Two Down (24 page)

A
s Belle buckled her seat belt, she had an eerie sensation; as if the atmosphere inside her car had suddenly shifted. She stared anxiously through the window, expecting to see lightning flickering overhead, while her skin and hair prickled as if affected by a rogue electrical charge. She glanced around the parking area of the Whole Earth Doughnut. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary—another early-autumn New England day on a sunny patch of asphalt near a busy interstate. A Lexus sedan and gray pickup truck arrived bearing two more customers for a midmorning snack. Belle noticed that neither person needed to stock up on extra calories as they waddled toward the entrance. Why is it, she wondered, that we humans reward ourselves with the very foods that most harm our bodies? Why aren’t we genetically engineered to yearn for carrot sticks or tofu squares? But the thought only made her wish she could duck in for another sugared treat.

Instead, she turned her key in the ignition and retraced her route to the secluded Blue Hill Cabins. There she circled past the office, searching for cabin fifteen, which she found sequestered within a patch of scruffy trees. Behind the small structure stood a dense woods that spread into the surrounding acreage. As Ricky had suggested, the site was well removed from the other cabins—a perfect place for a stakeout. Belle noted this with satisfaction as she silently repeated the phrase “subcontractor to the Polycrates Agency.” She considered her handling of Ricky and his peculiar employer pretty darn professional.

She parked her car facing the motel exit but close enough to cabin fifteen so that she’d be able to get a good look at the old lady who’d given Ricky the two crosswords. She then pulled out a map and slouched down in her seat in imitation of a tourist examining likely spots to visit. If it took all day before the woman showed her face, Belle would wait.

The idea of waiting
patiently
in one place, however, lasted all of eight minutes. Belle checked the clock, drummed her fingers on the dashboard, repositioned the map, checked the clock again, opened and closed the glove compartment, and after an additional seven or eight minutes muttered an exasperated: “This could take forever.”

She stepped out of the car and stretched stagily. Not a soul was in sight, and the October chill became noticeably colder as a raft of patchy clouds drifted in to block the sun. Belle shivered and closed her jacket around her neck. For good measure, she stretched again, arching her back slightly as if the muscles had stiffened after a long and arduous drive. A breeze rushed at the neglected trees, sending a noisy shower of autumn leaves scooting over the dry ground. It was the only sound in the deserted place.

Belle’s bravado began to desert her. Although she’d
angled her car, preparing it for a hasty departure, she realized she was completely out of sight of the motel office. And if Mr. Hacket were busy watching television—a likely activity—she could scream her head off for a month of Sundays and he’d never hear her cries.

Anxiety made her tap the left front tire of her car with the toe of her shoe. The car was something she knew, and the act of touching it made her feel as if she had a backup, a solid means of escape. Unbidden, Rosco’s previous worries flooded her brain, but these she argued away by reminding herself that the operative words were “tomorrow” and “soon.” According to the crossword puzzle, no potentially criminal activities could possibly happen today. Belle tended to subscribe to logical, linear thought when it suited her.

She took two steps toward the cabin. A little voice in her head whispered:
Curiosity killed the cat
. This was immediately followed by a remembered quotation from Benjamin Franklin’s almanac: “The cat in gloves catches no mice.”

Belle wiggled her fingers, smiled smugly, then strode up the dirt path until she reached cabin fifteen and its small stoop fashioned out of graying cedar. Her shoes sounded a hollow
clip-clop
as she mounted the stoop—enough noise to arouse anyone inside. She listened at the door, heard nothing, raised her hand to knock, then stopped short and turned to glance behind her. She had the distinct feeling she was being watched.

Belle left the stoop and studied the woods behind her car. Overhung with bittersweet vines, the trees were in sorry repair; broken limbs lay entwined in the suffocating tendrils whose brilliant orange berries looked like a thousand restive, foxy eyes. Belle decided that nothing larger than a feral cat could be hiding among such a tortuous jungle.

