A Crossword to Die For (16 page)

She grabbed the receiver. “Belle Graham speaking.”

The voice that greeted her was controlled—but barely. “This is Mike Hurley.”

She registered his obviously troubled emotional state, but couldn't connect it to the break-in at her father's condo. Her eyes narrowed in confusion, then she proceeded as if the call and tone of voice were not only normal but expected. This entire thought process took less than a second. “Mike! Thanks so much for helping—”

“That's just it … I didn't …” He stifled what sounded like a sob, then drew a long, uneven breath.

Belle also took a breath. Whatever information Mike had to impart wasn't going to be pleasant. “You sound upset—”

“Debbie's dead.” The words crashed through the line. “Her aunt … The police called her aunt …”

“Oh, my God,” Belle murmured.

“They told her it was a hit-and-run … The guy just sped away …” This time Mike cried full out. Belle, at her end of the phone, was too stunned for further speech. “He just … just … Witnesses got a model type, but that's it …” Again, sorrow overwhelmed him. When Mike spoke again, his tone was exhausted. “I didn't get a chance to go looking for that Woody character … but your dad's condo's okay—”

“Never mind about Woody, Mike …” This time it was Belle who was momentarily speechless.
How is it possible to face the sudden death of a spouse? How is Mike going to continue to function? Make the necessary arrangements, call family and friends? How do surviving mates cope when misery rips them apart?
“I'm so sorry, Mike … I'm so sorry to hear this terrible news.
Your
terrible news.”

“She'd just left the local library,” he answered, as if his wife's connection to such a solid and nurturing institution should have protected her. “You know how much she loved poring over books—” Mike broke down again, then finally resumed his speech. “I'm going up there now. Flying up. To Deb's aunt's. I'm at the airport. I'm waiting for my flight … My CO gave me emergency leave.”

Belle let him finish, then interjected a gentle, “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“Oh no, I'll be okay. It's just going to take … It's going to take …” He gulped back tears. “Sorry about not finding Woody.”

“That's completely unimportant, Mike—”

“She was all alone! I mean, her aunt wasn't even with her. No one was with her!”

Belle could think of no response to those words that would bring even a measure of solace. Instead she continued with her offer of help. “Mike, you know where to reach me. If there's anything I can do … My father would have wanted—”

Mike cut her off. “They're calling my flight. I have to go.”

The line went dead.

Belle replaced the receiver with deliberate care. She shook her head; her heart felt numb with sorrow—as well as a good measure of guilt. Deborah Hurley, the young woman she'd so mistrusted. Belle could recall almost every word of their final conversation. She knew she'd been neither charitable nor kind.

Then a frown began to crease her brow. The frown grew.
Father's bird-watching notebook
—
the one Debbie insisted he “always” kept near him. The one that didn't appear in the effects returned by the Boston Police
. In her hurt—and jealousy—Belle realized she might have overlooked an important clue.
What if the pages contained more than simple facts about birds? What if her father had discovered something so dangerous, he was killed for his knowledge? What if Debbie Hurley, a woman so familiar with Theodore Graham's life
—
?

Rosco walked into the kitchen at this moment in Belle's deliberations. He was followed noisily by Kit, who felt she deserved a treat after each walk. After all, how many other animals were forced to leave their homes in order to parade the dark streets with their human companions, marching outside when it was raining, when winter snow and sleet made the pavement slick enough to slip? Such diligence should be rewarded. Kit danced around Rosco's feet in an effort to get him to move faster.

“Okay, Kitster—” Rosco stopped in his tracks as he registered Belle's troubled expression. “What happened?”

“Debbie Hurley's dead. A hit-and-run. In Kings Creek … She was visiting her aunt.”

Rosco stared. “Kings Creek?” he finally said, “As in Kings Creek, New Jersey?”

CHAPTER 21

The air conditioner gurgled, wheezed, then spewed a burst of semicool air into the room before again retreating to hiccoughing inertia. The man seated at the table looked up at the ancient machine, stood, walked to the window, banged on the unit once—producing another blast of unchilled and rank-smelling air—then returned to the papers spread across the table's chipped Formica surface. The design was intended to resemble walnut—a wood supremely out of place in this humid, tropical port town.

