A Crossword to Die For

by Nero Blanc

  “You mean about the data Ted was collecting on the MTBE situation?”

  Mike nodded. Once.

  “The data you discovered when you took that same notebook from Ted on August thirteenth?” Rosco continued to gaze down at Mike’s bent form. “How much did Carl Oclen pay you to kill Ted Graham?”

  Mike didn’t make a move.

  “Dr. Graham was trying to help you, Mike. You and Debbie and Rachel—”

  “Help us?” Mike’s neck snapped upward. “Help us? Since when does stealing a man’s wife away from him constitute help? Oh, Ted’s so smart, Mike … He’s so clever … He’s like a genius … blah, blah, blah… She never stopped talking about him. Not once.”

  Rosco could do nothing but stare in disbelief. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You mean Oclen—?”

  “I don’t know any damn Oclen.”

  “So, Oclen had nothing to do with—?”

  Mike’s face had turned an ugly red. He glared up at Rosco, who was left stammering a dumbfounded:

  “You mean you murdered Theodore Graham because you thought that he and Debbie …? But he was close to forty years older than she was—”

  “Since when doesn’t that happen? Old guys preying on younger—”

  “No. Not in this case. I’d put money on it.”

  “I know … I know that now …”

  Rosco shook his head while Mike’s voice exploded:

  “The damn notebook! I thought it contained … I don’t know … something incriminating … love notes or something … but all I found were references to contaminated wells, diesel leaks, people getting sick, people dying—” Mike’s voice broke; his chest shook with a soundless sob. “I thought he was taking my wife away from me … But Debbie … Why didn’t she tell me what they were up to?”

  Rosco waited a long moment before speaking again. “What about the train tickets? The rental car agreement?”

  “I didn’t want anyone snooping around New Jersey—”

  “So you stole the blue box, too?”

  “It’s in the house.”

  “And the peach nectar?”

  “Deb told me about that … when she first started working there … Ted’s favorite beverage. Oh, he can’t get enough, she used to say … It wasn’t hard to add the HCN.” Mike put his fists against his head. His grief was so absolute, he seemed incapable of thought or action.

  Finally, Rosco said, “I’ve got to take you in, Mike. You know that, don’t you?”

  Mike stood, his body hunched and hopeless. “I know.”

  Rosco stepped up behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  Without warning, Mike whipped his left elbow skyward, slamming it into Rosco’s ribcage, then plowed into him shoulder to shoulder. Rosco pitched backward toward the creek, regained his balance at the edge of the embankment, but Mike was already on him. He landed a hard right to Rosco’s jaw, and sent him sprawling down the bank into the shallow water.

  It took Rosco a good thirty seconds to lift his head from the rocky stream bed, then he half crawled, half stumbled up to dry land. When he got there, Mike was already opening the driver’s side door to Rachel’s car. By the time Rosco pulled his cell phone from his belt, Mike was gone.

  Rosco punched in 9-1-1 and provided a description of the car and driver to the dispatcher—along with Mike’s name. His friends on the police force would have to confront their own sense of duty—and allegiance. Rosco trusted they were professionals. He then knelt to wipe the mud from his soaking trousers and walked toward the Volsay house … And Belle.

  CHAPTER 36

  Rosco’s cell phone beeped with a tone that sent shivers down the spines of every customer seated in the subterranean cocktail lounge of Princeton’s Nassau Inn. Those perched at the horseshoe-shaped bar turned and shot contemptuous stares toward the corner table where he sat with Belle and Marie-Claude, while the muted conversations of other patrons ceased altogether as they swung in their padded leather chairs to ascertain the identity of the low-class individual who’d broken one of the cardinal—but unspoken—rules of their private domain. Cell phones, beepers, and other outward manifestations of the “information age” were not welcome in this firmly antediluvian haunt.

  Rosco stood and whispered. “I think I’ll take this one elsewhere.”

