The Crossword Connection (11 page)

“KILLERS KISS,” Rosco read aloud. “KIDNAPPED.” He sat up straight; his gaze strayed to the window, to the parked cars in the street, the few pedestrians sauntering by. “I'm not getting a good feeling about this,” he said at last.

Belle paused before speaking; she'd always been an optimistic person. “Isn't it possible this might be a prank, albeit a bizarre one? I haven't actually been threatened—”

“You were scared enough to leave your house, Belle.”

“I know. But maybe we're overreacting—”

“Threats come in all sorts of guises. KIDNAPPED could be construed as one; so could DEATH TRAP and KILLER. My gut tells me we're dealing with a psychotic mind here, even if it is a prank. I mean, who frightens people just for the fun of it?”

Belle considered this. “Is there a possibility this puzzle could be tied to the crossword you brought me yesterday?”

Rosco thought. “That scenario would make me even more nervous than the idea of a loony-tune delivering a fake box of flowers.”

Belle studied him, her brow wrinkled in thought.

“If there's a connection, Belle, it means someone's watching us … peeking in the windows … something like that. I bring you a puzzle Saturday afternoon.… We chat about it.… The next day, this wacko delivers his own weird offering—”

“I meant a link to yesterday's probable homicide.”

“I don't follow you.”

“You recognized similarities in the two deaths, Rosco: the newspapers under the bodies—”

“So you're suggesting that this hand-made puzzle is a follow-up to the printed crossword in the
Sentinel
?”

“I don't know,” Belle said. “I admit the idea seems farfetched.… For the timing to work, the cryptics editor at the Boston paper, Arthur Simon, would have to be cognizant of the scheme.…” She paused. “Forget the suggestion. I've met Arthur. He's a very straight arrow.” Belle hesitated again.

“No, no, the same thought went through my mind yesterday when I bought the
Sentinel.
But after we completed the puzzle, I realized how far-fetched—”

“Wait! Let's return to your supposition—unpleasant as it is—that the person who delivered the flower box knew about yesterday's death, perhaps was even a witness, then saw you at the crime scene, saw you buy the
Sentinel,
recognized the newspaper, and created a puzzle with coded significance.… Some message we're not deciphering?”

Rosco pondered Belle's suggestion. “You don't happen to have the
Sentinel
crossword, do you?”

Belle's face brightened for the first time in many minutes. “Always be prepared,” she said.

They laid the two cryptics side by side, looking for points of exchange; Belle even tried working the dual diagonals and reversing the puzzles and placing them head to foot. Nothing unconventional appeared. “I give up,” she finally admitted, while Rosco shook his head.

“I'm thinking we should delay our wedding, if only for a week or two.”

“Why?” Belle stared at him in bewilderment.

“If you're being targeted—and I strongly suspect you are, given this flower box thing—it may not be wise to have a public ceremony. Psychos are psychos. I'd like to find this person before I let my guard down. Neither one of us needs to be distracted by this.”

“It's not going to be public, Rosco. We'll be aboard the
Akbar,
and then, with any luck, at Cleo's. Besides, Al will be there the entire time.” She forced a grim laugh. “Even in his groomsman togs I don't imagine he'd relinquish his official weapon.”

Martha brought their meal, banging the plates down with a jovial: “This should wipe those sad-sack looks off your faces.”

Belle and Rosco smiled reflexively, although the efforts were wan and lackluster. Neither began to eat.

“We can't postpone our wedding, Rosco. That's letting this weirdo win. And that's probably all he wants: to disrupt things, have a little private power play.”

Again, Rosco was silent. Finally he said, “I want you to be careful. No opening the door to strangers. No walking along deserted streets. You need to be aware of who's nearby at all times. If this kook is aware of our marriage—and, again, given the florist's box and your recent notoriety—I'd say that was an excellent possibility, then the next six days could be critical. If he gets no reaction from this first puzzle, he'll move into some other phase of his plan. Who knows what it might be?”

Questions flooded Belle's brain, but each one was answered by the inevitable: If you achieve celebrity status—even as a minor-league celebrity—you become a target. “What do we do next?”

