Anatomy of a Crossword (23 page)

“Or dishes in the sink. Or empty dog food cans in the refrigerator. Or beds unmade—”

“Those are housekeeping issues, Rosco. That behavior doesn't extend into the rest of my life. Eventually, the dishes disappear.”

“Right. I wonder how that happens?” He sat beside her. “Okay, what's up?”

Belle wasn't immediately back on track. “We need to learn who WANDA and ENID are.”

“I take it that you're assuming this crossword is connected to Chick Darlessen's death?” The tone was both teasing and serious.

“What other answer can there be, Rosco?
The Usual Suspects
… a list of names we recognize, except for the two. Someone's sending us a very definite message.”

“And that is?”

“You don't believe me!”

“I didn't say that, Belle. I'm simply asking you what this mystery puzzler is trying to reveal.”

Belle's shoulders slumped. “I don't know, other than the fact that we've got to track down these WANDA and ENID characters.” Her speech grew faster and more forceful. “Look, we had a near fatality on the set today … Sunday, the film's screenwriter was shot dead—”

“By his girlfriend—”

“Or not, Rosco! Or not! What if Jillian Mawbry's right, and Debra's telling the truth about an intruder? Her name doesn't feature in the puzzle.”

“But NAN does. So, following your logic—”

“Okay … okay … Well, maybe NAN isn't a suspect, but what about LANCE?” Belle stabbed at the paper in her hand, indicating the name at 61-Across. “After all, he used to be Debra's ex … then Quinton beat him out for the part, causing further ill will with Chick Darlessen … or … or the killer could have been LEW! Maybe Chick argued with him … wanted more money … I don't know—”

“This is sounding a tad far-fetched, Belle—”

“Perhaps, but weren't real bullets found on the set today?” Rosco didn't have time to reply before his wife barreled ahead. “Maybe Lew masterminded all the weird accidents; maybe he's trying to generate publicity … or he's secretly in debt and can't sustain the project … or … or the person who murdered Chick is gunning for an additional victim—”

“That's beginning to sound suspiciously like a conspiracy.”

“And why not? You're the one who always says that where crime is concerned, there are no coincidences.”

“So, someone's targeting Dan Millray?”

“Maybe. But maybe not … Because, what if the gun had been fired
accidentally
before Dan's murder scene was filmed. Think about that, Rosco. Think about how many ‘accidents' have been associated with this project! To say nothing of trigger-happy Andy Hofren, who could easily have picked up the .38, aimed it while cataloging all his macho roles, then bang, the gun goes off—”

“Meaning a seemingly innocent bystander would have bitten the bullet.”

“I'm being serious, Rosco! But yes, apart from that egregious pun, that's exactly what I mean. An actor, a member of the crew,
anyone
gathered to watch Dan's murder scene could have been shot, and the disaster chalked up to a tragic accident. And Andy's not the only one who could have been the perpetrator.”

“And you're suggesting that whoever constructed this puzzle knows—”

“That's just it!” Belle gritted her teeth in frustration. “I have no idea what I'm suggesting! After all, there's a possibility these puzzles are being constructed by the person who actually killed Darlessen, which could suggest that the murderer's name doesn't appear in the puzzle, and our culprit created it to send us off on a wild-goose chase.”

“Or the name
is
in the puzzle, also intended to trick us.”

“All I know is that this is the third crossword that has mysteriously appeared on the set, and that all of them have used my original grid. My hunch, and it's a strong hunch, is that the constructor is onto something big, and that he or she is not the killer.”

Rosco put his arm around her shoulders. “I take it you think I should accept Jillian Mawbry's offer.”

But Belle was so focused on her own train of thought that she scarcely heard him. “Because if Debra's innocent, then who killed Darlessen?” Then her eyes grew bright, and her head snapped upward. “HARRIET,” she announced. “I'll start with Harriet.”

“Whoa … whoa … let's back up here. What do you mean by ‘I'll start'? Aren't we in this together? More to the point, isn't Mawbry hiring
me?”

