by Nero Blanc
35. Dagger
36. ___ Angeles
37. two-year-old sheep
39. Bound with osiers
40. “If we don’t ___ together . . .”
41. Bozeman campus; abbr.
44. Turkish title
46. Ms. Cates
47. Deep cut
49. Cooking herb
50. Shore bird
51. Still wet
53. Ski lift
TO CATCH A THIEF
55. Sloe ___ fizz
56. Spanish gold
57. Crewman
58. Mine in France
59. Rest stop
60. Que preceder
61. Turf
CHAPTER
19
The persistent beep of her home fax machine startled Belle out of a reverie that was far from pleasant. Ryan Collins’s brutal murder was weighing heavily on her. Added to the slaying was her memory of Todd Collins and his offspring, their backbiting and jockeying for position, their casual cruelty when dealing with one another. And then there was the media circus currently surrounding the dead woman. Stabbed in a guest bedroom at King Wenstarin Farms, she’d been reduced to the unkindest of boldface slurs. It was enough to make anyone weary of reading a newspaper or watching the local evening news.
Belle released a sigh that was more like a heartfelt groan, pushed back from her desk, where she’d been staring blankly at a piece of graph paper, then rose and walked to the fax. What now? she groused. Some frothy crossword submission naming state flowers or trees, or the world’s longest rivers, or tallest mountains? Why don’t these people leave me alone? Who cares about word games anyway? We’ve all got more on our plates than wondering how many types of Halloween candy we can find that contain six letters and end with a T... It’s high time I looked for another job and got as far away from homonyms, synonyms, antonyms—to say nothing of caconyms, eponyms, and poecilonyms!
With a determined sullenness, she wrenched the new puzzle from the machine. “To Catch a Thief,” she read in silence, constructed by Alfred Hitchcock. Oh, great. Just great. Now I’m getting a word game from a person pretending to be a dead man. And it’s sent to me at home, on top of it. Why can’t people learn this is strictly off-limits! If Belle had been Kit or Gabby, she would have growled aloud.
Instead, she dutifully made a copy of the submission, slumped back to the desk, heaved herself into her chair, and took up her lucky red pen. “Okay, Alfred,” she muttered under her breath, “let’s see what kind of thief you’re hunting . . .” Then 17- and 19-Across caught her eye. BLAZING SADDLES, she wrote in firm block letters, sitting suddenly straighter. “Oh, my gosh . . . and the solution to 38-Across is DAWN OF THE DEAD . . .”
Belle’s pen was flying by now. It didn’t matter that the puzzle constructor hadn’t bothered with a clever step-quote or a guiding theme. She was convinced she’d received an obvious message—and that the bogus “Alfred Hitchcock” had private information concerning King Wenstarin Farms.
GOODBYE MR CHIPS, Belle penned at 55- and 58-Across. “Oh, wow!” Then she flew out of her chair. “What did I do with that last submission?” she grumbled. “The one that was faxed on Sunday morning and that made me so cranky . . . c’mon, Gab and Kit . . . you guys are always playing with the sheets of paper I ball up and toss out. Help me find the darn thing.”
While Belle—with the aid of the two dogs—rifled through her home office, Sara’s glowing black Cadillac tootled along Nathaniel Hawthorne Boulevard toward the Avon-Care facility and her “coincidental” meeting with Dawn Davis. At the wheel was Emma; Sara sat regally on the wide rear seat, her wheelchair stowed in the trunk—or as she sometimes referred to it, “the boot.” Sara was as fond of her Briticisms as she was this “automobile”—a 1956 model that she steadfastly refused to believe was over a half-century old.
“You’ll come in with me, of course, Emma,” she now stated in her genteel yet commanding tone, “and then what, I wonder? Should you return to the parking lot and wait for me? Or should you remain at my side? What looks more convincing for our charade, do you imagine?”
“I think both choices are equally appropriate, madam,” was Emma’s thoughtful response. “Someone in your weakened condition either requires aid from a caregiver or, alternatively, feels a need for greater autonomy.”
Sara nodded at Emma’s perception, approval that the maid/chauffeur noted while glancing in the rearview mirror.
