Corpus de Crossword (13 page)

“Divorced, beheaded, died”—Belle muttered the antique refrain under her breath—”divorced, beheaded, survived.” With one hand she began counting letters in the names of Henry's queens: CATHERINE OF ARAGON, ANNE BOLEYN, JANE SEYMOUR, ANNE OF CLEVES, CATHERINE HOWARD, and the only one to survive her willful and vindictive husband: CATHERINE PARR.

An envelope fell from between the pages of a catalog as Belle finished this exercise. The handwriting on the address was identical to that of the anonymous crossword she'd shared with Sara. Belle slit open the envelope and unfolded another meticulously crafted puzzle.
Swap meet
. She turned the page over. Like the previous offering there was no hint of authorship; therefore it would be impossible to include it in a collection of readers' contributions. She glanced at the Across clues, silently filling in answers: WHAT'S IN A NAME, TRADING PLACES … Then she shook her head, dropped the puzzle on her desk, and turned on the radio, hoping for some gentle background music to lull her back to work.

Divorced, beheaded, died,
her brain recited,
divorced, beheaded, survived … There must be a clever lexical twist I can use with this one
…

But her thought process was interrupted by a political announcement that roared out of the radio at a decibel level that seemed twice that of the previous music selection:

“… If he can't clean up crime in his own hometown, how can he promise he'll address the issue statewide? Nationwide? What we need are crime busters, not sob sisters like Milton Hoffmeyer the Third. And we don't need skeletons stuffed inside our neighbors' closets … Paid for by Concerned Citizens for a Better Bay State …”

Belle flicked off the radio in disgust. Honestly! she thought. For one thing those remains weren't found in a closet, they were unearthed in a field, in what had once been a vegetable garden. Then her facile mind spun into alliterative mode:
A Body Buried among Butter Beans; The Corpse in the Cowpeas; Skeletons and Scallions; Murder in the Maize
.

A rueful smile crept around the corners of her lips. She sighed, and with some effort returned to the precarious lives of King Henry's wives.

SWAP MEET

Across

  1.  Fr. holy woman

  4.  Tie results?

  7.  5 & 10, e.g.

 12.  She

 13.  Passed on

 15.  Neutered

 16.  Poetically above

 17.  Stretcher?

 18.  “To be …” source

 19.  Juliet's rose comment

 22.  Hawaiian geese

 23.  Conflict

 24.  Latin love

 27.  Aykroyd/Murphy film

 32.  Even; abbr.

 33.  Tenth of twelve

 34.  Some gyms

 35.  180

 39.  José or Buddy

 40.  Chinese export

 41.  Very in Vergara

 42.  Abba hit

 46.  Swedish river

 47.  Pub drink

 48.  Forces down

 51.  Classic deceiver

 55.  Hash mark

 58.  Dupes

 59.  Born

 60.  Flung over

 61.  Even better

 62.  Literary monogram

 63.  Feel

 64.  Fool

 65.  Isr. neighbor

Down

  1.  Exposed

  2.  Twitter

  3.  Backbone of some puzzles

  4.  Black Sea port

  5.  20-Down torch

  6.  Exposed

  7.  Canned ham

  8.  Domesticated

  9.  Olive ___

 10.  Female ruff

 11.  NYC zone

 14.  Like Hollywood dreamers

 15.  Honed

 20.  Patio

 21.  Pester

 24.  Certain stolen items

 25.  Dense

 26.  CIA germ?

 28.  Badger

 29.  Chill

 30.  Soap stuff

 31.  An aardvark, e.g.

 32.  “Beat it!”

 36.  Cartoon denial

 37.  Admission

 38.  Sorceress

 39.  African antelope

 43.  Like a distant star

 44.  Patient's request; abbr.

 45.  Bikini blasts

 49.  Verse

 50.  Scowl

 51.  Tears

 52.  Rapier

 53.  On the briny

 54.  Rat's nest

 55.  60's grp.

 56.  Tuscan three

 57.  Operated

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

CHAPTER 17

“Peskov or Pinchov?” Belle asked. She was seated at her desk, absentmindedly chewing on a licorice stick. Rosco was seated nearby, but instead of nibbling candy he was looking through his pocket notebook.

“Something like that … Of course, the information comes from Big Otto. And I wouldn't call him an overly reliable—or sympathetic—character.”

Belle raised her eyebrows and smiled. “And it doesn't sound as if Sean Reilly is much of a sweetheart, either. In fact, from what you've been telling me, a good many of the folks in Taneysville are suffering from a fairly advanced case of xenophobia—”

“You can say that again. A welcome mat salesman would starve to death out there.”

Belle released a small laugh, then grew serious. “Well, our supposedly enlightened city isn't always very welcoming or accepting, either. Like everywhere, we've got ethnic-related prejudices; people who get skittish when confronted with mental health patients or physical deformities. And then there are religious differences …”

Rosco put on a look of mock surprise. “Right here in River City! I don't believe it! … I'm Greek, remember?”

Belle smiled again. “As if your mom or sisters could ever let me forget that … the eldest son married to a ‘white girl' …”

“Who's been made an honorary Greek. Don't ever tell me you're not the luckiest girl in the world. That title's not bestowed upon outsiders lightly by my clan. My brothers-in-law are still groveling for acceptance.”

Belle grinned but didn't speak, and the two gazed at each other across the crossword-themed office. The look was filled with a desire to place everything on hold and slip upstairs—even just for a little while. They remained in that conflicted pose as the sun began to sink toward the horizon and the sky assumed a flame-red hue. Beyond the windows, the small garden was already drenched in shadow, causing the bare tree limbs and deciduous shrubs to appear even darker against this fiery backdrop. Then the sunset's rays momentarily filled the room, alighting on Rosco's and Belle's faces, making them seem as if they were glowing from within. Or perhaps it was inner happiness their expressions reflected.