  Belle watched him cross the oak-beamed tavern room and slip upstairs to the hotel’s lobby while Marie-Claude leaned toward her and uttered a sotto-voce: “Your husband is a wise man, ma chère… Sometimes, the walls, they have very sharp ears. Perhaps you can understand why I appear to speak in non sequiturs when in my office at the university.” Then she sat back and smiled for all the world to see. She was the picture of an academic entertaining out-of-town guests. “You know, this building dates to 1756 … Many clandestin gatherings must have occurred here since that time, wouldn’t you agree? In fact, I read of one such conversation in December of 1776—shortly before your General Washington crossed the Delaware River … I believe we French were involved in some petit fashion …”

  Belle nodded although she felt trapped in Marie-Claude’s typically circuitous conversation. Let’s cut to the chase! her brain railed, but her companion merely perused her glass of white wine. “So, you see, chérie, we inhabit a secretive region… Life and death: always a balance …”

  Belle also stared at her glass. The questions she most yearned to ask concerned her father, but what she chose to say next was an oblique: “Is this Woody’s life you’re speaking of?”

  Marie-Claude nodded almost imperceptibly. “And François.”

  “You suggested that he’s still alive?”

  Marie-Claude tossed her hair. “For your—shall we say—well-being, these are issues better left unclarified. Franklin Mossback is dead … but a name is merely un nom… What did Shakespeare say? ‘A rose by any other name’?”

  Belle gazed at her searchingly while Marie-Claude lowered her eyes. When she resumed speaking, her voice was the merest whisper.

  “Do not think of me as a horrible person; do not assume that your father and I were carrying on une affair de coeur. The picture we presented was only that—a picture … Theodore was a friend only … and a sometime … well, a transporter of information—as we all are in our own way. You bring me news today of a man named Mike Hurley. I tell you … other things …” Then the whisper grew even fainter. “Make no mistake, chère belle, in this war on drugs, government officials on all sides are involved … Some of these persons are good; some are not.” She looked up. “Ahh, yes. You assume that all secret agents are virile young men equipped with numerous stealthy weapons. You are wrong … The most effective operative may be a dottering old lady in a bookstore.”

  Belle’s gray eyes grew thoughtful. What to believe of Marie-Claude’s fantastic tale of secret informants and government agents? What not to believe? “So, you’re telling me that my father never boarded an airplane for Belize?”

  Marie-Claude laughed. “Sacré-Coeur! Not our Teddy. He purchased the tickets … Nothing more need be said.”

  “And Wooden Shoe? The boat Father purchased?”

  Marie-Claude gazed across the room. “A paper trail—”

  Belle sighed in baffled frustration. “I can’t fathom the idea of my father being some type of operative.”

  Marie-Claude placed her hand on Belle’s wrist, but Belle pulled her arm away. “Ah, ma belle, your cher papa’s involvement was the barest minimum … A name on a ticket and on an ownership document, an infrequent visit to see the wife of a friend … With that, we end our discussion. Your papa would not wish to place you in peril.” Marie-Claude Araignée suddenly glanced across the tavern. “So! Bon! Here is your dashing husband returning.”

  The two women remained silent as Rosco approached and dropped into his chair.

  “That was the Kings Creek Police Department. They’ve arrested Mike Hurley. Al Lever and the FBI have been notified.”

  No one spoke for several minutes. Finally Belle said
, “I had assumed that apprehending my father’s killer would please me. I guess the illusion was that it would bring him back—that he and I could make amends … A fairy tale ending.”

  Rosco took her hand. “The police in Kings Creek also informed me they found the car that struck Debbie Hurley. It’s owned by a local with a history of DUI convictions; he claims he doesn’t remember anything, but witnesses at a bar he frequented have confirmed the time he lit out—”

  “So, it was an accident?” Marie-Claude asked.

  Rosco’s answer was stony. “If you call drinking until your brain is too impaired to function, and then driving an automobile, an accident… From my point of view, the only accident is that Deborah Hurley happened to be crossing the street when this idiot careened around the corner—”

  “At least her death wasn’t orchestrated by Carl Oclen,” Belle interjected.

