A Crossword to Die For (8 page)

“I gave her two weeks' severance pay, got Father's keys back—which wasn't as easy as it sounds. She wanted us to ‘stay in touch,' but …”

Rosco gave Belle's knee a gentle pat. After another pause, she resumed her tale. “… aside from waiting for the realtor to find a buyer for Father's condo, the only unfinished business is reconnecting with this Woody character—Horace Llewellen. I assume he'll want to obtain the purchase papers to
Wooden Shoe
.”

“Not having any papers doesn't seemed to have slowed him down for the last four years. Maybe the yacht broker was right in suggesting that Woody and your dad completed another type of transfer transaction. It's easy enough for me to check that with the Coast Guard and the state of Florida. Certainly seems simpler than chasing Woody down.”

“Mmmm …” Belle nodded as Rosco sped down Route 93, following the signs for
THE CAPE
. “I hadn't considered that possibility. I guess that's why Woody didn't mention the boat when he stopped by … Unless he was too shocked by Father's death to think clearly.”

“My supposition—without ever having met your dad—is that he was too fastidious a person to leave loose ends behind.”

“He didn't know he was going to die, Rosco.”

“That's true … But I don't imagine he would have been comfortable with someone other than himself piloting an expensive boat—without having previously relinquished all claims to ownership. For one thing, there's a matter of insurance: in particular, liability insurance. If anyone sustained a serious injury—”

Belle interrupted. “You're right. I never considered that. Father was definitely not a casual person. So, I guess I've seen the last of Mr. Horace Llewellen …” She turned pensive, and her spine sagged as though in regret, then straightened again as she returned the memory to the unknown and mysterious past where it belonged. “How's your new case going?” she finally said.

“A mess,” was Rosco's tight-lipped reply. “How I ever got into investigating maritime fraud is beyond me. I don't even like boats.”

Belle smiled at him. “Except this Mr.
Tommy
Lipton's … and the one we were married on.”

Rosco raised his eyebrows but didn't speak.

“You didn't turn remotely green, and you know it! In fact, I think you secretly loved being at sea … Starting today, I'm going to begin angling for a vacation on a cruise ship. The Caribbean … the Mediterranean—”

“It sounds to me as though you missed your chance for foreign travel when you were in Sanibel—”

“With you, dopey!” Belle laughed again while Rosco's tone grew serious again.

“I should have gone to Florida with you, Belle …”

“It's okay, Rosco. It is; But you can fly down with me when we sell the apartment, how's that?”

“I missed you, that's all.”

“I missed you, too,” was her peaceful response.

The phone was ringing as Belle stepped through their front door. Simultaneously, Kit started in on her signature combination bark-and-joy-filled whimper, and a Global Delivery truck pulled into the drive. Belle reached for the phone while tousling Kit's velvety brown ears; and Rosco stepped back outside to receive the shipment from Florida. When he returned, he saw Belle rolling her eyes while mouthing “Sara” and continuing to stroke the delighted Kit.

“No, the flight wasn't delayed, Sara. It was just that the traffic—well, you know Boston—I don't think they're ever going to finish that darn roadway … Of course, he picked me up in his Jeep … No, it's a good car, Sara, it is … I know. I know … But Rosco wouldn't drive it if he didn't believe … Yes, I know high speeds can—”

Cut off again by the emphatic—some might say, bossy—older woman, Belle cupped her hand over the phone's mouthpiece and whispered, “Do we have any stuff to eat?”

“As in a meal?” Rosco whispered back.

“Or crackers and cheese? Actually, I'm famished …”

Unfortunately, Sara overheard the last word in this dialogue. The words that rumbled through the receiver were loud enough for Rosco to hear. “You haven't eaten, young lady! I knew it! And I assume that darling husband of yours didn't properly stock the larder in anticipation of your return. Men are perfectly hopeless when it comes to the domestic arts. My late husband couldn't have told you the difference between a
pâte brisée
and a
pâté de fois gras
… Unless he'd tasted both, of course—”

“We don't have a larder, Sara,” Belle finally interjected.

