A Crossword to Die For (3 page)

“Unlucky guess.” Lever said this almost to himself.

“You know the guy?”

Again, Al stuttered. “Well, yeah … Or no, not
know
him. I mean I've never met him, but I was Best Man at his daughter's wedding. He never made it up from Florida for the event … That was in May of this year. I'm sure his name was Theodore, though. He's the father of Annabella Graham—Belle Graham, the crossword puzzle editor at one of our local newspapers,
The Evening Crier
. She never mentioned to me he was on his way north.”

“And she's a friend of yours?”

“You could say that. She married a guy who used to be with the department here. My partner, in fact. He's a PI now. Rosco Polycrates.”

“Hey, look, Lieutenant, I'm sorry about this.” A tone of “fellow-cop” compassion had filtered into Tanner's voice. All of a sudden the
stiff
was family. “I mean, I didn't figure the deceased to be a family friend. I guess that's why Detective Davis wanted you to get on the line … Look, how do you want to handle this … I mean Graham's body … You tell me. I have no problem holding it for a day or two.”

Lever sighed again. Any hint of contentment was long gone. “I appreciate the offer. I'm gonna have to drive out to his daughter's house and break this news personally. I can't do it over the phone … It could take me a few hours to get back to you. What's your number up there?”

Lever scratched Tanner's name and number down on the slip of paper next to
Theodore A. Graham
, signed off, and dropped the receiver back into its cradle. Hearing the clank, Detective Davis stepped back into the office.

“So, it
was
Belle's father, I take it?” he asked as he pulled a chair up to Lever's desk.

Lever only nodded.

“Yeah, I figured,” Davis continued. “That's why I thought you ought to get it from the horse's mouth rather than from me.” Davis reached across the desk, removed a cigarette from Lever's pack, and lit it. “Look, Al, why don't you call Polycrates. Get him down here, brief him, and let him tell Belle. Hell, he never met the old man either, right? How broken up is he gonna be?”

“Mr. Sensitive.”

“Who? Polycrates?”

“No, you, Davis. And I was being facetious, in case it went over that thick head of yours. I'm not going to pull a stunt like that on Rosco. He's my best friend, for pete's sake.”

“Hey, suit yourself, Al. I'm just trying to make it easier on you. I could care less about Polycrates. As far as I'm concerned, it was a banner day when ‘Dud-Lee-Do-Right' left the department.”

“Any other comments you'd like to share?”

“No.”

“Good. Then get out of here.”

“Jeez … Talk about sensitive.”

CHAPTER 4

The funeral arrangements were made hastily. Belle was conscious of a bizarre sense of disconnect; and despite—or perhaps because of—Rosco's tender concern, she was more deeply aware of her own disturbing dearth of emotion.
My father's dead
, she reminded herself over and over again.
He died of a heart attack … alone on a train
. But the words had a hollow ring that rendered them nearly meaningless. When her mother had died, there had been tears; now there were none.

Almost, and she loathed to admit this, she felt a sense of relief. Relief that she and her father no longer were forced to play out the complex roles of uncommunicative parent and child. Relief that she no longer need suffer guilt from her lack of filial devotion—or “measure up” to an ideal she'd never attain. Relief to finally shake off the past, to stand on her own feet and face the world guided by principles she herself had devised. However, the sensation of release had a way of hauling her back full circle into guilty confusion.

In typical Belle fashion, she decided to ignore (and perhaps evade) her jumbled thoughts by instead placing her total concentration on the many large and small activities that surround a burial.

First off: the involvement—or lack thereof—of Sara Crane Briephs. Newcastle's dowager empress and self-appointed mentor to both Belle and Rosco had wanted to give a luncheon following the service, had
insisted
upon giving a luncheon; and Sara, as everyone knew, had rarely lost a battle of wills in her eighty-plus years. But Belle had been firm on the issue of a post-service reception. She loved Sara; she considered her a surrogate mother and grandmother rolled into one. However, Belle also realized that Sara needed parameters on occasion. And this was one of those times.

