Corpus de Crossword (18 page)

“The Bazinnes haven't had an easy time of it, Father,” Sylvia added. “We don't need to make things tougher than they already are.”

CHAPTER 23

“You three mouseketeers find out whose body was dumped out Taneysville way yet?” Martha's laconic New England accent turned
mouseketeers
into
mouseketee-uhs
and
body
into
baahdy
. As she spoke, she tossed three laminated menus on the Formica tabletop of the corner booth at Lawson's coffee shop. Top dog at this Newcastle institution, the vivid pink of Martha's uniform matched the color of the banquette, the counter, the stools, and even the walls of the establishment. None of Lawson's many regulars knew which had come first: the coffee shop's unique color scheme or the head waitress's choice in clothing shade.

“Would it be impossible for you to bring us some coffee first and ask questions later, Martha?” was Al Lever's gruff response. “Besides it's musketeers, not mouse—”

“Hey, Al. You're the one who's hired to smell
rats,
not me.” Martha laughed at her own joke, creating the rustle and creak of extra-strength undergarments not commonly heard in the twenty-first century. “I thought I brought you guys your coffees.” She made a point of looking into Rosco's cup and then Belle's. “Nope, I guess not … Back in a jif.”

Al groaned—albeit softly.

“A might touchy for a late Sunday morning, aren't we?” Martha observed. “You know what they say about caffeine, Al … it's an addiction. That's what they say.”

“Spare me, Martha. I hear that kind of talk enough at home. That's why I come here.”

“Well, maybe you should start listening to your little missus.” With that she bustled off while Lever uttered another soft, coffee-deprived groan, then turned his attention on Belle.

“Okay … what else can you tell me about what happened in Taneysville last night?”

“I just saw the fire, Al—”

But Belle's recitation was interrupted by the waitress's return, in one hand a coffeepot, in the other an order pad she rarely used. Martha took pride in knowing not only her regulars' eating habits but most of their life stories as well. “What'll it be? The usual for the lovebirds?” Her beehive hairdo nodded briefly in Rosco and Belle's direction: “Grilled cheese for my man; French toast for his lady …? You, Al?”

“BLT—extra mayo.” Al took a long and satisfied swig of coffee while Martha stared, her blond hair fairly bristling in surprise.

“You never have a BLT on Sunday morning. You always have flapjacks. BLTs are for Wednesdays—”

“Well, my, my …” Lever crossed his arms over his expansive chest. “The world is full of surprises, isn't it?”

Martha arched a disbelieving—almost disapproving—eyebrow. “Have it your own way … but don't you blame me when your entire week's thrown way off kilter. Not to mention your … well, you know. Hope you've got plenty of them purple pills.” Then she softened, as she always did. “You want extra pickles like usual, right, Al?”

“You're an angel.”

But before leaving, Martha couldn't resist a parting shot. “Keep an eye on him, will ya, Rosco? I think the lieutenant may be coming down with something.
Angel,
indeed.” Then she sloshed more coffee into Al's cup and left, striding in quintessential Martha style across the restaurant while barking out orders to Kenny, the fry cook.

“Tell me again, Belle,” Al said after a moment's pause. He pulled a small pad and pen from his jacket. “Who was there at the scene?”

“I don't know that I can describe them very well … It was getting dark by the time I reached Taneysville … and the fire had a way of lighting up faces in peculiar ways—as if they were all telling ghost stories around a campfire.” She thought. “Besides, what does it matter who I saw?”

It was Rosco who answered. “People who commit arson generally return to the scene of the crime to witness their handiwork … Sometimes they're even the most obvious volunteer rescue workers or firefighters.”

“That doesn't make sense,” Belle replied slowly.

“It does if you're a firebug,” was Al's terse reply. “So, let's see … You remember a couple of old guys … How old?”

“Seventies, maybe. One had white hair, but he was in good shape physically, very wiry. Smallish stature. He could have been younger than seventy—”

“And his buddy?”

“Al. They were two senior citizens! People like that don't burn down buildings.”

Lever sipped his coffee. “Lonnie Tucker told me folks were pretty upset about the new construction at the Quigley site—”

This time it was Rosco who interrupted. “So the fire marshal believes the arson was an amateur job?”