She approached the stoop once more, brought her fist up, rapped three solid times on the paneled door, then immediately jumped back. There was no point in letting some crazed old lady attack her with a broom. Three minutes passed, then five, then seven. The door remained solidly closed. There was no hint of movement inside.

Belle glanced toward cabins fourteen, thirteen, and twelve. Barely visible within the rustic compound, they also appeared vacant. “Okay,” she muttered aloud, “this is stupid. I’m alone.”

She studied her hands, found they were trembling, and stuffed them in her jeans’ pockets as if nonchalance were her middle name and trailing old ladies a harmless pastime. Then she walked to the cabin’s front window and tried to peer in. A dusty green shade had been lowered, and although it boasted a large rip, the cabin’s interior was too dark to discern. Belle pushed at the window frame, but it didn’t budge; peeling yellow paint flaked off on her hands.

She walked to the side of the cabin, where she spotted another locked window, then to the rear, where she found a second door. She tried the handle; the knob turned; the door opened about six inches. An inside chain lock prevented further movement.

Belle brought her face to the opening. “Is anyone home?”

No reply.

She pushed harder on the door, but the chain held fast.

“Hello . . . ? Ma’am . . . ? I have a message from Ricky. The fax didn’t go through. He says he needs a second copy of the puzzle.”

No response.

“I—” Belle began again, but at that instant she was
snatched by the elbows and slammed face forward against the door.

“ ‘Something wicked this way comes,’ ” a voice hissed in her ear. “ ‘Open, locks, whoever knocks!’ ”

P
itched forward within her assailant’s grasp, Belle could see nothing but the cabin’s dark and mildewy siding. Flecked with slimy moss and red circles that she guessed were mold spores, it was an unappetizing sight, and made her suddenly remember the potential harm lurking in such airless and vacant spaces: rabid rodents and poisonous ticks and spiders being her primary concerns. The irony of the situation didn’t go unnoticed. Here she was, caught by two brutal hands, and her brain insisted on dredging up information on Lyme disease and the lethal Hanta virus and how its flulike symptoms had finally arrived full-blown in the northeastern United States.

The viselike grip shoved Belle further earthward. “Why were you breaking into my cabin?” This time Belle recognized the voice as female, although definitely not “old,” as Ricky had indicated. It also carried a down-home accent that Belle pegged as being Texan or maybe Arizonan.

Again, she thought of the Hanta virus—spawned by this
woman’s native land. Belle tried to hold her breath, then pushed backward mightily. But the movement only gained her a few inches; her face was still perilously close to the cabin walls. “I wasn’t trying to break in.”

Fingers dug into her elbows, finding the nerves and making her hands go limp while the woman’s upper body pressed hard against Belle’s back. “Right. This was a social call, huh? You’re into it deep, sister. Do you want me to march you over to the manager’s office and have him call the cops?”

Some small sag in Belle’s spine must have indicated her unwillingness to participate in that scenario. It was a reaction her adversary noticed instantly. “He tries to run a nice place,” the woman continued in an even tougher tone. “He’ll have a fit when he learns stooges like you are trying to filch things from guests.”

“I’m not a thief,” Belle spluttered. Her fingers were now numb; her chin almost rested on her chest; and the acrid scent of mildew and rotting wood singed her nostrils.

“Well, you’re not the dame who cleans. And you’re definitely not my fairy godmother. Let’s see, lawyer for my loser of a soon-to-be ex-hubby? I don’t think so . . . Private dick trying to get the goods on my ‘gentlemen acquaintances’? Don’t make me laugh.” The woman suddenly spun Belle around. She was tall and sinewy, anywhere from forty to fifty plus; an obsession with serious exercise was revealed in a skintight outfit: a powder-blue Lycra top and white stretch jeans tucked into Western-cut aligator-skin boots. The fabric looked as if it had been painted on. But the cowgirl routine was marred by the color of the woman’s eyes. They were as gray, translucent, and watchful as a weimaraner’s. “All right, I want some answers. Start talking. What brings you here?”