“You'll come over at once, my dear! Emma has concocted the most delightful tomato aspic—”

“But I just walked in the door.” Belle looked up in appeal to Rosco, who merely shook his head in bemused resignation.

“You two lovebirds can relinquish each other's company for an hour, I'm sure.” The grand old lady's voice continued to crackle through the phone. “Anyway, Rosco's working on that despicable case, with those despicable people, and I'm sure he can't be lollygagging around, making google eyes at you—”

“But—”

“I won't hear a word of objection, my dear child. I'm going to feed you, and that's the end of the discussion. You may bring that man of yours along if you wish. If I know him at all—and I'm proud to say that I do—I assume he's also in need of a decent repast …”

Rosco mimed a laughing
I've got work to do
while Belle continued to cradle the phone. Her father was dead; her mother was dead; and Sara, generous and nurturing to a fault, suddenly presented a picture of the most ideal combination of parent/mentor/friend that anyone might wish.

“I'll be there in half an hour,” was Belle's quiet response. “But I won't bring Rosco. And Sara … thanks.”

CHAPTER 10

Alone in the house, Rosco decided to postpone returning to his office long enough to carry the boxes shipped from Florida upstairs to the spare bedroom. If left to her own devices, his wife would probably begin sorting through the cartons' contents in the front hall; and the house's design scheme—such as it was—would suffer. Belle didn't believe in expending energy on mundane things like tidiness and order. Clutter to her was freedom. The haphazard piles of books, the pillows tossed off the chair, were art.

Kit decided to make herself useful, as well, although the puppy's idea of work was to scurry after a squeaking ball that repeatedly leaped or rolled away. She gave herself wholly to the effort, anticipating hours spent at the chase; Rosco allotted twenty minutes to his activity before resuming the Leland-Marine case. These differing canine and human viewpoints were bound to collide.

Which they did when Rosco lifted his foot from the second-to-last riser in preparation for carting the fourth cardboard box down the upstairs hall. Kit's neon red ball was where the wooden landing should have been; and Rosco, lacking her nimble paws, was poorly equipped to balance atop it. He fell forward; the box slipped back, caroming down the steps with a number of mighty thuds while Kit, entranced with the new game, raced after the now-splitting carton, barking and trying to catch fragments of bank statements, tax returns, and other financial detritus in her mouth.

“Kit!” Rosco ordered. “Kit! No!
Baaaad
girl.”

As Kit well knew, this admonition was absurd. Fun wasn't fun without a little noise and discussion. And because she didn't possess a tail, she wagged her entire body in glee while Rosco descended the stairs gathering spilled paperwork. For good measure, the puppy began to munch a particularly chewy morsel lined with green and white and dotted with a good deal of ink. She added a teasing growl to her act.

“Come on, Kit. I've got to get back to the office … Come on, girl … Drop it …” Rosco sighed, bent down, and coaxed the damp paper from the dog's mouth. Then he stared at the still-legible lettering. His first instinct was to phone Belle immediately. His second thought was,
No, let her enjoy her lunch in peace
.

Belle spooned up another piece of tomato aspic. Sara had been correct. It was delicious—and what's more, it seemed the supreme “comfort food.” Tomato aspic was a dish served solely in grandmotherly houses.

“Thank you, Emma,” Belle said as the woman Sara referred to as her “upstairs maid—and full-time keeper of the castle” poured another glass of iced tea from a silver pitcher bespeckled with droplets of frost.

The year, Belle decided, could have been any one prior to World War II. Not that she'd been around to witness such luxuries as formal luncheons served in stately, family dining rooms, but Sara had; and her sense of what was proper and fitting had obviously been learned at an early age. Tomato aspic served on a chilled glass plate, luncheon-sized linen napkins as opposed to the towel-sized damask ones reserved for dinner. An “upstairs maid” when, in truth, Sara's ancestral home, White Caps, had only a single housekeeper. Belle briefly wondered how Emma put up with her mistress's old-fashioned foibles, but then she realized how close the two women were in age. Each held the long-dead past in loving esteem.

“Miss Belle.” A round porcelain serving dish specially constructed to hold deviled eggs was proffered.

