “Listen, I have no intention of being ferreted out either; not this late in the game.”

  “Neither of us can afford it.” This was a statement of fact, not an opinion, and it silenced Clyde for a long and heavy moment.

  “Anyway, Bonnie baby, back to my dynamite idea. This is going to take us some time—which is why I wanted to get right on it.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “How about Munnatawket Beach? No one will be there this time of year; especially after dark. Any beachcombers or dog walkers will have left when the sun went down.”

  “Okay.” They passed through three stoplights and turned onto the beach drive. Once they’d left the city limits, high beams were flipped on, and Bonnie pressed a lead foot down on the accelerator.

  “Hey, take it easy. The last thing we need is a cop on our tail.”

  The response was an acid, “I hope you’re not attempting to tell me how to drive—on top of everything else, Clyde.” Despite the words of protest, their speed was reduced considerably. “So what’s this big hush-hush plan?”

  Clyde chortled. “Wait till we get there . . .”

  Pulling into the parking lot of Munnatawket Beach fifteen minutes later, both were relieved to find the place deserted. Fluorescent streetlamps illuminated the asphalt, puddling a flickering greenish light every fifty yards or so, and windblown sand drifted up and over the recycled horizontal telephone poles that separated the lot from the beach. Where the seashore began in earnest, small dunes had formed around the mangled aluminum chairs, treadless tires, and chunks of driftwood washed in by the ocean waves. Not a trace of summer’s mirth remained.

  “I hate the beach when it looks like this,” Bonnie observed. “It makes me think the end of the world is near; like in that old movie. What was the name of it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “It gave me the creeps. It had that guy in it.”

  “Oh, that movie,” was the snide reply. “The black-and-white one with that woman?”

  Clyde’s obvious sarcasm eluded the person sitting behind the steering wheel. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  “Hell of a film.”

  “It gave me the creeps.” Bonnie set the parking brake and stared at the gloomy darkness, “Okay, what’s this brilliant plan?”

  “Who’s he married to?”

  “Who?”

  “Polycrates, Bonnie darlin’, who do you think?” The words were pinched and exacerbated.

  The answer took a few seconds and was formed as a half-question, half-statement. “The crossword puzzle lady at the Evening Crier, Annabella Graham?”

  “Exactly.” Clyde reached into the Papyrus bag and removed a pad of quarter-inch graph paper. “This is called ‘Watch Your Target and Focus.’ We make a crossword puzzle and fax it to her. Something that will grab her attention, and then get her hubby jumping to the conclusions we need him to—”

  “That won’t work. Fax transmissions print out the originating phone numbers. If we’re trying to pass along information and remain anonymous, that’s not the way to do it.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got a solution worked out.”

  Bonnie sighed. “Let me see that pad of paper.”

  It was handed over and then examined. Graph lines were printed on both sides.

  “I don’t know . . . this seems really rinky-dink. Like schoolkids’ stuff.”

  “That’s part of the deal. We send la Graham something that looks totally unprofessional . . . like it was done by some loony-tunes ratting on a onetime buddy, or a loner nursing a grudge, or an old geezer with nothing better to do. The important thing is that we point her and Polycrates in the right direction.”

  “But we’re hardly loners.”

  “Looks like, not is,” was the sharp reply. “We make her and hubby dearest think this is a solo act. Then when he tries to figure out who’s tipping him off, he won’t be hunting for a couple.” Clyde pulled a pencil from the bag and started to mark off lines. “Okay, here’s what I figured out; the puzzles are fifteen squares across and fifteen down, and the words are at least three letters long—”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I’m Clyde, aren’t I? I’m one hot and sexy hombre.”

  “For today,” was the quick retort. “Besides,
I still don’t—”

  “Stuff it, sweetheart. I’m telling you this’ll work. We clue him in; he makes the right move . . . bingo, case solved, bad guy’s arrested, and no one knows who tipped him off. Okay, let’s try song titles, how’s that? These crosswords should have a theme.”

  “Songs . . . ?”

  “Are you going deaf or what? Come on, Bonnie baby. Get with it. Light My Fire, as they say . . . we’re trying to open Doors here.”

  Ten hours later, a puzzle was complete, and the light of a new day was just beginning to mark the sky.