Belle turned to gaze wonderingly into his face, her expression indicating her utter incomprehension at his question. “Of course we're together. But obviously, we'll have to divide our efforts if one of us is to stay with Sara all the time.”

“I'm the one who was hired to be her ‘bodyguard,' remember.”

“Exactly. Which is why
you
take her to supper tonight while
I
go and hunt up Harriet Tammalong.” Belle stood. “I better hurry and change. I need to get over to the Valley. I need to get in line for one of the general admission, last-minute tickets for
Down & Across
.”

Rosco also stood. “Wait a minute, I'm not sure this is a good idea—”

“What choice do we have, Rosco?”

“Just say no?”

“Very amusing.”

“I'm serious, Belle.”

She stared at him in befuddled surprise.

“Look,” he continued, “if you're correct about the ‘accidents' on the set of
Anatomy
being arranged … and that someone had every intention of using the live ammo … then it stands to reason that there's a dangerous person on the loose.”

“Exactly,” was Belle's blithe response. “Which is why
you're
going to start investigating the folks at
Anatomy
first thing tomorrow morning, and why
I'm
driving to Burbank to watch the taping of
Down & Across
tonight.”

Rosco's jaw tightened in frustration. “Belle, the name
Harriet
appears in the crossword. If you're correct about the puzzle being connected to Darlessen's death, what makes you think she's not involved? What makes you think she didn't shoot Chick?”

“She's a little old lady in orthopedic shoes, Rosco! And don't start telling me women like her are the most untrustworthy kind. Look at Sara.”

“If you ever suggested that Newcastle's grande dame get fitted for orthopedic shoes, you'd be the next murder victim.”

CHAPTER 27

Luck was on Belle's side. She located McKenet Studios without a hitch, and when she reached the
Down & Across
soundstage, tickets for that night's filming were still available. And the best part was that Harriet Tammalong was already mingling with the crowd inside. Immediately upon entering the studio, Belle saw the diminutive septuagenarian's white-pink hair and the carefully chosen and accessorized floral pants outfit, which seemed to be the older woman's stock in trade. It was as though a special spotlight had been aimed at Harriet and her gold-toned hoop earrings. The only jarring note was that Rolly Hoddal, the toupee-toting stand-up comic stood beside her, bending down in a private conversation that, at a distance, appeared almost conspiratorial. His pose was made more curious and awkward by his obvious difficulty at maintaining an upright and respectable posture.

Belle noticed Harriet's lips were drawn into a tight and unhappy line. The impression she gave, right down to the disapproving wrinkling of her nose, was that of wishing she were elsewhere. Then she glanced up the aisle, noticed her “niece,” and trilled a joyous “Gale!,” while Matthew, the stage manager, conducted Belle toward her “aunt.”

“I'm just pleased as punch to see you again! And so very soon. Did that hubby of yours desert you and stay up in Minnesota longer than planned?”

Minnesota?
Belle thought. It took her a second to recall the lie about Rosco being off on a fishing trip that she'd begun and that Harriet had then liberally embellished.

“Yup,” Belle responded with the biggest grin she could muster. If words failed, sometimes the appearance of enthusiasm and goodwill served as an excellent substitute.

“Rolly, you haven't met my niece Gale Harmble, yet … She was here last week … her first time visiting
Down & Across
. She thought you were an absolute stitch in your warm-up act.” Harriet smiled convivially while Belle caught her breath, curtailed the impulse to roll her eyes at the notion of the comedian being even remotely amusing, then decided to stop counting how many fibs she and the older lady had concocted between them.

Belle extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hoddal.”

The comic's rheumy eyes swiveled back toward Harriet. “I didn't know you had a niece. The only relative I've heard you mention is—”

“The things you don't know, Rolly, would fill
The Encyclopaedia Britannica
… Gale's from out of state … She's my sister's kid. She doesn't visit me near enough, do you Gale?”

Hoddal's gaze swept over Belle before returning to the older woman. “Gotta go. It's almost showtime, and Gerry's gonna be parading down the aisle before you know it … He doesn't like it if I mingle with the audience … Remember what I said, Harriet.”