Lever nodded. “He's still out at the location, but that was his initial read. Amateurs usually make fairly typical and easily recognizable mistakes. In this situation, apparently there was a clear burn pattern commencing at an electrical outlet …” Al turned to include Belle in his explanation. “That's the direction in which a fire burns; it's also called a V pattern … Your pro will try to make the job look as if it were an accident—faulty wiring, that kind of thing—that's why they'll start it all off at a fuse box or attic light. The nonpro might try to copy that approach, but they won't get it right—”

“But the house wasn't occupied,” Belle interrupted. “Wouldn't the electricity have been shut off?”

“Not if the contractor thought he could sneak in some interior work while no one was looking,” Rosco answered.

“But the site was shut down,” Belle countered.

“What can I say? There are honest guys, and there are dishonest guys. The ISD boys—building inspectors, that is—can't be expected to hang over these guys' shoulders on a daily basis. Speaking of building inspectors, Al.…”

“Parker said he could stay away from Taneysville; give you a week to play Parker Number Two,” Lever said. “He's only doing it as a favor to me. Don't make me regret this, Poly—crates.”

Martha returned balancing three large platters in her hands. “Extra syrup for Belle … pickles for Mr. Diet-conscious … salty grease for the new hubby … I don't know how you keep your waistline, cute stuff.” Martha beamed at Rosco, who remained one of her favorites, while Lever scowled.

“Age is all he has going for him, Martha.”

“And exercise, Al.” Rosco chuckled. “Don't forget I run almost every morning.”

“Oh, please don't remind me, Mr. Universe. Mr. Perfect.” Lever lifted his eyes to the ceiling and bowed to Rosco in mock reverence. “You know that stuff's murder on your heart. I'd be careful if I were you.”

“What? Grilled cheese sandwiches and fries?”

“No. Exercise,” Al growled.

“Enough, you two.” Belle laughed, then turned to Lever; “I'm still a little confused by this fire. You've got a burn pattern starting at an electrical outlet—why
couldn't
it have been simply a short?”

“For one thing, the fuse box had already been upgraded—replaced with an all-new circuit breaker board. So a circuit breaker would have been tripped if the situation was merely an internal malfunction. For another, you've got traces of combustible material at the fire's point of origin. A can of lighter fluid is all it would take in an old structure like that.”

“At the risk of playing devil's advocate,” Belle continued, “don't a lot of construction sites have flammable material: gas for generators, paint thinner that could accidentally—”

“Sure, but in the case of an incendiary fire—which is how this one has been officially listed—the flame will burn a heck of a lot longer at the point of origin before spreading to the remainder of the building where those items were located; i.e., you douse part of a wall with gasoline, that area's going to see more meltdown than any other area … At the Quigley site, we're seeing extensive damage to the electric wiring in a
new
section, a small side mudroom. That's where the fire began, not the old house. And there's sleeving, which means the insulation has come loose, and a lot of beading up or melting of the actual metal. And the fire marshal is positive when tests are done on the ashes, he's going to find traces of something.”

“I see …” Belle finally said. “And you think someone standing on the hill near me may have been the culprit.”

“I do.”

“That's the profile, the one that usually pans out,” Rosco added. “Unless you're dealing with a professional … which this situation doesn't have the earmarks of.”

Belle shuddered slightly. “But all the voices I heard sounded so upset. Horrified, really. And why not? It was a scary and tragic sight.”

Lever crunched down on a pickle. “So, aside from the two old guys …?”

Belle went into a description of the bodies and faces surrounding her, describing, without realizing it, the vestry of Trinity Church; John Stark's wife; May Hoffmeyer (whom Rosco recognized and named); the electrician Big Otto Gunston (whose name Rosco also supplied); Stu Farmer, Otto's sometime assistant; the mason Gary Leach; Clarice the postmistress; Amanda Mott; and Frank Bazinne and his wife.

“Sounds like quite a party,” Lever observed.

Belle's expression grew pensive. “Well, you'd have to expect the whole town to show up, but it wasn't any party, Al. In fact, it was really, really sad. I got the feeling everyone was sick at what was happening.”

