The Crossword Murder (11 page)

Belle laughed gently. “Ah … But can she concoct the perfect deviled egg?” Then, as if their shared histories were too intimate to handle, she abruptly changed tack. “I forgot to mention that Housemann prides himself on his physical prowess. He's a health nut devoted to all forms of athletics—besides being highly competitive. I wouldn't be surprised if he challenged you to some kind of game the next time you meet.”

“Handball doesn't exactly rank as an exclusive sport—not where I come from, anyway.”

“That's how he grew up, too, Rosco—and he doesn't take kindly to people who demean him.”

“What about Betsey?”

Belle fiddled with what remained of the grape leaves on her plate. “There were rumors … Of course, they're so often the product of bored minds. Newcastle does adore gossip.”

“Well?”

“I told you Betsey has a wandering eye?”

Rosco grinned, remembering exactly what she'd said. “I don't recall you using such a ladylike term.”

Belle continued studying her plate. “People said she was having an affair with Thompson … There were hints … little things, such as the two of them leaving a function almost simultaneously … Then there was her sudden interest in his theatre project.”

“Theatre project?”

“You've been to Plays and Players?”

“Sorry, that stuff's too highbrow for me.”

“
Pretentious
would be the word I'd use.” Belle laughed. “Anyway, Thompson got all his cronies involved and I mean
all
.” Rosco read Belle's husband into this remark, but didn't interrupt. “The artistic director persuaded Tommy to angel an experimental production—a musical version of the life of Mary Todd Lincoln.”

Rosco's astonished “Of what!” made Belle laugh so hard, her eyes filled with inadvertent tears.

“Replete with a singing, dancing John Wilkes Booth!”

“The idle rich certainly know how to waste their money,” Rosco marveled while Belle commenced another infectious peal of laughter.

“If your parents were professors, why didn't you go for an academic career?” Rosco's question surprised Belle. She thought for a moment, although it wasn't an answer she was pondering but Rosco's motivation. The query seemed peculiarly personal, the kind of exploration a dating couple might engage in; and she wasn't altogether certain how to proceed.

“Rebellion, I suppose … I've always been fairly pigheaded, although I do love noodling around with words. My upbringing, as you might imagine, was
highly
cerebral. At one point, I considered becoming a poet, but then I discovered H. D.—Hilda Doolittle—she wrote about the Greek islands, coincidentally. Her imagist verse completely knocked the wind from my sails—no reference to mythology intended. That was the end of poetry for Belle Graham.” She turned her wry comment into a semi-serious jest. “I can't believe you didn't get the remaining puzzles from JaneAlice.”

“Well, it just didn't come up. And honestly, I'm just not buying this concept of yours … A lot of coincidences that—”

“Thompson Briephs didn't believe in coincidence. You've seen his house. Does it look like the creation of a scattered brain?”

Rosco didn't answer.

“So you're not going to pursue my puzzle theory?”

“No. Not right off the top. I work better if I pursue my own hunches. Besides, I'm not fully convinced the situation wasn't more or less what Lever described.”

Belle remained silent, although Rosco could see her mind was whirring. “Lever's scenario has a ‘hired companion' cavorting around Briephs' home, right?”

“I don't think he'd use the term ‘cavorting,' but for lack of a good mixed-company word, yes.”

“Well, I'm only thinking aloud … but perhaps Peter Kingsworth saw her—or him—arrive or leave.”

“What makes you think the prostitute might be a male?”

“I don't know … a hunch … Anyway, I think we should talk to Peter.”

“It's on my agenda. But if he'd seen anything, I imagine he would have opened his mouth by now.”

“Well, perhaps he might remember a strange boat or something …” Belle's gray eyes were luminous, and her lips parted with a glowing smile. Rosco had a terrible desire to chuck the investigatory conversation and tell her how beautiful she was. Instead he scraped a fork across his empty plate, an action Belle completely misinterpreted.

“Ah, the male ego! You didn't like our bronzed yachtsman very much, as I recall!”

