CHAPTER 20

LEAVING BELLE’S HOUSE, ROSCO had been beset by a spectrum of contradictory emotions. Because of his concern for her safety, he was happy she’d agreed to relinquish her puzzle theory—although, deep down inside, he’d begun to suspect there might be some truth to it. He reasoned that whoever had killed Thompson Briephs and attacked JaneAlice was no one to be trifled with, and that putting distance between Belle and the case was the wisest course. However, Rosco also found himself inventing scenarios that would force him to consult her again. These scenes invariably ended with the two of them sharing a late dinner; and his thoughts would rotate full circle.

As he drove to Lynchville to meet Shannon McArthur, Briephs’ replacement at the Herald, Rosco warned himself not to involve Belle further. Then, as if that argument needed additional support, he muttered to himself, “Besides, she’s married—she’s married. Don’t play with fire, Bucko.” This dilemma in its various guises lasted all the way to Lynchville and the steps of Shannon McArthur’s home.

The Herald’s new crossword editor wasn’t remotely what Rosco had anticipated. He’d envisioned a bookish woman in her mid-fifties with graying hair and horn-rimmed glasses, but she was closer to his own age—besides being rather attractive in a wholesome, no-nonsense manner. She had athletic shoulders, broad for a woman and well-muscled arms that looked as if they’d handled their share of tennis rackets. A white polo shirt and twill shorts completed the picture, making her appear as if she’d just stepped off the courts. The only discordant note was an abundance of hennaed brown hair. As she led Rosco through her house and into the garden area, the afternoon sun reflected off her curls, turning them an arresting carmine red that didn’t match the camp-girl outfit or demeanor.

The back door of Shannon McArthur’s house opened onto a wooden deck overlooking a marshy waterway and the ocean beyond. In typical Newcastle fashion, a skiff bobbed lazily at a dock—as did a half-dozen similar vessels at neighboring residences. The impression was that every resident of the city and its surrounding suburbs depended upon boats for transportation. Rosco wondered how he’d avoided this communal maritime fascination. He felt like someone who’d arrived late at a party and missed all the fun.

“Why don’t we sit out here, Mr. Polycrates? It’s cooler. Would you like something to drink … a beer or something?”

“I’m fine, Ms. McArthur. Feel free to call me Rosco, if you’d like.”

“Only if you call me Shannon.”

“All right.”

They sat in wrought-iron chairs alongside a matching circular table shaded by a green, white, and red canvas umbrella advertising an Italian vermouth. A pleasant breeze blew in from the salt marsh, rippling the striped fabric and turning the umbrella’s wood pole until it squeaked. Even to Rosco’s unschooled mind the sound was definitely nautical.

“I’m sorry if I seem shaky,” Shannon said, “but I’m still terribly upset about Thompson’s death. And then of course this business with JaneAlice. That is why you called, isn’t it? To talk about JaneAlice?”

“Right,” Rosco said, perpetuating the tale he’d recited over the phone earlier in the day. “JaneAlice’s family feels that the police aren’t giving the incident the attention it deserves, so they’ve asked me to look into it. I appreciate you allowing me this time. You must be under a great deal of pressure to come up with a puzzle for tomorrow’s Herald.”

Shannon pulled a tissue from her shorts’ pocket and dabbed at the corner of her right eye, although Rosco saw no indication that any tears had formed.

“Well, I was prepared to start next Monday, so naturally I had some puzzles ready … The fact that JaneAlice misplaced Thompson’s remaining puzzles only pushed my schedule ahead by three days. It’s not really a problem … You don’t think JaneAlice’s beating had anything to do with Thompson’s death, do you?”

“It’s unlikely they’re related. The police feel it was a random mugging, and I’m inclined to agree.” Rosco studied Shannon as she digested this bit of bogus information. A look of relief settled on her tanned face while her brilliant red curls bobbed in the breeze. Again, Rosco was struck by the incongruity of hairdo and attire.

“Well, that’s good to hear.” As an afterthought she added, “I mean, it would be terrible to think that someone was targeting the crossword staff at the Herald.”

Rosco gave her a look of surprise. “What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know …”

“What do you imagine might be a motive? For ‘targeting’ Briephs and JaneAlice?”

Shannon stood and walked to the deck’s rail, staring across at a neighbor’s ten-foot motorboat. “I don’t know. It was only a thought …” Rosco heard a tone that seemed almost wistful, but before he had time to categorize it, she turned back with her Girl Scout smile. “Look, I’m going to get myself a Coke. All I have is diet … Would you like one?”

