by Nero Blanc
“Is it okay if I give your name to the press … as a witness?” Lonnie asked as he climbed into the cab.
“Is that really necessary?”
“Your name’s going to appear in my official report. Sorry, but I really want to play this thing entirely aboveboard. If there are secrets hidden here, I don’t want it to look like I was a party to it.”
“So, I have no choice.”
“Sorry. I just wanted you to know I’d be passing your name along.”
Unconsciously, Amanda sighed again. “You know, I started off the day feeling on top of the world.” She grimaced. “Well, no time to mope … got to get back to my kids … Sure, Constable, of course you can supply my name. What have I got to lose?”
“It’ll give your students a thrill.”
“Oh, you betcha … Hallowe’en’s going to take on new meaning this year.”
CHAPTER 8
Snow hadn’t yet been predicted, nor had the days begun to take on the relentless cold of winter, but they would. They would. And when the first storm came (mid-November, most likely), rural Massachusetts would turn its back on progress and the dismaying march of time. Villages and hamlets would be cut off from one another; farms would become inaccessible; mountain roads would turn into lethal slopes of ice. At least, that’s the way it had been once.
Once upon a time. When the world was a different place. Once upon a time, when a boy and his girl … The old eyes closed; the head sagged toward the sunken chest while a hundred dreamland pictures began cavorting through the sleeper’s aging brain. Some of the images were joyful; some were not; and some were—
“Ready for your lunch, now, hon?” The door banged as the nurse’s aide nudged it open with her foot. In her hands she bore a brown plastic tray covered with containers of white Styrofoam and plastic. “Oopsy-daisy, you plumb fell fast asleep on me again, didn’t you? You know that wouldn’t happen if you were downstairs in the lounge with everyone else. Shared activities, a little chitchat with your pals …” The aide plopped the tray on a rolling table and bent toward the floor to retrieve a fallen newspaper. “And look, there’s that paper I brought you yesterday … I don’t believe you’ve even read—”
“I did,” was the irritable answer, followed by a stubborn: “I don’t have ‘pals.’”
The nurse’s aide retained her professional good humor. “And whose fault is that, I’d like to know? You’re not winning the congeniality award, that’s for sure …” As she spoke she fussed over the meal tray, removing the lid from the soup, the Saran Wrap from a yellow-colored pudding. “Tea, like always, toast without butter, banana custard … Oh, don’t go making a face like that! You know you like bananas. Everybody likes bananas … And today’s soup is clam chowder … Real New England-style, not Manhattan … You want I should help you spoon it up?”
“I can manage.” The tone was now slow and hollow.
The aide cocked her head and pursed her lips. “I’m happy to sit here and jaw, if you’d like.” She hefted the newspaper and opened it. “You did the crossword—and perfect, too. Not even one letter out of place. They say these puzzles will keep your brain real sharp …”
A dismissive shrug greeted the compliment while the aide turned the page, searching for further items for conversation. Naturally the news of skeletal remains accidentally unearthed on a farm in rural Taneysville was high on the list of attractions. “Did you see where they found a body on some old property out west of here?”
Again, a noncommittal shrug.
“Well, you’re just a bundle of gab today, aren’t you?”
“An Indian, probably—”
“Native American,” the aide corrected.
“Humph. I’m a native American,” her charge insisted. “I was born in the same America as everybody. I’m as ‘native’ as anyone else.”
The aide sighed; the paper was folded. “You’re right about that, I guess … Tell you what … Maybe you’d like … Well, remember that problem you were fretting over the other day … the bad thing … Maybe you’d like to talk about—”
“I don’t have any problems.”
“A secret, you said—”
“I don’t have secrets, either! Not anymore.”
“You needn’t bite my head off.” The nurse’s aide turned on a professional smile. “Tell you what. You finish all your lunch like a good little baby—”
“I’m not a—!”
But the aide brushed aside this new complaint. “Then we’ll see about a game of checkers. Or cards, if you’d like. I seem to recall that you’re partial to gin …” She bustled toward the door, a cotton pantsuit exuding purpose. “But don’t you go dozing off on me again … or start up on one of your kooky rants … You know I don’t like it when you get peculiar like that …” The aide turned, her expression hopeful, almost beseeching. “You want I should leave the door open this time?”
“No.”
“You’re gonna go nuts keeping all to yourself. No one else does it.”
“I like being by myself.”
“Old age can be fun, if you make the most of it.”
There was no response to this platitude. The aide shook her head. “I’ll be back in a while with those checkers. Don’t you run away now, you hear?” Then the door shut behind her.
The lumpy chowder was swallowed, the cold toast perfunctorily nibbled, the tea sipped at, the offending neon-hued pudding pushed aside. Then the work of the day took precedence. From a drawer came a sheet of graph paper, already densely decorated with boxes of black and white; a list of numbered clues was painstakingly printed at the paper’s edge.
A thin and sinewy hand took up a pencil; the heavy heart gave a quick leap of hope. The envelope to whom the crossword would be mailed was already stamped, addressed, and waiting. Maybe the truth could finally see the light of day.