Belle’s mind raced through possible replies; her ability
to reinvent her story and think on her feet had been exemplary recently, but she intuited that this opponent was more canny than the lovelorn Ricky or his smarmy boss. Belle decided on truth. “I’m the crossword editor of the
Evening Crier,
” she said.

The statement brought no reaction from the woman; as if the information was common knowledge. She only stared; her eyes remaining icy cold. “And that gives you the right to break into this room?”

“I was told to meet someone here,” Belle answered.

The woman sneered, but didn’t immediately respond. Belle recognized that she was being judged on criteria beyond her control—her relative youth, effortlessly slim figure, and naturally pale blond hair. In comparison, Belle’s opponent obviously spent a good deal of time worrying about her figure, and her head boasted a mess of overprocessed curls the color and consistency of scorched hay.

“And who might that ‘someone’ have been, Snow White?”

“An ‘old lady.’ ” Belle regretted the words the second they left her mouth.

“Nice, cutie. Real nice. Want to dig yourself another grave?”

Belle stammered a reply. “Ricky . . . the boy who works here . . . cutting the grass and everything . . . He told me about the lady . . . She’s been sending me crossword puzzles and I . . . well, he must have gotten the cabin number confused . . . If this is your—” But even as she spoke, Belle realized how wrong the statement was. Ricky was dim, but he knew the value of a twenty-dollar bill. Acting as liaison for the mysterious puzzle constructor, he wouldn’t have mistaken her room number. Unless . . . Belle felt a chill run up her spine. Was it possible Ricky
and his boss were in league with the kidnappers? Was it possible they’d led her into a trap? “You’re not Doris Quick, are you?” Belle asked suddenly.

“Who the hell is that?”

“Or Billy Vauriens’ girlfriend?”

“Look, Sleeping Beauty, I’m just a dame renting a cabin at this
deluxe
resort for an indefinite period of time. If this Ricky guy said I was ‘old,’ then he can go to blazes . . . You, too . . .” The steely grip lessened. Belle found her arms hanging free, but her wrists and hands still felt tingly and inert. “A word to the wise.”

Something in the woman’s tone or speech triggered a vague recollection in Belle. “What did you say?”

The woman began stalking toward the cabin’s front entry. “I said you can both go to blazes—”

“No . . . about a ‘word to the wise’?” Again, a surge of unpleasant but unnamed associations flooded Belle’s brain.

“I thought you said you did crosswords? Don’t tell me you’ve never heard the expression.”

Unintentionally, Belle’s mind filled with the memory of Jamaica at the Patriot Yacht Club . . . Jamaica flirting with Rosco and later telling Belle he was only a “transitional” mate. “On the rebound with a private dick.” Those were the phrases she’d used, and when Genie had protested, Jamaica had responded with: “A word to the wise . . .”

“I thought you puzzle types were brains,” the woman continued. “Goes to show ya . . .”

“Someone sent me crosswords,” Belle said. “If it wasn’t you, then who?” Her thoughts were tumbling over themselves. If this woman hadn’t supplied Ricky with the puzzles, what was the connection with cabin fifteen? “Two women disappeared . . . a yachting accident . . . perhaps you heard about it?”

“I’m not from around here, but I’ll tell ya something,
sweet pea: types who go ‘yachting’ don’t hold much sympathy for me. And girlies who try to sneak into other folks’ rooms don’t do no better. I suggest you get outta here, while the gettin’s good.” The woman continued toward the cabin’s front entry. This time it was Belle who grabbed her arm.

“One of them was a well-known actress . . .a TV star . . . I don’t care where you’re from, you couldn’t have missed it.”

