The Crossword Murder (19 page)

There she exchanged the usual banter with the shop's owners, received their customary jests about her culinary prowess while she paid for a dozen eggs, a small jar of mayonnaise and another jar of capers. Then she ambled slowly home wondering if paprika actually had a discernible flavor. That conundrum led to cogitations on saffron, how rare and precious it once had been, and how, despite the prohibitive cost, the streets of Rome had been sprinkled with saffron when the emperor Nero entered the city. The entire trip—including Belle's roving theories—took less than twenty minutes.

On the porch, she set her bag of groceries on a small wicker table and unlocked the dead bolt on the door, then retrieved the bag and reached for the doorknob. It refused to turn. Belle tried it a second time, but the lock on the knob had been latched as well—something she never did.

Her first thought was that Garet had come home. He was notorious for locking every door and window in the house, even if he was only strolling to the corner for a newspaper. However, Garet wasn't fond of surprises. Surprises bordered on the romantic; Garet did not. For all his intellectual acumen, he'd never been comfortable with creativity. Their house was the quintessential example of that thought process.

Belle shook her head, decided she'd double-locked the door without thinking, and fumbled with her keys until she found the one belonging to the doorknob. She slipped it in, but stopped short of turning it.

She stepped away from the door, and returned the groceries to the table. Her heart was beating rapidly; her lips felt dry; she swallowed and tried to think. A voice in her head said, Keep calm. Don't let yourself get ruffled. There's a simple explanation for everything.

She backed off the porch and headed for the pay phone near the market. Halfway there, she stopped. Rosco was at Betsey Housemann's home; calling his office or car phone would be useless, and dialing 911 seemed not only a tad hysterical but also premature. Perhaps she really had double-locked the door inadvertently. Or perhaps the mechanism had broken. The heat could have caused it to swell or slip—or something.

Belle retraced her steps. When she drew near her home, she regarded it with a critical eye—what she imagined might be a detectives discerning gaze. Nothing appeared out of place. The lace curtains in the front windows remained crisp and undefiled; no sound emanated from the interior; the building looked as tidy and trim and unviolated as always. I'm letting my imagination run away with me, Belle thought. I obviously double-locked the door myself.

She returned to the porch, picked up the groceries, then tried the key again. The door was now completely unlocked. Belle paused; chagrin, apprehension and puzzlement raced through her chest and brain. “Garet?” she called. “Is this some sort of surprise?”

She eased her way through the doorway and stopped. “Garet?” she called again. Behind her, sunlight splayed across her back; ahead of her, the house looked shadowy and almost preternaturally empty. “Garet, if this is your idea of a joke, it isn't funny … I don't care what they do on the banks of the Nile …” Belle clutched the bag of groceries, listening. A knot had begun to form in her stomach and her hands felt weak and trembly. Half of her wanted to march straight out of the house; the other half argued that a mature, capable woman didn't allow fear to sully her judgment.

“If anyone is here,” she said in a loud voice, “I want you to know that I've already phoned the police.” The lie was so forceful and seamless it almost felt like truth. “They'll be arriving momentarily.”

Belle strode forward into the foyer, then stopped again, thinking, I
should
call the police. If no one's here and I made a mistake, they'll think I'm an idiot—but so what? She took one step backward, then a second while her eyes stared straight ahead. But before she could turn toward the door, it slammed shut with such colossal force and a noise so monstrous that she let out a terrified scream. The paper bag flew from her hands and landed on the hardwood floor in a litter of broken glass and smashed eggshells.

CHAPTER 24

T
HE MAN-EATER OF
Belle's description greeted Rosco at the door to the Housemann residence at precisely two-thirty that afternoon. She wore four-inch spike heels, stretch tights in an aggressive orange-and-black tiger print, and a sapphire-blue leather halter top that left her entire midsection exposed. Her flame-red hair had been pulled to the back of her head where it fell to her waist in an abundant and voluptuous ponytail; and her makeup had been liberally applied—an obvious attempt to keep her age a well-guarded secret. Rosco pegged her at forty-two, maybe even forty-five. He wondered how much longer she'd be able to keep her husband in tow.

