The Crossword Connection (4 page)

“Rosco Polycrates. I wrote it on line—” He tried to point through the glass separating license applicants from those in power.

R-O-S-C-O-E she penned in dark block letters.

“There is no
e
on the end,” he said. “My folks—”

The woman interrupted with an impatient sigh, then unsuccessfully attempted to erase the additional letter.

“Age?”

“Thirty-eight. It says so right—”

“Sir. My job is to verify pertinent data. Yours is to supply it. Sex?”

“Why not? That's one of the reasons we're getting married, isn't it?”

If looks could kill, the clerk would have turned Rosco to dust.

Rosco backtracked. “I guess we should list that as male.” Belle rolled her eyes and squeezed his hand. “I'm a private investigator,” he added as if the information would confirm the accuracy of his statements. “Formerly with the police department.”

The clerk glared. “Your past employment is of no consequence here, sir. Nor does it impress me. Marital status?”

“Where did it say that? I guess I missed that question.… Why else would I be here?”

The woman's piercing stare only intensified.

“Divorced, I guess. Married once before. It didn't work out. I was too young.”

The official pen paused above the smudged form. “Sir. Are you or are you not free to apply for a marriage license?”

“Free … absolutely.”

The clerk's basilisk mask dispensed with Rosco. “You'll have to redo this form, sir. The errors make it quite illegible. It will never reproduce clearly on our copy machine.” She turned her attention to Belle. “Name?” she demanded before proceeding through an identical litany.

“Thirty-three … female … also divorced.”

“I know you!” the clerk suddenly announced. “You're the crossword editor at the
Evening Crier
! The one who solved those crimes!”

“Actually, we both—” Belle began, but Rosco tugged on her hand.

“I read about you in
Personality
magazine. You're prettier than your picture. I would have assumed
Personality
hired professional makeup artists and stylists.”

“No, they—” Belle started to respond, but the clerk interrupted with an abrupt “What's it like to catch a murderer?”

“I didn't actually catch—”

“Solved the crime
,” the clerk interjected. “That's what the article said. It's the same thing. I have a near-photographic memory. I can quote everything I've read in
Personality.
The picture was in your home office, with all that black and white crossword decor. The interviewer said you prefer working at home to being at the
Crier.
‘The Queen of Cryptics,' that was the title of the story.” She added an airy: “I don't do those puzzles myself. I hate writing in pencil. You see what a mess your fiancé made of his form when it needed to be corrected.”

Belle attempted a warm smile. “You could try using a pen. That's what I do—”

“You can't erase a pen at all.”

Belle opened her mouth to speak, but another gentle squeeze from Rosco's fingers silenced her.

“Individual conducting the ceremony?” This time, the question was directed at Rosco.

“Oh, we're getting married on a boat,” Belle interjected. “Senator Hal Crane's private yacht. It was his nephew who—”

But the clerk had already dispensed with the famous Queen of Cryptics. “In whose waters will you be getting married, sir?” Her voice had an ominous ring.

Rosco cleared his throat. He stepped closer to the Plexiglas window. “Whose waters?”

“If you're married at sea, you may—or you may not—be in Newcastle waters, and thus within—or
not within
—the jurisdiction of our municipality.”

“What happens if we're not?” Belle ignored Rosco's furtive warning.

“Then this department cannot help you.” The clerk moved her glance to the line of couples waiting near the door. “Next?”

“But—” Belle began.

“Please secure the coordinates from the vessel's captain. If he—or she—plans to cruise within Newcastle's maritime domain, this Bureau of Marriage Licenses will be happy to assist you. Otherwise, you'll need to apply to the township appropriate to your position—”

Belle opened her mouth. Her face was pink, and the scalp beneath her pale blond hair rosy with anger. “We're being married by the captain!”

“Is he—or she—a certified justice of the peace? That's another issue you'll need to clarify. If he—or she—fails to hold the proper credentials … Well, certainly there would be a legitimate contention of legality. The celebrant, and in your case I seem to be using the term very loosely, must endorse this license. He—or she—must hold the proper credentials.”

