Wrapped Up in Crosswords (4 page)

Of course, both “girls” understood every word of this directive, although Kit's native tongue was Massachusetts Mutt and Gabby's California Canine. It was Belle and Rosco who were the least linguistically facile of the four residents of the house. They were familiar with only human discourse. But then, they could open the refrigerator door, and that was an ability highly prized by those who could not.

Kit rolled onto her other side in apparent acquiescence, then crossed her front paws once more.

“Okay, you two. No more fighting. As soon as I put the laundry away, Rosco and I are going to take you to the dog park to see your buddies. You both need to run off some steam.”

Kit sighed at Belle's naïveté; every canine knew that “walks” and “visits to the dog park” were intended as diversions for humans, not dogs. But then the poor two-legged things simply stood around talking rather than taking advantage of the wonders nature held in store.

“I'm not letting any darn birds into this house,” Gabby groused while Belle proceeded with her task and Kit turned her attention to Rosco's rolled running socks which were stowed in a drawer well out of her four-legged reach.

“Watch your mouth, Gabby,” Kit murmured, mesmerized by the sight of those round white balls which fit so easily between the teeth and are so pleasant to munch upon.

“You watch yours,” Gabby sneered back.

“Don't be flippant with me, young lady.”

“I'll eat them first, that's what I'll do. Birds. Yech. Those miserable little feathered—”

“Girls,” Belle ordered. “Now skedaddle. If you can't get along, we'll keep you separated. And you won't be able to spend the day napping on our bed.”

“Whose
bed?” Gabby demanded, but her meaning was lost on Belle.

Four

N
EWS
of Rosco's surreptitious crossword and his ill-conceived plan to introduce avian life into his happy home raced around the park and among the four-legged members of “the canine corps” as dire news often does—the yips and yowls increasing in disbelieving pain with each voiced opinion. But as far as the “corps'” human members were concerned—that being: Belle, Rosco, Abe Jones, Martha Leonetti (top-dog waitress at Lawson's Coffee Shop), and Bartholomew Kerr, the city's notorious if diminutive gossip columnist—the noises made by their four-footed friends were no more than their customary yaps and woofs and growls. But, of course, the humans were consigned to exchange their views in the most rudimentary manner: a Massachusetts version of the English language.

“You're friggin' kiddin' me,” Buster lamented. He was Abe Jones' companion, a part-chocolate Lab and a tough talker who hated to be referred to as a “Lab mix,” or a “Lab” anything. “I mean, jeez,” he'd complain, “this guy works in a friggin' forensic
lab
all day long … You'd think he'd want to claim I was a mixture of something else: Chesapeake Bay retriever or Gordon setter or something like that.”

To which Martha's saffron-gold Pekingese, Princess, would invariably respond: “Maybe because your retrieving skills are chancy, and you rarely ever
set.”
Belying her delicate—some might even say “prissy” appearance, her pouffe of a tail and silken ruff—Princess was every bit the salty-tongued original as was her two-legged friend and housemate, Ms. Leonetti.

But today, the normal quibbles and rivalries—even the compliments—were cast aside. Each canine visitor to the park, which stood on the spacious, cliffside grounds of the now-defunct Dew Drop Inn, was on high alert. Today, they'd have to let the humans perform their daily duty of standing around and gabbing with one another without any four-legged assistance. There would be no attempts to get them to toss a ball or stick or Frisbee. These people would need to invent their own form of exercise today.

“Lovebirds!” Buster yelped. “You remember the nightmare I went through when Abe's mom brought her dang parakeet for a visit? And that was just one tiny—”

“I recall that you tried to eat it,” Princess stated. She was wearing a cherry-pink coat with a white faux-fur collar. She was the only one among them with a wardrobe. The others forgave her the parade of outfits—all in shades of pink that complemented Martha's Lawson's uniforms. In Princess' estimation, her stylish attire set her a cut above. She cared not a whit if the colors were inspired by a coffee shop that stubbornly clung to its late 1950s' decor.

“And I would have, too, if old Mom hadn't spotted her sweetie-pie walking around on the dining room floor. That bird would have been nothin' but a couple of green feathers dangling from yours truly's juicy lips.”

