by Nero Blanc
“They’re trying to drive us out, for sure,” one of the mission’s eldest residents moaned.
“It’s kids, Joe, just kids. Neighborhood punks,” Father Tom answered. “No one’s out to get us.”
Another man took up the cry. Frightened, his speech became an indecipherable stutter. “Uh … uh … uh …” he mumbled.
Tom put a large and quieting hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Clyde. You’re okay. We’re all okay. No broken bones. No cuts. No bruises.”
But the priest’s reassuring words were rapidly lost as individual residents began melding into one cowed and panic-filled body. Some of the less verbal men hissed; some rocked back and forth; all had nerves so overwrought the snap of glass crunching underfoot set them arguing ferociously.
“Shut your trap, Joe!” Tom heard.
“Why don’t you shut yours?” another man viciously responded.
“You gonna make me?”
“Uh … uh …” Clyde continued while several of the others shouted a mocking: “Duh … duh … duh!”
Father Tom raised his arms. “Commend this food to our use, and us to your service. In Christ’s name we pray.”
It was an abbreviated form of the grace spoken at every meal, but they were words the residents of the Saint Augustine Mission instantly recognized and responded to. As if waiting to eat, all fell silent.
The priest allowed that calming spirit to swell through the frightened group. When he believed sufficient order had been reestablished, he spoke again. His tone was direct. He walked among the men as a general might walk among privates.
“Now, we’ve got some cleaning up to do. We’ll organize ourselves into our regular work parties. First thing we want to do is get rid of this glass. Joe, let’s get some brooms out here. Everything will be back to normal in no time. Clyde? You okay?”
Clyde stared but didn’t attempt to speak. It was clear his moment of personal crisis was passing.
Another voice joined in. “You don’t mind if I help out, do you, Padre?”
Father Tom turned. Standing by the open door, almost completely in shadow, was Gus Taylor. He was washed up, clean-shaven, and wearing freshly laundered clothes.
“Hello, Gus! Long time, no see.” The priest’s booming voice was full of approbation. All the mission residents looked up and grinned. One of their own returned, clean and sober; it was as if a saint had appeared in their midst. “Sure, Gus. We can use all the help we can get. Where’ve you been hiding yourself?”
“Well, you know how it is, Father, sometimes you bite the dog, sometimes the dog bites you.”
Father Tom smiled in compassionate understanding. Gus Taylor might just make a comeback, after all. “Step inside and get some tea. I’m happy to see you’re back on track. You didn’t happen to see who did this, did you?”
“I saw a couple of guys hightail it down the alley when I was walking up here, but it was too dark to see their faces.”
“Were they kids?”
“I don’t think so. They were big. Maybe in their twenties.” Gus approached Father Tom and lowered his voice. “I know you’re trying to keep the peace here, Padre … especially with Clyde and Joe and some of the others being, well, a little, you know … but the guys who smashed your windows were goons. Hired hands, if you get my drift. Even if I’d been standing right in front of the mission when they started heaving bricks, I would have been afraid to step in.”
Father Tom weighed this unwelcome news. “I intend to call the police. I don’t think there’s much they can do, but I’d like you to talk to them, tell them what you saw.”
“I don’t know any more than I just told you, Padre.”
Fear had invaded Gus’s voice. His hands began to tremble. Father Tom studied him for a moment. It wasn’t unusual for the men at Saint Augustine’s to be uneasy about the police department. Many had unsavory pasts, and often when a beat cop picked up a drunk in the street, it wasn’t done with kid gloves. Still, Gus had once been a college professor and seemed to have no criminal record.
“Well, think, about it. I won’t ask you to do anything you don’t want, but if someone’s trying to put the mission out of business, I have no recourse but to fight.”
“Like I said, Padre, it’s darker than Hades out there—”
Father Tom silenced him with a sympathetic nod. “You do what you feel is best. Now, come on in and get some tea.”
“Sure thing, Padre.” Then Gus began to cough as if something in the air was catching.
