The Crossword Murder (2 page)

Briephs pushed the Jag's black canvas top into its boot, tossed in the calfskin case, jumped into the driver's seat, and was about to turn the key in the ignition when he heard the unmistakable sound of high heels tapping across poured concrete. He jerked around and stared through the darkness, gradually recognizing Betsey Housemann sashaying slowly toward him. A statuesque woman who claimed to be thirty-seven, she was dressed to kill in a tight black silk blouse and short blue leather skirt that barely covered what it had been designed to cover. Her hair billowed around her face like mounds of crinkled red cellophane.

“Sneaking out on me, are you, Tommy-Boy?”

“I wasn't aware you were coming so soon, Betsey.”

“I'm ‘coming' to see Steven, honeybunch … Besides, I thought you didn't approve of inelegant speech in public.”

“The verb is a common one, Betsey … Old English
cuman
, meaning to approach …”

“You know that lingo stuff bores the you-know-what out of me …”

“Perhaps you shouldn't have espoused yourself to a newspaperman. Words, I believe, are Steven's stock in trade …” Briephs made an instinctive grab for his briefcase.

“My lord and master isn't expecting me till lunchtime. Maybe I could make a quick detour … Come out to your hideaway for a little warm-up exercise … We could pick up where we left off last night …”

“Not today.” Briephs turned the key in the ignition.

“You can be a real creep, Thompson.”

“‘So is this great and wide sea, wherein all things creeping innumerable …' I'm a man, dear girl, in case your memory doesn't span a mere twelve hours. I don't slither on my belly. I walk on two feet. Now, I'm afraid I must go. I'm regrettably late.”

Betsey's tall form swayed over the driver's-side door. For a moment Briephs imagined she was going to grab his keys and heave them toward the garage's inaccessible recesses. Or swallow them. Betsey was capable of almost anything.

“You know, Tommy, sometimes I think I hate you,” she cooed in a husky voice.

CHAPTER 2

B
RIEPHS GUNNED HIS
car up the garage ramp, wincing at the sudden glare as he entered Thomas Paine Boulevard. Lining the broad pavement, shrubberies, trees and pots of geranium, verbena and dusty miller wilted and withered while heat waves shimmered from the rows of handsome Greek Revival- and Colonial-era buildings that housed the city's financial and commercial hub.

He stared at the stone and clapboard structures and at the shops and banking institutions nestled discreetly within them. Many of the buildings dated from the glory days of the clipper ship and whaling trade; they were an understated but affluent compendium of fresh white paint, gold lettering, Doric columns and scrubbed brick sidewalks. At another time, Thompson would have been grateful for the town fathers' foresight in maintaining Newcastle's architectural heritage. Today the refurbished façades seemed the epitome of venality and deceit: elegance concealing corrupt and moneygrubbing souls.

Briephs turned right on Nathaniel Hawthorne Place and headed for the former customs house, now converted into a transportation depot. There, he bypassed a Peter Pan bus discharging passengers from Springfield, parked his car, entered the restored stone building and went through the same procedure he'd followed for the past twelve months. When he'd deposited the payment in its customary locker and hidden the key in its usual nook, he walked slowly out the main entrance, circled back to his car and sped off again, following a circuitous route of waterfront lanes that skirted the pristine base of Liberty Hill.

Thompson needed to avoid the denizens of the exclusive neighborhood. His mother's house sat among the gracious, pillared Revolutionary War-era mansions, only a stone's throw from that of her brother—Briephs' uncle, the senior United States Senator Hal Crane. White Caps and Gull's Way had been Crane family properties since they were built; not one had been sold, nor a foot of their spacious lawns and gardens altered. Long-dead Cranes, descending on Newcastle from their homes in heaven or in hell, would have found their former domiciles undefiled.

Briephs left Liberty Hill and turned onto the harbor road, pushing his foot to the accelerator as the lanes widened and flattened. He flicked on the Jag's CD player; the Pavarotti recording of
Turandot
rang out at full volume but Puccini's arias of dominion and power were of no avail. Thompson Briephs didn't feel capable of conquering anything.

