Death on the Diagonal

by Nero Blanc

  “It’s kind of odd,” Belle said as she pointed to the manila envelope in her out-box, “but one of the puzzles I drew up for next week has a horse theme. Not show horses like the ones at King Wenstarin Farms, but race horses. I had a wonderful time researching the names . . . famous Kentucky Derby winners and champions who went on to take the Triple Crown. For instance, Omaha, who won it in 1935. Nowadays, the clue would be the city or the famous beach, but back then—”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Kerr interrupted as he waved a cautionary index finger at Belle. “I’d be careful there if I were you, Bellisima. If some evildoer, to borrow a term, is out to wreak havoc on King Wenstarin, and the horse trade in general, you certainly don’t want to join the throng. Guilt by association? It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve gotten your tush mixed up with the wrong crowd because of those infernal puzzles of yours.”

  “I hardly think whoever was responsible for last night’s fire would notice one of my puzzles.”

  “Well, to quote Wilfred Owen, ‘All a poet can do is warn.’ ”

  “He was referring to war, Bartholomew, not crosswords,” Belle said with a chuckle.

  “Yes, but don’t forget he died when he was only twenty-five.”

  “Which I’ve already passed.” Belle laughed again. “I’m not concerned. The puzzle I constructed has nothing to do with arson—either real or imagined—or Mr. Collins’s family.”

  Kerr leapt off Belle’s desk. “Oh, please, don’t get me gabbing about Clan Collins again. I have work to attend to.”

  Belle smiled. Getting Bartholomew “gabbing” was never a trick; stopping him, however, was quite another story.

  Across

  1. Gardner creation

  6. Toss

  11. Sixth sense; abbr.

  14. Derby winner of 1905

  15. Spanish queen

  16. My ___

  17. Cut-ups

  18. Suggest

  19. SM, MED, ___

  20. Police radio call; abbr.

  21. 1973 winner

  24. Upper NYC thoroughfare

  25. Sizzle

  26. Black Sea port

  27. Attach

  30. Hair raiser?

  31. Big name in insurance

  33. Int. commerce grp.

  35. A Winkler

  39. Milking aid

  40. Manhattan campus; abbr.

  41. Harlot of Jericho

  42. D.C. naval facility

  43. Poetic evening

  44. Kansas City university

  45. U2 or ELO

  47. Roofer

  49. San Fernando Valley town

  52. Pats’ old org.

  53. Grass court org.

  56. 1977 winner

  59. Tire need

  60. Stooge

  61. Easter in Italy, e.g.

  62. Certain manual

  64. Ike’s WWII turf

  65. Actor, Davis

  66. 1935 winner

  67. “Ask __ . . .”

  68. Scratches

  69. Songster, Leo

  Down

  1. Certain parrot

  2. Wide open

  3. 1919 winner

  4. ___ Rosebud, 1914 Derby winner

  5. Stack role

  6. Adjective for 21-Across, et al.

  7. A Winkler

  8. Overrun with

  9. ___ many; over the top

  10. 1937 winner

  11. Winning jockey, 1931 Preakness

  12. Long tales

  13. Michelangelo masterpiece

  22. Little lizard

  23. Try it again

  28. Circling

  29. 1930 winner

  30. 1943 winner

  31. Tempe campus; abbr.

  32. UFO crew

  34. Lanyard

  36. 1941 winner

  37. Baron tack-on

  38. Hoopster’s org.

  46. Even so

  48. Chill

  49. City on the Ruhr

  50. “Cool!”

