Two Down (23 page)

“I work for a private detective agency on occasion . . . what you might call a subcontractor . . . We specialize in finding people who wish to remain hidden.”

“Cool . . . Subcontractor,” Ricky repeated. “Way cool.”

Belle found herself affixing another pasted-on smile. “I also happen to be a crossword expert, Ricky.” She stressed the word “expert.” “Those were very interesting puzzles you faxed me. Were you the constructor?”

“Huh?” He scratched his head and glanced at the construction workers as if they might have secret knowledge of the proper response to females’ peculiar questions.

“Did you make up those puzzles?” Belle said, looking for words she thought Ricky might understand. “Did you design them—or write the clues?”

“Who me?”

Belle gritted her teeth and broadened her phony smile. “Of course . . . you.”

“No,” he admitted after a long moment of silence, “I don’t know who made them up.”

“I see. Then how did you happen to send them to me?”

A look of panic darted across Ricky’s stealthy face. “I’m not gonna get in trouble, am I? Mr. Hacket, over at the motel.” He cocked his thumb in the Blue Hill’s direction. “He said he’d fire me if I got into any more trouble.”

“No, you won’t get into trouble.” Belle tried to sound reassuring, but in reality she had no idea how much difficulty Ricky might already be facing.

“What’ll you give me for telling?”

“Give you . . . ?”

“Yeah. What’ll you give me? Some old lady handed me twenty bucks to send them to you. Each time. Twenty bucks. That’s a lot of dough. And she paid extra for the faxes, too. So, what’ll you give me if I tell you who she is?”

“Some old lady?”

“Yeah.”

“How old?”

“Like old . . . you know . . . like my grandma, maybe.”

“Where did you meet her?”

“At the motel. Where else?” Ricky suddenly seemed to realize his demand for payment hadn’t been properly addressed. “Hey . . . hold on, what’re you gonna give me?”

Belle ignored the question. “She’s staying at the motel? In which cabin?”

“You gotta give me something first.”

Belle opened her purse.

“Nah,” he said, “I don’t want money.”

“What do you want, then?”

He grinned broadly, a swagger beginning in his still-scrawny body. “Come out to my car and I’ll tell you.”

Belle shook her head, put a twenty-dollar bill on the table, and said, “Just tell me what cabin the old lady’s in, Ricky.”

“Nah . . . I said too much already. You’re not gettin’ any more unless you come out to my car.”

“What’s in your car?”

“You’ll see.”

Belle thought for a second. “Okay, but just for a minute.”

She returned the twenty to her purse and followed him through the shop’s west entrance. At the rear of the building, almost hidden by a gigantic Dumpster, stood Ricky’s
old and rusting gray Honda. The rear window was littered with Grateful Dead stickers. He smiled and said, “This is my ride. Pretty nice, huh? It’s a real solid piece of machinery. Just needs some new paint, is all. You’re not into the Dead, are you?”

Belle found herself growing increasingly impatient—and nervous, a sensation she didn’t like. “Look, Ricky,” she said, raising her voice and pulling herself erect as if her physical attitude could overcome his recalcitrance. “I didn’t come here to discuss automobiles or attempts at music. What is it you want?”

He chuckled and tried for a come-hither look. “Just a kiss . . . That’s all. You’re a pretty lady.”

“I don’t think so.”

Despite Belle’s authoritative tone, Ricky grabbed her upper arms and squeezed tightly, forcing her against the car. Although no taller than she was, years of wrestling with lawn mowers, saws, and other yard-maintenance equipment had made him a good deal stronger. Belle tried to twist loose, but he held tight.

“That’s it, Ricky,” she said. “You’re in serious trouble now.”

Ricky’s thumbs released their pressure slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Mr. Hacket hired me.”

Ricky leaped back, a horrified expression on his face.

“He wanted me to find out what you were up to. He’s not going to be pleased when he hears about this.”

“No. Wait. I was just joking around . . . Please . . . You can’t tell him . . .”

When Belle didn’t answer, Ricky’s worried speech rushed forward. “The old lady with the crosswords . . . She’s in cabin fifteen. It’s the last one on the left—kinda
hidden by all the trees . . . Please don’t tell Mr. Hacket. He’s gonna fire me for sure.”

Belle took a minute to make it appear as if she was considering his request.