From beneath the man's sealed window, the desultory sounds of a waterfront trapped in the August heat of a southern latitude rose and fell. The noise was sluggish, enervated; even the boat engines seemed exhausted as they sputtered within waves made greasy and brown by diesel fuel. A voice called something in Spanish; an albatross or another type of sea bird squawked in alarm, then all was silent. The man at the table watched as a dark and prehistoric shape of a pelican floated by, its body momentarily shadowing his view of the blue and glaring sky. Then the pelican was gone, while the sun, despite the bird's absence, grew suddenly dimmer as clouds as opaque as paint swelled around and over it.

All at once, rain lashed at the window, at the languishing air conditioner, at the spindly palm trees dotting the quay side. The man glanced at his watch as if monitoring the precise hour and minute of the torrent's arrival, then returned to his work. In the hot room, his naked back glistened with sweat.

He pulled a dingy towel off a nearby chair, wiped his face and hands, then took up a newly sharpened pencil and carefully shaded four squares on the sheet of graph paper he had before him. He didn't utter a word, but his eyes shone with as much energy and interest as if he were deep in animated conversation.

He shaded more squares, copied letters and numbers in a precise, mechanical hand, then realized that the brief rain squall had passed and the day grown even more unbearably warm.

Another boat putt-putted by below his window—a local fishing vessel by the smell of it. A cadre of gulls screamed and whirled in its wake, and for a moment the small room was full of their greedy calls—as well as the cloying scent of rotting fish guts and blood.

The man again consulted his watch, then returned to his efforts, at length nodding approval as he outlined and shaded the crossword puzzle's final squares. Completed, the hand-drawn cryptic looked as meticulously delineated as one printed in ink on crisp paper.

He stood, pulled an aged T-shirt over his faded shorts, then slid his feet into rubber sandals. Dressed for the street, he retrieved a Global Delivery envelope from the rumpled bed. The recipient and her address were already written in bold, block letters.

He slid his handiwork into the envelope, opened the door to his room, and locked it carefully behind him. The exterior passageway that ran the length of the building was still awash in rainwater and the numerous puddles that had collected on the concrete floor. A malodorous steam had begun to arise. The man coughed as the sticky air entered his lungs. For a moment he clutched the stair rail leading down to the street. He wasn't as young as he had been.

When he reached the pavement, he turned to the right.
“¿Professor, cómo está?”
he heard someone call in greeting. He raised his hand in silent reply, but kept walking; all the while thinking,
Is every elderly American a professor to these people?

CHAPTER 22

“But what do you mean by insisting that Theodore Graham is still alive?” Sara stared at her brother as he calmly sipped his iced tea, then swirled a long silver spoon through the minty liquid. The
plink
of silver on crystal was the only sound in White Caps' drawing room, and it seemed noisier because of the closed foyer door, the windows that had been pulled fast, the weight of privacy that Hal had stipulated for their “off-the-record” conversation. “I'll supply what information I can, Sara,” he'd told her when previously agreeing to this discussion. “But strictly in confidence. I further suggest that we meet in midmorning. That way we won't need Emma in constant attendance.”

“The word ‘insist' is yours, Sara,” the senator now said. “Likewise, the assumption that Graham isn't dead. Now, what my actual words were—”

She waved an older sister's dismissive, impatient hand. “You needn't be so circumscribed with me, Hal. Nor so damnably diplomatic. We're not in the marbled halls of Washington, you know, and my home is certainly not littered with listening devices.”

But more than seven decades of sibling quibbling made the senator equally quick to interrupt his sister. “What I said, Sara, was that ‘movement by a man of that name was monitored two days ago—'”

“Meaning that your source at the State Department—or whomever you're speaking with—believes that Belle's father is—”

“No, Sara … My meaning is no more than the words indicate … ‘Movement was monitored—'”

“Oh, honestly, Hal! How you people in government like to complicate issues! Why can't you learn to speak and act like ordinary people?”

