by Nero Blanc
BEFORE entering the dining room, Rosco and Belle took a few moments to get coordinated on their approach. If they had a chance to uncover a murderer, they’d need to be on the same page, and be well aware of the other’s intentions. They agreed not to mention Tetlee Isaac again, opting to see if any of the other puzzlers had been able to detect the hidden message within Mawme’s grid. The wild card would be Hunter Evans. If he began talking about their acrimonious meeting on the trail, the plan could be foiled.
As usual, the group’s table had been set for ten people. Out of respect for their fallen comrade, they decided to leave the head of the table empty, with Mawme’s place card resting on the serving plate. Belle was seated at the other end of the table, with Rosco three seats down on her left. The twins sat opposite one another, farthest away from Belle, Joe Conrad positioned his wheelchair across from Rosco, Jean sat next to him, D.C. across from her, and Gwen and Hunter took the chairs on either side of Belle.
During the appetizer, salad, and main courses the conversation was appropriately subdued. Polite stories were recycled from past gatherings. Naturally, Will Mawme’s name was attached to each. Some of the tales brought grave smiles, others quiet tears. Belle and Rosco never mentioned their suspicions of foul play, and everyone seemed comfortable with the notion that the death had been accidental. Dessert was served and consumed, and the group of nine retired to the upstairs lounge for coffee by the fire.
“I’m sorry your event had to conclude on such a terrible note,” Belle said after everyone had found a seat. “I know you were counting on a special puzzle from me, and I have copies of the crossword I designed to send home with you. It just didn’t seem appropriate, given the circumstances, to—” She broke off her speech and took a small sip of coffee. “However, I just remembered an old game I used to play as a child. It’s lighthearted, and I thought it might be a pleasant diversion for our last evening together.”
Belle lifted a decorative bowl from the mantel, and dropped eight folded slips of paper into it. She smiled. “I’m going to let Rosco play as well, if that’s okay with you? We need an even number of players.”
Joe Conrad chortled, “The more the merrier. Who knows? He may show us all up.”
Belle cleared her throat. “Here are the rules: On the pieces of paper are the names of eight famous people and a number from one to four. That means that there are two number fours, two number threes, etc. Your partner will be the person who has your corresponding number. Any confusion so far?” She looked at the group; all, including Rosco, indicated their comprehension.
“At my signal, everyone reaches into the bowl and selects a name; and from that moment on, no one can say a word. It’s basically a form of charades. Each player must get his or her partner to say the celebrity’s name through hand gestures and pantomime. No speech allowed. I’ll time each couple, and the one who gets both names solved in the least amount of time wins.”
“What do we win?” Ginger Wolfe asked with a fair amount mistrust in her voice.
“That’s a surprise. Any other questions?”
Again, everyone shook their head.
“Okay, then.” Belle walked among the puzzlers with the bowl of names. “No one unfold his or her paper until I give the signal.”
After all had taken a slip of paper, Belle returned the bowl to the mantel. “Okay, when I count to three, open your papers. One … two … three.”
The seven puzzlers quickly unfolded their slips while Rosco and Belle studied their reactions.
Hunter Evans smiled broadly and said, “I see how this game works.”
Belle shushed him and started to say, “No talking,” but was interrupted by Gwen Beckstein uttering a harsh and frightened cry:
“I didn’t have anything to do with it!” she wailed. “It was all John’s idea! He said he’d take care of the whole thing.”
Everyone spun toward her; and she shrank back under their piercing stares. “Don’t look at me like that! It was John! It wasn’t me …”
“It was John who what?” Tommy Wolfe demanded, but Gwen Beckstein slumped in her chair and seemed not to hear him.
“I just never thought he’d go after Will … but once Isaac was dead, John was … he was …”
Belle and Rosco remained silent, while confusion swept the others.
It was Hunter Evans who picked up on the ruse. He pulled the slip of paper from Gwen’s hand and read aloud: “Tetlee Isaac.”
“I have the same name,” D.C. Irving interjected.
“I’d venture to say we all do,” Hunter replied as he eyed Belle and Rosco.
“Who is he? Or I suppose I should say, who was he?” Tommy asked. His bewilderment was complete; he glanced at his sister, who returned his gaze with equal bewilderment.
