by Nero Blanc
“Fine with me,” was Belle’s distracted response.
“I think you’re supposed to pick one—” Rosco began, but his wife was too absorbed to notice.
“The first part of the QUIP … part two, three, four …” Suddenly she sat back and spun the completed crossword around so that Rosco could also decipher the message. “… Start here … and finish here …” Her fingers anxiously tapped the paper as he read. “Well? What does that say about your conspiracy theory? And Sir Brandon?”
“Hmmm …” He nodded. “So, where do we go from here?”
“You mean right this minute or later?”
“Both.”
“Well, I’d say our first responsibility is to dive into a big bowl of Indian pudding.”
A Crossworder’s Holiday
ACROSS
1. Fence part
5. ___-Off Land; Nanticut
8. Mast
12. Watch brand
14. ___avis
15. Tall___; lie
16. QUIP, part 1
19. Espy
20. ___Chaney
21. Turf
22. Beeper
24. Fra___Lippi
28. QUIP, part 2
33. Having mystic writing
34. Charged particle
35. Computer memory
36. JFK stats.
37. QUIP, part 3
39. “___risk to you”
40. ___Pérignon
41. Yank’s opposite
42. “Moby Dick,” et al.
43. QUIP, part 4
48. Fr. Junipero___; Calif. missionary
49. Sobs
50. Chinese “Red;” abbr.
52. Zuider___
53. Wauwinet to Jetties Beach dir.
56. QUIP, part 5
62. “Or___!”; ultimatum
63. Unique
64. Navigational tool
65. Summer drinks
66. Rat-a-___
67. Head of France?
DOWN
1. H.S. courses
2. Bride’s veil
3. SILVER COLLECTOR
4. Spanish aunt
5. Trend
6. “Trim the yard___”
7. Flying fish?
8. Atelier
9. Buddy
10. Whaler’s quaff
11. Hotel booking; abbr.
13. Ashore
14. Subscription option
17. Type of dancer
18. GERMAN LAD?
22. CEO, often
23. Pot o’ gold indicator
25. ICON LADY
26. 1918 Nobelist
27. Change, as water
28. KARCHER AND OTHERS
29. First down at Shea?
30. A Latin lover?
31. Mythic Arabian bird
32. Surfside to Siasconset dir.
37. Royal inits.
38. Slippery one
39. Spring mos.
42. Owl & Pussycat creator
44. Gothic touches?
45. Dip chip
46. Clam type
47. Soda type
51. “The___thickens!”
53. Get your feet wet?
54. Card game
55. Type of wolf?
56. Affirmative vote
57. Not young
58. Employ
59. M.E. evidence
60. Fish snare
61. ___cat
To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords
The Proof of the Pudding …
Hunter’s Pudding
A HOLIDAY FAVORITE FROM THE VICTORIAN ERA
Stone and shred 3-DOWN rather small; chop 1 lb. of suet finely.
Pound 1/2 of 23-ACROSS, 6 of 54-ACROSS, and 2 of 58 ACROSS into powder.
Rub 1 lb. of stale bread crumbs until the lumps are well broken.
Cut 1/4 lb. of 18-ACROSS into thin strips.
Chop 1 lb. of currants.
Blend all these ingredients well …
Add 1/2 lb. of sugar and 1 tbs. of flour.
Beat 8 eggs to a virgorous froth; while beating, add 10 drops of 38-ACROSS and 10 drops of essence of lemon.
Fold the egg mixture into the dry ingredients; mix and add 27-DOWN.
Tie the pudding firmly in a cloth.
Boil for 6 hours (7 or 8 would be better yet).
Serve with boiled custard, red currant jelly, or brandy sauce.
