by Nero Blanc
“I’m betting snow before Thanksgiving—and we never see open ground till tax day.”
She chuckled. “There’s a cheery thought.”
“April fifteenth. You mark my words.”
“See you tomorrow, Artie.”
“Don’t you go flinging open the door, Belle. There’s still plenty of loonies out there.”
She smiled, but didn’t reply.
Doozy, she thought as she idly sorted through the mail while returning to her office, floozy, frowsy, blowsy … from the English dialect, a blowze, a wench with a coarse and ruddy complexion… Belle’s eye fell on her unfinished crossword. Anne Boleyn … ten letters … a woman who, by all accounts, was a plainish lady with a swarthy complexion, albeit extraordinarily vivid and expressive black eyes … Boleyn was the king’s second wife; because of his passion for her, he divorced Catherine of Aragon—and severed his ties with the Roman Church … But Anne paid for Henry’s obsessive ardor when, having produced only a female child—Elizabeth I—she fell from her sovereign’s favor and was finally accused of adultery—even incest in the case of one of her lovers, her own brother, Lord Rochford …
“Divorced, beheaded, died”—Belle muttered the antique refrain under her breath—”divorced, beheaded, survived.” With one hand she began counting letters in the names of Henry’s queens: CATHERINE OF ARAGON, ANNE BOLEYN, JANE SEYMOUR, ANNE OF CLEVES, CATHERINE HOWARD, and the only one to survive her willful and vindictive husband: CATHERINE PARR.
An envelope fell from between the pages of a catalog as Belle finished this exercise. The handwriting on the address was identical to that of the anonymous crossword she’d shared with Sara. Belle slit open the envelope and unfolded another meticulously crafted puzzle. Swap meet. She turned the page over. Like the previous offering there was no hint of authorship; therefore it would be impossible to include it in a collection of readers’ contributions. She glanced at the Across clues, silently filling in answers: WHAT’S IN A NAME, TRADING PLACES … Then she shook her head, dropped the puzzle on her desk, and turned on the radio, hoping for some gentle background music to lull her back to work.
Divorced, beheaded, died, her brain recited, divorced, beheaded, survived … There must be a clever lexical twist I can use with this one …
But her thought process was interrupted by a political announcement that roared out of the radio at a decibel level that seemed twice that of the previous music selection:
“… If he can’t clean up crime in his own hometown, how can he promise he’ll address the issue statewide? Nationwide? What we need are crime busters, not sob sisters like Milton Hoffmeyer the Third. And we don’t need skeletons stuffed inside our neighbors’ closets … Paid for by Concerned Citizens for a Better Bay State …”
Belle flicked off the radio in disgust. Honestly! she thought. For one thing those remains weren’t found in a closet, they were unearthed in a field, in what had once been a vegetable garden. Then her facile mind spun into alliterative mode: A Body Buried among Butter Beans; The Corpse in the Cowpeas; Skeletons and Scallions; Murder in the Maize.
A rueful smile crept around the corners of her lips. She sighed, and with some effort returned to the precarious lives of King Henry’s wives.
SWAP MEET
Across
1. Fr. holy woman
4. Tie results?
7. 5 & 10, e.g.
12. She
13. Passed on
15. Neutered
16. Poetically above
17. Stretcher?
18. “To be …” source
19. Juliet’s rose comment
22. Hawaiian geese
23. Conflict
24. Latin love
27. Aykroyd/Murphy film
32. Even; abbr.
33. Tenth of twelve
34. Some gyms
35. 180
39. José or Buddy
40. Chinese export
41. Very in Vergara
42. Abba hit
46. Swedish river
47. Pub drink
48. Forces down
51. Classic deceiver
55. Hash mark
58. Dupes
59. Born
60. Flung over
61. Even better
62. Literary monogram
63. Feel
64. Fool
65. Isr. neighbor
Down
1. Exposed
2. Twitter
3. Backbone of some puzzles
4. Black Sea port
5. 20-Down torch
6. Exposed
7. Canned ham
8. Domesticated
9. Olive ___
10. Female ruff
11. NYC zone
14. Like Hollywood dreamers
15. Honed
20. Patio
21. Pester
24. Certain stolen items
25. Dense
26. CIA germ?
28. Badger
29. Chill
30. Soap stuff
31. An aardvark, e.g.
32. “Beat it!”
