A Crossworder's Delight (15 page)

“What are you talking about, Belle?” E.T. demanded. Her mumbled monologue had clearly lost him.

Belle turned to face the boy. “Maybe it was your great-grandmother who made this book, E.T. I know it's a huge, huge leap, but—”

“Huh?” E.T. squinted at this book in Belle's hand.

“What's another word for
swerve?”

E.T. thought. “Veer?”

“And what sounds like veer?”

“Steer … deer … clear … near—?”

“No, silly, a woman's name.”

E.T.'s mouth fell open. “V-Vera. That was my great-gran's name.”

“And was her husband the man whose nickname was ‘Dutch'?”

E.T. could only nod in reply while Belle beamed at him and pointed to one of the puzzles. “Look … here in the “ANGEL IN DISGUISE” recipe … read the solution to 43-Across.”

“
VERA
,” E.T. said. Then he studied Belle. There was decided skepticism in his expression. “Well, sure … but that doesn't prove anything, because the puzzle says it's the answer to VERA
Cruz
.”

Belle ignored the argument as she began riffling through the crosswords. “And the daughter she created this for … is called …
EVA … ANITA
…
GRETA … LENA
…
PENNY … TESS—”

“No, my grandma's Lee,” E.T. admitted in a small voice. It was clear he found the name as unhip as Ellicott Tydings.

“LEE,” Belle whispered in awe. “Here it is at 24-Down in “Holiday Slay Ride.” “We're supposed to think the reference is to Robert E., the
Gray general
listed in the clues, but if I'm correct in my assumption—Oh wow …!” She gazed at E.T., her eyes glistening with tears. “I'll bet this book was made for your grandmother,” she told him. “I'll just bet it was. And we're going to take it to her right now.”

E.T. response to this suggestion was to stiffen his shoulders and draw away. He stared at the tabletop as he spoke. “We can't.”

Belle gulped, and also drew back. “Oh, E.T … How dumb of me! It didn't occur to me that perhaps your grandmother isn't living—”

“Oh, she's around, all right,” the boy stated as he continued to gaze fixedly at the table.

Belle's shoulders sagged in consternation and regret.
You dope!
she berated herself.
No wonder this kid doesn't talk about home. His mother's probably at odds with his grandmother; his dad's caught in the middle, and they're all crammed into one house, living too close to one another to have
enough breathing room to think straight. Why can't I learn that not everything in life is peaches and cream?
Belle gently shut the little cookbook. “Well, that's fine.… Maybe you can tell your grandmother about it sometime. When you feel like it, I mean.… I can keep it for you for a while. I'm sure Mr. Mitchell and Mr. Morgan wouldn't mind … or … or you can tell your mom and let her decide—”

“That's just it!” E.T. burst in. “I don't have a mom … or a dad. It's just Gran and me. And she doesn't … well, she doesn't care about books and things like that.” He swiped manfully at his eyes while Belle perched on a chair beside him. If he hadn't continued to stand so rigidly apart, she would have put a comforting arm around his thin, unhappy shoulders.

“You're being raised by your grandmother?”

“Yeah,” was the unwilling answer.

“And you and your Gran don't always agree on things?” Belle couldn't think of another way to phrase the question. She wanted to ask about the circumstances concerning the boy's absent parents, but she knew the timing was inappropriate; she also realized she should remain as neutral and nonjudgmental as possible.

In answer to the question, E.T. nodded—once. “She just gets so … grouchy.”

Belle thought for a moment. “Well sometimes, it's hard for older people to raise children.… Sometimes, they don't have the patience they need.…”

E.T. considered this while Belle continued to speak.

“And, maybe your grandmother misses having your parents nearby.… I mean, if they're living and working in another state—”
Or locked up in prison
, Belle thought, but left unsaid.

“But my dad and my mom haven't been around for a long time! They died when I was a little baby. If I don't miss them, I don't know why Gran has to!”

The lump that rose in Belle's throat forced her to take a deep and steadying breath. Her own tears of empathy wouldn't help the boy standing beside her. “I don't imagine mothers ever get over the loss of their children, E.T.,” she told him, then paused, studying his face. “But you know something? You're not your dad. Whoever he was, and whatever goods things he did in his life, you're not him—and you're not supposed to be. Who you are is E.T.; and E.T.'s one terrific and smart kid—even if he doesn't like his name very much.”

