A Crossword to Die For

by Nero Blanc

  “Professor Graham drove someone—a man—to the Trenton train station with him. Was that the same friend?”

  Marie-Claude Araignée shook her head. “Ah, non, c’est impossible … Roger is away on sabbatical … en Chine, I believe … doing research on the lost cities of the Gobi Desert. Roger Page is his nom… Also a member of the université faculty. He would know if Teddy had other male acquaintances with whom he spoke … Although, as I mentioned, he will be out of the country for several more months.”

  Rosco jotted down the name. “Would Deborah Hurley have contact information on Roger Page?”

  The green eyes flashed. “I know of no Deborah Hurley.”

  “Professor Graham’s research assistant … in Florida.”

  “Teddy never mentioned such a person.”

  So much for Marie-Claude’s proud avowal of the benefits of privacy among consenting adults. Rosco backtracked. Quickly. “So, you can’t tell me who might have accompanied Professor Graham to Trenton on the morning of August thirteenth?”

  “Perhaps you should pose the question to this Mademoiselle Hurley—”

  “It’s Mrs. Hurley.”

  Marie-Claude shrugged, then abruptly turned away and switched off the light filling the glass-fronted display case holding the Bartell collection. “I know nothing about this Madame Hurley, and I cannot tell you what Teddy did—or with whom he consorted—after he left my company.” Then she looked at Rosco again, her expression now serene and inscrutable. “C’est très triste, n’est-ce pas? It is very sad. The heart is a such fragile instrument. Bones are so much more durable …”

  CHAPTER 16

  Rosco grabbed his phone the moment he climbed into his Jeep, punched in New York City Information, requested a listing for the Savante Group, Incorporated, and rapidly jabbed out more numbers. After a minute, the switchboard put him through to the Office of the President and CEO where a receptionist reluctantly connected him to an assistant, who then uncategorically stated that Mr. Oclen was unavailable—even to members of the press, which was the alias Rosco had chosen.

  “But this is the same Carl Oclen who spoke at Princeton University on August twelfth?” Rosco asked.

  “Mr. Oclen did not address the university. He was entertained at the Harcourt Corporate Center. And you represent which newspaper, Mr.—?”

  “Duncan. Tom Duncan. Of the The Evening Crier, Newcastle, Massachusetts,” was Rosco’s quick lie. “I understand there was some unpleasantness during Mr. Oclen’s presentation.” He added a placating “Sir …” then continued with a hurried, “I gather a number of people made attempts to put Mr. Oclen in the hot seat. Can you comment on that?”

  “I advise you to contact our press office if you wish information, Mr. Duncan.”

  Sensing an imminent brush-off, Rosco barreled forward with another question. “Well, we always like to get it from the horse’s mouth if we can—give folks an opportunity to tell their side of the story … Before we go to print. Can you tell me what Savante’s position is in regards to oil production in Veracruz, Mexico?”

  “That’s Pemex’s problem. Not ours.”

  “Pemex?”

  The voice on the other end of the phone barked out a sharp, suspicious, “Who is this?”

  “Tom Duncan, The Evening Crier. Actually, I’m on my way through New York City. If Mr. Oclen would like—”

  “I don’t know what hick newspaper editor told you to call Savante, Mr. Duncan, but I’d suggest you do your homework before bothering busy people. Pemex. Mexico’s government-owned oil company. Savante does not participate, has not participated, does not foresee any participation in a state-owned monopoly. Good day, Mr.—”

  Rosco blurted, “Well, what about the rest of Central America? Does Savante have operations there?”

  “Our operations are a matter of public record, as with any publicly held corporation. There are channels for obtaining that information, but I’m afraid this is not one of them.”

  “Agreed,” was Rosco’s rapid reply. “But does the name ‘Theodore Graham’—?”

  “Good day, Mr. Duncan—”

  “Is Mr. Oclen a Yankees fan?”

  “What?”

  “Is he a fan of the New York Yankees?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” The receiver hit the cradle with such a bang it stung Rosco’s ears.

  As a true New Englander, he mumbled, “It was worth a try. How many Yankees fans can there be in the world?”

