The Crossword Connection (14 page)

With four orders accounted for, Rosco now found himself standing at the corner of Eleventh and Hawthorne, hot on the trail of the fifth gift box. It seemed ironic that the
Evening Crier
building sat on the southeast corner of the intersection. Kitty-corner there was a men's clothing store. The other two corners sported banking institutions. It was the Second National Bank, and a Mr. Clover in particular, who had received the roses from Holbrook's.

“I'm looking for Mr. Clover,” Rosco said to the security officer as he exited the bank's revolving door.

The guard pointed. “That's him at the third desk … in the gray suit.”

“Thank you.”

Rosco approached Clover's desk and removed a business card from his jacket. Since the brush-with-celebrity approach seemed to work the night before, he opted to try it again, “Excuse me, Mr. Clover?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Rosco Polycrates. I'm a private investigator. I'm working for Belle Graham.”

Clover's chuckle threw Rosco off guard.

“According to what I read in
Personality
magazine, you're
marrying
Belle Graham. I hope you're not considering it
work
already?”

Rosco considered a witty rejoinder but had none. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“Please do.” Clover stood and extended his hand. “Call me Carl. I'm a big devotee of your fiancée's puzzles. I don't miss a day.”

“Thank you. She'll be happy to hear she has a fan across the street.”

“Indeed. I've got a wonderful view of the
Crier
building from my desk here. I don't see much of Miss Graham though.”

“You know what she looks like, then?”

“She's hard to miss. Quite a beautiful young lady, if you don't mind me saying so. There's a lot of men in Newcastle who consider you a very lucky fellow.”

Rosco hesitated. “The reason I'm here is because I believe you ordered a dozen long-stem roses from Holbrook's last week.”

Again, Clover chuckled. “It was my aunt who ordered them. For my birthday. My fifty-fifth. She's a bit of an oddball, and unfortunately, never remembers that I'm violently allergic to roses. We go through the same routine every year, and every year, I have to surreptitiously dispose of her gift.”

“You threw the flowers away?”

“No. I gave them to a couple on the street after I finished work. They seemed very happy.”

Rosco glanced at his notepad. “And this was Friday evening?”

“Yes. The bank stays open till nine
P.M.
on Fridays. It was almost ten when I left.”

“Did you know the people?”

“No.”

“Would you recognize them again? Were they old? Young?”

“Very young. Eighteen or so. My offering made quite an impression, and, by coincidence, gave me a wonderfully unexpected birthday present. The young lady opened the box, scooped up the roses, put one between her teeth and danced across the sidewalk—”

“And the box?”

“What about it?”

“What'd they do with it?”

Clover smiled indulgently. “They dropped it. Right at their feet. They were very young and very happy. I tidied up after them. Why do you ask?”

“A long-stem rose box was left on Belle's porch yesterday. I'm trying to determine where it came from.”

Clover looked out the window and pointed across the street. “Do you see the phone booth beside the
Crier
building? There's a trash container on the far side. I deposited the box there. I would have brought it back to the bank, but the building was locked by then.” He thought for a moment. “And now that you mention it, I don't remember noticing the box when I returned for work on Saturday morning.”

“Really? That trash can's kind of hard to see from here.”

Clover's voice cracked slightly. “Oh, I park in the
Crier
lot, so I pass the receptacle each morning.”

“Ever make any telephone calls from that booth over there?”

“Why would I do that? I have a phone right here on my desk.”

“Just curious.”

Rosco reentered the street. As Clover had indicated, the trash container was beside the phone booth, the booth from which the anonymous call about the dead woman had originated. As he headed toward his Jeep, Rosco began running a number of seemingly unrelated facts through his brain:

A crossword that spelled DEATH TRAP, a pair of probable homicides, two hired goons, and a floral box missing its roses.
Coincidence,
he thought. That was the word Clover had used, but Rosco had never put much faith in the concept.

