The Crossword Connection (27 page)

About halfway down the car, the conductor spotted a man sleeping unconcernedly, his head resting against the window, and his sports jacket carefully folded into a square pillow shape. John glanced at the metal clip on the luggage rack above the peaceful figure but found no ticket stub—meaning one of two things: someone had taken it by mistake, or more likely, the passenger had intended to detrain in Newcastle and missed the stop altogether.

The conductor bent across the aisle seat. “Sir? We've passed Newcastle, sir—”

The man didn't stir.

“Sir,” John repeated in a louder voice, “we've passed Newcastle. If you intended to detrain there, you'll need to get off in Boston and take the next southbound train.”

Still, the man refused to awaken, and John was reluctant to nudge him. Passengers roused from a deep sleep often made irritable riders. He bent down closer to the man's ear.

“Sir …? We've passed Newcastle.”

This had no effect. After a minute, John opted to give the man's shoulder a slight nudge. “Sir?”

Again, there was no reaction so John tried with more vigor. His efforts caused the passenger's head to roll to one side while his torso slumped forward and slammed onto the open tray table in front of him.

“Sir?” The conductor sat beside the man. “Sir? Are you all right …?” He placed his hand on the man's wrist and checked for a pulse. Nothing. He moved to a vein in the man's neck.

“Dammit!” John pulled his walkie-talkie from his belt, and radioed the other conductor. “Herb, this is John, do you read me?”

A gravelly “Go ahead” crackled through the receiver.

“Herb, I think we've got a heart attack victim on Car Three.”

“Oh, boy … Do you need some CPR up there?”

“No … This guy's a goner.”

CHAPTER 2

Annabella Graham raced into the parking lot just in time to see the last car of Amtrak's Boston-bound train disappear down the track. She squinted her gray eyes in exasperation as she grabbed up her purse.
Of course
,
Amtrak would have to be on time for once!
she thought. And not only on time; by her watch it was positively early. She cursed herself for not arriving sooner even as she imagined the cutting critique she'd receive from her father:
The daughter who had failed to “achieve” her “potential” has failed again
.

Belle jumped out of her car, slammed the door, inadvertently locking her key in the ignition while, simultaneously, a vast zigzag of lightning slashed across the late afternoon sky. Thunder barreled and crashed in its wake; the air filled with wind-whipped water; and the river beyond the asphalt-covered parking lot churned itself into an angry dirt-black indicating a storm heading in from the Atlantic Ocean. Belle turned and ran for the station, but by the time she'd reached the passengers clustered beneath the protective awning on the southbound platform, she was drenched through. And her father was nowhere in sight.

She took a breath and sighed. It went without saying that Theodore A. Graham, former professor of anthropology at Princeton University, would have been one of the first travelers to detrain. He'd probably been gauging the storm's approach, velocity, and estimated moment of impact since the train had departed New Haven, Connecticut. Naturally, he'd now be anticipating his daughter's arrival while comfortably ensconced within the brick building's comforting walls. Let those who were unprepared, whose brains were scattered, and whose thinking was muzzy brave the elements! Dr. Graham would stay high and dry and very much in control.

Belle worked her way through the crowd, murmuring a diffident but edgy “Excuse me …” with nearly every step. Her tan sandals squelched with water, a new Indian-print skirt clung dismally to her calves, while tendrils of soaking blond hair sent frigid droplets down her neck. The bride of three months' time wasn't about to make a great impression on a father she hadn't seen in nearly a year. She tried to affix an enthusiastic smile, then pulled open the heavy door that led to the inside waiting area.

There, another throng of damp, disgruntled passengers shuffled to and fro. The storm's onslaught had delayed the southbound train and marooned many would-be travelers while the crowd whose journey had recently concluded were now encamped in the waiting room sitting out the worst of the rain before venturing outside to the parking lot or the taxi stand. The station house was packed.

Belle attempted a brighter smile and strode into its midst, working her way toward the seating area near the building's west entrance.