There was a good deal of agreement on this point. Of course, they'd all heard Buster's story many times over, but the simple act of self-righteous revenge was always pleasant to consider.

“Man, that thing was an annoyance. Cheep, cheep, cheep, squawk, squeak. All the living day long. And when Abe's mom let the dang thing out of its cage it'd buzz me. I swear it did … Fly these little sorties over my ears—”

“Tell 'em about breakfast. When you were eating your kibble,” Winston wheezed in his authoritative manner. He was a massive and barrel-chested English bulldog who resided with Bartholomew Kerr. “The Boss,” as Kerr called Winston, was far too round for his frame, which resulted in a serious shortness of breath and the inability to run for more than a few feet at a time. He was also almost the exact opposite of Bartholomew—a man so diminutive and nearsighted as to seem almost molelike. What bound this disparate couple together were their differences: Bartholomew loved Winston's bellicose stance; “the Boss” loved Bartholomew because the guy obviously needed protection. “Old Bug-eye,” Winston liked to call him.

“Yeah, so, this little bunch of lime-colored feathers starts waddling across the floor toward my chow bowl—”

“The bird was walking on the floor?” Ace interrupted as he ambled over. Although the collie was the accepted king and commander of Hatch's Hardware Store, he'd grown a trifle forgetful and hard of hearing during the eighteen months since Stanley's wife—the boon companion to his puppy-hood—had died. Only very recently had Ace begun to discover some of his old
joie de vivre,
standing full-square on customers' feet and upsetting boxes of wall anchors or stove bolts with his long, resplendent tail. “Why would anyone be fool enough to allow a bird to roam the floor when a dog was present? Canines are predators, for Pete's sake. We have a reputation to uphold.”

“Oh, Ace, don't!” Princess protested, but her mincing manner and coy tone suggested she very much admired the big dog's swagger.

“Well, we are,” Ace reiterated. “That's what instinct teaches us, and you sure can't buck nature.” He would have continued in this vein if Gabby hadn't interrupted.

“Then what happened? Then what happened? Then what happened?” she insisted.

“Well, I was wolfing down my chow as per usual, and I catch the little creep out of the corner of my eye. And it's walkin' toward me, instead of away. So, naturally, I let out a growl …”

Audible approval greeted this statement. When threatened with a loss of foodstuffs or even a beloved bone or chew toy, what else would you do but show serious displeasure?

“… But the friggin' thing keeps marchin' toward me, all cocky-like with its wings puffed up as if it owned the place.”

“And then what happened?” Gabby repeated in an unfamiliar whisper.

“So, I growl at it again … I mean, who knows what these dopey things speak? Heads probably full of useless lyrics … Singing about Oklahoma or vindictive barbers, for all I know. But a growl's a growl. Even a birdbrain's gotta understand that.”

“And then?” Gabby yipped.

“And then Mr. Greenie hightails it straight across the kitchen floor until its little pink feet are standing right next to my bowl, and I'm thinkin' one more step, mister, one more step … But then Abe's mom suddenly pops her head around the corner and spots us and sings out: ‘Abe, come look, Buster's sharing his meal! What a sweet, kind, generous dog he is! There is such a thing as altruism in the animal kingdom, after all.' With that, I back up in disgust—natch; and the little thief hops up and into my friggin' chow dish and begins peckin' away … Ate my food!”

Noises of outrage and horror rose from the crowd. The climax to Buster's tale never failed to call forth primal emotions.

After his friends' reactions had died down, Buster added a take-charge: “End of story. Lesson learned: Birds belong outside where nature put 'em. Consequence and/or projection regarding avian affairs: We gotta' make sure the critters stay where they belong; i.e., what can we do to help you guys? One of them humans over there decides to get a little feathered thing that either cheeps or warbles, none of us is safe. I'm tellin' you, it's the thin end of the wedge. Maybe the humans' problem is that they spend all day walkin' around on their hind legs. Or maybe it's because they don't really exercise. I mean, most days, Abe goes to a place he calls ‘the gym', but he never comes home panting. Smells sweet as a rose, in fact. Also, these mental lapses of theirs could be due to sleep-deprivation. When have any of you see one of them take a decent morning nap?”

