The Crossword Murder (31 page)

October 1 in Massachusetts was often heralded by the crisp signs of a New England autumn: scarlet-hued leaves, the cold blue of the bay, and scudding whitecaps that looked as clean and frothy as fresh snow. But this evening was unseasonably mild, and the sinking sun had left a mellow pink-orange streak in the sky. The bigwigs at the Patriot Yacht Club party couldn't have asked for a better night.

Rosco seriously considered removing the Jeep's canvas top for one final summery ride, but decided against it. Instead, he slipped a cassette of an early Ella Fitzgerald recording into his antiquated tape player and eased into traffic. He arrived at Belle's front door fifteen minutes later.

Annabella Graham lived on Captain's Walk in the oldest section of Newcastle north of the original piers along the river that bore the city's name. The tiny houses were first built and owned by seafarers in the early eighteenth century. Two centuries of Massachusetts' snow and ice, and an increasing exodus of city dwellers had left the places vacant and in gross disrepair, but a dozen years prior, a number of adventurous souls had purchased the derelict properties and returned them to their original charm. Belle's former husband, Garet Burke, had been part of this vanguard group. Garet was an Egyptologist who'd discovered he had more interest in tombs and mummies than he had in his wife—a concept Rosco found hard to fathom.

Rosco, the semitough ex-cop, had fallen for the erudite (and often quixotic) Belle hook, line, and sinker. He considered her the best thing that had ever happened to him—a thought that had lodged in his mind at the exact moment she opened the door in greeting.

“Rosco, look at you!” Her beaming smile indicated she was as stuck on him as he on her. “You're absolutely gorgeous!”

“Me …? What about … you?”

Tall and slim with vibrant, dark gray eyes, and hair as pale and fine as corn silk, Belle looked as if she'd just stepped out of a 1920s Pierce-Arrow advertisement. Her floor-length gown was midnight-blue satin, exposing her shoulders and slender arms, while the narrow skirt seemed molded to her hips. When the fabric met the floor, it flared out as though her feet were dancing. Again, Rosco was reminded of a picture from another era.

“John Singer Sargent,” she said as if in answer to an unspoken question. “What do you think?” She spun around in an excited circle. “
Madame X
.”

Rosco grinned; he'd grown accustomed to Belle's rarefied references, and a brain in perpetual motion. “I take it that's not the name of the designer—or the dress style.”

“What a guy.” Belle laughed indulgently; her eyes flickered with delight. “Sargent's portrait of one of his patronesses is entitled
Madame X
… I couldn't resist buying this dress; it's almost identical to the one in the painting. It makes me feel like the queen of the world.”

“I'll bet the lady in the picture didn't look as nifty as you.”

“In Sargent's interpretation she did … but then most of his women subjects look downright lascivious … I think John Singer did a good deal more than simply
paint
his ladies—or if he didn't, he wanted to …” Belle suddenly furrowed her brow with a quizzical expression Rosco had learned to recognize as a sign that reality had entered her lofty realm. “What happened to your necktie?”

“What do you mean?” He patted the black satin with nervous fingertips. “Is something wrong?”

“It's a little … off. Gives you a kind of raffish, Wile E. Coyote look.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

Belle laughed. “You shouldn't … Here, let me fix it.”

She stepped up to Rosco, and loosened the tie. As she worked, he placed his hands on her waist and attempted to kiss her.

“Ah, ah, ah … I just put on my lipstick. Besides, we have to leave. I don't want to be late for my first meeting with Sara. Not after the grim stories you've prepped me with.”

“Hey, tonight'll be easy as pie compared to a Polycrates ‘Third Tuesday' family shoot-out. Which, I'll remind you, is a gauntlet you have yet to run.”

“Personally, I think your big sisters sound like fun.”

“That's because you don't have any … And don't forget the Polycrates dinners come with two overbearing brothers-in-law, a handful of clamorous nieces and nephews, assorted aging and opinionated cousins—some of whom still speak Greek exclusively—one younger brother with a revolving assortment of jobs and lady friends, and one sister's
ex
-husband, who's always invited because Mom likes him much better than her present mate, ‘The Troll.'”

“Uh-oh.” Belle chuckled. “Does that mean I have to compete with the ghosts of your past?”