As he set out to interview the recipient of the sixth order of roses, a dress shop on Ninth Street, he had a strong hunch he'd already found what he was looking for, and there was nothing
coincidental
about it.

CHAPTER 17

“What a mess you've made!” The voice was gravelly and gruff, any inherent kindliness muted by fatigue and fear. “You gotta go outside to do your business! I told you that before I left. That's how come there's a hatch in the door over there.”

A whimper greeted the words, followed by the sound of four small paws treading on soaked and scattered newspaper. A single light fixture dangling on a long, brown cord swayed slightly, throwing a harsh reflection at the greasy window and the black night beyond. Aside from the light, the room was furnished only with a sink, a chair, and a square table that looked none too clean.

“Peeughh … It surely does stink in here. Lucky thing we don't have to worry about neighbors.” There was a laugh here, a bray of brief bravado. “That nice middle-class ideal: neighbors, kids playing outdoors, washing machines, bikes on every porch, dogs underfoot.” The cynical tone devolved into one of vitriol. “What am I gonna do with a damn dog?”

Sensing danger, little Kit Carson made no sound.

“A damn dog! And here, of all places! I've always been too friggin' soft-hearted. A dog! Who knew that bum had a dog with him? And a puppy, no less. A full-grown stray I could have left. It would have taken care of itself, just like all the others slinking around the damn city. But a pup, that's what I got! A friggin' puppy!”

Kit whined and flattened herself on the sodden paper.

“Shut up, you! I gave you food, didn't I? Water … a roof over your head … And what have you done? Made a pigsty of my place!”

Tired hands reached down and began cleaning up the mess. “You trash your fresh water like you did these newspapers, you'll have nothing to drink. I'm not your damn nursemaid. I'm not gonna spoon-feed you. Give you sips of sweet water. You don't eat and drink, you die. That's the law of nature. Survival of the fittest.” The tough talk was now etched with panic.

“If I'd known that stupid guy had a dog …!”

The chore of picking up after the puppy continued. The sounds were loud and aggressive: the clump of boots, the crash of chipped bowls that had contained food and water.

“You ate all the canned stuff, I see. Learned expensive tastes from your loving master.… No cereal and filler for her highness, here.” Water was sloshed into a bowl; a can was opened and its contents plopped into another, then both containers were slammed back on the floor.

“If that damn woman hadn't come after me like she did …” The voice mimicked a high-pitched whine. “‘I'll call the authorities!' she tells me. ‘I'll have you evicted!' The bitch had it coming, didn't she? She friggin' had it coming!”

Instead of approaching her food, Kit crept under the table. “You're damn right to keep out of my way! If it hadn't been for your damn owner, I'd be sitting in clover right now.” A near sob broke through the tirade. “What am I gonna do with a friggin' dog? I can kill a person. I can't snuff a friggin' puppy. I have to make some adjustments here.”

CHAPTER 18

Tuesday morning arrived with “a mixture of clouds and sunshine,” just as the weatherman had predicted. Belle took her mug, with its treasured dregs of stone-cold coffee, and wandered into her home office. The nervousness she'd experienced with the delivery of Sunday's unsettling crossword was beginning to fade. That was the good news.

The bad news was that Rosco had failed to beam in with an update, let alone give her a late-night sleep-tight call. Her assumption had been that he'd arrived at his apartment at some hideous hour and had deemed it much too late to phone her. That same regard for an uninterrupted night's sleep was what filled Belle's own head at this moment. Seven-twenty
A.M.
was far too early to call anyone, especially if that anyone hadn't gone to bed before three or four in the morning. These thoughts only served to focus Belle on her wedding: a day that would signal the beginning of life as part of a couple, a day when Rosco's often problematic schedule would produce even greater apprehension, because he'd be arriving home to her.