In answer, Rosco blurted out, “What's the skinny on Bartholomew Kerr?”

But Belle only laughed. “I think Peter is very pleasant … Maybe I should be the one to question him.” Then a playful grin settled on her face. “Bartholomew's the society columnist at the
Herald
. He knows everything about everyone, but I doubt he'll talk to you.”

“Where there's a will there's a way.”

“I wouldn't be so certain … Bartholomew loves affecting a British accent and lexicon; he looks pasty and pathetic—a mole minus the fur—but hidden beneath his striped bow ties and seersucker suits is Newcastle's version of J. Edgar Hoover. I'll bet Bartholomew has a secret file on everyone in town.”

Inadvertently, Rosco gazed into Belle's eyes. The urge to change the conversation was becoming alarming. “And Shannon McArthur?”

Belle returned Rosco's glance. “I'll make a pact with you: I tell you everything you want to know in exchange for JaneAlice's puzzles.”

“You don't give up, do you?”

“What about it?”

“I'll tell you what I
will
do; I have a nine-thirty date with Steven Housemann tomorrow morning. I'll pick you up at eight and we'll stop in and see JaneAlice first. I wouldn't count on her giving up those puzzles too easily, though.”

Belle's pleasure at this concession made her skin grow rosy and warm, and on the way home in Rosco's car, she talked almost nonstop about her childhood “rattling around the ivory towers of academia.” Her descriptions of the brainy but pathologically forgetful folk who'd peopled her childhood made them both laugh.

It was at her door that the spell was broken.

“I'd ask you in, but—”

Rosco's response was too brisk by half. “I can't anyway. I've still got work to do. I'm always Mr. Business when I'm on a case.”

Both reacted to the unfortunate choice of words, Belle, by assuming a taut, professional smile, Rosco by turning needlessly gruff. “You can't expect to question the hookers on Congress Street if you don't keep their hours.”

Belle's smile grew so rigid it looked chiseled in place. “The hookers on Congress Street … of course.” After a moment, she added a forced, “Thank you for dinner. I enjoyed myself.”

“Let's do it again sometime.”

“Of course.”

Rosco recognized the evasiveness in her tone. “Belle,” he began, then amended the effort by substituting, “I'll pick you up at eight tomorrow morning.”

Another lifeless smile. “I'll be ready.”

CHAPTER 14

A
T
SEVEN A.M.
Rosco's clock radio woke him with twenty seconds of blaring electronic buzz and then switched over to
Imus in the Morning
. The I-Man was just a little too cheery for Rosco, so he flipped it off and headed for the bathroom and a hasty shower and shave. After downing a quick cup of coffee, he found himself in the front seat of his Jeep and on his way over to Captain's Walk to meet Belle.

Last night's dinner had left him with a good deal of energy, but the journey to the red-light district had proved exhausting and he'd managed only four hours sleep because of it. Trips to Congress Street and the Newcastle Strip had always been unpleasant for Rosco, and the previous evening's excursion had been no exception. The thought that women, and men, found it necessary to sell their bodies to sustain themselves never failed to leave him in a funk. A funk that would ultimately wear at him for a day or two.

In most of his other cases—cases involving Congress Street or the Strip—it had been simply a matter of checking on some husband who'd been unfaithful, or a child suspected of drug abuse by a concerned parent, or a disappearance. In these situations he'd merely observe. It was rare that he'd have to talk to the women and men who earned a living there. But last night had been different. For over three hours he'd talked to every girl who worked the street. Some had been more helpful than others. Some he remembered from his days with the Newcastle police. Everyone had been aware of Thompson Briephs, his lifestyle and his death.

Briephs had apparently become quite a regular in the district within the past few years. At least eight women had been guests at his island home. The talkative ones told Rosco it wasn't unusual for them to go out to Windword in groups of two or more; typically there would be “party boys” from the Strip there as well. Often Briephs would structure weekend long orgies where his visitors would romp through his mazelike house, indulging in the kinkiest sexual practices with whomever they happened to meet. Rosco also learned that not all Briephs' guests were professionals. Some of Newcastle's more prominent citizens, men and women, would show up at these gatherings, but the streetwalkers refused to name names. As expected, all the ladies of the night had strong alibis for the evening in question.