36. Cartoon denial
37. Admission
38. Sorceress
39. African antelope
43. Like a distant star
44. Patient’s request; abbr.
45. Bikini blasts
49. Verse
50. Scowl
51. Tears
52. Rapier
53. On the briny
54. Rat’s nest
55. 60’s grp.
56. Tuscan three
57. Operated
To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords
CHAPTER 17
“Peskov or Pinchov?” Belle asked. She was seated at her desk, absentmindedly chewing on a licorice stick. Rosco was seated nearby, but instead of nibbling candy he was looking through his pocket notebook.
“Something like that … Of course, the information comes from Big Otto. And I wouldn’t call him an overly reliable—or sympathetic—character.”
Belle raised her eyebrows and smiled. “And it doesn’t sound as if Sean Reilly is much of a sweetheart, either. In fact, from what you’ve been telling me, a good many of the folks in Taneysville are suffering from a fairly advanced case of xenophobia—”
“You can say that again. A welcome mat salesman would starve to death out there.”
Belle released a small laugh, then grew serious. “Well, our supposedly enlightened city isn’t always very welcoming or accepting, either. Like everywhere, we’ve got ethnic-related prejudices; people who get skittish when confronted with mental health patients or physical deformities. And then there are religious differences …”
Rosco put on a look of mock surprise. “Right here in River City! I don’t believe it! … I’m Greek, remember?”
Belle smiled again. “As if your mom or sisters could ever let me forget that … the eldest son married to a ‘white girl’ …”
“Who’s been made an honorary Greek. Don’t ever tell me you’re not the luckiest girl in the world. That title’s not bestowed upon outsiders lightly by my clan. My brothers-in-law are still groveling for acceptance.”
Belle grinned but didn’t speak, and the two gazed at each other across the crossword-themed office. The look was filled with a desire to place everything on hold and slip upstairs—even just for a little while. They remained in that conflicted pose as the sun began to sink toward the horizon and the sky assumed a flame-red hue. Beyond the windows, the small garden was already drenched in shadow, causing the bare tree limbs and deciduous shrubs to appear even darker against this fiery backdrop. Then the sunset’s rays momentarily filled the room, alighting on Rosco’s and Belle’s faces, making them seem as if they were glowing from within. Or perhaps it was inner happiness their expressions reflected.
“Well …?” Rosco said; his mind was an open book.
“Wait a minute … I was just thinkin
g of something …”
“I was afraid of that.”
“… Could the name Big Otto was hunting for be Peshkov?”
“I guess …” Unconsciously, Rosco mirrored his wife’s pose, also leaning forward in his chair. “Although I was kind of hoping your brain was focusing on a different question—”
“Peshkov …” Belle repeated slowly, “Aleksei Maksimovich Peshkov … a.k.a. Maxim Gorki—”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“The writer Gorki used a pseudonym—”
Rosco sat back and chuckled. “Stupid question, but how did you know that?”
“Huh?”
“How did you …? No, never mind … I’ll never be able to comprehend how much information your brain has packed away. We’ve got to get you on Jeopardy.” Rosco chuckled again. It was the sound of a man who adored his wife. “Okay, Gorki a.k.a. Peshkov … What might this have to do with our Mr. Gordon?”
“Alex Gordon, right? Isn’t that what you told me?”
“Right …?”
“An English version of Aleksei, and Gordon instead of Gorki—”
“Where does Peshkov come in?”