No Theodore Graham tarried there, either.

She suppressed a grimace, and a sudden fit of pique.
Thanks a heap, Dad!
her brain began carping.
Another no-show! I suppose you missed your connecting train in New York
…
Or else we'll get a call from Florida tonight with an excuse about mixing up the days … or a back spasm that kept you in bed … and you're sorry you didn't phone sooner, but the doctor put you on pain medication and you plum forgot you had a date in New England …

She shut her eyes tight; tears of sorrow and anger welled beneath her lids.
If
my father doesn't want to visit; if he never chooses to meet my new husband; if the idea of Rosco's casualness
—
or his less than Ivy League education
—
annoys Father's finicky sense of perfection, then he didn't have to plan this trip!

Belle yanked open the terminal doors and hurried to her car, unaware until she was thrusting her hand into her purse that her key was still in the ignition and the doors of the vehicle were locked. “Oh … oh … Honestly!” She clenched her teeth in frustration at her own disorganization.

Thoroughly chilled now despite the returning summer heat, she dragged herself back through the rain to the waiting room, where she considered her options. She could phone Rosco and explain her predicament—he'd definitely have another set of keys—or she could seek help from a stranger. Neither choice made her feel remotely capable or wise, but she decided upon the second alternative, wondering even as she went looking for a maintenance man to jimmy open her car window why it was so much more embarrassing to admit personal defeat to an unknown person than to someone you loved.

Brad was the name of her rescuer. He'd been in Newcastle only a couple of months, and was juggling two jobs in order to save enough money for college. He seemed like a nice kid—albeit one who was remarkably adept at gaining access to locked vehicles. Belle gave him a ten-dollar tip, which he greeted with an effusive: “Thanks, lady … ma'am … I mean it! Thanks a lot.”

Belle tried for another smile, but found herself too cross or depressed or just plain aggravated to be successful.

Rosco was waiting on the porch as she pulled into the small drive of their home in Captain's Walk, an area that had once been the purview of eighteenth-century seafarers and that now housed three growing families, several “empty nesters,” and another young couple like themselves who appreciated the eclectic mixture of historical integrity and quirky modernity. Her husband was wearing a brand-new shirt, pressed chinos, and shoes with socks—a true mark of his unease and awe at finally meeting his illustrious father-in-law. Belle found herself wondering how long he'd been waiting in this fashionable pose, and grinned despite her cranky humor.
Rosco in socks! Who would have thought it?
The gesture—and his entire outfit—filled her with a comfortable sense of belonging.

Beside him sat Kit, their “found” mongrel puppy. The two created a picture that was almost too good to be true: a charming New England town home, interior lights flickering through ancient windowpanes to illuminate an exterior wicker settee, an old-fashioned letter box, and porch floorboards painted a soothing, time-worn gray. Even the rain now seemed pleasant and serene: a happy injunction to stay inside.

“Where's your father?” Rosco called out while Belle hurried up the walkway.

“He either missed his connection in New York, or else he's still in Florida … I take it he didn't phone—”

“No one called … Not even my client … Surprise, surprise. But I should have known better than to sit around waiting for him to beam in.”

Kit ran down the front steps to meet her mistress.

“Hi, Kitty … Ready for your supper?”

Rosco scrutinized his drenched wife as she ascended the stairs to the porch. “A wild guess … You locked your keys in your car again, didn't you?” His tone barely hid an amused and loving chuckle.

Belle stamped her wet feet, ran a hand through her dripping hair, then ruffled the dog's soft, brown ears. “I might have …”

Rosco squelched another urge to chortle. “I don't see why you refuse to keep a second set in your purse—”

Irritation at herself and the situation made her voice turn snappish. “But I'd only lose those too, Rosco! You know I would! And pretty soon, the entire city would be awash in misplaced keys … No, what I need to do is start concentrating on one thing at a time … You know, finishing a task before beginning another. Keeping a schedule and writing things down … Learning how to be organized—”

This time Rosco laughed in earnest. “I hope you're not serious about that resolution.”

