Two Down (16 page)

PUZZLE 4

F
inished with the newest cryptic, Belle sat hunched at her desk as if expecting it to speak. In a blue terry robe that had seen happier days, her body shivered with cold, but she didn’t seem to notice. One slipper had fallen off, leaving her toes exposed and icy; again, she appeared unaware of physical discomfort. Her total concentration was dedicated to the crossword puzzle and the message it relayed. With clues indicating
Who?, What?, Where?, When?, Why?,
and
How?,
the constructor’s intent had become plain as day.

COME ALONE. Belle stared at the answer to 10-Down, then moved to 32-Across: TELL NO ONE. She remembered the threatening phone call she’d received just four short hours earlier. Someone obviously hadn’t wanted her involved in the Pepper case, but she now held in her hand proof that another person definitely needed her help. There was her name spelled out at 30-Down; the location was found at 55-Across: DEW DROP INN, a derelict
resort spread across one hundred wild and scenic acres on the promontory known as Allyn’s Point an hour south of Newcastle.

Or, could it be, she wondered, that the puzzle was a means of luring her into danger? Invented by the very same person who had just phoned her the night before? The old inn’s grounds would be particularly empty of hikers or picnickers at this time of year. She’d make an easy target. Belle almost wished she owned a weapon, but then reminded herself that she didn’t know the first thing about guns. If she faced some hideous adversary, she’d probably discover she’d left the pistol’s safety on—and then her defenses would be reduced to throwing a two-pound piece of metal. She couldn’t throw any better than she could shoot.

Belle scanned the clues and answers again.
When?
was at 17-Across. The answer: AT ELEVEN AM. 33-Down spelled out ORION; 44-Down: FIRE; PERIL was the answer to 21-Across; SAVE at 13-Across.
Genie
and
Jamaica
were among the clues.
Ensnare; Liar; Criminal; Revenge
. Her attention returned to 32-Across: TELL NO ONE. The intent was plain; Rosco was not to be included in the excursion.

Belle stood and realized her slipper was missing and her foot asleep. She sagged toward the floor, grabbed her wayward scuff, then limped across the office while her toes revived. All the while her brain kept jumping to possible scenarios, solutions, and a raft of unanswered questions. One fact remained abundantly clear, however; she had been designated as liaison. If Genie and Jamaica were indeed alive, and if they were to be rescued, Belle would have to follow the crossword’s instructions implicitly.

She hurried out of her office, taking the stairs’ bare treads two at a time. She then rushed into her bedroom,
threw on a pair of jeans, an Irish fisherman’s sweater she’d owned since her senior year in college, and white canvas Keds that had turned a permanent gray beige. In case she encountered a birder or late-season beachcomber, the costume was appropriately outdoorsy and nondescript.

Belle drove her car down the remaining loop of Captain’s Walk, turned right on Thirteenth Street, then left on Congress heading for the interstate south, the bridge crossing the river, and the long stretch of sparsely inhabited blacktop that led to Allyn’s Point. It was, she suddenly realized, a beautiful fall day.

The Dew Drop Inn had been built in the early twenties. Despite its pixielike name, it was a mammoth place and wholly incongruous with its primitive surroundings. For one thing, it was stuccoed with as much panache and abandon as a villa on the Riviera; for another thing, it was pink. Overwhelmingly so. The cupolaed, porticoed, mansarded, gabled, and multiwindowed fantasy-by-the-sea looked as if it had been carved out of spun cotton candy, and seventy-plus years of salt spray, snow, ice, summer sun, hurricanes, and winter windstorms had not diminished one note of this eccentric tonal palette.

Belle stepped from her car and approached the place. The wide porch was more desolate than she’d remembered it; it was also showing serious signs of neglect. Every ten years or so, some developer would purchase the building with the intention of restoring and refurbishing it to “its original glory” sometimes these incarnations lasted a couple of years; mostly they did not, and the Dew Drop Inn would then slide back into its woeful state. The property was an acknowledged white elephant, a valuable tract of land with an unusable building no one had the
courage—or the zoning approval—to raze. Local realtors had now dubbed it “The
Pink
Elephant.”

Beyond the inn proper, the salt waves of Buzzards Bay surged around the rocky promontory, spilling into numerous small inlets the sea had rubbed from the stone. Where an incoming wave met one receding, the friction produced huge plumes of spray that erupted in the air, dousing the craggy boulders until they were as black and slick as oil.

To the left of the promontory, a pebble-strewn beach stretched toward what had once been the inn’s cabanas and oceanside restaurant—also vivid pink. To the right was a wide green cliff grown wild and woolly with tangled brush, bittersweet, and desiccated honeysuckle vines. Belle gazed at the scene. She was totally alone.

She circumnavigated the main building, looking at it, and then away. She wasn’t certain what she’d expected, but decided the spot was a rendezvous. COME ALONE; the implication was that someone else would arrive.

Finished with one pass of the inn, Belle began a second loop. She slowed her pace, walking methodically as if her body language could transmit an appropriate solitude to a distant observer. She had the definite sensation of being watched.

With her second tour of the building finished, she began a third, this time walking in the opposite direction, as if the choice might send another signal. No one appeared; the only sound was that of the surf crashing against the promontory, and of seagulls wheeling boisterously in the sky. Belle noticed that the sun was almost directly overhead. Eleven
A
.
M
. had come and gone.