A BURNING QUESTION
Across
1. Pitches
4. Honey or spelling add-on
7. Like some windows
13. Bump into
14. “… out like a___”
16. Look up to
17. “Suspicion” producer
18. “Sayonara” setting
19. Visit
20. Hard wood
21. Struggle
23. Reeve role
24. Struggles
26. Vale of___
28. Amb. crew
29. Burden
30. Quick, in music
34. 1-Down, e.g.
36. Beat
37. Early video game
38. Magic device
41. Some hatters
42. Movie locale
43. Nigerian coastal town
44. Nutty
45. Wise one
46. Ieoh Ming___
47. “Who, me?”
49. Some laughter
52. Mr. Crosby
55. Like most “i”s
57. Day-___
58. “Now!”
60. Chilly
61. Roscoe
62. Slots spot
63. See 56-Down
64. Certain Shoshonean
65. Shirt sizes
66. Buck’s kin?
67. Mr. Beatty
Down
1. Cupid’s missile
2. Capital of Senegal
3. Posse ploy
4. Lays into
5. Bridge positions
6. Turkish title
7. Witch town?
8. “Much___About Nothing”
9. False front
10. March
11. Leprechaun’s land
12. Fender-bender
15. Sleazy sales move
22. Provoke
25. Airy announcement
27. Early “Tonight Show” host
29. 2,000 pounds
31. Proof positive
32. Bern’s river
33. Part of MIT
34. Allotted; abbr.
35. Roman 2,051
36. Had
been
37. Cherry stone
39. God of love
40. Mr. Torme
45. Certain Siouan
46. “Up a creek without a___”
48. Inklings
49. Stringed instrument
50. Buoy
51. Adored
52. Blocks
53. Memo point
54. Unpredictable star
56. With 63-Across, Grahame setting
59. CM ÷ II
To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords
CHAPTER 9
Belle Graham pulled the envelope from the mailbox on her porch. The accompanying bills and junk mail she tucked under her arm as she examined the small, precise lettering and the almost arrogant determination with which her name had been spelled out in full: MRS. ANNABELLA GRAHAM. Not the ambiguous Ms., and not simply Belle, as everyone in Newcastle seemed to know her. Whoever had sent this missive had done their research and wanted the fact known.
Without opening the envelope, she knew what it would contain. As the now nationally celebrated crossword editor of Newcastle’s Evening Crier as well as an equally publicized amateur sleuth, Belle had become a target for both practical jokers and the marginal types obsessed with the famous—none of whom she took as seriously as she’d been advised.
“What do you think, Kit?” she said to her multicolored dog frisking around her feet. “Hallowe’en in the offing …? I’ll bet we get a lot of these kind of cryptic messages before October thirty-first … Clue: On the graveyard shift… A skeleton in the closet … Ghost writer … Oooooo.” Belle laughed and shook her head. Her pale blond hair danced; her gray eyes shone. “What people do with their spare time! It’s certainly not as productive as playing with a puppy, is it, Kitty?”
Belle chuckled again, strolling the length of the porch to look out on the peaceful view of Captain’s Walk in Newcastle’s refurbished historic district: a congenial street lined with nineteenth-century homes originally built by sea captains and whalers. The city’s early wealth and prominence, its role as a seat of the Massachusetts county that bore its name, was due to its harbor and ocean trade.
Kit kept her “mom” company. The puppy was a “Heinz 57,” a foundling and a serendipitous addition to Belle’s life. Rosco, her husband, was the other happy improvement, and as unstinting as Kit in his love. Together, these three creatures, two with two legs, one with four, made a devoted family.
Belle bent down to pick up a fraying tennis ball. Kit yipped in anticipation. Belle made a toss, but the projectile didn’t go where either she or Kit had anticipated. Instead it skittled back along the porch, caroming hard against a window pane. Belle winced. “One of these days, I’ve got to learn how to throw … I’m a danger to myself. I’m a danger to our home.”
The dog made the rapid and necessary adjustments in attack, retrieved the ball, and dropped it at Belle’s feet. “I think we’ll wait for Rosco to get back from work, Kitty. I’m not in the mood to replace windows.”
A quick bark of protest.
Belle shook her head no. She then wrapped her sweater tighter against the cool air, breathed in the refreshing scent of sea air, lifted her face to the golden New England sun, shut her eyes, and whispered: “I’m so lucky. I’m so, so lucky …”
Then she and Kit walked or romped—depending on foot shape and energy level—back inside.
Belle preferred to construct the Crier’s daily cryptics at home, where she was surrounded by her collection of reference material: the O.E.D., of course, but also two antiquated—but much beloved—sets of Encyclopædia Britannica, a number of foreign language dictionaries, a book of song titles, the plays and sonnets of William Shakespeare, and another shelf devoted entirely to poetry. The latter wasn’t necessarily part of her current craft; Belle had once intended to become a poet. It was after exposure to the compendia now lined up in her home office that she’d decided her poems would never measure up. Better to admire from afar.
She and Kit walked into the room, a converted rear porch that had been crossword-themed to within an inch of its life. Black and white squares (scuffed by puppy claw marks) were painted on the floor, the curtains (slightly askew) mirrored the motif, the canvas covers of the two deck chairs were white and black—to say nothing of the in-the-works puzzles that covered the desk, the empty plate with a crossword design, ditto a calendar, a notepad, a lamp shade, a coffee mug. Belle took such surroundings for granted; newcomers were startled, to say the least.