“On the other hand, madam, I feel I could be of help in watching Ms. Davis’s reactions to your queries. Naturally, I won’t be speaking to her myself, and so may be able to note behavior that might elude you.”
Sara nodded again. “Then that’s just how we’ll carry out our mission. Two sets of eyes are always better than one.”
The entrance into Avon-Care of the two newest subcontractors to the Polycrates Agency was as theatrical as anything else Sara did. Emma, in a staid navy coat above her rustling gray dress and starched apron, pushed the wheelchair, while Sara surveyed the scene with imperial complacency. The old lady might as well have been a pasha perched upon an elephant, gracing the masses with a smile that indicated polite acknowledgment of her station. Those awaiting appointments couldn’t help but grin in return.
By prior arrangement, Emma pushed her mistress toward the reception desk, where Sara duly requested to speak with “someone in a managerial position” so that she could better “ascertain” her “treatment protocols.” Protocol was a new term for Sara when referring to medical matters. She’d been accustomed to the word being used in relation to diplomacy or other governmental convention and etiquette, but she liked its formal tone—especially when dealing with something as lowly as a battered joint. Then, knowing the “manager” would take a few minutes to summons, Sara had Emma steer her toward a chair near a young, auburn-haired beauty who was studying what looked like a legal textbook. Our Ms. Davis is probably trying to figure out how far she can stretch the law, Sara surmised while fixing her target with an energetic glance.
“You’re far too young to have a bum knee!” Sara announced, wincing from a pain she didn’t feel. Emma immediately began hovering solicitously, but Sara waved her away. “I’m fine, Emma. You toddle off and read a magazine or something while I wait. You’ve been far too concerned about me these past few days, and you know I’m perfectly capable of caring for myself.”
Dawn Davis looked up. Instead of appearing disturbed by the interruption, she also smiled. She’s probably sizing me up as another mark, Sara decided. A vulnerable, old bat with a servant in her dotage. I must look as if I’d be as easy pickings as poor Walter Gudgeon.
“Oh, I’m not here on account of my knee, ma’am,” Dawn answered. “It’s my shoulder. I tore my rotator cuff.”
Ma’am! Sara heard. Oh, the little minx! She’s a good one, all right. Knows just how to be polite to us ancient crones. I wonder if Emma caught that? Sara cast a surreptitious glance toward the figure in gray taffeta before continuing with an empathetic: “Oh, your shoulder! That must be exceedingly painful. How on earth did you do such a terrible thing? I fell at the hairdresser’s—which was very foolish. If I’d been wearing trousers, I probably would have torn a cuff, too.” Sara ventured a ladylike giggle, and Dawn also tittered politely. Then her face abruptly clouded.
“I had an accident.”
“Well, I should certainly hope you didn’t tear your shoulder on purpose!”
Dawn Davis studied Sara, while the older woman gazed back in seeming innocence and friendship.
“What sort of an accident, my dear? No . . . don’t tell me. I was impertinent to ask, but aren’t we fortunate, given all the ills that could have befallen us, that we have two injuries that are so eminently treatable? You and I could be facing problems with our kidneys, for instance, or our hearts, or—”
Dawn’s face grew darker. “Kidneys?”
Sara beamed grandmotherly reassurance all the while thinking: Bingo! That got her attention! “Yes, indeed. Or diabetes, or high
cholesterol—”
“What do you mean, ‘kidneys’?”
“It was just a nasty situation that popped into my mind,” Sara continued to lie. “I had a dear friend who had to undergo a kidney transplant. That was an ordeal and a half, I can tell you. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. And it cost the very moon, as you can imagine. So, tell me, my dear—if you don’t think I’m being too nosy—what do physicians do with torn rotator cuffs?”
“I had surgery. Arthroscopic. I’m not sure how it works or what he did, but it sure feels a heck of a lot better than it did four weeks ago.”
“Ah,” Sara said as though she’d never heard of such a procedure. “And what kind of surgeon performs such an operation?”
“An orthopedist.”
“I went to one for my wretched knee! Fancy that! Mine is Dr. Arthur. Is that who treated you, by any chance?”
An emotion that looked like regret crossed Dawn Davis’s face. It wasn’t an expression Sara expected. “Your surgeon’s the best—at least that’s what I was told. He didn’t have time to deal me, so I got Dr. Bownes. He was very good, though. Very pleasant and everything.”