E.T. didn't speak for a long while, but Belle could see he was processing everything she'd said. His posture and facial expressions shifted and changed as if he were reliving a series of events.

“You know what, Belle?” he finally announced. “I think my Gran might like seeing this cookbook after all.… Do you think Mr. Mitchell would let her keep it—if it's really hers, I mean? And maybe we could give her this cake we're making from the book? She really loves chocolate.”

“Absolutely!” Then Belle gave him the hug she'd wanted to all along. “And we'll make another one for Ms. Lionetti, how's that?”

Eighteen

F
INDING
herself standing on the old and sloping porch of Lee Whitman's farm-house with the crossword cookbook in one hand and the still-warm “Christmas, Current” cake in the other, Belle began having serious misgivings about the mission she'd embarked upon. The home looked cold and unwelcoming; there wasn't a hint of holiday decor in evidence; there wasn't a lamp lit or the sound of a radio or TV issuing forth; if E.T hadn't been standing staunchly at her side, she would have imagined the place deserted.

“I think it would be a good idea if you knock, Belle,” he told her. “I've got my key, but Gran might not be too pleased if I just walked in with someone she's never met. I don't bring any friends over, so …” E.T. left the remainder of the thought unfinished while Belle produced a poor facsimile of a breezy smile and rapped loudly and energetically on the door.

The woman who opened it two minutes later could only have been E.T.'s grandmother. Although no taller than he, she had the same slight and wiry build and the same curling red hair—now noticeably gray. Her face was also gray, and hard lines had etched themselves into her cheeks. “Yes?” She didn't smile as she spoke; in fact, her expression seemed to grow even tighter when she saw her grandson.

“Mrs. Whitman, I'm Belle Graham.… I'm the crossword editor for the
Evening Crier
,” she added hastily, hoping the job title might provide an air of legitimacy. “I met your grandson at the Revere Inn. He was instrumental in helping my husband investigate—I should say
solve
—the theft of …”

In the midst of this explanation, Lee Whitman turned her stare from Belle and squinted at E.T. as if she expected him to be of little help in any situation, let alone a criminal investigation. The boy gazed back gamely, but didn't speak while his grandmother returned her focus to the woman who'd just appeared on her porch. “That Marz family,” was the crisp reply. “They're plain, hard-luck people. I remember my mother telling me that when I was just a girl. She was down there a lot, helping the widow—” The words abruptly ceased, and then as jerkily began again. “I guess it was because Mama was a war widow, and she understood how hard it was to be left on your own.” Then that effort also lurched to a halt. Belle could see Lee Whitman closing off every trace of emotional response. Nothing: neither the past nor future was going to cause her pain again.

“Well, your grandson was a wonderful addition to the case,” Belle insisted. She then reiterated E.T.'s role, concluding with a cheery “In fact, he was the one who untangled the entire riddle when he noticed a punctuation mark no one else had.”

“Is that so?” said Lee Whitman, although the remark sounded bemused rather than impressed.

“You should be very proud of him, Mrs. Whitman,” Belle continued with some force. “He's an exceptionally bright boy.”

But E.T. had had enough of this stalled chitchat. “Gran!” he piped up loudly. “Belle made a cake … a special chocolate cake—”

“As a reward for being such a help?” was the caustic reply. “Money would have been handier.”

But E.T. was obviously accustomed to this cynical behavior. “No, Gran,” he argued. “It's not a reward. It's a gift. For you.” Then he grabbed both the cake and the crossword cookbook from Belle and thrust them toward his grandmother. “And this book's a gift, too. It's got recipes made into puzzles.… Belle filled in the solutions … well, not these actual crosswords, 'cause she made copies of them … but look …” Forcing the cake into his grandmother's hand, he opened the book. “There! See where ‘Mama' is writing to her ‘dear daughter who so loves chocolate'? Belle thinks that's you! 'Cause the puzzles have
TIDINGS
and
VERA
and—”