Betsey led the way to a small den, and although alone in the house, she closed the door the moment they entered. The sole piece of furniture was an eight-foot-long black leather couch draped with a zebra skin. A larger, matching skin lay upon the floor. On the opposite wall was a 50-inch television, VCR, and the latest in stereo equipment. The remaining decor consisted of floor-to-ceiling shelves displaying books, small East Indian statuary depicting couples in provocative poses, and video tapes, a good many of which appeared to be X-rated.

“Please have a seat, Rosco. You don't mind if I call you Rosco, do you? I loathe formality. It's so pretentious.”

Rosco scanned the room searching for an available chair, found none, and sat at the far end of the leather couch. Betsey also sat. About four feet of African animal hide separated them.

“Rosco's fine, Mrs. Housemann,” he said.

She laughed. “Call me Betsey. My husband warned me you might want to speak to me,” she said with a throaty gurgle. “He ‘strongly' advised me against an interview, which of course made the prospect of meeting you all the more stimulating. I assumed it was only his jealous nature speaking. Now that I see how sexy you are, I understand why he wanted to … well, let's say, keep us from getting close. By the way, he doesn't know you're here. I hope I'm not being naughty in hiding the truth?”

“I don't enjoy being on the wrong side of a jealous man. Your husband's not the violent type, is he?”

“All bark and no bite. Besides, you look like you can handle yourself.” Betsey seemed to be moving closer.

“Did your husband tell you I was investigating the possibility that Thompson Briephs might have been murdered?”

Rosco watched Betsey straighten up. She seemed truly surprised by the information.

“Well, n-no,” she stammered. “Steven merely said you were snooping around the
Herald
. He never explained the reason … Tommy murdered? You're certain?”

“I think it's possible. I also believe the police have re-classified the cause of death to
suspicious
, rather than natural.”

Betsey gave a low, harsh laugh. “Well, isn't that a hoot. I have to tell you, Rosco-honey, that makes my day. I'm glad that son of a gun got his in the end. Who do they think did it?”

“Judging from your reaction, I'd imagine the police might want to place your name on their list of suspects. You don't seen terribly upset.”

She continued to laugh in the same guttural growl. Again, Rosco had the impression her body was inching toward his. He told himself it was an illusion produced by tiger stripes meeting zebra stripes.

“How well did you know Briephs?” he asked.

“Well enough to want to kill him sometimes.” Betsey grinned when she said this. “But I'll bet that could be said for a great many people. He was an arrogant SOB. Charming, yes. Sexy, often. But the only person who made him drool was himself.”

“Let's—just for the fun of it—say you didn't kill him; I assume you can account for your whereabouts at the time of his death?”

“You mean do I have an alibi?”

Rosco only nodded.

“Well, let's see; I saw him in the
Herald'
s parking garage that morning … We exchanged a few words, and I continued upstairs to Steven's office. I never saw Tommy again.”

“Your husband's secretary said you only remained for ten minutes. Where did you go after that?”

“My goodness, honey, you've certainly done your homework.” Betsey uncoiled herself from the couch, crossed over to a control panel beside the TV set and touched a button. A section of shelving slid away to reveal a fully stocked bar. “Can I make you a drink?” she asked. “Anything you like; if we don't have it, they don't make it.”

“No, thank you.”

He watched as she placed a few ice cubes in a tall crystal glass and covered them with Scotch. She then slinked back toward Rosco, and sat beside him.

“You are awfully good-looking, you know,” she said as she moved her thigh against his and ran the cool glass across her chest.

Rosco stood and moved to the bookcase. He glanced at some of the video titles. “Some of these tapes seem a trifle racy … The police found Briephs tied to his bed with women's stockings, did I mention that …?” He turned to face her. “Let me know if I'm out of line, but you seem like a woman who can handle a question like this: You weren't having an affair with Thompson, by any chance, were you?”

