The Crossword Murder (22 page)

Eventually Rosco and Belle found themselves on terra firma and ensconced in the Jeep.

“You've got to develop some sea legs, Rosco. I'm sorry to say it, but you look pretty wimpy out on the briny.” If the visit to Briephs' pleasure dome had disturbed Belle, she'd already pushed the memory into the far recesses of her mind. Her smile was absolutely buoyant.

“I know.” A greenish tinge still clung to Rosco's cheeks.

“What was all that about, back on the island? All that business with the crossword coffee mugs and so forth? It sounded more like my house.”

“You can't count
anybody
out as a suspect. Kingsworth's a big guy. There's no telling what he could do. It's just not a good idea to give up information to the wrong people.”

“Peter?” Belle said, unable to control a burst of laughter. “You think … Peter? Come on … How could someone that wholesome be a murderer?”

“He's a big bozo with a cheesy smile and a boat. A boat that doesn't ride very smoothly, I might add.”

Belle laughed so hard she couldn't speak.

“What? What is it? What's so funny?”

“You're just jealous, that's all.”

“I'm not jealous of Peter Kingsworth.”

Belle continued to laugh while Rosco stared at the windshield. Eventually he loosened his iron grip on the Jeep's steering wheel and placed his hands in his lap. “Well, okay, maybe he
is
harmless. But you don't know who he might talk to. And that's the thing. Everyone in this town owns a boat—”

“Except you.”

“Right—except me. Let me finish, please. Everyone owns a boat. Every single club member talks to that smirking oaf of a harbormaster. Of all the people in the world, he should be kept in the dark about what we're doing.”

“Okay, okay … I see your point. You're right, it's not a good idea to blab, but don't you think you're being a bit juvenile?” Belle contained her mirth for a few seconds, then added another small jab: “Just because Peter's so attractive and charming? Not to mention that breathtaking grin?”

“And he has a boat! Don't forget that. He has a boat!”

The ice broken, they both laughed for the better part of the ride back to Captain's Walk.

CHAPTER 28

W
HEN BELLE'S HOUSE
came into view, the memory of her mysterious intruder returned. While she gazed thoughtfully at the silent windows, Rosco's expression grew equally perturbed.

“Do you think … Just for tonight, I mean …?” he began after they'd entered the house, and he'd scanned the foyer and living room with a quick, appraising eye. “What I mean is, wouldn't it be a good idea for me to stick around … Sleep on a couch or something?”

“No,” Belle responded too quickly. They'd moved into her office, and she masked her abruptness by shuffling a pile of papers lying on her desk.

Rosco said, “What happened on the island won't happen again. I swear.”

“That's not why I'm refusing your offer.”

“It was totally unprofessional, and I apologize.”

“I'm not sorry it happened, so you needn't apologize.”

The awkwardness of the situation held them in place. Belle began toying with a battered Italian dictionary; Rosco found himself gripping the back of the canvas chair.

“I'm not in the habit of stealing other men's wives.”

“I know you're not.”

“I'm worried about your safety, that's all.” The chair rocked under Rosco's heavy grasp.

“I'll be fine … I will. Look, I realize I seemed upset earlier, but I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I have been for a long time.”

Neither spoke for several weighty moments.

Rosco was the first to break the silence. “Belle, I'm not disagreeing with you … It's just that in my line of work I've seen a lot of unpleasant situations.”

“Garet made certain this house has almost as many locks as Fort Knox.”

“I'd like to take a look-see before I go. Check out possible entrances … if that's okay?”

“If it will make you feel better.”

“It will.”

“And then you'll leave?”

“If that's your decision.”

Rosco's search was painstakingly thorough; he opened closet doors and paced through the basement while Belle followed at a distance. She could see him struggling to find an explanation for their kiss, but was relieved he didn't reintroduce the subject.

“I'm an adult, you know,” she said when at last he walked out the front door. “I can handle myself … Emotionally and physically.”