CHAPTER 16
“That was relatively painless,” Rosco said as he glanced at their freshly notarized marriage license. He and Belle had just stepped out onto the wide granite steps fronting City Hall. The sun was bright, and at nine-forty-five, the morning rush hour traffic had all but disappeared from Winthrop Drive. Belle smiled at him, leaned against one of the building’s colossal Doric columns, and sighed with happiness. Her glow in the sunlight was impossible for Rosco to resist. He stepped toward her, and they exchanged a long and loving kiss.
“So far, this is the happiest day of my life,” Belle finally said, “but Saturday will top it.”
“No doubt about it.”
“Assuming your sister’s kitchen is finished.”
“We’ll survive, even if it isn’t. Paper plates were invented for natural disasters such as this.”
“You know what I love most about you, Rosco?”
“My snappy attire?”
“I’m being serious! What I most admire is—”
“My uncanny ability to find a parking place?”
“Rosco! I’m not making a joke! What I love about you is your optimism. It cheers me up just to be with you.”
He held her again. “I wasn’t always an always-look-on-the-bright-side guy, you know, but that changed when I met you.… In fact, I’d say that you were the one who makes me feel hopeful instead of the other way around.”
She snuggled against him. “We’re fortunate people, aren’t we?”
“Yes, we are.”
They walked slowly down the steps, the envelope containing the marriage license held tenderly in Rosco’s hand. “You don’t think that little snake of a bureaucrat will actually check the coordinates you gave her, do you?”
Belle’s gray eyes sparkled with mirth. “Oh, I’m sure she will. But Captain Lancia swore up and down that’s exactly where the Akbar will be the moment we’re married: latitude forty-one degrees, fifty-six minutes, north, longitude seventy degrees, fifty-one minutes, east. I have it committed to memory. It’s right out there in Buzzards Bay. I checked it in my atlas just to be sure.”
“I knew there was another reason I loved you.” Rosco gave Belle a third kiss.
“Hey, hey, you two, break it up.” Al Lever trudged toward them as he spoke. “We’ll have no public displays of affection around here. This is city property.”
“Spoken like a true civil servant.”
“I thought I’d find you here. How’d it go with Miss Sharpened Pencil in there?”
Rosco waved the license.
“Finished already? That’s got to be record time. Congratulations are in order.”
“Save it for Saturday,” Rosco said, grinning at Belle. “When it’s official.”
“I’m only congratulating you on securing the license, Polly—crates. One step at a time. But speaking of official, how’d you like to do a little unofficial work. Pro bono, actually …”
“Al,” Belle protested, “we’re getting married in five days. Don’t you think you should leave him alone?” She hooked her arm in Rosco’s.
Lever smiled, although he didn’t acknowledge Belle’s objection. “Did you ever find that dog you were looking for, Polly—crates? Freddie Carson’s dog?”
“That problem’s been put on the back burner. Something a little more pressing came up.”
“Oh yeah?”
Rosco and Belle shared a glance. She nodded her head in silent agreement.
“Someone
delivered a crossword to Belle’s house yesterday. A bunch of unpleasant clues and answers … in a box intended for long-stem roses, no less. I’d like to find out who it was.”
Lever’s brow creased. “Sounds to me like some loony practical joker, or are you thinking it’s an actual threat?”
“I feel it should be viewed as a threat until I can prove otherwise.”
“That’s the problem with fame,” Lever said. “Every weirdo in the world wants in on the act.… You want a patrol car up on Captain’s Walk, Belle? Just till the wedding?”
“I’m all right, Al. I don’t want the neighbors going nuts on me.”
“It wouldn’t be a problem to supply a little additional protection.”
“I’m fine, Al, really.”
“She’s a stubborn woman.” Rosco squeezed Belle’s hand. “I started checking out the situation yesterday afternoon. I gather NPD had already had dealings with the first florist I questioned … a redhead named Faye.…”
Rosco continued detailing his preliminary investigation, then concluded with: “Four of the long-stem boxes had been delivered to private homes. I made inquiries. Dead end each time; they still had the empty boxes in their trash. The other two deliveries went to commercial addresses. That’s where I’m headed now.”