“I'm going to inform Al—”

She started to interrupt, but Rosco raised his hand in protest. “Lever believes you're the best thing that ever happened to me, Belle … something I'm inclined to agree with. He'll be as concerned as I am.”

“I don't want a patrol car encamped on Captain's Walk, Rosco. That would look ridiculous.”

Rosco thought. “And it might make the situation worse. Especially if this nut case believes he's scared you and decides to increase his fun.… Al will decide how he wants to handle surveillance.”

Belle's expression turned grave. “Surveillance,” she murmured.

“I'm going to start checking out florists this afternoon. And, to be perfectly honest, I'd be a lot happier if you'd consider moving in with Cleo or even Sara.”

This time it was Belle who looked at the street. “I can't do that, Rosco. I'm too independent to be a house guest. I'll be fine at home. I promise.”

“I could stay over.…”

“You'll have years of staying over come Saturday.”

“You might change your mind after we get our license tomorrow.”

Belle smiled and gave his hand a firm squeeze. “I'll be fine, Rosco. I will.”

Martha reappeared. The hot smells of the kitchen followed her; it was a reassuring scent. “What's up with you two? Wedding jitters got you that bad?” She looked at the congealing food with thorough disapproval. “You can't put French toast in a doggie bag.”

It was Rosco who answered. “We don't have a dog, Martha.”

CHAPTER 13

The scent was so dense it made Rosco sneeze. Not once, but twice. He felt the reaction was almost uncouth in the rarefied atmosphere of tuberoses, anemones, lavender, lily of the valley, sprays of white lilac, boughs of blooming cherry and apple, and a profusion of other hothouse floral treasures. He sneezed again and retrieved a rumpled handkerchief. He was certain he was going to bash into some vase or other fragile receptacle and send it crashing to the floor. He sneezed a fourth and louder time.

“
Gesundheit
.” The woman speaking had hair nearly as red as a satin Valentine's Day heart. She was outfitted in a form-fitting lime-green blouse and equally skintight pants. Rosco pegged her age at somewhere between forty and fifty, although he imagined she habitually admitted to being “in her thirties” and was actually in her sixties. “Flowers will do that to you. Me? I've been around them all my life. What can I do for you? No, let me guess: wife trouble.”

Rosco looked too stunned to speak.

“I can pick 'em every time,” the redhead continued. “Guys like you come into the shop.… They don't know their way around.… Never picked out a posy for the missus before.… But oops, they've found themselves in the doghouse, and they're barkin' to come home. Am I right?”

“Well, no,” Rosco admitted. “I'm not married.” But before he could add “almost, but not yet” to the statement, the redhead produced a low, voluptuous whistle.

“Really,” she said. “A hunk like you. Go figure. I'm Faye. I'm the owner.” Then, as if working on a weekend afternoon didn't suit her sense of her elevated status, she added. “Who else would be manning the fort on a Sunday? So, are we looking at a hospital visit, Mr.—?”

“Polycrates. Rosco Polycrates. I'm a private investigator.”

Faye became a whirlwind of nervous energy. Her red-taloned fingers danced across the cash register; her hair shimmied on her jittery shoulders. “I swear I wasn't involved in anything that stupid kid did. I told the police that. The feds, too.”

Rosco opened his mouth to speak, but her words barreled right past him.

“Look, you hire people because you think they're honest. Okay, okay … He had a cute bod; I'll admit it. But that's as far as it went.… When the bozo upped and disappeared, I was as surprised as everyone else. And, no, I haven't heard a word from him. That's the way it goes, isn't it? They take what they can and then light out. Unlucky in love, what can I say?”

When Faye finally began winding down, Rosco managed to speak. “I don't know anything about the ‘bod,' the ‘stupid kid,' the ‘bozo.' I'm trying to hunt down an order that was delivered about midday.”

Faye caught her breath and glared; the misunderstanding had severely shaken her. “You should have made that clear the minute you walked in here, mister,” she spat out.

