A Crossword to Die For (20 page)

Rosco grinned apologetically. “Oh, nothing … Just back-story …
color
, like I said. You know how these screenwriters are. Their imaginations go crazy. He came back saying he had a great concept for a new screenplay, but wouldn't tell me what it was … I just wondered what the heck the blowup was all about?”

Oclen gritted his teeth. His eyes were as unforgiving as granite. “What went on at that speech, and after it, is confidential information. You tell this writer of yours that if he's considering using one particle of the information—or misinformation—he gleaned from
not
being present, he's a dead duck. The Savante Group is a responsible organization. It's important for us that the public understand that fact. I'm sure you get my drift. All of our operations remain well within the limit of the law.”

Rosco nodded, his face wreathed in a bland smile. “Not to worry, Mr. O. I'll pass along your … suggestion. Even screenwriters aren't dumb enough to want to risk lawsuits. And like I said, he didn't tell me anything … Except, well, one thing: He said the old guy who yelled at you turned up dead the next day. Weird, huh? And then his secretary turned up dead a couple days ago.”

Oclen's head jerked up. “You're going to have to leave now. I have another appointment.”

Rosco stood. “Hey,
no problemo
. And I really appreciate your time, Mr. O. Too bad this oil tanker thing didn't fly … I mean that
Crude
pix … All I can say is: Wow.” He turned and walked toward the door, but Oclen stopped him.

“Chuck?”

“Yes?”

“Leave the baseball here.”

“Right.”

CHAPTER 27

Belle couldn't sit still, couldn't remain fixed in one place when she was standing, couldn't keep her brain focused on a single issue for more than a few seconds.
Rosco's attempting to pry incriminating information about drug smuggling from the CEO of a multinational oil company
, was one thought;
Deborah Hurley died in a supposed hit-and-run in New Jersey
, was another.
My father visited the same state the day before he passed away. It was there that he decided to argue with the head honcho of the Savante Group. Is there a connection? And if there is, how on earth do I find it?

To say that Belle felt like jumping out of her skin would be an understatement.
And what about Woody? Where does he fit in? Or Franklin Mossback? And who has been “borrowing” my father's identity?
Here her intellectual skills took another swift leap.
The constructor who sent the
Words to the Wise
puzzle needs to remain anonymous, because he
—
or she
—
is also in danger. And the reason that person's in trouble is that whoever murdered my father
—
and may also have arranged Debbie's death
—
is still at large. And still searching for a vital piece of dangerous information. Such as my father's missing notebook
.

Without a second to pause and collect herself, she picked up the phone and punched in the number to Deborah Hurley's aunt, Rachel Volsay.

A youngish child answered, which was fortunate because the little girl's need to “hunt down Great-Aunt Rach” gave Belle the moments necessary to formulate her speech.

“Yes?” an adult voice finally said into the phone. The sound was empty with grief.

“Is this Mrs. Volsay?”

A long sigh served as response, then the tone became even more subdued. “Who is this?”

“I'm Annabella Graham … Belle … My father was Professor Theodore Graham. Deborah was doing research for him.”

The voice collected itself. “I'm sorry for your loss, Miss Graham. Deb was so shaken by it … She was very fond of your dad. He was ‘a great boss,' she told me over and over. ‘A great man.'”

“And my father was equally fond of Deborah, Mrs. Volsay.” Belle could think of nothing more to add. She had no specifics to substantiate the statement. Instead, she took a breath.
How does someone suggest to a family member that a relative might have been murdered?
“Mrs. Volsay, I'm sorry to intrude at a difficult time like this—”

“Oh, it's no intrusion …” Again, the sad, wispy voice. “Besides, with Deb gone, there's so little for me to … to …” She stopped herself, and continued in a steadier tone. “Mike's here now, and he's contacted the friends they had who'd remained nearby …”

Belle took another long gulp of air. “Mrs. Volsay, this may sound unbelievable … but is it possible that Debbie's death wasn't accidental?”

The silence of confusion and disbelief echoed through the phone. “You mean: Could someone have wanted to kill my little girl …? Whyever for?”

“I don't know, Mrs. Volsay.”

A sob caught in Debbie's aunt's throat. “But that's … that's an abominable suggestion, Miss Graham … My Deborah wouldn't have hurt a fly—”

“I didn't mean to imply—”

“You ask any of her friends. Everyone loved that girl. Everyone!”

Belle paused. The conversation was proving even more difficult than she'd imagined. “I realize that, Mrs. Volsay. Of course, I do … I didn't mean to infer that an acquaintance might have wished Deborah dead … I was thinking of a stranger—”

“You mean like a random act? By a crazed person?”

“That's not precisely what I meant, Mrs. Volsay …” Belle cleared her throat. “I … well, the police here in Newcastle have reason to suspect that my father did not die of natural causes—”

Anger blazed through the receiver. “Oh, right! I remember now! Debbie told me about you … Married to some private investigator … and you've both tracked down criminals up in Massachusetts! Well, that's not the way things work in a community like ours, Miss Graham. We don't need private investigators and their ilk skulking around. We don't tolerate unlawful behavior: gangs and kids who disrespect their elders. Thieves, and all that … We know each other down here. We respect each other. When someone dies, we gather around. We show our love … And we don't invent evil where none exists!”

Belle resisted pointing out the obvious: that the driver of the vehicle that struck down Deborah Hurley hadn't played by those same cozy rules of small-town living. “But that's precisely what I'm getting at, Mrs. Volsay. Maybe the driver of the car wasn't from the environs of Kings Creek or even from New Jersey—”

An abrupt and irritable sigh interrupted Belle's speech. She decided to backtrack. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.”