Her brother didn't rise to the attack. Instead he smiled amiably. It was a patrician expression of contentment and serenity. For a moment, he and his sister—disagreeing as they habitually did—looked like identical twins: two white-haired and lordly heads, two pairs of shoulders set on ramrod-straight spines, brows that conveyed keen intellects—as well as a good dose of stubbornness. “Who is to say what is ordinary, Sara? Perhaps, mine is the more typical life while you, existing in the secluded environs of Newcastle—”

“I do not live in seclusion, Hal, and you know it!”

Her brother merely raised an eyebrow. His grin broadened. “A hot temper … quick to take offense. You'd make a poor politician.”

“For which I am eternally, I repeat
eternally
, grateful … Especially knowing the unsavory company you often keep!”

He laughed, and took another slow sip from his glass. “I've always liked the way Emma makes this mint-flavored iced tea. It's so invigorating.”

Sara glowered. “Don't you play fast and loose with me, Hal Crane. This isn't a press conference, and I'm not going to be put off by verbal sleights of hand. Is Theodore Graham dead or not? A simple yes or no will do.”

“Did his daughter identify the body?”

Sara was about to protest anew, but her brother continued to regard her probingly. Finally, Sara nodded her assent. “Then who—?”

“Is the person my source ‘monitored' two days ago?”

She nodded again.

“Obviously, someone who has assumed the name of the departed professor.”

Sara thought for a minute or two. “Are you insinuating that this person stole Belle's father's identity?”

“I'm not
insinuating
anything, Sara—”

“Because, if that's the case, then this unknown man … wherever he is … being ‘monitored' on whatever clandestine screen … then this unknown person doesn't know that the real Theodore A. Graham is dead—”

“I can't speak to that situation—”

“Which puts your mystery man into a murky position—”

“All conjecture, Sara, my dear. And all beyond my scope, I'm afraid.”

Sara's eyes narrowed. “Horse feathers, Hal! You know far more than you're letting on.”

The senator didn't respond immediately. “You requested information on another subject, Sara. Someone who apparently died in Guatemala.”

“Franklin Mossback, yes. Also a professor. Also from Princeton—”

Hal put up a hand requesting her to hear him out. “I'm very fond of you, Sara. As you well know. And I deeply respect your intelligence and your steadfast loyalty to your friends. And I realize that, despite the differences in our political leanings, you also respect and love me … Now, I don't want to appear to be talking down to you, or skirting issues, but I cannot stress strongly enough the inherent risk in asking too many questions. Especially questions that—”

“Risk? To whom?”

“I'm not at liberty to say, Sara.”

But his sister was not to be put off by this bland response. “You don't mean risk to Belle?”

“Sara. I cannot reveal more than I have already.”

Her slender and expensively shod feet pounded the floor. “There you are again! With all this hush-hush spy palaver! I honestly think you do believe this house is bugged the way you go on!”

“Sara, I want you to recall that my position … the position I've been honored to hold for many years requires tact and diplomacy. It also entails a goodly amount of restraint … Keeping ‘one's thoughts close to the vest,' as Pater liked to say.” Hal paused. When he resumed his speech, he was every bit the elder statesman his colleagues on “The Hill” had grown to trust and admire. “One week ago, a Belizean fishing trawler carrying nine tons of cocaine was intercepted by the Coast Guard near Panama City, Florida … The estimated value of the shipment was nearly five hundred million dollars. Obviously, the men and/or women involved in such trafficking have a strong motivation for assuring that their goods are delivered into the right hands. Rather than those of the United States government.”

“Belize—” Sara murmured, but Hal repeated his gesture requesting her silence.

“Please, Sara. Allow me to finish … To return to the question of Franklin Mossback: We're both aware that tourists often venture into terrain that's unfamiliar, even dangerous. Some travelers are infected with rare diseases; some sustain automobile or boating accidents—or journey in private planes that are ill equipped. And some of these people sadly die. But tragedies can happen anywhere—”