  “She’s still pretty damn dead,” was Rosco’s bitter reply.

  “Ah, yes … Savante,” Marie-Claude added slowly. “We were so certain this Oclen was responsable for your father’s murder—”

  “We?”

  Marie-Claude stared enigmatically at Belle. She said nothing.

  “Was it Woody who constructed the puzzles?” Belle asked after another edgy moment.

  “No. I cannot answer that.”

  “Was it Franklin?”

  “Please …”

  “Was it you?”

  “I am not at liberty to discuss this.”

  “But the reference to hydrocyanic acid?”

  Marie-Claude laughed. “A guess … But perhaps not an uneducated one. Adding the substance to a container of peach nectar would not be an insurmountable task … Surely everyone knew of his foolish addiction.”

  Belle closed her eyes. Marie-Claude continued:

  “This is a type of crime not uncommon in countries where the drinking of sweetened fruit juices is an everyday practice.”

  It was Rosco who spoke after another moment of silence. “Well, whatever the mistaken assumptions as to who murdered Professor Graham, the final result is that the Savante Group has a lot of answering to do—to Rachel, the Tolliver family, and all the residents in the Oak Lane region.”

  “Ahhh,” Marie-Claude said with true sadness. “But if only you had been able to connect this Monsieur Oclen to the first two word games you received … Perhaps events would have turned out differently.”

  Belle shook her head. “Even if we’d noticed SAVANTE GROUP INC running on the diagonal of the “It Hurts So …” crossword, it wouldn’t have helped. Debbie Hurley would still have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Marie-Claude stood. “I am afraid I must leave you now. I have a lecture to prepare.” She placed her purse on the table, opened it, removed a folded piece of paper, and handed it to Belle. “Perhaps this will explain the larger picture, un philosophie, peut-être …” Her smile turned serious. “Ma chère, always remember that your father was a remarkable man.” She lifted her purse and draped the strap over her shoulder. “Au revoir. We shall meet again, non?” Then she strolled upstairs and out of sight.

  Rosco turned to Belle. “Did she just wink at the bartender, or was that my imagination?”

  “It wasn’t your imagination.”

  Belle lifted the piece of paper from the table, and unfolded it.

  “What is it?” Rosco asked.

  “Another puzzle … Once the Game Is Over…”

  ONCE THE GAME IS OVER …

  Across

  1. Despots

  6. Throughout, in music

  12. Boat in Bayonne

  14. Time immemorial

  15. Serve a soda; Midwest style

  16. Least strict

  17. Wardrobe

  18. Certain Middle Easterner

  20. End of quip, part 1

  22. Ms. Charisse

  25. Dry

  26. Latin one

  27. Pervasive quality

  29. Defeat

  32. 22-Across, e.g.

  34. End of quip, part 2

  38. Crib item

  39. Gem state

  40. Yen

  41. Agcy. created in 1933

  42. Weather___

  46. “___Done Him Wrong”