“Will you call me if there's a problem?”

“There's not going to be a problem.”

“But you'd call me if there were?”

Belle didn't answer, but when he'd left, she double-locked the door.

Alone, she munched distractedly on leftover meat loaf, then decided to treat herself to a can of anchovies, but neither they nor the four licorice sticks she added for dessert seemed to have any discernible flavor. She deeply regretted the ruined eggs and mayonnaise. At eleven, she was in bed and asleep almost immediately.

At one-thirty, the phone rang. For some reason she expected the caller to be Rosco; prepared with a witty retort on her Amazonian powers, she lifted the receiver, but no one responded. Whoever had called simply hung up, and Belle assumed that it was a wrong number and drifted off to sleep again. Half an hour later, the phone rang again. This time she detected breathing on the other end of the line, but again no one spoke.

“Who's there?” she demanded, but the caller hung up without replying.

The phone rang three more times during the night; each time the caller followed the same routine: a few shallow and measured breaths that remained on the line for less than ten seconds. On the final call, however, at five
A.M.,
she was startled by the addition of a low, vindictive laugh. It seemed to pulse through her fingers as she held the receiver, but Belle was unable to discern whether the mysterious voice belonged to a man or a woman.

CHAPTER 29

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
Rosco was awakened by
Imus in the Morning
—as usual. He flipped off the radio before the I-Man or his brother Fred tried to sell him something for which he had no use, and sat thinking in bed for a few difficult minutes. His head was filled with images of Belle. He reached for the phone, stared long and hard at the keypad, then dropped the receiver back into its cradle.

“I'm glad she's stronger than I am,” he mumbled as he climbed out of bed and headed for the shower. “Besides, she'll call me if anything strange occurs. That's what she said.”

As the water doused him, his senses began to clear and he turned his concentration on Thompson Briephs' missing bank records. In reality, Rosco hadn't expected them to reveal much, but the fact that they couldn't be found at Windword perplexed him. Especially as there had been no evidence of anyone's disturbing Briephs' personal effects.

When Rosco reached his office, blue cardboard container of coffee in hand, he placed a call to Briephs' mother, Sara. After two short rings, a maid answered with a crisp “Mrs. Briephs' residence” before scurrying off to summon the grand lady herself.

“What have you discovered, Mr. Polycrates?” was Sara's succinct greeting.

Rosco took five minutes to bring her up to date—as best he could. Much of what he'd found relied on intuition and instinct, and was substantiated by very little fact. His suspicions, he kept to himself. Rosco concluded by informing Sara that the police had reclassified her son's death as a homicide.

“And, I take it, that reclassification must have been a direct result of your probing?”

“Yes, ma'am, I believe it probably is.”

“Well then, young man, I owe you a great deal of gratitude, not to mention a check.”

“Thank you. There's no rush on the check, though, Mrs. Briephs. My concern now is finding the individual responsible.”

“Of course. And I am confident you will.”

“But speaking of checks, I visited your son's house yesterday hunting for his bank records. Sometimes canceled checks are a good lead in determining … well, let's say, strained business dealings. At any rate, there were no records of financial transactions in his home office.”

“That's because I have them.”

Rosco gave the receiver a quizzical look, then returned it to his ear. “You do?”

“Yes. Thompson's accountant brought them to me only yesterday. Apparently he was cross-checking my son's bank statements and other portfolio information at the time of his death, and didn't know who else to give them to. He's a kind man. He was thoughtful enough to freeze Thompson's several accounts and obtain finalized statements for me.”

“Would you mind if I came over and picked them up? I'll only need to look through them for a day or two. I can be at your house”—Rosco glanced at his watch—“by eight-thirty and return them by Friday afternoon at the latest.”

“Absolutely. Please do. I'll postpone my tennis match with the club's pro. Besides which, I'd very much like to see you again. You'll be a breath of fresh air after a most dreary evening with Mr. Roth. I'll also have a check waiting for you. How much should I make it out for?”

