Two Down (22 page)

PUZZLE 5

B
elle snapped the plastic cap onto her red Bic pen and dropped it into the ceramic crossword mug she reserved for writing instruments. Then she pushed her office chair back from her desk, placed her feet squarely on the floor, and stared at the puzzle she’d been faxed scarcely ten minutes earlier. She’d completed it so quickly that she’d hardly had time to analyze the clues or answers. Now the red ink seemed to jump from the paper like spurting blood. Studying 19- and 30-Across, she murmured, “AN EYE FOR AN EYE, A TOOTH FOR A TOOTH,” then followed the adage with its companion quip: “SOON IT’S MY CHANCE TO OFFER A TRUTH . . . Soon,” she repeated. “Yes, but how soon?”

She folded her arms across her chest and stared through the window, half seeing her friend the sparrow preen itself in the morning sun. “Soon,” she muttered. “When is ‘soon’?”

The sparrow ruffled its feathers and cocked its head
undisturbed. Belle dragged her eyes back to the puzzle. “5-Down: TOMORROW MAY RAIN . . . That means there’s more to come . . . ‘Tomorrow’—or ‘soon.’ ”

She stood, walked to the wall of bookcases, and removed a licorice stick from a clear glass jar, then bit the chewy end while deftly severing a four-inch strip like a cowhand with a length of beef jerky. Her mouth full of sticky black candy, she returned to her desk and began drumming her fingers on the puzzle, gradually focusing on the fax markings on the edge of the paper. The time and date of the transmission were neatly indicated, along with the return fax number—which Belle suddenly recognized as being Papyrus, the monster office-supply store from which the second puzzle had also been faxed.

She grabbed the phone to call the shop, then suddenly reconsidered. No, she decided, this time I’ll go out there and talk to a clerk in person, something I should have done in the beginning—despite Rosco’s warnings about “weirdos” and “validating aberrant behavior.”

It never occurred to her that the action could put her in peril or that a call to Rosco might be wise. In Belle’s mind, she was merely embarking on a “fact-finding mission.” “Tomorrow” or “soon” were the operative words in the time frame. If she could discover who had sent this latest crossword, then maybe she could anticipate that person’s next move. Besides, as she promised herself, there was no need for fear in a public place as huge as Papyrus. Patience, as Rosco had observed, was not one of Belle’s virtues.

She grabbed her purse, locked the house, jumped in her car, and pulled into Papyrus’s parking lot fifteen minutes later. Business was already booming; a surprising number of cars lined the expansive facade. Belle parked next to a powder-blue Range Rover, then walked to the entrance,
where double electronic doors swept open and a gust of refrigerated air pulsed out, revealing the mammoth interior. Every imaginable stationery and office product was on display: neon-colored erasers, sparkly notebook covers, pens and pencils of every hue and type, clipboards, letter paper of every weight, size, and color, reading chairs, lamps, desks that unfolded hidden shelves. If such emporia had existed when Belle was a child, she knew she would have found heaven.

She spotted a young man in a dark green polo shirt embroidered with the store’s logo and marched toward him. He was arranging fountain pens in a display case, and quickly locked away the items as Belle approached. She wondered whether his mistrust was store policy or whether she had the words “ulterior motive” stamped across her forehead.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Yes, could you direct me to the fax machine?”

“I don’t see it.”

“Pardon me?”

“Your fax. It has to be the correct size. Some weights of paper we can’t handle.”

“Oh . . .” Belle looked down at her empty palms, half expecting a sheet of paper to appear. “I didn’t bring it with me . . . I just wanted to check on your prices first.”

“It depends on the location you’re transmitting to.”

Belle didn’t respond, and after a beat he pointed toward the rear of the store. “In back—at the copy center. Tina handles the faxes.”

“Thank you.”

Belle turned and walked down a seemingly endless aisle lined with a vast array of envelopes. At the end of the aisle four self-service copy machines faced a long counter behind which stood a tall woman in her late forties with
jet-black hair cut in a trendy retro bob. She also wore a green polo shirt.

