The Crossword Connection (9 page)

23.  '60s protest grp.

25.  White House mono.

27.  Sign

28.  Playwright David

29.  Catch

31.  “At the——”

32.  Consume

33.  Home of Ding Dong Daddy

37.  Hasty

38.  “——Suede Shoes”

39.  Ingrid in “Casablanca”

41.  The Greatest

43.  Dooley in “Casablanca”

46.  Indulge oneself

48.  “Whole——of Shakin' Goin On”

50.  River isle

52.  “——It a Pity”

53.  Wild Asian sheep

54.  No way to return from Aruba?

55.  Comforters

56.  Tired

61.  Basics

63.  Cast off

65.  Tam

66.  Self

67.  Thumbs up!

68.  Music choice

69.  Pitcher's stat.

70.  Bravo!

To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit
openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords

CHAPTER 10

“But what about 65-Across?” Rosco insisted. Tenacity kept him on his feet; he leaned over Belle as she finished inking in the
Sentinel
crossword. “Or 30-Across, for Pete's sake?”

Belle put down her red Bic pen and gave him a long, indulgent look. “It's a theme puzzle, Rosco. Look at the title. ‘King's Ransom.' Constructors have a field day creating them. You take names of flowers or world capitals, movie stars, anything … and find inventive ways of—”

“Come on, Belle.… First of all, I don't like anything with the word
ransom
in it. And look at 65-Across. You've got to see the connection there.”

“HEARTBREAK HOTEL? The answer merely follows the Elvis Presley theme. And I've got to add that the person responsible for this crossword did an excellent job. “BLUE
Suede Shoes,
which also references CARL
Perkins,
who recorded the same song and is found at 72-Across.…
Frankie
AND
Johnny
… ALL
Shook Up
… For cleverness, I liked that solution the best—”

“But Heartbreak Hotel was what Gus Taylor called the Saint Augustine Mission—”

“And the clue here is
Hanoi Hilton competitor,
providing a brainy bit of historical allusion. This is an interesting and challenging crossword, Rosco, but that's all it is. Nothing points to murder. And nothing remotely alludes to a serial crime or—”

Rosco groaned in frustration. “30-Across,” he said. “HARDHEADED WOMAN. We have an unidentified female victim. Carlyle's initial estimate on cause of death was—”

Belle interrupted. “And what's the clue?”

“Like a Barbie doll?”

She tilted her head in amusement. “I love you, Rosco, and I wish I could agree that this cryptic had some bearing on that poor woman's death, but I think we're just grasping at straws.”

“But
Anagram,
Belle! That's your nickname, right there in 1-Across!”

“Uh-huh. And we have
Detectives' traits
at 51-Across. And EDITH
Wharton
at 13-Down and
Playwright David
RABE at 28-Down. I don't mean to be glib, but the only hidden connections I can find are the king of rock and roll and literary lions, which are also kings of their own particular jungles.”

Rosco let out a resigned sigh and walked to the window. Almost miraculously, the sodden clouds of the prior two days had disappeared, leaving in their wake young grass so brilliantly green it stung the senses and an afternoon sky wafting with hope and golden light. “It was worth a shot,” he said.

“It was,” Belle agreed, then added an affectionate, “Al and Abe and Carlyle are working these cases, Rosco. Your job is to get married.”

“I spotted that
Anagram,
right away.…”

Belle cocked an eyebrow. “You never did explain how a puzzle klutz like you constructed a crossword marriage proposal. MARRY ME BELLE; I LOVE YOU DEAR. That was quite impressive.”

“That's for me to know and you to find out.”

Belle chuckled. “Oh, I'll find out, all right.”

Rosco caught himself grinning from ear to ear. “How about we drive to the beach, take a long, slow walk, and then have supper at the Athena?”

Belle sighed, but the sound was full of yearning. “How about we visit Cleo first, check on her kitchen's progress—or lack thereof—and then take a solitary stroll?”

“We'll never get out of Cleo's house without staying for dinner.”

“You said we weren't our families, Rosco.”

“Right … but walking into Cleo's house is a little like joining the Marines. You may have
entered
voluntarily, but
leaving
is another story; you're not going anywhere until your tour is up.”