“It was all John’s doing,” Gwen said through tears that were fast turning into heavy sobs. “I never met the man.”
Rosco and Belle remained on the sidelines as Hunter pushed Gwen for answers. “But what could your husband have had against Will Mawme, Gwen? Other than these annual get-togethers, they hardly spoke to one another.”
“Hardly spoke?” Gwen nearly screamed. “What difference does that make? Mawme was a federal prosecutor, and Isaac was threatening to turn state’s evidence. We were going to jail! Can’t you see that?”
“No,” Hunter pressed, “I don’t.”
Gwen looked from face to face. Expressions ranged from incredulity, to horror, to pity. Again tears began to stream from her eyes. “Tetlee Isaac was from Hong Kong … He represented a group of investors that held a forty percent share in Sandstone Estates, our land development project …” She nodded meaningfully at Hunter. “The investment you were considering participating in.”
“That you and John own sixty percent of.”
“That’s just it,” Gwen said. “We don’t own a thing. John brought in straw partners. I asked him not to … I told him it was way too dangerous the way he was doing it … a money-laundering scheme with some men from Texas—drug money … But John insisted it was a sure thing, ‘risk free,’ he said until he could scramble ‘something more legit’ … But then Tetlee Isaac caught on. He wanted out, and threatened to blow the lid off the entire project, which would have meant—” The words died in her throat. She lowered her head in grief. “So John … he … he decided he’d have to ‘remove’ Isaac before he contacted Will, and then—”
“But according to Mawme’s puzzle,” Hunter protested, “it would seem he and Isaac had already spoken …” He stared at Gwen’s bent head. “And why did my name appear in CHANCES ARE I GOT YOU HUNTER?”
“You’re wrong in both instances, old man.”
The new voice drew all eyes to the oak-beamed doorway. In it stood John Beckstein. He was handcuffed. He stepped into the room followed by two Arizona state troopers, then looked at Gwen and said, “You just don’t know when to keep your mouth shut, do you, my dear?”
Hunter Evans glowered at him. “What do you mean by ‘wrong in both instances’?”
Beckstein looked at his wife as he spoke, his expression strangely calm for a man who had committed not one but two homicides. “Will Mawme never met Tetlee Isaac, Gwennie. You and I were in error on that point. No, our indefatigable prosecutor simply learned that the man had died, grew suspicious of me and my lovely, if overly talkative wife, and decided to do precisely what Ms. Graham did—flush us out.” John Beckstein turned to Belle and bowed slightly. “Well done, my dear … Mawme would have been proud of you.” He turned back to Hunter Evans. “You interpreted the message incorrectly. It should have been read: CHANCES ARE I GOT YOU—HUNTER MET TETLEE ISAAC. Mawme was covering himself by implying that you—a prospective investor—had also met with Isaac. And he was setting you up as bait. The mistake he made was assuming that Isaac’s killer would go after you first … And believe me, Hunter, if your guest of honor and her husband hadn’t been near that stone archway this afternoon, you would have joined Will Mawme on the canyon floor. I was right behind you.�
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The taller of the two troopers pulled a set of handcuffs from his belt and crossed over to Gwen. “I’m afraid you’re under arrest, ma’am. There’s a car waiting for us downstairs.”
Rosco reached into his sports jacket and withdrew a small tape recorder. He removed the tape and handed it to the trooper. “This might come in handy.”
“Thank you, sir.” The troopers then escorted John and Gwen Beckstein out of the room.
“Well,” Tommy said at length, “I don’t know about the rest of you …” He looked at his sister, who gave him a wan smile. “… but I was Spellbound. After all, John was beyond Suspicion … As for you, Hunter, you definitely seemed like The Wrong Man … But hey, give a guy enough Rope … Beyond a Shadow of a Doubt, it ended up being just a Family Plot.”
“Clever,” Belle replied wearily, “but I’m afraid I’m exhausted.” She took Rosco’s arm. “So, we’ll bid you all a good night.”
As they stepped through the oak doorway, Tommy couldn’t resist one last shot. “Ahhh … The Lady Vanishes!”
Cross Stitch
WELL, who could blame the man for turning tail and doing a disappearing act? After all, the woman was plain as a post, with a personality to match.”
“Weezie! Honestly! That’s a shameful way to speak about the dead.” This was DiAnne Thomassen speaking; the woman she was addressing was her equal in years, if little else. Like DiAnne, Louise “Weezie” Walters was in her mid-fifties, but where DiAnne was tight-lipped and regimental—in both bearing and outlook—Weezie was unabashedly, even cheerfully, rotund, and favored dramatic apparel of her own concoction. In this case, the outfit was vaguely Christmasy: a long, emerald-hued skirt under a flowing silk blouse of rose and orange. A wide scarf of nile green completed the picture.
At present, Weezie was a painter. She “adored experimenting with the Arts” and, in the past, had tried her hand at being a sculptor, a ceramicist, a photographer, and a jazz vocalist. She was also the self-styled “bad girl” of the group, a role she relished.
“Must I to refer to the woman as attractive, Dee?” Weezie complained with a loud, delighted cackle. “Or how about striking? That one’s always been a favorite of mine; although I prefer to save it for show horses. Your notion of political correctness has gone way, way, way too far, my gal. You know as well as I do that Prudence Pierce was butt ugl—”
“Girls … girls …” Sara Crane Briephs intervened, while DiAnne, or Dee (she loathed the college-vintage nickname), silently ground her perfect teeth, and then inadvertently stabbed her finger with a tapestry needle. The mistake, or perhaps Weezie’s insurrection, brought tears to her eyes.
“Ouch,” DiAnne grumbled.
“A stitch in time, Dee … You gotta learn to lighten up,” Weezie goaded as Sara again urged a gentle:
“Let’s remember why we’ve gathered here this afternoon, ladies. This is church business we’re about.”
Only Kate Stamp bent closer to her needle and the unfinished church pew kneeler in her hand. Kate was the youngest of the five women seated in the sitting room of White Caps, Sara Briephs’s ancestral home. She was as good and affectionate as DiAnne was primly proper; or as Weezie was defiantly dramatic. Kate had just turned thirty-one, a young thirty-one, hopeful and beaming with generosity and joy. Her husband and two small boys received large daily dollops of love; and her soon-to-be third baby would as well. Kate’s secret heart, however, held a small rebellious streak, making her a private admirer of Weezie’s free and easy style. Not that she imagined she’d ever have the courage to be so audacious.
“I never met Mrs. Pierce,” said the fifth woman, Martha Leonetti. Martha was the head waitress at Lawson’s Coffee Shop in downtown Newcastle, Massachusetts. In DiAnne’s eyes, Martha, blue-collar, blunt-spoken, and street-savvy, was not an appropriate “fit” for a group she believed, first and foremost, to be a private club for “society ladies.” Naturally, Weezie wholeheartedly disagreed with what she considered to be “Dee’s outrageously snooty behavior.” Besides, Martha was privy to more local gossip than all the others combined; and dishing the dirt was another of Weezie’s favorite diversions.
“Lucky you, Martha.” Weezie rolled her eyes, sucked in her pink and fleshy cheeks as if drinking lemon juice straight. “A real pill, if there ever was one!”
“Weezie!”
“Oh, c’mon, Dee. Don’t tell me you really liked the old bat!”
“I admired her very much, Weezie. She was a pillar of society, and a kind benefactress to many of Newcastle’s organizations.”
“Hah, you sound like you’re putting her up for sainthood. Admire and like ain’t the same thing at all. Not at all.”
Weezie had nearly topped her on that point, but DiAnne countered with a swift, “We wouldn’t be gathered here, creating something beautiful for our worship services, if it hadn’t been for the late Mrs. Pierce’s skillful needlework and design sense—”
“Cross stitch … old cross patch,” Weezie interjected. “Besides, if you want to get technical, my kneeler features a poinsettia—which we all know is a poisonous plant. Think about that! And Sara’s is an angel’s trumpet, a datura, which is even worse!”
“Many flowering plants are unwholesome—”
“‘Unwholesome,’ my eye! The datura was once used in India to execute criminals! And swiftly, I might add. In South America, it was given to wives and slaves about to be buried alive with their lord.”