At that moment, Martha returned with checks, more coffee, and a mound of hot fries, which she set squarely in the center of the table. “I been watching you, Al. I seen you drooling over Rosco's food … So have yourself a ball. No one's looking.”

“Except you three and my cholesterol count.”

“And who are we gonna tell?”

“My wife? I don't trust any of you farther than I can throw you.”

Martha winked at Belle, who looked at Rosco, who answered for them all. “Mum's the word, Al.”

Lever drew the plate of fries closer. “Wipe that smug smile off your face, Poly—crates.”

“I will if you'll do me a favor.”

Lever effected his stagiest groan. “What is this? Blackmail by committee?”

“No committee. Just me … You remember Sid Tanner up in Boston?”

“Why do I break bread with you, Poly—crates? If you can remind me, I'd be real grateful. Because from where I'm sitting, you've been bringing me nothing but trouble. I should learn to keep you at arm's length.”

“It's Tanner's arm I'm thinking about, Al … It needs a little twisting.”

CHAPTER 24

“Sid Tanner … of course I remember … he's the Boston cop who first contacted Al when my father died … I knew the name sounded familiar.” Belle and Rosco were walking Kit on the near-deserted premises of what had once been the lawns, gardens, and croquet court of the Dew Drop Inn, a seaside resort hotel built in the boom days of the early 1920s. The building itself was now boarded up, the turrets, dormer windows, cupolas, and porches slightly atilt and sagging, giving it a mournful stare as if it were pining over its lost youth: the “boys” of summer with their white flannel tennis whites, the “girls” in their party dresses of printed silk and linen. Despite the former inn's sorry state, Belle loved walking its perimeter, loved the proximity to clifftop and sea, loved, in fact, its sense of bygone enchantments. And that same affection had been kindled in Rosco and Kit—although the dog probably didn't dwell on the finer points of historical context. “I don't remember Al being particularly happy about dealing with Tanner,” Belle added. “For that matter, I don't recall you taking much of a shine to him, either.”

“Your memory has not let you down.” Rosco smiled as he tossed a stick for Kit, who bounded after it, a flying fur ball of puppy enthusiasm and energy. “Of course, I never met Tanner back then, not face-to-face, but he was certainly a guy who liked to get things cleaned up and off his desk quickly—and that character trait doesn't seemed to have changed much. I don't think he's a particularly bad cop, just not as thorough as I like.”

“Do you really think it's going to do any good to have Al contact Tanner?”

Kit raced back—with the stick, naturally; and Rosco had to pause, first to wrestle it from her mouth and then to throw it again. “I'm still not buying the fact that Mike Petri took his own life. Al seems to have a relationship with Tanner. Maybe a nudge from Al will get him to look into Petri's death a little closer.”

Belle thought and, as she did, dug her hands deeper into her jeans' pockets, hunching her shoulders against the cooling Sunday afternoon air. “I know I may be stepping on your turf here … but wouldn't it be better to concentrate on Taneysville first? Petri can wait until after the election, right? One step at a time …”

Rosco paused before answering. “Something tells me there's a connection—”

“Between Petri's death and Gordon's skeleton?”

“It's a wild hunch, I know.”

“I don't really see it.”

“I don't understand it myself, Belle … But Petri did leave that phone message for me just before he
supposedly
jumped.”

“He could have been trying to contact you regarding another situation.”

“You're right. Sure. But either way, you don't leave a message for someone saying you'll call back, then take a wild leap from fifteen floors up. Unless …”

“Unless?”

“That's just it. I don't know. That's why I need Al to prod Tanner. Expedite delivery of the case file if nothing else. Get me some hard facts: priors, possible criminal associates, absolutely
anything
at this point.” Rosco turned to Belle. “Petri was a sleazeball. No doubt about it. Dirty cop turned equally shady PI. Someone you'd never want to invite over for a meal—unless you locked up the valuables first … But he leaves a message … then jumps …? Come on! It stinks. Something tells me Petri was being muzzled. In a permanent fashion. I'd also like to see Tanner send a forensics team into Petri's apartment. I want to know if he was alone Friday night.”