The Crossword Connection (25 page)

“I wouldn't know. But I do know that he doesn't like cities any more than I do.”

“There'll be plenty of contracting work in those buildings being renovated … high-end stuff: marble, granite, the works.”

Sharon seemed disinterested, but Belle kept pushing. “Has he ever mentioned the Peterman brothers?”

Sharon let out a frustrated growl. “I need to concentrate here, okay?” She turned her back and abruptly resumed her work.

Belle remained silent, pondering Sharon's and Geoff Wright's relationship.
Geoffrey lives in New Hampshire,
she told herself.
The Petermans own land in New Hampshire. Sharon works for Geoffrey, but not all the time. However, she's clearly an expert mason, and if he secures other projects in Newcastle, she'll be involved. Or … Is he trying to cut her out of the deal? Is that the cause of her sudden truculence?

“Look, Sharon, I'm going to be straight with you. There's a strong indication a couple of real estate developers named Peterman may be involved in a criminal—”

“I don't know anything about this city.”

Belle quelled an irritated sigh and tried another tack. “You're aware that I do volunteer work at the homeless women's shelter…?”

Sharon nodded once but kept working.

“Well, the Petermans own several buildings near Margaret House … one of which they're currently rehabilitating into luxury lofts—”

“What does this have to do with Geoff?”

Belle's answer was evasive. “If he were involved with these developers, would you tell me?”

“I'm not my brother's keeper,” was Sharon's blunt response.

“I know Geoff's your friend, Sharon. And I appreciate your loyalty, but this is important. A homeless man and woman were—” The words stopped in Belle's throat. She stared at Sharon's broad back, at her spiky hair, her muscled forearms, and man-sized hands. Then Belle's glance moved to the dusty carpenter's pants and scuffed work boots while Gus's description of the person he'd seen driving Rosco's Jeep ricocheted through her brain:
a big man, six foot or more, brown hair … white dust all over his clothes.
Dust that Gus had assumed was lime but could, in fact, have been white Barre marble dust. And a woman that could have been mistaken for a man.

Belle's eyes squinted in sudden outrage, but she forced herself to affect an air of calm. “Never mind,” she replied easily. “You're right.… Geoffrey's business has nothing to do with you.” Against all reasonable inner voices that warned her to back out of the room, find an extension and call Al Lever, run to a neighbor's house, anything but remain in Sharon's presence, anger made Belle plant her feet and stand her ground. If this woman knew where Rosco was, Belle wanted to hear it firsthand. “I guess it can be pretty muddy in Vermont at this time of year … New Hampshire, too.”

“I don't know about New Hampshire, but this is mud season where I live,” was the laconic reply.

“Hard to get around, I guess.”

“Not with a truck.”

“Oh, that's right,” was Belle's airy response, “I forgot about the truck.” Her tone turned almost wistful. “A sheep farm … green grass and rolling hills … I assume you and Geoff grow vegetables, too. Do you find it necessary to use artificial fertilizer or—?”

Sharon slammed the caulking gun on the counter. “I don't know about Geoffrey, but I hate that junk! It poisons the groundwater, and if you're out in the boonies, you're totally dependent on your well. These bozos who buy vacation homes and cover every inch of growing space with chemicals: herbicides, pesticides, genetically altered gunk. They're ruining the land for the rest of us! Not to mention our drinking water!”

The back of Sharon's neck had turned a dark and mean red, and Belle gave her time to cool off before resuming her oblique investigation. “It's really a shame about your truck breaking down.”

“What?”

“Your truck. It's a shame you're going to face the expense of repairing it.… I know it's not easy relying on public transportation, especially traveling from central Vermont to the Massachusetts coast.… What is it? Trail-ways to Springfield? Or is it Peter Pan Bus Lines?”

“I don't remember.”

“Of course not. You were probably so upset about your engine troubles you didn't notice the name of the bus company. Maybe you should consider a Jeep. Like Rosco's.”

Sharon leapt up, then suddenly lunged at Belle, grabbing for her shoulders but missing as her quarry dodged out of reach.