  51. 1949 Preakness winner

  52. Spite in Spinazzola

  54. Church offering

  55. Like the crowd at the track

  57. Old gas sign

  58. “___ Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”

  63. Tumor; suffix

  OFF TO THE RACES

  CHAPTER

  3

  While Bartholomew Kerr entertained Belle with his protracted monologue on the virtues, or lack thereof, of Todd Collins’s three adult children, Fiona, Heather, and Chip; Rosco Polycrates, Belle’s husband, was entering his office just off Fifth Street in Newcastle’s downtown business district. At thirty-eight, Rosco still had the build of a natural athlete, as well as a full head of black hair that he’d inherited from his Greek ancestors—all fishermen with a passion for the sea, a trait that had unfortunately bypassed the third-generation Greek-American version. A boat-averse Polycrates was not only a source of perplexity to his large, extended family, it was also an anomaly in a city whose residents shared an abiding love of all things nautical. Rosco’s older sister often referred to him as “The Dramamine Kid.”

  But his lack of enthusiasm for cold salt spray, choppy waves, and bobbing vessels battling the briny wasn’t his only unusual characteristic. A former cop who’d spent eight years working Homicide with the Newcastle Police Department before opening his own detective agency, his other peculiarity was that he didn’t like carrying a gun, and never had—a decision that had annoyed NPD’s captain for some reason. The captain had also frowned upon Rosco’s unorthodox approach to his investigations, although that might have been because his sometimes quirky methods brought unexpected results.

  Now in its sixth year, the Polycrates Detective Agency was doing well. It had new office space in a respected part of town, an impressive roster of former clients, and a reputation for thorough and honest work; ironically, a large percentage of which was marine-related insurance fraud. And all this with just a single employee, one Rosco Polycrates. Although he’d once made the fateful mistake of referring to Belle as a subcontractor of the agency, a term she relished—and used—with typical abandon.

  As Rosco settled into the chair behind his desk, he reached for the telephone and punched *1 into the auto-dialer and listened while the familiar tones skipped over the digits that would connect him to Belle’s cell phone. They’d only finished breakfast and kissed good-bye an hour before, but he saw no harm in telling her once again how much he adored her. Of course, the odds of Belle actually having the mobile phone on her person, or turned on, for that matter, were slim. Rosco was accustomed to leaving messages she forgot to retrieve—or when she did retrieve them, overlooked the day and month of the voice mail. But before the call could go through, there was a knock on his door. His nine-thirty appointment was early. He disconnected the phone without reaching his real or electronic wife and said, “Yes? Come in.” Although Rosco was fluent in Greek, his accent was pure Back-Bay-Boston drawl.

  Walter Gudgeon appeared to be in his early to midseventies, five-feet-nine, a bit heavier that he should have been, or probably wanted to be, with expensively cut, dark brown hair—the kind of chestnut shade that shouted professional dye job. He wore tailored slacks and a sports jacket, the clothes of a man who lived a comfortable, if understated, life. Rosco stood and said, “Mr. Gudgeon, I take it?”

  “Yes.” Gudgeon crossed to Rosco and extended his hand. He had a strong grip, which he seemed proud of, and spoke with a very slight accent, which Rosco decided was Scottish. “It’s nice to meet you. You’ve come highly recommended, Mr. Polycrates.”

  “Thanks. And please call me Rosco. Have a seat, will you?”

  Gudgeon sat in the leather chair opposite Rosco’s desk.

  “Out of curiosity, I don’t believe you mentioned how you found my agency when you made your appointment. Who was it who recommended me?”

  “Actually, I don’t remember who it was, now that you ask.”

  Gudgeon gave an uneasy sm
ile. Rosco guessed it was nervousness at hiring a PI, though he found it a bit strange that the man couldn’t remember where the highly recommended had come from. A good way to determine what someone really wanted was to learn who had led them up to your front door.

  “Wasn’t there a Gudgeon who ran for mayor about fifteen years ago?” Rosco asked as he opened a small notebook.

  “That was my brother, Charlie. He lost in the primary. Got beat up, down, and sideways by the boys with the Big Money.”

  Rosco nodded in sympathy. “Well, no doubt, he would have been better than the clown sitting in the mayor’s chair now.”

  “I think that could also be said of my grandson’s hamster.”

  Rosco laughed. “Well, Mr. Gudgeon—”

  “Call me Walt. I’m not a formal guy and never have been.”

