The Crossword Murder (16 page)

“I'm sorry if I seem shaky,” Shannon said, “but I'm still terribly upset about Thompson's death. And then of course this business with JaneAlice. That is why you called, isn't it? To talk about JaneAlice?”

“Right,” Rosco said, perpetuating the tale he'd recited over the phone earlier in the day. “JaneAlice's family feels that the police aren't giving the incident the attention it deserves, so they've asked me to look into it. I appreciate you allowing me this time. You must be under a great deal of pressure to come up with a puzzle for tomorrow's
Herald
.”

Shannon pulled a tissue from her shorts' pocket and dabbed at the corner of her right eye, although Rosco saw no indication that any tears had formed.

“Well, I was prepared to start next Monday, so naturally I had some puzzles ready … The fact that JaneAlice misplaced Thompson's remaining puzzles only pushed my schedule ahead by three days. It's not really a problem … You don't think JaneAlice's beating had anything to do with Thompson's death, do you?”

“It's unlikely they're related. The police feel it was a random mugging, and I'm inclined to agree.” Rosco studied Shannon as she digested this bit of bogus information. A look of relief settled on her tanned face while her brilliant red curls bobbed in the breeze. Again, Rosco was struck by the incongruity of hairdo and attire.

“Well, that's good to hear.” As an afterthought she added, “I mean, it would be terrible to think that someone was targeting the crossword staff at the
Herald
.”

Rosco gave her a look of surprise. “What makes you say that?”

“I don't know …”

“What do you imagine might be a motive? For ‘targeting' Briephs and JaneAlice?”

Shannon stood and walked to the deck's rail, staring across at a neighbor's ten-foot motorboat. “I don't know. It was only a thought …” Rosco heard a tone that seemed almost wistful, but before he had time to categorize it, she turned back with her Girl Scout smile. “Look, I'm going to get myself a Coke. All I have is diet … Would you like one?”

“Thanks.”

Shannon returned a few minutes later wearing a bikini top instead of the polo shirt. She handed a Coke to Rosco. “I thought I'd try to get rid of my farmer's tan.”

Rosco looked up; Shannon had no apparent tan line on either her neck or arms; in fact she looked as if she made a habit of sunbathing in the buff. “How well did you know JaneAlice?” he asked.

“I only met her a few times. She seemed pleasant enough. Actually, it was Thompson I was close to. We went way back.”

“I'd heard there was some confusion about your puzzles a couple of years ago. Briephs had accused you of … of
borrowing
them? Is that true?”

“
Plagiarism
is the term he used; you don't have to be afraid of saying it … It was an unfortunate misunderstanding. As I said, Thompson and I were very close.” She gave Rosco a smile indicating she and Briephs had had an intimate relationship. “We'd worked on those puzzles together … When we broke up—well, they became like displaced children in a nasty divorce. We both believed we owned them. I foolishly published them under my name, and Thompson had a fit.”

“Some divorces are like that. People find it impossible to forgive a partner's indiscretions.”

Shannon responded too quickly. “Oh, not Thompson and I. We got over it in no time. Kiss and make up. That was us. That's why I'm so upset.” She pulled another tissue from her pocket.

“The
Herald'
s personnel office said you were hired by Steven Housemann directly. Is that the way it usually works?”

Shannon's eyes squinted into slits. “What's that supposed to mean? I barely know Steve—Mr. Housemann. Besides, what does that have to do with JaneAlice?”

“Nothing. It's just that I'm a crossword puzzle freak,” Rosco lied. “I was curious about how things work behind the scenes.”

She reapplied the tissue to her eyes. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap. I'm just so distraught over Tommy.”

“I don't think I've heard anyone call him that …” Rosco began.

“I told you, we were close.”

“Of course … Let's get back to JaneAlice and something you mentioned earlier. If you feel someone may be intent on eliminating the
Herald'
s crossword puzzle staff, aren't you afraid you'll be in danger when you take the job?”

“I thought the police believed it was a random mugging.”