“Thanks.”

Shannon returned a few minutes later wearing a bikini top instead of the polo shirt. She handed a Coke to Rosco. “I thought I’d try to get rid of my farmer’s tan.”

Rosco looked up; Shannon had no apparent tan line on either her neck or arms; in fact she looked as if she made a habit of sunbathing in the buff. “How well did you know JaneAlice?” he asked.

“I only met her a few times. She seemed pleasant enough. Actually, it was Thompson I was close to. We went way back.”

“I’d heard there was some confusion about your puzzles a couple of years ago. Briephs had accused you of … of borrowing them? Is that true?”

“Plagiarism is the term he used; you don’t have to be afraid of saying it … It was an unfortunate misunderstanding. As I said, Thompson and I were very close.” She gave Rosco a smile indicating she and Briephs had had an intimate relationship. “We’d worked on those puzzles together … When we broke up—well, they became like displaced children in a nasty divorce. We both believed we owned them. I foolishly published them under my name, and Thompson had a fit.”

“Some divorces are like that. People find it impossible to forgive a partner’s indiscretions.”

Shannon responded too quickly. “Oh, not Thompson and I. We got over it in no time. Kiss and make up. That was us. That’s why I’m so upset.” She pulled another tissue from her pocket.

“The Herald’s personnel office said you were hired by Steven Housemann directly. Is that the way it usually works?”

Shannon’s eyes squinted into slits. “What’s that supposed to mean? I barely know Steve—Mr. Housemann. Besides, what does that have to do with JaneAlice?”

“Nothing. It’s just that I’m a crossword puzzle freak,” Rosco lied. “I was curious about how things work behind the scenes.”

She reapplied the tissue to her eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just so distraught over Tommy.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard anyone call him that …” Rosco began.

“I told you, we were close.”

“Of course … Let’s get back to JaneAlice and something you mentioned earlier. If you feel someone may be intent on eliminating the Herald’s crossword puzzle staff, aren’t you afraid you’ll be in danger when you take the job?”

“I thought the police believed it was a random mugging.”

Rosco stood and leaned over the deck’s railing, gazing at the meandering stream and the marsh grasses and cattails waving above the water. A red-winged blackbird flitted showily among them. “What do you think happened to Briephs’ three missing puzzles?”

“How would I know?”

“Do you think a mugger would’ve taken them? They weren’t in JaneAlice’s apartment or the Herald office.”

“I’m afraid I’m not much good at comprehending the criminal mind,” Shannon said pointedly. “I also fail to see what role those puzzles play. They’re totally useless now.”

Rosco straightened and crossed to the other side of the deck. “This is a nice spot. You can’t beat a water view. Pricey real estate, but I’ve always hankered after a place like this.”

“I’m fond of it.”

“What about this crossword woman at the Evening Crier?” he asked offhandedly. “What’s her name, again?”

“Annabella Graham. What about her?”

“Have you ever met her?”

“No. But to be perfectly honest, I don’t think much of her puzzles.”

Rosco chuckled. “Do I detect a little professional rivalry?”

Shannon began to laugh. “I suppose so. Okay, I’ve been entertained by the Crier’s puzzles … every now and then.”

“Do you think Ms. Graham was under consideration as Briephs’ replacement?”

“Not in a million years.”

“You sound awfully positive.”

“Look,” Shannon said. “What does this have to do with JaneAlice?”

“Well, on the off-chance the attack wasn’t random, I have to look at everyone’s motives. Someone might have simply disliked her—or someone could have known the missing puzzles would put Housemann in a real bind for tomorrows Herald … He’s supposed to be a control freak, isn’t he? … Can’t allow his paper to go to bed with anything amiss. A big empty square instead of a crossword puzzle would strike me as something that would make your new boss’s blood boil.”

Shannon gave another laugh. “You’re making me wish I hadn’t accepted the position.”

Rosco glanced at his watch. “I should be heading back to town. I appreciate your giving me the time … and the Coke. Good luck with the new job—and the ogre.”

They walked to the front door together, where Shannon gave him another white-toothed smile. “Good luck to you, too … I hope JaneAlice pulls through.”

Rosco shook her hand and ambled across the street to his Jeep. Shannon waved, then remained in that jovial attitude until he’d disappeared around the corner. After that, she walked into the living room, picked up a black cordless telephone and returned to the deck, where she punched in a number and waited for a man’s voice to answer.

“Steven, darling, thank heavens you’re still there.”

“How did it go, pumpkin pie?”