Belle beamed at Emma.

“Go ahead, my dear,” said Sara. “Take as many as you wish. Take two … I jest, of course. Those were the words my paternal grandmother used to say when she passed around a box of bonbons … ‘Take as many as you wish, Sara, child. Take two.'” Sara's intensely blue eyes grew misty with nostalgia. “Why do you suppose a lady old enough to be a great-grandmother would miss her own grandmother? It makes no sense. If she were still among the living, the woman would be at least one hundred forty …” A sound like a tiny sigh escaped Sara's stalwart frame. “At any rate, Belle, eat your fill. Emma will be deeply discouraged if you pass up her concoction. It was she who suggested we serve your favorite comestible. Wasn't it, Emma?”

“Yes, madam.”

Good will, like an electrical current, flowed between White Caps' two elderly denizens.

Belle helped herself to not two or three or even four, but five deviled eggs, then proceeded to nibble her way through each delicious one.

“Now, tell me again, dear, about your father's boat, and Mr. Horace Llewellen.”

But before Belle could commence, Sara, in typical fashion, reverted to her earlier topic. “My grandmother also used to admonish me with the adage that the greatest personal attribute was courage. Because if one did not possess courage, one could not cleave to any other emotion …” Again, she shifted tack with a wistful: “I'd like to meet this Woody character. He sounds quite intriguing.”

“From the hasty retreat he beat when he learned of my father's death, I don't imagine that's in the cards.”

“Ah, for the vagabond life! Before my brother, Hal, ran for the Senate, he ‘flirted' with the notion of such a romantic existence. Allegedly, he was a member of the diplomatic corps at the time. That's what he told everyone, at any rate. However, it was perfectly obvious that he had connections to the Central Intelligence Agency, or the OSS, as it was called back when … I used to jest that the number of Russian accents floating about this house might equip several productions of
Uncle Vanya
. Hal, of course, didn't enjoy the riposte. He's always been a stickler for exactitude. Despite his alleged desire for the dramatic, he had no sense of fun whatsoever—even as a toddler … That's why he didn't make it as a
spook
.”

Belle smiled.

“You look amused, young lady. You don't imagine an old woman like me knows words like
spook
.”

“I'm smiling at your description of the senator, Sara. You sounded as if you're still an eight-year-old in high dudgeon.”

“Age doesn't alter one's outlook on the world, Belle. The essential person is always there. Sometimes, I'm perfectly horrified to look at myself in the mirror and see an ancient
crone
staring back. I feel no different than I did at forty or even sixty; why shouldn't my face and body match my spirit?” Then Sara again changed focus. “I'm sorry about this Deborah person, Belle dear. However, you can't be certain they were romantically involved … Perhaps, what you sensed from the woman was a pure case of hero worship.”

When Belle didn't reply, Sara herself grew silent, and the room's stillness was only occasionally disturbed by the distant ministerings of Emma in her kitchen kingdom.

Finally, Sara spoke again. “Men can do foolish things when they're lonely …”

Belle shrugged her shoulders, but her friend was too perceptive to be put off by such an ineffectual dismissal.

“It didn't mean your father loved you any less.”

“Oh, I wouldn't have minded knowing about Debbie—”

Sara's patrician eyebrows arched in disbelief, but her guest pushed past the unspoken critique. “I wouldn't have minded if Father had told me … if I'd
known
. What troubles me is the secrecy of it all—”

“The older we grow, Belle dear, the more shadowy certain portions of our lives become. I'm sure it would surprise you to discover I'd been quite a coquette in my day. A
hoyden
, in the words of my grandmama. All you know of me is the octogenarian residing over a rather antiquated domain called White Caps … Don't laugh, dear … I'm proud to say that I have my secrets, too.”

It was the sound of his wife's footsteps downstairs on the front porch that made Rosco finally lift his eyes from his steady perusal of Theodore Graham's financial records. He glanced at his watch, noting with astonishment that he'd been at work for nearly two hours. He rubbed at his eye sockets, then slowly walked down the stairs. He wasn't certain how Belle would receive his news.