“Only with one … and my mother didn't like her.”

Belle cocked an amused eyebrow. “Thus your quick two-year stint into married life?”

“I make my own decisions about domestic relationships,” he answered a little stiffly.

She smiled again. “I wouldn't be so boastful, if I were you. It sounds as if you get a lot of help.”

“Greek women are pros when it comes to dispensing advice.”

Belle finished looping Rosco's tie into a perfect bow. “You're right, an evening with Sara Crane Briephs is beginning to sound like child's play. At least she speaks a language I can understand.”

“That's what you think.”

“And on your next ‘Third Tuesday,' I vow to positively resist all temptation to say, ‘It's Greek to me.'”

“Smart choice.”

They strolled toward the Jeep hand in hand. But when Rosco opened the door for Belle, she suddenly balked. “I don't know, Rosco … Do you think you should have rented a car for this evening?”

“This is a car.”

She sighed. “Well, yes, if you want to get picky about definitions, it is … What I meant was … would it have been advisable to consider renting something a bit more … more—”

“Upscale? I asked Sara that very question. She knows about the Jeep, but insisted it's
nouveau
to
rent
limousines.” Rosco attempted a Sara Crane Briephs voice: “If you don't own one, my dear boy, you have no business riding
around
in one.”

Belle laughed, then turned serious. “I hope I pass muster. She sounds dreadfully overbearing.”

“You'll do fine, Belle. She's very ‘fond' of me. She'll be just as crazy about you.”

Belle groaned. “Is that the type of specious reasoning they spout at the police academy? That women who share affection for the same man are the best of friends? I would imagine the idea would raise the hackles of any criminal investigator.”

“I'm talking about Sara. Not an ax murderer.”

“What's that line about a jealous woman from Shakespeare's
The Comedy of Errors
? ‘Poison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth …'?”

Pride spread across Rosco's face. “I'll never understand how you
know
all this peculiar stuff. You're basically a walking encyclopedia, aren't you?”

In the rosy darkness, Belle's bare neck and shoulders blushed a shining crimson while her lips formed a small, self-deprecating smile. “I told you, I had an eccentric childhood … Just don't ask me to quote Nancy Drew.”

“How about the Hardy Boys?”

“Don't tell me you read the Hardy Boys?”

Rosco chortled. “Hey, just because I have relatives who don't speak English doesn't mean I didn't have a normal American childhood.”

They pulled into White Caps' sweeping circular gravel drive at five minutes before seven. The Briephs estate sat high on Liberty Hill, overlooking Newcastle and the harbor beyond. Sara's brother, Hal Crane, a United States senator, owned the adjacent property. Both pieces of land had been in the Crane family for over three hundred years and were a dominant feature on the city's landscape. The exterior of the homes, their manicured gardens, and brick outbuildings had been only slightly altered since they'd been built in the mid-1700s, creating the impression that the Federal era in a prosperous Massachusetts whaling city was still at hand.

Emma, Sara's faithful maid, opened the door for Rosco and Belle, then led them toward the parlor where the great lady was waiting. Over the years, Emma had assumed many of her mistress's mannerisms, making her a shorter, squarer, slightly younger version of the home's
doyenne
.

Walking behind the maid's starchy form and listening to the taffeta rustle of her black uniform, Belle experienced the same unease Rosco had encountered during his initial visit to White Caps, although to Belle the engendered memories were of sojourns to the unconventional homes of her professor parents' friends. She recalled similar dimly lit and foreboding hallways, the slow tock of a grandfather clock, paneled doors that hid unseen rooms—and a sense of dread that she was about to endure another excruciating interview: What Has Little Annabella Graham Learned at School This Week?

Emma turned a polished brass handle and opened a heavy door revealing a surprisingly cheery room that boasted a pleasant fire burning beneath a marble mantel alive with cupids, swagged ivy, and carved bouquets. Bunches of late-blooming roses dotted the many tabletops.

“Mr. Polycrates has arrived, ma'am. And Miss Graham.”

Sara stood. Imperious, ice-blue eyes swept over Belle, registered the faintest whiff of approval, then moved to the man of the evening. “Well, well, well, Rosco. I knew you were a handsome devil, but you have certainly outdone yourself. I do so admire a man who handles a necktie to perfection.”