  CHAPTER

  10

  “Sara was darn lucky. That’s all I can say.” Belle stretched the sleeves of her favorite Irish fisherman’s sweater to cover her chilly hands, then plunged her sweater-clad fists into the pockets of her down vest as she walked in almost perfectly synchronized step with her husband.

  “It’s probably not all you can say,” Rosco rejoined, but his wife failed to notice the quip. Nor did she seem aware of the lovely morning weather or the several seagulls lofting high overhead, the coastal city’s unofficial avian mascot.

  “No fracture, no severely damaged ligaments. Of course, she’ll be forced to keep her knee immobilized for a while and then engage in physical therapy to strengthen the muscles. But when you think about her age, Rosco . . . it could have been her hip! She could have busted her shoulder when she fell. Or she could even have been alone—without a sensible person like Maxi to take charge of the situation.”

  Rosco nodded, then picked up and tossed a small stick for the dogs to chase up a lane pleasantly devoid of traffic. Sunday morning was a peaceful time in the village-within-a-city that was known as Captain’s Walk. An area originally populated by Newcastle’s seafarers, the homes dated from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. They were small and compact dwellings by modern standards; most, like Belle and Rosco’s, had street-facing porches, tiny patches of grass, a mini entry drive suitable for a single sub-compact car, and a leafy rear garden. When Newcastle was a bustling whaling port, Captain’s Walk probably felt like the suburbs. Now it was a time-warp oasis within the township’s hectic sprawl.

  Kit retrieved the stick, and Rosco tossed it again. The shepherd-mix bounded off in renewed pursuit; Gabby, slier and wilier, waited at Rosco’s side to pounce on her returning “sister” and thereby wrestle away the prize.

  “You’re a sneak-thief, Gab,” Belle observed with a chuckle.

  “Sounds a bit redundant,” Rosco told his wife.

  “Doesn’t it? I could call her a highway robber, but I don’t think this pokey little road qualifies. At least, it doesn’t any longer. Maybe once upon a time in the wagon and cart days before speed limits were posted at sixty-five miles per hour.” Then Belle returned to the subject of Sara Briephs’s worrisome fall, while the couple—with dog companions—returned home and climbed the three stairs to the porch.

  Their stroll had lasted a little over forty-five minutes, and by the time the foursome stepped through the front door all were hungry as bears. Naturally, Kit and Gabby were fed first, then Belle started brewing coffee, while Rosco opened the refrigerator and said, “What would you like for breakfast, love of my life?”

  “What do we have?”

  There was a long pause. Eventually he said, “Eggs . . . and leftover meatloaf.”

  “That’s it? That’s all there is in there?”

  “That’s it. Well, there’s some mayo and a jar of capers.”

  “There should be English muffins. They’re in the freezer next to the chocolate chocolate chip ice cream. I spotted them yesterday morning when you were out for a run.”

  Rosco shook his head. “I’m not even going to ask why you were after chocolate chocolate chip ice cream yesterday morning.”

  “I wasn’t,” Belle answered indignantly.

  “Hmmmm,” he mouthed, indicating that he didn’t believe her for a minute.

  “Rosco, I didn’t eat chocolate chocolate chip ice cream in the morning! What do you take me for? It was the vanilla. We didn’t have any yogurt or milk. What was I supposed to put on my granola? I waited for it to melt.”

  He laughed. “Okay, as long as you waited for it to melt. I guess that makes it justifiable.”

  “Hey!” Belle exclaimed excitedly, as she rummaged through one of the kitchen cabinets. “Look at this. It’s a can of corned beef hash. It was in with the dog food. Did you know we had this?”

  “No.”

  “This is super. This is going to be a real breakfast—hash, eggs, and muffins, just like you get a Lawson’s.”

  “But without Martha’s sass,” he said with a smile.

  However, the moment Belle began to open the can they heard the steady beep of the fax machine emanating from her home office at the rear of the house.

  “Yuck,” she said. “It’s Sunday. Don’t people have anything better to do with their time than to send faxes?”

  Rosco placed the frozen muffins on the work island. “I’ll go see what it is. It’s probably a land deal in Florida that we’d be absolute idiots to ignore. We may need to respond within the next twenty minutes, though, so get your credit card ready.”

  He walked back to the converted porch that served as Belle’s office and returned empty-handed a few seconds later. “It was a crossword puzzle submission.”

  “Argh, that’s even worse. These constructors know I only accept contributions at the Crier. And sending it on a Sunday? I’ll bet whoever it is wouldn’t like to be pestered on their day off.”

