The Crossword Murder (5 page)

“This damn heat wave!” he sputtered. “My allergies have been driving me crazy …”

Rosco didn't comment.

When Lever's attack subsided, he eyed Rosco with a good deal of secret delight. “Annabella Graham,” he hummed. “What would you like to know about her?”

“I've got a meeting with her … Thought I should educate myself on this puzzle biz. Find out about the newspaper game before I start poking around the
Herald.”
Rosco opened the door and stepped into the hall. Before he got ten feet, Lever called after him: “One bit of advice, before you make a fool of yourself …”

“What's that?”

“Annabella Graham is married.”

CHAPTER 6

R
OSCO
HADN'T SET
foot on Captain's Walk in years. He was surprised at how many of the old seafarers' residences lining the now malled-off street had gone through extensive renovations. Annabella Graham's petite but immaculate eighteenth-century home was no exception. The wood siding appeared to have just received a fresh coat of white paint; the glossy black shutters reflected the dappled sunlight peering through leaves of an elm resting in the tidy front garden, and the antique windowpanes sparkled with the old-fashioned glint of spirits of ammonia and elbow grease. Rosco could almost picture a captain's wife gazing out one of those parlor windows, patiently awaiting the return of her world-weary traveler.

“You must be Mr. Polycrates.” Annabella opened the front door, and stood on the porch, where a wicker love seat and matching chairs provided a setting that Rosco imagined might have been lifted whole from a magazine on home design. “I somehow expected you to look more like that character who sells automotive tools on late-night television.”

“Not Uncle Morty … Mr. Socket Wrench? Somebody should put that guy out of his misery.”

She laughed lightly and asked him in, flipping the door closed behind her as if its carefully preserved history were of no particular importance. “Uncle Morty.” She chuckled again. “The very one.” Her tone had the same offhand ease as her manner—something Rosco noted with pleasure.

Lever had alluded to the fact that Annabella Graham was a good-looking woman, but she was more than that: slim and tall with vibrant, dark gray eyes and straight, fine hair the color of a baby duck's down. It was a striking shade, as bright as a halo; from the haphazard way it was pushed behind her ears, Rosco guessed she'd spent a good deal of her life trying to convince the world she wasn't just a pretty face. But it was her smile he liked best. It was honest and happy; it made him want to grin in return.

“Why don't we talk in my office?” she said as she led him through the house. “If I seem pushy, don't take it personally. I'm in the middle of lunch, and running late with a deadline.”

“I can come back, if there's a better time.”

“There's never a better time, I'm sorry to say. I'm one of those people who schedule an hour for a job that takes three—and never learn my lesson. Never. Don't worry, I'll tell you when to leave.”

The interior of the house was as fastidiously restored as the exterior; even the furnishings were appropriate to the period: a subtle blend of Queen Anne interspersed with more rustic pieces of Shaker design. Nothing was out of place—not a pewter pitcher, not a needlework footstool or bentwood box; Rosco began to feel as if he'd stumbled into a museum. Out of politeness, he commented, “You've done a great job here.”

“Oh, it's all my husband's work. Garet was one of the vanguard in the Captain's Walk restoration. He bought the house seven years ago. I waited for him to finish fussing with rattail hinges, brass door latches, fabric swatches and paint chips before I married him.” She paused and looked at the room as if assessing it with new eyes. “I guess you're right, though … The place
is
picture perfect.” A wistfulness tinged the words, but was quickly expunged by the breeziness of her next comment. “I've never been adept at home decor. Scratch that statement … I'm truly
terrible
at interior design.”

They stepped into her office with a timing that seemed to punctuate the remark. A small rear porch had been enclosed and transformed into a work space. It was an absolute disaster: papers strewn everywhere, on the desk, the window seat, the radiator cover and nearly every inch of the floor; what little space remained was crammed with books—French, German, Italian, Spanish and Latin dictionaries plus an enormous world atlas, an
Encyclopaedia Britannica
and an
O.E.D
.