Something in this delivery, whether it was Dawn’s palpable sorrow or hesitant tone, began to affect Sara in ways she hadn’t anticipated. “What do you mean Arthur didn’t have time to deal with you?” she demanded. “That’s what physicians are supposed to do, isn’t it? Deal with problems.”
Dawn gave a dismissive, one-shoulder shrug. “I guess . . . but you know, how everything happened . . . the emergency room and all that ugly stuff . . . my boyfriend and his run-in with the cops on account of how bad he hurt me . . . oh, man . . .” The words died in her throat. “I didn’t mean to say that. Besides, it was a while ago. Forget I talked about him. Okay, ma’am—?”
“You can call me Sara,” was the staunch and surprisingly protective reply.
“Sara? Okay? Just forget what I told you, okay?”
Sara glanced at Emma to see what her assessment of Dawn Davis was, and observed a worried and pensive expression that mirrored her own. “Your boyfriend caused this ‘accident’?” she asked.
“I shouldn’t talk about it, okay? I shouldn’t have blabbed. That was just plain dumb. Water under the bridge, or whatever they say. Ancient history.” Dawn looked at her watch. “For pete’s sake, what’s keeping them? I’ve gotta get to work. We’re running short of staff at Papyrus—that’s where I work—and the manager’s gonna tan my hide if I don’t show up for my shift.”
“He can’t blame you if your physical therapist kept you waiting.”
“Wanna bet? He’s as big a jerk as my—” Dawn clapped a hand over her mouth.
“As your boyfriend? Is that what you were about to say?”
Dawn didn’t reply, and so Sara took the lead. The conniving subcontractor to the Polycrates Agency was nowhere in evidence. “It sounds to me as if you should walk right out on that good-for-nothing person,” she stated. “Mistreating a woman! How low can a man stoop? And you realize, dear, that those types don’t stop at a single abusive incident.”
“Yes, I know . . .” The words were so muffled Sara could hardly hear them. “Look, Sara . . . ma’am . . . I didn’t mean to talk about this. I’m really trying to pull things together. I’m taking night school classes and everything. I mean, I don’t want to take home the diddly pay I get at Papyrus forever, you know? I want to be a paralegal and work in a law firm or somewhere fancy like that, and well, Andy—he’s my boyfriend—he’s not too happy about me, you know, giving away all my time—”
“You’re hardly giving it away if you’re earning a paycheck, dear.”
“Well, you know how men like to talk . . . and, anyway, I don’t think he likes the paralegal stuff, either. He thinks I’m getting ahead of myself or something.”
Before Sara could make another incensed comment, Dawn Davis was called for her appointment. She jumped to her feet with the alacrity of someone anticipating being reprimanded—or slapped. “Gotta go . . . listen, forget what I said, Sara. It’s just me running off at the mouth. Oh, I’m Dawn, by the way. Dawn Davis.” She shook Sara’s hand. “I’ve never met anyone like you. You know, with a maid and everything. That’s pretty cool.”
Sara watched as Dawn gathered up her purse and book-bag. “You know, my dear, I’m a lonely old lady. I’d be delighted if you felt like visiting me someday. My maid could prepare us a meal.”
“Really? That would be so cool. Yeah, I’d like that . . . and we could compare doctors and things.”
Or talk about a man named Andy whose girlfriend wound up in the operating room, Sara didn’t add; instead she opted for a noncommittal: “How about tomorrow after you finish work?”
Dawn thought for a second. “Darn, I can’t. I’ve got a class. Maybe I could cut it, though—”
“Nonsense. You keep up with your schooling. It’s very important.”
“I could do Saturday,” Dawn offered. “Andy won’t be around. Like, maybe supper after my shift at the store?”
“That’s a date, my dear. Saturday, it is. I’ll leave a note with directions to my home with the receptionist—in case I’m already gone when your appointment concludes.”