Reflexively, Belle reached her hand into a tall white jar containing licorice sticks (second to deviled eggs as her favorite comestible) and began munching while dialing the phone with her free hand. She plopped herself down on her desk chair, tapped her feet, then cradled the phone against her shoulder, stroked Kit’s ears, kept nibbling (Belle was a consummate multitasker), and when the answering machine at the other end of the connection picked up with a brisk male: “Polycrates Agency. Leave a message and we’ll get back to you,” she mumbled a mouth-filled:
“Hi, Rosco, it’s me … Just calling to say I love you heaps … Kit, too … Actually, she’s not saying anything. But she looks as if she could … Well, that’s it … See you later … Oh, it’s Belle …”
She slid the phone back into place. “Darn, Kitty … I guess I’ll have to get serious about work today … Your dad obviously is …” She pulled the mystery crossword from the envelope again and studied it for a long moment, squinting at the clues and silently mouthing a couple of the more obvious answers. Then she sat up straight, muttered a surprised: “Oh, I get it …” and almost simultaneously reached for the phone.
This time the voice at the other end was not recorded. “Briephs residence.”
“Hi, Emma. It’s Belle. Is her nibs around?”
Only Belle—and maybe Rosco—could have gotten away with this irreverent tone when referring to Newcastle’s grand dame, the illustrious (some might say imperious) Sara Crane Briephs.
“Indeed she is, Miss Belle.” Emma was as old-fashioned as her starched maid’s uniform. “In fact, Madam was just about to phone you … She wondered if you’d do her the favor of lunching with her today.”
Belle grinned. “You bet. Tell her I’ve got something to show her.”
“We’re having deviled eggs,” was Emma’s calm reply.
“You certainly know how to weasel your way into my good graces.” Belle looked at her watch. “The usual time?”
“The usual time … Oh, Madam adds that if you wish, you may arrive earlier.”
“I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
This answer was relayed by the dutiful Emma, who concluded with a pleasant: “Madam asks me to tell you that ‘your timing suits her to a T.’”
Belle again replaced the receiver, started to slip the envelope and crossword into her jeans pocket, then suddenly reassessed her wardrobe. Something more formal than tattered jeans and her favorite thrice-darned sweater was in order when visiting White Caps for luncheon.
In a blindingly white apron and a rustling black taffeta uniform, Emma ushered Belle through the White Caps foyer just as she’d always done, parading past the formal sitting room and dining room hung with portraits of long-vanished Crane family members as well as a plethora of other oil paintings: romantic and verdant landscapes, moody seascapes, and a number of depictions of Crane-owned clipper ships plying the oceans during the lucrative era of the eighteenth-century China trade. The surface of every highboy, every mahogany table, and every chair glistened; unlit, the matching crystal chandeliers that hung at the center of the two rooms still managed to infuse the air with a shimmering glow.
The first time Belle had seen the house, she’d decided it looked just like a museum. Now she knew the home for what it was: an anomaly. A wonderful relic from another era—a little like its mistress.
“Madam is in the garden,” said Emma. “She’s having a spot of trouble with an espaliered pear tree.”
“Not behaving this summer, was it?” Belle asked.
“Apparently not.”
“Poor tree.”
In answer, Emma merely smiled.
It wasn’t until hostess and guest had gathered in a cozy and chintz-filled sitting room for after-dinner coffee that Belle produced the crossword. She and the doyenne of White Caps sat together on a camel-backed settee; before them was a table upon which rested a silver tray set with the items Sara deemed necessary for serving a hot liquid refreshment: an antique silver coffeepot, silver sugar bowl and creamer, silver spoons, two gold-rimmed porcelain cups. Mugs, whether crossword-themed or not, were unknown at White Caps.
“This came in the mail today,” Belle said as she produced the envelope.
Sara slowly put down her cup, folded her hands in her lap, and turned to balefully regard the young person beside her. Sara’s white hair, although impeccably coiffed as always, shook with disapproval. “Belle, dear, you promised me—and you promised your husband—that you would be more cautious with these anonymous messages. You remember what happened before? That odious person who—”
“What’s the chance of lightning striking the same place twice?” Although Belle’s tone was playful, her manner was less so. No one—whether of the plant or animal world—liked receiving a scolding from Sara Crane Briephs.
“A promise is a promise, dear girl.”
Belle squared her shoulders and set her jaw. “I thought you’d enjoy helping me work through the cryptic … There’s an intriguing through line”—she pointed, although the gesture had a defensive and palliative air—“here: 9-Down; the answer to the clue is SMOKESCREEN … and here at 31-Down: SMOKING GUN … and at 38-Across … Well, never mind … I guess I was mistaken about your interest.” She began to refold the puzzle.
Sara’s stern demeanor softened slightly, but her tone remained assertive. “Stubbornness never helps a person advance in life, young lady—”
“Oh, right!” was Belle’s equally energized reply. “You’re one to talk.”