Sufficient for 9 or 10 persons
The Proof of the Pudding
ACROSS
1. Building addition
4. WWII flyers
7. Bumbler?
10. 10-10; e.g
13. Women’s___
14. “The Greatest”
15. Everything
16. Countdown ender
17. Odysseus’ rescuer
18. PUDDING PART
21. Sam___
23. PUDDING PART
24. Soil; comb. form
25. Rest room sign
26. Creams
30. It’s often not admissible
32. Favorite
34. Caucho tree
35. ___Stravinsky
36. Monopoly purchase; abbr.
37. Once follower
38. PUDDING PART
42. Greek letters
43. ___Amin
44. Ego
45. Charged atom
46. Small piece
47. Defendable
50. Bill___
52. Christmas tree often
53. Russian river
54. PUDDING PART
57. Hold off
58. PUDDING PART
62. Fall mo.
63. “___All in the Game”
64. Squabble
65. Common conjunction
66. Dr.___
67. ’60s grp.
68. Draft org.
69. Tide movement
70. Over there
DOWN
1. Prophet of Kings
2. Article length
3. PUDDING PART
4. Tear
5. King lead-in
6. Albert___
7. Worms often
8. Pre H.S.
9. Firstborn
10. Digit
11. Chemical suffix
12. Slippery one
19. Dough demand
20. Golf org.
22. Pushes ahead
34. ___Gay Harden
27. PUDDING PART
28. Western Canadian prov.
29. Post
31. Like father, like___
32. Trial print; abbr.
33. Error eliminator
36. King of France
37. Dot the O’s?
38. “Ben-Hur,” e.g.
39. “Scat”
40. ___“Kookie” Byrnes
41. ___Cariou
46. 10th President’s family
47. Aromatic tea
48. Work in Italy
49. Not quite a dozen
51. A&E link
52. Not masc.
55. Tic-Tac-Toe winners
56. Some posts; abbr.
57. Certain Slav
58. Altar material
59. Relative of Inc.
60. Fool
61. Kernel keeper
To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords
TONIGHT’S recipe cover was created especially in your honor.” It was Frank Finney, the handlebar-mustachioed owner of Vermont’s Misty Valley Inn who said this, although he retained a proud—almost triumphant—possession of his offering.
“A crossword puzzle … with a recipe for Hunter’s Pudding, as you’ll note. It was a great favorite—a staple, one might say—of the Victorian holiday table … The artwork and cookery instructions were devised by one of our frequent guests, Mrs. Stacy Lavoro, a longtime member of the other party here … We shall miss her and her husband, but their regrettable last-minute change of
plans enabled the three of you to join us in their stead. And for that we are eternally grateful.” With that, the inn’s magisterial host produced the recipe, handing them around to the threesome at the table before turning his attention to the dining room’s only other inhabitants: a rather noisy party of six.
“But how—?” Belle began.
“—did someone manage to construct a crossword on such short notice?” It was Sara Briephs who finished the sentence. As surrogate grandmother to the younger woman, as well as a blissfully unrepentant autocrat, the octogenarian felt it not only her right but her duty to come to Belle and her husband’s aid—whether the assistance was requested or not.
As Belle regarded Sara, a smile crept into her eyes. “That’s not what I was about to say, Miss-Know-It-All. I was going to ask how anyone knew Rosco and I—and you—were visiting. We were on a waiting list, after all.”
“Well, I assume the guest who canceled …” Sara paused, her carefully coiffed head suddenly lifting in concern. “You’re right, dear; revealing the identities of visitors does seem rather a breach of etiquette …”
Rosco, wisely, kept his eyes intent upon the menu’s contents during this exchange.
After a moment Belle added, “Oh, I get it now,” and glanced at her husband. “This has nothing to do with missing guests—or even a recipe hidden in a crossword … There’s a secret message in the puzzle. It’s going to say, ‘Happy Birthday, Sara. December Twenty-eighth’—”
“I certainly hope you didn’t tell them that my birthday’s the day after tomorrow, dear child—”
“I didn’t,” Belle continued, “but someone else at the table might have spilled the beans.” She nudged Rosco’s foot with her own. “Fess up.”
