by Nero Blanc
“Poor Hunter,” she said, “This is hitting everyone hard. We’re simply responding in different ways.” Then Jean noticed the crossword Belle was holding. “One of Will’s finest.” She teared up and released a mournful sigh. “Hard to believe …”
Belle glanced down at the puzzle and made a snap decision: Jean seemed a person she could trust. “Did you happen to notice this message running on the diagonal?” Belle pointed.
Jean removed her bifocals and replaced them with special reading glasses. “Why, no … I wonder what that could—?” The words died in her throat. She looked at Hunter Evans’s door, then returned a troubled expression to Belle. “But … but that would suggest … Are you suggesting it was foul play? We’re friends, after all …”
“Hunter told me that Mawme was a man everyone loved to hate or hated to love.”
“That’s just talk … male bluster, if you will. Oh, yes, Will could be lordly; he could be dictatorial and supremely difficult at times, but no one hated him.” Jean tried to smile. “Not even Joe! Although those two large egos certainly enjoyed going head to head.” She sighed deeply again, and handed the crossword back to Belle. “I’m aware that you enjoy a bit of a reputation as a sleuth … and that your husband is a private investigator … but for the sake of some very jangled nerves, perhaps it’s best if you keep any suspicions to yourself.” Her eyes shone with kindly concern, but Belle began to notice something tougher and more steely beneath the surface. “Poor, dear Gwen Beckstein’s beside herself. The twins feel at fault for arranging our journey … even D.C. is an altered man.” Jean took Belle’s hand. “Will met with a tragic accident. It’s as simple as that. The park rangers and the rescue team say it’s an all too common occurrence.”
IN typical fashion, Belle was beginning to doubt the “tragic accident” theory. Mawme had constructed a puzzle and insisted it be solved in private, meaning the guest for whom the message was intended—if it was indeed some form of message—had ample time to reflect on the fact that Mawme was playing a game with them. And if there was a secret, and if the situation was in any way criminal or unlawful—all very big ifs, but nonetheless ample reason to suspect that foul play would be a logical follow-up.
She looked at the crossword again, wondered why no one else had recognized the importance of the diagonal line, then immediately recanted her own query. Who was to say each puzzler hadn’t noticed it? Hunter Evans had, but Jean O’Neal had seemed surprised. On the other hand, that could have been merely an act. Besides, if Will Mawme had been murdered, someone—and it surely looked like Hunter Evans—knew precisely what Mawme meant by placing the name on the diagonal. Belle decided it was time for a consultation with her husband.
She found him in the TV lounge, where now ten or so viewers were hunched forward in their chairs, silently staring at the screen as a football spiraled in the air above the muddy field, and what looked like an army of bodies flung themselves atop one another. In the muck and mire, it was impossible to tell one team’s uniforms from another’s. Within the human wreckage, no one seemed remotely concerned with the whereabouts of the ball.
“Want to take a walk, Rosco?” Belle whispered.
No answer.
“Rosco?”
“Sure,” he mumbled back.
“Great. Let’s peek inside the building Mary Colter designed … the one that resembles an ancient pueblo and has the shop selling the native crafts and rugs. We don’t have to walk far, or near the canyon’s edge—”
“What?”
Belle sighed. Maybe it was a Boston team playing, she reflected, which would account for Rosco’s inability to concentrate on anything else under the sun. But then, she wondered if Boston even had a professional football team, and if it did, what its name was. Not the Boston Baked Beans, she decided. The Boston Beans and their half-baked fans … She smiled privately at her little joke, then told herself she might need to keep this jest to herself. Besides, it could very well be a college game—making the team The Eggheads with their parboiled cheering section. Belle smiled again. “It’s just a few steps, really. We don’t have to get close to the rim.”
“The rim?” During this exchange, Rosco had never looked at his wife. His focus had remained entirely on the television.
“In the fog … during our walk—”
“Walk?”
Belle didn’t respond. If the timing wasn’t right for a stroll of El Tovar’s grounds, it probably wasn’t the best moment to discuss a potential homicide, either. “I guess I’ll go by myself … When does the game end?”