  “All right.” Rosco snapped his fingers. “Walt Gudgeon . . . Of course! Those are your trucks I see all over town; Gudgeon Electrical Contracting. Walt’s Wire Wagons.”

  Walter Gudgeon looked immensely pleased. “That’s right. Although I retired five years ago. My son, Young Walt, runs the show now. It’s really only seven trucks, but the red and gold lettering shows off well against those bright white panels. I designed the look myself. Young Walt wanted to go with green; dumbest idea I ever heard of. Those trucks are our only advertising. They have to turns heads when you see them, or what’s the use? Green; I still get a chuckle over that boneheaded concept.”

  Rosco was beginning to wonder just how retired Gudgeon was if “Young Walt” wasn’t allowed to paint the fleet another color if he chose to. “What can I help you with Walt?” he asked.

  Gudgeon looked down at his hands as they rested in his lap and fiddled with his thumbnail. “I’m not sure where to start with all of this, but I guess what I’d like you to do is find a missing person.”

  “All right.” Rosco picked up a pen. “Are we talking about a friend or acquaintance from your past . . . or a family member, or—?”

  “Not a family member, no.” The words jumped out, and the nervous movement of Gudgeon’s hands increased until he clenched them purposely together.

  Rosco put down his pen and leaned slightly back in his chair. “Have you contacted the police?” It was a natural question, but he gathered the answer would be in the negative.

  “No,” was the hurried reply.

  “Well, the police department is where most folks start when someone goes missing—”

  “I don’t want . . .” Gudgeon interrupted in the same jerky rhythm, “I mean, I can’t . . . well, this is a private matter. That’s why I’m here. You’re a private eye. I need to keep this information between the two of us.”

  “I see.” Rosco regarded his visitor; experience had taught him that silence was often a good method for gathering information. People who possessed secrets usually had a need for sharing their stories.

  “It’s not that I’ve done anything illegal . . .” Gudgeon continued, “It’s just that my kids . . . well, they worry about me . . . think I’m getting old and kind of loopy . . . if they knew about . . .” The words ceased; Walt Gudgeon stared at his hands while Rosco waited. Then after a moment he added, “We can keep this just between us, can’t we?”

  “Of course, Walt. I wouldn’t be in business if I didn’t keep my clients’ information confidential.”

  Gudgeon thought, then finally leaped ahead. “Okay, the person . . . the girl, I mean . . . her name is Dawn. Dawn Davis.” Then he corrected himself. “Woman, really, not a girl. She’s twenty-six or -seven. It’s not what it sounds like, though, a romance of some kind, but, well, I’m sure that’s how my kids will view the situation—an old guy like me . . . Dawn’s been gone for almost four weeks. At least, it was over three weeks ago when I lost track of her . . .” Again, the speech trailed off.

  Rosco sat back in his chair, studying the older man. When potential clients claimed that they were innocent of illicit behavior and hadn’t been involved in unfortunate romances, usually they were lying on both counts. “And you want me to find this Dawn Davis, is that it?”

  “Yes. That’s why I’m here.” Gudgeon’s voice had started to verge on the shrill. “I mean, she was so sick . . . And now she’s just plain gone.”

  “Maybe you need to begin from the beginning here, Mr. Gudgeon—”

  “Walt.”

  “Walt. I can’t help you if I don’t know what you’re after.”

  “I told you. I want you to find Dawn.”

  “But you don’t want to contact the police or have your family involved.”

  “That’s correct. The situation needs to be kept between the two of us. Just us.”

  “Even though she’s a sick woman, as you stated—which I’m guessing refers to a physical illness rather than a mental one? Or am I mistaken?”

  “Physical.”

  Rosco was starting to believe he’d embarked on an endless game of twenty questions. He sighed and retrieved his notebook, but Walt spoke again before Rosco could formulate his next query.