Belle started to reply. Rosco stopped her.

“We'll be back this afternoon,” he said.

“It's Friday, sir,” was her triumphant answer. “We have limited afternoon hours.”

“We'll be back,” Rosco repeated.

It was in the rotunda that they found Lever. Al and Rosco had been partners back in the days when Rosco was with the NPD. The two had always been oil and water, frost and steam, day and night. They were also true and long-time friends, and Al considered that the forthcoming nuptials were due to his direct aid, advice and intervention. Lever was to be Rosco's best man; it was a position he approached with more than a little awe.

“Hey, Polly—crates. Belle. I was just coming to see how you two lovebirds were faring with Miss Gestapo in there.” Reflexively, he reached for his cigarettes, then pulled his hand away. “I forgot. City Hall. Another famous smokeless zone. Shows you what lengths a friend will go to in the line of nuptial duties.” He coughed, wheezed, then glowered at the staircase. “I read somewhere that climbing steps is great exercise. It's aerobic, or something.”

“Any exercise is better than none, Al.”

“I play golf, Polly—crates, in case your feeble brain forgot.” Another wheezing fit attacked Lever. He pretended to ignore the bemused glance that passed between his former partner and Belle. “Three flights of stairs aren't exercise; they're hell.” He regretfully patted the cigarette packet again. “Hey, you two aren't looking so hot. Don't tell me your license was denied? There wasn't a road test, was there?”

Rosco answered, “A long story, Al. Something about ship coordinates.”

Lever looked horrified. “You're not going to postpone the wedding, are you?”

“Not if we can help it,” Belle said as the three began descending the stairs. “We just need to talk to the captain.” Then she changed the subject; she'd become truly fond of the irascible Lever. “You're not looking very chipper either, Al.”

“A vagrant turned up dead this morning. Smashed skull. No cash. Dog food cans in his pockets. What's the world coming to when people have to eat stuff like that?”

Belle's bright face darkened. “One of the residents of the Saint Augustine Mission?”

“No one seemed to be missing. But that doesn't mean he never passed through there.”

Belle's expression remained troubled. She didn't speak for a long minute, but Rosco knew her mind was whirling with possibilities. “And someone killed him? Why?”

“No telling. Fight over a bottle, robbery, bad debt. It might take a while, but we'll figure it out.”

“Did anyone know him?” Belle continued. “Was he from around here?”

“Carlyle IDed the body twenty minutes ago. Local guy name of Carson.”

“Not
Freddie
Carson?” Rosco asked.

“That's right, Frederick Carson. You know him?”

“Sort of. He had cans of dog food on him?”

“Hey, Polly—crates, you better get over these wedding bell woes and concentrate. Yes, dog food.”

“I used to see Freddie Carson around town,” Rosco said slowly. “I helped him out once or twice; bought him a cup of coffee, a sandwich. He wasn't eating dog food, Al, he had a dog. A puppy. He'd found a puppy.”

“What kind of puppy?”

“A mutt. No tail. Kind of scruffy. About yea big.” Rosco raised his hands and held his palms eight inches apart.

“Well, there wasn't any scruffy puppy there when we came across him.”

CHAPTER 5

Belle remained silent as she climbed into Rosco's aging Jeep. He closed the door behind her, walked around the car, and sat in the driver's seat. “Are you okay?”

She looked through the passenger-side window, her face pinched and sad. “Why would someone murder a homeless person, Rosco?”

“What Al said, I guess. A fight over a liquor bottle … an unpaid debt—”

“What if something more sinister is involved?”

“Such as?”

“I don't know yet … I just feel there's a missing element. Maybe something to do with discrediting the homeless shelters.”

“Al's a good cop, Belle. If there's a connection to this gossip about the Peterman brothers, he'll uncover it.”

Belle nodded thoughtfully but didn't speak as Rosco eased into the steady stream of traffic clogging Winthrop Drive. “Where did you leave your car?”

