Corpus de Crossword (24 page)

“The Bazinne family has had a really tough time of it, Rosco. I don't know …”

“It sure doesn't give them the right to break the law.”

“I realize that …” Belle plunked the mail and a pot onto the countertop, bent her head, and made a sound that came close to being a groan. “What an awful story … Who can blame Katie—or Paula Flynn—for not coming back home? And who can blame her niece and nephews for feeling deserted and betrayed? And
angry
… It really makes you hate the kind of world that lets people like old man Bazinne walk around loose. Look at all the misery he created.”

Rosco put his arms around his wife and held her tight. “How about we go out for a bite instead of you trying to cope with dinner?”

Belle looked up, wiped her eyes, released a long and weary breath, then attempted a chipper smile. “Since when have you known me to
cope
with anything culinary? You're the chef, remember? I'm the one who believes that if you throw enough butter or mayo at it, the recipe works … Speaking of which—”

Rosco winced. Dramatically. “Don't say it. I know what's coming.”

“Pork rinds?”

“I happen to like them … On occasion.”

“Well, you sure kept me in the dark, Mr.
Parker
. Unless, of course, that was part of your ‘good ole boy' disguise: munching on snack foods, ogling the girls, and making suggestive comments.” She squeezed his hand, and smiled again. This time, the expression was in earnest. “Speaking of which: if Father Matt hadn't arrived on the scene, was it your intention to let the guy with the ponytail—?”

“Stu … He's Big Otto's ‘partner.' Or so he likes to suggest. Seemed like a good person for one of us to get to know.”

Belle cocked her head. “Don't try to change the subject, wiseass. I believe the subject here is a certain Rosco Polycrates—” But even as she was preparing to critique her husband's chivalry in regards to protecting innocent maidens, her fingers slit open one of the envelopes. “Well, look at this … Another crossword from my mystery admirer.” She turned over the envelope. “And hand-delivered, just like the last one.”

Before either Belle or Rosco could comment on the puzzle, however, the phone rang; while simultaneously an ear-splitting crash of crunching metal and breaking glass echoed from the street. The noise was immediately followed by a screech of automobile tires.

“
That
doesn't sound good,” Rosco said as he reached for the receiver. “Al said he'd call to debrief on Taneys—” The words stopped in his throat. “Who is this?” he demanded after a few seconds. The gravelly voice on the other end of the line ignored him.

“… you
and
your damn wife …”

Even at a distance, Belle could hear rage reverberating in the speaker's voice.

“Who
is
this?” Rosco repeated.

“… I'm warning you, Polycrates—back off … Take a peek outside if you don't believe me. I doubt you want your pretty little lady ending up looking like that piece of junk you
used to
drive.”

The line went dead. Rosco punched in the caller retrieval code, jotted down the number, then looked at Belle again. “Seems somebody doesn't want us asking questions in Taneysville.”

He walked toward the front door, pulling his pistol from the holster hanging in the coat closet. Belle was right behind him.

“I don't want you outside,” he said as he opened the door. “Whoever called is probably—”

Parked beside the curb where he'd left it was what remained of his beloved red Jeep. The windshield was a sea of shattered glass that now rested on the front seats. The canvas top had been slashed, and the shredded remains left to flap angrily in the night breeze. The headlights and taillights had been smashed; the hood, fenders, and door panels battered almost beyond recognition.

“Scratch one Jeep,” Rosco muttered.

Al Lever eased himself onto a kitchen stool while Rosco finished detailing the Jeep's damages to the patrolman who'd been dispatched to the crime scene. Belle was perched on a stool nearby. She'd made coffee, but it sat untouched in four now-cooling mugs. “I can't believe none of the neighbors saw anything,” she muttered into her cup. “The noise was so … so … Of course, we didn't get outside in time to I.D. the vehicle either …”

Lever glanced at her huddled form as he let out a heavy wheeze. “It's not something people really want to get involved in—even if it sounds like a hit and run, which you originally thought you heard …” He shook his head. “But this was a violent act, Belle. If I were one of your neighbors out for an evening stroll, I wouldn't want to mess with those guys either.”

