CHAPTER 8

ROSCO REFUSED TO admit he was a landlubber—not after thirty-eight years as a native in a water-mad city like Newcastle. But the fact was he couldn’t set foot on a boat without turning green and panting like a dying fish. Peter Kingsworth, Patriot Yacht Club’s harbormaster, who was now ferrying Rosco to Windword Islands in the club launch, noticed his passenger’s discomfort immediately. “Not feeling too slick, are you, Rosco?” he shouted above the staccato rap of salt waves attacking the Fiberglas hull. Peter was the square-shouldered, sun-bronzed descendant of a long line of Massachusetts fishermen. He had no use for men who couldn’t tie a sheepshank or half hitch. He revved the launch’s engine; the boat lunged forward while Rosco lurched against the gunwale. “I’ll have you there in no time.” Peter beamed. To Rosco the smile looked less than consoling.

As the launch cut a wide rooster-plume of spray and circled toward Windword’s pier, he had the sensation of being watched by a second pair of very amused eyes. He glanced at the pier as Belle Graham called down, “I hope you don’t mind my joining you. I couldn’t help myself.” Her long tan legs dangled over the dock’s side, and her hair blew white-gold in the sunlight.

“Tell me you didn’t bring deviled eggs.” Rosco wasn’t certain if he was happy to see her or not.

“Not a one.” Belle reached out and offered Rosco a surprisingly strong grasp that helped pull him to safety. “I see you’re not accustomed to water travel.”

“It shows?” The question contained more than a little wounded pride.

“I’m Peter,” Kingsworth called out.

Rosco’s nemesis leapt agilely onto the pier, securing the launch’s twin lines with a quick, professional ease.

“Belle.”

“Glad to meet you, Belle.” The amperage in Peter’s grin could have been used to signal battleships. “How come I’ve never seen you at the yacht club?”

“Because my little boat and I are much more comfortable at the public marina. Nothing personal, Peter, it’s just closer to home.”

Rosco decided that if the ocean’s swells hadn’t made him puke, the continued presence of the harbormaster might. “Since I’m here with professional jurisdiction,” he announced more stiffly than he’d intended, “Peter, you’ll have to wait with the official vehicle … launch … vessel … whatever … Belle … well …” Rosco watched humor playing in the shadows of her face, and was suddenly conscious of a genetic need to impress her. “You can accompany me. You may be able to supply answers about Briephs’ business practices.”

“Aye aye, sir.” She smiled.

Rosco imagined the expression gracing Peter’s sunny countenance as well. He studiously avoided glancing in the harbormaster’s direction.

The inside of Windword came as a shock to both visitors.

“I had no idea …” Belle whispered. “I’d heard it was an almost exact replication, but not like this … Not—”

As their eyes grew accustomed to the dim and umbrous light, Rosco and Belle moved slowly forward into the foyer. High, curved walls stained a mottled bloodred gave the impression of entering a man-made cave, while variously shaped doorways lured the eye toward a murky, invisible interior. At the same time, the baked-in heat of the rocky exterior vanished completely, leaving the stone and stuccoed walls cool to the point of chilliness.

“Not like what?” Instinctively, Rosco moved close to Belle’s side as if she needed protection.

“Well, look at these rounded surfaces … look at the variations of shading … as if ancient pigments were used, cinnabar, perhaps and annatto … and the bronze torchères … the chiseled stone floor … the ceiling.” Belle gaped at the tall space above her head. “This must be an exact replica.”

“A replica of what?”

“A royal residence built during the period of the Minoan civilization.” Rosco’s blank gaze made her hurry to explain. “A Bronze Age culture centered on the island of Crete … It began in 3,000 B.C. or thereabouts, reaching its pinnacle about the time of the Middle Kingdom in Egypt—that’s pre-ancient Greece … A favorite form of entertainment focused on bulls frolicking with half-clothed athletes.” When Rosco continued to stare, she added. “Crete is in the Aegean … near Greece.”

“Thank you. My name’s Polycrates, in case you’d forgotten.”

“So, I’m to assume you have the rest of this information at your fingertips? King Minos … the Minotaur … Daedalus and the Labyrinth at Knossos … Theseus …?”

Rosco’s silence prompted a half-joking “Please spare me any displays of the male ego.”

“You’re telling me this place is a scaled-down version of one of those ancient castles?”

“That’s what my husband told me … I found it hard to believe anyone would—or could—replicate a Minoan royal residence in Newcastle. But from what I’ve seen so far, Garet was correct in his assessment.”

They moved up a half flight of rough-hewn granite steps and began traversing a dark, windowless passage. Open doorways led into shadowed rooms. The pervasive crimson and ebony color scheme reminded Rosco of an artist’s conception of hell. “But you’ve never been here before, correct? Your husband was invited, and you weren’t … Why is that?”

“Thompson’s entertainments were strictly stag events.”

“Lever told me he picked up prostitutes when he needed a special treat.”

“Did he now?” was all Belle replied.