Perhaps she’d been mistaken about human contact, she decided; maybe a message had been attached to the building. She approached the porch; leaves and brush flung
there by countless storms lay in deep eddies beside the doors and under the windows. More than a few floorboards had rotted away. She carefully kicked aside the refuse to continue her inspection. What a sad place, she thought; the utter abandonment of the building made her suddenly want to cry.

It was the slamming of a car door that made Belle snap to attention. She spun toward the sound. A woman dressed in jogging tights, a gray sweatshirt, white socks bunched at her ankles, and black running shoes was walking to the rear of an obscenely large sport utility vehicle. Her hair was blond—or wanted to be blond; long, dark roots spiked through an unruly mop that was tied in an elasticized terry band as if she’d just finished an arduous aerobics class. She glanced apprehensively at the figure on the porch through the lenses of large dark glasses.

Belle nodded encouragement and gestured toward the inn’s facade as if she were no more than a curious hiker. But the woman only scowled, opened the rear gate of her car, and allowed a shaggy black dog to amble down. “Come on, boy,” she ordered. The dog paid little heed; instead, his fur bristled and he loped toward Belle. “Come on, boy!” The woman shouted again. This time the tone was more urgent, even angry. “Come on! Come here, dammit!”

Belle detected fear in the voice. Apprehensively, she backed into a protective corner, but the dog suddenly stopped, arrested by some compelling scent in the unkempt lawn. When it finally looked up, it turned its head from Belle toward its frustrated owner, then slowly sauntered back to her side. Belle peered at the cracked and grimy window behind her head. In the dim reflection, she saw the muzzy outline of the rebellious dog and its owner running toward the beach.

When they were out of sight, she continued her inspection of the inn’s porch. No sign of human intrusion was evident, although several windowpanes were missing—victims of wind-borne debris. Belle peered inside at the chilly, vacant reception rooms. Again, a sense of ineffable sorrow swept over her.

She shook off the feeling and retrieved the folded crossword from her purse, searching for clues she might have missed or misconstrued. 7-Down:
Actress admirer
; 16-Down:
Bribes
. The answer to 39-Across—
Why?
—was: AN ENDGAME. What did it mean? Surely whoever had called her to this spot possessed some answers.

The door closest to the promontory was slightly ajar. Belle pushed, but couldn’t move it. She leaned her weight against it; the door reluctantly gave way, and she forced her way inside. Several chairs and tables littered the interior, which was overhung with a pall of dust and gritty sand. Cobwebs obscured many of the windows; nesting material from birds or rodents lay festering on the grimy sills.

Belle studied the floor; there didn’t seem to be any trace of previous footsteps. Briefly, she wondered if the space was safe to walk across, then began gingerly edging her way across the room. She’d been summoned to the inn, there had to be a message somewhere.

In a blind corridor between rooms, she heard the thud of feet on the porch. Her heart pounded within her chest; she felt her mouth go dry. She waited, only able to half see the area she was approaching; the one she’d left behind was now invisible—as was the building’s exterior. The footsteps continued, navigating the porch’s rotten flooring and piles of castaway branches and leaves. It became obvious that her unseen visitor was seeking an entrance.

Slowly, she turned and began retracing her steps. Fear
caused her ears to ring; she was aware of staring without seeing. She clutched the crossword in her hand as if its presence could ensure her safe passage. Bizarrely, she felt as though she were entering some grade-school test for which she’d memorized all the answers. DEW DROP INN, she wanted to say, AT ELEVEN AM.

Suddenly a gust of wind billowed through the dust-filled air; Belle realized that the door she’d entered had been pushed wide open and closed.

She froze. She simply could not force herself to move. Then she heard a dog barking; it was very near. No human voice responded, and the animal continued yapping. Belle drew a breath and walked toward the entry.

“Hey . . .” It was the woman in the jogging clothes. She shifted forward on her toes as if Belle’s appearance had badly frightened her. Then she stared disbelieving at the puzzle in Belle’s hand.

Belle found her own glance descending to the crossword. She realized how stupid she looked—trespassing in a derelict building with a sheet of graph paper clenched in her fist.

“You’d better be careful that your dog doesn’t fall into one of those holes on the porch,” she said, attempting a nonchalant smile.

“I tied him up,” the woman said. She didn’t move, and didn’t smile. In fact, her body language seemed downright challenging.

“Are you . . . are you one of the owners of the building?” Belle asked.

The dog started another spate of barking, and Belle remembered her mission. COME ALONE, the crossword had warned, but here she was talking to some disagreeable female while her equally contentious pet announced to the world that the Dew Drop Inn was less than deserted. Belle
walked past the woman and yanked open the door. Annoyance at herself and this unwanted visitor made her shoulders rigid.

“What are you doing in here?” the woman demanded.

“Looking around,” Belle answered without turning to face her. “That’s not a crime, is it? Besides, unless you’re an owner, you have no more right to be here than I do.” She looked at her watch. It was one o’clock. The person or persons attempting to contact her had obviously decided against it.

“Those word games are a big waste of time,” the woman announced to Belle’s retreating back.

“To each his own.” The answer was frosty; Belle added an equally irritable, “Your dog doesn’t seem too happy.”

“My dog’s fine.”

Belle didn’t answer. If the woman wanted to pick a fight, she’d have to look elsewhere.

“Don’t you worry about my dog!” she called out. “Animals have as much right to run around free as humans do. It’s people like you who make their lives miserable, not the folks who own them!”

Amid this tirade, Belle marched to her car, slid into the driver’s seat, and locked the doors. A subcontractor for the Polycrates Agency, she told herself. What a joke! If Genie and Jamaica
are
alive, I’ve probably done them more harm than good.