“Come on, lady,” he repeated, “please.”

“Okay,” Belle acquiesced, “but don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again. Not with anyone!”

“I won’t. Honest, I won’t. I swear.” Ricky looked as if he might momentarily begin to cry.

Belle stepped past him and began circling the doughnut shop toward her own car. When she was nearly out of sight, he called out: “Wait a minute, if you’re working for Mr. Hacket, how come you didn’t ask him where the old lady was.”

“I guess I forgot,” Belle answered, and disappeared around the corner.

As fortunate as she’d been to outmaneuver Ricky, it had taken time, and more important, it had forced her to leave her car not only unlocked but unattended. As a result, Belle was completely unaware of the shadowy figure who had slipped into the backseat in her absence.

“. . . I
’ve been trying to reach her since eight-fifteen this morning, Rosco. It simply isn’t like Belle not to answer her phone. Especially as she was expecting my call . . .”

Sara Briephs’ voice emanated concern tinged with a hint of regal impatience. Before responding, Rosco glanced at his watch, then chose his words carefully; the last thing he wanted was to further rile an already perturbed lady.

“I haven’t spoken to her today, Sara, but last night she mentioned she’d be home all day working on tomorrow’s crossword for the
Crier
. She must be so deep in thought, she can’t hear the phone. You know how Belle is.”

Sara cleared her throat, then took a purposeful breath. “I see,” she began, “so your contact last night was only via the telephone?”

Rosco frowned at the air. Dealing with older people, especially those who adhered to a rigid etiquette, could be
trying. He was about to respond that he and Belle maintained separate—and independent—lives when Sara’s voice continued with a swift:

“I hope you don’t think I’m prying, Rosco. I don’t mean to suggest that Belle might have . . . spent the night with you . . .” Her voice faltered ever so slightly, then charged ahead in typical Yankee fashion. “Heaven knows, I’m not accusing you of impropriety . . . or . . . or wantonness . . . I’m not an old hen, as some people believe; I’m well aware that relationships develop differently nowadays than they did when I was young. Intimacy between a modern couple . . . well, no more need be said.”

Rosco shook his head, then glanced across his office. He tried to imagine a young Sara and her swains—an affluent group from a bygone era whose antics probably ran to such “crimes” as putting salt in the sugar bowl or hiding a gentleman caller’s hat. “You’re not prying, Sara,” he said. “Belle was at her home last night. I was in my apartment.” Then he changed the subject. “Did you speak to her answering machine? Ask her to pick up the telephone?”

“Absolutely! I’ve called four times, and each time mentioned that my message was urgent. If she were home, she would have heard me.”

Rosco smiled. He wondered if Belle was fully aware of the demands involved in her newfound friendship with Sara. “Perhaps the tape machine was muted so Belle could work undisturbed.”

“Oh, I sincerely doubt that. It’s not like her to be so spineless. The girl has extraordinary powers of concentration.”

“I wouldn’t worry, Sara. Perhaps, she’s at the market or—”

“For two hours? You know as well as I do that Belle
can’t cook anything more complicated than deviled eggs.”

Despite himself, Rosco found a sense of unease creeping into his thoughts. “Well,” he began, “I’m sure there’s a logical—”

“I’d be a good deal more concerned if I were you, Rosco, especially given this G.O.L.D. Fund debacle.” Sara’s voice cracked suddenly. “Oh, dear,” she gasped. “Oh, dear. I didn’t intend to tell you yet.”

“What about the G.O.L.D. Fund?”

“Oh, dear,” Sara repeated. “Oh, my goodness. This is a dreadful dilemma.”

Rosco thrummed his fingers on his desktop. “Perhaps you’d better begin at the beginning,” he said.

After a long silence, Sara responded, “I don’t mean to sound secretive . . . or . . . or as if Belle and I have been scheming behind your back. But my news involves your present employer, Mr. Edison ‘Tom’ Pepper.” She paused again as if ordering her thoughts into organized ranks. “It’s simply that I’m afraid your integrity may be compromised if I disclose this information to you . . . You do have a privileged client-employer relationship with Mr. Pepper, do you not?”

Rosco’s fingers tapped the desk again. “Yes, Sara, I do. But you know me well enough to realize I’d dissolve my relationship with Mr. Pepper in a second if I believed he’d broken any laws.”