“Well, you did! And if I were you, Miss Graham, I wouldn't be so quick to suspect that your father didn't simply have a heart attack and drop off to sleep. Good people like your dad don't get murdered. And it won't do your brain any good searching for devils when none exist.”

“I apologize again, Mrs. Volsay … I didn't intend to suggest that Debbie had personal enemies—”

“She certainly didn't! Everyone around here adored her. When her mother passed on—my sister, that was—and then Deb's own little sister, why, the whole town was just that upset …” Again, the aunt's tone took on a muffled, exhausted sound. “Cancer's a terrible thing,” she finally added.

“Yes,” Belle managed to murmur. She felt like a criminal making this poor, bereft woman recall other times of loss.

“Well,” Rachel Volsay at last concluded, “there's none of us on this earth who hasn't been touched by sorrow. It's the way of the world … It always has been …” Then she seemed to shake herself back to the present. Belle's thorny question seemed forgotten. “The funeral's the day after tomorrow, Miss Graham … as I'm sure you know. I'd best be getting to my chores if I want the house to do honor to Deb's memory … I'll tell Mike you called, shall I? He's been such a comfort, that young man—although, how he continues to bear up, I'll never know.”

Belle found herself gulping back tears of both sympathy and empathy. “Yes, please, Mrs. Volsay. Please tell him I called.”

“He's away down at the police station or I'd put him on for a moment.”

Belle's ears perked up, but Deborah's aunt continued with a wistful: “Such good friends all those boys are … That's what comes from living in a community like ours.”

“I'm so sorry, Mrs. Volsay.”

“Deb worshipped your father, you know?”

“Yes. Yes, I do know.”

With the phone replaced in its cradle, Belle could only stare disconsolately at it.
Poor Mike
, she thought.
Poor Rachel Volsay … Poor Debbie. Shattered lives, and so much pain
…Belle sighed.
And Father, too
… But even as she considered those intertwined existences, she realized she'd reached another impasse in her search.
If Debbie Hurley's “accident” had been staged to resemble a hit-and-run, there was obviously no one in the small New Jersey town who would believe it. And certainly no one who would even remotely consider an underworld connection. Drug lords and shipments of cocaine belonged to a different universe than the loving sphere of Kings Creek
.

And maybe that's the better way
, Belle thought.
Because where's the good in conjuring up paid assassins or international cartels harboring dirty secrets? Isn't it easier to assume my father succumbed to heart failure? And Debbie to the injustice of picking the wrong moment to cross the street? Isn't there enough sorrow in death without adding the element of human cruelty?

Belle rose slowly from her chair. The fax was busy spitting out a message, and she glanced idly toward the machine, realizing she'd been so deep in contemplation she hadn't even heard the phone ring.

It took her less than a heartbeat to recognize the design on the flimsy paper, another second to detach what was obviously an additional clue to the mystery—in the form of another crossword puzzle. Her eyes raced over the Across and Down columns. “Skulls,” she gasped. “They're all skulls.”

She grabbed the phone, punched in the number to Rosco's cell phone, and left a rapid message. “Don't come home. Meet me in Princeton. I'm taking the train. I'll phone again with my arrival time … That's all I want to say for now …” She broke the connection and immediately called Sara, who answered on the second ring. Belle hardly waited for the old lady to speak.

“Can you keep Kit at your house for the night? I think I've discovered who killed my father.”

USE YOUR HEAD!

Across

1.  Bit of info

4.  Neg. opp.

7.  ___Martin

12.  The___on drugs

13.  Like some tires

15.  ___Fulci, Italian horror director

16.  With 1-Down, a punch

17.  Some woodwinds

18.  Radio station sign

19.  Frenchman Flat overlook

22.  St. Francis's birthplace

24.  Pretoria's land; abbr.

25.  Yarmulke

28.  Soho's locale

32.  “Je___Francois.”

33.  Argentine aunts

35.  Chemical suffix

36.  Obsession, suffix

37.  Computer scanner; abbr.

38.  On the briny

39.  To endure in China

40.  Museum on S. Michigan Ave.; abbr.

41.  Acquire

42.  Fringe

45.  Cushing and Lee classic

47.  Neither's partner

48.  Debbie's aunt

49.  Jolly Roger

55.  Guff, var.

56.  Erected

57.  Bull or bear ending

60.  Savante CEO

61.  From the beginning, Lat.

62.  Grampus

63.  Jacob's twin's

64.  Compass reading

65.  Skid or stick lead-in

Down

1.  See 16-Across

2.  Writer Fleming

3.  Squeezing

4.  John Q.___

5.  Sixth of a drachma

6.  Appear

7.  Poet, Dámaso___

8.  Vacationer's goal

9.  Tile worker's org.

10.  Four for Caesar

11.  Scandinavian goddess of past, present, or future

13.  Dishevel

14.  Brit. Mil. award

20.  Eliminates

21.  Dot-com addresses; abbr.

22.  Seek

23.  Played hockey

26.  Yours on the Yon

27.  Lace loop

29.  Debate

30.  ___Beach, Oahu

31.  Almost

34.  St. Louis sight

38.  Talus

40.  Taj Mahal site

41.  Knows

43.  Instead

44.  Like a pinhole camera?

46.  Grow

49.  “If the___fits”

50.  Some lodges; abbr.

51.  ___Road, Truk Island

52.  Celtic's org.

53.  Voices over

54.  C.V.s

58.  Angel's favorite letters

59.  Chemical symbol for prussic acid

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