by Nero Blanc
CHAPTER
17
“She’s one tough cookie, Sara. That’s all I can say,” Rosco offered with a shake of the head. “The charming ‘girl’ who conned Walter Gudgeon was nowhere in evidence this morning. And if she’s a con artist, which I’m convinced she is, she’s a genuine pro, because I couldn’t trip her up in the slightest.”
Sara Crane Briephs might have been confined to a wheelchair, and that contraption might now be resting on a magnificent Persian palace carpet in the midst of other singular antiques collected by generations of Crane family members, but in all other ways the doyenne of White Caps—as well as her domain—remained unchanged: an elegant and venerable residence awash in damasks and chintzes and mahogany furniture so polished it all but sparkled.
“Could you have been a trifle harsh in your approach, Rosco dear? Tipped your hand too soon, as they say?” the doughty lady suggested as she watched his wife pour afternoon tea; while Belle, for her part, forced her hands not to tremble. The proscribed ritual of simultaneously holding aloft both a silver pot and a gold-rimmed porcelain cup set in its saucer was one that Sara had only recently relinquished—and only then to the young woman she considered her surrogate granddaughter. However, Belle was keenly aware of her “apprenticeship” stature. There’s many a slip twixt the cup and the lip, she quoted the ancient epigram in silence, adding a rueful, and between the cup and the pot—as well as the activities Sara was hardwired to perform, and the meager hostess-type skills I was taught.
“I’m not saying you were harsh, mind you, Rosco,” Sara continued, gazing philosophically at Belle’s unsure labors. “But perhaps, there might have been another means of eliciting information from Ms. Davis—before getting her dander up, that is.”
Rosco sat back on the Hepplewhite settee. Unlike his wife, he felt genuine ease in Sara’s beloved White Caps, but then he wasn’t a gentlewoman-in-training.
“I honestly don’t know what to make of the situation,” he said. “I guess what I expected was a bunch of phony, sugarcoated responses . . . lies that would have given her away. Avon-Care assured me that Dawn arrived like clockwork for each appointment and was a conscientious and undemanding patient—personality traits that totally jibe with what Saul Bownes suggested.”
“I’m certainly glad he’s not my physician,” Sara piped in. “He sounds like a dreadful person. Sinister, really. Don’t you agree, Belle?”
Belle nodded, but kept her focus on the cup she was now transferring to her right hand, while she picked up a plate of lemon slices with her left, proffered both to her hostess, before returning her concentration to pouring herself the third and final cup of tea. Whew! her brain rejoiced. Thank heaven that’s over! And I’ll just brain Rosco if he asks for a refill.
While Belle completed her nerve-racking task, Rosco casually grabbed a fluted silver dish filled with homemade macaroons, passed them to Sara, then snagged two for himself. The freedom with which he began chomping away earned another grimace from his wife.
“I know Gudgeon only asked me to locate Dawn,” he said between heedless and happy mouthfuls, “but I’d really like to get some hard evidence that would prove she’s a crook; something that would convince Walter to go to the police and press charges. If he doesn’t, she’s free to pull the same stunt elsewhere. And that’s why I’d like to have your help with this, Sara.”
“My help? But I’m just an old lady confined to quarters for the foreseeable future—”
“Not from here . . . but when you become a patient at the Avon-Care facility,” Rosco answered.
Sara cocked her head to one side. Her blue eyes regarded him with birdlike intensity. “You want me to pilfer Dawn Davis’s files!”
Rosco chortled. “Not quite. What I want you to do is strike up a conversation with Ms. Davis—”
“And then get the goods on her!” Sara handed Belle her cup, adding a peremptory, “More tea please, dear. And you needn’t fill it quite to the top this time.”
Belle glowered at Rosco who remained blissfully unaware of his wife’s discomfort.