“Shhhh,” one of the other fans said with a good deal of annoyance in his voice, “we’re trying to watch some football, lady, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Rosco was immediately attentive. He glowered at the man. “What did you say to my wife?”
The man turned, noticed the look on Rosco’s face, and realized he’d crossed the line. “Ah … Sorry, pal. It’s just that I’m a big UCLA fan.”
Rosco leveled a grim smile at him. “Then chances are you’ve got a long afternoon ahead of you … pal.” He stood and strode out of the room with Belle.
HOPI House stood on El Tovar’s grounds. Designed by the architect Mary Colter in 1905, it was fashioned from rough reddish stone and other materials native to northern Arizona, and it had a forceful, solid appearance as though it had been part of the landscape for many long centuries—well before the advent of explorers, prospectors, miners, and crossword aficionados.
Belle and Rosco wandered through a series of compact and low-beamed rooms filled with antique Hopi and Navajo rugs, silver and turquoise jewelry burnished with age, new baskets woven in traditional geometric designs, Western hats, boots, and framed paintings of the Grand Canyon in its various guises: at sunset and sunrise, under snow, in the delicate greenery of spring. Nowhere was there a rendition of fog. As the couple moved through the tightly packed space, they became aware of a quiet but intense conversation in what was clearly an upstairs display area. It was Ginger Wolfe and D.C. Irving.
“But Dad forgave him in the end, D.C. … He chalked it up to Will’s youth. I remember him saying, ‘When these whippersnappers make mistakes, they do it big. Folks can get hurt.’”
“A snake in the grass is still a snake in the grass.”
“I appreciate your concern, but you don’t need to dislike Will on our account. Tommy and I have gotten past any harsh feelings, or even disappointment … If the real estate deal—”
“Your father should never—”
“But we’re happy having careers … which we probably wouldn’t have if Will and Dad hadn’t—”
“Happy? Arranging luxury tours for the idle rich?”
Belle frowned as she stared up at the ceiling. There was rising bitterness in D.C.’s voice. Obviously, teaching golf to “the idle rich” could be deemed equally belittling.
Ginger Wolfe changed the subject. “Were you able to track down John, and tell him what happened? Gwen’s still in a bad way.”
“I tried his cell phone, tried his home and office, but like Joe says—when John’s beating the bushes for investors, nothing gets in his way …”
The words faded as footsteps carried the speakers out of range. Belle turned a corner trying to follow the disappearing words, and ran smack into Tommy Wolfe. “Hunting for a perfect gift for your hubby?” he asked.
“Well … no, not exactly.”
“You must be hunting for something … Or are you just out for a stroll? Maybe go down to the trail, and see the spot where poor Will took the plunge? Everyone else seems to want to go down and ogle it.”
Rosco stepped out from behind a rack of post cards and inserted himself between his wife and the twin. Tommy Wolfe’s demeanor seemed surprisingly hostile and aggressive.
“Well, well, if it isn’t our resident private eye?”
Rosco looked at Tommy and then briefly at Belle before returning his gaze to the twin. “It seems like you’re not too upset about Mawme�
��s passing … Maybe that’s because of the real estate deal your father—”
“That was years ago,” Tommy interrupted with a curt wave of his hand. “It’s all …” His cell phone rang, checking his speech, and he made a quick grab for his breast pocket. “Yes?” He glanced at his watch. “I’m on my way.” He folded the phone and replaced it.
“Problems?” Rosco asked.
“My sister. She’s expecting me.”
“But she’s upstairs with D.C. …” Belle began.
“Well … Yes … That’s where I was to meet her.” He checked his watch once more. “Gotta go.”
Rosco watched him leave, then also frowned in confusion. “Tommy used the word ‘hunting’ twice,” he said.
“So I noticed.”
“And why would his sister phone him if she’s upstairs?”
“Beats me.” Belle looked up at the ceiling. There was no sound from the second floor.
“Do you have Mawme’s puzzle with you?”