  “Her last name is Davis, like I said. I-I don’t have her address, Or phone number. That’s part of the problem. I don’t know where to start looking. As I told you, she’s twenty-six or -seven; about five-foot-four or maybe five-five, slim, good figure, attractive, with auburn hair that falls midway down her back. Curls a little bit at the ends—especially when the weather’s damp.”

  Rosco heard the wistful tone. No romance, he thought, tell me another one.

  Rosco said, “Caucasian? Hispanic? African-American?”

  Gudgeon thought for a moment. “Caucasian.”

  “And obviously you’ve tried the phone book?”

  “Yes.”

  “And no Dawn Davis, either listed or unlisted? It’s not an uncommon name.”

  “There’s three in the book. I called and hung up because it wasn’t her. The vocal quality wasn’t the same.” Gudgeon shook his head. “You see, she always phoned me. She said she . . .” His voice faded away again.

  “You know what, Mr. Gudgeon . . . I mean, Walt,” Rosco set his pen down on the desk and leaned in toward his visitor. “Why don’t you describe your relationship to Ms. Davis? No notes on my part, okay? But I have to know what I’m dealing with if I’m going to help you.”

  Gudgeon put his head in his hands and all but groaned. “I just want to find her, that’s all. I just need to know that she’s alive. That she’s not in any trouble. That she came through everything all right.”

  Rosco didn’t like playing the psychiatrist; he preferred a more direct approach. But direct didn’t work with everyone, and it sure wasn’t working at the moment. He decided to nibble away at Gudgeon’s edges in the hopes of gathering more concrete data. “When did you come to this country, Walt?” he asked.

  Gudgeon looked up and smiled. “I like to think I’ve lost the accent. Foolish thought, huh? I came over from Scotland fifty years ago. I was fifteen when we sailed into Boston Harbor.”

  “And you’ve done well for yourself.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Damn straight, I have. I’m the top electrical contractor in the city.”

  “And your son now runs the company?”

  Gudgeon chortled. “He tries to.”

  “Any other children?”

  “Four daughters. That’s enough to drive a man insane, I’ll tell you that much. I don’t recommend it to anyone.”

  “And your wife?”

  “She passed away a year and a half ago.” Gudgeon said this without taking a breath. The statement seemed to bear no emotional weight. Sensing that Rosco was aware of this dearth of grief, Walt followed with a quick, “She was a fine woman. Raised five solid children; may she rest in peace.”

  “And getting back to Dawn Davis, when did you meet her?”

  “That was about two months ago. Out at the Harbor Mall . . . In the food court.”

  Rosco waited for more, but Gudgeon had again lapsed into silence. Rosco slid his chair back
from his desk and made a show of leaving his notebook and pen untouched. “If you truly want to find Ms. Davis, you’re going to have to tell me everything about her. Including her relationship to you.”

  Gudgeon made no reply, and so Rosco continued, “Let’s start with the moment you met her. But first: Do you want a coffee or something? I can phone down to Lawson’s. They’ll send it right up.”

  “No. No, I’m fine.” He inhaled deeply and let the air out slowly. Finally he said, “Okay. Back in early August I was at the mall doing my laps—”

  “There’s a pool at the Harbor Mall?”

  “No, no, I go there every morning at eleven and do laps around the mall; on foot, for exercise. I circle the mall at a good pace for an hour, then go to the food court for lunch. I know, it’s a dumb time to go. It’s always jammed by then, but I like seeing all the people, the kids running around, teenage couples hanging out—especially in the summer when there’s no school. I live alone now, and it gets pretty dull. Anyway, one day, I think it was a Saturday, because the court was packed and all the tables were filled, Dawn came up to me with her lunch and asked if she could share the table. Of course, I said yes. She was a polite young woman, and there weren’t any empty spots. We had a nice chat; hit it off really well, actually . . . and that was that.”

  “That’s all you saw of her?”

  “No, no. A few days later I saw her again at the food court. I waved, and I asked her to join me.”

  “She didn’t approach you; you called her over? Is that what you’re saying?”