“No,” Belle had stated over tea at White Caps, Sara's ancestral home. “Father wouldn't have wanted all that hoopla. He didn't want it when Mother died … He said we should celebrate life, not death.”

“This isn't a celebration, Belle dear. Rather, it's a means of comforting the grieving.”

Belle had put down her gold-rimmed porcelain cup and regarded the indomitable old lady. “I don't know where his former Princeton crowd has dispersed to now, Sara. Besides, I never really knew his acquaintances there … Father and Mother didn't move to New Jersey until after I'd gone to college.”

“Well, colleagues from his previous positions then?”

Belle shook her head. “Father had a peripatetic career. The longest amount of time he spent anywhere was in Ohio when I was little … When he and Mother accepted new positions in Iowa, they simply moved on. Friendships were never a focus of their lives … Nor was maintaining contact with distant relatives. My parents were happiest in a little cocoon that included only two people.” Belle paused. “As for me, I don't require comforting, because I'm not grieving.”

“You will, dear.”

Belle had hunched her shoulders and stared down into her teacup. “My father and I weren't close, Sara …”

Her hostess had inclined her proud head, her perfectly sculpted white hair exuding an aura of omnipotence while her blue eyes had gazed at the younger woman. “I'll do anything you wish, my dear.”

“No luncheon, then. And no reception. We'll have a brief funeral service … nothing extraneous … In fact, the fewer in attendance, the better.”

“People will wish to pay their respects, dear … Rosco's family … Albert …”

Belle had stared silently out the window while Sara had continued to regard her.

“No luncheon. I agree … But Belle, know that experiences of loss may appear in supposedly unrelated forms. Anger can be one. Or a feeling of betrayal. Hollowness, seeming callowness—”

“I don't feel anything, Sara …”

“So you think, Belle dear. So you think.”

“I don't.”

Sara had finally nodded at Belle's still averted face. “More tea, dear? A cup of hot tea is such a boon when our souls are troubled.”

Al Lever was the first guest to arrive at the Putnam Funeral Home on upper Winthrop Drive. The day was hot and muggy, and the mortuary reception room and chapel cooled to the point of chilliness, creating a odd division between the worlds of the living and those in the limbo of mourning. Al clothed in a black dress suit was another dichotomy. He'd always been a man whose idea of formal attire was a poplin windbreaker. Belle watched him walk in from the glare of outdoors, and smiled at his obvious care and consideration. A faint whiff of mothballs moved forward with him.

“Condolences, Belle.” Lever shifted back and forth on heavy feet. “Hiya, Rosco. Sorry about all this.” He gestured loosely and frowned as if hoping to find someone—even himself—to blame.

“Al.” Rosco shook his former partner's hand while Belle also extended her fingers. “Thanks for coming.”

Lever's brow wrinkled again. “Tough losing your dad like that …”

Beyond the trio, bouquets of white roses and lilies, all from Sara Briephs's extensive gardens, created a startlingly festive air, as if the occasion were a social gathering or the awarding of a much-vaunted award for sportsmanship.

“Place looks nice,” Al added, staring from vase to vase and then off into the quiescent chapel. “Real nice …”

“You're a good friend, Al,” Belle said. “I can't tell you how much I appreciate everything you've done—”

“All in the line of duty …” Then after a long pause, “Hey, what are buddies for?”

“I meant it when I said you didn't need to put in an appearance here.”

Lever attempted to laugh off the suggestion. “Mrs. B. would have had my hide if I hadn't showed; you know that.” Then he added a serious: “At least, your dad went quick. I mean, there wasn't illness involved … you know … long-term suffering … that kind of thing …” Lever looked at Rosco for a hint on how to proceed, and then back at Belle.

“That's true,” was her brief answer.

“And on his way to visit his daughter … He must have died a happy man.” Al tried to smile. Belle did too. But again, she found she had no appropriate response.