Rosco stood and leaned over the deck's railing, gazing at the meandering stream and the marsh grasses and cattails waving above the water. A red-winged blackbird flitted showily among them. “What do you think happened to Briephs' three missing puzzles?”

“How would I know?”

“Do you think a mugger would've taken them? They weren't in JaneAlice's apartment or the
Herald
office.”

“I'm afraid I'm not much good at comprehending the criminal mind,” Shannon said pointedly. “I also fail to see what role those puzzles play. They're totally useless now.”

Rosco straightened and crossed to the other side of the deck. “This is a nice spot. You can't beat a water view. Pricey real estate, but I've always hankered after a place like this.”

“I'm fond of it.”

“What about this crossword woman at the
Evening Crier
?” he asked offhandedly. “What's her name, again?”

“Annabella Graham. What about her?”

“Have you ever met her?”

“No. But to be perfectly honest, I don't think much of her puzzles.”

Rosco chuckled. “Do I detect a little professional rivalry?”

Shannon began to laugh. “I suppose so. Okay, I've been entertained by the
Crier'
s puzzles … every now and then.”

“Do you think Ms. Graham was under consideration as Briephs' replacement?”

“Not in a million years.”

“You sound awfully positive.”

“Look,” Shannon said. “What does this have to do with JaneAlice?”

“Well, on the off-chance the attack wasn't random, I have to look at everyone's motives. Someone might have simply disliked her—or someone could have known the missing puzzles would put Housemann in a real bind for tomorrows
Herald …
He's supposed to be a control freak, isn't he? … Can't allow his paper to go to bed with anything amiss. A big empty square instead of a crossword puzzle would strike me as something that would make your new boss's blood boil.”

Shannon gave another laugh. “You're making me wish I hadn't accepted the position.”

Rosco glanced at his watch. “I should be heading back to town. I appreciate your giving me the time … and the Coke. Good luck with the new job—and the ogre.”

They walked to the front door together, where Shannon gave him another white-toothed smile. “Good luck to you, too … I hope JaneAlice pulls through.”

Rosco shook her hand and ambled across the street to his Jeep. Shannon waved, then remained in that jovial attitude until he'd disappeared around the corner. After that, she walked into the living room, picked up a black cordless telephone and returned to the deck, where she punched in a number and waited for a man's voice to answer.

“Steven, darling, thank heavens you're still there.”

“How did it go, pumpkin pie?”

CHAPTER 21

O
N HIS
RETURN
ride from Lynchville, Rosco mulled over his conversation with Shannon McArthur. JaneAlice had described her as a plagiarizing snake in the grass, and although the woman seemed a trifle touchy regarding Steven Housemann, and somewhat phony with her fake tears, she didn't appear to be the vile creature JaneAlice had described. However, Rosco knew better than to accept a first meeting at face value. People were capable of manipulating the truth, and it often took some detective work to discover their motives. As he stepped into his office, he made a mental note to look a bit deeper into Shannon's relationship with Steven Housemann. There was more there than met the eye.

Rosco strolled across the room, tossed his car keys onto the desk and glanced at his answering machine. The LED readout flashed on and off signaling one message. He reached down, tapped the Play button, then sat, leaning back in his padded “thinking” chair while he put his feet on the desk. As the message played, he returned to an upright position and grinned at the machine. He tapped the Play button once more.

“Rosco, this is Belle. Sorry to bother you. I know you must be busy, but I just discovered some information I think you should have … And since I owe you a dinner, I thought we could talk then … I spotted this recipe for meat loaf on the top of an oatmeal box and decided to give it a whirl. I can't guarantee anything. It's just an experiment … I won't go shopping for vegetables and so forth until I hear from you. Give me a call when you get in.”

Rosco immediately picked up the telephone and entered Belle's number. As it rang, he thought: This isn't a good sign; I have the number memorized. She answered on the third ring and asked him to arrive at seven. He offered to bring wine and a dessert, but she seemed quite pleased to have accomplished everything herself, so he said, “Okay, I'll see you later,” and hung up.

