Corpus de Crossword (10 page)

“Uh-huh …” Rosco grinned; it was the expression of a man devoted to his bride. “Just remember who Haughty Mrs. Sara calls a ‘prince.'”

Belle cocked her head. “And Al Lever goes all squishy when she refers to him as ‘darling Albert'—and that's despite his efforts at creating that hard-nosed, cantankerous-cop image.” She put down her spoon, her face pensive as she abruptly switched topics. “Do you think there's something else going on here?”

“I take it you're not referring to my burnt onions.”

She gave him a look. “Hoffmeyer suggested a mob murder … Was he serious with that notion? A body dumped in a secluded place, albeit years ago, and then inadvertently discovered—”

“A fairly logical assumption—”

“Well, what I'm getting at is this: What if someone
intended
that the skeleton be found? What if it's part of a larger plan—?”

“Like what?”

Belle thought. “I know this is going to sound like a conspiracy theory … but what if it's the work of Hoffmeyer's opponent?”

“Spader? He's a U.S. Congressman, Belle.”

“What? These guys don't play dirty pool? Grow up, Rosco.”

“I don't buy that. I admit I'm leaning toward voting for Hoffmeyer, but I have no real problems with Spader either. We've certainly had worse.”

“And better … Okay. Maybe some underling's trying to make certain their man remains in office? After all, he is a thuggish kind of guy. Who knows who he's hired—”

“That's a word? Thuggish?”

“No, I just made it up.
Thugs, Thuggees:
An ancient confederacy of professional assassins preying on wayfarers in India. They were worshipers of Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction—”

Rosco slipped his arm around her waist. “I love you, but you're still not coming out to Taneysville with me.”

“Maybe the mob has nothing to do with this—”

“Belle, are you listening to me?” Rosco chuckled as he spoke.

“You mean the part about me being excluded from this investigation?”

“Yup.”

“Absolutely.” She handed Rosco the pan of resuscitated onions. “… On the other hand, if the skeleton turns out to be the remains of a long-lost heiress—”

“Belle!”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Okay, okay, I won't say another word.”

“Is that a promise or a threat? Actually it doesn't make any difference, because I don't believe you for a second.”

“Har, har …” She returned to her place on the bar stool and remained quiet for the merest of seconds. “What's certain is this: If the village of Taneysville gets a black eye because mysterious remains were discovered, then the town's favorite son will get one, too. Spader won't leave this alone. Mark my words.”

“I'd like to think the voters are smarter than that. I honestly believe Hoffmeyer may be overreacting to this situation.”

“Well, you just wait and see what the press does with this story. Don't forget I work for a newspaper. The concept of ‘innocent until proven guilty' doesn't hold much water at an editorial meeting.”

“I guess that's where I come in.”

CHAPTER 13

A slippery darkness stared back from the window, once again reflecting the room's sparse furnishings: the hospital bed, the dresser, the rolling table upon which sat the requisite plastic water pitcher, the contents of which were intended to keep the room's occupant “hydrated.” Hydrated! Like a vegetable sprouting up in a garden.

There were so many modern words and phrases the room's resident decried:
disabuse
—as in righting an erroneous judgment;
present
—as in displaying medical symptoms;
lifestyle; stress management; significant other
—as if everyone else a person held dear were reduced to
in
significance. There were other terms equally discomfiting. All seemed designed by a battery of attorneys; they were guaranteed not to disturb or provoke. Or, perhaps, they were simply designed to be emotion-free.
Compatible
replacing the mortal conditions of
love, ardor, yearning,
and even
lust
.

A sharp sigh curtailed these rueful meditations while the eyes drew away from the mirrored blackness of the window, coming to rest on the newspapers scattered around the slippered feet.

A cane jabbed them; another angry sigh erupted; the thin lips tightened in frustrated disbelief.

The body had been found—“unearthed” as the reporter noted—but that had been on Monday and no further mention had been made in two solid days! Wednesday's paper and Thursday's contained not so much as a boo. Nothing! No speculation about what had occurred in Taneysville. No concern as to where the skeleton had come from. Or why it had been interred near a now-abandoned farmhouse.