Rosco shrugged but didn't respond to her accusation. “A white box of long-stemmed roses? There was a scratch mark on one of the corners where a shop sticker might have been lifted off. Do you place stickers on your deliveries?”

“Sure, but those long-stem boxes come from a wholesaler in Lennox. Every shop in town gets them from the same place; probably half the people on the East Coast, too. I've sent out three long-stem orders so far today. What was the address?”

“Captain's Walk.”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“The box was tied with blue and cream-colored ribbon—”

Faye made a face. “What part of
nope
didn't you understand? The order didn't come from this shop. Nothing's been delivered to Captain's Walk in weeks. Besides, I'd never use those colors. They're dowdy. I like reds, fuschias, purple, American-beauty pink. But you're on the right track. Ya see, us florists use ribbons to identify ourselves. Call it our signature, because, when you think about it, there isn't a whole lot of difference between the flowers.… A rose is a rose, and all that malarkey.… Forget the box, concentrate on the ribbon.… No sticker and no greeting card, huh?”

“No. No business name or address,” Rosco answered.

“Well, that's screwy right there. I'd never send anything out without my shop's name. How do you think I get return business? So what's going on? Someone trying to steal your honey from you? Mystery admirer?”

The thought that there might be some truth to Faye's question gave Rosco a slight chill. He shook it off with an uneasy smile and continued. “Do you have any idea which florist might use blue and cream-colored ribbons?”

“Do you have the ribbon?”

“In my car. I'll get it.”

Rosco turned to leave, but Faye stopped him. “You might try Holbrook's,” she said. “They're on Paine Boulevard, near Tenth Street. They've been around forever. Old Mr. Holbrook's ninety if he's a day. It sounds like the bland type of ribbon he might use. He does a lot of funerals. Were the roses red or yellow?”

“Those are my only choices?”

“Well, in long-stem, that's ninety percent of the business. Every now and then, white.”

“The box was empty.”

“Hah! Hah!” Faye laughed and rolled her eyes. “And that's what your honey-pie told you? You're in bigger trouble than you think, sweet pea.”

It took Rosco only a few minutes to drive over to Holbrook's Florists. The shop itself was almost identical to Faye's in assortment of blooms and aromas. However, because the building was almost two hundred years older, there was a feeling of serenity and peace that was lacking in Faye's establishment. The ceiling was low, and the walls paneled with an antique mahogany that seemed to mimic the darkness of the South American jungle from which it had come. The fixtures were polished brass, and the cash register was antique, turn of the century, rather than a glowing computer screen. Clearly, Mr. Holbrook was accustomed to dealing with Newcastle's most affluent citizens, and Rosco found himself wondering how many times Sara Crane Briephs had patronized this particular business.

A small bell signaled his arrival, attracting the attention of the sales clerk, a man in his late thirties who reeked of Brooks Brothers: gray slacks and pale blue dress shirt whose French cuffs were adorned with conservative nautical-motif links. A navy blue bow tie and braces stitched from matching blue silk finished off the picture.

“Good afternoon, sir. Is there anything I can help you with today?”

The man's politeness was almost more than Rosco could stand. He produced the blue and cream-colored bow and said, “Yes, I was wondering if this ribbon might have come from your shop.”

“Most definitely. In fact, I tied it myself.”

“You seem awfully sure. You don't want to look at it a little more closely?”

“No. There's no need. It's Holbrook's ribbon. We special-order the line from Paris, and I recognize my own handiwork. It's from a long-stem rose order.”

“I'm impressed,” seemed to be all Rosco could think of saying.

“One's own artistry is often the easiest to recognize. May I ask to what this pertains?” The man glanced at his watch and then looked back at Rosco with the chagrined smile of a person who has just committed a grievous social error. “I apologize; we're due to close in five minutes. Sunday's hours are necessarily more abbreviated than weekdays. But please, I'm not trying to rush you.”

“I'm a private investigator.” Rosco handed the clerk a business card. “A floral box with this ribbon was delivered to a friend of mine earlier today. I'm trying to determine who sent it.”

“We haven't delivered any long-stem orders today.”

“You're sure?”