By six forty-five Belle was fairly well organized, although the meat loaf seemed to require a good deal more chopping, mixing and shaping than the “simple” recipe had at first indicated. At seven on the dot she heard Rosco's knock on her front door. She ran her fingers under the tap, tugged off her apron and used it to dry her hands.

“Right on time,” she said with a smile as she opened the door.

“Well, I got myself into a little trouble by being early last time. I try not to make the same mistake twice.” Rosco smiled. “Here.” He extended the brown paper bag he held in his left hand. “I picked up some stuffed grape leaves on the way. I thought we could have them as a starter course.”

Belle peered into the bag. “Oh, I love these things. They're almost as good as deviled eggs.”

They walked into the kitchen, where Belle placed the
dolmades
on the butcher-block work island. She retrieved a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator, handed it to Rosco and said, “Is this all right? I'm not much of a wine expert. I tend to go by label and price, and not necessarily in that order.”

“A woman after my own heart, although I usually don't waste time with the label. This looks fine to me.”

Belle arranged the grape leaves on a fish-shaped platter as Rosco opened the wine and poured two glasses.

“So, what's this mysterious information you referred to in your message?”

“I wouldn't call it mysterious … But let me finish my culinary efforts first … I'd hate to make a mistake this far into the process.”

They crossed to the stove and studied the slab of uncooked meat loaf. “So, this is it?” Rosco asked. “And those little white things are grains of oatmeal, I gather?”

“That's the idea … Basically, the recipe suggests using rolled oats instead of bread crumbs. What do you think?”

“What else is in there? What's all this?” He pointed to some red flecks.

“The recipe called for ground pork, veal and beef—and then chopped red and green peppers, some onion, and spices like sage and dried basil. Salt and pepper, too. The other red ingredient is hot red pepper flakes. I added that on my own. I thought the mixture might need spicing up.”

“How much did you put in?”

“Two teaspoons. Actually, almost three … You don't think I overdid it, do you?”

“No. No.” Rosco coughed. “I'm sure it'll be fine.” He brought his wine to his lips to keep from betraying his true assessment.

Belle crossed the kitchen to retrieve the oatmeal box. “The recipe suggests cooking the loaf for an hour and a half at three-fifty … Do you want to stick it in the oven for me?”

“Sure.”

“Do you know how to turn it on?”

“Actually my kitchen experiences have taken me as far as heating ovens—”

“Wait a minute! Don't put it in yet!” She carried the box to Rosco and pointed to the wording as if displaying a piece of crime evidence. “I didn't notice this earlier. It says we should preheat the oven …”

“Check.”

“I'm glad you brought the grape leaves. We might have starved while waiting for my experiment to cook.” Belle smiled at Rosco and their eyes locked for three or four uncomfortable seconds. Finally, she turned away. “Do you think this is right?” she asked. “Me cooking you dinner?”

“Hey, I'm just a guinea pig, right? I could sign a release form if you want. That way, if I die an agonizing death, you won't be held legally responsible.”

Belle let out a quiet sigh and leaned against the kitchen sink. “You know what I mean, Rosco.”

“Yeah, I'm afraid I do.” He stared into his glass and rolled the wine from side to side. “Okay … I'm attracted to you, what can I say? There it is—out in the open. But I'm an adult. I know you're married … I can handle myself like a gentleman. We'll have dinner together, and it won't go any further. We can be friends. Why not? It works for a lot of people.”

“Thanks, Rosco.” Belle didn't offer her assessment on what was happening between them. She'd felt her own attraction, and had pushed it aside more than once. It was dangerous ground, and she was happy he'd managed to sidestep it so gracefully.

“Now, for my news …” she said. “I went to the theatre today.”

Rosco was relieved to move to safer ground. “What did you see?” he asked before biting down on a stuffed grape leaf.

“I didn't see anything … It was a rehearsal at Plays and Players. I figured it would be a good way to meet Vance Kelly without arousing unnecessary suspicion.”