She removed it from her purse, and handed it to him. He studied it for a minute, then shook his head. “GOT YOU HUNTER … There’s no way that’s coincidental, as Evans suggested.”
“I agree.”
“I think it’s time for another little chat with Hunter Evans. But first, I’d like to have a look at the spot where Mawme fell. Do you feel like taking a walk? Before it gets dark?”
Belle considered saying, “Gee, I was hoping to catch the second half of the game,” but realized the joke might backfire. Instead she slipped her arm through his.
THE quarter-mile walk along the Rim Trail, from Hopi House to the spot where Will Mawme had slipped, took less than ten minutes. The trail passed through a carved rock archway made ominous and spectral by the fog. Walking beneath it, Belle and Rosco emerged at the site of the “accident” and were greeted by a Day-Glo yellow sign stating: DANGEROUS OVERLOOK—DO NOT ENTER. In case the words weren’t dire enough, the Park Service had attached a smaller sign that cautioned: DON’T GO NEAR THE EDGE, FOOTING MAY BE DANGEROUS.
“I don’t know how much more warning folks need,” Rosco observed. He moved near the signs, and peered down. “It’s a sheer drop.”
“Be careful, Rosco. The footing’s slippery.”
“I know … It’s hard to tell what happened here. I don’t know if these disturbances in the snow were the result of a struggle, or if they were left by the rescue workers.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” Belle said, pointing to a set of narrow tire marks in the now crusty snow. “Our friend Joe Conrad has been here. Those lines were left by a wheelchair.”
“But when? He could have only come down here this morning—”
At that moment a ten-year-old boy darted out from beneath the archway, running backward as he shouted, “Hey, cut it out, mister!” Heedless of the presence of other people, the boy barreled into Belle, causing her to lose her balance, and making them both, adult and child, collapse in a tangled heap. And as she fell, she kicked Rosco’s boots, sending him skidding helplessly toward the edge of the precipice. His arms flailed through the air, desperately searching for something, anything, to grab on to. And then he was gone, disappearing from view—leaving Belle flattened on the ground, panting in pain and terror as everything she loved vanished from sight.
She cried out Rosco’s name as the boy scrambled to his feet, still oblivious to the fact that where there were now only two people there had once been three. “I’m sorry, lady, but it wasn’t my fault I bumped into you … Some guy started throwing snowballs at me. Hard … I was just trying to get away …”
“Rosco!” Belle moaned while tears flooded her eyes.
“I said I was sorry, lady.” The boy reached down toward Belle, and as he did, Hunter Evans stepped from the stone arch.
“That’s the man!” The boy pointed. “He’s the one who started pelting me with snowballs. It wasn’t my fault I knocked you down.”
“Come on, kid,” Hunter laughed, “you were having a good time … No harm done.” He looked at Belle. “Where’s your hubby? Hope he hasn’t decided to hike to the canyon floor. The footing isn’t the best.”
Belle stared up at Hunter. “He fell …”
A soft groan arrested further speech. It was followed by: “Oh, man, my shoulder—”
Belle leapt up and stumbled toward the canyon’s edge. At the base of the metal pole supporting the warning sign was Rosco’s gloved left hand. A second later his right hand swung up and grabbed the pole. Belle moved closer to the rim as Hunter and the boy took a quick step backward.
“Stop, Belle!” Rosco shouted. “I don’t want you to fall. I can pull myself up. I’ve just wrenched the heck out of my shoulder …” He grunted as his hands gripped the pole, and he began to work his boots against the cliff’s rugged face. After a good deal of struggling, he reached level ground and began pulling himself away from the crumbling and treacherous edge.
The boy yelped as Rosco clambered to his knees. In the dense air, he looked like a creature arisen from an open grave.
“Fancy seeing you here, Hunter,” Rosco said as he caught his breath.
Evans’s face darkened. “Look, I was just having some fun with the kid. How was I to know you were going to get hurt?”
Rosco and Belle regarded him. Mawme’s sinister message—GOT YOU HUNTER—suddenly ricocheted through their brains.