“It’s clear that I can’t talk to Ms. Davis again, Sara. If she even spots my Jeep at a distance, she’s liable to scream for the cops, which, as I said, Mr. Gudgeon wants to avoid. Clearly she knows this.” Rosco reached for another macaroon. “And while we’re on the subject, you do realize that everything I’ve told you must be kept in the strictest confidence? In fact, we wouldn’t be having this conversation if I didn’t need your aid. And I’m still not altogether comfortable sharing a client’s name.”
Sara nodded, but the expression held a hint of impatience. “You know I’m the soul of discretion, young man.” Then she thought for a moment. “Something about this case of yours rings a bell . . . what is it . . . ? What is it? Oh, I remember now. There was a similar situation down in Florida several winters ago: a young woman preying on elderly widowers. I’m not sure the crime was ever resolved.” Sara took her refilled teacup. “Just right his time, dear,” she said to Belle before returning to Rosco.
“So, you’re proposing I cozy up to Ms. Davis, who doesn’t know me from Adam. But if she believes her cover’s been blown—that is the correct term, isn’t it?—then who’s to say she’ll even return to complete her scheduled therapy sessions? I wouldn’t. I can tell you that. I’d be on the next plane to Belize—” Sara interrupted herself as she abruptly set aside her cup. “Oh, my goodness! Emma forgot the deviled eggs she made you, Belle dear. They’re not on the tray, and I didn’t notice the oversight until this very second. That’s what age does to one. People forget the simplest of things . . . Hand me the silver bell, will you? Our Emma will be so bitterly disappointed if she can’t present you with your favorite treat.”
Emma was Sara’s maid and alter ego. The two women had been together for half a century, and had weathered so many communal storms that the labels of mistress and servant had become irrelevant, although Emma continued to cling to her traditional taffeta uniforms: pink or gray during the day, black at night—with the requisite starched white apron, of course.
“I can go out to the kitchen, Sara,” Belle offered. “There’s no need to bother Emma.”
“It will do her good, my dear. She gets far too little exercise, and I certainly wouldn’t wish my current sedentary state to befall her. Imagine her tooling around in the kitchen in this unwieldy device—”
“You could do the cooking, in that case,” Belle tossed in.
“What! And deprive her of the opportunity of lording it over me from her home on the range? What a terrible notion. Emma’s the queen of the cuisine. I wouldn’t dream of tampering with that title.” With that Sara rang the bell, then returned her gaze to Rosco. “The problems I foresee with your suggestion are these: One, I’m not scheduled to begin physical therapy until the swelling in my knee subsides—by which time your Dawn Davis may well have skedaddled. And two, I can’t be accompanied by Belle—as I was to Dr. Arthur’s office—because she’s so instantly recognizable. Anyone with half a brain, and it sounds as though your Ms. Davis has more than that, will make the connection. She may not have realized that you were the private eye to whom the illustrious cruciverbalist, Belle Graham, is wed, but I’ll warrant she’d put two and two together if she saw me with your lovely bride. Now, as for the first quandary: I believe I can successfully make a preliminary foray to Avon-Care—under the pretext of examining the place before making a decision about which physical-rehabilitation facility will garner my business. As for the second—”
At that moment, Emma entered. In her hands she bore the promised deviled eggs. “I spotted these on the counter not two seconds ago, madam—before you rang for me.”
“Did you now, Emma?” was Sara’s wry reply.
“I did.” Emma’s posture was as commanding as Sara’s, notwithstanding the wheelchair and their present difference in height; and there might have been more conversation as to when the bell had rung and when the treasured eggs had been discovered were i
t not for the fact that Sara suddenly burst out, “Guess what, Emma? You and I are going to become subcontractors of the Polycrates Agency! Think of that! Just like our Belle, here. Rosco has asked us to infiltrate a health-care facility this coming Thursday. But my news is completely hush-hush, of course; strictest confidence and all that.” She eyed Emma from head to foot. “You may dress as my maid, if you’d like, unless you feel the choice would cause undue suspicion—which is a possibility. Perhaps we should invent a more devious disguise for you.”
Rosco shook his head and shot Belle an amused glance. A pair of “subcontractors” whose combined age is one hundred sixty, the look said. Who else will Sara decide to “hire” on my behalf?