Resting on the sole piece of unused furniture—a canvas deck chair—was a black-and-white dinner plate containing a dozen deviled eggs. Rosco looked at the plate, gradually realizing the design employed a crossword puzzle grid. Then he noticed the curtains followed the same motif: bold black letters marching up and down a white ground. Two empty coffee mugs sat on top of the atlas; they also sported a crossword theme—as did a lampshade tilted crookedly above the mugs. As Rosco continued to study the room, he realized the entire place was a symphony of black and white; even the cluttered floor had been painted to resemble a puzzle grid.

“You seem to take your work seriously,” he said.

“They're mostly gifts,” was the slightly embarrassed response. “You should see my bathroom … towels, shower curtain, even some of the tiles … Garet claims it's hideous … Have a seat, Mr. Polycrates—Wait. I'll take the eggs …” The crossword dinner plate was transferred to a prominent place on the desktop—beside a date book emblazoned with a word game. “Are you hungry?”

“I don't think so, thanks.”

Annabella Graham sat at her desk while Rosco took the canvas deck chair. Sure enough, the fabric was black and the wood supports a shiny white.

“Do people actually call you Rosco?”

“Yes.”

“That's a slang term for pistol, you know. Spelled R-O-S-C-O-E. I use it in my puzzle occasionally. Were you born with it or is it an assumed name to match your profession?”

“Born with it, I'm afraid. No
E
on the end, though.”

“Your dad wanted you to go into law enforcement?”

“That, I'll never know. He died when I was a kid. I never knew him, really.”

Annabella pursed her lips and frowned slightly; Rosco could see that she was berating herself for insensitivity. He recognized the emotion; he'd experienced it many times himself.

She hesitated, apparently pondering an appropriate reply, then decided to return to the safety of the business at hand. “So, Rosco, what can I do for you?”

“Well, Mrs. Graham—”

“No, no. No Mrs. Graham, please. And no Annabella. I'm Belle.”

“Sorry. I assumed because you were in the word-game business, you'd be called Anna. You know like Annagra—”

“Stop!” She raised her hands in mock dismay. “Don't even say it. You have no idea how often I get that comment. I considered taking my husband's surname when we married, but it seemed unprofessional … As to why my parents chose to saddle me with such a name, what can I say? Quirky people, both of them … So what brings you here, Rosco? I'm not in the habit of being interviewed by private detectives …” She bit into a deviled egg. “Are you sure you don't want one? They're awfully good.”

Rosco shook his head. “I guess you heard that Thompson Briephs passed away over the weekend?”

“Of course.” Belle picked up a second egg.

“I've been asked to look into the possibility that he may not have died of natural causes.”

“Wait,” she said with obvious excitement. “You mean Thompson was murdered?”

“I've been asked to investigate the
possibility
of homicide.”

“And you think I did it?” Belle's eyes positively glowed with pleasure. She looked like a kid at Christmastime.

“No, no. Let me step back here … explain how I work … Say, for instance, Uncle Morty, Mr. Late-Night Socket Wrench, turns up dead and I'm asked to look into it … Now, I don't know anything about the TV business, and less about automotive tools, so the first thing I do—before questioning Morty's associates—is to learn about his lifestyle from a disinterested source …” Rosco realized Belle was staring intently at him; she nibbled a third and then a fourth egg, slipping her teeth through the frothy yolk. He'd never seen anyone get so much enjoyment out of such a mundane object—and look so attractive in the process.

He pushed ahead. “In this case, it's a dead crossword puzzle editor from the Newcastle
Herald
. So, I go to the
Evening Crier
and interview Briephs' counterpart there, i.e., you—just to get a few pointers on the newspaper biz … Is that all you're having for lunch? A dozen eggs?”

“It isn't a dozen; it's only a
half
dozen—cut in half for deviling, naturally.” Belle had obviously been queried about this peculiar habit before. “But I did eat an entire dozen once.” Her smile became seraphic. “I'm very fond of deviled eggs … and anchovies and licorice. I'm not much of a cook when it comes to more complex recipes. I grew up in a household run by two professors; dinner was a haphazard event, to say the least.”

“Fortunately, licorice isn't hard to whip up.”

Belle cocked an amused eyebrow. “At least I wear anklets with heavy shoes.”

