CHAPTER 14

Belle paced through her house. She was anxious and more than a little jumpy. Every noise seemed to portend danger; she imagined weird and conniving figures creeping near the windows to spy inside. I’ve got to get a grip! she silently warned herself. Who’d be stupid enough to creep through the shrubbery on a gorgeous afternoon like this? Everyone on the block must be working in their gardens or painting shutters or something!

Despite the pep talk, she continued stalking edgily through the rooms on the first floor. Completing a third tour, she stomped up the stairs, entered the bedroom, and barged into the bath that had been so exuberantly tiled in a black and white facsimile of a gigantic crossword puzzle. Belle shook her head irritably, sighed, tightened her lips in indignant anger at both herself and the situation, then returned to the steps, banging her feet on the treads as she descended. I’m behaving like a cranky kid, she thought, but the realization didn’t diminish the uncomfortable sense of vulnerability nor Rosco’s suggestion that someone had actually been spying on them.

She strode into her office and glared at the windows as if daring a pair of eyes to be peering back. “This is ridiculous!” she huffed aloud. “I’m not a coward. I won’t be a prisoner in my own home.”

With renewed determination, she marched toward the front door, grabbed the tan canvas jacket she kept on the coat rack, jerked open the door—and stopped cold. The street was stunningly empty, the neighboring gardens deserted, her own little patch of flowers and grass devoid of all life but birds and squirrels, insects and worms. KIDNAPPED, Belle remembered. If anyone intended to snatch her away in broad daylight, Captain’s Walk on this astonishingly sleepy Sunday afternoon was the place to do it. Belle felt like whining in frustration.

She slammed the door shut, dumped her jacket on the floor, then slouched rebelliously back to her office. KIDNAPPED, she told herself as she whipped open her nearest English-language dictionary: “To seize or detain or carry away by unlawful force or fraud and often with a demand for ransom.” Ransom involves money, Belle reasoned; the victim is almost always a person of affluence which I, most definitely, am not.

She closed the dictionary with a bang. Could the crossword have been constructed as a different sort of warning? she wondered. Unlawful force or fraud. Was it possible there was a hidden message beneath the most obvious references to blood and death? She unfolded the puzzle and began perusing it afresh. There was ROSCOE with an “e” at 8-Down, the clue naturally being a slang synonym for gun: a Gat. SEN was the solution to 12-Down: Yen unit. But SEN was often the abbreviation for senator, and Senator Hal Crane was Sara’s well-heeled brother. Belle quickly dispensed with Rosco as a potential victim for the same reason she’d scoffed at considering herself. If a criminal wanted money, he—or she—would have to look elsewhere.

She stared at the letters again. Roger was the clue to 35-Down; RAY was the answer to 63-Down, ERMA at 66-Across. Belle sat back and thought for a moment. “Senator Crane,” she finally muttered. The illustrious brother of Sara Crane Briephs, the man upon whose yacht Belle and Rosco would be wed.

She reached for the phone, intending to call Sara, although how she intended to broach the subject of a potential—and questionable—kidnapping of a U.S. senator, she wasn’t certain, when the machine’s loud ring made her jump. Belle grabbed the receiver from its cradle, almost shouting a nervous “Yes?”

“Is this Annabella Graham?”

“Speaking.”

“My name is Elise Elliott. I’m a freelance journalist. I’m doing an article entitled ‘Novel Nuptials’ for the style section of the Boston Sentinel. The Sunday edition …?”

Belle was silent. She stared at her office in confusion; a moment before she’d been pondering federal offenses; now she was being asked to chitchat about wedding preparations.

“… I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday afternoon, Miss Graham, but it’s usually the best time to catch people at home. I wonder if I might ask you a few questions about your ceremony?”

“I … I have some important calls to make—”

“It won’t take a moment, I assure you. The story concerns couples who’ve chosen innovative settings for their nuptials. I read in the article on you in Personality that you were planning a marriage ceremony at sea?”

Reluctantly, Belle began responding to the reporter’s stock queries. “Yes, it’s Senator Crane’s boat, the Akbar,” she said, spelling the word. “The yacht was named for the great Mogul emperor—”

But Elise Elliott wasn’t interested in sixteenth-century India; instead, she interrupted with a cooing: “Will the senator be attending?”

Belle hesitated. Her brow wrinkled into a quick frown. SEN, she thought. Senator Hal Crane. “I’m not certain I should—” she began.

“Of course. Politicians are such busy, busy people, aren’t they? Was this wedding at sea your idea or should we credit the husband-to-be?”

“Ummm … Actually, it was my idea. He sometimes has a problem with the water … a touch of mat de mer.”

“That’s often the best way to conquer your terror; just put yourself straight in the line of fire.” Elise giggled, then immediately leapt to her next question: “Are you wearing a dress with a crossword design?”

“Pardon me?”

“In the Personality photo, your office is decorated with a word-game motif. I was wondering if you were continuing the black and white theme with your wedding attire.”

“I … ah—”

The reporter stopped her with another tinkling laugh. “You wish to keep your gown a secret, I see. That’s a wonderful touch! Traditionalists appeal to our readers.…” Belle heard the unmistakable sound of computer keys tapping out her response, but before she’d had a chance to object to this erroneous interpretation, Elise Elliott had moved on.

“I’m sorry for taking so long in getting your responses down, but this is a new notebook, and the computer commands are different from my old one. Ah … there … got it.… Now, would you mind sharing a quirky and intimate detail about your intended? I’m trying to keep a light and humorous feel to my story.”

Without thinking, Belle blurted out, “He doesn’t like wearing socks.”

“Oh, my, that is intimate!” Again, the tinselly laugh. “No socks, but a gun … This Roscoe of yours must be quite a pistol!”

Belle opened her mouth to speak, but before she could do so, Elise Elliott had rung off with a cheery: “Thank you so very, very much, Miss Graham. I hope I won’t need to trouble you again.”

Belle stared at the phone for only a second before grabbing the receiver again. Her fingers jabbed the numbers for Boston-area information, which she followed immediately with a call to the Sentinel’s main switchboard. “Does an Elise Elliott write freelance articles for you?” Belle asked as soon as the newsroom desk answered.

The voice that responded was harassed, tired, and abrupt. “Who?”

“Her byline would be—”

“Call back Monday, sweetheart. I don’t have time to hunt up every person who claims to write for this paper. If they don’t have an extension and voice mail, I don’t know them.”