Lever pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, lit one, then squinted through the smoke. “A couple of lowlifes smashed the windows in the Saint Augustine Mission last night. Did you hear about that?”
It was Belle who answered, her face suddenly drawn and worried. “You’re kidding! What about Margaret House?”
“The nuns weren’t hit.… Just Father Tom’s place.”
“I usually volunteer at the women’s shelter Monday mornings,” Belle said. Her voice was quiet.
“Like I said, the vandalism was confined to the men’s mission, although—”
“Although?” Belle interrupted.
Lever’s response was thoughtful. “I gather something—or someone—scared off the thugs. Otherwise, who knows? Maybe they were intending on hitting the women’s home, as well.”
Rosco shook his head. “Two potential homicides, this vandalism, and all directed at…” He paused and studied his former partner’s face. “Did you ever get an ID on the woman over at the bus depot?”
“Not yet. But it turns out the mud on her boots wasn’t from around here. Jones is trying to place it, but hell, she could’ve been from anywhere—”
It was Belle who interrupted. “Are you thinking that the Peterman brothers are involved in some fashion, Al?”
Lever looked at Rosco; Rosco turned to Belle, who then refocused her attention on Al. “Let me clarify that question. We are discussing an unofficial comment, aren’t we?”
“With a great big U. And you didn’t hear it from me. Like they say: You don’t buck City Hall … or friends of friends on the City Council. But let’s take a look at who stands to make out big time when this empowerment zone goes through. And believe me, it will pass City Council.”
Rosco took Belle’s hand, a feeling of tacit agreement passed between them. “What do you want from us, Al?” Belle asked.
“From you, nothing. From the blushing groom there … a little pro bono work for Father Tom. The detective assigned to the shelter problem is booked to the gills with priority cases, which may not be such a bad situation. Ever notice how quiet people get when police ask questions?”
“You want me to find the goons who broke the windows?”
Lever nodded. “According to your friend Gus Taylor, it was a couple of low-rent hoods—”
“How did he—?”
“I’ll fill you in later,” Lever answered. “After you agree to help out … unofficially. I know the timing’s rotten, but if we can link these guys to—”
Rosco didn’t need to look at Belle to gauge her reaction. “I just might be able get a line on these goons, Al. There’s a guy who owes me a little something. But I’ve got another couple of phantom flower deliveries to track down, okay? Then I’m all yours.”
Belle squeezed his hand.
“Until Saturday, that is.”
Lever crushed his cigarette out on the City Hall steps. “Just get me a couple of names; NPD’ll take it from there. Stop by my office. I’ll give you all the pertinent information.”
Belle and Rosco watched the detective trot down the steps to his brown sedan.
“Thanks,” she finally said. “For helping Father Tom, I mean.”
“I want to do this, Belle. For myself as well as for you and Tom.” He pulled her close and kissed her again. “Dinner tonight?”
Belle nodded, then looked into his eyes. “You’ll call me this afternoon?”
“You bet.”
“Be careful.”
“Careful’s my middle name.”
“I mean it, Rosco. Guys who are hired to smash windows aren’t all that pleasant.”
Rosco knew there was no guarantee that either one of the remaining long-stem rose boxes was the one that had been delivered to Belle’s porch. But he was also aware that it was the only lead he had. His search the previous evening had been spectacularly unsuccessful. The clerk at Holbrook’s had been correct: Giving flowers was deeply personal. “None of your damn business” had been the most popular reply to his question: “Did you receive any roses recently?” But the mention of Belle’s name and the fact that she’d been the target of a malicious hoax had elicited more positive responses … another indication of celebrity’s allure.