“I am. Absolutely!”

His smile grew. “I tell you what, why don't you dry off, call down to Florida, find out where your dad is, and then I'll take you out for dinner.”

Belle gazed at him. “I still don't know why Father didn't bother to call. I mean, how difficult is that?”

“I'm sure he'll have an explanation.”

She shook her head. “He was the one who suggested this visit … in order to ‘atone for a lack of attendance at the May nuptials' … It's not that I was urging him to travel up North—”

“Belle … sweetheart … Families, what can I say? You're always telling
me
not to get bent out of shape by
my
loony relatives. Look how often
they
change plans in midstream.”

She was silent a moment, then sighed again, although this time it was a sound of release. “Anything exciting happen while I was gone?”

“A bunch of crossword puzzle submissions were hand-delivered from your office at the
Crier
. I put the envelope on your desk.”

Belle's expression turned rueful. “Sometimes, I wish I'd never started this project. Who knew that compiling a crossword collection could be such an exercise in weirdness? You've seen some of those submissions, Rosco … Not that the majority of them aren't interesting and well constructed—”

He put his arms around her. “My suggestion is that you take the evening off, leave this newest envelope unopened, and I take you to dinner.”

Belle looked up at him. “The Athena?”

“Why not? It's cheaper than going to Greece.”

“Which you promise we're going to do someday—?”

Rosco put his hand on his heart. “Which I swear, on all my ancestors' heads, we will do someday … Even if it means I have to get on a boat again.”

Nestled close, Belle sighed happily again. “I kind of hate to admit this, but I'm glad my father didn't show up tonight—”

“You're only putting off the inevitable, you know.”

Her mouth puckered into a playful smile. “I know. Call me rash. Call me heedless. It's been done before.”

CHAPTER 3

Al Lever, Newcastle's chief homicide detective, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and placed his feet on his desktop. His open jacket slid to the sides of his broad chest, revealing a .38 caliber revolver attached to his belt on the right side and his gold shield equally secured to the left. A paunch that had formed long before the onset of middle age sent rolls of flesh cascading over both official objects while Al leaned back in his chair and then smiled. It was the expression of a man who has at last found peace.

Lever positively lived for moments like this: the long, lazy afternoons of mid-August, the sky still light at six-thirty—despite the few lingering clouds produced by the recent summer storm. He lived for the quiet of a station house that had no pressing police business other than a minor fender bender involving some tourists from Idaho. He reveled in a world in which the usual cacophony of noises—the “Lieutenant! Call on line three!” or “Jones has those prints you ordered,” or “They just brought that Harper character in for questioning, Al,” or “Meeting in the ward room in ten”—were gloriously absent.

And this blissful experience of summer calm was why he hadn't left the station at the end of his shift. In his book, this kind of solitude was as good as it gets, and he'd been savoring it for a full half hour. That and his precious cigarettes—items his wife had banned from their house two months ago. For Al Lever, times like these were like being alone on a mountain-top in Montana (except that he'd never again be physically fit enough to hike a Montana mountain), and he was enjoying it for what it was: the ultimate P and Q.

He took another pull from his cigarette and watched the smoke turn green as it drifted toward the fluorescent light fixture on the ceiling. Then the smoke became a bluish-brown as it floated out the open window while a horn up on Sixth Street honked. The noise was subdued, almost apologetic.

The lieutenant let out a second happy sigh, but before he could raise his cigarette to his lips, his serenity was shattered by two loud taps on the glass-paneled door that separated his office from the world beyond. The taps were followed by Hal Davis, a soon-to-be-retired detective assigned to Newcastle's robbery division. Davis eased the door open.

“Sorry to bother you, Al, but I figured you'd still be here … There's a call on line three. A Boston detective by the name of Tanner. I think you ought to take it.”

“Homicide?”

“Nah … At least, I don't think so. Tanner doesn't think so.”