A Crossword to Die For (14 page)

The proud face was suddenly creased with sorrow. “Rosco, my dear, what good am I if I cannot help my closest friends?”

Rosco smiled at her. “Thanks, Sara.” Then again grew silent.

“You're still not confiding everything in me.”

“You're right.” He stood and walked over to the mantle, staring absently at the Delft clock and the vases filled with roses that flanked it. “I have a nasty hunch that Theodore Graham may have been murdered, Sara.”

“And you don't know whether to share your suspicions with Belle?”

Rosco turned around and regarded his hostess. “No, I don't.”

“There's only one answer to that Rosco: Yes. Of course, you must tell her.”

CHAPTER 18

“Where have you been? I was starting to worry.” Belle, buoyant, tripping over Kit, who was also rushing to meet her favorite human male, accidentally let the screen door bang behind Rosco's tired back. The crash echoed through the house, through the quiet of the peaceful New England street. It was a timeless sound of a summer's night; the only thing missing was a dog barking, but Kit preferred her own short yips of canine conversation.

“You look absolutely done-in … I wish I'd persuaded you to spend the night down in New Jersey.”

Rosco sank down into a chair—one of Belle's thrift-shop finds: an upholstered number with a bold geranium print that looked as if it belonged in a 1950s resort hotel. “I stopped by Sara's on my way home.”

“Sara's?” Belle's tone changed instantly. It was subdued, cautious. She sat on the arm of the chair beside him.

“Your dad never mentioned a fellow Princeton professor named Franklin Mossback, did he?”

Belle shook her head.

“Or his wife? The woman I went down to interview, it turns out.”

“The spider lady?”

Rosco looked up sharply. “How did you know she was called that?”

“Her name … Araignée … I just translated …” Belle regarded him, her expression both wary and searching. “What happened in Princeton?”

Rosco put his arm around her waist. After a moment, he said, “Whose idea was it to have your father arrive here on August thirteenth?”

“Mine, I guess … I thought the height of summer would be a good time to show him around … The town and bay look so pretty, and there's plenty to do … all the cultural activities, and the touristy ones, too. Plus a relief from the Florida heat.” Belle thought a moment. “Actually, I think I'm wrong about my input … I think the specific date was Father's idea … I suggested August, but he chose the thirteenth. Why do you ask?”

Rosco turned slightly toward her, raising his other arm to touch her bare and sun-tanned knees.

“You suspect something's wrong, don't you?”

When he didn't respond, she paused only for a fraction of a second, then hurried ahead as if her speech had been outlined long before. “You think someone killed my father, don't you? A person on the train … You were worried about that when you left this morning … You didn't tell me, but that was what you were mulling over … And probably yesterday, too.”

“I didn't have anything to go on … just a gut sense that all wasn't as it appeared.”

“Yes …” Belle admitted with some finality. “I imagine you and I came up with an identical—”

The phone rang at that moment, startling them both as the noise knifed through the stillness. “Oh, honestly!” she grumbled. “It's nearly eleven o'clock at night! I'm going to let the machine get it.”

“It could be Sara.”

Belle gave Rosco a look that was part puzzlement, part jealousy. “I don't know why you had to talk to Sara first. I'm not a toddler who needs to be protected.”

“I realize that, Belle … But I didn't want you upset if my suspicions prove unfounded.”

“But we've been worrying about the same thing—Not to mention, when you would finally get home—” But her words were interrupted by the voice being recorded on the answering machine. “Security … Sanibel … Theodore Graham's apartment … a break-in—”

Belle flew into her office and grabbed the phone. Rosco followed close behind. The many crossword puzzles she'd spread throughout the room fluttered in the disturbed air. “I see …” she said into the receiver. “And when did it happen?” She glanced at her watch. “But that's only twenty minutes ago … Oh, I understand … So, the night shift
discovered
the door had been forced at that time. The burglary could have occurred an hour or more before …”

Belle didn't speak for the next minute. She was too busy listening. Rosco watched her face for signs of what was transpiring, but she seemed as perplexed as he. He sat in a canvas captain's chair, realizing too late he'd squashed one of the puzzles she'd been assessing for her collection. “So, nothing was taken …? That you could ‘detect' …? I don't understand. What do you mean by ‘signs of a search' …?” Again, Belle remained silent, at length adding, “Well, my father's personal effects are with—” Rosco raised a hand in gentle warning. She nodded her comprehension.

“His effects are in a storage facility. Only furniture and a couple of pieces of clothing remain in the apartment … But if nothing was left in the dresser drawers …? I see … Okay … Yes, I'll contact my father's former secretary, and inform her. She no longer has keys to the apartment, but I'll ask her to get in touch with you. The locks will need to be … Okay … Yes … The police …” Belle scribbled names on a piece of scrap paper, then finally concluded the conversation with a grateful: “No, of course, it's not good news. But I appreciate your diligence …” Then she hung up and turned to Rosco.

“Your father's apartment's been ransacked,” was all he said.

“The term Security used was ‘signs of a search.'”

Rosco stood and walked to her. He held the crushed crossword in his hand. “Sorry about this—”

“Oh, who cares about the damn thing!” She grabbed it out of his hand and dropped it on the desk. “The same person submitted two at the same time … I'll publish the other one, the stop sign puzzle I showed you …” Her voice started to break, but her words kept streaming out. “Just look at the title.
It Hurts So …”

Rosco took her in his arms. “This could be simply a nasty coincidence, Belle … Kids breaking in, hunting for cash … They find the place virtually empty and turn it upside down out of spite—”

“You don't believe that, Rosco.”