“I’m not insinuating your … I mean … Never mind.”

Belle’s lack of response further flustered Rosco. “I’m only repeating what Lever said. I didn’t know Briephs, of course.”

“Nor did I,” Belle answered after a moment. “Not enough to count.”

They pressed forward, following a corridor that twisted one way, then another, seemingly wrapping back on itself while floor tiles of the same ombréd, carnelian red echoed and enhanced the spiral. Rosco felt he was walking in circles and said so.

“That’s the brilliance of the architect’s vision,” Belle told him. “It must be the Labyrinth—or a modern-day version.”

“The Labyrinth’s the place this Minotaur guy ruled?”

“No, Minos was the king. The Minotaur was a creature who was supposedly half-human and half-bull; he was reputed to be an offspring of King Minos’ wife, Pasiphaë.”

“That stuff’s a little racy for me. I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy.”

“And Greek, as I recall.” Belle grinned in the pale light. “The tale gets worse … The Minotaur was confined in a mazelike, underground arena called the Labyrinth; the place was designed by an imprisoned Greek architect named Daedalus—the father of Icarus, the boy who flew too close to the sun. But that’s another story … Anyway, this man-beast combination was periodically supplied with a selection of handsome Athenian youths and lovely maidens: tribute due the island kingdom following a war between Greece and Crete. Presumably, the young people who found an exit from the Labyrinth did so; the rest were never seen again.”

“I’m not crazy about stories involving sexual abuse of minors, I never was.”

“You must have made a squeamish cop.”

Rosco looked at Belle. She wasn’t smiling in the slightest.

“Some of us get out of the force with our morals intact.”

Belle’s expression remained pensive. After a moment, she continued: “Well, I don’t believe the Minotaur myth revolves around sex. The monster was supposed to eat the youths.”

“Ah, well.” Rosco shrugged. “That’s okay, then.”

Belle touched his arm. “It’s a myth, a fairy tale … But the legend does inform many of the ways archaeologists study the ancient culture. The Minoan civilization was fixated on bulls, as well as on beautiful young men sporting long ringlets—and their counterparts: voluptuous, bare-breasted girls in gauzy skirts … I’m sure we can find an example of the type of artwork I’m referring to in Thompson’s collection. I’ve heard he has several pieces that are downright lubricious … smutty.”

“I know what ‘lubricious’ means.”

Belle smiled but didn’t speak.

They climbed the stone stairs to the master suite, where the sight of Briephs’ recreational-sized bed, to which four nylon stockings were still tied, made Belle grimace in disgust. The indentation made by the body was still in evidence. Rosco moved cautiously around the scene, studying everything without disturbing a speck of dust. Belle kept her distance as though her feet had sprouted roots.

“I see why someone like Lever would arrive at his assessment,” Rosco muttered.

His words jolted Belle into reacting. “Those are awfully thick stockings,” she mumbled.

Rosco scrutinized one, without touching it. “What are you saying?”

“They’re thick and they’re ugly … Bargain-basement support hose … the kind old ladies buy.”

“Well, maybe Briephs liked to be tied up extra tight.”

Belle considered this; Rosco could see how repellent she found the suggestion—and the place. He began wondering if he’d been wise to allow her to join him. Death had a tendency to color the air long after the body had been removed. The scene wasn’t for the uninitiated.

“Maybe …” she finally agreed. “But I don’t think he would have bought hose like that … Not if he wanted to pretend a woman had tied him up.”

Belle edged past the bed, and entered the bathroom, from which Rosco heard a startled gasp. “You’d have to be a perfect physical specimen to face this house of horrors every morning.”

Rosco joined her. “He was into looking at himself, that’s for sure.” Life-sized and miniature Belles and Roscos ricocheted across every flat surface, mirroring and distorting the pair until they stood backward, sideways and on their heads.

“The Thompson Briephs mutual admiration society,” Belle murmured while Rosco studiously failed to respond. “There’s something definitely odd about this place,” she added. “Even you’re beginning to look like a satyr.”

Belle returned to the bedroom, creeping past the hosetied bed to examine a cabinet containing Briephs’ rarest treasures. The first artifact she spotted was a painted faience statuette of a woman whose tight bodice was pulled open to expose her large breasts. Her figure was hour-glass perfection, and her nipples jutted forward demandingly. Clenched in her outstretched hands were two writhing snakes that seemed to lunge toward the viewer. Belle had never seen such a perfect example of Minoan art before.

Beside the statuette was a steatite vase. Again, the applied colors were bold and bright, as if three thousand years since its creation hadn’t intervened. The design depicted a boy with a tiny waist, broad shoulders and slim hips; a semi-smile was fixed on his face while his long, curly hair exposed his neck. The youth faced the backside of a kneeling bull.

“You should look at these, Rosco, if you want an idea of what I was talking about,” Belle called.

Joining her, he was silent for several moments. “This is the kind of stuff your husband likes?” The question was tinged with a healthy dose of disapproval.

“He’s an Egyptologist, but, yes, he admires this period, as well.”