“Pardon me?”

“Hosiery … footwear … haberdashery …”

“Oh, right … A bad habit left over from my days at U. Mass … Boston, not Amherst. No socks was a look some of us scholarship guys affected to make the girls think we went to Harvard … This is the second time today I've been taken to task with that
haberdashery
word.”

Belle laughed. “You must be interviewing some rather elderly and starchy folk; it's not a word in common usage nowadays … To return to your question, I don't know how much help I can provide. I met Thompson only a few times—at the museum functions my husband attends when he's in town … From what I understand, Briephs and I had an entirely different approach to work. I edit at home. I loathe going into the
Crier
offices, whereas Thompson did most of his creating at the
Herald
. Although he never used a computer. I don't either; I hate them … What else? His house was his pleasure dome; I. W. Dae designed it, you know … Of course, you're aware Briephs had an extremely valuable collection of Greek and Mycenean artifacts? Minoan, I should say …”

Rosco nodded. “I'm scheduled to visit Windword Islands first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I've never seen the place,” Belle said. “Garet told me it's extraordinary.”

“So your husband visited Briephs' home?”

“Yes.”

Rosco heard something in her tone he could only categorize as guarded. “Could I question him?” he asked. “Your husband, I mean?”

“Not unless you buy an airline ticket to Egypt,” Belle said. Again, the tone was vaguely distressed. “He's on an archaeological dig in the Valley of the Kings … one of the sons of Seti I—a recent and quite spectacular find … Garet's team only closes down the site for the rainy season, and resumes excavation as soon as it's dry.” She paused while an emotion crossed her face that Rosco couldn't read. He decided to leave Belle's husband alone.

“Do many stressful situations come up in connection with your work?”

“Well, I have deadlines … and an editor in chief. I don't know how Briephs' editor, Steven Housemann, works, but mine's constantly berating me. Thompson turned out annual puzzle collections, as well. He had a publisher in New York … Then there are the letters—”

“Letters?”

“There's always someone accusing you of having the vocabulary of a fourth-grader. You'd be surprised how much hate mail I get. ‘If you'd done your research you would have made a better connection between the verb
to auger
and the common tool you carelessly referred to as a
screw' …
That sort of thing …”

“You must be a walking dictionary.”

Belle blushed; Rosco envisioned her scalp burning beneath her pale yellow hair. “I've always been fascinated with etymology,” she mumbled softly. “Besides, I have help.” She indicated the reference books with a vague wave of her hand.

“Foreign-language dictionaries, too? I hardly passed English Lit.”

Again, the embarrassed blush. “Learning new languages is a kind of hobby with me. Once you know a couple, picking up a third or fourth is easy. You look for similarities in syntax and origin, derivation … bridges such as
lago, lac, loch, lakkos
and ‘lake' …
kyriakon, kirk
, ‘church,' and so on. It becomes a sort of game …” Belle stopped short when she realized Rosco was staring at her; she fled to safer ground. “So you think someone murdered Thompson?”

“I don't want to start any rumors. Let's just say I'm looking into it.”

“Contributors,” Belle stated suddenly. “You might find a clue there.”

“Who are they?”

“The people who submit puzzles.”

“You mean you don't make them up yourself?”

“I create most of my own; I'm addicted to solving riddles, but I understand Briephs didn't always share my enthusiasm. He prided himself on drawing from a more diversified base … Then he'd edit, adapt the clues, make them easier or harder, depending on the day of the week … Contributors can be possessive about their work, however—as well as a little psychotic. They live a life of the brain—and sometimes little else. I can imagine one of those types nursing a dangerous grudge against an editor he thought had altered his work—or rejected him once too often. Writers, you know, can be a peculiar lot.”

CHAPTER 7

R
OSCO
RETURNED TO
police headquarters half an hour before his three P.M. meeting with Lever. His intention was to duck into the morgue early and persuade Carlyle, the medical examiner, to show him Briephs' body—without the watchful presence of the lieutenant. But Lever was a step ahead. He'd given strict orders that the corpse couldn't be viewed until he arrived. The M.E. passed the message on and retreated stonily to his office.