by Nero Blanc
PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF NERO BLANC
“At last puzzle fans have their revenge … super sleuthing and solving for puzzle lovers and mystery fans.” —Charles Preston, puzzle editor, USA Today
“Addicts of crossword puzzles will relish The Crossword Murder.” —Chicago Sun-Times
“A puzzle lover’s delight … A touch of suspense, a pinch of romance, and a whole lot of clever word clues …Blanc has concocted a story sure to appeal to crossword addicts and mystery lovers alike. What’s a three-letter word for this book? F-U-N.” —Earlene Fowler on The Crossword Murder
“Snappy, well-plotted … an homage to Agatha Christie and Ngaio Marsh … The solid plot never strays from its course and features a surprising yet plausible ending.” —Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel on Two Down
“Another neat whodunit, along with some clever crosswords … Blanc builds the suspense slowly and surely, challenging the reader with a dandy puzzler.” —Publishers Weekly on The Crossword Connection
“A great investigative team in the tradition of Nick and Nora … Nero Blanc is a master.” —Book Browser
A Crossworder’s Gift
Five Short Tales
Nero Blanc
A LETTER FROM NERO BLANC
Dear Reader,
With our second short story collection, we’ve decided to continue our travels: One tale is set on the sunny side of Saint Lucia in the Caribbean—a far cry from the cold of many folk’s winter holiday locales. One will carry you to Montreal during the fabulous—and very icy—Festival of Lights. The title story unfolds in Las Vegas on the week following Thanksgiving. One backdrop is the Grand Canyon during a particularly perilous New Year’s Eve; and one returns to our cozy, snowbound haunt of Massachussetts.
We’re also supporting a cherished cause this year—literacy—and have auctioned off the chance to name a character in one of our tales in order to support a number of organizations addressing the issue. They are: the Miami Valley Literacy Council, Project READ, Womanline’s ABC’s for Babies, the Back Pack Project, and the Kettering City Schools Even Start Program. We thank them for their fine work, and we thank Books & Co. in Dayton, Ohio, for asking us to participate.
As always, we love hearing from you, and invite you to send your messages through our website: crosswordmysteries.com, where you’ll find information about other Nero Blanc books as well as additional puzzles.
So, curl up with a cup of cocoa, sharpen your pencils, and enjoy your holiday “visits”!
Steve and Cordelia
aka Nero Blanc
The authors dedicate a percentage of their earnings from A Crossworder’s Gift to The ECS Beacon Center* in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
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*The ECS Beacon Center is a school-based community center providing academic and recreational programs for children, teens, and adults. Episcopal Community Services (ECS) is a not-for-profit social service agency that has been helping people of all faiths for more than 130 years. For information, visit The Beacon Center at www.bestbeacon.org or ECS at www.ecs1870.org.
Holly, Jolly Roger
ANNABELLA Graham couldn’t decide who “Jolly Roger Conner” most resembled: Ernest Hemingway, Walt Whitman, Karl Marx—or Santa Claus. Balanced atop his large and leonine head was a red felt Christmas hat with green holly-leaf trim and a white tassel dangling from the peaked tip. This, added to his expansive girth, snow white hair and beard, voluminous red shorts, and a T-shirt reading X-MAS MARKS THE SPOT—PIRATE’S COVE MARINA AND WATERING HOLE—ST. LUCIA, tipped the scales in favor of Santa. However, the man stood behind a long mahogany and bamboo bar polishing a martini glass, which seriously diminished the warm and fuzzy feel normally associated with the jolly old elf.
Seated at the aforementioned bar and beachside eatery, “Belle”—as her friends called her—and her husband, Rosco Polycrates, had just been served two very colorful tropical drinks by the S. Claus/Whitman/Marx/Hemingway-esque owner of the establishment. That fact, combined with the weather, view, and ambience—an eighty-five-degree afternoon gracing the limpid, azure waters of Marigot Bay, and a sound system jingling Christmas carols, steel-band style, rather than the chilly riffs concerning snow and reindeer that always signified Yuletide in Belle and Rosco’s native New England—curtailed the candidacies of Whitman and Marx, as well as Santa Claus.