With four orders accounted for, Rosco now found himself standing at the corner of Eleventh and Hawthorne, hot on the trail of the fifth gift box. It seemed ironic that the Evening Crier building sat on the southeast corner of the intersection. Kitty-corner there was a men’s clothing store. The other two corners sported banking institutions. It was the Second National Bank, and a Mr. Clover in particular, who had received the roses from Holbrook’s.
“I’m looking for Mr. Clover,” Rosco said to the security officer as he exited the bank’s revolving door.
The guard pointed. “That’s him at the third desk … in the gray suit.”
“Thank you.”
Rosco approached Clover’s desk and removed a business card from his jacket. Since the brush-with-celebrity approach seemed to work the night before, he opted to try it again, “Excuse me, Mr. Clover?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Rosco Polycrates. I’m a private investigator. I’m working for Belle Graham.”
Clover’s chuckle threw Rosco off guard.
“According to what I read in Personality magazine, you’re marrying Belle Graham. I hope you’re not considering it work already?”
Rosco considered a witty rejoinder but had none. “Do you mind if I sit?”
“Please do.” Clover stood and extended his hand. “Call me Carl. I’m a big devotee of your fiancée’s puzzles. I don’t miss a day.”
“Thank you. She’ll be happy to hear she has a fan across the street.”
“Indeed. I’ve got a wonderful view of the Crier building from my desk here. I don’t see much of Miss Graham though.”
“You know what she looks like, then?”
“She’s hard to miss. Quite a beautiful young lady, if you don’t mind me saying so. There’s a lot of men in Newcastle who consider you a very lucky fellow.”
Rosco hesitated. “The reason I’m here is because I believe you ordered a dozen long-stem roses from Holbrook’s last week.”
Again, Clover chuckled. “It was my aunt who ordered them. For my birthday. My fifty-fifth. She’s a bit of an oddball, and unfortunately, never remembers that I’m violently allergic to roses. We go through the same routine every year, and every year, I have to surreptitiously dispose of her gift.”
“You threw the flowers away?”
“No. I gave them to a couple on the street after I finished work. They seemed very happy.”
Rosco glanced at his notepad. “And this was Friday eveni
ng?”
“Yes. The bank stays open till nine P.M. on Fridays. It was almost ten when I left.”
“Did you know the people?”
“No.”
“Would you recognize them again? Were they old? Young?”
“Very young. Eighteen or so. My offering made quite an impression, and, by coincidence, gave me a wonderfully unexpected birthday present. The young lady opened the box, scooped up the roses, put one between her teeth and danced across the sidewalk—”
“And the box?”
“What about it?”
“What’d they do with it?”
Clover smiled indulgently. “They dropped it. Right at their feet. They were very young and very happy. I tidied up after them. Why do you ask?”
“A long-stem rose box was left on Belle’s porch yesterday. I’m trying to determine where it came from.”
Clover looked out the window and pointed across the street. “Do you see the phone booth beside the Crier building? There’s a trash container on the far side. I deposited the box there. I would have brought it back to the bank, but the building was locked by then.” He thought for a moment. “And now that you mention it, I don’t remember noticing the box when I returned for work on Saturday morning.”
“Really? That trash can’s kind of hard to see from here.”
Clover’s voice cracked slightly. “Oh, I park in the Crier lot, so I pass the receptacle each morning.”
“Ever make any telephone calls from that booth over there?”
“Why would I do that? I have a phone right here on my desk.”
“Just curious.”
Rosco reentered the street. As Clover had indicated, the trash container was beside the phone booth, the booth from which the anonymous call about the dead woman had originated. As he headed toward his Jeep, Rosco began running a number of seemingly unrelated facts through his brain:
A crossword that spelled DEATH TRAP, a pair of probable homicides, two hired goons, and a floral box missing its roses. Coincidence, he thought. That was the word Clover had used, but Rosco had never put much faith in the concept.
As he set out to interview the recipient of the sixth order of roses, a dress shop on Ninth Street, he had a strong hunch he’d already found what he was looking for, and there was nothing coincidental about it.