He raised his hands over his head. “Don’t look at me.”
Belle laughed. “It’s a terrible thing not to believe your spouse.”
“Really … It’s the truth, Belle.”
“What do you think, Sara? Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.”
“I’d say he’s innocence itself.”
“Inculpable,” put in Belle. “A paragon of virtue.”
“Pure as the driven snow, a brick, a trump …”
“I’ve never heard that one.”
“Before your time, dear child … Derived from triumph, I might add.” Her bright blue eyes twinkled; her patrician face wreathed with glee.
“You win,” laughed Belle, but the two women’s customary linguistic sparring was cut short by an uncomfortably loud argument that arose from the room’s other table: one couple in the party of six seemed unable to keep their rancorous feelings private.
“We can discuss this later, Marcia.”
“It’s late enough already, Gene—if you want to know.” The voice had taken on a tone of inebriated and reckless abandon.
“I meant upstairs in the privacy of our room.” The words were a basso hiss of malice.
“Oh, why not air our dirty laundry with the group, honey bunch? They’re your best friends, aren’t they? Your dearest, dearest buddies in all the whole wide world. They’re the reason we troop up here every damn—”
“Marcia, please—”
“Marcia, please, my foot. Since when—?”
“Hey, you two,” a raucous male companion called out. He was in his early forties, expensively decked out in the very latest in country weekend garb, and his tone was full of forced cheer. “Kiss and make up … Then let’s get on with our host’s most excellent feed.”
Another male and two other females joined the exhortation. Like their companion, they also appeared to be in their forties and were equally expensively groomed and accoutered. “Kiss and make up, Marcia, Gene …”
The inn’s host reappeared at that moment, moving effortlessly among the residents of the argument-stricken table. “An amuse buche for Marcia … pâté aux truffes for Gene … white asparagus from Holland … a soupçon of ceviche …”
“They must be serious foodies,” murmured Belle.
“They are,” Rosco answered. “The host warned me we were in for a ‘culinary roller coaster’ when our rooms became available two days ago. Apparently, the same group comes up here every year during the holiday season; after the first night, they take over the kitchen and whip up all sorts of surprises.”
“As long as they don’t whip each other,” was Sara’s wry comment.
DINNER progressed, an endless array of goodies, cooked to perfection—so Belle, Rosco, and Sara surmised by the delighted comments from the neighboring table. No more rancorous outbursts marred the festivities; in fact, a decided peace had descended on the place—the various dishes served blending seamlessly with equally pleasing surroundings: the traditional painted paneling of a historic Vermont country inn decorated with greenery and tartan bows, starched lace curtains tied with crimson velvet ribbon, a fire flickering upward from the stone hearth while beyond the windows the blackness resonated with comforting solitude.
Not a single far-off porch lamp was sighted, not a car’s high beams bounced by in the distance, not a plane’s flickering lights intruded. The nine guests at the Misty Valley Inn, their hosts Frank and Agnes Finney, and Lori, the young woman who helped out as kitchen maid, parlor maid, and chamber maid, might as well have been dropped into a private and sybaritic sphere.
“Happy?” Rosco asked as he leaned toward his wife.
Belle nodded. “Aren’t we all?”
Sara cleared her throat. “I’ll let you two lovebirds continue to bill and coo, while I repair to my room and trundle off to the land of nod.” She started to push back from the table, but Belle reached out a hand to stop the older woman.
“We don’t want you to go, Sara. This is your celebratory weekend … Besides, you haven’t tasted the Hunter’s Pudding yet … the much-vaunted recipe—”
Sara’s reply was a tart: “Have you ever eaten Hunter’s Pudding?” She looked at Rosco.
“Something tells me it’s not high on your list …”
“Oh, it’s tasty all right … Very tasty … My grandmother made it … Her grandmother boiled it up before her—and probably her grandmother before that … But it’s definitely not a low-cal treat—”
“You have to live a little, Sara. It’s your birthday.” Belle laughed.