The phone rang. Instinctively, Rosco grabbed it, barking a quick, “Yup?” into the receiver. Simultaneously, Belle reached for it, a mixture of astonishment tinged with indignation on her face. “Hello?” Rosco announced. “Hello?” He dropped the receiver back into the cradle. “Phone sales … The person didn't even have the courtesy to speak.”

“Did it occur to you that the call might have been for me?” Despite her smile, Belle's tone was cool.

Rosco attempted a joke. “If a man answers, hang up?”

“That's not what I meant, Rosco … but … well, this is my home, you know.”

“And soon to be shared, right?”

They remained silent for a minute, both suddenly engrossed in the magnitude of the adjustment they were anticipating. It was as if neither Belle nor Rosco had fully focused on the issue of joining two households before. Belle pictured her quiet little habits forever altered: working till all hours in her ancient and beloved terry cloth robe, dictionaries and encyclopedias lying open at her feet, a licorice stick dangling half-consumed in her hand; while Rosco envisioned the morning silence of his brisk routine: talk radio with The I-Man, a jog, a shower, the first jolt of coffee … all irretrievably transformed into chatty domesticity.

Then apprehension gave way to reflection. Rosco broke the ice. “Are we talking about phone etiquette here or something bigger?”

Belle thought, then reached for his hand. “Phone etiquette …”

“What do you say we discuss that over a candle-lit dinner?”

“I thought you said Cleo wouldn't allow us to desert her,” Belle teased.

“I'm marrying
you,
Belle, not the Marines.”

Sharon was in tears when Belle and Rosco pulled up to Cleo's driveway. “I can't tell you how sorry I am,” she kept saying, her big face livid with anguish. “I thought Geoff had a grip on the damn thing.…”

Cleo, torn between ire and sympathy, merely shook her head and stared at the badly dented cardboard crate lying in her drive. Geoffrey Wright's pickup truck loomed to one side with its owner standing irresolutely near the tailgate. “We'll order another,” he said. “It's no big deal.”

Cleo's response was waspish. “And
when
will
that
arrive?”

The usually take-charge artisan thought for a moment before offering a noncommittal, “We can put a rush on the order.”

“I've ruined Belle's wedding!” Sharon moaned. It was at that moment that Belle stepped out of Rosco's Jeep. Her heart flip-flopped when she heard the words; she tried to smile, but the effort felt sticky and false.

“What happened?” she finally managed.

Cleo turned to her future sister-in-law. “Geoffrey and Sharon drove over to Ace Plumbing and Electrical to pick up the
new
dishwasher. They came back. Prepared to
unload.
And
voilà!
The top-of-the-line
Miele
that's been
back-ordered
for almost two
months
fell off the truck.”

“It was my fault,” Sharon said. “I thought Geoff had—”

Rosco looked at the three women's stricken faces. “It's just a dishwasher, right? We're not talking a broken hip.”

Sharon began crying afresh, while Cleo gave her brother a nasty glance. “It's the
one
piece of kitchen equipment we've been
waiting
for, Rosco. Without it, the refurbishment simply
can't
proceed. Sorry, Belle. We'll have to make
other
arrangements for the party. Maybe Ariadne can … No, her home is
far
too cramped—”

“We can use paper plates, Cleo,” Rosco offered. “Nothing to wash. No muss or fuss—”

Cleo's response was biting. “We can't leave a vast
hole
in the
cabinetry,
Rosco. There's no countertop!”

Sharon echoed a similar objection: “I can't finish laying marble without all the major appliances in place. I won't risk chipping my stone trying to slide the dishwasher under it.”

Belle said nothing.

“Sorry for the setback, Tinker Bell,” Geoffrey Wright finally proffered, then reiterated his hopes that a replacement machine could be found. “Maybe by midweek,” he said.

“That simply isn't
possible,”
Cleo interrupted. “The Miele was
back-ordered
—”

“From the factory, Cleo. From the factory. But, when stock finally reaches the wholesalers, it doesn't take a genius to scare up another model.”