“Oh!” Lee Whitman gasped as she stared down at the page E.T. held open. “Oh my word!” Her defiant posture was gone in a trice, and she lifted her eyes to gaze in disbelief at both her grandson and at Belle. “Oh, my … my … my …” Finally, she took the cookbook in trembling fingers. The knifelike lines in her face had vanished, and tears were beginning to drip down her cheeks. “Where did you …?” she began as E.T. turned the pages, and she gently touched each with a calloused finger as though afraid too much pressure might harm this wondrous object. “I remember Mama showing me this.… She was just so proud.… Made it during the war when Papa was … before Papa … but then the book just disappeared, and we … well, Mama and I never—”

“Gran,” E.T. interjected with a twelve-year-old's fidgety impatience. “It's
freezing
out here. Can we come in and discuss all this history stuff where it's warm?”

“Well, Ellicott Tydings Whitman, of course you can come inside. What did you think? That I'd totally forgotten my manners, and I was going to force you and Ms. Graham to stand outside for the rest of the day? Come in … come in.…” She stood against the door, holding it wide for her grandson and Belle to enter. “And let's have some of my mama's lovely cake.” But those four words put a quick end to Lee Whitman's offer. “My mama …,” she repeated in the barest of whispers; then she looked out into the snowy yard as though she were staring into a past chocked full of memories. But instead of regret, her expression was suffused with a bittersweet joy.

Swinging the door shut behind her, she regarded her grandson. She seemed to have grown both taller and gentler, as well as more “grandmotherly.” “Mama would have been proud of you, E.T.” Lee stated. “She loved words—just like you do. And she was brave, like you are, and determined, too—like you. And clever. All those smart genes missed me by a mile … and your daddy and mommy, too. But you ended up with every one of them.”

By the time she finished this speech, Lee Whitman was beaming; and Belle could see that E.T. was beaming also. “So don't you ever forget you've got one terrific brain. Why, you can do anything you put your mind to, E.T. Anything, at all.… Now, tell me what you did to help out the investigation at the inn. Don't leave out one single detail. I want to feel filled up with pride. And we'll all have a piece of Belle's chocolate cake. ‘Christmas, Current.' … It was was my favorite when I was your age.”

B
ELLE'S
eyes shone with tears as she recounted the story to Rosco that evening. They were sitting on the couch in the living room, a fire lighting up the hearth, and the two dogs curled up on the rug and basking in the warmth of the reflected blaze.

“I don't believe either of them could have imagined receiving a better Christmas present than the gift of each other,” she concluded. “And to think the catalyst was such a small thing—a little, unprepossessing homemade book of dessert recipes.… If Mitchell hadn't found it at a yard sale and decided to add it to the inn's library … if I hadn't been wandering around as a useless member of Sisters-in-Stitches and asked to borrow it—”

“But he did. And you did,” Rosco countered gently.

Belle nodded. “Isn't it amazing how many miracles there are in the world? We only need to stop once in a while to notice them.”

“You're mine; I know that much,” was Rosco quiet answer.

“I'm being serious,” Belle said, but she was smiling softly as she spoke.

“So am I.”

“I know.…”

They held each other, remaining happily silent as they watched the flames flickering upward with a radiant glow. The room was incredibly peaceful—and warm against the snowy cold of the world beyond.

“I'm really looking forward to introducing Lee to everyone at Martha's party Wednesday evening. And she's incredibly pleased to be included. You should have seen her discussing the shindig with E.T.” Belle sighed; the sound was full of contentment. Then she suddenly sat straighter and chuckled with delight.

“I take it you're planning to share your private joke.”

Belle smiled grew into a grin. “I was thinking what a Dickens of a time Martha's going to have solving the crossword I constructed to accompany the gift Stan bought her.”

“She has to do a puzzle in order to get her present? Why not make her take the bar exam? Belle, I thought you were
helping
Stan, not making things tougher.”

“It's the icing on the cake, as it were.… Stan found Martha a really pretty gold bracelet with a heart-shaped charm that he had engraved with the words
For My Special Friend
. He's hiding it in a box of chocolates; Karl Liebig is foil-wrapping the bracelet so it looks like an innocent cordial cherry. That way, if Martha decides to open her gift in front of her guests, she won't be reduced to the part of blushing teenager … and the surprise when she unwraps it will be that much sweeter.”