No mention of police involvement, either. Which didn't seem right. In fact, it was downright disturbing. Weren't the police always on hand to call press conferences and such? Assuage the public's fears. Assure them the department was doing its “level best”? Shouldn't there be a homicide detective spouting a theory or a battery of media “personalities” milking the moment? Or what about an interview with the town constable, or photos of the pair that had unearthed the body—even a description of the house and property? Didn't anyone care?

The cane jabbed the useless papers. It was lucky the hour was so advanced, and the residents of the home and their “caregivers” (another odious term!) retired into either sleeping or wakeful silence. It was easier to think without all the foolish bustle of daylight hours. The constant interruptions. The chirpy, saccharine chat. The pleading recommendations to join the rest of the old-timers at their silly games.

This time it was a foot that slashed at the newspapers, sending them sliding across the floor accompanied by a clump of grayish fluff that the nurse's aide referred to as an inconsequential “dust bunny” but which earlier generations had condemned with the decidedly more censorious “sluts' wool.”

Another tirade attacked the aged brain. You “minded your p's and q's” back in those rigorous times! You “toed the line.” You didn't “lollygag”; you didn't “cooter around.” No, indeed. Instead you did your “level best” to be “whole-footed” and conscientious.

At least,
some
people did.

A final grim sigh broke the pervading silence. It was time to send that Graham girl another hint. She needed direction, needed to recognize the seriousness of the situation.

The arthritic fingers began to move across the gridded paper, creating clues in a surprisingly facile hand.

Exposed
was 1-Down …

CHAPTER 14

Rosco drove his aged and beloved red Jeep along the narrow and winding road that led to Taneysville. The city of Newcastle and its outskirts were long past, as were the wealthier suburbs with their homes and schools and shopping complexes. What lay before and around the car was either wooded or cultivated land, and the rare home and barn glimpsed through countless trees or across a naked stretch of recently harvested field.

Rosco noted that what houses he saw were simple affairs: two slim stories, a couple of dormer windows, maybe a porch, maybe an outbuilding with a stack of split logs to warm the residents in winter. Several of the dwellings appeared to have newer windows—the type with storm protection built in. Other homeowners had nailed up plastic sheeting to keep out the bitter New England winds. The route to Taneysville was not lined with the edifices of the rich and famous.

All of which made him curious about the man, Gordon, on whose property the skeletal remains had been found. Why had he chosen Taneysville for an obviously expensive second home? Why Taneysville, rather than one of the tonier hamlets in the Berkshires; a place where the Boston and New York newspapers could be purchased on Sunday mornings—along with fresh-baked bagels and high-priced jams and jellies, Dijon mustard, and cold-press olive oil: the lifeblood of non-natives.

If
Taneysville gets a black eye,
Rosco thought, remembering Belle's comment from the previous evening,
so does Milt Hoffmeyer
. Which would mean that Gordon's name wouldn't be spared either.

May Hoffmeyer opened her door the moment Rosco stepped from his Jeep. “Young Milt phoned,” she called out. “I've been watching for you—and your Jeep.” Then she hesitated. “You
are
Mr. Polycrates, aren't you?”

Rosco approached the porch on which she stood. “I am.” He smiled.

“Milt Senior tells me I'm too trusting … Doesn't want me taking strangers into the house. I don't know what he imagines could happen to an old lady like me. And way out here! The next thing you know he'll be telling me to lock the door even when I'm home—”

A sudden gust of blown leaves interrupted her. They rose from the lawn and neighboring woods, swirling and taking flight like a flock of small brown birds while the sun momentarily appeared then vanished again into the slate gray air. “If I didn't know better, I'd say that was a snow sky.”

Rosco glanced upward. “I don't think so … Too early. Too warm.”

“Oh, that's for sure. But I've heard they've already had a few dustings up in Vermont. We're never far behind … Please do come in, Mr. Polycrates.”

“Rosco's just fine, Mrs. Hoffmeyer.”