“Oh, dear,” Sara repeated. “This is why I needed to speak with Belle first. It was the crossword, you see . . . that one she brought to my house . . . the one with all the monetary clues.”

Rosco felt another prickle of fear. Vauriens dead, Fogram, Genie, Jamaica missing. “What did you discover, Sara?” he asked.

She pondered the request for the merest split second.
“Your Tom Pepper is nothing more than a high-rolling con man, Rosco. That’s the information I needed to share with Belle.”

“What—” Rosco began, but Sara cut him off.

“I have now conferred with several old and trusted friends, all of whom had the misfortune to invest in your Mr. Pepper’s G.O.L.D. Fund. Although initially reluctant to broach the subject, they eventually overcame their embarrassment. Money is not something we WASPs are comfortable discussing . . . At any rate, the result of my inquiries is this: The G.O.L.D. Fund is a total sham. It’s no more than a sophisticated Ponzi scheme—similar to the one perpetrated on the world some eighty years ago by that horrible Charles Ponzi.”

Rosco stared into space. “You’re certain about this?” he finally asked.

“Do you mean about Mr. Ponzi’s fraud or the ‘reliability of my sources’—I believe that’s the correct term? Is that what you’re asking me?”

Rosco hesitated. “Yes, I guess that’s what I’m asking.”

Sara’s reply was frosty. “Neither I nor my friends are in the habit of spreading malicious rumors—”

“I didn’t suggest they—”

Sara barreled past the comment. “My friends and I have concluded that Pepper has been using monies from new investors to repay clients with a prior claim: an ever-revolving pool of the naive, the hopeful—or the greedy. Naturally, the scheme relies upon maintaining the strictest secrecy as to investors’ identities. It wouldn’t do for them to publicly discuss their portfolios’ shortcomings—which made my ferreting out of information all the more arduous.”

Again, Rosco tried to interrupt; and again, Sara ignored him.

“After a good deal of heated discussion amongst my companions and me, we reached the opinion that it’s a matter of weeks, or perhaps even days, before Pepper’s entire machine collapses. I needn’t remind you, young man, that these people are among Newcastle’s wealthiest individuals . . . They sit on the boards of every corporation and charitable institution in this town. How this
nouveau
snake charmer was able to hoodwink them will remain a mystery to me.
I
spotted him as a ne’er-do-well at first meeting . . .”

Suddenly Vic Fogram and his panicked telephone call fell into place. But recognizing the connection between the Red Admiral’s owner and the CFOs of Newcastle made Rosco feel a deeper concern for Belle’s safety. “Belle was aware of your activities, I take it?” he asked.

“Of course! But, as I mentioned, we thought it wise, given your position with Pepper—”

Rosco groaned in frustration. “I wish you’d had the confidence to share your suspicions with me earlier.”

Sara didn’t respond for a long and wounded moment. When she spoke, her words sounded surprisingly chagrined. “You don’t think this Pepper character would—”

“Pepper’s brother-in-law is dead, Sara. His wife is missing, along with Miss Nevisson and a saloon owner who also had invested with him. I don’t know what type of crime—or crimes—we’re dealing with, but I do know that amateurs and homicides don’t mix . . . Now, what exactly were you and Belle planning to do with the G.O.L.D. Fund information?”

“I hope I haven’t done anything to put that girl in jeopardy . . .” Tears, or what sounded like tears, clogged Sara’s voice.

“I’ll find her,” Rosco said.

“I know you’re crazy about her.” The redoubtable lady
paused; Rosco could hear worry slowly give way to pragmatism. “It’s high time you two made a stronger commitment to one another.”

Rosco shook his head. A quiet smile crept over his face. “I’m working on it, Sara. I’m working on it . . .”

“In my day—”

“Sara!”

Silence again filled the phone line, broken, at length, by Sara’s contrite: “Belle’s extremely fond of you, you know.”

“I know,” Rosco answered.

“And she’s a perfectly lovely girl.”

“I know that, too, Sara.”

“I’m not intruding, Rosco. I’m simply stating obvious facts.”

“Let’s return to your information on Pepper,” Rosco answered.

“Oh, I supplied the police department with all my findings,” was Sara’s airy reply. “That delightful Lieutenant Lever spoke with me.”

