The Crossword Connection (6 page)

“Not by a long shot.”

Father Tom didn't speak for a minute. “Gus is in and out of the mission on a regular basis. Clean and sober; that's the rule. It's playing hardball, I know, but it's something these guys understand. Gus used to be a professor of American history. Did he tell you?”

“We didn't get past the nineteenth century. The conversation fizzled after George Armstrong Custer.”

“Gus bounces back and forth between here and Boston. There are more shelters up there, and they aren't as tyrannical about alcohol as I am. I think Gus sees this as a kind of drying-out clinic. AA doesn't work for everyone.”

“Was the same scenario true for Freddie?” Rosco presented his kneaded dough to Father Tom. “Is this okay?”

“Fine. Just drop it into a loaf pan.… No, Freddie never drank. He'd been at Saint Augustine's for almost three years. In fact, he was my main bread baker.”

“The police found an empty bottle next to his body.”

“I don't know about that. But it couldn't have been Freddie's. It must have belonged to someone else.”

Rosco refloured his hands, formed another ball of dough, and began kneading it. “Then why was he sleeping on the streets? I mean, if he was clean and sober, he could've stayed here. Isn't that right?”

Father Tom leaned his large frame on the countertop behind him, folded his beefy arms across his chest, and let out a weighty sigh. “It was my fault.… The darn dog … Freddie found her on the street, a scrawny little mutt. No tail. That was about two weeks ago. Maybe a little more. He brought her here.…” His voice trailed off. “I had to make a tough decision. What I mean is, we can't permit animals to live on the property. We serve food. Freddie's work was in the kitchen.… Anyway, I told him he'd have to take the dog to the pound.…”

“And he wouldn't.”

“He was afraid they'd put her to sleep. Which, I suppose they would have.”

“I don't know, Father. Sure, the pup was scruffy looking, but I think someone would have adopted her.”

“You saw Freddie's dog?”

“I bought him a cup of coffee last week. A couple of times in fact.”

Silence lay between them. Rosco was the first to speak.

“So, your decision was that either the dog left, or Freddie would have to go.”

Father Tom grabbed another ball of dough and punched it down. “Don't make it sound so black and white. We're dealing with the Board of Health here. Besides, some of our residents are allergic to dogs; some are scared to death of them. Yes, the puppy had to go. Freddie understood that. We can't bend the rules. It's not good for the men.… Did you see that empty warehouse across the street?”

“No.”

“The building's been sold. One of those high-end food markets. Imported cheeses, flavored olive oil, caviar, the works. Two doors away there are plans for an antique shop, and there's talk of an art gallery in the old Tyler fish packing building.” Father Tom's tone had turned unexpectedly steely. “The neighborhood's changing. It's becoming trendy to live in this part of the city, and the mission's under a good deal of pressure from real estate interests. If I harbored a dog, the Peterman brothers would make certain we were shut down quicker than you can say Jiminy Cricket.”

“How well do you know Gus?”

“Only what I shared with you. He wanders back and forth to Boston. Used to be a professor. Dartmouth, I believe.”

“Where'd you get that information?”

“Everything comes from the men themselves. They can lie to me, of course, but what's the point? If they have veterans' benefits, social security, disability, pension, et cetera, I try to contact the appropriate agency and help them get back on their feet. If the stories don't wash, they're only cheating themselves.”

Rosco finished sculpting another ball of dough; he wiped his hands on the front of his apron. “How many of these loaf pans do you need to fill tonight?”

“All of them.”

“How long will that take?”

“With you here, no more than an hour. Would you like a cup of coffee or tea while you work?”

Rosco shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, though.” He thought for a minute. “Do you know Gus's last name?”

“Taylor. Why? Do you think he might have killed Freddie?”

“I'm only looking for a lost dog, remember?”

CHAPTER 7

Ten o'clock Saturday morning was an unlikely time for a jewelry heist. History had taught Rosco that the average crook liked to sleep well past noon on the weekends. So when the phenomenally shrill burglar alarm at Hudson's Diamond Exchange sounded, he was as startled as the other customers and the several employees. Out of reflex, he reached for his pistol, a .32 caliber semiautomatic he seldom carried. The only thing he found under his jacket was a nicely tooled leather belt, a birthday gift from Belle.