“Nice move, Sharon! What are you going to do next? Tie me up? Kill me? Wait for Cleo to come home so you can ‘borrow' her car? Like you ‘borrowed' Rosco's?” Belle squared herself to face her opponent. Her body felt energized with righteousness and rage, as if nothing—and no one—could stand in her way. “Where's Rosco?” she demanded.

“He's alive. Don't worry.”

“That's not good enough.” Belle spat out the words; fury made her voice steely.

“He's okay,” Sharon muttered. “He shouldn't be, but he is.… I'm too damn soft-hearted—”

“Did the Petermans put you up to this?”

“Would you stop with the friggin' Petermans! I don't know who the hell they are!”

“How much are they paying you and Geoffrey for this piece of work?”

“Geoffrey? What does that fancy-dan, Ivy League carpenter have to do with this?”

The women stared at each other, momentarily stunned by mutual incomprehension. It was Belle who broke the silence. “You and Geoffrey killed Freddie Carson … and the woman behind the bus depot. And you did it under orders from the Peterman brothers.”

Sharon's large mouth snorted in derision. “That simp wouldn't know how to squash a friggin' flea! Geoff Wright! Don't make me laugh! I took care of that stew bum! Not Geoffrey! And not your damn Peterman buddies. And I did the old biddy, too. Me! Mr. Ivy League had nothing to do with this!”

Her confession seemed to take Sharon by surprise; she stared at Belle, but the focus of her eyes was inward rather than outward, as if she were revisiting each event. “The old babe pushed me. I pushed back. I didn't mean to hurt her … but she kept getting into my face: ‘You gotta pay up!' … ‘Gotta clean up after them sheep of yours!' … ‘I'm holding the paper on this place!' Yammmer, yammer, yammer. I put out my hand.… She went down like a friggin' sack of flour … flat on the marble step!”

“Where's Rosco?” Belle demanded, but Sharon merely looked through her.

“And what was I gonna do then? Drag her back into her own home? Leave her for the local cops? And me behind in my rent?” Sharon paused. “So I dump her in the truck and took off for the city.… I'm thinkin', lay the old crone on a bed of newspapers and she'll look like a dead drifter.… But this bum pops his head up.… Friggin' creep sees the whole friggin' thing! He messed up everything … him and his stupid dog!”

“Where's Rosco?”

Sharon's heavy body spun back toward Belle. “You're in trouble, girlie.”

Belle glared back. “Is he at your farm in Vermont?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

“If you've hurt him—” But Belle didn't finish the sentence, because Sharon suddenly sprang toward her while Belle just as swiftly leapt out of reach.

“There was a witness to Freddie's death, Sharon. Another street person. He supplied Homicide with a description—”

“You're lying! Rosco said he found me on accounta my truck. No one saw nothin'! That's what he said; he said two guys saw a truck that only ‘looked' like mine—”

“He's a private investigator. Do you think he'd tell you everything he knows? I've seen him be a lot cagier than that.”

Sharon's thin lips opened in a silent scream. She fumbled frantically in a drawer at her back until she found a knife, while Belle's right hand flailed on the countertop behind her, reaching the caulking gun.

As Sharon stepped toward her, the front door banged open, and Effie shouted at the top of her lungs, “I did not! Mom! Tell him I didn't do it!”

As Sharon's head spun toward the sound, Belle swung the caulking gun in a sudden arc, smashing it hard into the side of her skull. Sharon's eyes rolled back, and she dropped like a slab of her precious stone.

When Cleo entered the kitchen, Belle was securing Sharon's hands with the telephone cord.

“What's going
on,
Belle?” But before she could answer, Cleo added a pleased, “Wow, she did a great job with the countertop.”

All Belle could think to say was, “I'm glad you came home early.”

CHAPTER 31

“I have to admit that it's a valiant display of bravery,” Sara Crane Briephs announced to Belle. “Your affianced may feel as sick as a dog—no pun intended—but he's certainly evincing an admirable facade.”

At that moment, the
Akbar
's bow nosed into a small ocean swell, and a spray of salt water flew up from Buzzards Bay and lightly coated one of the main stateroom's starboard portals. A prism of red and purple light careened across the large cabin.