“I believe the choice of a uniform is an excellent one, madam. Which one do you wish me to wear?”
“Oh, I think the gray, don’t you, Emma? The time for our rendezvous is ten in the morning, but the pink might appear overly informal. We want to be taken seriously, don’t we?”
“And a full or half apron?”
Sara thought. “Half. There won’t be any cooking involved. Unless it’s someone’s goose.”
Belle couldn’t stop chuckling the entire way home. “Well, how else did you imagine this playing out, Rosco? You know you can’t get Sara involved in any scheme without her pulling out all the stops. Just be grateful those two don’t want to dress up as Batman and Robin. Besides, you can’t have forgotten the situation in Hollywood when she actually believed she’d become a world-class thespian, or the time we took her to that inn in Vermont. Or our wedding, for pete’s sake, which she insisted be performed on the senator’s yacht.”
Rosco shook his head. “I don’t know . . . The idea of Emma in her uniform, and Sara togged out in a Queen-Elizabeth-type hat . . . I’m not certain they’re going to inspire a woman like Dawn Davis to share her deepest and darkest secrets. On the other hand, who could suspect that dynamic duo of trying anything underhanded?”
“They could always shame her into gabbing,” Belle shot back. “Ask where her white gloves and lace hanky are, for instance. Besides, you deserve everything you got, sitting there wolfing down cookies while I was trying to keep the tea from sloshing all over the floor.”
“You’re the neophyte lady of the mansion, not me,” was Rosco’s serene response. “Anyway, in case you’d forgotten, you’re also the one who invented the term subcontractor to the Polycrates Agency.”
“And now you have two more,” Belle laughed.
“Hooo boy.”
“And you’d better hope the three of us never gang up on you and mutiny.”
“Or demand union benefits. I’m losing sleep over that scenario already.”
CHAPTER
18
The moment the car once again reached the seclusion of the Munnatawket Beach parking lot, the driver glanced down at the blank sheet of quarter-inch graph paper lying on the passenger’s lap. “I still don’t know why—”
A hand was raised, commanding silence. “How about we play the James Boys tonight, what do you say?”
“Can’t you take this seriously? I’m not into games tonight.”
“Who do you want to be? Frank or Jesse?”
“I really don’t want—”
“Make up your mind,” was the brusque reply. “Jesse . . . or Frank. C’mon, this thing only works if you act on instinct; you know that. Besides, when you look at the string of murders those two logged in, I’d say we couldn’t get more serious.”
“But I—”
“Don’t tell me you’d prefer Groucho and Harpo? Or maybe Abbott and Costello?” This was said with a laugh, but the sound was cruel and goading.
The response was a beleaguered sigh. “I liked playing the woman’s part last time.” Another pause, followed by, “Okay, I’ll be Jesse.”
“Spell it with an ie if it’ll help you work through that feminine thing.” The suggestion was accompanied by another jeering chuckle.
“Just skip it, okay? But I’ve gotta tell you, this is getting way, way too harebrained for me.”
“Tortoise and the hare . . . You wanna play bunny rabbit instead? And I’ll be a big, old snapping turtle—”
“Stop it! I said I’d do Jesse, didn’t I? So quit it! I just don’t understand why we’re going through the trouble of making another stupid puzzle when the first one got no reaction whatsoever.”
“Frank’s” head shook in frustration. “That’s exactly why we need to create another one, Jes; clearly, the first attempt failed, or the transmission didn’t go through. Who knows? All I can tell you is that no one’s approached the guilty party. At least, not that I’ve heard.”
“Parties,” “Jesse” corrected acidly. “There’s more than one, brother dear.”
“Right, fine, parties. Have it your own way. Anyway, we also made a serious construction mistake with the last one. I checked out the newspaper crosswords. These things need to be symmetrical.”
“Well, that sure makes it easier,” was the muttered reply. However, Jesse’s hands were now trembling so violently that the caustic tone of voice sounded no more threatening than a puff of evening air.
