A Crossworder's Delight (2 page)

“Yes, you did, Stan,” Martha echoed in a hushed and unfamiliar murmur.

“Well, you're the one who gave me that Kipling at the Secret Santa exchange last year,” was his pleased response. “And without knowing how much I liked his poems. ‘If' always reminds me of my granddad.… Funny how that is.”

But Martha's reply to this obvious invitation to further conversation was to avoid Stanley's glance, duck her head, and mumble a businesslike “We'd better get back to work. The other Sisters will be arriving any sec, and this room's going to get as crazy busy as Lawson's on a Saturday morning snowfall.”

“If you don't need any further verbal explications, I'll leave you at it, then,” Belle said, propping the coiled garland against the hearth. “You know me around glue guns and such.…”

“Don't want to fuse your house keys and car keys together like you did last year, huh?” Martha jibed.

Belle chuckled. “If everyone hadn't been forced to stop what they were doing and help me out of my mess, the Sisters would have made a better showing.”

“That's sweet of you, dear,” was Sara's soothing reply. “However, I don't believe your accident caused us to lose. I feel our design approach was lacking in sufficient vision.”

“Which is exactly what's gonna happen if we hang those pointed pretties of yours at eye-level, Sara.
Lack of vision
for some guest would definitely put us once again in last place.”

Two

L
EAVING
Martha, Stanley, and Sara, Belle continued her tour of the building, greeting other competition participants as they bustled around the low-beamed reception areas, the three intimate dining rooms, the formal staircase, and the rear parlor. Fires were lit in every hearth; the waitstaff, dressed in period costumes, lent an air of authenticity to the scene while the paying guests seemed caught up in the festive spirit. Many were aiding the Newcastle regulars. The instant camaraderie seemed to Belle the very quintessence of the holidays, and she was smiling happily as she climbed the stairs to the second-floor bedrooms, then to the third floor with its dormer windows and views of the now-frozen lawn and garden. There she walked down the hall, revelling in the sense of past and present joined together, before she came to the half-open door of a room converted to office use where she overheard a
sotto voce
spat between Morgan and Mitchell Marz, the twins who now owned the inn.

In their sixties, the brothers were physically identical: two sturdy men with expanding waistlines, two full heads of salt-and-pepper hair, and a shared penchant for brightly hued turtleneck sweaters. Where business was concerned, however, they had a fundamental difference of opinion.

“Mitch's kitsch!” Morgan was grumbling. This was a common expression of his, just as it was standard practice for him to gripe about the valuable antique furnishings his brother insisted on keeping
in situ
, and that Morgan believed should be sold. “Have you looked at our insurance premiums recently, Mitch? Have you? We simply can't afford to keep all this—”

“It's not
kitsch
, Morgan. If it were, insuring it wouldn't be so expensive!”

“Oh, for Pete's sake!”

But Mitchell's gentle tone overrode his brother's exacerbated interruption. “And for another thing, it's our legacy. Our grandparents wanted the inn to have—”

“You can't keep wallowing with ghosts forever!”

“I'm not wallowing, Morgan. It's what they wished.”

“And what about our mother, is it what she wanted, too?”

“Morgan, we both know she worked very, very hard during the time when Dad was—”

“My point exactly! Now, please don't start with—”

“When Dad was off during the war,” Mitchell continued as if his brother hadn't spoken; although his desire to make his point, combined with a modesty that could verge on shyness, caused his words to stumble—a trait his more forceful twin didn't share. “B-b-because she wanted the inn to continue to look the same as it had when—”

“Oh, stop. You don't know that, Mitch. In fact, I'll bet the opposite was true, and she wanted to chuck all these historic references, and streamline the—”

“That's simply not true, Morgan! It's … it's—”

“Okay. My mistake. Maybe she didn't. Maybe she was perfectly happy with the status quo. That's not the point. It's the cost of protecting these pieces I'm objecting to. Besides, what if we had a fire, or a theft? What if one of these antiques you love so much should—?”

“B-b-but our guests come here
because
of these articles.” Mitchell's tone was disbelieving. “History is the Revere Inn's strong suit. Stepping inside our doors is like … it's like walking into the past.”

Morgan groaned in frustration. “I'm not disagreeing with the traditional approach, Mitch. You know I'm not. I realize that's what attracts our clientele: Queen Anne and Shaker furniture, and so forth … but we could have the same design appeal without the price tag of maintaining genuine—”

“Well, you can't get more
traditional
than real antiques, Morgan. Besides …”

Belle moved on and the Marz brothers' argument eventually vanished into the half-light of the narrow corridor whose path wrapped around unexpected corners and climbed surprise single-step rises.

At last, she came to a room that was far from the hubbub, a cubbyhole of a spot lined with shelves on which sat forgotten books and board games and wooden jigsaw puzzles that were undoubtedly missing crucial pieces. The room smelled pleasantly of age. She scanned the library, wondering if Mitchell—in one of his many antiquing forays—had added any unusual finds, but nothing exciting caught her eye. Not for a moment, anyway. Then she spotted a volume that was slimmer than the rest, an unprepossessing black book no thicker than a pamphlet. Belle carefully withdrew it from the shelf and opened it.

To my dear daughter who so loves chocolate
.

These are for you from your loving Mama
.

The pages were crossword puzzles. The clues and solutions belonged to recipes, but none of the word games were completed. In fact, it looked as though the book hadn't been opened since “Mama” had penned those old-fashioned and curlicued lines.

