CHAPTER 16

LAWSON’S, THE COFFEE shop across from the Herald had become a Newcastle institution. It had been enthralling or infuriating customers for the past forty-odd years and its waitresses looked as if they’d been on duty since day one. So did its green-flecked Formica countertop and the booths whose banquettes were covered in cracked pink plastic. A newcomer might have expected the ads on the walls to run to hand-colored photographs of Ovaltine or Libbey’s Dairies—even a faded yet still demure Breck Girl wouldn’t have seemed amiss.

Rosco had taken a much-shaken Belle to Lawson’s time-warped haven in hopes that the abundance of smiling faces would comfort her in some small way. It was one of his favorite haunts in this city, a soothing gathering place where the congenial murmur of conversation was interspersed with boisterous orders to and from the fry-cook and the ever-present jangle of the tarnished tin bell haphazardly affixed above the door. The aromas of grape jelly, underdone toast, rubbery bacon and coffee mingled gleefully in the air.

“But, why?” Belle asked for the second time since they’d entered.

“Lever believes it’s armed robbery.” Rosco didn’t go into his contribution to the theory.

“But that’s a mistaken assumption, don’t you think?” Belle sat close to him in the booth as if she were suddenly icy cold. “I mean, doesn’t it look as if the same person who killed Briephs was trying to murder JaneAlice? As if she knew something that might be incriminating?” Belle shivered violently. “And she was almost unrecognizable?”

Rosco regretted including that particular piece of information, but added, “She’d been badly beaten,” as if it might somehow neutralize what he’d seen.

“I should send her some flowers, poor thing.”

Rosco didn’t answer for a moment. “She’s unconscious, Belle. She may not make it.”

Belle shivered again. “The scary thing is … this person is still out there.”

Rosco couldn’t dredge up any words of comfort. Deep down, he was as upset as Belle. Briephs’ death had been one thing, but the attack on JaneAlice struck closer to home. He’d been talking to her only yesterday morning and now she was on life-support.

“Lever’s a good cop,” he said as he glanced across the street. “He’ll catch whoever did this.”

“But he thinks it’s just a mugging …”

“He’ll dust for prints. He’ll be thorough.”

“Murderers don’t leave fingerprints! There aren’t going to be any at Windword Islands—that’s what you said. And if this was the same person who killed Briephs, there won’t be any in the garage either.” Belle’s large, frightened eyes leveled on Rosco’s.

Here was a cop’s toughest call: sympathy versus professional detachment. Rosco would have given his eyeteeth to remain hunkered down in the booth with Belle, but he had work to do.

“Look, Belle, Housemann said he’d be willing to give me a few minutes at nine-thirty. If I run across the street, will you wait for me here?”

Belle glanced out the steamy window toward the Herald’s imposing redbrick presence. Her expression changed visibly, as if she were persuading herself to remain calm and collected. “I’m fine.”

“And you’ll wait for me here?”

She tried to laugh. “Aye aye, sir.”

“You don’t have to be brave.”

“I am brave, though; that’s the odd thing. In fact, I’m beginning to think I’m completely unflappable.”

“I won’t be long. Housemann reminded me twice how valuable his time is—nicely, though.”

“You’re still not convinced I’m right, are you?”

Before dodging across the street, Rosco spotted a red-and-white Herald vending machine. He dropped in two quarters, slipped out the morning edition and flipped open the pages until he spotted the crossword. Then he folded the paper neatly and scooted back to Belle. “Something to occupy you. My treat. Oh, and order up some eggs or something. They’re great on the homemade hash browns … over-easy, that’s my favorite.”

“Eggs? I thought I mentioned that I’m broadening my cuisine.”

“Well, waffles or pancakes then … They use real maple syrup here.” He pointed at the Herald. “There are no answers to yesterday’s puzzle in there. I guess I’ll just have to trust you.”

“Thanks, Rosco.” She looked up at him. “I mean it. You’re a good guy … Don’t let Housemann push you around.”

Alone with the puzzle, Belle swiveled it to face away from her. She didn’t want to be tempted to fill in the blanks. The concept of a murderer being revealed in a word game had begun to seem absurd—as if she were treating Briephs’ death and Rosco’s investigation as a joke. JaneAlice’s beating seemed to attach a permanent chill to her bones. She looked out the window and drank her coffee. But gradually habit overcame her resolve, and she found herself glancing sideways at the puzzle. The fact that yesterday’s answers were missing had started to intrigue her. “Oh, all right,” she decided. “Rosco bought the thing. I might as well have a go at it.”

Slowly, she shifted the paper’s alignment, scanning the clues and blank spaces with professional speed. “Wow,” she murmured. “Another one …”