“Well …?” Rosco said; his mind was an open book.

“Wait a minute … I was just thinking of something …”

“I was afraid of that.”

“… Could the name Big Otto was hunting for be Peshkov?”

“I guess …” Unconsciously, Rosco mirrored his wife's pose, also leaning forward in his chair. “Although I was kind of hoping your brain was focusing on a different question—”

“Peshkov …” Belle repeated slowly, “Aleksei Maksimovich Peshkov … a.k.a. Maxim Gorki—”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“The writer Gorki used a pseudonym—”

Rosco sat back and chuckled. “Stupid question, but how did you know that?”

“Huh?”

“How did you …? No, never mind … I'll never be able to comprehend how much information your brain has packed away. We've got to get you on
Jeopardy.”
Rosco chuckled again. It was the sound of a man who adored his wife. “Okay, Gorki a.k.a. Peshkov … What might this have to do with our Mr. Gordon?”

“
Alex
Gordon, right? Isn't that what you told me?”

“Right …?”

“An English version of Aleksei, and Gordon instead of Gorki—”

“Where does Peshkov come in?”

“Well,
if
your Alex Gordon is indeed a Russian expatriate, and
if
his name is Peshkov—rather than Pinchov or Peskov, then his choice of alias shows a literary bent …”

“So?” Rosco smiled and shook his head. “I'm not sure this is getting us anywhere vis-à-vis the skeletal remains in Taneysville, unless you're suggesting we've finally found the long-lost Tsarina Anastasia … Besides, by assuming Gordon's real name is Peshkov you're utilizing a
very
circumstantial concept—as well as an unsound source … And in the long run, what difference does the name make?”

“Wait a minute!” Belle sat bolt upright in her chair. “Gordon, Alex …” She put her hands on her temples. “… Wife goes missing—”

“I'm going to have to ask you to back up here, Belle. I missed a segue.”

She gazed at him, her gray eyes bright. Then she jumped to her feet and began switching on the room's lamps and overhead light. “It's coming back to me now … A businessman named Alex Gordon … He lived in Boston … had a very high-profile wife … She was always popping up in some society magazine … redecorating her bathroom, having the dining room
trompe l'oeiled …”
Belle squinted, trying to remember. “It must have been twelve or thirteen years ago—”

“Thirteen years ago, I was NPD. I didn't worry myself with high-profile wives in Boston—or
trompe l'oeil.”

“And I wasn't even living in Massachusetts then,” Belle countered as she paced the room. “This was national magazine stuff. She was young … very flashy … a real babe, if you go in for the bleach-blond, cosmetically altered, greedy, gold-digger type—”

“Which I gather you don't. I know
I
sure don't.”

Belle cocked her head to one side. “You're so perceptive. It's one of the things I love about you.”

“So, this Alex Gordon of yours had a trashy wife who was a publicity hound—?”

“Then one day, she upped and ran off with her husband's business partner—along with a sizable chunk of company cash.”

Rosco winced. “Not a happy scenario … but not all that unusual. Infidelity isn't—”

“The partner was quite a looker, too, as I recall. A real Clark Gable type.”

“‘Frankly, my dear—'”

“After that she plumb vanished from the scene.” Belle sat on her desk, and again frowned in concentration. “Not a peep out of her. No more photo spreads of her at poolside or showing off her newest collection of handbags—”

“Maybe she finally found true love, and didn't need all the hoopla.”

“Maybe … Actually, I remember thinking that the two of them had probably skipped the country and retired to a desert isle.” Belle shook her head in thought. “Mrs. Alex Gordon … the wife of the ‘magnet magnate.'”

“Huh?”

“I just remembered … that's what the press called the husband …” Then Belle almost shouted. “FYI! That was the acronym for his company's name … I can't remember what it stood for … Yes, I can! Far Yukon Industries.”

“Sounds like it could be our boy,” Rosco said, then remained silent a moment. “Wife disappears … business partner pulls a fast one … I have to start reading
Town and Country
more often. Any other facts roaming around in that fertile brain of yours …? For instance: Was the partner accused of embezzlement?”

“He must have been … I guess … I'll tell you what: We can do a Web search right now …” Belle spun toward her computer, then sagged in dejection. “No, wait. I forgot … We won't be able to retrieve information from that long ago—at least not current newspaper articles and so forth. I'll have to head down to the
Crier'
s morgue tomorrow morning and use their microfiche. That way I can access the Boston papers, too—”

“I wish you wouldn't call it that.”

“Why? Microfiche is the official—”

“No,
morgue.”

“The
Crier'
s reference room? Every paper has one. The nickname's been around since the early nineteenth century. Although”—she smiled briefly—“it might interest you to know that the term doesn't come from the Latin word for death but that it's French, and derives from
morgo,
or pride. A French
morgue
was a place where the police examined newly captured criminals—” Belle interrupted her own train of thought, and jumped back to Alex Gordon and his wife. “Darn! I hate conundrums like this.”

“I thought patience was your middle name.”

She made a face. “Well, buddy, you thought wrong.”

Rosco stood and put his arms around her. “I've got to check my office for calls. Then what do you say we head out for dinner?”

“Sounds terrific.”

Rosco walked to the phone on the desk, where he tapped in numbers and then jotted names and return numbers in his notebook while Belle pulled close.