“Guys?” Belle asked. “You think there was more than one person?”

Al nodded. “With that kind of damage? Absolutely. It'd take one person too much time to pull off a stunt like that. Besides, the bozos who do these things aren't brave enough to go it alone; they're like dogs, they travel in packs.” He glanced down at Kit and shrugged. “No offense, buddy.”

“I'm sure there was none taken.”

“Okay, let's go over this threatening call again, Poly—crates … By the way, the number traces to a phone booth. We're dusting it for prints. You're sure you don't have any vocal recognition? No speech pattern you could identify?”

Rosco shook his head. “Southern accent is all I can say, possibly from Texas? Who knows? He wasn't New England.”

Belle sat straighter. “The attack on the Jeep came almost at the same second the phone rang,” she said. “As if someone was doing the synchronized watch routine. If Rosco hadn't figured it was you calling and answered, we probably would have raced outside to see what the commotion was—”

“And gotten yourselves in worse trouble than you are already. These guys are serious about wanting you off the Taneysville situation.” Lever sighed again, and leaned his bulky body forward. “So … let's talk about your last trip out there.” He looked at Rosco. “You're telling me the townsfolk know who Belle is—both by reputation and by sight recognition—”

“
Some
of them,” Belle interjected.

“Trust me, Al,” Rosco added, “when Belle says ‘some,' it's ‘all.' News travels fast out there … And, yep, that about covers it: Belle's effort at undercover work didn't last two seconds—if that … The infamous ‘Miss Graham.'” He gave his wife a smile, but the loving effort failed. At the moment, neither Rosco nor Belle was up to giddy expressions of joy.

“So, you've been more successful; i.e., the folks in Taneysville don't know what the famous ‘
Mr
. Belle Graham' looks like—only that he's a Newcastle PI … since they
assume
you're Parker, part two, from ISD.” Lever ran a hand across a chin that needed a shave.

“Yup … that's me. Bill Parker with the red Jeep … the
former
red Jeep.”

“Get over it, bucko, you were due for a new set of wheels years ago.” Lever tried to give this statement a happy-go-lucky tone, but it fell to the kitchen floor like a ladleful of raw pancake batter.

“Okay …” he continued, “this is what's bothering me: The person threatening you is aware of your real identity … I mean, think about it, he knows you're married, knows where you live, what kind of car you own—
used to
own, that is … and he knows you and Belle have both been visiting Taneysville—”

It was Belle who interrupted. “But the only residents privy to this information are Milt Hoffmeyer Senior and his wife, and they're sworn to secrecy. After all, it's their grandson—”

“And I'll bet you a thousand dollars that none of the Hoffmeyers know exactly where you live. Which brings me back to what young Hoffmeyer hired Rosco to do. Simply get the goods on an ancient body unearthed on Alex Gordon's property … Sorry, I'm just thinking out loud. Sometimes it works better than drumming my fingers.”

“And smoking cigarettes?”

“Nothing works better than smoking cigarettes.” Lever paused, and rubbed his chin again. “Get the goods … Get the goods. But on who, really? On a murder that may be threatening to end his political career? Or are we looking at two different problems here? If so, that would mean the murderer is still alive, right? Because somebody has an awful lot to hide.” He glanced from Belle to Rosco. “I don't like this. I don't like it at all. This Jeep business isn't just the work of some slippery politician manipulating the press. This has hired gun written all over it, and I'd venture to say that the hired gun section of the Taneysville Yellow Pages doesn't have many listings.”

CHAPTER 32

Lack of sleep, anger mingled with fear, and the constant presence of Rosco's ruined Jeep didn't make for a great start to Tuesday morning. Belle wandered around the kitchen, making coffee, shaking granola into bowls, and cutting oranges into wedges while Rosco and Kit went on an abbreviated run—for the puppy's sake, not her master's.

