Corpus de Crossword

by Nero Blanc

  CHAPTER 37

  “But it’s so obvious, Rosco! Anyone can see this!” Belle’s hands danced in the air as she spoke, while her hair sprang about as if spiked with electrical currents.

  “I don’t know, Belle. It’s a big, big leap … And I’m not so sure this idea of—” He bent over her desk examining the five crosswords. “Ooof … yikes, that smarts.”

  Belle was immediate concern and action. She reached toward his shoulders as if she intended to physically remove him to a more comfortable location. “You shouldn’t be standing like that. I’ll get you a—”

  “No. I should be standing … and walking around, and working this out … taking deep breaths, yelling at TV sportscasters, and doing all the normal things real men do.” He tried to laugh, and swallowed a grimace of pain. “It only hurts when I try to think.”

  Belle cocked an eyebrow. “I’m not even considering going there.”

  “Hmmm … I have a feeling I’m going to regret that last statement.”

  “You mean thinking being one of the things real men don’t do? Is it because you macho types find it too painful, so you try to avoid it?”

  “It was a joke.”

  Belle looked at him. “Actually, it is a funny notion.” She smiled, then returned her focus to the gathered crosswords. “Okay … puzzle number one, entitled A Burning Question—”

  “But logic keeps telling me that refers to the fire—”

  “It could, Rosco. It could… which is obviously what I initially believed—just as I’d imagined Gordon was at the center of the puzzles … But after putting the five together … well, look: first crossword. Here the constructor is trying to get our attention. Question—a la the title: Whose body is buried in Taneysville? Answer: SMOKESCREEN … SMOKE AND MIRRORS; i.e., we’re dealing with a trick of some sort—”

  “But the fire was real.”

  “I grant you that … And we certainly have Gordon’s shifty business dealings to contend with, but the remains don’t belong to his wife. Therefore, my intuition strongly suggests I’ve been barking up the wrong tree—”

  “To borrow a phrase from Kit’s activity book.”

  This time it was Belle who groaned; she gave Rosco a look. “Okay … crossword number two: CHANGE OF HEART spelled out at 35-Across … which is the same phrase as the title to puzzle number four—”

  “But—”

  “Hear me out … What does CHANGE OF HEART say to you, Rosco? … Doesn’t it say that someone’s unhappy with—”

  “Unhappy with a decision and is revising it—”

  “Precisely! In this case, we have an old person … someone who most probably witnessed the crime—”

  “Hold on. I’m not seeing anything about witnessing—”

  “Well, what else can the constructor be suggesting? We have anonymity, meaning fear of disclosure, fear of retaliation … So the assumption … the only logical assumption is that whoever created these puzzles not only knows who was buried in Taneysville but also when they were buried, and who committed the crime … Also, we’re probably dealing with someone who’s had a name change—directly referencing the need to remain anonymous … Look at the other solutions to the second crossword: WHAT’S IN A NAME at 19-Across … NAME OF THE GAME at 42-Across. I admit I assumed the puzzler meant Gordon, but obviously—”

  “Belle, this is pure conjecture—”

  She stared at him. “I know that, Rosco … I do … But I feel I’m right. Instinct tells me I am.”

  “So, your supposition is that our mystery constructor is still afraid of revealing an identity—?”

  “Exactly! And you know why? Because the murderer is still alive—”

  The phone rang at that moment. Belle yelped in frustration while simultaneously grabbing the receiver.

  “My dear girl,” she heard, “wait until you hear this. I’ve made such an important discovery.”

  “So have I,” was Belle’s hurried reply, but Sara seemed not to have heard her.

  “Do you remember dear Rosco saying I had a ‘bee in my bonnet’ when we drove him home from the hospital?”

  Belle’s impatient fingers tapped across the crosswords. “Yes, Sara, I do.”

  “Well, that got me thinking about the letter B … and then one thing led to another and I began considering those somewhat archaic puzzle solutions we were discussing in my car on the ride out to Taneysville: NICKELODEON, PENNY ARCADE, FIVE AND DIME … You recall that I told you they’d piqued my curiosity?”