Belle hurried back to the brothers and presented them with the little volume. But Mitchell looked blank when asked from whence the book had come.

“I don't have a clue, I'm afraid, Belle.… Maybe it was … maybe it was in a box of books I bought at a yard sale or a second-hand store.”

“Which he does on a regular basis,” Morgan offered with a beleaguered sigh. “Snaps them up as if there were no tomorrow—all by color and size. Books by the yard,
from
the yard. Next stop would be the dumpster if it weren't for my dear brother here.”

“No one throws away books, Morgan. They're … they're—”

Belle interrupted before this new altercation could escalate. “And this one doesn't look remotely familiar?”

“Was it with the other black ones?” Mitchell asked, and she nodded.

“See what I mean?” Morgan shook his head. “It's a decor thing. There are the black ones, the red ones, the blue—”

“I'm afraid I can't help you,” Mitch continued. “I must have pulled them out of a box and slid them onto the shelf. Obviously, if I'd opened this particular book, I w-would have thought of you immediately.”

But weren't you even curious what those volumes contained?
Belle wanted to ask, but didn't. Collectors were quirky folk. Some were inspired by the purely visual; some needed the reassuring touch of their possessions; some liked to discuss the minutest details of history and other data; for some it was an investment only.

“May I borrow this?” Belle asked.

It was Morgan who answered. “Just take the thing, Belle. There's no need to return it.”

But his brother regarded the book with covetous eyes. “Why don't you
borrow
it for the time being. Then we'll see. But may I ask what you intend to do with it?”

Find the owner
, Belle almost answered, but she knew how foolish that would sound. A box of discarded books found in a yard sale: what was the chance of tracing its history? “I'd just like to try my hand at the puzzles,” she said instead.

Holiday Slay Ride

Melt over hot water: 2 tbsp. butter; 2 oz. unsweetened chocolate

Sift together: ¾ cup
29-Down;
1 cup flour; 2 tsp.
9-Down;
⅛
21-Down

Combine the chocolate and flour mixtures

Stir in: ½ cup milk; ½ tsp. vanilla extract

Pour batter into buttered baking dish (about 9X9 inches)

Mix, then scatter over batter:
½
cup
52-Across;
½
cup
29-Down;
4 tbs cocoa

Gently pour 1 ½ cups
3-Down
over the whole mixture

Bake at 350 degrees for forty minutes until a delicious crust forms on top and the inside is runny.

Serves six, warm or cool …

Holiday Slay Ride

ACROSS

 
1
.  Confronts

 
6
.  Tulip tuber

10
.  Poke

14
.  Maine town

15
.  On the 26-Across

16
.  Capital of Italia

17
.  A Titan

18
.  Bill

19
.  News _____

20
.  Mason jar tops

21
.  Cagney comedy

23
.  “Wait a _____!”

24
.  Gorcey of “Mr. Wise Guy,” and others

25
.  Never in Berlin

26
.  Indian or Arctic

28
.  Cpl.'s boss

29
.  What person

32
.  M-1s, e.g

34
.  Child's noisemaker

35
.  Slim

36
.  First Greek letter

37
.  Discovery of 1930

39
.  General helper

40
.  Appealed

41
.  Door sign

42
.  Slezak of “Lifeboat”

44
.  Heading on 26-Across

45
.  Asta, e.g.

46
.  Confuse

47
.  Father's lad

48
.  Namesakes of Mr. Lincoln

49
.  Bribe

52
.  MAMA'S DESSERT

56
.  Mystical poem

57
.  Indian princess

58
.  With, in Paris

59
.  Hedonist

60
.  Greek war god

61
.  Horne of “Stormy Weather”

62
.  One more time

63
.  Hardy heroine

64
.  Makes lace

65
.  Miss Crawford's husband

DOWN

  1
.  Newborn horses

  2
.  Bandleader Shaw

  3
.  MAMA's DESSERT

  4
.  Namesakes of a Spanish queen

  5
.  “Mayday!”

  6
.  Clown

  7
.  Drug addicts

  8
.  Cordelia's father

  9
.  MAMA'S DESSERT

10
.  Nobel award

11
. Newspaper section

12
.  Bad sign

13
.  Royal lady

21
.  MAMA'S DESSERT

22
.  Code sound

24
.  Gray general?

27
.  Draped

28
.  Got off one's feet

29
.  MAMA'S DESSERT

30
.  Skin

31
.  Unique

32
.  Knocks

33
.  Troubles

34
.  Snip

35
.  Statuesque

38
.  Dope

43
.  Newspaper revenues

45
.  Ameche of “Wing and a Prayer”

46
.  Rope plants

47
.  Like some chocolates

48
.  Hollywood negotiator

50
.  Radio sign

51
.  Singleton of “Blondie”

52
.  Scamp

53
.  Unusual

54
.  Pocket money

55
.  Iris locale

56
.  Anger

59
. O'Brien of 21-Across

To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit
openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords

Three

“I gather you're not planning on getting any shuteye tonight.” Rosco Polycrates, Belle's adoring husband, was wearing the plaid flannel bathrobe she'd given him two years ago. He still looked like a fish out of water in it, however, as if an ex-cop turned private investigator who had a Greek heritage and a dark, Mediterranean appeal wasn't supposed to be wandering about in garments typically displayed in catalogs depicting cozy New England hearths, gold-colored canines, and their equally fair-haired human pals cuddling nearby.