The woman stopped; a thin smile creased her hardened face. “Oh, yeah . . . now I remember . . . Newcastle, Mass. . . . I didn’t put two and two together . . . I seen it on the news . . .Jamaica Nevisson, the star of
Crescent Heights
—”

Belle pressed ahead eagerly. “That’s right . . . Jamaica’s a big celebrity . . . and we think . . .” She paused; the pronoun “we” sounded weak; it had neither power nor specificity. She altered her tone and opted for a more official approach. “The police believe that Miss Nevisson’s high profile may have inspired the crime. A photographer known to be stalking her in L.A. was apprehended here in Newcastle.”

The woman’s smile grew. Belle recognized the expression: fascination mingled with pride at a peripheral connection to fame. “Far-out . . .” she murmured, then quickly turned suspicious again. “But how does this cabin fit in? Unless they’re hiding under the floorboards, I haven’t seen anyone other than me using the place.”

“That’s what I’m trying to discover. I was informed that an ‘old lady’ had paid to have crossword puzzles sent to me—each of which contained clues concerning the women’s disappearance.”

“Uh-huh,” the woman said. “Let me get this straight . . . You thought you’d find this old broad sitting here, and she’d up and spill the beans? Is that it?” The icy eyes
narrowed and the smile froze. “I gotta tell ya, sister. That is one sorry tale.”

“It’s the truth,” Belle said.

“Yeah, and I’m Dolly Parton . . . You got a husband?”

Belle was so surprised by the question that she blurted out a hurried: “I did. Yes. A former husband.”

“What happened? He catch you sleeping around—or vice versa?”

“Neither, in actual fact.”

The woman snorted. “Right.”

While Belle responded with an increasingly prim, “We didn’t have that kind of relationship.”

“The sex kind, you mean, honey?” She laughed heartily. “You know, Snow White, men will deceive you every chance they get.”

Again, Belle had an eerie sense of déjà vu. “Men were deceivers ever”—the quotation that had appeared in the first crossword puzzle. Was it possible this woman was indeed Ricky’s “old lady”?

“There’s a line from a play that has a similar message,” Belle said.

“Oh yeah?” The woman seemed disinterested, although Belle sensed the attitude was a sham.

“The verse begins: ‘Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more / Men were deceivers ever / One foot in sea, and one on shore . . .’ ”

The woman’s head jerked up, and her eyes darkened with an expression Belle couldn’t read. “How do you know this stuff?”

“I told you. I construct crossword puzzles.”

“That doesn’t mean you can quote all of Shakespeare.”

“How did you know it was Shakespeare?” was Belle’s response.

“Lucky guess . . . I mean, who else spouts stuff like
that?” The woman stared at Belle. After a moment her voice continued with a level: “We had to read that junk in high school.”

“You must have a photographic memory.”

“I was good with poems . . . You memorize something when you’re young . . .”

Belle returned the woman’s inscrutable gaze. “You wouldn’t happen to remember the line that begins ‘Bait the hook well: this fish will bite . . . ’?”

The woman opened her mouth to speak, then seemed to reconsider the response. “Can’t say I do.”

“Both quotations are found in
Much Ado About Nothing,
and they appeared in a crossword I received in connection with this case—also sent from this mysterious ‘old lady.’ ”

The woman turned her back. “Well, doll, you’d better find her, then.”

“I’m guessing I already have,” Belle answered easily. “I’m thinking that a sixteen-year-old might consider a woman past forty to be ‘old.’ ”

The woman spun around, her face contorted in rage. “Do I look like an old hag to you? Do I look as if I’m over the hill?”

“What can you tell me about Jamaica and Genie’s disappearance?”

“Not a damned thing!”

“Then why did you send those crosswords?”

A rustling in the tangled woods behind the cabins made them both turn toward the sound.

“Damn you!” the woman spat out. “You’re not going to ruin this again!” In a single, fluid motion, she grabbed Belle, pulled a snub-nosed .38 from inside one of her tall boots, and buried the muzzle between Belle’s shoulder blades. “Walk!” the woman ordered.