Belle smiled. “Are you Tina?” she asked.

The succinct reply was a less than promising, “Yes.”

“Perhaps you can help me, then,” Belle began, although Tina’s wooden expression didn’t suggest she was in a benevolent mood. “I received a fax from this store at around eight o’clock this morning. Were you working then?”

“I start at seven when the store opens.”

“Oh, good. So you were here . . .” Belle smiled again. “You don’t happen to remember who sent it, do you?”

Tina’s long frame stretched taller and more austere, reminding Belle of time-lapse photography of some exotic botanical specimen—a Venus flytrap or other carnivorous plant. “It is not Papyrus’s policy to peruse private faxes or cover sheets for the purpose of obtaining telephone numbers. Our customers rely upon confidentiality and discretion when they bring a document into our emporium . . . Sorry.”

Belle doubted the sincerity of the apology; she smiled for a third time.
More flies are trapped with honey,
she thought, expanding her metaphor. “This wasn’t actually a letter, Tina; it was a crossword puzzle.”

“Oh!” Tina said in new state of awareness and excitement. “You’re Annabella Graham. You’re the crossword lady at the
Evening Crier
. I do the puzzle every day.”

“I’m very glad to hear it,” Belle said, attempting to cover her impatience. “So, you do remember who sent the puzzle? The reason I ask is that the crossword was good enough to publish. The
Crier
always pays constructors for their work—but I need a name to accompany the check.”

Tina thought for a moment while Belle grinned for a fourth time.

“Well,” Tina began, “this is against Papyrus policy, but seeing as how you’re trying to do a favor . . . It was Ricky. He also sent one last week, didn’t he?”

“Well, someone did. And darn it if that name wasn’t omitted, too.”

“It was Ricky, all right. A nice kid but kind of dopey, if you get my meaning. I didn’t think he had the smarts to make up a crossword puzzle. So he’s trying to get them published, huh?”

“That’s what I assume, but unfortunately, I haven’t been able to contact him. You wouldn’t happen to know his last name, would you?”

“ ’Fraid not.”

“But you know his first name? Even though he’s only sent two faxes?”

Tina let out a long laugh. “It’s not what you think. He’s a kid, like I said . . . comes in the store a lot . . . You know, to get things photocopied for the motel.”

“The motel?”

“Sure. Blue Hill Cabins.” Tina pointed vaguely toward her right. “It’s about a quarter of a mile from the interstate on the old Boston Post Road. There used to be a gas station near the cabins, and some kind of mom-and-pop restaurant that finally went belly-up . . . you know, when the highway built all those fancy rest areas and commercial traffic moved east . . .”

Belle looked blank, and Tina sighed again. “I’ve lived in this area all my life,” Tina continued. “There used to be other places like the Blue Hill—tourist cabins, they called them way back when. They were nice . . . secluded, low-key, kind of quaint . . . vacationers could spend a week there without breaking the bank . . . Newcastle was a different town in those days . . .” Tina’s glance finally refocused on the bright lights and aggressive merchandising of
the super-store around her. “Anyway, Blue Hill gets their rate sheets printed here—not that much changes in that respect. Ricky’s sort of their delivery kid and all-around helper.”

“Well, perhaps I’ll visit the cabins and see if I can find him.”

“Oh, you’ll find him all right. Look for a Red Sox hat and he’ll be the kid under it. And he is a kid, too . . . kind of small for a guy . . . His puzzles are really good, huh?”

“Remarkable.” Belle smiled for a fifth time. “Thanks, Tina, you’ve been a big help.”

She left Tina to her memories, quit the store, climbed into her car, and entered the westbound traffic lane without noticing the blue Range Rover pull out directly behind her.

Exiting the interstate onto an unkempt and sadly empty side road—the remainder of the once-great Boston Post Road—the Blue Hill Cabins’ entrance lay several hundred yards on her right. Belle angled into a parking space in front of the office, a small freestanding two-story building that looked as if it had three rooms, a bedroom upstairs, and an eat-in kitchen and office on the first floor. Two neon signs hung in the front window; one said
OFFICE
, the other
VACANCY
; both were still lighted. Tina was right; the world had lost all interest in places like the Blue Hill.