Rosco had opted not to check with the party boys on the Strip. By the time he'd finished with the girls it was close to three
A.M.
He was tired, and he'd doubted many men would be left on the street. Most would have headed off to the Lily Club—a place Rosco didn't relish exploring. He'd do it another time.

As he waited for a traffic signal to turn green he found his mind returning to his dinner with Belle, and a warm, somewhat crooked smile formed on his lips. His time on Congress Street had only served to make him feel empty and lonely, and he was looking forward to seeing her again. Her energy and spirit were contagious.

Dammit, he thought, why are all the good ones married?

He shook his head, watched the light turn green and said aloud, “Such is life, Bucko.”

When he reached Captain's Walk he was ten minutes early. He double-parked in front of Belle's house, put on his emergency flashers and pulled yesterday's edition of the
Herald
out from under the Jeep's small rear seat. He went directly to the blank crossword puzzle and filled in two of the answers Belle had given him the day before: THOMPSON BRIEPHS, number 35 across the middle, and AFTERNOON DEATHS, 52 across the bottom. It was only then that he realized that all the daily puzzles must be fifteen letters square. Rosco stared at the puzzle for nearly five minutes but only managed to fill in one other answer: AGAL, for 1-Across,
I want
______. He shook his head, tossed the paper onto the backseat, strolled up the walk and knocked on Belle's door.

“You're early,” she said in an overly businesslike tone.

“And a good morning to you, too.”

“You said you'd be here at eight. It's seven fifty-five … Did you pick up this morning's
Herald
on your way?”

“Was I supposed to? I mean, we're going to their offices, aren't we? They have them free in the lobby.”

Belle let out a sigh.

“I somehow feel I've missed something here. Can I come in? Or should I wait in the Jeep?”

“Perhaps that's best.”

“Okey-dokey.” Rosco walked back to the Jeep, and Belle joined him ten minutes later.

“How was last night?” she asked after fastening her seat belt.

“I had a great time, Belle. I was glad to get to know you a little better. However, I'm still not convinced the answer to this case will be found in a dead man's puzzles … Sorry.”

“I'm not talking about that, and you know it.” Her words sounded oddly strangled. She hated to admit how uncomfortable she felt knowing that Rosco had spent the better part of the night with the women of Congress Street.

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about
after
dinner. How did you
fare
with the ladies of the evening?” Belle most definitely stressed
fare
and then silently cursed herself for doing so.

But Rosco was unaware of her self-criticism. “I
fared
extremely well, thanks. Saw a lot of old friends. Kind of like a party down there the more I think on it.”

Belle crossed her arms over her chest and looked straight ahead.

Rosco U-turned into traffic and continued, “Anyway—and I don't know why I'm telling you this—I guess it's because I like you, because by rights none of it is any of your business, but it seems that Briephs spent a lot of time cruising Congress Street … Also the Strip.”

“You went to the Strip last night, too?”

“No, the girls wore me out. I'll check on the boys tonight.”

“Well, have fun. That's all I can say.”

Rosco was silent for a minute, then finally said, “Actually it's depressing, Belle.” He cleared his throat. “It's depressing and exhausting, and the worst part of this job. Believe it or not, it's worse than going to the morgue—at least it's over for them … You never want to have to visit Congress, believe me. The people down there are in trouble, and there's not a soul in the world who's going to help them out.”

He was quiet again, and Belle was tempted to put her hand on his as it rested on the Jeep's gearshift. But she didn't.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat once more, “the point is, I didn't find out much of anything … Some of the girls have been on the street since I was with the department. And I think they'd confide in me if they knew something … So, I'm no longer buying Lever's hooker scenario. These girls wouldn't have the first idea how to get off that island on their own. That became obvious last night. Whoever killed Briephs has a boat. It's the only answer.”