  47. End of quip, part 3

  50. Strips

  52. Certain salt or ester

  53. Mysterious

  56. Evicts

  58. FBI datum

  59. Thrive

  60. Swaps

  61. Water___

  Down

  1. More tense

  2. Judy Garland film

  3. Game maker

  4. Write once more

  5. ___Paulo

  6. Cheers!

  7. Old oath

  8. Some serapes

  9. “The Raven” author

  10. Literary monogram

  11. N.J. time

  12. Nobel winner of ’54

  13. Quits, Southern style

  15. Butter portions

  19. Collection of information

  21. Craig:Peter—Stevens:___

  23. Word of disgust

  24. Eins und zwei

  28. Scottish alder tree

  30. Bud

  31. Female sheep

  32. AKA to the BBB

  33. Sigh of relief

  34. Cycle starter?

  35. Boater and beanie

  36. Engrave

  37. Harem rooms

  41. Common article

  43. Humbles

  44. Marker downer

  45. Former husbands and wives

  47. Lock

  48. Detest

  49. Bull___Party

  51. Pot sweetener

  53. Likely

  54. Monopoly purchase; abbr.

  55. Langley crew; abbr.

  57. Agcy. created in 1975

  To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Crossword Mysteries

  CHAPTER 1

  “What if you had something to hide …? Or maybe you already hid it?” The speaker stood, hunched and frail beside the room’s wide window, then lifted a veiny, blue hand to touch glass grown greasy from institutional cooking: glass that now reflected an early autumnal night, a fog-wet roadway, the diamond-bright lights of trucks and cars and minivans roaring past—roaring away. The hand stroked the window’s surface, leaving a smeary mark on the cold pane.

  The response to these questions drifted across a hospital-style bed, and came from a nurse’s aide who huffed and puffed with exertion as she lifted the mattress and tucked in sheets. She was a large and cherub-faced woman, dressed in a lilac cotton smock and matching drawstring pants printed with teddy bears and balloons—a peculiar choice for a home for the elderly, but one intended to bring cheer into declining years. “You mean an object—like a purse or piece of jewelry or some such …? Or do you mean something hidden from yourself? Like an emotion?” The aide wheezed, stood up straight, and tugged at her print top. She was long accustomed to these verbal guessing games with her patient. “Or like a lie? Something like that, you mean?”

  No reply came from the aged body at the window.

  “Playing twenty questions tonight, are we?” The aide chortled and punched a bedraggled pillow into shape.

  “Can’t see anything from up here,” was the grumbled retort.

  “Sure you can! You look down, you see the highway, the supermarket off at the right—”

  “There’s no people out there. No people at all.”

  “You want people, you come downstairs and join the others in the recreation lounge … game hour … activities hour … TV … mealtimes … I keep telling you—”

  “Just a lot of old folks drooling in their sleep.”

  “Not when they’re eating,” was the cheery comeback. “Besides, you’re gonna go stir-crazy if you insist on staying up here for the rest of your born days.” She grabbed another pi
llow, turning her back on her charge, and so failed to notice the reaction to this reference to incarceration.

  The shoulders grew stiff and hostile; the head with its paltry covering of hair ducked as though anticipating a blow. “I don’t like it downstairs. Never have—”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know.” The bed finished, the aide turned to the single dresser, a shabby affair with a top crisscrossed by water rings and deeply etched scars. She sighed, but the sound was indulgent. “Why you keep all them books stacked up here, I’ll never understand.”

  “Don’t you touch them.”

  The aide ignored the familiar directive, instead tidying up a storm while her patient helplessly scowled in protest.

  “I don’t like my things—”

  “Touched, I know … You’d be happy rolling around on the floor with a bunch of dust bunnies … Oh, dear, you spilled your juice again, didn’t you? Cranberry, too, which is real sticky …”

  A dismissive shrug greeted the complaint.

  “And down the wall …” The aide bent, flicking a damp rag over the gummy spots while two old and weary eyes followed every bustling movement.

  “What if …?”

  “You back to hiding things again?”

  “… What if you had a horrid secret?”

  The aide straightened her bulky body and looked long and hard at her charge. “Horrid? How horrid?”

  The patient didn’t answer while the nurse’s aide kept up her searching gaze. “You mean something you did a while back? Something that makes you feel unhappy now? Or guilty, even?”

  A brief nod was the sole reply, and the aide’s round face crumpled in empathy.

  “Why, everyone on this earth has feelings like that! Honest! Things we wish we hadn’t done … unkind words we shouldn’t have said to loved ones … mean thoughts … selfish notions … If I was to pay you a penny for all the times I—”

  “I mean something worse … something evil.” The words ceased, but the frightened stare bored holes into the aide’s eyes.

  “Are you asking to see a priest maybe?”

  The denial was far more forceful than the aged voice seemed capable of. “No!”

  “Sounds to me as if you’re—”