Before entering the office, Belle studied the cabins dotted among the trees as if they’d been perched at the edge of a dense, impenetrable forest. Against the invading greenery, the units looked tiny, but she could imagine how spruce and tidy they must once have seemed: a bed-sitting room, a kitchenette, the sound of the wind in the pines at night, the ocean only a few miles away.
Affordable family fun,
the brochures must have advertised. Only two cars were parked in front of the cabins, and they looked as weary as the buildings.

Belle stepped into the empty office. There was a registration area cluttered with papers, a side table holding several magazines, and two folding metal chairs. A small TV sat on the reception desk pointed in the direction of an overstuffed chair. Belle tapped on a plastic button nailed to the desk and a gong sounded in a back room curtained off from the office with a floral-printed sheet. After a long minute a man with a melon-shaped stomach and a poorly fitting toupee emerged from the back. He retrieved a toothpick from a shot glass on the desk, placed it in the corner of his mouth, and eyed Belle up and down.

“Checkin’ in, honey?” He gave her a lecherous smile.

“No . . . I’m looking for Ricky.”

The man laughed, making his stomach roll from side to side. “Must be Ricky’s lucky day . . . a cutie like you lookin’ for him . . . Who is it wants him?”

“Ah, well . . . I’m . . . from the school . . . and—”

“Ricky dropped out of school a year ago,” he announced.

“Of course . . . I knew that.” Belle cleared her throat. “It’s just that . . . for that reason . . . well, we like to follow up on the kids who leave us. To see if we can change their minds. I’m sure you know that education is a vital factor in success.”

This brought a boisterous belly laugh from the desk clerk. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t say ‘success’ was a priority for Ricky.”

Belle could feel a line of sweat form at her hairline, but she refused to break eye contact with the man. “May I talk to him?”

“Be my guest, honey . . . He’s down the road apiece at that doughnut shop near the interstate . . . We used to have a nice little eatery nearby . . . local folks, not a big chain.” His hands waved irresolutely in the air. “But progress is
progress . . . People like ‘brand recognition’ nowadays. I can’t compete with HoJo and Motel 6.” He gave Belle another leer and added, “If anyone can get that bozo to shape up, I guess it’d be a looker like you . . . And, hey, if you ain’t doin’ nothin’ later . . . stop back, okay? We got some vacancies. Take a load off your feet.”

“School business doesn’t leave me much free time.”

“I know how it is.”

Belle smiled her sixth fake smile of the morning, then hurried out to her car and drove back toward the interstate and the Whole Earth Doughnut Company, a glossy, glass-facaded building devoted to satisfying the human urge for comfort food. She parked near the shop’s east entrance, then realizing her car would be easily visible from the building’s interior, decided to leave the windows down. There was something so pleasant about the aroma of sunbaked auto—a last gasp of summer irresponsibility.

The Whole Earth Doughnut Company was awash in the mingled perfumes of cinnamon, sugar, chocolate icing, fruit jam, and coffee—not exactly health food but a good deal more tempting. Behind the counter were an impressive array of three dozen different types of doughnuts, sweet rolls, crullers, and plate-sized spiral confections thick with frosted goo. Belle considered one of the spirals, but instead opted for a time-trusted jelly doughnut as she perused the customers. A retirement-age couple sat at a windowside table, three construction workers hunched over coffee and crullers nearby, and a young man with a Rex Sox cap sat alone at a counter staring moodily through the far window. His confection choice was chocolate-coated and dotted with a plethora of multicolored sprinkles. Belle wondered if this was part of a “nutritious breakfast” she grabbed her doughnut and walked toward him.

“Are you Ricky?”

“Yeah . . . who are you?”

“I’m the lady you sent the fax to.”

“Wow . . . cool . . . How’d you find me here?” Ricky looked around the Whole Earth as though he’d previously considered such a public and impersonal place the ultimate hideout.