  Belle hadn’t a clue where this conversation was headed. She stifled a sigh and said, “Yes, Sara, I do remember that.”

  “Well, silly me. They’re movie titles! ‘B’ movies, they would have been called back in the fifties when they were made … COIN A PHRASE … THE QUARTERBACK… Anyway, the reason I made note of them at the time was that a local girl appeared in all of them. She was one of the actresses.”

  “… Paula Flynn.” Belle’s voice was a whisper.

  Sara, on the other end of the line, responded with an equally subdued and astonished, “Why, yes. You’ve heard of her?”

  Rosco uttered an impatient, “What’s going on?”

  Belle pointed to 17-Across in the fifth crossword and began to read aloud, “Read between the Lines … CHANCES ARE … HERS … WAS … A DOUBLE LIFE … THE LADY VANISHES … A STAR IS BORN … BUT … JUST … IN NAME ONLY …” She stopped and stared at Rosco. “There it is, as plain as day.”

  “Are you suggesting Paula Flynn is our mystery puzzler?” he asked. “Could she still be alive?”

  Before Belle could answer, Sara’s perplexed voice crackled through the receiver. “What about Paula Flynn?”

  “I think she’s the one who constructed the puzzles, Sara! No … no, I’m certain of it. She’s our ‘old person.’ Our ‘local person’—”

  Sara interrupted with a matter of fact: “I’m afraid I have to agree with Rosco; I doubt the poor woman’s still alive. I remember reading somewhere that she’d fallen on exceedingly hard times after her stint in Hollywood—”

  “No, Sara. She’s trying to tell us something, and she has been hoping to do so clandestinely … It’s Katie Vanovski, a.k.a. Paula Flynn. She must have returned to the area. She must be living somewhere nearby—”

  “But, my dear, surely the press would have—”

  “Not if she’d fallen on hard times, Sara. She wouldn’t be news any longer—” The words stopped in Belle’s throat. She gasped as the next idea hit her. “That’s why Katie never went home during all those years! That’s why she couldn’t keep up with her niece and nephews. She was afraid. She must have witnessed the crime just before she left … and that’s what she’s been attempting to tell us. She knows who the murderer is! And she knows the person’s still around!”

  Sara’s response was a vigorous: “Well, we’ll have to find her, won’t we?”

  CHAPTER 38

  “Maurice Williams Talent Agency,” the woman on the other end of the telephone line announced in a pronounced New York accent. Her tone was devoid of anything that could remotely be deemed friendly—or even polite.

  “Yes,” Rosco said, “is Mr. Williams in?”

  The voice sighed. Mightily. “Mr. Williams died in 1963. Look, fella, we take no unsolicited phone calls, screenplays, or performer’s pictures and resumés in this office, so—”

  “No, no,” Rosco interrupted, “I’m just trying to get a little information on one of your clients.”

  “Are you with the press?”

  Rosco realized that the simple truth was going to get him nowhere with this woman, so he moved to plan B—the lie:

  “My name’s Jerry Sharpless and I work for Paramount Pictures? In L.A.? Anyway, I’m in the accounting department out here, and I just phoned the Screen Actors Guild and they informed me that the Morris Williams Talent Agency represented an actress by the name of Paula Flynn?”

  “Paula Flynn …? That was centuries ago. Even I wasn’t with this office then
.”

  “Well, the guild still has your agency’s phone number listed as Miss Flynn’s contact.”

  Rosco could hear the secretary tapping on her computer keys. After a moment she said, “Huh? Yep, she’s still in here. Who woulda guessed it?”

  “Well, I’ve got a residual check for her here. We used a clip from The Quarterback in our latest Schwarzenegger epic, and—”

  “Just send it to our office here in New York and we’ll process it out to her.”

  “It’s for three dollars and ten cents.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Apparently it’s a silent bit. All of her lines have been cut.”

  “That’s not even worth the postage.”

  “That’s what I figured you’d say. Do you want me to send the check directly to her house instead of having your people deal with it?”

  The woman remained quiet, so Rosco pushed on. “Our office out here is gonna need to fill in a new W-4 form for her, and also enter her address into our data bank so we can process a W-2 in January.”