As he approached the posh Patriot Yacht Club and its marina, he slowed and came to a halt beside the security gate, affixing his customary, noncommittal smile.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Briephs, sure is a hot one, ain't it? Weatherman says New England's breaking all kinds of records this year.” The guard's face bore the grin of a peace-filled man. “You're home early today.”

“You're most observant, Daniel.” Briephs hedged. “I assumed I'd be more comfortable at home. Sea breezes are generally considered cooler than those on land.”

“Hope you're right … No end in sight, neither … Not even a drop of rain, the paper says … My wife's tomato plants … well, they're a right mess, that's all—”

“Difficult times all around,” Briephs interrupted, then gunned the Jag again, passing scores of multimillion-dollar yachts bobbing serenely in their berths. At the far end of the parking area stood a row of garages disguised as the boat sheds of an earlier era. The door to Thompson's garage opened in response to the click of a remote control wand, and he slipped inside. From there, he proceeded on foot down a walkway until he reached a floating dock and his new seventeen-foot Boston Whaler. Boarding, he let out a sigh that was partly relief and partly joy.

Briephs steered the Whaler past the marina and into open water. Less than a mile from shore, he spotted the three rocky outcroppings that comprised his island home. He'd purchased the clumps of land fifteen years earlier, then hired the minimalist architect Isham Walker Dae to design a dwelling that would span the islands and serve as a showcase for Briephs' one true passion—his extraordinary collection of Minoan antiquities.

Dae's creation was a labyrinthine structure worthy of King Minos and his fabled man-eating Minotaur. Room twisted upon room in a convoluted mazelike design while the signature bloodred and ebony of the ancient civilization imparted to the stuccoed walls, floor tiles, even the lighting fixtures and custom-crafted furniture, a primitive, unearthly feel that was at once erotic and spare. To say that the crossword editor reveled in this peculiar construction would be an understatement. It was his haven and refuge, his fortress and obsession. In homage to his trade and to the mythical Aeolus, a Greek demigod believed to be ruler of the winds, Briephs had christened the singular structure Windword Islands; no man or woman set foot on its shores without receiving a prior commandment from its dictatorial owner.

“Daddy's home,” Thompson murmured while the Whaler made land. “Your daddy's come home to his baby.”

CHAPTER 3

A
FTER LASHING THE
Whaler's bowline to the dock at the western side of Windword Islands, Briephs followed a winding, wooden walkway, traversing rocks and tidal pools before reaching his home. He breathed another sigh of relief as he opened the door. Once inside, the summertime world of seagulls and beach scenes and hot-weather temper tantrums vanished. Briephs was embraced by his home's cool and shadowy presence as if by a long-lost lover. He passed deeper and deeper into the secret corridors, smiling to himself as he traced pathways only he had memorized. Finally, he reached the kitchen, a mundane but necessary staple of modern life. In accordance with Briephs' instructions and I. W. Dae's fanciful invention, the room's walls and ceiling had been drenched with a primordial red and so arranged that nothing electronic or functional intruded. The cabinets' surfaces mimicked lath and stucco; the countertops had been carved of ancient oak; the sink was a rough-hewn bowl of stone, the faucet an amphora neck of curving bronze.

Briephs opened a Sub-Zero refrigerator, whose double doors had been disguised with rows of trompe l'oeil funerary urns, pulled out a chilled bottle of Puligny Montrachet, poured a glassful into a goblet re-created from an ancient Attic design, took a long and healthy swig, then strolled another passage, ascending a staircase constructed of sea stones, and emerging at last in his bedroom overlooking the ocean. It was here that the real jewels of the editor's collection of antiquities were kept: pieces so rare most were believed to be unique.

“Daddy's home,” he whispered again. He was feeling better—definitely better. “Your loving daddy's home.” With a smug laugh, Thompson shucked off his clothes and entered the bathroom. Every inch of this retreat had been mirrored, allowing him to become a hundred nude men in the blink of an eye. He regarded the reflections fondly. Except for his silver hair, he was as fit as he'd been in his student days at Andover and Yale. “‘Mourn ye Graces and loves,'” Briephs quoted, then chuckled again. “Oh, I think no mourning today … We'll welcome those lovely folk instead …”

Thompson gazed at the mirrors a second more, then stepped into the shower, permitting the hot water to roll over his welcoming skin. In less than a minute, however, the peaceful mood was broken by the sound of a motorboat approaching the island.