A number of grumbling “Mmmmms” greeted that assessment, but Buster wasn't finished. Like Abe, he liked to be thorough when presenting a case. “I've seen humans who don't eat real food, too. They munch on the kind of stuff rabbits eat.”

“Yuuucchhh! Rabbits!” the dogs spat out as a group, and the humans, still clustered on what was once the inn's rolling, ocean-view lawn, turned in worried surprise.

“They can't all be getting sick at the same time, can they?” Kit heard Belle ask.

To which Martha replied, “Well, Princess' nose was definitely on the warm side this morning. I think I'd better take her home. Especially as she doesn't seem the least interested in playing today. Actually, now that I mention it, none of them do. You don't suppose some type of kennel-cough could be going around?”

With that, the two-legged friends descended on the four-legged group that had gathered near the broad steps leading up to the inn's dry-rotted and collapsing veranda. Each dog's nose was felt, and a prognosis given. Martha tucked Princess away in a special primrose-hued carrying case, climbed into her car, waved, and drove off; but the other canines—with the exception of Winston—were urged on with sticks and balls and Frisbees. The afternoon had deepened into a coppery dusk; the water spreading below the inn's quirky and multiturreted facade was turning inky while the building itself, unlit and uninhabited, was black and sinister against the sky. It didn't look like a place anyone would have ever wanted to spend the night.

Five

A
T
eight-thirty the next morning, Belle was scheduled to deliver “Belle's Nöel,” this year's competition crossword to
The Evening Crier
for publication in that afternoon's
late
edition—with the winner to be announced in the
early
edition on New Year's Eve. As Al Lever and every other word-game fanatic in Newcastle knew, this was the “biggie” that “lexicographomaniacs,” or folks who were crazy about crosswords, looked forward to annually—much in the same way dieters rhapsodize about hot fudge sundaes with caramelized walnuts, real whipped cream, and a side of freshly baked super-chunk chocolate chip cookies.

The prize the
Crier
offered the winning contestant was always top-notch, this year being “a deluxe dinner for two” at one of the city's new, up-market restaurants, Porto. But the chance to outdo friends and neighbors was better than a physical reward. Like any competition, the rules were strict; completed puzzles had to be returned to Belle's
Crier
office by December 26; entrants with perfect scores were then eligible for a random drawing which took place in the office of the editor-in-chief on the morning of December 31, and involved the participation of a local bigwig—who was subsequently photographed with the lucky winner. No one in Newcastle was the least bit puzzled about the amount of attention given to a simple word game.

Before leaving home for her nominal downtown office—Belle's actual work space was the converted rear porch of the house on Captain's Walk—Rosco facetiously asked if she needed an armed guard to escort her, or handcuffs to attach her briefcase to her wrist during the short drive from their home to Newcastle's bustling commercial district. She was in the midst of straightening up her desk—a pretty futile effort—when he made the glib suggestion.

“Har har,” she responded, still shuffling through notes concerning potential word play, thematic choices, and lexical references, as well as a bunch of Post-its drawn with squiggles that only she could decipher. Sometimes her own less-than-legible handwriting made the task well-nigh impossible. Belle's hands stopped moving, and she looked up at her husband. Her astute gray eyes studied him for a long minute. “You're not planning to do anything shifty are you? To help Al … or anyone else?”

Rosco raised two hands in the air. “Hey … hey … I wouldn't swindle my own wife. Besides, I believe that's called cheating. And cheating, as we all know—”

“Because,” Belle interrupted; she knew that her husband could be very devious indeed. “Because, everyone has to be treated fairly. The puzzle doesn't appear until the
Crier
's second edition this evening. Then correct answers have to be received by—”

“I didn't say I was up to any hanky-panky, did I?” He placed his hands tenderly on her shoulders. “Speaking of which …”

“You're not attempting to distract me, are you?” Belle continued to regard him. She folded her arms across her chest.