  The woman sighed. Again mightily. “Hold on, let me get her back up on my screen.” After a few seconds she said, “Paula Flynn, Paula Flynn … okay, here we go: she’s at the Bayshore Retirement Home, 717 Cherry Hill Lane. That’s in Newcastle. It’s up in Massachusetts—zip: 02744.”

  “Thank you very much. Have a nice day.”

  “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Belle said after Rosco hung up the phone. “I’m going to have to watch myself with you. You’re very slick.”

  “Please, don’t make me laugh.”

  Belle picked up the slip of paper on which Rosco had jotted down the address. “Not the toniest section of the city.”

  “I know.” He stood and took a step toward the front door. “Let’s go.”

  “Don’t you think we should call first? You don’t want to just barge right in, do you?”

  “Absolutely. There’s no point in giving her time to think over her answers. Your theory may be right; it may be wrong; but remember, Paula—or rather, Katie—is an actress. We don’t want to give her time to rehearse.”

  The Bayshore Retirement Home was on Newcastle’s south side, and was a facility built in the early 1930s before the area’s rampant development. Originally intended to sit amid bucolic woodlands and open spaces, it was now surrounded by four-lane roads and strip malls. There wasn’t even so much as a garden for the elderly residents to stroll, and the only trees were spindly specimens that had been planted by the highway department and then left to brave the depredations of salted winter pavements, careless delivery truck drivers, and summer droughts.

  “Pretty grim,” Belle said as she parked in a spot marked VISITORS ONLY and turned off the engine.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” was Rosco’s quiet response. “A long way from the glory days in Hollywood.”

  They sat for a moment pondering the singular life of the old woman they were about to meet—and the fear that had been driving her.

  “What if we’re not allowed to see her?” Belle’s question was tinged with the vague hope that she and Rosco could go home before actually confronting the woman who had once been Katie Vanovski.

  “We walk in as if we’re expected and know exactly where we’re going. These places are all understaffed. No one will say boo.”

  “But how will we find her if we don’t ask?”

  “I imagine the residents’ names are inserted in plaques outside their doors … We’ll find her, don’t worry. And if anyone questions where we’re going, we just say Miss Flynn is expecting us … We can say it’s business—that we spoke to her talent agent—which isn’t a complete lie.”

  Belle sighed. “I kind of wish we didn’t have to do this … We may be putting her in danger—”

  “No. What we’re doing is getting her out of trouble by finally putting a killer behind bars.”

  As Rosco had predicted, no one stopped them or even spoke. They passed directly in front of a reception desk—devoid of personnel—and into a common area dotted with wheelchairs and their dozing occupants, and wall-mounted TVs that no one seemed to be watching. A staircase and two overworked elevators led to a second floor. There wasn’t an inch of carpeting to be seen, or a single decorative pillow, ornamental plant, or vase of plastic flowers. Institutional seemed a word invented for places like Bayshore.

  Belle and Rosco traversed the first floor, climbed the stairs, and were confronted by two long and utterly cheerless corridors. Rosco had been correct: residents’ names were affixed beside each bedroom door. Paula Flynn was among them.

  “Poor thing …” Belle whispered. She took a breath, knocked on the door, received no response, then looked at Rosco, who gently eased the door open. “Miss Flynn?” they murmured in respectful unison.

  Hunched crookedly in a battered armchair and sitting with her back to them, Paula Flynn made no reply. Instead, she seemed to be staring at the window while the reflected daylight illumined her birdlike body as if from within—as if she were undergoing a continuous round of X rays. Her skin looked transparent; her scalp shone through her thin white hair; even the blue hospital blanket that hung from her shoulders seemed as thin as tissue paper.

  Belle opened her mouth to speak again, but no words came. Instead she gazed about the room: the hospital bed, the shabby dresser, a table on wheels on which sat a plastic water pitcher and Styrofoam cups. The sole source of color came from three movie posters hung on the wall above the bed. Designed in classic fifties Hollywood style, each boasted large letters shaded in fiery red and orange that provided a jolting 3-D effect. NICKELODEON, starring Ronald Harmon and Paula Flynn … PENNY ARCADE, with Sterling Sanders and Paula Flynn … Rock Mason and Paula Flynn in THE QUARTERBACK. It was hard to imagine the gorgeous young female depicted in the artwork was the same Paula Flynn.

  As Belle and Rosco stood in silence debating the best way to introduce themselves, Paula Flynn spoke, although her body remained turned toward the window. “You weren’t supposed to find me, Miss Graham.”

  Rosco and Belle shared a glance but didn’t reply.

  “I can see your reflection in the window … Your photograph in the Crier doesn’t do you justice. You’re a beautiful young woman.”

  “Thank you,” was all Belle could think to say.

  “And I gather this is your husband …? Mr. Polycrates? The camera-shy private investigator.”

  “I find it helps my line of work to keep my mug out of the papers.” He stepped around to face Paula. “But, please, Miss Flynn, call me Rosco.”

  She studied him. “You’ve done well for yourself, Miss Graham.” She nodded her tiny head toward the movie posters. “You remind me of Sterling Sanders, Rosco; however, I would guess you still have the teeth you were born with.”

  “Yes … Please forgive our intrusion, Miss Flynn, but I don’t see how we could have solved this case without your—”

  “My puzzles explained everything. All you needed to do was expose the guilty party—”

  Belle stepped forward. “But only you know who that is.”

  The old eyes stared, the old face almost immobile. “Pardon me?”

  “Rosco has friends in the police department, Miss Flynn. You won’t be in danger if you share your information. The killer will be arrested. He’ll be off the streets.”

  “There’s no statute of limitations on murder cases,” Rosco added. “You’ll have nothing to fear.”

  Paula Flynn returned her gaze to the window. “But I … I don’t understand …”

  “We need you to tell us the name of the person who killed the girl in Taneysville,” Rosco said. He tried to fold his arms across his chest, but a sharp pain from his rib cage stopped him midway. He opted to keep his hands at his sides. “Miss Flynn, by withholding this information, you continue to put yourself in danger.”

  “Danger? But I … I …” Paula Flynn looked at Belle and frowned in dismay.

  “You did witness the crime, didn’t
you?” Belle asked.

  Again, the ancient actress frowned. “No … No, I have no idea who murdered the woman … I only know her identity.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Rosco had retrieved two folding chairs from the Bayshore Retirement Home’s dining area on the assumption that Paula Flynn’s explanation was going to take longer than expected. Belle had used his absence to relay her theory as to what had occurred those many years ago in Taneysville, but as Rosco set up the chairs, Paula startled them by stating an emphatic: “You couldn’t be more wrong. I’ve never been to Taneysville in my life.”

  “But … but …” Belle stuttered, “the local library has a scrapbook of all your successes … Photos … magazine interviews …” She paused to collect herself, then continued in a gentler tone. “Miss Flynn … Rosco and I know your real name. We know why you left home as abruptly as you did … and why you were never able to return.”

  Paula remained motionless for a long moment. Eventually she whispered a nearly inaudible: “I’m not Katie Vanovski. I never have been. And I’ve never been to Taneysville.”

  Belle looked at Rosco, who raised his eyebrows in disbelief. Both were silent, pondering how to deal with what they knew was a total falsehood, invented by an aging and rather traumatized mind.

  “I understand,” Belle finally answered. “You’ve seen something terrible, and you don’t want to discuss it … That’s okay … It is … but Rosco and I … well, we just want to see you out of danger. Whoever murdered—”

  “I’m not—”

  Belle reached out her hand and touched the bony arm. “I know … You’re Paula Flynn now.”

  The old lady’s head sagged while a brief and bitter laugh rose from her hollow chest. “Not even close.”

  Again Rosco and Belle regarded each other; this time Rosco was the first to speak.

  “But you did send Belle the crosswords—?”

  “And the name outside your door says—”

  “TRADING PLACES … SMOKE AND MIRRORS … LOOK FOR A SWITCH … That’s what I was trying to tell you in the puzzles. I stole Katie’s identity. I—”