“What? Oh … down on Third, I think. Or maybe Fourth. But it was a good spot. No meter. I should be fine all day.… Oh, look at that. A newspaper vending machine's been knocked into the street. It's a
Crier
box, too.” She picked up Rosco's car phone, punched in the
Crier
's central number, reported the problem, then replaced the receiver. “I don't know why kids think its such a blast to vandalize these kiosks.”

“Money?” Rosco offered as he drove. “Maybe we should pick up your car and drive over to the yacht separately. Traffic will be worse later on. You're sure you're not in one of those areas that's only good until four
P.M
.?”

“My parking spot is fine, Rosco, really. I'm not in a tow zone.”

“On Third or Fourth Street? That sounds unlikely.”

“I can show you the exact spot if you want. I pulled in right behind a big green thing. It had enormous wheels.”

Rosco chuckled. “What if the big green thing moves? How will you find your car then?”

Belle let out her own small laugh. “Okay, Mr. Perfect Driving Record. And I do emphasize
record.
It's only perfect because you never get caught; and when you do get caught, you give them the mystical ex-cop handshake, and they let you go. At least I stop and ask for directions. When I get lost, I know it … and am willing to admit it.” She glanced through the passenger-side window again. “Another vandalized vending machine. What's going on here?” She picked up the phone, reported the second situation, then returned to her pensive state. “I hope whoever killed Carson didn't hurt that puppy.”

Rosco looked at her. “The person did more than hurt its owner.”

Belle didn't respond for a long, disturbed minute. “You're right. Freddie probably had insurmountable problems … and I'm worrying about his dog!”

“Carson was an okay guy. A little flaky, but that's to be expected given a street person's history … and diet.”

“And here I am, fussing over a pet!”

They drove on in silence through weather that had turned ominous. Black-streaked clouds scudded across a lowering sky; the ocean breeze smelled dank, and the budding blossoms of pears and chestnuts huddling beside the brick and granite of the old town center seemed to retire into themselves as if winter still tarried in the air.

“Let's hope our wedding day isn't like this,” Belle finally said. “What happened to May flowers?”

“Let's hope Buzzards Bay is calm,” Rosco answered. “A ceremony in which the groom turns green and pants like a dying fish doesn't sound appealing.” He exited Nathaniel Hawthorne Street and turned left onto Harbor Road.

Belle nestled close. “You're a prince to do this for me.… Married at sea! Plus, I have a theory: This entire experience is going to exorcise your seasickness forever.”

“We have to secure the license first, Belle.”

She smiled. “Let's not forget the certified justice of the peace.” Belle leaned against him, and he draped an arm across her shoulder.

At the guardhouse of the Patriot Yacht Club marina, they were directed to Senator Crane's berth and the magnificent motor yacht
Akbar.
Tied to a gray brown pier among the choppy waves of a steel-colored sea, the yacht still managed to glitter. Seventy feet of teak and mahogany, fresh white paint, spar varnish the color of liquid butterscotch, and brass so gleaming its reflection could harm the eye, the
Akbar
exuded that indefinable aura known as class. Built for the senator's father in the 1930s, the yacht had long been a familiar sight in the many playgrounds of the very rich.

Despite his status as dyed-in-the-wool landlubber, Rosco let out an appreciative whistle as they approached. “I guess if we're going to get married on a boat, this is the one to use.”

“I love you,” Belle answered. Then her face fell. “Sara's here.”

“How do you know?”

“Her car.”

“Is it a big green thing?”

“Very amusing.” Belle nodded toward the reserved parking. Sure enough, there was Sara Crane Briephs's 1956 Cadillac. Highly polished chrome, black paint so densely waxed it had beaded with water, the vehicle was as recognizable and redoubtable as its singular owner, the senator's octogenarian older sister. “I thought we were going to have a little time alone,” Belle murmured.

“Maybe that part doesn't come until after the wedding.”

Belle's mouth remained tense.

“Dear ones!” The lady herself stepped from the yacht's gangway. “Darling Albert informed me you were on your way down here. Some problem with the license … naval coordinates or some such nonsense! Belle, dear! You're looking awfully bereft for a bride-to-be.”