  “Don’t let it bother you.” He stepped up to her and gave her a long kiss. “We’ve got the whole day ahead of us. A cheery visit to our favorite recuperating invalid . . . then a romp in the countryside with the you-know-whos, culminating with a romantic fire while the sun sinks in the golden west . . . And you’ll note, there’s not a step-quote puzzle in sight.”

  Belle smiled then shook her head in perplexity. “How do these people get our fax number, anyway?”

  Rosco laughed. “Here’s how.” He took the kitchen phone from the wall and auto-dialed the Crier’s main operator. When a voice responded, he said, “Yes, could you please give me Annabella Graham’s fax number?” He held the phone at a distance, so Belle could hear the operator rattle off the number, then added an energetic “Thank you so much!” before hanging up.

  “Hmmmm. Maybe you should consider becoming a private detective. You seem to know all the tricks.”

  “That’s what they pay me for.”

  Belle placed the hash in a frying pan and lit the gas range. “I hope I can get this as crispy as Kenny does down at Lawson’s. Do you think there’s a trick to it?”

  “Hey, if you ruin the stuff, we still have plenty of Alpo.”

  Belle chuckled, but her smile turned into a frown when Rosco’s cell phone rang a split-second later. He walked to the counter where he’d left it and looked at the caller ID. “I should get this. It’s the surgeon at Newcastle Memorial who operated on Dawn Davis. I’ve left him three messages since Friday. This is the first he’s called back.”

  Belle’s “Fine” was less than enthusiastic; there was no disguising her irritation at having their peaceful Sunday interrupted twice in three minutes by communiqués from the outside world.

  Rosco put the phone to his ear and walked into the living room, so Belle wouldn’t have to listen to the drone. When he returned two minutes later, his expression was no longer lighthearted and sunny. “Bad news, I’m afraid. I’m going to have to run over to the hospital and see this guy. It’ll take me an hour, maybe two by the time I get back.”

  “Oh, Rosco, that’s not fair,” Belle protested. “We were going to have the entire day together.”

  “I know, but Dr. Bownes is leaving for a two-week vacation tomorrow morning.”

  “He can’t answer your questions over the phone?”

  Rosco shook his head. “Information concerning patients is confidential. He may not tell me anything, even if I se
e him in person. It depends on how he wants to play it.”

  “Well then let it wait two weeks. What difference does it make?” Even as she posed the question she realized that Rosco couldn’t let his case go cold for two weeks. His wasn’t a nine-to-five job and never would be. “I’m sorry,” she said as she moved close to him. “I’m just disappointed, that’s all.”

  “Me, too.” He kissed her. “Here’s an idea: How about we save the hash for supper and have a late lunch out after we visit Sara? That way we can have our hash and eat it, too.”

  “Har har . . .” But the attempt at levity fell short, and Belle cleaned the frying pan in silence, while Rosco slugged down the remnants of his coffee and spooned up dry granola.

  “Think of it as trail mix,” she offered.

  “I’m trying . . . any vanilla ice cream left?”

  “Sorry. It’s chocolate chocolate chip or nothing.”

  “Don’t say we lack for exotic cuisine.”

  With Rosco gone, Belle slouched disconsolately into her office. Despite the abundant sunshine streaming in through the numerous windows, the glorious red leaves of the sugar maple in the garden, and the gold yellow of the neighbor’s birch tree, her attitude reflected the room’s decor rather than its colorful view: black and white, with the emphasis on black.

  She examined this crossword-lover’s paradise with a baleful eye: the wood floor painted in black-and-white grids, the curtains and lamp shades with a similar theme, the captains chairs with mix-and-match canvas backs, the bookshelf crammed with foreign-language dictionaries as well as her beloved OED, and her equally revered 1911 Encyclopaedia Britannica. At the moment, however, word games, derivations, anagrams, and other linguistic sleights-of-pencil seemed wholly irrelevant.

  Belle opened what had once been the home’s back door, watching as the breeze rustled the russet leaves of the maple tree. After a moment, the draft caught the newly arrived fax and lifted it from the machine’s incoming tray and blew it onto the floor. She picked up the paper and glanced at it. “Argh, look at this stupid thing. It’s not even symmetrical. And the dope didn’t sign it. How am I supposed to respond to something like this? I sure can’t publish it.”