“Right … Something I picked up at the police academy.” He cleared his throat and turned to Belle. “Sara, this is Annabella Graham.”

Sara extended a regal hand and waited for Belle to approach. “So nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Graham … I am assuming it is Miss …” The great lady wore an evening dress almost as antiquated as her home. Jet beads glimmered on black chiffon while over her shoulders was a tippet of ancient brown mink.

“Call me, Belle, please, Mrs. Briephs.”

“If you wish, Miss Graham. I'm so pleased Rosco has been able to add a little … distraction … to his life.”

Belle attempted a winning smile. “I try not to distract him too much.”

“You are a very lovely young woman, and I'm sure you distract him to no end. Although you should add some weight to your frame. In my day, a man would hardly waste a glance on someone as waiflike.” She turned her attention to Rosco. “Well, dear prince, I believe our public awaits. Shall we be off?”

She marched toward him, took his arm, and they paraded to the front door with Belle dutifully trailing behind. When she eventually caught Rosco's glance, she rolled her eyes in such an exaggerated fashion, he almost choked to keep from laughing aloud.

CHAPTER 3

In honor of the dinner dance, the Patriot Yacht Club's security guards had been outfitted in replicas of uniforms worn by Revolutionary War marines. Matching the Colonial-era theme, all exterior electric lighting had been reconfigured into oil lanterns and bayberry candles that illuminated only a few figures at a time while leaving the rest in darkness: women in silk evening dresses hurrying in and out of the light, their escorts half-hidden in timeless black, and the gaitered, brass-buttoned marines who stood at attention as if awaiting General Washington and his entourage.

Approaching the long brick building along a cobble-stoned drive, Belle took it all in. If it weren't for the fact that she'd been crammed into the backseat of an antiquated, slightly rusted, red Jeep, and that the two cars arriving immediately prior to Rosco's were glossy black Lincoln Town Cars, she would have sworn she'd slipped into an earlier era.

Belle had remained quiet for the ride from Sara's house, opting for a speak-when-spoken-to attitude that only compounded the absurd, little-girl sensation of being stuck in the back of Rosco's car. It was like acting a part in a movie, she decided; tonight she was no longer Belle Graham, once married, now divorced, a woman who had a successful job, owned a house, voted, paid taxes, and was romantically involved with one Rosco Polycrates. Tonight she'd been thrust backward through the decades to a time when young women were “girls” and older women their superiors—and despotic chaperons.

Sara had seemed content to spend the trip complimenting Rosco on everything from how exhilarating it was to “travel in such a manly vehicle” to his “choice of haberdashery.” Belle practiced smiling to herself, although sometimes the expression turned grim; it wasn't easy to compete with a woman of eighty-plus—especially on that lady's uneven playing field.

As a uniformed valet opened the passenger-seat door, Sara suddenly seemed to remember Belle's presence. “Rosco must be quite smitten with you, Miss Graham,” she murmured in a stage whisper. “He usually doesn't wear socks, you know.”

Belle forced a smile. “Call me Belle … please …” then added a determined: “I'm sure Rosco's choice of footwear is your influence, Mrs. Briephs.”

Sara laughed as she took Rosco's arm. “We must have tea one of these afternoons, dear girl …” She paused for a moment to consider the invitation. Belle could see years of female machinations spinning across a seemingly serene face. “On second thought, I'm free Monday. Shall we say four o'clock?”

Belle groaned inwardly, but a glance at Rosco revealed the importance he placed on her friendship with this fierce old woman. “That will be very nice, Mrs. Briephs.”

“Good. Now, Rosco, let us brave the beasts … one of them being my brother, Hal.”

“I didn't know the senator would be here this evening,” Rosco answered while giving Belle a clandestine nod of gratitude and encouragement. “I'll make it up to you,” he mouthed. “I promise.”

“Oh, my dear! He wouldn't miss this party on a dare! There are more votes in this building than you can shake a stick at—to say nothing of campaign funding in this
all-important
year. I may insist that my brother is a traitor to his class, but,
liberal
though he may be, he remains a Crane in a city where ancestry counts.”