“I already have, my dear. I already have. And that’s why I—” But Sara’s protestations were interrupted by the ceremonious procession of the Finneys and Lori bearing a flaming Hunter’s Pudding aloft into the room. “Happy birthday …” they sang while Sara whispered an inaudible, “It’s not until the day after tomorrow.” Then she turned to the window, noticing before any of the inn’s other residents that it had begun to snow. Her face creased in an expression that mingled both joy and regret. “‘The season of snows and sins’… Swinburne.”
“A poet long before your time, Sara.” Belle took the older lady’s hand. “Besides, what happened to ‘pure as the driven snow’?”
“Touché, dear girl.”
DURING the night, Sara was awakened more than once with abdominal pains and a slight case of the chills. Being a “mind over matter” New Englander, and a devout believer in physical exercise, she finally got up, pulled her woolliest sweater over her flannel robe, and began pacing her room, all the while criticizing herself for overindulgence in the previous evening’s feast. It was the pudding, in particular, that bore the weight of her ire. She was too old a lady, she decided, to be filling her gullet with rich foods.
“Besides causing bad dreams,” Sara said aloud, then smiled in the dimly lit room. It was the voice of her long-dead father she heard. Her father who had espoused the notion that nightmares were the product of fats and sugars improperly digested. Apple pie slathered with ice cream was high on his list of guilty comestibles. And floating island, and plum cake with hard sauce. As a child, Sara had paid only lip service to the dire parental warnings.
Feeling a trifle better, she removed her sweater, folded it carefully, then returned to be
d. Within a few minutes she was fast asleep. But her brain was full of disquieting visions. She imagined she heard whisperings outside her door, imagined she heard furtive footfalls creaking past, imagined the snow had grown so deep that the roads had vanished, that the inn was cut off from the rest of civilization.
Then Sara dreamed she heard a woman screaming, and awakened to find it was true.
“DEAD … He’s dead!” It was Marcia, the argumentative wife of the previous evening, now distraught and sobbing spasmodically while Frank and Agnes Finney tried to calm her as the other members of the party hurried bleary-eyed from their rooms. “And I was … I was … Oh, my God … the last words I—!”
Rosco arrived on the scene followed immediately by Belle. “What happened?”
Frank Finney pointed toward the bed. “I’m afraid Mr. Jaffe—” while Marcia screeched out a tear-shaken:
“It’s Gene … He’s …” She gazed goggle-eyed at the prone figure of her husband, his rumpled pajamas and tangled sheets, the glass of water lying spilled on the nightstand. “I told him he should go on that diet! Over and over, I told him! The doctor said so, too.…” Her words flew out in bumpy gasps. “With his cholesterol … risk of a heart attack … He must have …” Marcia buried her face in Agnes Finney’s protective shoulder and wept afresh.
Rosco, ever the P.I., eased his way over to the bed and assessed the situation. The deceased’s eyes were wide open; the hands clutched the bedclothes, and a look of horror had frozen on the face. It was true that Gene Jaffe was no longer among the living, but Rosco guessed that coronary disease hadn’t been to blame. He decided to keep that opinion to himself for the moment, however. If Jaffe had been murdered, the criminal was too close for comfort.
“Look here,” a male member of the group said while he strode farther into the room. It was the same man who’d initially taken charge during Marcia’s outbreak the evening before, and he now confronted Rosco with the belligerence of an accepted leader. “Our party needs a little solitude here. The lady’s—”
“I’m a private investigator and former police officer, and until we contact the Vermont authorities—”
“The authorities!” Marcia shrieked, tottering forward until it looked as though she were about to collapse on her husband’s body. One of the other women in the group pulled her back. She was clad in a flame-colored velour dressing gown that matched her flame-colored hair; genuine concern seemed to emanate from her. “Oh, Bobbi …” Marcia wailed while Rosco turned to Frank Finney: