CHAPTER 32

HURRYING TO ST. Joseph’s Hospital, Belle decided to make a quick detour. Stopping at Robertson’s Flower Shop, she purchased a dozen long-stemmed yellow roses, and asked to have them wrapped in especially cheery paper. After a nurse ushered her into JaneAlice’s room, the roses formed an instantaneous bond between the two women. Belle decided she was the first person to have given flowers to Thompson Briephs’ secretary.

“They smell wonderful,” JaneAlice managed despite her swollen, purple jaw.

“Everyone was worried sick about you,” Belle said with an encouraging smile, “both at the Herald and the Crier. This whole thing has shocked Newcastle to the bone. How are you feeling?”

“Pretty bruised and sore, and I’m not allowed to eat solid food yet. Just sip out of straws … I’m surprised I’m not hungrier than I am … Do the police have any idea who murdered poor Mr. Briephs?”

Belle was on the alert in an instant. “How did you know he’d been murdered?”

JaneAlice’s eyes stared back out of her battered face. “That’s what I was told … The nurses, you know … As soon as I came to … I guess I’m kind of a celebrity … On account of being involved …”

Belle considered this response, trying to decide whether or not it removed JaneAlice from the list of suspects, and then wondering how Rosco would proceed. She opted for caution masked in honesty for her reply.

“No … They don’t seem to have any concrete leads as yet … I guess they’re hoping you can describe the person who attacked you and stole Thompson’s puzzles … that there might be a connection … Actually, I’m surprised Lieutenant Lever hasn’t arrived yet. The nursing station said he was called half an hour ago.”

“Stole the puzzles?” JaneAlice murmured weakly.

Another jolt of disbelief flashed through Belle’s brain. “Thompson’s last three puzzles … Your assailant must have stolen them from you. No one at the Herald has been able to find them.”

A nurse entered with a large vase, handed it silently to Belle and left. Belle filled the container with water and began arranging roses; as she worked, she continued what she hoped JaneAlice would mistake for casual conversation. “Actually two of the crosswords have shown up in the mail …”

“Two? I mailed all three of them.”

Belle dropped the remaining roses on the windowsill and turned to face JaneAlice. “You mailed them?”

“I was afraid to keep them. He said he’d kill me if I didn’t hand them over, but I couldn’t tolerate the thought of his destroying them. They were Mr. Briephs’ final accomplishment. His epitaph, as it turned out.” Through the patient’s bruised and swollen lips came the unmistakable sound of crying, but Belle decided to pursue her interrogation.

“Him? You were attacked by a man?”

“Oh yes.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“No. I’d never seen him before in my life.”

Belle began counting the men JaneAlice might have recognized: Steven Housemann, Bartholomew Kerr, Pat Anderson—the entire Herald staff.

“JaneAlice … dear … there’s an actor playing the part of John Wilkes Booth down at—”

“Oh, Vance, he’s such a lovely young thing. A close friend of Mr. Briephs. No, it wasn’t Vance. Vance wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s very handsome … like a young Sylvester Stallone, don’t you think?”

“In a bovine sort of way,” Belle muttered while she continued fussing with the roses. After a moment, she resumed her disinterested tone. “So, you mailed those puzzles yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Who did you mail them to?”

JaneAlice didn’t answer. Instead, she waited for Belle to turn and face her. “I don’t know …”

“You don’t know?”

“No, I mean, I don’t know if I should tell you. I’m afraid you’ll get mad at me.”

“Oh, JaneAlice, I’d never get mad. Why would I do a thing like that?”

A guilty grin twisted across JaneAlice’s unhappy face. “Well, Mrs. Graham—”

“Call me Belle, please.”

“Well, Belle, this person called me. Threatened me. The voice made me think of that Clint Eastwood movie, Play Misty for Me. Have you ever seen it?”

“No.”

“It’s awfully scary. Jessica Walter co-stars as a woman obsessed … Anyway, I guess I had Mr. Eastwood on my mind because I decided the puzzles should go to The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. After that nasty telephone call, I was convinced they revealed the name of Mr. Briephs’ murderer; that’s why the killer wanted them so badly … But I’m not very good at cryptics—despite working for Mr. Briephs for so many years—and he left no answers to the clues … I guess what I hoped was that one of the three people would become sufficiently intrigued …”

Belle was beginning to lose her patience, but she retained her warm smile. “And who were the three people, JaneAlice?”

“You don’t know? They didn’t get them?”

“JaneAlice!” Belle snapped, then caught herself and pasted another smile on her face. “As I said, dear; two have been received. The third is still missing.”

“Well, the Ugly is Mr. Kerr. Anyone could have told you that. The way he snoops around the Herald offices … Always burrowing around looking for dirt and unpleasantness … and he’s not a real gentleman … No matter how much he tries to act the part. I remember one time—”

“Yes,” Belle interrupted, “I’m sure … Who else did you mail the puzzles to, dear?”

“Well, the Good of course is Mr. Briephs’ mother. Some people find her gruff, but she’s always been more than cordial with me … even when Mr. Briephs was in one of his moods, and threatened to fire me. Mrs. Briephs could always be counted on to calm her son, and make him understand how important a good secretary can be. She really is a good person, you know. How is she, by the way?”