Before embarking on these activities, conversation between the two humans had been minimal; even Kit, watching Rosco don sweats and track shoes, had been surprisingly quiet and sedate. It hadn't helped that the front door had been carefully locked when dog and man stepped onto the porch or that Rosco's last words to Belle had been: “Don't open the door for anyone. I'll be twenty minutes, max.” Kit had recognized the tone: Serious. No fun. No frolic. No tennis balls to chase.

Alone in the locked house, Belle perfunctorily performed her household tasks. As she worked, her eyes were slowly drawn to the crossword she'd received the evening before. There it was, lying on the counter where she'd dropped it when the threatening phone call had arrived. Idly, she picked up the puzzle, but a sense of distaste immediately swept over her. It was as if all her feelings of frustration and anxiety were leveled on this single sheet of paper.

Why doesn't this person leave me alone?
she wanted to shout, although her brain simultaneously produced an even more compelling culprit in this sorry state of affairs: herself.
A few mystery word games, and I go tearing out to Taneysville … What am I thinking? That the puzzles are going to reveal our murder victim
—
or who started the fire …? I bet these clues are no more than a bunch of silly coincidences. I bet I invented connections that never even existed. Typical! Jumping to conclusions. Going off half-baked. What a total dodo!

Belle half-sighed, half-moaned. She felt mighty irritated at herself. She stared at the puzzle, willing it to prove what a dupe she'd been.

“‘Change' of Heart,”
she muttered. “That's a lesson right there. I should get a change of intellect!” But, involuntarily, her brain and fingers began filling in answers. “PENNY … NICKEL … DIME … QUARTER … Terrific … just terrific … ‘A' for effort on a themed word game! But there ain't no murderers hiding in these clues or teenaged girls dumped in a vegetable plot!” Belle sloshed coffee in a mug, and stared moodily out the window. What she could see of the street looked weirdly empty.

When the phone rang two seconds later, she jumped so high, coffee leapt into the air and spattered her shirt. “Oh, for pete's sake. What now?” Belle stood stock still.
What if it's the caller from last night? What if there are more threats? What if Rosco and Kit have been
—
?
Then logic fought back.
Al's on top of the situation; a squad car's cruising nearby. The caller's probably the insurance company
—
or Al himself
.

“Belle Graham.”

The voice at the other end was familiar; ordinarily, it would have been very welcome. At the moment, however, Belle wasn't feeling chatty, or brave, or even particularly polite. Her response was a dull: “Hi, Sara …”

“Oh, my dear, I was so upset when I got the news! Rosco's darling little red car. What a despicable and heinous act …” It didn't occur to Belle to ask how Sara had heard the story. Despite being a good-sized city, Newcastle had an information/gossip network worthy of any small town.

“Well, the culprits will have to be found, that's all. Found and brought to justice …”

Rosco and Kit walked in. Belle smiled in relief, cupped the receiver, and mouthed, “Sara”; Rosco executed a brief wave indicating
hello from me,
then scooped food into the puppy's bowl and headed toward the stairs to change into work clothes. He snagged a mug of coffee on his way while Belle pointed to the full cereal bowls and raised her shoulders in query.

“Start without me if you want,” was the whispered reply while Sara's disembodied voice rattled on with a blithe:

“… of course, it was
your
Mr. Gordon's wife I was seated beside, of all the peculiar coincidences—”

“Who?” Belle interrupted. She realized she'd missed a significant portion of this conversation.

“It
is
Alex Gordon, isn't it? The man who owns property in Taneysville?”

“That's right.” Belle drew out the words. “And where did you—”

“Oh, my dear, you
are
distracted today … Of course, I don't blame you in the least; not with everything that's happened … But, as I was saying, I was seated beside Mrs. Gordon at the fashion show fund-raiser for the animal shelter … Although, as I mentioned a moment ago, I'd hardly call what the models wore
couture
—unless you believe patched blue jeans—”

“Patched—?”

“I admit I can be old-fashioned, Belle dear, but in my day dress design was … well, no matter. Raising money for the shelter is such an important cause; and I shouldn't quibble about modern style …”

Belle felt her head was spinning.
Maybe I should have eaten earlier,
she thought. She eyed the granola, but it suddenly looked less than appealing.