“I see.” Another long pause. “Well, live and let live, I guess.”

“Historically, the Minoan Age is a complex period,” Belle said.

While Rosco prowled Windword’s dining area and kitchen, muttering a thoughtful, “One wine goblet appears to be missing from the cabinet, assuming it was a set of twelve … shards of broken glass on the floor near the sink …” Belle paced the living room, marveling at the peculiar time-warp feel of the place. It was like stepping through an art historian’s monograph and into the presence of a dead civilization. The fact that Newcastle’s harbor remained hidden behind windowless red walls only heightened the sense of dislocation.

She stared at the built-in divans; they only seemed to be lacking royal personages and their naked slave retainers. She imagined Briephs reclining here in splendor, but the picture made her shudder as if she’d suddenly taken a chill. To clear her thoughts, she decided to study the furniture’s construction, curious as to whether Briephs had continued his strange fantasy by ordering authentic timber framing for the pieces. Careful not to touch the fabric surface, she knelt in front of the longest divan and peered beneath it.

What she discovered weren’t wooden pegs, however, but an empty loose-leaf notebook. Three sheets of blank quarter-inch draftsman’s graph paper hung loosely from the three rings; they were the exact type she used to construct her crossword puzzles. Without thinking, she grabbed the notebook. “Rosco, look at this. Thompson’s workbook.” Hurrying toward the kitchen, she met Rosco halfway.

“We should be careful about what we touch. In case the police decide to dust.”

“I completely forgot … I’m sorry. I was being so careful before.”

“Where did you find it?”

Belle gestured sheepishly. “Under the large divan …”

“I guess there’s no harm done. But in case the police do come out to dust for prints …” Rosco shrugged. “Well, we know whose not to take seriously.” He studied the notebook. “Just blank pages.”

“I know. Isn’t that weird?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if he was anything like me, he would’ve had some work in progress. I think something’s missing.”

Back at home, Belle was tempted to take the rest of the day off. Her jaunt with Rosco had left her restless and vaguely dissatisfied with life. Her existence seemed pat and ordinary, and she felt momentary dismay as she walked through the front door and stared at the perfect harmony of the entry hall and living room. The rooms looked like a layout for a Martha Stewart photo-shoot: “How to restore and renovate your charming period home.”

Belle silently cursed her absent husband for his impeccable taste, but that sentiment only aroused more complex emotions. Garet had seemed such a wonderful match when they’d wed: An intellect to challenge hers, complementary interests; she’d imagined a cozy future spent solving philosophical conundrums, a circle of fascinating and witty friends, long, convivial dinners pondering themes of earth-shattering relevance. But somewhere along the way their dual personalities had begun to drift irretrievably apart, leaving Garet to increasingly withdraw into his work while Belle “played” at making word games. Even her prowess at language had ceased to impress and charm him. It seemed to Belle that he somehow felt she had failed to meet her potential.

Belle sighed and wandered toward her office, snagging a plate of deviled eggs from the fridge on the way. She compulsively gulped down two, then lifted the copy of the morning Herald from the floor.

“Well, let’s see what the competition’s up to.” Until she’d said the words aloud, Belle hadn’t considered that it would be necessary for the Herald to replace Thompson Briephs. She flipped through the entertainment section of the rival paper, wondering who had edited the daily puzzle.

When she found the crossword on page 16, she was startled at its unconventional form; letters had been left dangling and the shape was erratic. Nevertheless, she scanned the clues for one of Briephs’ trademarks, and at 9-Down, discovered what she was looking for. Ref. work … three letters, abbreviation starting with an “O” … She concluded that the puzzle must have been an uncompleted work on file at the Herald, then picked up her red Bic pen and casually began filling in the blanks. Belle prided herself on working in ink—although she was never ashamed to cross out one answer in favor of another—or another. Naturally, Garet considered this behavior “reckless”—and naturally, she made a point of writing everything in ink.

She muttered to herself as she worked, “Theatre folk … six letters … Hmm, I’ve used that one … In a jam …? Good … typical Briephs’ pun … 31-Across: Bacall to Bogie … Darn, what was his nickname for her …?”

Momentarily stumped on 52-Across, she worked the Down columns until she discovered the answer, then sat bolt upright in her chair. She grabbed the telephone and called Rosco. “You’re not going to believe this,” she announced without waiting for the customary exchange of pleasantries.

Rosco let out a heavy sigh. “Belle, I’m working on a case here—”

“I know, but I think I’ve found the answer.” Without giving him time to respond, she hurried ahead. “I just finished today’s crossword in the Herald. Its form was peculiar, but you can’t imagine what words showed up.”

“Belle—” His voice softened a little.

“TRAP, MAIL, BLACK and HOSE—”

“You called to play a game of twenty questions?”

Belle ignored his irritability. “It’s obviously Briephs’ puzzle, Rosco. And I think he’s trying to tell us something.”

“Like what …? He was trapped and killed by a black male with a garden hose?”