“Well, if your Alex Gordon is indeed a Russian expatriate, and if his name is Peshkov—rather than Pinchov or Peskov, then his choice of alias shows a literary bent …”
“So?” Rosco smiled and shook his head. “I’m not sure this is getting us anywhere vis-à-vis the skeletal remains in Taneysville, unless you’re suggesting we’ve finally found the long-lost Tsarina Anastasia … Besides, by assuming Gordon’s real name is Peshkov you’re utilizing a very circumstantial concept—as well as an unsound source … And in the long run, what difference does the name make?”
“Wait a minute!” Belle sat bolt upright in her chair. “Gordon, Alex …” She put her hands on her temples. “… Wife goes missing—”
“I’m going to have to ask you to back up here, Belle. I missed a segue.”
She gazed at him, her gray eyes bright. Then she jumped to her feet and began switching on the room’s lamps and overhead light. “It’s coming back to me now … A businessman named Alex Gordon … He lived in Boston … had a very high-profile wife … She was always popping up in some society magazine … redecorating her bathroom, having the dining room trompe l’oeiled …” Belle squinted, trying to remember. “It must have been twelve or thirteen years ago—”
“Thirteen years ago, I was NPD. I didn’t worry myself with high-profile wives in Boston—or trompe l’oeil.”
“And I wasn’t even living in Massachusetts then,” Belle countered as she paced the room. “This was national magazine stuff. She was young … very flashy … a real babe, if you go in for the bleach-blond, cosmetically altered, greedy, gold-digger type—”
“Which I gather you don’t. I know I sure don’t.”
Belle cocked her head to one side. “You’re so perceptive. It’s one of the things I love about you.”
“So, this Alex Gordon of yours had a trashy wife who was a publicity hound—?”
“Then one day, she upped and ran off with her husband’s business partner—along with a sizable chunk of company cash.”
Rosco winced. “Not a happy scenario … but not all that unusual. Infidelity isn’t—”
“The partner was quite a looker, too, as I recall. A real Clark Gable type.”
“‘Frankly, my dear—’”
“After that she plumb vanished from the scene.” Belle sat on her desk, and again frowned in concentration. “Not a peep out of her. No more photo spreads of her at poolside or showing off her newest collection of handbags—”
“Maybe she finally found true love, and didn’t need all the hoopla.”
“Maybe … Actually, I remember thinking that the two of them had probably skipped the country and retired to a desert isle.” Belle shook her head in thought. “Mrs. Alex Gordon … the wife of the ‘magnet magnate.’”
“Huh?”
“I just remembered … that’s what the press called the husband …” Then Belle almost shouted. “FYI! That was the acronym for his company’s name … I can’t remember what it stood for … Yes, I can! Far Yukon Industries.”
“Sounds like it could be our boy,” Rosco said, then remained silent a moment. “Wife disappears … business partner pulls a fast one … I have to start reading Town and Country more often. Any other facts roaming around in that fertile brain of yours …? For instance: Was the partner accused of embezzlement?”
“He must have been … I guess … I’ll tell you what: We can do a Web search right now …” Belle spun toward her computer, then sagged in dejection. “No, wait. I forgot … We won’t be able to retrieve information from that long ago—at least not current newspaper articles and so forth. I’ll have to head down to the Crier’s morgue tomorrow morning and use their microfiche. That way I can access the Boston papers, too—”
“I wish you wouldn’t call it that.”
“Why? Microfiche is the official—”
“No, morgue.”
“The Crier’s reference room? Every paper has one. The nickname’s been around since the early nineteenth century. Although”—she smiled briefly—“it might interest you to know that the term doesn’t come from the Latin word for death but that it’s French, and derives from morgo, or pride. A French morgue was a place where the police examined newly captured criminals—” Belle interrupted her own train of thought, and jumped back to Alex Gordon and his wife. “Darn! I hate conundrums like this.”
“I thought patience was your middle name.”
She made a face. “Well, buddy, you thought wrong.”
Rosco stood and put his arms around her. “I’ve got to check my office for calls. Then what do you say we head out for dinner?”