In answer he hugged her tighter and finally said, “Do you want me to phone Deborah Hurley?”

“No, I'll do it …” Belle sat again, and hunted for the Hurleys' listing. Her shoulders sagged as she picked up the receiver and punched in numbers. When an answering machine picked up, her head drooped as well. “Debbie, this is Belle Graham. Sorry to phone so late, but I'm afraid I've got an emergency … Someone broke into my father's apartment. Would you mind doing me a favor and contacting Security? They're expecting your call.” Belle left the pertinent information, then concluded with a weary: “I really appreciate your help … Call me back … I'll give you Rosco's pager number if that's an easier way for you to contact me.” She supplied the information, dropped the phone back into the cradle, then immediately retrieved it, this time leaving a similar message for the realtor in charge of selling the condo.

Finally she looked at Rosco.

“I'll handle the Sanibel Police, if you'd like,” he said.

“Thanks … but I think we should do it together.” She stood, crossed over to him, and gave him a loving kiss. Then her expression turned serious again. “What I don't understand is this: If Father was killed, why wouldn't the police in Boston have been suspicious of foul play? Wouldn't there have been signs of … of something? A struggle … or something? Why didn't they even suggest an autopsy?”

“Obviously, there was no substantive evidence to make them question their initial supposition … And at your father's age, a heart attack seems a pretty logical bet.”

Belle nodded slowly, but didn't speak.

“I'm going to suggest we do something that may seem unpleasant, Belle … I'm going to suggest that you and I go down to police headquarters first thing tomorrow morning, and have a chat with Carlyle at the city morgue.”

“But he had nothing to do with Father's—”

“I know that. But if anyone can provide us with information on murder methods that are difficult to physically detect—or trace—it's Carlyle.”

IT HURTS SO …

Across

1.  About; abbr.

4.  Diner offering

8.  __Rios

12.  RAF kin

14.  Resound

15.  “What Do You Know About Love” artist

17.  Exchange premium

18.  1956 McCormack film

20.  Some limerick writers

22.  Sonnet's end

23.  Feline utterance

24.  Scottish John

25.  Loot

29.  1973 Sheen film

33.  “American Gothic” artist

34.  Silkwood and Brockovich

35.  Be beholding

36.  Chemical suffix

37.  Magistrates of Venice

38.  Part of AT&T

39.  German article

40.  Swell

41.  Jack's gal

42.  1994 Barrymore film

44.  Teases

46.  Sound of frustration

47.  NYC subway line

48.  Lava, e.g.

51.  Pink poodles, to some

56.  1972 Bridges film

58.  Always

59.  Lady of song

60.  Brute lead-in?

61.  Seaweed product

62.  Employer

63.  Mar

64.  Draft org.

Down

1.  Hermit or king

2.  Young Frankenstein's love

3.  Bust

4.  Sexual lead-in

5.  46-Across, in Berlin

6.  “__Got You,” Patsy Cline hit

7.  Quoit peg

8.  Trials

9.  Certain small plane

10.  Hot in Haarlem

11.  Hosea

13.  Used bread on the gravy

16.  Tampa time; abbr.

19.  Stage whispers

21.  Yours and mine

25.  Geek

26.  Ancient Greek land

27.  “And found ___ in wand'ring mazes,” Milton

28.  A.L. batting champ, '85–'88

29.  Aweather, opp.

30.  Out to lunch

31.  Lived

32.  Hawks

34.  Drum solo

37.  North Carolina town

40.  Some large digits

41.  Area west of the Dead Sea

43.  Some loafers

44.  Straighten

45.  Industrious type

48.  Compass point; abbr

49.  Ontario lake

50.  Taro root

51.  Maine seaport

52.  One opposed

53.  Part of S&L

54.  Some are herbal

55.  Trips up

57.  Workout target

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CHAPTER 19

Carlyle, Newcastle's chief medical examiner, had never been one of Rosco's favorite people; and the feeling was more than mutual. When Rosco had been with the police department, his run-ins with Carlyle had often been “testy,” to say the least. Rosco was the type who tended to go with his hunches while Carlyle invariably insisted on sticking to the facts, and only the facts. Their differing methodologies had produced decided dissension when Rosco's hunches panned out to be more accurate than Carlyle's facts—a situation that had occurred more than once. It was for this reason that Rosco had enlisted the assistance of his former partner to help break the ice with the ME.

“You just have to know how to handle the guy,” Lever said as he, Belle, and Rosco stepped from the elevator in the basement of the Newcastle Police building. “You have to be willing to use some well-placed flattery …”

Belle glanced down at the gray linoleum floor tiles, and then at the institutional green walls. Fluorescent lighting illuminated the hallway, giving everything and everyone a cold and sickly look. Halfway down the hall Lever opened a heavy glass-paneled door and held it for Belle and Rosco. When they stepped into the morgue, their nostrils were attacked by a strong chemical odor, and their bodies experienced a noticeable drop in temperature, making the sunny August morning outside seem no more than a distant memory.

Carlyle was at the far end of the room standing at a stainless steel examining table. A corpse was stretched out in front of him, and his assistant, Estelle, was hanging over his shoulder like a hungry vulture. He removed some unrecognizable piece of human tissue from the corpse and handed it to Estelle.

“Let's get a weight on that before we move on.” Carlyle then glanced toward the doorway and noticed his three visitors. “Is it ten o'clock already?”