At the sound of the siren's blare, the sales manager scooped Rosco's wedding bands from a gray velvet pad on the glass countertop, returned the rings to the showcase, locked it, and dropped the keys into a sealed steel box. The motion was so swift and agile Rosco believed he was watching a sleight-of-hand artist. The sales manager then addressed his attention to the front door and the individual who had instigated the disturbance.

“Sir, the police have been summoned by an automatic alarm system; all activity in the shop is being monitored by video cameras. It would be in your best interest to move slowly and calmly. In fact, you may care to leave before the police arrive.”

It was Al Lever to whom these words were directed.

Lever's gaze took in the customers' horrified faces before his glance came to rest on Hudson's manager. “I am the police, fella,” he said. He pulled his gold detective's badge from his jacket and held it in the air for all to see. Audible sighs emanated from everyone except Rosco, who was laughing. Al glowered at him.

“Well,
officer,”
the head clerk simpered, “your gun must have set off our metal detectors. You are carrying a weapon, I presume?”

Lever only nodded. He returned the badge to the breast pocket of his navy blue windbreaker.

“And how long will you be with us today, sir? I wouldn't want you to reactivate the alarm on your way out.” The manager had become meekness itself. It was never wise to antagonize a law-enforcement officer … or a potential customer.

“Ten minutes, max.”

The head clerk retreated through a rear doorway to reset the alarm while Rosco pointed to the street. “We've got company, Al.”

Outside, a black and white patrol car came to a screeching halt, blue gray smoke drifting up from its fat tires. Two uniformed policemen jumped from the vehicle and positioned themselves behind a parked car, guns drawn.

“Arrgh,” Lever moaned, “I'll go talk to them. A day off. Is it too much to ask? One simple day of blending in like any other civilian?”

Rosco thought it better not to mention that a poplin windbreaker combined with blue chinos, spit-polished brown Oxfords, and a cropped hairstyle didn't make for a blend-in appearance any more than a baseball cap imprinted with DEA or a rain jacket that spelled FBI. Instead, he said, “I appreciate your forsaking your day of leisure, Al.”

“For you, Polly—crates …” Lever chugged outside and spoke to the cops.

A few minutes later, everything had returned to normal at Hudson's Diamond Exchange, and the wedding bands had been retrieved from the locked case.

“How do they get that writing inside there?” Lever asked as he inspected the engraving of Rosco and Belle's initials and their pending wedding date on the interior of the larger of the two bands.

“Hudson's has the best engraver in town,” Rosco replied.

The manager signaled agreement with a smug smile while Lever replaced the rings on the gray velvet pad. His hand trembled.

“Are you all right, Al?”

“Look, Rosco, I'm not sure about all this. Why don't you hang onto the rings. The wedding's a week away. I'm going to lose them. I know it.”

“Have you ever lost your badge?”

Lever shook his head.

“Your car keys? House keys? Credit cards? Your service revolver?”

Lever shrugged his shoulders, but his expression remained stubborn.

“Come on, Al, You're the best man. The rings are your responsibility. It's the only thing you have to do.”

“I know, but I'm getting very nervous about this.”

“You …? You're getting nervous? I'm the one who's getting married. You don't see my hands shaking … yet.”

“Yeah, but look who you're marrying. How could you go wrong with Belle? I'm just scared to death I'm going to lose the rings somehow.” He added quietly, “She'd kill me if I did. You know she would.”

“You're not going to lose them. Just put them in a safe place. Let your wife hold onto them—”

“Now, there's a less-than-brilliant notion. She loses her car keys on a monthly basis.” At that moment, Lever's pager sounded with an annoying beep that once again attracted the attention of everyone in the store. He reached to his hip, shut off the noise, and glanced at the phone number displayed on the LED readout.

“I can't get a moment's peace.” Lever looked at the sales manager. “Can I use your phone?”