Cleo's face remained grim, but Sharon's brightened considerably. “I'll go back to Vermont for a couple of days, make sure the lambs are okay and the barn still standing. We can start fresh on Wednesday … Thursday, at the latest. By Saturday, I'm sure we'll have—”

Belle finally spoke. “Perhaps we should arrange to have the party at my house, Cleo. With a little effort we could—”

But Rosco's sister wouldn't hear of the suggestions “I wouldn't
dream
of welcoming you into the Poly crates family without throwing a big Greek
bash.
Don't worry Tinker Bell, we'll get this worked out if it kills us all in the process.”

CHAPTER 11

Carlyle was in his element. For one thing, it was approaching noon on Sunday, and he'd been ensconced in the basement autopsy room of the Newcastle Police Department since well before seven
A.M.
For another, he'd been examining the city's most recent homicide victim, an
unidentified
body, to boot, and one where the cause of death wasn't as obvious as a cobblestone to the head. The third piece of this satisfactory equation was that Carlyle was not alone. Al Lever was in the morgue with him, having been forced to relinquish his treasured Sunday morning tee time in favor of this chummy tête-à-tête. That solitary fact provided Carlyle with more than a little sadistic glee.

He smiled to himself as he stared at the cadaver lying blue and exposed on an icy metal table, then jotted a few notes in quick, cribbed shorthand, and finally resumed eating a cheeseburger with his ungloved left hand. Droplets of ketchup threatened to spill from the greasy, yellow paper. “Good,” he said, although it was abundantly clear to Al Lever that the medical examiner's pleasure was not derived from the folks at the local Burger King.

“I don't know how you can do that,” Lever said. He was smoking furiously. Veteran cop though he was, Al couldn't stomach the smell of the autopsy room.
Methane gas and butyric acid,
he told himself repeatedly;
they're natural; they're organic compounds.
But the exhortation did nothing to dispel the churning of his stomach. Lever took another long drag on his cigarette and reiterated his comments on Carlyle's peculiar dining habits.

“Hmmm?” The medical examiner didn't look up.

“Eat …? I don't know how you can eat that stuff down here.”

Carlyle gave Lever the briefest of glances. “Yeah,” he admitted, “burgers gets cold real fast in the lab. I shouldn't have bolted the fries first, but hell, they're no fun cold, either … one of life's unpleasant little decisions.” He opened his mouth for another mammoth bite, chewed and swallowed noisily, then returned to perusing his clipboard.

“Yep. Blunt trauma,” he announced smugly. “Just as I surmised during my initial examination.” He polished off the cheeseburger, crushed its tomato-speckled wrapper, and wiped his fingers on a paper napkin, which he then rather fussily balled up and disposed of with a slam dunk into a corner trash can. The attention given to tidying away his meal seemed disproportionate to his concern for the corpse. Lever sensed an unwillingness on Carlyle's part to make eye contact.

“X rays don't lie, Lieutenant. Especially when we can zap 'em with those deep, fifteen-minute exposures. Nice not to worry about radiation overload, not on folks who are already demised. Bottom line: your lady took a hard whack from behind. A relatively quick death, like I said. Hanging can be a lot messier. People don't like to admit it, but that's the truth—”

“So we can rule out any possibility of strangulation?”

“Absolutely.” Carlyle chuckled, keeping his gaze lowered but shaking his head from side to side as if he were dealing with a fifth-grader.

Al focused on the tube lights that hung in pairs throughout the room; he concentrated on the independent ventilation system, the security locks, the motion detectors; what he avoided was the pervasive odors of human remains, fried hamburger meat, and greasy fries.

“Could the weapon have been similar to the one that killed Freddie Carson? A cobblestone, a brick, possibly a tire jack?”

“You found a tire jack at the scene?” Carlyle asked, finally allowing his eyes to meet Lever's.

“No, it's just something that popped into my head.”

“Well, it could've been a jack handle maybe, but there's no way this was done with a brick or stone; otherwise, we would've had skin abrasions, blood.…” Carlyle pointed at the corpse. “The weapon made contact here, at the base of the skull. We've got eight pairs of cervical nerves protected by the first few cervical vertebrae. You crush one of those bones, and the party's over. Whatever did the damage was round and smooth, like a pipe or something. Jones lifted hair samples from the nape of her neck for analysis.…” Carlyle shrugged. “Everything leaves a trail … a footprint. It may take Abe a few days, but he'll be able to determine if the weapon was a baseball bat, a tire jack, or a golf club. I hear tell golfers can be touchy people.”