Belle set her coffee mug on her work desk, dropped herself into a black and white canvas deck chair, let out a long sigh, then glued her eyes to the telephone. “Maybe, if I stare at it long enough, he'll wake up and give me a call.…”

After another thirty seconds, the phone rang. She jumped in her seat and grabbed the receiver. “If I'd known it would be that easy, I would have pulled this trick an hour ago. What did you learn?”

“P-p-pardon me?”

Although the voice seemed shaky, Belle easily recognized it as Rosco's sister Cleo.

“Cleo?”

“Belle, hi … um …
Listen,
is Rosco there?” The tension in her tone was palpable.

“No, he's at his apartment … Are you all right?”

“I
called
his
apartment,
his
office
… and his car phone. There's
no
response
anywhere.”

Belle's initial reaction was bewilderment. Where was Rosco? But the larger issue was his sister's obviously urgent need to find him.

“Is there anything I can help you with, Cleo?”

Cleo remained silent for an uncomfortable minute. When she spoke, her tone was a staccato burst, interspersed with anxious and irate sighs. “Somebody just
phoned
here.… I don't know why my husband's
always
out of town when these
creepy
things happen. He drives me
crazy
sometimes—”

“Who called? What was it in reference to?”

“Some
man …
About ten minutes ago. Actually it
could
have even been a woman, now that I
think
about it. The voice was really
odd.”

“What did this person want, Cleo?”

“He said he was going to call
back.”

“That's it?”

“No, no …
First
he asked how the
wedding
plans were coming along. It was
really
bizarre. I mean at seven-something in the morning? Who's thinking about a
wedding?
I was getting Nicky ready for school … Effie's got a
cold
or something … so I was
wide
awake. Then he asked to talk to
Rosco.”

“Rosco?”

“I told the guy to wait until
nine
o'clock and call Rosco's office, but he said he'd
already
tried his office, home, and car phone. So, I told him to call
you.
He said Rosco wasn't
there
either. Did this guy contact you, Belle?”

“No.”

“Then how'd he know Rosco wasn't
there?”

“I don't know. I don't know.” Belle began to pace her office, the long telephone cord following her like a pet snake.

“I tried
all
of Rosco's numbers after he'd hung up,” Cleo continued, “but there was
no
answer.…”

Belle thought for a moment. “And that was the extent of your conversation?”

“No.… After telling me he'd call back, the guy said, ‘Rosco's missing in action,' just like that. Real
deadpan.
It was
impossible
to tell if it was a
question
or a
statement.
I asked what he
meant,
but the line went dead. I
hate
it when my husband goes out of town like this.… It's as if someone's
watching
to see when he
leaves
the house.”

Belle took a deep breath. “Listen, Cleo, I'm going to drive by Rosco's apartment and office.… Then I'm coming over to your house. I want to be there when this person calls again, okay? It shouldn't take me much more than an hour.”

“Thanks,
Belle. I'll get someone to take Nicky to school so I don't miss you. I won't ask you to
hurry,
but …”

It was Effie who opened the door. The five-year-old was not attired as a ballerina this time; instead, she'd draped herself in a collection of oversized garments obviously borrowed from her mother. The cold that was keeping her home from school didn't seem to be affecting her sense of style. “I'm a princess,” she said, eyeing Belle with her customary mixture of mistrust, jealousy, and fascination. “Are you wearing a white dress and a veil on Saturday?”

“No, I'm not, Effie.”

“Why not? Aren't you supposed to be a bride?”

The subject of remarriage and glowing white felt too complex for a pint-sized princess. “Is your mom around?” Belle said in an attempt to change the subject. “I told her I'd come over—”

“Mommy does the same thing when she won't tell me something,” Effie announced coolly, then added an equally unemotional “She's at the vet's. Geoffrey's baby-sitting, 'cause I'm too sick to go to school.” The cabinetmaker's name was pronounced with a regal flourish as if her highness was considering a knighthood for Geoffrey. Wright.

“But …” Belle began, but Effie had already raced off in a trail of multicolored silk.