As far as Belle knew, those men had not been given to winter holidays lolling on a palm-tree-dotted sand spit, snorkeling gear close by, rum drinks in hand, and pleasure craft at the ready—which brought her to Papa Hemingway, and the Key Largo/Old Man and the Sea, vision that kept dancing, like coconut-covered sugar plums, in her head.
“Yep … Ate ’em up, they did!” Conner now insisted in a dramatic and piratey tone that had a fair amount of Ireland in its subtler shadings. “Just like that!” For emphasis, he snapped his chubby fingers, and an Amazon green parrot, waddling around on a driftwood perch beside the bar, added a loud and bossy, “Bottoms up, maties,” as if the statement had been cause for a toast. In fact, many of Pirate’s Cove’s patrons polished off what was left of their “2-4-1 Happy Hour” drinks upon hearing the bird’s pronouncement.
It was becoming clear to Belle that Conner was no slouch when it came to a larger-than-life personality, and that he relished having a captive audience—in this case, a couple from Newcastle, Massachusetts, recently arrived and fair game for tall tales or fish tales or yarns of ancient derring-do.
“What do you mean, ‘ate them up’?” Belle asked.
“Just what I said, my honey-haired maiden!” Conner’s voice boomed; his broad forearm traced an expansive sweep. “Cannibals, they was. Cannibals, for good or ill. Of course, this was nearly four hundred years ago … a good hundred years after the good Señor Chris Columbus discovered our little island of Saint Lucia.” He leaned across the bar, bringing his nose within a foot of Belle’s, then lowered his voice into a rumbling drawl. “The British settlers landed in 1605. Sixty-seven of ’em they was, and only nineteen escaped. The Caribs killed the rest of ’em … and had ’em for dinner! Yum … yum … yum!”
“That’s horrible.”
“Aye, that it is, my little miss. And it gets worse. ’Cause in 1638 another party of English came over from Saint Kitts way … Pretty spot this, they says to themselves, pleasing terrain, mountain mists … good for growing comestibles: sugar cane, plantains, et cetera, et cetera … But they met with the very same fate: people stew! Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, all ye landlubbers.”
“Oh, Roger, stop! You’ll be scaring these nice people.” The woman speaking had just entered from the tile-covered veranda. Dressed island style in flip-flops and a batik sundress, she was carrying a damp towel, and snorkel and fins in one hand; with the other, she pulled off her dark glasses, extended her hand, and smiled. It was a bright and cheerful expression, full of warmth and welcome. “I’m Elaine. This is my husband, Joe.”
Joe also smiled in greeting. He was similarly equipped, and had a picnic cooler he’d just carried from the dinghy tied to the end of the pier. “That’s our boat out there—” He pointed farther into the harbor to a white-hulled sailboat newly moored there. “We’ve been snorkeling in Anse Cochon—”
“Joe and Elaine,” interjected Roger with another theatrical and all-inclusive gesture. “They spend so much time in Saint Lucia, they’ve become honorary Looshans. Ask anyone hereabouts.”
Elaine turned her sunny face toward him. “You shouldn’t be frightening folks, Roger, with all these nasty stories—”
“The truth’s the truth,” he retorted in a sulky if not altogether abashed tone. “And what about the three Spanish galleons sunk where yon beach now stands?”
“Rumor, Roger. Only rum
or.”
“Or the German U-boat that crept into the inner harbor? Or the pirates that patrolled these waters?”
Elaine shook her head. “I’ll accept the U-boat and the tales of piracy, but not the galleons, and some of that other nonsense. None of us do.” She glanced at the other regulars, then returned her attention to Belle. “Is this your first visit to the island?”
“Yes, we—”
“Stop!” the barkeep barked as he held his hands high in the air. All neighboring conversation ceased. A number of patrons chuckled; Joe and Elaine shook their heads; clearly, everyone except Rosco and Belle had witnessed this exhibition before.
Conner removed his elf hat and reverently placed it in front of him. “The Great Roger Conner-ronnor-bonnor-ella will now use his mystical psychic powers, and read the fair lady’s cocktail napkin. The likes of such clairvoyance you have never before witnessed in all your born days!”
He lifted Belle’s drink from the napkin and set it aside while the parrot squawked another insistent: “Bottoms up, maties!”