  He redialed the central number, requested a copy of the corporation’s annual report, then turned the key in the Jeep’s ignition and began the long drive back to Massachusetts. He felt as if every question he’d asked had revealed only the need to ask twenty more: the proverbial snakes hiding under a rock.

  After he’d driven past Manhattan and found a relatively quiet stretch of I-95 north of Stamford, Connecticut, Rosco again picked up his cell phone, this time calling Al Lever at the NPD. The gruff “Lever” that boomed out of the receiver was a sign that all was still right in the world.

  “Al, I need a favor.”

  Lever sighed—one of the stagy, put-upon sighs that Belle referred to as “endearing.” “I should say, ‘Who is this?’ but unfortunately, I know who it is … Look, Poly—crates, I already told ya, I don’t know any more than you do on that Leland-Marine mess—”

  “No, no, I already wrapped up Leland-Marine. Yesterday. This involves Theodore Graham.”

  The lack of response meant that Al was sitting straighter in his chair. “I don’t like the way you’re saying that Poly—crates … And I don’t like the fact you’re calling me on a cell phone, asking about your wife’s father behind her back. Where is she?” Tough guy though he liked to appear, Al made no secret of the fact that he considered Annabella Graham to be the best thing that had ever happened to his former partner. “For that matter, where are you?”

  “Heading north on 95 … Look, Al, I need to ask you to keep this conversation confidential—”

  “I can handle that—for now … Not that you needed to ask … So, what gives with Pop Graham? A bunch of aliases? A slew of shady ladies on the side?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Sorry. That was a little out of line. What’s up?”

  “What can you find out about a disappearance of an American four and a half years ago in Guatemala?”

  Lever laughed sardonically. “Not a damn thing, Poly—crates. You know that. I don’t do international. And my connections with the Feds are somewhat strained at the moment.”

  “An American citizen, Al. Name of Franklin Mossback. Wife, Marie-Claude Araignée, professor of anthropology at Princeton University; French, obviously—”

  “What’s this got to do with old man Graham?”

  “I can’t tell you that now.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Can’t. I’m not sure what I’m fishing for.”

  Lever didn’t immediately respond. When he did, his voice sounded tired. “I’m not trying to stonewall you, Poly—crates, but international data isn’t our deal here. If you need info on this Frenchie and her—”

  “It can be off the record, Al. Hearsay is fine. I don’t need to know the source. I’m not trying to establish anything credible. I’m only trying to come up with some logical way to piece a puzzle together.”

  Lever sighed again. “Arrrgh … How do you spell this guy’s name?”

  “M-O-S-S-B-A-C-K, Franklin, as in Benjamin—”

  “And the French babe, again?”

  Rosco also supplied that information, then posed another question. “Have you ever heard of Pemex, Al?”

  “Sure. Pemex. Cemex. Telmex. All the mexes. I bought stock in Telmex a while back … what a mistake. Took a damn bath—”

  “Stock?”

  “Stock. Shares. An investment. You got something wrong with your cell’s reception, Poly—crates? Or don’t you think cops follow the market? You don’t think I’m working on retirement? Telmex. Teléfo
nos de México … Cemex is one of the world’s biggest cement producers. Pemex is the oil king. You know, as in petroleum—?”

  “How about the Savante Group?”

  “Nah … The shares are way out of my range … They trade too rich for my blood. Not many solid oil stocks are penny-ante. What is this, Poly—crates? A lesson in intelligent investing?”

  “Just pieces of a puzzle, Al. And right now, they don’t even look like they came out of the same box.”

  CHAPTER 17

  It was 8:45 P.M. by the time Rosco left I-95 at the Newcastle exit. Almost unconsciously, he found himself driving—not southward toward home—but north in the direction of tony Liberty Hill, and Sara Crane Briephs’s grand domicile. It was late, Rosco knew, later than it should have been to pay an unexpected call on the town’s dowager empress, but he reasoned that if anyone could advise him on how to handle the information he’d gleaned in Princeton, it would be Sara.