“You’re simply spouting that witches’ brew stuff you’re so fond of.”
“DiAnne! This is historical and scientific fact, not witchcraft! The angel’s trumpet will send you back to where you came from in the blink of an eye.”
Kate stifled a giggle while Sara cautioned an admonishing, “Girls! You sound as if you’ve returned to grade school. Besides, I’ll thank you to remember that Prudence Pierce was of my generation. So take care when you use the word ‘old.’”
“But you are old, Sara,” Weezie said with a sweeping gesture of one hefty arm. “Old, indomitable, fabulous! When I’m eighty plus, I plan on being exactly like you. Regal, unflappable—”
“You’ve got your work cut out, Weezie, if ‘unflappable’ is your intention,” DiAnne shot back, although a smile was beginning to soften her disapproving features. Despite their differences, DiAnne and Weezie had been close friends for many, many years.
For several long moments, the five women focused on their task: stitching new covers for the church kneelers. The canvas upon which each individual design had been painted rested on their laps, a soft blue gros-point background circling a brightly hued petit-point flower. When finished, DiAnne’s would be a yellow iris, Martha’s a purple hyacinth; Kate’s a pink and mauve anemone; Weezie’s a red poinsettia; and Sara’s the elegant—if lethal—datura or angel’s trumpet. The covers already completed lay rolled at the bottom of a wood chest filled with cedar chips. It had been Prudence Pierce’s wish that her final gift to her church should remain uninstalled until each of the pieces of needlepoint was finished. One hundred cushions of which these five were the last. Fourteen years since the donor’s death, and more than a thousand hours of stitchery by an ever-changing group of parishioners.
Heads bent in concentration: Sara’s white hair impeccably coiffed; Kate with curling, brown locks that never quite stayed put; Martha’s “do” an intrepid bottle-blond shellacked into a time-warp beehive; DiAnne’s a discreet silvery bob; and Weezie’s current color a glittering plum red. According to her, the shade was “this year’s fashion statement … in Paris.” Like her career choices, like her wardrobe, like her vivid folk-art jewelry, Weezie believed wholeheartedly in experimentation.
Beyond the heads and deftly moving fingers, the room echoed with purposeful calm: chintz-covered chairs, antique mahogany furniture, alabaster lamps with beige silk shades, aged Oriental carpets, a cheery fire sizzling below the carved marble mantle, a Delft clock sitting squarely upon the marble’s white surface, while outside the winter
afternoon windows lay a leaden sky, a “snow sky” that made the viewer happy to remain indoors.
“What really happened to Mister Pierce?” It was Kate who asked the innocent question. “I know some of the gossip, of course, but—”
“Hightailed it,” was Weezie’s immediate reply. “Just like all the stories say. No ifs, ands, or buts … Disappeared off the face of the earth, as far as anyone can tell … In his defense, though, it could not have been easy married to the ‘heiress’—”
“She never referred to herself as such,” DiAnne interposed with some austerity. “Never.”
“But that’s what she was, Dee! She let all and sundry know she had more money than G—”
“You inherited wealth yourself, Weezie, let’s remember. It’s not a crime.”
Weezie bristled; her red hair followed suit. “I’ve never been in Prudence Pierce’s category, not by a long shot. And I’ve never needed lucre to lure a man to my bed—”
“Or three …” DiAnne countered.
“Three husbands, Dee … Anyway, I’m proud of my femininity—”
“Proud is one thing—”
“We have no way of knowing if Prudence’s financial position affected her choice of a spouse … or he of her,” Sara interrupted; her tone was severe, clearly indicating it was time to move on to another subject. But Martha decided to weigh in anyway.
“Well, it would me,” was her blithe riposte. “I would have given my eyeteeth to marry a millionaire. I still would, though I’m guessing I just might have missed my chance. Not many high rollers amongst the Lawson’s lunch crowd.”
“Well, there’s always the breakfast bunch,” Weezie offered.
Martha chuckled. “My age might be against me, too … Well, what are you gonna do?” She sighed, although the sound was more amused than rueful.
“Play the lottery?” Weezie proposed.
“There ya go!” Martha laughed. “Then I’d be a gazillionaire in my own right. Without any rich hubby to cater to.”