“We can wait on that. Let me see how I progress during the next few days.”

“Fine … Oh, and Mr. Polycrates, I have something else that might interest you.”

“What's that, Mrs. Briephs?”

“I'll show you when you arrive. It may be nothing at all.”

Rosco replaced the receiver in its cradle, chugged the remainder of his coffee and darted down to his Jeep. He pulled into Mrs. Briephs' circular drive twenty minutes later and parked near the privet hedge beside her tennis court. A gardener was rolling the dark red clay with a large drum-roller. Rosco waved to the man and walked to the house. The front door was yanked open by John Bulldog Roth before Rosco could reach for the brass knocker.

“Mrs. Briephs has gone to a friend's house to play tennis. I'm afraid you've missed her, Mr. Polycrates.”

“Really? She told me she was planning to cancel her match.”

Roth pulled a check from his suit pocket and presented it to Rosco. “She asked me to give you this and tell you that your services would no longer be needed. The police will handle the investigation from here on out.”

Rosco took the check from Roth. It was issued for a sum of five thousand dollars and drawn on Roth's personal bank account, not Sara's.

“I assume that will be satisfactory, Mr. Polycrates?”

Rosco handed it back to Roth. “‘Fraid not,
Bulldog
, Mrs. Briephs and I agreed on a different figure.”

“And what might that number be?”

“I suggest you ask her. Where'd she go to play tennis? Maybe the three of us can yak about it together.”

“She requested that she not be disturbed.”

Rosco smiled and shook his head. He knew he was wasting his breath, but he tried it anyway. “She had some papers for me. I don't suppose she left them with you?”

“She didn't mention anything, no.”

“Do you mind if I come in? Get a drink of water?” Rosco looked up into the sun and squinted. “It's kind of hot out here … not to mention no AC in the Jeep.”

Roth leaned his head back into the house and called a commanding, “Emma, would you be kind enough to bring Mr. Polycrates a glass of iced water?”

“Thanks, sport.”

“Any time …
sport
.”

Rosco chuckled and glanced down at his shoes. “I had a very interesting chat with a woman by the name of Betsey Housemann yesterday.” He looked back at Roth. “You wouldn't happen to know her, would you?”

Roth's jaw tightened noticeably at the mention of Betsey's name. “Yes. I've met her. As you know, Steven Housemann and the
Herald
editorial staff have always been generous supporters of Senator Crane.”

“Well—”

“As well as loyal friends to me, I might add.”

“Right. Anyway, when I mentioned that the police department was now treating Thompson's death as a homicide, Mrs. Housemann suggested, in a roundabout way, that I might want to talk to you. Why do you think that is?”

“I wouldn't know.”

“What was your relationship with Thompson?”

“He's the Senator's nephew. Thompson was invited to most of the Senator's social functions. Other than events that included his uncle, I rarely saw Thompson.”

“That's an interesting word:
rarely
. It means
almost
entirely. Like
virtually
. It's a very popular expression among politicians, advertisers and military strategists. What you're really saying is that you also saw Briephs at other times … besides the Senator's get-togethers?”

Roth's left eye twitched, but he didn't respond.

“I still have some fact-checking to do,” Rosco pressed. “If you have anything you'd like to share with me about your relationship with Thompson, you could save me some legwork. Believe me, it will all come out in the wash sooner or later.”

Roth remained silent, studying Rosco.

“Okay, how about this one: What was your relationship to Betsey Housemann?”

“My acquaintance with her is from those same social situations.”

“But that
is
where you became such bosom buddies? She seemed to suggest that the two of you were, or had been, more than casual friends.”

Rosco was laying the ball all over the court and Roth was having a tough time keeping up. A line of sweat had formed along his brow. He pulled the handkerchief from his suit pocket and dabbed at it. Emma emerged from behind him with the glass of water. She handed it to Rosco and nervously backed into the house.