Conner studied the napkin and lowered his voice, giving it an otherworldly lilt as he placed his meaty paw above Belle’s head. “With your permission, I will commence with age and weight … The fair damsel here is a little upward of thirty years old and weighs one hundred and twelve pounds—”
“The age isn’t overly specific,” Rosco interjected with a chuckle.
“Damsels require a certain flexibility,” Conner countered as he moved his hand toward Rosco. “And her first mate would be thirty-eight, methinks … and weighing in at …” Conner paused for dramatic effect. “… one hundred and seventy-three pounds.”
“Seventy-three?” Rosco groused. “I was one hundred seventy-one last time I checked.”
“Silence, please, the Great Roger Conner-ronnor-bonnor-ella is only getting warmed up. I see it all clearly now; you were married last week and sailed into Marigot Bay with the high tide at high noon.”
“Not quite,” Rosco answered. Conner raised a skeptical eyebrow.
Belle grinned. “We were married last year, and flew in on a 737 from Massachusetts two hours ago.”
“No interruptions,” Conner objected. “That was to be the Amazing Roger’s next deduction.”
This brought hearty laughter from the regulars. Conner turned to them:
“So, ladies and gents gathered on this convivial December afternoon, we have some landlubbers amongst us … renters of one of the pleasant cottages perched upon yon hillside, perchance … Perchance nigh to the fair Elaine’s and the lordly Señor Joe’s?” He turned back to Rosco. “Stop, don’t answer the question! I see it all plainly on the face of the napkin.”
Rosco had nodded, but Conner ignored the reaction as he continued his performance, regarding the cocktail napkin with renewed intensity.
“Hmmm, I note that our male visitor is a member of the illustrious law-enforcement clan … in short, a policeman.” Before Rosco could protest, Conner switched to Belle’s napkin and said, “And you, my dear, despite your angelic appearance, are a mathematician?”
This brought a quick laugh from husband and wife; Elaine and Joe and the rest of the patrons joined in, believing that once again Jolly Roger Conner had missed the mark by a mile.
“Bottoms up, maties!” the parrot screamed, then flapped onto the bar and began striding toward them with a cocky and aggressive swag.
Rosco eyed the determined bird with some apprehension. “He doesn’t bite, does he?”
“Who? Jimmy Bungs?” Conner rubbed his beard and considered his answer as the parrot approached. “That’s a good question. He does have his favorites, and he can be a nasty cuss when he puts his mind to it … A Jimmy Bungs for ye landsmen and lubbers is slang for a member of the ship’s crew, and our Jim can be just as perverse and particular as any sailor worth his salt.”
The bird stopped in front of Rosco and ripped the corner from the napkin under his beer. Opting to keep a safe distance, Rosco slid his bar stool back while the parrot went into his now familiar patter: “Bottoms up, maties.”
Conner swatted at the parrot with a bar towel and said, “Put a lid on it, Jimmy. We’re conducting business here.”
“Cheerio, dumbbell,” was the bird’s swift reply. Then he waddled a little farther down the bar, hopped onto Belle’s shoulder, and began to nibble affectionately at her earlobe.
“Ahhh, now you’re lookin’ like the Pirate Queen of Saint Loosha,” Conner cackled. “I gather by your reaction to my psychic powers of observation I was in error with my cop and math geek analysis?”
“Believe it or not,” Rosco said, “I was once in the police force … Once. Now I’m a private investigator. Belle, my wife, is the crossword puzzle editor at the Evening Crier. It’s a newspaper in Massachusetts.”
Conner stiffened slightly but, after a second, rejoined with a boisterous: “Well, well, well! I think you’ll find there are more than a few crossword fiends, addicts, and inveterate word game veterans gathered around these turquoise depths … Yes-in-dee-dee …” He looked around the room, pointing as he spoke. “Aussies: Gerda and Mike Menzies off the catamaran Roo Two; Brits: Carlotta and Noel; that’s their ketch In Sou Sea Ant with the black hull; Brian Joseffson—aka ‘the Brain’—of the Leopard Sun … and you’ve already met Elaine and Joe …” Conner turned back to Belle. “In defense of my initial reading of the napkins, you must admit that your vocation deals in numbers and symmetry—i.e., you’re a numbers person.” Conner smiled broadly, and again raised his voice. “So, the Great Roger Conner-ronnor-bonnor-ella is vindicated! Once again he stupefies the nonbelievers!”
