A Crossword to Die For (11 page)

“19-Across:
LEGAL HALTS
… 20-Across:
CHOPIN'S #9, TO SOME.
…Good … good … 58-Across:
BAD NEWS AT A BEER BUST?”
Belle chuckled softly as she finished inking in answers with her favorite red ball-point pen, then added a small and carefully worked diagram to complete the page. “Why didn't I ever dream up a cryptic as ingenious as this?”

She looked at the constructor's name; it was not one she recognized. She added it to the notebook listing submissions to her forthcoming puzzle extravaganza. “What do you think, Kit? This one's a definite keeper, wouldn't you say?”

The puppy, unmoving by the garden door, didn't turn her head or make a sound. She'd been in that position ever since Rosco had left for New Jersey.

“C'mon, Kitty … Come on, girl … He'll be back soon.”

Kit's brown ears only flattened further on the black and white floor.

Belle rose and walked to her, bending down to stroke the soft fur. “It's okay, Kit. Really …” Belle sighed; her fingers reflexively continued to pat the dog's back, but her thoughts argued a quick
No, it's not okay!
—then raced ahead to wonder for the one-hundredth time since Rosco had left how a person as seemingly ordinary and unenigmatic as her father could leave behind such a welter of problematic questions.

“I'll tell you what, Kitty. How about we go for a good, long walk?”

Rosco had calculated the drive from Newcastle to Trenton to take somewhere in the neighborhood of six hours; down and back—twelve. A lot of driving for one day, but he was unwilling to give up his “newlywed” status—i.e. spend the night alone in some cheesy motel along the New Jersey Turnpike—so he'd set the alarm for 5 A.M.

Belle had, of course, awakened as well, and feigned mock surprise at the fact that he'd opted to look at a map before jumping into his Jeep and darting onto the southbound ramp of Interstate 95. She had also been quite impressed that he'd decided to actually take the map of New Jersey with him; and Rosco now found himself smiling as he cruised down the Jersey Turnpike, recalling her parting shot: “You're taking a
map
! Whatever
for
? Oh, that's right … no air-conditioning in your car; I guess you'll need to fan yourself with something.”

He'd said, “Ho, ho, ho,” kissed her deeply, and followed it with, “I love you. See you tonight. Late.”

Now, five hours into his drive south, he'd had plenty of time to consider all the worms that had crawled out of the woodwork since Belle's father had died. And the longer he drove, the more he deliberated, and the more suspicious these events seemed. There had been the flights to Belize, the missing train tickets, a missing rental car agreement, and no sign of a hotel receipt for that man's last night on earth—presumably, somewhere in New Jersey. All these lost items could have had a simple explanation—
if
Theodore Graham had been a haphazard individual. Having never met him, that had been Rosco's initial assessment: another scatterbrained professorial type, unconcerned with trivial matters such as receipts and stubs. But after dissecting Ted's financial records, Rosco had realized that nothing could have been farther from the truth. This was a person who was organized to the nth degree.

And then there was the lingering question of where the ninety-seven thousand dollars for Woody's Hatteras had come from. A problem that could be answered only by Woody himself—but one that also could have a logical explanation.

Rosco had refrained from transmitting his more serious concerns to Belle partly because he didn't want to worry her, but also because all he possessed was a handful of queries. As there seemed to be no evidence of foul play, why burden her?

But the many pieces of that deliberation had occurred back in Newcastle. Now that he'd had the long solo drive to analyze the situation, he'd convinced himself that something was most definitely wrong. Someone had taken Theodore Graham's train ticket and rental car agreement—which would indicate that someone was trying to conceal the fact that Ted had visited Princeton.

Then a far more grievous idea began nagging at Rosco: That same person might have gone so far as to have killed Belle's father.

These deductions left Rosco trembling slightly as he eased his Jeep into a parking space on Clinton Avenue, directly in front of the Trenton train station. The notion that his wife's father might have been murdered had turned his stomach into knots.

From habit, he reached up and flipped down the Jeep's sunvisor, displaying a Newcastle Police Department
OFFICIAL BUSINESS
placard, but then returned it to its original position, realizing it would carry little weight with the Trenton parking authorities. He stepped from the car, dropped two quarters into the meter, and surveyed the area. The station was low and modern in a 1970s sort of way—
Not a great era for architecture
, Rosco thought as he noted four taxis queued up in front of the station: the drivers standing in a bunch alongside the first cab telling jokes and smoking cigarettes. They looked as if they hadn't had a fare in hours and didn't much care; they seemed happy to enjoy the August sunshine. Rosco crossed behind them and entered the station.

Unlike many of the large older stations on Amtrak's East Coast line, the facility in Trenton had low, depressing ceilings. It appeared little more than a long corridor stretching over the tracks below. Services appeared to be minimal: four ticket windows, only one of which was open, a newsstand, a shoeshine area that looked permanently closed, a coffee vendor working out of a pushcart, which also offered smashed doughnuts sealed in cellophane, and a bank of self-service ticket machines. At the far end of the corridor Rosco spotted a sign reading RENTAL CARS.

He ambled toward the sign. When he reached the halfway point, he stopped and peered out of the large window at the tracks below. A train was just arriving from Philadelphia. Two passengers exited, and the train pushed on toward New York and Boston. Rosco continued down the corridor, through the glass door, and approached the Jarvis Rental Car counter. It was manned by a young black man who looked to be all of sixteen, although Rosco assumed there was an age requirement to get this managerial post. The man wore an orange Jarvis jumpsuit, with his name, SHAWN, embroidered on the left-hand pocket. He looked up from a copy of the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit edition as Rosco neared.

“Good morning,” he said, closing the magazine. “Can I help you?”

“Well, I hope so.” Rosco pulled the American Express fax from his leather case. “I'm having a bit of a discrepancy with Am-Ex over a charge, and I was wondering if you could help me out.”

“I will if I can. What's the problem?”

Rosco turned the fax around so that Shawn could read it and pointed to the Jarvis charge. “You see this charge for forty-seven dollars?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, this is my father-in-law's statement, and I'm trying to verify all of these charges. The problem is, I can't find his copy of the rental agreement anywhere, so I thought I'd stop in and see if you might be able to print up another for me.”

Shawn picked the fax up and looked it over. “Mr. Graham, huh?”

“Right.”

“Why doesn't he stop by for it himself?”

Rosco debated which approach would work best with Shawn, and opted for something close to the truth. “Well, Mr. Graham is, I should say was, my father-in-law. He passed away. I'm running down these charges to clear up his estate, and this is the only one I don't have a receipt for.”

“Jeez, sorry to hear about that.” Shawn seemed sincerely upset at the news. “Wow … Yeah, sure, uh … That's no problem, mister, but I can tell you this charge is correct. Forty-seven dollars and fifty-two cents. That's the one-day charge for a midsized with the Triple-A discount and unlimited mileage. Comes out the same every time, as long as they don't take the extra insurance and return the car with a full tank.”

“It sounded right, but I should take the printout just so everything's in order.”

“No problem. Let me punch this code number into the computer. It's odd, though. He seemed to be a stickler for details. I'm surprised he lost the original.”

“You remember him?” Rosco said, making no attempt to hide his surprise.

“Yeah,” Shawn said, glancing at the fax again. “Mr. Graham, right? Like the crackers? You know, I thought he was gonna be a problem … on accounta' my being black … He had that look … I can usually spot the type. But he was a good guy. Bought me a Krimpet.”

“A what?”

“I remember because he rented the car on the twelfth. And I was moanin' and groanin' because I had to work the next day, the thirteenth—which happens to be my birthday. Anyway, your father-in-law was real sympathetic about it; you know, really friendly. Especially considering the fact that his train was an hour late … And then, when he comes back with the car, on the thirteenth, he gives me a TastyKake Krimpet and says, ‘Happy Birthday.' Yeah, a good guy.”

“A Krimpet?”

“It's a butterscotch cake. Small, like a Drake's Cake? You're not from around here, are you?”

“No, I'm from the Boston area,” Rosco said as he watched Shawn tear Ted's rental agreement from the computer's printer.

“Right, that's where Mr. Graham said he was heading. Massachusetts. Jeez, I'm real sorry to hear about this.” He handed Rosco the printout, and Rosco scanned it quickly.

“Whoa,” he said as he noticed the mileage, “there were a hundred and twelve miles posted on here. I'd assumed my father-in-law only went over to Princeton and back.”

Shawn shrugged. “Who knows? Princeton's like ten or fifteen miles, tops. Guess he went somewhere else. Maybe the other guy knows where he went?”

“The other guy?”

“He had another guy with him when he returned the car. Didn't do any talking, the guy didn't … Seemed kinda steamed up about something.”

“What did this other man look like?”

“I don't know … Regular. Just a regular white guy.”

“How old was he?”

“Kinda old, you know, maybe your age. He had a Yankees hat on, so it was hard to tell.”

“I'm thirty-eight. Is that old?”

“Wow, yeah, maybe he was younger. I don't know. But hey, he coulda been bald under that hat, for all I know. Then he would have been real old, right?” Shawn chuckled.

Rosco didn't respond to the jest. Instead he posed another question, “Anything else you remember about this ‘white guy'?”

Shawn shook his head. “Not really. He was the khakis-and-polo-shirt type … You know, the type of white guy that lives around Princeton. Probably works in New York or something … He didn't give me the time of day. Wasn't exactly nasty, but … Hey, you know the type.”

“Anything else you can tell me? His height? Or weight?”

“He was just a regular guy … maybe a little taller than you … but I don't know … To tell you the truth, mister, I don't pay much attention unless people are real nice—or real obnoxious. Mr. Graham was the real nice type.”

“And this man wasn't with my father-in-law when he picked the car up on the twelfth?”

“Nope. Mr. Graham drove off by himself.”

“Did the two men board the train together?”

“Who knows? Once they walk through that glass door, they're outta my life.” Shawn handed the fax back to Rosco. “Say, how did Mr. Graham die? If you don't mind me asking?”

Rosco saw no harm in telling Shawn the truth. “He had a heart attack on the train.”

“Huh. And he didn't have our rental agreement on him? Sounds kinda fishy, if you ask me.”

CHAPTER 14

Sliding behind the wheel of his Jeep, Rosco reset the trip gauge to zero. Although Shawn had insisted Princeton was less than fifteen miles from the Trenton train station, Rosco wanted the exact mileage, and a good idea of how long the drive could take.

“Just catch Route 1 North,” Shawn had told him, “then grab the 202 exit, go through Lawrenceville, and Tiger-Town's five more miles, max.”

Twenty-five minutes, and fourteen miles later, Rosco found himself pulling into a shaded parking place in front of an upscale dress shop in the center of the college town. The window display consisted of three tailored women's navy blue suits, a number of silk scarves, and a collection of leather handbags. Nothing was flashy; nothing was bold or remotely high-fashion. Self-consciously, Rosco considered his own attire. His fondness for not wearing socks would do fine in this classic Ivy League burg, but he suspected he just might be the only person shod in black shoes this side of New York City.

He glanced at the trip gauge a second time. Fourteen miles to Princeton, and fourteen miles back: twenty-eight miles total. Belle's father had driven a hundred and twelve miles. How, and when, had he added an additional eighty-four miles? According to the rental agreement, he'd picked up the car at 10:02
A.M.
on the twelfth, and returned it on the thirteenth in time to catch the 9:27 A.M. train to Newcastle. Rosco opened the map of New Jersey. Calculating an eighty-mile round trip, he drew a circle that incorporated every area within forty miles of Princeton.

“He could've gone anywhere—even Pennsylvania,” Rosco mumbled while sliding the map back into the glove compartment. “Well, let's see what Tiger-Town can tell me.”

Princeton had a reputation for being picture-perfect, and Rosco could find nothing to contradict the assessment. The main drag, Nassau Street, separated the village from the university; as the school had grown to the south, the town had expanded northward. The process had begun during the eighteenth century, making the town and college quintessentially Old School.

Shop signs were carved from wood and painted in subdued shades of green, brown, blue, and red, with attractive gold-leaf lettering. A bookstore appeared to offer only an assortment of orange-spined
Penguin Classics
, while the music seller exhibited an ancient Victrola, with an antique RCA dog perched alongside—thereby almost camouflaging the racks and racks of CDs lining its interior walls. The men's clothing shops offered variations of herringbone, houndstooth, tweed, khaki—and the requisite Ivy League blue blazers. However, each display had the addition of at least one orange and black Princeton University trinket—coffee mug, pennant, toy stuffed tiger, etc.