CHAPTER 23

ROSCO PEERED OVER Belle’s shoulder as she rapidly inked in the final answer to Briephs’ handwritten puzzle: 48-Down: SURER.

“Well, you were right,” he said, looking at 52-Across and barely able to contain his laughter, “SHANNON MCARTHUR has fifteen letters in her name … of course, so does BARTHOLEMEW KERR, which even I knew, thanks to the man himself … Not to mention some other people we all recognize, like 16-Across there.” He pointed at ANNABELLA GRAHAM.

Belle glanced up at Rosco. “Well, of course. I always knew my own name stretched perfectly across a puzzle. Obviously, with this we have to throw out my fifteen-letter theory.”

“Whoa, whoa. I don’t know, not so fast there … Maybe I should drag you down to Lieutenant Lever’s office for questioning. Where were you on the evening of Briephs’ death?”

“Don’t get too high-handed—your name also has fifteen letters, in case you’ve been too dense to notice.”

Rosco began counting the letters of his name on his fingers. Belle did her best to ignore him.

“So,” she continued, “there must be something else in these puzzles. Briephs’ cryptics were never that simple. He isn’t giving up the identity of his killer as easily as I’d originally hoped. But it’s here, I’m certain of it. Look at 35-Down: HEREIN may be seen … murder, and 1-Down: ‘Dead Men Don’t Wear PLAID.’ 1-Across: Scheme becomes PLAN … And 45-Across: MURDERS? All these hints at plots and killings … such as 28-Across: ABEL, 28-Down: ABE—another excellent reference to John Wilkes Booth, by the way … And 5-Across: STABS … 10-Across: ASP.”

Rosco sat in the black-and-white deck chair across the desk from Belle and stared into space.

“What?” she asked.

“I’m thinking.”

“Obviously you’re thinking. But what about?”

“The implausibility of all this. Maybe these names are only intended to arouse suspicion. A list of people who’d be happy to see Briephs out of the way. It’s possible he had no idea who wanted to kill him, and he was hoping that whoever it was would become rattled by seeing his, or her, name in print and give themselves away … After all, Kerr’s skipped town.”

A beaming smile spread across Belle’s face. She folded the puzzle into a paper glider and sailed it toward Rosco. It bounced off his chest and landed in his lap. “Don’t tell me you think I might be correct after all?”

He unfolded the puzzle, forced himself to take a serious tone and avoided making eye contact with her. “It’s possible.”

“Thank you, Mr. Generosity.”

“The thing is, there’s just not enough information. If these puzzles do amount to anything, we definitely need the two we’re missing.” Rosco studied the creased piece of graph paper. By rights, he knew he should be working on the case in his office, but he was having trouble leaving Belle. “Do you mind if I think out loud?”

“As long as you keep it clean.”

Again, Rosco avoided her eyes. “Strictly business,” he said while he perused the puzzle. “Okay, the crosswords are one thing; if there are clues, they create more questions than answers. One: Who stole them from JaneAlice? Two: Why mail one to Kerr? And why did Kerr shred the envelope? Because now there’s no real proof it was sent through the post office in the first place. We only have Kerr’s say-so. And why did he fly the coop? Three: Where are the remaining two puzzles? Have they been destroyed? Will they be mailed to Bartholomew? To someone else? And it all comes back to: Why didn’t the killer destroy the puzzles in the first place?”

Belle placed her elbows on the desk and leaned forward, resting her face in the palms of her hands. “Do you think you should have taken this to Lever first? To look for fingerprints or whatever the police do?” There was real concern in her voice, as if in her enthusiasm she’d overlooked what she believed was the first rule in any criminal investigation. “Haven’t we been tampering with evidence or something?”

“Kerr had already thoroughly compromised the evidence. You saw how mangled the paper was when you took it from me. Besides, I have a fairly good idea what Al would have said if I dragged in a limp piece of graph paper and presented it to him as evidence—and it wouldn’t have included words I’d use in mixed company.”

Belle stared at the puzzle. Rosco was right; it resembled a discarded paper towel. And though she didn’t know Lever, she could guess his response. “I still don’t understand why Kerr received this. Why would anyone go to the trouble of stealing the puzzles from JaneAlice—and then turn around and make them public?”

“Maybe Kerr’s our man. He seemed awfully anxious to get out of town.”

“I’ve met him, Rosco. And you’ve met him. Do you think he’s capable of killing anything more menacing than a housefly?”

“Over the years I’ve come to realize murderers come in all shapes and sizes. No … the answers He with JaneAlice.” Rosco pulled a small notepad from his pocket and flipped through it. “Do you mind if I use your phone? I’d like to call St. Joseph’s Hospital.”

Belle turned the phone around to face him. “Be my guest.”

Rosco punched in St. Joseph’s number and eventually got through to the nurses’ station where JaneAlice was under observation. He was told that her X rays showed no evidence of permanent damage and a full recovery was possible—although the prognosis remained guarded. As the patient had yet to regain consciousness, there was still cause for concern. Accordingly, she was currently listed in critical condition. After hanging up, Rosco explained the situation to Belle.

“Not much help there,” she said. “Now what?”

“Back to the basics. At this point, the puzzles are a dead end. Logic would indicate the murderer recognized something in the first puzzle to warrant an attack on JaneAlice. But then logic flies out the window when you consider he gets the remaining puzzles, and turns around and mails one to Kerr.”

“He … Or she.”