CHAPTER
20
This wasn’t the first time some oddball had sent his wife crosswords that seemed to relate to a case Rosco was investigating; and, as in past situations, a number of familiar dilemmas presented themselves. One: Was the message in the puzzle genuine? Two: If it was, who was sending it? And three: Or, could it be that Belle’s growing notoriety as a word-game editor and sometime crime solver was making her the target of a person who got his or her jollies by imitating felons and murderers? It was the couple’s experience that there were more than a few warped brains in the world, and would-be copycat criminals who constructed complex crosswords during their spare time definitely made that list.
Pondering the telephone call he’d just received from Belle regarding the newly faxed missive, as well as the seemingly innocent puzzle that had arrived on Sunday morning, Rosco again drove out to King Wenstarin Farms. The afternoon had become gray and ominous, and the canvas top and side curtains had been returned to the Jeep, a fact Pete commented on as Rosco stopped at the front gate.
“I guess this means summer is officially over,” he said with a broad smile. “You seemed to be the last holdout. All the BMWs and Benzes put up their tops a month ago.”
“Never give up, that’s me.”
“Does this mean you’re wearing socks, too?”
Rosco smiled. “Let’s not go overboard; still a little early for anything that drastic.”
“Well, Mr. Collins has your name on the list, so I’ll open up. Hang on a sec.”
“Actually I’m here to speak with the barn manager, Orlando Polk. I gather his brush with amnesia has been remedied, and he’s back on the job.”
“I’m not sure about ‘on the job,’ but Kelly brought him home from the hospital yesterday. He seemed fine; remembered my name anyway.” Pete chuckled, then added, “ ’Course I made a real jerk out of myself.”
“How’s that?” Rosco asked.
The guard shook his head. “Well, I assumed he’d heard the news about the missus being murdered and all, so I was just makin’ small talk, you know? Said something like, ‘That’s a real shame about Mrs. Collins being killed.’ ” He sighed. “Anyway, the news seemed to hit Orlando pretty hard . . . which is natural . . . I mean hearin’ about it for the first time and all. Stuck my foot in my mouth, that’s for dang sure. Yeah, my wife tells me to keep my big yap shut, and I never listen to her. It’ll dawn on me someday, I guess.”
Rosco thought, Thank goodness there are people who do talk too much; my job would be a heck of a lot tougher if there weren’t. What he said, however, was a sympathetic, “I could have fallen into the same trap myself, Pete. I would have assumed his wife would have already broken the bad news.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Pete opened the
gate, and Rosco drove up the long lane of trees, eventually emerging at the center of the farm. He drove directly to stable B, where the barn manager and his wife had their apartment. Rosco wanted to avoid the main house in hopes that he could speak to Orlando without being chaperoned by any Collins family members. Parking the Jeep behind the stable, he entered the barn through the large doors on the west end.
The structure’s ground floor was divided in two sections. The western end had six roomy box stalls on either side of a broad central aisle; then came a side entrance with double doors leading to an exercise corral, and beyond that, the building was sealed off into what was obviously the manager’s living quarters. The entire upper level in the stable area was covered with a hay loft, and Rosco noted it was already well stocked for the winter ahead. He strolled along the aisle toward the apartment, passing the stalls, each of which was occupied by a sleek and handsome steed, who regarded the stranger with curious and haughty eyes. Small frames screwed to the walls separating the boxes displayed the boarded horses’ names as well as those of their owners on removable four-by-six-inch file cards. Rosco silently read as he passed, deciding the animals’ names could just as easily pass for the gold-leaf monikers members of the Patriot Yacht Club spread across the aft end of their expensive vessels: Pricey Lady, Windmill, Hokey-Pokey, Flashdance, To a T, Daddy’s Girl, Good Guess, Beautiful Dreamer, Endymion, Zephyr, Flight of Fancy, Oh, My Word! He chuckled to himself and tapped three times on Orlando Polk’s door.
The man who answered was shorter than Rosco had expected, about five-seven or -eight, with long, jet black hair pulled into a ponytail. His skin was darkened and lined from the sun, and his black eyes shone with a sparkle and intensity that gave him a curiously boyish appearance. He extended his hand to Rosco and smiled; his teeth were a gleaming white in contrast to his swarthy complexion.
“I take it you’re Rosco Polycrates?” he said, then looked at his watch. “Right on time. Mr. Collins seems very impressed with you, which is good enough for me. Come on in; take a load off.”