“Accidents happen, Polycrates,” Evans snarled as if in response to the unspoken accusation.
“Just like your name ‘accidentally’ showed up in your friend Will Mawme’s crossword. Just like he ‘accidentally’ fell and died.”
“Get a life, Polycrates.” Hunter Evans began to move away.
Rosco gritted his teeth. “That doesn’t exactly answer my question, does it?”
Evans turned, his expression grim. “Which would be what, Polycrates? Because if you or your little wife here are alleging I—”
“What can you tell me about Tetlee Isaac?” Rosco’s words made Evans’s eyes turn blank and wary.
“Who?”
“Tetlee Isaac.”
“Never heard of him.”
Rosco massaged his shoulder. “Well, he’s bound to turn up, and he’s bound to talk; he obviously talked to Will Mawme. It’s only a matter of time before we find him.”
Hunter seemed about to speak, but instead snapped his mouth shut, and stalked away, while Belle grabbed Rosco and squeezed him as tightly as his injury allowed. “I was so scared. I thought … I thought …” She was now trembling. He held her close until she stopped. Finally she looked up at him and said, “Who’s Tetlee Isaac?”
“As I was falling … Well, you know how they say people have their lives flash before them when something like that happens?”
“Yes.”
Rosco chuckled, although the sound was rueful. “In my case it was that darn puzzle … Let me see it again.”
Belle retrieved the crossword.
“Here,” Rosco pointed, “on the parallel diagonal, starting at 50-Across, and going up …?”
Belle read, “CHANCES ARE I …”
“Right. Add that to the message you spotted earlier, and finish it up with the corresponding diagonal beginning at 69-Across.”
Again Belle read aloud, “CHANCES ARE I … GOT YOU HUNTER …” Her finger continued tracing the lines. “MET TETLEE ISAAC … This is what you saw when you were falling off the cliff?”
Rosco shrugged. “There’s no explaining how our minds work. Maybe it’s from hanging out with you—”
“As it were,” Belle said. She hugged him tighter.
“Anyway, what I realized is that it’s clear this Tetlee Isaac person has something on Hunter Evans, and that he shared it with Mawme. And looking at this message, I’d say that Mawme was either threatening to expose Hunter, or possibly blackmail him. Although I’d like to think a prosecutor wouldn’t be into blackmail.”
Belle glanced at the puzzle once more, then back to Rosco. “That makes sense,”
she sighed, “except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I believed Hunter when he said he’d never heard of Tetlee Isaac. I think he was telling us the truth.”
“I know. That’s what bothers me, too. I think he was also.”
BEFORE going down to dinner that evening, Rosco attempted to locate the mystery man Isaac by phoning information services in a number of cities: Flagstaff, Prescott, Phoenix, Tucson, Santa Fe, Albuquerque, and even Las Vegas, but there was no listing for Tetlee Isaac in either downtown, suburbs, or outlying communities.
“That was a futile effort. Not even an unlisted number,” he said as he dropped the phone into its cradle for the last time. “I’d love to know who this guy is.”
Belle thought. “I’ll bet someone in our little crosswording group knows … And that’s the same person who pushed Mawme into the canyon.”
“Problem is: No one seems to be looking at this thing as a homicide.”
Belle sat on the bed next to Rosco. Their shoulders were touching, but slouched in defeat. “Do you think the state of Arizona will even consider classifying Mawme’s death as something other than ‘accidental’?”
“Since he was a federal prosecutor, they’re bound to look into it, Belle, but to be honest, there’s no evidence that it wasn’t an accident. It’s just the crossword that arouses suspicion.”
She nodded slowly. “And tomorrow morning we—and the puzzle gang—go home.”
“Meaning tonight’s the last chance to get them all together and flush our criminal—if such a person exists.” Rosco stood and slipped on his sports jacket; he grunted in discomfort as he did so. “Shall we retire to dinner, my lovely? See what’s cooking? Stir the pot? See who can stand the heat.”
“You’re awfully brave, Rosco. Did I ever tell you that?”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
Belle gazed at him. “I love you.”
“Keep it up.”