“What?” Rosco didn’t know which statement was more astonishing: Sara’s admission that she’d already told Lever—or that she described him as “delightful.”

“We had a most erudite conversation.”

“With Al?”

“Is there another Lever on the force?”

Rosco shut his eyes tight. He was beginning to think he’d been trapped in an ancient Burns and Allen routine.

“I informed the lieutenant that accusations of fraud could, and would, be backed up in a court of law. I told him that my friends—all leading lights in this city—were more than willing to come forward with evidence. No one will ever accuse Sara Crane Briephs of being an apathetic citizen . . . Albert said he would begin proceedings directly.”

Rosco mouthed a nonplussed “Albert?” while Sara’s disembodied voice reasserted itself. “Now, the more pressing problem is what has happened to your Belle?”

“I’ll drive over there right now.”

“I know you don’t appreciate me meddling in your affairs, Rosco, but I feel I should also mention that Albert wholeheartedly agrees with me on the subject of Belle’s security.”

Rosco raised disbelieving eyebrows. “I’m on my way, Sara.”

“Good boy,” was her lofty response before the line went dead.

Rosco shook his head and muttered, “Albert?” as he punched in Belle’s number.

Her answering machine picked up on the first ring, sounding six beeps to indicate she had previous messages. “Belle?” he found himself almost shouting. “Are you there? This is important . . . I have to talk to you . . .” He waited ten more seconds until silence forced the machine to cut him off. He punched in a second number.

In the middle of the first ring a typically harassed voice barked: “Lever.”

Rosco’s reply was sarcastic. “Hello,
Albert
.”

Lever chortled. “That’s some classy old dame, Polly—Crates . . . We had a nice little chitchat about you and your lady friend.”

“So I gathered.”

“She wants you two to get hitched, she tell you that?”

“I believe Sara might have mentioned it.”

Lever’s laughter grew.

“Did you bring in Pepper yet, Al? Or have you decided to go into the marriage-brokering business?”

“You never read the sign on my door, Polly—Crates? It says ‘homicide,’ not ‘bunko.’ ”

“I meant the department, not you personally, Al. Although it wouldn’t do you any harm to get up and move around once in a while . . .”

“Temper temper, buddy . . . The information on Pepper went straight to the DA’s office as soon as Mrs. Briephs’ chauffeur drove it over. The DA started drooling like a wolf over a baby lamb. He loves this stuff. Called a judge—not Lawrence—and got a warrant issued in five minutes flat . . . I’m afraid the DA doesn’t think much of your employer.”

“
Former
employer, would be more like it . . . So the bunko boys hauled him in?”

“That’s the odd part, Polly—Crates. Somebody must have tipped him off . . . The squad car arrived at Pepper’s estate forty-five minutes ago, but it seems your boy’s flown the coop. Disappeared into thin air.”

“What?”

“The butler maintained he hadn’t seen his boss since he went out for a drive at around nine o’clock last night. Never came home. The boys searched his house—zippo. We put out an APB, but after twelve hours? Hell, he could be anywhere.”

Rosco let out an exasperated sigh.

“It gets worse,” Lever said. “Here’s another little tidbit we learned this morning . . . The truck that killed Vauriens?”

“Yeah?”

“It turned up at two
A
.
M
. in a vacant lot near the interstate . . . Reported stolen three days ago in Brockton . . . Abe Jones dusted it for prints, but there wasn’t a single one. Interior
and
exterior—all slick as a whistle.”

Rosco let the information sink in. “Do me a favor, will you, Al?”

“What’s that?”

“Put out an APB on Belle, too.”

“Lost girlfriends, Polly—Crates . . . you know how the saying goes . . . Besides, I don’t think Mrs. B would—”

“Mrs. ‘B’?” Rosco’s tone was incredulous.

“A sweet old lady like that, what else are you going to call her?”

Rosco pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it long and hard. Sweet, he thought, erudite, delightful: what was the world coming to? “Just ask your guys to be on the lookout, Al . . . That’s all I’m saying.”

“Hey . . . Maybe she ran off with Pepper!” Lever laughed at his own joke.

“You’re a very sensitive guy,
Albert
. Anybody ever tell you that?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact.”

“Please don’t tell me who.”