“What’s wrong with you all of a sudden? You’re not losing your nerve, are you? Look, we agreed on this thing . . . We’ve got to get information to them; and we need to stay anonymous. And the only way to do that is—”
“Someone was murdered!” Jesse nearly screamed. “In case you’ve been so busy you haven’t noticed.”
Even though they’d returned to the deserted parking lot and the darkened beach, Frank swiveled around in the car seat to see if any other cars had approached.
“Will you settle down?” The voice was a snarl. “You’re going to blow this, you know that? You’re going to blow it for both of us. I’m willing to go out on the limb here, but you have to do your part.”
The response was another near-shout. “Why don’t you call that damn Polycrates and disguise your voice? You’re good at pulling accents. I’ve seen you do it at parties.”
“There’s a brilliant idea. Why don’t you call him yourself?” When there was no answer, Frank added a cold, “Point made, I take it . . . Which brings me back to our PI’s snooping wife. Now, maybe our other attempt failed . . . maybe the fax was screwy, who knows? But we made a mistake. The thing didn’t look genuine enough, maybe; and these things get signed, too. Like books. They’ve got authors’ names—”
“Are you nuts? We sign our names?”
“Not our real ones! What do you take me for? And no Bonnie and Clyde, or Frank and Jesse . . . or stupid Ant and Grasshopper, either. Why clue her in to the fact that there are two of us? But we do need a moniker that piques her interest. We want her to do the damn crossword, don’t we? Isn’t that what we’re doing sitting out here all by our lonesome? So, give me a name, any name.”
Jesse stifled another groan. “Alfred Hitchcock. You want to play guessing games, be my guest.”
“I’m doing this for both of us, remember?” A mini flashlight was flicked on. “And we title our little oeuvre ‘To Catch a Thief.’ ”
“ ‘Thief ’ isn’t altogether accurate, in case you’d forgotten.”
“Just stuff it, will you? Besides, that’s your opinion. The point is to get their attention. Accuracy comes later. Okay, let’s start to do some work here.” A fifteen-square area was marked out on a sheet of graph paper. “All right; give me some movie titles.”
“There’s that Mel Brooks one. That should attract attention.” Jesse’s answer was sarcastic and flat, and Frank responded in kind with a short, mean laugh.
“There you go! Now you’re getting the hang of it.”
“This is the last time I do this, brother dear,” was the icy reply.
“Never say never, Jes.”
“I’m serious, Frankie. I can’t do this any longer. I can’t.”
Across
1. Brown or Thorpe
4. Govt. consumer agcy.
7. Grocery chain
13. Boxing great
14. “Give me some ___!”
15. Atomic energy watchdog; abbr.
16. Baseball stat.
17. With 19-Across, film by 10-Down
19. See 17-Across
21. Summer in France
22. Dry, in Roma
23. Beals hit film
27. Pen tips
31. Mr. Disney
32. Drunkard
33. M.A.S.H. role
34. Surface fish
35. Construction sign
37. Idaho range
38. Classic Romero film
41. Dollars and cents
42. Shakespearian bad guy
43. Collar
45. Ensemble
46. Prescription notation; abbr.
47. Mr. Autry
48. Six-sided state
49. Classic McQueen film
52. Moral element
54. ___ guzzler
55. With 58-Across, classic O’Toole film
58. See 55-Across
62. Some savings; abbr.
63. Diplomat; abbr.
64. Cry of surprise
65. New, prefix
66. Neither’s partner
67. Female ruff
68. Pig pen
69. Mr. Beatty
Down
1. Option for 13-Across
2. Not well
3. Ms. Farrow
4. Trust
5. Ate
6. Patagonia’s home; abbr.
7. Bee or ant
8. Meal prayer
9. Current option
10. Director, Brooks
11. Mine find
12. Had been
18. Pep
20. Offer up
22. Willy’s winter weather wear
23. Send on; abbr.
24. Illustrated
25. Its capital is Tiranë
26. From here on
28. Reaffirm one’s vows?
29. Cowboy’s cloth
30. Grads
33. Make over