“Rolly, hon … words to the wise … Whatever, well,
substance
you're enjoying … I don't think it's helping you think straight—”

“Mark my words. There's trouble up there in heaven. I know what I heard.” Rolly did an about-face while Harriet sighed, shook her head, and began leading the way toward her customary seat.

“I hope I didn't interrupt anything,” Belle offered.

Harriet turned to face her, a sympathetic smile spreading over her creased and powdery cheeks. “Poor Rolly. You know those drugs can do terrible things to people's brains … make them invent weird stories and such … imagine folks around them are up to no good. It makes them paranoid, that's what I think. It's terrible, isn't it, what people will do to their bodies? And willingly, too! I tell you, Gale, the whole world's gonna go to hell in a handbasket if people keep sniffing and smoking that awful stuff.” Harriet sat and patted the chair beside her. “I'm sure Matthew intended this for you.” No further mention of Rolly Hoddal and his problems were made. “Now, I seem to remember you telling me you were only able to visit L.A. for a few days. Did you extend your stay?” Harriet's birdlike hand touched Belle's arm, and her tone turned concerned and worried. “I don't mean to pry, but I hope that doesn't indicate difficulties on the marital front.”

From her third-row seat, Belle watched other members of the studio audience find their places while, on the stage, cameras were repositioned, lighting levels adjusted, and sound booms moved. As she gazed at the activity, Belle thought, and her deliberations turned to one Gale Harmble. The alias had been hastily chosen and insufficiently fleshed out. It was a name and nothing more, and the fact was causing problems—allowing Harriet to invent whatever story she chose while “Gale” was left playing catch-up. It was time, Belle decided, to take control. Given the current circumstances and what she hoped the evening might reveal, a better and bigger lie seemed called for. “I've got a confession to make, Harriet.”

“Oh, dear … and I was so hoping you weren't having man troubles … It's never a good sign when husbands go off on vacations by themselves. And I should know, considering all the times I've been hitched. And ice fishing? What do you think really goes on in those little houses they roll out there on those frozen lakes—?”

“It's not about my husband. It's about me. I'm not exactly who I said I was.”

Harriet turned a stricken face toward Belle. “You're not Gale Harmble?”

“Well, yes … Of course, I'm Gale … It's just that … well, I'm here on assignment … undercover, in a way. I'm … I'm doing a feature-length magazine article on America's fascination with crossword puzzles.”

“Oh my.”

“But I didn't want to tell you when we first met because I needed to have an unbiased view from a long-time fan of
Down & Across
.”

Harriet eyed her companion. “You mean you singled me out on the studio bus?”

“No … that was pure luck, Harriet. Or maybe I sat beside you because you have such an honest face. However it happened, you were obviously the perfect person to give me a ‘regular's' view of the show.”

The older woman frowned. “So, you weren't telling the truth when you said you'd never seen
Down & Across
before?”

Belle shook her head. “I've been researching it—and the contestants and studio audience—for a some time now.”

“And you aren't married? Because I have a nephew, a very charming—”

“Yes. I'm married. Sorry.”

“Well, my goodness,” Harriet clucked. “You certainly did a good job of pretending you knew nothing about Gerry or the others when you were here before.” There was a sound of hurt in the older woman's voice, prompting Belle.

“I apologize for the ruse, Harriet, but I needed to—”

“Were you taping me on one of those ‘lipstick' cameras?”

“‘Lipstick'?”

“I saw a TV special—an expose, really—on women reporters who go undercover. They're equipped with cameras as small as lipstick wands. Sometimes, the gals hide them in little handbags or sew them into their shirts or jackets.”

Belle pursed her lips in consternation. Ace journalist Gale Harmble was proving as problematic a piece of fiction as Gale Harmble, out-of-town hick. “Did you know that more than forty million Americans do the crossword every day?” she offered in reply. The technique was one of Rosco's—pull out a list of facts when an investigation turns sticky. “Making those forty million plus
lexicographomaniacal
—crazy about crosswords.”