“When Tree was a boy he had a goldfish he called Roscoe—because of those bug-eyes, I suppose.”

Rosco couldn't quite make the bug-eye/Roscoe connection. He simply said, “Tree?”

“Young Milt.”

“Ahh … Because of his height, I take it?”

May let out a laugh and closed the door behind Rosco. “No, no, everyone makes that mistake. Young Milt didn't get his nickname of Tree for that reason at all—though he certainly did grow into it … You see, back when he was born, my husband decided to avoid confusion by calling himself Milt
One,
our son Milt
Two,
and of course the baby—Milt
Three
. Well, the poor little guy couldn't pronounce ‘three,' so he became ‘Tree' around Taneysville.”

“He didn't mention that.”

May laughed again. “Oh, no, I guess he wouldn't … Now that he's on his way to Washington, D.C., he's no longer going to be our little Tree, is he?”

“There is the slight matter of the election,” Rosco said, figuring May was astute enough to see he was teasing. “A famous man once said, ‘It ain't over till it's over.'”

“I'm not worried about
that
in the least. I feel it in my bones. He's going to win. 'Course, he probably won't take Taneysville … Most folks around here are registered with the other party.”

Rosco said nothing. He wasn't here to discuss politics. At least, he hoped he wasn't.

“It was good of you to see me, Mrs. Hoffmeyer—”

“Call me May …” She led the way across the living room through mismatched and cozy furniture that looked as if it belonged in a display on home style through the decades: two ornate late-Victorian side chairs thrown together with an Arts and Crafts bench sitting between a couple of blond end tables, one of which held a sleek fifties-styled chrome and porcelain lamp. The couch was straight sixties, the fabric a nautical motif in steely blues and maroons. It didn't have a speck of dirt or a stain upon it. Neither did any other surface. May was clearly a thorough housekeeper.

She chose the couch's center and gestured for Rosco to take a large, overstuffed easy chair—which he guessed to be Milt Sr.'s favorite spot as it was surrounded by a magazine rack and a basket containing a number of library books. A pouch for reading glasses was clipped to the chair's arm.

“… If Tree says ‘Jump,' I jump,” she added. “I guess I'm what you'd call a doting grandmother. I was a doting ma for him, too … But I'm sure you know that story.” She leaned back—slightly. It was the gesture of a woman attempting to appear relaxed and unconcerned. “Fire away.” She frowned. “Well, maybe that's the wrong word … seeing as how we're discussing a murder …”

Rosco removed a small notebook and pen from his wind-breaker. “Do you mind if I take a few notes?”

“Not at all. Tree wants to get to the bottom of this. So do I; so does his grandfather. Tree told us he was worried that the incumbent might try to use the situation to his advantage … which would be a downright shame. We've got a nice little village here, Rosco. Nice people.
Good
people—for the most part. It would be sad if the rest of the world sees us as something we're not.”

Rosco nodded. “What I'm trying to do is get a sense of the community. You said ‘good people—for the most part.' Can you be more specific?”

Instead of responding directly to the question, May shook her head, her lips tight with unhappiness. “A terrible thing isn't it, murder?”

“It is.”

“And here, of all places … No one's stopped talking about it …”

“Can you tell me what people are saying?”

Again, the quick frown, but deeper this time and longer lasting. “I don't hold with speaking for others. And I'm plumb against any kind of gossip … But I guess I can say I don't know why anyone was surprised to learn that the young woman had been
murdered
… After all, it's only logical. If she'd died of natural causes and there'd been nothing suspicious about her death, then she would have been given a proper funeral and buried in a proper cemetery … instead of the Quigleys' old vegetable patch.”

“That's a very good point, Mrs. Hoffmeyer.”

“May.”

“May.” Rosco smiled again. “A very good point.” He jotted words in his notebook while May appeared duly proud.

“Of course we didn't know it was a girl until your medical specialist in Newcastle figured it out. It's interesting, isn't it? We all jumped to the conclusion that the body just had to belong to a man.” She looked toward a bay window. Another troubled expression crossed her face. “Why do you think that is?”