“Cheerio, dumbbell,” Jimmy Bungs announced again, then followed it with a series of squawks that duplicated mocking laughter.
Conner frowned. “Creatures like our Mr. Bungs are either drawn to menfolk.” He directed the comment to Rosco rather than Belle. “Or they’re drawn to womenfolk; but I’ve never met an Amazon Green who liked ’em both. As you can see, Jimmy is most definitely a ladies man.”
“Well, he is kind of cute,” Belle said, peering at the bird out of the corner of her eye, then tilting her head playfully, forcing the parrot to chase after her dangling earring with short, gentle pecks from his beak. “And a bit of a flirt.”
“He appears to have a limited vocabulary,” Rosco added in an unsuccessful attempt to outdo the bird.
Conner laughed. “You’re right about that, my friend. For an old-timer, Jimmy hasn’t picked up more than those two phrases … besides a small selection of sailors’ prayers, if you know what I mean. He can be downright raunchy when he starts in on his favorite oaths, though he seems to keep that chatter under wraps when in the company of the fairer sex.”
“How old is he?” Belle asked as she fed Jimmy the orange slice from her drink.
“No telling, really, but definitely over fifty. I inherited our Mr. Bungs from an erstwhile fishing compatriot. A hunter after sunken treasure who called this harbor his true abode …”
It was Carlotta and Noel who continued the story, tag teaming as they supplied the facts. “A tough go, it was, when the old man died … Digger Bonnet was his name. Came from Antigua, originally, by way of Martinique, but he was a Marigot fixture long before we first arrived … And he gave up the ghost right here where we’re sitting … Fell face first onto the bar …” They looked to Conner, who continued the story:
“And Jimmy there just squawked, gave Digger a nasty look, and strolled to the other end of the bar, where he began eating peanuts out of a dish … He’s been with me ever since.”
“Does that happen often around here?” Rosco asked. “People dropping dead at beachside bars?”
“I’ve owned the place for over thirty years,” Conner said. “And I heard plenty of stories from the previous owners. But in answer: Nope, that’s the only time it’s happened to me.”
“It’s an occurrence you wouldn’t easily forget.”
“Truer words …”
; “And Bonnet was a real treasure hunter?” Belle asked.
This time it was Gerda who answered. “He certainly talked an impressive game, didn’t he, Mike? Absolutely insisted the tale of sunken galleons was true, and that he’d found a cache of Spanish doubloons—”
Roger interrupted. “How else to explain how the man put food on the table? He never worked a day in his life, unless you call scuba diving work.” He grinned although Belle could see the jovial expression was forced. Discussing his friend’s death was obviously not easy. “You know, you and Digger shared something in common—besides Jimmy’s questionable affection … Bonnet was a real crossword junkie, he was. A man who liked riddles, double entendres, puns, spoonerisms, anagrams …”
“That he did,” Brian agreed.
“So, Mr. Bonnet died a wealthy man?” Rosco mused after a moment.
“Like they say,” Conner said, “ya can’t take it with you.”
“Was the cause of death natural?” Rosco asked, unable to suppress his inquisitive nature—even on vacation. “Or was someone after the loot?”
“Foul play? Is that what you’re inferring?” Conner asked. “Digger was nearly ninety when he passed away. The only foul play is spelled F-O-W-L, and Jimmy has a market on that.”
“So, that must make Jimmy the richest personality on Saint Lucia,” Belle said.
Conner shook his head. “There wasn’t money enough in Digger’s pockets to pay for the rum in front of him when he keeled over. And to this day, there hasn’t been a trace of anything else of value. Not a savings account. Not a bank box. Nothing.”
Gerda and Mike Menzies joined in. “Some of us think old Bonnet grew odd toward the end and scuttled his purported bounty by dumping it outside the bay … Others are convinced he buried it on the island somewhere—”
“And then there’s the third camp,” added Elaine with a laugh, “who don’t believe there was as much as one red cent to begin with.”