A Crossworder's Delight

PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF NERO BLANC

“At last puzzle fans have their revenge … super sleuthing and solving for puzzle lovers and mystery fans.” —Charles Preston, puzzle editor,
USA Today

“Addicts of crossword puzzles will relish
The Crossword Murder
.” —
Chicago Sun-Times

“A puzzle lover's delight … A touch of suspense, a pinch of romance, and a whole lot of clever word clues … Blanc has concocted a story sure to appeal to crossword addicts and mystery lovers alike. What's a three-letter word for this book? F-U-N.” —Earlene Fowler on
The Crossword Murder

“Snappy, well-plotted … an homage to Agatha Christie and Ngaio Marsh … The solid plot never strays from its course and features a surprising yet plausible ending.” —
Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
on
Two Down

“Another neat whodunit, along with some clever crosswords … Blanc builds the suspense slowly and surely, challenging the reader with a dandy puzzler.” —
Publishers Weekly
on
The Crossword Connection

“A great investigative team in the tradition of Nick and Nora … Nero Blanc is a master.” —BookBrowser

A Crossworder's Delight

A Holiday Novel

Nero Blanc

G
REETINGS FROM
N
ERO
B
LANC

Dear Friends,

What would holidays and family gatherings be without special recipes passed along and shared? Our own memories of childhood are irrevocably connected to the wonderful smells of baking that filled relatives' homes when we arrived for a visit: pies and angel-food cakes made proudly from scratch, the dough carefully kneaded and rolled, the egg whites beaten by hand.

In the spirit of those happy and bygone days, we dedicate this book to the memory of Cordelia's mother, Cordelia Frances Fenton Biddle, and to her mother, Mary Frances Higgins Fenton, who made the very best fudge in the world.

And we also give many thanks to Midge Walter and her son, Tony, of Lore's Chocolates in Philadelphia. As current residents of the city, we can promise you that holidays aren't the same without numerous samplings of Lore's wares. Tony provided technical information as well as a glimpse into the workings of a true confectionery shop. If you're in Philadelphia, be sure to visit their store on Seventh Street. It's a pure delight!

Please remember that our website
www.CrosswordMysteries.com
has puzzles to download, and that we do love getting your letters.

Cordelia and Steve

One

T
RADITION
and
traditional
were key words at the Paul Revere Inn.
Historic, venerable, quaint
, even
revered
might vie for the prize, but the notion of the hostelry and eatery as being paramount to the timeless
traditions
of Newcastle always won out. Especially on the day after Thanksgiving, when the annual Holiday Decoration Competition was in full swing, and this coastal Massachusetts city's volunteer organizations descended en masse upon the rambling old building, dead-set on transforming it into exuberant holiday mode—a la the late eighteenth century.

The rivalry between the competing groups was fierce, culminating at the inn's Solstice Dinner, when the civic association whose members displayed the most wizardry with garlands of greenery, cranberries strung on thread, pomanders of orange and clove, hand-dipped candles, barley-sugar figures, and gingerbread creatures was awarded the coveted silver Revere bowl. It was a contest with a capital
C
, and a noted lack of reverence permeated the air.

“Coming through, ladies and gentlemen. Coming though.” This regal voice belonged to Sara Crane Briephs, presiding “Queen mum” of Sisters-in-Stitches, a church sewing group that had lost the prize for four hard-luck years in a row. In Sara's hands was a large hat box containing copper and tin ornaments in the shapes of stars and snowflakes. They were old and valuable and had resided in the attic of her ancestral home, White-caps, for as long as anyone could remember. “We'll tie them with bows and hang them from the pewter chandelier. None of the other groups have anything to remotely equal them. If I'd only remembered these things last year.…”

As she spoke, Sara jostled her way through the throng crowded outside the inn's front parlor, the room being the one assigned to the Sisters. The parlor was notoriously difficult to decorate, its focal point being a much-beloved icon: a signed original printing of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem “Paul Revere's Ride.” It was Longfellow's ode to Massachusetts's hero of the Revolutionary War that had inspired the grandparents of the inn's current owners to change the hostelry's name when they'd purchased the place in the early 1920s. The treasured artifact had hung in the same spot for close to eighty years. Needless to say, its large gilt frame didn't make for easy decorative magic.

Martha Leonetti shook her head as she watched Sara enter; Martha was the only other Sister present in the parlor, and she observed the hat box and its owner with an habitually jaundiced eye. Head waitress at Lawson's Coffee Shop in the city's downtown commercial center, Martha prided herself on her worldly wisdom and sassy candor. She knew the life stories of all her regular customers, what they habitually ordered, and/or wanted to order but didn't. And she wasn't adverse to providing “much-needed advice” about diets and love lives and career choices and family squabbles, or dishing out the latest dirt right along with the home fries. She would have seemed the antithesis of the patrician Sara, but the two had formed such a bond of friendship that they often appeared to be each other's alter ego. The noted exception was that Martha had sported the same aggressively blonde beehive hairdo for the past three decades while Sara, at eighty-plus, had a coiffure that was a natural snowy white.