  “Rosco!” White Caps’ doyenne was outside “perambulating the nighttime gardens,” as she referred to her evening strolls, when the Jeep pulled into the drive. In the harsh glare of the headlights, Sara’s pale skin and white hair looked almost spectral, and her tall, slim body gaunt and disturbingly unhealthy. Rosco switched off his headlights. He hated to see her looking old. Looking fragile.

  “Dear boy, whatever is the matter? You haven’t seen a ghost, have you?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you so late, Sara.”

  Her cane flicked dismissively across the gravel drive. “You’re always welcome here, Rosco. You know that … I take it things did not go well down in the southlands of New Jersey.”

  “How did you know I was there?”

  In answer, Sara hooked her hand into the crook of his arm: a lady from another era walking decorously with a male companion. “Your wife, of course. She’ll be worried if you’re not home soon.” As she spoke, Sara steered their steps in the direction of the house. “We’ll sit for a minute or two so you can tell me your troubles.”

  Rosco was about to reply, but Sara in her calm and understanding fashion seemed to have already intuited a good portion of his worries. “It’s always difficult to discover lives that seemed so straightforward are in fact fraught with contradictions—sometimes even a nasty secret or two. I told Belle the same thing when she was fretting over the existence of this Deborah person … Parent or child, brother, sister: no one has the right to stand in judgment of another’s motives, another’s life decisions. Even husbands and wives, Rosco, and those are relationships established by mutual choice—as you well know.”

  The two entered the house after Rosco had batted aside the many moths that eagerly flocked around the door’s exterior light. The August night was warm but pleasant; the scent of the not-too-distant ocean lingered in the air: a perfect end to a summer’s day.

  “Maybe it’s my age, Rosco … maybe I’m turning batty and forgetful, but I can’t help but recall my youth on evenings like this … No, recall is too weak a word. I can’t help but be returned to childhood. I feel as free and full of excitement as if I were on school holiday, as if all I had to do tomorrow was play games with my friends on a hot and sandy beach.” Sara briefly squeezed Rosco’s arm as they proceeded into her sitting room, where she assumed her customary chair, a high-backed velvet-cushioned contraption that almost resembled a throne. “So, dear boy, what dire news have you discovered about Theodore Graham?”

  Rosco told her. Sara remained silent as the story unfolded, merely nodding her head or leaning a thoughtful chin into her cupped and delicate fingers. When Rosco had finished his tale, she didn’t speak for several long moments, then finally said, “I gather you’re wondering how much of this to share with Belle.”

  Rosco nodded.

  “Why is that, dear boy? Your wife is what my generation would have called a ‘modern woman.’ Surely, she will understand the situation with Madame Araignée—”

  “Oh, I agree with that, Sara …”

  “It’s something else, then?”

  “I’m not sure … The ‘disappearance’ of Franklin Mossback doesn’t feel right … The whole Central America connection … especially in light of Belle’s father’s repeated flights to Belize.”

  “Belize is not Guatemala, Rosco.”

  He nodded. “I’m aware that I might be leaping to major erroneous conclusions … It may be no odder than one person vanishing in the French Alps while another has business in Rome. Still …”

  “You realize you could be looking at pure coincidence in the case of Mossback, Rosco. Unwary tourists often find themselves in untenable positions. Especially those flying private planes in uninhabited and mountainous regions.”

  “I know that, Sara … But my gut instinct tells me there’s trouble hiding here somewhere … This mysterious Woody character … all the money for the boat … Anyway, I phoned Al on my way back up here. I asked him to check into Mossback’s status.”

  A smile wreathed Sara’s face. “Darling Albert … You know how fond I am of him, Rosco … However, I don’t believe a member of the local police force will have sufficient clout to garner pertinent information from the tight-lipped Washington powers-that-be. Albert will be told that Franklin Mossback was deemed a missing national … and that the case was successfully retired—”

  “Al was afraid of that—”

  “However, I do have clout. I’ll simply telephone Hal’s right-hand man, and ask him to contact State … On the q.t., of course. And don’t forget that my dear brother is a Princeton man as well. He can be a fountain of information … although the difficulty comes in locating the valve that controls the water flow.”