He switched off the water—soap still clinging to his body—and listened. It wasn't unusual for tourists to let their vessels drift close to Windword for a look, but this visitor was clearly no stranger, nearing the island's eastern shore. Briephs had a keen ear for outboard engines; whoever was maneuvering the boat was sailing from the west—and closing in quickly on the dock.

He waited for the familiar sound of Fiberglas meeting wood piling. When the bump came, he returned to the shower and hurriedly rinsed away the remaining soap. Then he dressed in a burgundy-colored silk robe and descended to the living room. He held the wineglass like a scepter or a cudgel. Curiously, his other hand gripped his calfskin attaché case. Briephs didn't stop to consider how ludicrous this object might appear as an accessory to a dressing gown.

When he saw who his visitor was, his laugh rang out, half joyous and half hysterical. “Oh my God, you gave me such a scare! You mustn't do that, pumpkin … arriving without phoning first … That's really very naughty!”

Briephs shook his finger playfully at the visitor, then threw himself on a banquette covered with tapestried pillows. “This hellish heat … The meteorologist at the
Herald
insists we're not due for a break until late next week … if then …” He took a leisurely sip of wine, laughed again, then fell silent when he realized his guest didn't share his mirth. The attaché case now rested on a pillow beside him. “Can I get you a glass of wine? Or something stronger? As you know, my liquor cabinet's full of nasty spirits.”

“The money wasn't there, Tommy-Boy.”

Briephs sat erect. “Excuse me? … Money …?”

“You heard me.”

“Money …” Briephs repeated. “Money?” He toyed with his dressing gown's lapels as if they were the ermine trim on a royal mantle. “What money?”

Then a sudden revelation shot into his brain. “Incredible! So,
you
are the one … the person who's been sending those dreadful letters. My little hunch was correct, after all … Well, well, well … What do you know about that? Daddy
was
right …” Automatically, his hand stroked the calfskin case, then withdrew with a display of excessive calm. “The payment was there,” he continued blithely. “I left it in the locker as always … and the key in its customary place.”

“Oh, the key was there all right. But no cash. You stiffed me, Thompson!” The name was spoken with an unmistakable sneer, although an undercurrent of sham bravado shaded the rest of the words.

Briephs gauged the speaker's unease, and his expression turned secretive and sly; he wasn't cowed in the slightest. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he scolded. “Running me around like a perfect lunatic. I was frantic when those letters arrived …” All earlier apprehensions allayed, Briephs laughed again, then sipped languidly at his wine. “One piece of advice, though: never play word games with a master; I just might have a few tricks of my own—”

“It's no joke, Tom-Boy … I'm deadly serious.”

“Are you? Well, in the future perhaps you might consider consulting your
O.E.D
. a bit more rigorously … Most of those puzzles you sent were laughable.”

Startled at Briephs' apparent unconcern, the visitor returned to the previous demand. “The money, Tommy. Now!”

“You're not getting another penny … In fact, I might consider asking you to repay what you've already pilfered from me … I recently happened upon some rather unsavory stories making the rounds down on Congress Street. Many of those ‘ladies' are more than casual acquaintances, as we both know … They tell me you have a predilection for underripe flesh, and that you're not too particular whether the child is a boy or a girl. I must say I was surprised … Impressed, but surprised … So there you are, my dear … Tit for tat, as they say …” Briephs' eyes glowed; he downed the remaining swallow of wine. “Are you sure I can't fix you a libation? This Puligny Montrachet is quite lovely—”

“That's a lie, and you know it.”

“Are you referring to my cellar or my reference to Congress Street?” When the visitor failed to respond, Thompson continued in the same commanding tone: “What a nasty, backbiting town this is! So, you've never heard of the Lily Club …?”

A stony glance greeted this question, but the answer was determinedly nonchalant. “I want that money, Tommy-Boy.”

Briephs chuckled. “This is fun!” Then he abruptly changed tack. “Listen, pumpkin, you'd better scurry away home if you don't wish the details of your ‘love life'—or this pathetic blackmail business—made public.”