“Just fine.” Belle could feel her teeth grinding into one another and tension spreading through her jaw. “And who might the Bad be, JaneAlice?”

“Oh, I thought you would have guessed by now.”

“I suppose not.”

JaneAlice missed the sarcasm in Belle’s response; instead she began laughing softly. “I can’t believe you haven’t.”

“No … I haven’t guessed, JaneAlice.”

“But it’s you. You’re the Bad. Because you work for that other newspaper. I hope you’re not cross with me.”

“You mailed it to me? But I never received it! Are you sure you had the correct address?”

“You live on Captain’s Walk, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I thought if the other two weren’t sufficiently interested in solving the puzzles, you would be. Oh, well, I guess it must be lost in the mail. It happens all the time, you know.”

“But, JaneAlice, we need that last puzzle to find out who killed Mr. Briephs. Did you make copies?”

“Oh my, no. I didn’t want them anywhere near me … Oh, I do hope I did the right thing—”

Belle walked to the window, picked up the three remaining roses and stuffed them into the vase. Then she balled up the wrapping paper and jammed it into the trash basket; the activity only partially relieved her mounting frustration. How does Rosco tolerate this interrogation business? she wondered. Then her previous suspicions returned full-bore. Perhaps the simpering secretary routine was merely an act. Maybe JaneAlice wasn’t as dumb—or as docile—as she seemed. Or could she and her mysterious assailant have been partners who’d plotted Briephs’ murder and subsequently argued? Or had the mugging merely been a random act of violence unconnected to the murder? Belle glued a polite smile to her lips. “I’m sorry I can’t stay longer, JaneAlice, but I have a deadline. I’m sure you know what that’s like.”

“Oh, yes. Deadlines used to be torture for Mr. Briephs.”

Belle walked to the door, opened it, but turned back to the room with a final question. “JaneAlice, dear, have you ever met Mr. Briephs’ uncle, Senator Hal Crane?”

“Oh, yes, he’s a lovely man. Did you know he’s in Southeast Asia right now? He sent us a postcard from Hue.”

“Yes, I know. Actually he’s returning today. Anyway, there’s a man who works for the Senator. His name is John Bulldog Roth. Have you ever seen or met him?”

“No, I don’t think so … Is he good-looking?”

“If your taste runs to attack dogs.”

“Is he married?”

“I doubt it.”

“Well, don’t worry about the puzzle, Belle, The Postman Always Rings Twice.” JaneAlice tried to laugh at her little joke, but a sharp pain in her side quickly erased any evidence of a smile.

Before Belle left the hospital, she phoned the post office and asked to speak with a supervisor. She was told it would be almost impossible to locate a missing letter—and that she should wait. If it didn’t turn up in three months, they would “attempt” to put a trace on it. When the supervisor was informed the letter had neither been registered nor dispatched by overnight service, Belle was greeted by an annoyed sigh and a curt, “Well, we can’t be held responsible for every insignificant piece of paper that passes through the system.”

“Thank you,” Belle responded. “You’ve been most helpful.”

Her sarcasm was wholly lost on her listener.

The drive back to her house seemed to take forever. She was tempted to speed, but then realized there was nothing waiting for her. Even if the puzzle had been only slightly delayed, there wouldn’t be another delivery until the next morning. Nonetheless, she checked her mailbox before opening the front door. It was empty. She walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator before remembering that it, too, was empty. She then sat on a stool, placed her elbows on the counter, rested her face in the palms of her hands and sighed.

Out of boredom, she reached for Garet’s latest copy of Art on the Move and began leafing through it, back to front. The last few pages of the glossy magazine were filled with classified ads for various pieces of artwork, as well as outrageously priced real estate properties in North Carolina and Connecticut. The next section was dedicated to a listing of curators who had changed positions or moved to different museums. After that, Belle came to the only portion of the magazine she found remotely interesting: photographs of stolen artwork which the editors believed all collectors and curators should be apprised of.

She flipped slowly through the pages and on the third spotted a small and somewhat blurred photo of an amphora executed in a red-and-black design. She tried to go on to the next page but her eyes kept returning to the one picture. The caption beneath the photo explained the pieces provenance; it also stated that it had been stolen from a museum in Istanbul six months before. Present whereabouts unknown.

“Not anymore,” Belle murmured; she was convinced it was one of the pieces she’d seen in Thompson Briephs’ home the previous morning. She tossed the magazine onto the kitchen counter and darted into Garet’s home office where she began tearing through previous issues of Art on the Move. In almost half the magazines she discovered a piece she recognized from Windword Islands.

“It’s all stolen!” she exclaimed. “Rosco’s not going to believe this!” She hurried toward her own office, but as she passed through the kitchen she noticed the latest copy of Art on the Move had fallen to the floor. She stooped to pick it up, and as she did so, a business-size envelope slipped from the pages and slid beneath the stove.

“Oh, darn.” Belle pulled a large knife from a drawer, got down on her hands and knees and extracted the envelope. It was addressed to her. The handwriting was the same shaky scrawl that had been scribbled across Sara Briephs’ envelope. Belle tore it open. Inside was the fifth crossword.