Betsey laughed her throaty laugh, and took a long, slow sip from her drink. “I've had affairs with lots of men, honey. But you'll never get me to admit that outside this room. It might put … shall we say … a
strain
on my marriage? I could see myself having an affair with you, if you're interested.” She stretched out full-length on the leather couch and gave Rosco a leer only an idiot would have misinterpreted.

“Let's stay with the Briephs' situation for the moment. We can discuss the other part later,” Rosco said in an attempt to keep her talking. “You didn't answer my question. Were you and Thompson an item?”

“So what if we were? That hardly makes me a murderess.”

“Actually, a lover scorned is always a prime suspect. He wasn't trying to end the relationship, was he?”

“Nobody dumps me, Rosco-honey; it's always the other way around.” Betsey took another slow sip of Scotch. “I hope that doesn't scare you off?”

“I don't scare easily.” He pulled a video cassette of
The Maltese Falcon
from the bookshelf and smiled at the intense photo of Humphrey Bogart on the cover. “Great film. Of course, in any affair there's the possibility of blackmail. Thompson threatens to go to your husband … There's only one way to keep him quiet.”

“Tommy-Boy hardly needed money.”

“Understood. But in his case it could be emotional blackmail. Some men don't react to being dumped any better than … well … some women do.” Rosco watched Betsey closely for a reaction and got it. She slammed her glass onto the coffee table and bolted to her feet. Her pussycat demeanor was transformed into tiger-striped rage.

“Nobody dumped anybody!” she nearly shouted. “And nobody
will
dump me. Nobody.”

Taking advantage of her outburst, Rosco pressed for additional information. “On the day Thompson died, where did you go after you saw your husband?”

“To a movie. I don't have to answer these questions.”

“What theatre? What movie?”

“
Snow White
. At the Harbor View Theatre. Look it up in the paper if you don't believe me. It's still there. It's been there all summer.”

“
Snow White
? You went to see
Snow White
?”

“I like Disney flicks. So sue me.”

She crossed back to the coffee table, grabbed her glass and drained the Scotch in one gulp. “I didn't kill Tommy-Boy. I'm not sorry he's gone, but I didn't kill him. And if you mention to anyone—I repeat
anyone
—that I had an affair with him, I'll deny it and sue you for every penny you have.”

“One last question?”

“I want you to leave.”

“If you didn't kill him—and I almost believe you—who do you think might have?”

“Roth,” she muttered, too softly for Rosco to hear.

“Who?”

“John Bulldog Roth. The Senator's hatchet man.”

“Why Roth?”

“That's for you to find out, honey lamb.”

CHAPTER 25

R
OSCO
REMAINED AT
the Housemann house for another ten minutes in an attempt to extract additional information from Betsey, but she refused to say anything further regarding her suspicions of John Bulldog Roth or his motive in murdering Thompson Briephs. As Rosco returned to his office, he reasoned that her accusation might have been a smoke screen designed to throw him off the trail. However a talk with Roth seemed the next logical step.

Rosco picked up a container of coffee at the Parthenon luncheonette before proceeding to his office. Once seated at his desk, he peeled off the plastic lid and sailed it across the room like a Frisbee. The lid hooked perfectly and dropped into a wastebasket near the door. After downing half the gray liquid, he reached for his phone and called Al Lever, who informed him that Briephs' death had been reclassified as a homicide, and that he was planning to spend the better part of the evening on Congress Street questioning the men and women who earned their living there.

Hoping to keep the lieutenant occupied as long as possible, Rosco responded that Congress Street would be a reasonable beginning. But ending the conversation, he worried: Al's methods weren't exactly subtle; once the murderer knew the police were on the warpath, he or she would become more difficult to trap.

Rosco paced his office for a hesitant minute or two before dialing Belle's number, but hung up before the call rang through. Then he drummed his fingers on the desk while sipping what remained of his now-cold coffee and flipping through his Rolodex for the Patriot Yacht Club's listing. Still holding the cardboard container in one hand, he set the receiver on the desk, punched in the number, then grabbed up the phone and waited for the receiver at the club to ring.