  Rosco considered her suggestion. “I don’t like to involve you, Sara …”

  The proud face was suddenly creased with sorrow. “Rosco, my dear, what good am I if I cannot help my closest friends?”

  Rosco smiled at her. “Thanks, Sara.” Then again grew silent.

  “You’re still not confiding everything in me.”

  “You’re right.” He stood and walked over to the mantle, staring absently at the Delft clock and the vases filled with roses that flanked it. “I have a nasty hunch that Theodore Graham may have been murdered, Sara.”

  “And you don’t know whether to share your suspicions with Belle?”

  Rosco turned around and regarded his hostess. “No, I don’t.”

  “There’s only one answer to that Rosco: Yes. Of course, you must tell her.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “Where have you been? I was starting to worry.” Belle, buoyant, tripping over Kit, who was also rushing to meet her favorite human male, accidentally let the screen door bang behind Rosco’s tired back. The crash echoed through the house, through the quiet of the peaceful New England street. It was a timeless sound of a summer’s night; the only thing missing was a dog barking, but Kit preferred her own short yips of canine conversation.

  “You look absolutely done-in … I wish I’d persuaded you to spend the night down in New Jersey.”

  Rosco sank down into a chair—one of Belle’s thrift-shop finds: an upholstered number with a bold geranium print that looked as if it belonged in a 1950s resort hotel. “I stopped by Sara’s on my way home.”

  “Sara’s?” Belle’s tone changed instantly. It was subdued, cautious. She sat on the arm of the chair beside him.

  “Your dad never mentioned a fellow Princeton professor named Franklin Mossback, did he?”

  Belle shook her head.

  “Or his wife? The woman I went down to interview, it turns out.”

  “The spider lady?”

  Rosco looked up sharply. “How did you know she was called that?”

  “Her name … Araignée … I just translated …” Belle regarded him, her expression both wary and searching. “What happened in Princeton?”

  Rosco put his arm around her waist. After a moment, he said, “Whose idea was it to have your father arrive here on August thirteenth?”

  “Mine,
I guess … I thought the height of summer would be a good time to show him around … The town and bay look so pretty, and there’s plenty to do … all the cultural activities, and the touristy ones, too. Plus a relief from the Florida heat.” Belle thought a moment. “Actually, I think I’m wrong about my input … I think the specific date was Father’s idea … I suggested August, but he chose the thirteenth. Why do you ask?”

  Rosco turned slightly toward her, raising his other arm to touch her bare and sun-tanned knees.

  “You suspect something’s wrong, don’t you?”

  When he didn’t respond, she paused only for a fraction of a second, then hurried ahead as if her speech had been outlined long before. “You think someone killed my father, don’t you? A person on the train … You were worried about that when you left this morning … You didn’t tell me, but that was what you were mulling over … And probably yesterday, too.”

  “I didn’t have anything to go on … just a gut sense that all wasn’t as it appeared.”

  “Yes …” Belle admitted with some finality. “I imagine you and I came up with an identical—”

  The phone rang at that moment, startling them both as the noise knifed through the stillness. “Oh, honestly!” she grumbled. “It’s nearly eleven o’clock at night! I’m going to let the machine get it.”

  “It could be Sara.”

  Belle gave Rosco a look that was part puzzlement, part jealousy. “I don’t know why you had to talk to Sara first. I’m not a toddler who needs to be protected.”

  “I realize that, Belle … But I didn’t want you upset if my suspicions prove unfounded.”

  “But we’ve been worrying about the same thing—Not to mention, when you would finally get home—” But her words were interrupted by the voice being recorded on the answering machine. “Security … Sanibel … Theodore Graham’s apartment … a break-in—”

  Belle flew into her office and grabbed the phone. Rosco followed close behind. The many crossword puzzles she’d spread throughout the room fluttered in the disturbed air. “I see …” she said into the receiver. “And when did it happen?” She glanced at her watch. “But that’s only twenty minutes ago … Oh, I understand … So, the night shift discovered the door had been forced at that time. The burglary could have occurred an hour or more before …”