“Right, he or she. I’ll have to pick up my investigation where I left off—with Betsey Housemann.” Rosco gave Belle a serious look. “I want you to promise you won’t go snooping around on your own. At the risk of sounding redundant, we’re dealing with a murderer. So please don’t do anything without clearing it with me first.”

“I appreciate your concern, Rosco, but I’m not a child. I’m not stupid either. I know how to handle myself, and I’m not prone to reckless deeds. Besides, I’m also adept at keeping out of the way.”

“I’d hardly call you ‘in the way.’”

“Thanks.” Belle glanced through the window at her small city garden, and as Rosco’s warning started to filter through her brain, she began worrying about his safety as well. She shook her head slightly, smiled at him and said, “Now I have some advice for you: Be careful with Betsey Housemann. She may not be a man-killer, but she’s definitely a man-eater.”

“Sounds like my kind of gal.”

They walked out to his Jeep together and Belle watched as he drove off. His warning seemed incongruous on a day this hot and sunny and obviously summery, a time for beach picnics and lazing in the ocean’s languid waves, not lying in a hospital bed hooked up to a monitoring machine. Belle perched on her porch’s wicker settee pondering JaneAlice’s and Thompson Briephs’ dual fates. The crimes created a paradox that didn’t jibe with the Newcastle that Belle knew; in fact, she realized that if she hadn’t met Rosco she would have had difficulty believing that Briephs’ death and JaneAlice’s comatose state were interconnected—or that the attacks had even been committed with lethal intent.

“I wonder,” she murmured aloud. “I wonder …” But the sudden yip of a dog in a neighboring street scrambled further speculation. Belle stirred out of her funk. Captain’s Walk looked as serene as ever, the adjacent gardens with their hollyhocks and hostas and cosmos as quaint as they’d always been. Violent death didn’t intrude in a place as picturesque as this. Belle stood, lazily locked her front door, stepped off the porch and strolled the brick walk down to the small family-run grocery store a block and a half from her house.

There she exchanged the usual banter with the shop’s owners, received their customary jests about her culinary prowess while she paid for a dozen eggs, a small jar of mayonnaise and another jar of capers. Then she ambled slowly home wondering if paprika actually had a discernible flavor. That conundrum led to cogitations on saffron, how rare and precious it once had been, and how, despite the prohibitive cost, the streets of Rome had been sprinkled with saffron when the emperor Nero entered the city. The entire trip—including Belle’s roving theories—took less than twenty minutes.

On the porch, she set her bag of groceries on a small wicker table and unlocked the dead bolt on the door, then retrieved the bag and reached for the doorknob. It refused to turn. Belle tried it a second time, but the lock on the knob had been latched as well—something she never did.

Her first thought was that Garet had come home. He was notorious for locking every door and window in the house, even if he was only strolling to the corner for a newspaper. However, Garet wasn’t fond of surprises. Surprises bordered on the romantic; Garet did not. For all his intellectual acumen, he’d never been comfortable with creativity. Their house was the quintessential example of that thought process.

Belle shook her head, decided she’d double-locked the door without thinking, and fumbled with her keys until she found the one belonging to the doorknob. She slipped it in, but stopped short of turning it.

She stepped away from the door, and returned the groceries to the table. Her heart was beating rapidly; her lips felt dry; she swallowed and tried to think. A voice in her head said, Keep calm. Don’t let yourself get ruffled. There’s a simple explanation for everything.

She backed off the porch and headed for the pay phone near the market. Halfway there, she stopped. Rosco was at Betsey Housemann’s home; calling his office or car phone would be useless, and dialing 911 seemed not only a tad hysterical but also premature. Perhaps she really had double-locked the door inadvertently. Or perhaps the mechanism had broken. The heat could have caused it to swell or slip—or something.

Belle retraced her steps. When she drew near her home, she regarded it with a critical eye—what she imagined might be a detectives discerning gaze. Nothing appeared out of place. The lace curtains in the front windows remained crisp and undefiled; no sound emanated from the interior; the building looked as tidy and trim and unviolated as always. I’m letting my imagination run away with me, Belle thought. I obviously double-locked the door myself.

She returned to the porch, picked up the groceries, then tried the key again. The door was now completely unlocked. Belle paused; chagrin, apprehension and puzzlement raced through her chest and brain. “Garet?” she called. “Is this some sort of surprise?”

She eased her way through the doorway and stopped. “Garet?” she called again. Behind her, sunlight splayed across her back; ahead of her, the house looked shadowy and almost preternaturally empty. “Garet, if this is your idea of a joke, it isn’t funny … I don’t care what they do on the banks of the Nile …” Belle clutched the bag of groceries, listening. A knot had begun to form in her stomach and her hands felt weak and trembly. Half of her wanted to march straight out of the house; the other half argued that a mature, capable woman didn’t allow fear to sully her judgment.

“If anyone is here,” she said in a loud voice, “I want you to know that I’ve already phoned the police.” The lie was so forceful and seamless it almost felt like truth. “They’ll be arriving momentarily.”

Belle strode forward into the foyer, then stopped again, thinking, I should call the police. If no one’s here and I made a mistake, they’ll think I’m an idiot—but so what? She took one step backward, then a second while her eyes stared straight ahead. But before she could turn toward the door, it slammed shut with such colossal force and a noise so monstrous that she let out a terrified scream. The paper bag flew from her hands and landed on the hardwood floor in a litter of broken glass and smashed eggshells.