“I don't know, Sara. Seems to me like guests will keep bashing their heads on your do-dads. And that could lose us points, big time. The ceilings are way too low in here; and with everyone gawking at the poem and all, crowding around to read it and what have you, well, someone could get hurt.… Better put your gee-gaws out of the way—maybe up on the mantle or hang them on velvet ribbons over the windows.”

“But if we put them on the mantle, they'll simply disappear within all those clusters of greens, Martha.”

“Didn't you tell us gals that we should keep things ‘subtle' this year? Wasn't that the new stratagem?”

“Subtle doesn't mean hidden,” Sara countered loftily.

“Hmmmph,” Martha sniffed. She was standing in her stocking feet atop a step stool as she tried to drape a window with a loop of cedar garland. Reaching up to push the prickly pieces in place, her body looked dangerously unbalanced and unsteady. “If I want to know the meaning of a word, I'll ask our resident linguistic expert.… Heya, Belle, get your tush in here, pronto,” Martha bellowed toward the door. “Will you please explain to Her Highness here that I'm not suggesting subterfuge when it comes to displaying her prize ornaments?”

Belle Graham was carrying a coiled garland of white pine as she walked into the parlor; its sap had left dark, sticky marks on her hands that had then been transferred to her face as she'd pushed her corn-silk-colored hair aside. Despite the romantic given name of Annabella, she wasn't adept at maintaining a ladylike pose. And she never, ever called herself Annabella or Anna. Being the crossword puzzle editor for one of Newcastle's daily newspapers,
The Evening Crier
, had produced one too many gibes about being “Ms. Anna-Graham.” “What are you two quibbling about now?” Belle shook her head and smiled as she spoke.

“Martha's insisting my handsome family ornaments should be all but hidden like snakes in the grass.”

“I am not, your ladyship! I'm only saying those pointy ends might prove dangerous when dangling down in the middle of the room. Poke some tall dude or dudess in the noggin, or scratch some follicly challenged baldy's pate.”

“And where does ‘subterfuge' enter into this argument?” Belle asked.

“It's Martha's term, not mine,” was Sara quick retort. “As you know, I've been advocating subtilty, because last year we made the terrible mistake of—”

“Ah yes, the
subliminal
approach to decorating.” Belle laughed. “A bit
subversive
, don't you think, Sara?
Sub rosa, surreptitious, sly
—”

“I prefer the word
stealthy
, dear.” Sara also laughed. As Belle's self-styled surrogate grandmother, she enjoyed tinkering with language as much as Newcastle's celebrated word game editor. “Creating artful interiors requires a certain craftiness. What else is
trompe l'oeil
but a means to trick the eye? A wave of the wand—or in this case, the glue gun—and then poof! Now you see it, now you don't.”

“You ladies aren't planning on making things disappear, are you?” Stanley Hatch asked as he strode into the room. Stan was the owner of Hatch's Hardware, and an “honorary” member of Sisters-in-Stitches. He supplied brawn (in his mid fifties, he was still slim, tall, and muscular), as well as the all-important tools of the craftsman's trade. “Because, if any of the inn's pricey antiques were to take a powder … well, let's just say it wouldn't be likely that we'd be invited back next year to compete.”

“What a ridiculous notion, Stanley,” was Sara's amused response. “We're here to
add
to the Marz twins' furnishings, not subtract from them.” Then Sara abruptly shifted her focus. “Give Martha a hand with those swags above the windows, will you, dear boy? I'm afraid if she tries to reach any higher, she'll take a tumble. And crutches certainly won't aid in her labors at Lawson's.”

But this request met with unexpected hesitation from both the principals. Wisecracking Martha grew suddenly shy and quiet. Stan made a move to help her from the stepladder, then awkwardly withdrew his hand as Martha clamored heavily down on her own, finally making a show of searching for her shoes. She never once glanced in Stanley's direction. Their behavior was no different than that of a couple of smitten fourteen-year-olds. It did not go unnoticed.

Sara and Belle shared a meaningful look. Stanley was a widower; Martha was also single. The two were destined for each other—at least, that was their friends' opinion. Why it was taking the pair so long to act upon this obvious fact was beyond anyone's comprehension, although it was Sara who felt the most frustrated at the duo's lack of gumption. She was the one who'd originally conceived of the notion of forming a couple from two lonely people. “Your shoes are under the wing chair,” she told Martha with unaccustomed chilliness, “where you left them, dear.”

Martha dutifully retrieved her pumps while Sara released a hearty sigh; and Stan, in order to cover his own embarrassment, walked over to the wall where the Longfellow hung.

“
A cry of defiance and not of fear
,” Stanley read aloud from the final stanza,

“
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door
,

“
And a word that shall echo forevermore!

“
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past
,

“
Through all our history, to the last
,

“
In the hour of darkness, and peril, and need
,

“
The people will waken to listen and hear

“
The hurrying hoof beats of that steed
,

“
And the midnight message of Paul Revere
.”

He stood, studying the words. “We still need stirring messages like that, don't we?”

“More than ever before,” Sara replied with feeling, then added a brisk, “You read it beautifully, Stanley,” as if she were afraid of revealing too much of her weaker nature.