“Certainly,
Officer.”

The clerk produced a cordless telephone. Lever punched in the number without referring back to the pager; clearly it was a number he recognized. “Duty calls,” he muttered to Rosco, then paced the floor for two or three minutes, all the while issuing inaudible orders to the person on the other end of the phone.

Rosco, along with everyone else in the store, watched the performance in silence. Finished, Lever disengaged the line and returned the phone to the sales clerk.

“Problems?” Rosco asked.

“You might say that. Another homeless person showed up dead. The bus depot, this time.”

Rosco took a beat to digest the news. “It wasn't Gus Taylor, was it?”

“Who's Gus Taylor?”

“A sometime resident of the Saint Augustine Mission. I spoke with him last night. I was looking for Carson's dog.”

“What?”

“It was Sara Briephs's idea.”

Lever regarded his friend. “You and me need to talk, Polly—crates. What say we drive over to the scene together? And no, the body isn't Gus's. This time we've got a dead woman.”

The two men exited the jewelry store, leaving the wedding bands resting peacefully atop the display case.

Belle looked at her watch, the third time in as many minutes.
Twenty to eleven,
she thought;
Rosco should have been here by now.
She gazed out the windows of her home office and thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her ribbed green cardigan, an ancient favorite that normally seemed as comforting as a bowl of chicken noodle soup. A steady drizzle had begun to fall. Unconsciously, she buttoned the cardigan, then unbuttoned it again; finally, she stuffed her hands back into her pockets.
Ten-forty, Saturday morning,
she thought. Rosco and Al must have finished picking up the wedding bands by now.

Her eyes moved from her own garden into the neighbors' tidy yard, her glance encompassing their meticulously restored and renovated home, the fanlight over the door, the flower boxes decoratively placed beneath each eighteenth-century window. Today, the ordinarily pleasant property looked neither cheering nor warm.
That poor, lost dog,
she thought. How can it stay dry in weather like this? What will it find to eat?

She shivered in empathy and left the window, looking at her watch for the fourth time as she wandered into the living room with its eclectic hodgepodge of thrift shop finds, then into the kitchen with its outmoded appliances, which Belle considered “charming” because she couldn't cook. Her feet never stopped moving; soon she was back in the living room, where she repositioned her newest acquisition, a large and squashy armchair covered in a 1950s cabbage rose print. She examined her watch again. The hour had advanced exactly five minutes.

Lawson's,
she suddenly thought.
Perhaps Rosco went to Lawson's coffee shop expecting to meet me there. Perhaps we had our signals crossed.

She charged back into the kitchen, grabbed the phone book, running her fingers down the pages until she found the listing for Newcastle's famous relic from the era of pink Formica luncheonettes.

“Yup?” she heard at the other end of the phone. Law-son's was not an eatery that stood on ceremony.

“Martha?” This was the self-styled head waitress. Martha had a yellow beehive hairdo and serious undergarments that crackled when she moved. “It's Belle. By any chance is—?”

“Haven't seen him, hon. I wondered when you two lovebirds were going to show up.” Martha knew everyone in town, what hour they dined at her establishment, as well as what they habitually ate. “Two orders of bacon,” she yelled to the unseen fry cook. “Extra crispy.”

“Will you tell him I—?”

“Sure thing.” The waitress pulled away the phone to talk to a customer. Belle heard the plinking sound of the cash register opening and then the drawer banging shut with metallic certainty. “Grooms get jitters. Give him some space, hon.” The phone went dead before Belle had a chance to ask Martha what she meant.

Belle left the kitchen, reflexively rearranging the new chair's position as she passed.
Give him space,
she thought.
Is Martha insinuating that I'm crowding Rosco? Am I?

She twisted the chair into another angle and returned to her office.
I
can work,
she assured herself.
I
can begin constructing a new crossword puzzle for the
Crier.
There's no point in wasting time stewing over casual remarks.
But this reasoning was specious, as Belle knew; Martha kept her ear to the ground. Despite Newcastle's size, very little happened in the city the waitress wasn't apprised of.