“Ah, the ocean,” Sara enthused, “‘And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking' …”

“‘Sea-Fever,'” Belle answered. “I love that Masefield poem, too.” In her simple wedding dress, she studied an unruly wisp of hair in the gilt mirror that hung above a nineteenth-century chest of drawers. The more she played with the strand, the less it seemed to cooperate. She scowled at her reflection as she said, “I believe this experience will cure Rosco of his seasickness once and for all.”

Sara laughed. “The power of love, my dear? Is that your theory? Or is it the power of feminine persuasion?”

Belle arched an eyebrow. “Wouldn't that be a comforting notion. No, I think Rosco needs to focus on something other than the movement of the boat … and if marriage doesn't distract him, I'm afraid nothing will.”

“Well, he ‘looks like a million bucks,' as they say in the vernacular. One would never guess the dear boy had spent three days cooped up in a damp cellar with nothing but a puppy to keep him company.” Sara sighed. “I believe we have Kit to thank for Rosco's safe return. Even that odious woman had a soft spot for the dog.”

Belle tried again to tuck the recalcitrant lock of hair in place while Sara looked over her shoulder. “There are more important things in life than a hairdo, dear child.”

Belle turned and smiled at the old woman. “You're a good friend, Sara, you really are … and you've made our wedding day very special. Rosco and I can't thank you enough for arranging the use of the senator's yacht.”

Sara sniffed dismisively as she sat in a large club chair; the mention of her brother always brought an annoyed expression to her face. “Hal may have supplied the
Akbar
for your wedding, Belle, but he certainly was of no help when it came to shedding light on the financial machinations of those distasteful Peterman brothers.”

“I'm sure he had his reasons—”

“If you're imagining his reticence involved campaign contributions, I confronted him on that very issue, and he denied it emphatically. I may disagree with my brother's political views, but he's always been a scrupulously honest man. No, my hunch is there's a federal investigation of Argus Enterprises in the works. At least, Hal seemed to allude to the possibility. Although, why he couldn't tell me remains a mystery. To whom did he think I would speak?”

Belle stifled a laugh. “Maybe to me? Or to Rosco or Al?”

“Don't get cunning with me, young lady. That's not the issue, and you know it.” Sara sighed pointedly. “Big government's become too hidebound to act efficiently. While Hal palavers in secret about federal investigations, Newcastle's windows are smashed by unsavory characters—”

Belle's interruption was gentle. “But if those ‘unsavory characters' hadn't identified Sharon's pickup truck and its Vermont plates, Rosco might not have put two and two together. And if the DA can produce their testimony against the Petermans …”

Sara sniffed again. “Miss Annabella Graham, the eternal optimist.” Then the forceful tone was softened by a sudden, beaming smile. Sara's grand and patrician face was transformed into doting grandmother. “Good for you, child. I hope you will always retain your rosy outlook. The world would be a sorry place if pessimism won the day.”

There was a tap at the stateroom door.

“Yes?” Belle said.

Abe Jones stepped into the cabin and performed a mock salute. “Captain Lancia wishes to inform you that we will be arriving at the designated coordinates in seven minutes' time.” Abe looked Belle up and down and let out a low whistle. “Wow. Look at you.…
Che bella cosa!
Almost makes a man want to get hitched.… Almost.” He held up quivering hands. “I'm shaking just thinking about marriage. It isn't contagious, is it?” He then looked at Sara and added an uneasy, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Briephs.”

Sara nodded graciously. “It's nice to see you again, Mr. Jones. And how is our groom faring?”

“Just fine and dandy. Says he's never felt better. I wish I could say the same for the best man.”

“I wasn't aware that dear Albert was prone to
mal de mer
,” Sara said.

“No, that's not the problem.” Jones looked at Belle and cleared his throat. “Ahhh … It seems that between Al and Rosco … well, they managed to leave the wedding rings at the jeweler's. They didn't figure it out until a few minutes ago. It's probably too late to turn back, but they thought I should check with you.”

Belle laughed and shared a look with Sara. “I was wondering when one of them was planning to fess up to that minor item.” Belle reached into her bag and removed two ring boxes. “Fortunately, the salesman at Hudson's called me this morning. Here.” She handed the boxes to Abe. “Try to make sure they don't drop them overboard.”