It was at that moment that the extended Polycrates clan blew in: Rosco's authoritarian older sisters and their meeker spouses; Danny, his younger brother who would always remain the “kid” of his generation; Helen, the quintessential Greek-American matriarch; and assorted young offspring, all of whom proceeded to push each other, giggle, and release a stream of
Did nots!
and
I'm telling Moms!
To say they were a boisterous bunch was an understatement. To say that an only child like Belle sometimes found this energetic brand of intimacy disconcerting was also an understatement.

“Belle,
darling
. I'm so,
so sorry
!” This was Cleo speaking, Helen's eldest, and already in line to receive her mother's mantle. Cleo was addicted to high drama both in life and speech.
“Nicky!
Tell your auntie Belle how
sorry
you are that her
father
passed away.” She propelled her eight-year-old son forward, but instead of mouthing the words his mother wished, Nick blurted out an excited: “Can we see him? Your dad, I mean? Like, dead and everything.”

Both Cleo and her sister Ariadne gasped. Cleo reached a many-jeweled hand to steer her offending child away, but Belle bent down to the little boy.

“Sorry, Nicky. You can't see him.”

“I can act like a zombie,” he replied. “Wanna watch?”

This time Cleo had her way. Nick was propelled toward his cousins while his six-year-old sister approached. Effie had once been Belle's nemesis; she was now her biggest fan although it was sometimes difficult for the child to reconcile her idol worshipping with her own sense of superiority.
I'm a fairy princess and you're not
was written all over the little girl's face.

“Are you sad, Aunt Belle?”

“Not really, Effie. My father had a good long life.”

“You should be sad, though.”

Belle smiled gently. “So, I've been told. I guess I am a little bit.”

Effie pondered the words and tone. Her scrutiny of Belle intensified. “Mom wanted to have a party for you at our house. She says people should have parties after
tragedies
like these.”

“I've been told that, too.”

“Then how come you didn't listen?”

Belle gazed at her new niece. “Sometimes, we have to pay attention to what our own hearts tell us to do. Rather than listening to other people.”

Effie's eyes grew huge. “Don't tell that to Mom. She'd make you count backwards from ten.”

“I won't.”

Effie continued to regard her aunt. “What does it feel like to die, Aunt Belle?”

“I don't know.”

“Nick screams a lot when he's playing soldiers and pretends he's being killed.”

By now, Rosco joined in. He also bent down to Effie's level. “I've heard your brother.”

“Mom says it's ‘enough to wake the dead.' Did your dad do that? On the train? Yell and everything?”

Belle found herself smiling gravely again. The notion of her father calling attention to himself—or even calling out in pain—was so astounding she could scarcely picture it. “My father never once raised his voice, Effie. Not in his entire life.”

“Then he's not like
my
dad.” With that decisive statement, the little girl marched off to join her cousins and brother.

After Effie came Sara, making her stately way forward. Following Sara was Martha, the head waitress from Lawson's, Newcastle's all-purpose coffee shop/gossip mill and decades-old institution. Belle considered the two women now standing almost side by side. They were so different in background, but so similar in intent. Sara was a New England WASP through and through. Martha, thirty years younger, had created her own heritage, but she bore it as royally as Sara's.

Martha never appeared without her blond, beehive hairdo well-shellacked, without undergarments that creaked with every turn, or fingernails painted a vivid American Beauty pink. She'd chosen the era and “look” she most preferred, and stuck with it through thick and thin. Belle was almost surprised to notice Martha had relinquished her flamingo-colored uniform for the occasion—and more surprised to see she was weeping softly. She was not a woman Belle had imagined knew how to cry.

“It reminds me of when my own dad went …” Martha pulled a gauzy handkerchief from her purse. Belle noted it was edged in a delicate rose-hued lace; the small gesture of gentility and femininity made her feel a sudden stab of sorrow. Where had the handkerchief come from? she wondered. Had it been a gift from some long-vanished beau? An impulse purchase to “complement” her Lawson's uniform? Or had she inherited it? A present her “dad” had given her mother?

“You're really kind to come today, Martha.”

“It's important for friends to stay together in times like these … When Mother went … and then my dad, I don't know what I would have done without the support of the folks at Lawson's …”