“Sounds terrific.”
Rosco walked to the phone on the desk, where he tapped in numbers and then jotted names and return numbers in his notebook while Belle pulled close.
“Mike Petri?” she murmured, peering over his shoulder. “What’s that all about?”
“Never mind, Miss Nosy. Maybe it’s confidential?”
“But who is he?”
Rosco laughed. “None of your beeswax … A guy who wants to talk to me. Didn’t leave a number. Said he’ll call back tomorrow … And, no, I don’t know who Mike Petri is or what he wants … Now are you satisfied?” Then Rosco picked up the crossword Belle had been working on. “Your newest one?”
Belle sighed and nodded. “The wives of Henry VIII … The thematic clues are giving me a really rough time. Plus there are three Catherines and two Annes …”
“Any Russian tsarinas?”
“Ho, ho …”
CHAPTER 18
With Belle ensconced in the Crier’s morgue, Rosco drove north toward Boston and the offices of Far Yukon Industries. Gordon’s secretary had been able to give him a twelve noon appointment, but had also made it abundantly clear that Saturdays weren’t normally part of the boss’s working schedule. If Rosco were detained—even by ten or fifteen minutes—he’d forfeit his chance for an interview.
That piece of peremptory business out of the way, the secretary had then provided detailed directions to FYI’s headquarters, which were situated in a large industrial park in Dorchester on Boston’s south side, not far from the Franklin Park Zoo.
Passing through the industrial campus, Rosco spotted what he identified as Far Yukon Industries at the rear of the park. The two-story cinderblock building appeared to house both office and manufacturing space, but unlike other tenants of the complex, FYI had no fleet of matching vehicles parked in its lot, and no trendy logos, signs, or awnings to indicate who occupied the space or what might take place within the walls. The sole marker was an unprepossessing 5245 ENTERPRISE WAY, painted in small gold leaf letters on a curbside signpost.
Rosco parked the Jeep in a spot marked GUESTS ONLY, and tried the door. It was secured, but before he had a chance to press the intercom button, an
electric buzzer sounded, indicating the door was now unlocked. He glanced up at a video camera, gave it a slight wave, and entered the building.
It had been clear from the exterior that there were no windows in the building, but once inside Rosco found the effect claustrophobic in the extreme. The front reception area was no more than ten by ten feet. To the left was a desk. A tall and well-proportioned blond woman sat behind it. The only items on her desk were a telephone, a television monitor, and a nail file. On the right side of the small room were two office chairs with a table perched between them. Three back issues of Cosmopolitan sat on the table. Directly opposite the entrance was a gray door that appeared to be fashioned out of solid steel. It obviously led to the remainder of the building.
“You must be Mr. Polycrates,” the blond said in a heavy Eastern European accent.
“Yes. I am.” He motioned toward the TV monitor on her desk. “Is there some way you recognized me?”
“Ach, no. The sound of that door chime drives me coo-coo. I try to let people in before they can push that silly button … Besides, you are the only visitor we are expecting. At least the only one who might be wearing a sports jacket.”
“If Mr. Gordon’s secretary hadn’t given me directions, this wouldn’t be a very easy building to find,” Rosco said by way of making conversation. “Far Yukon needs a sign or something out there.”
“Mr. Gordon believes it is better that our neighbors do not know too much about the magnets.”
She said this as if the word magnets was synonymous with the testing of nuclear weapons.
“The magnets?”
“We manufacture Muscle Man Magnets. Many people think we are creating force fields. A silly idea, but we’ve been forced to move our facility twice in the last five years … Other companies have suggested our magnets made a mess of their computers and video and recording tapes, phone service, ee tee cee. Not to mention the rearranging of the molecules in the blood systems.”
“Are you serious?”
She raised her arms above her head and pushed her ample chest toward Rosco. “Do you see anything wrong with me?” She lowered her arms. “People are coo-coo. We make electromagnets. They’re as harmless as … well, just look at me.”
