Wrapped Up in Crosswords (6 page)

“A natural mistake,” Sara offered. “I would have done the same.”

Rosco rolled his eyes and chuckled. “If you two were left to your own devices, you'd starve.”

“As long as one's larder is stocked with plenty of tinned foodstuffs, one does not starve, young man,” said Sara with some asperity. “Sardines, for instance—”

“And anchovies,” tossed in Belle.

“And smoked oysters,” continued Sara. “And let me see … artichoke hearts and button mushrooms and hearts of palm—”

“You sound like you're describing canapés in the hors d'oeuvre selection at the Patriot Yacht Club, rather than the fixings for a solid meal,” Rosco observed.

“Nothing wrong with canapés,” Sara sniffed. “Many a yacht club member has made a full dinner from the chef's nibbles. Your wife is addicted to deviled eggs, which certainly fall into the canapé category. And look how hale and hearty she is.”

There was no gainsaying this argument. Belle, despite being able to consume an entire plateful of deviled eggs at one sitting, was the picture of rosy-cheeked health. Rosco gave his wife an adoring hug as Sara abruptly changed the subject—another advantage of being eighty-plus. “I'm worried about Martha,” she stated.

“Martha?” Belle asked as she spooned vegetable-studded brown gravy over the cooking pot roast. “We saw her this afternoon at the dog park. She looked fine. A little worried about Princess, but—”

“It's not Martha's physical well-being that concerns me. Nor her dog's.”

Both Belle and Rosco turned toward Sara and waited for her to continue. One didn't rush a person as regal and autocratic as Mrs. Briephs. “You know, of course, that we're fellow participants in the church sewing group?”

Belle nodded. She'd also been asked to join “Sisters in Stitches,” but she was no more expert with a needle than she was with a Newburg sauce.

“Well, we ‘girls' were all talking about holiday plans during our latest gathering—visiting family and friends, parties, and so forth—when Martha suddenly exclaimed that she had no intention of celebrating Christmas this year. ‘All this hoopla. The season's just about overeating and regretting it later,' is how she put it. She even told us she was sorry Law-son's wasn't open on Christmas itself, because she thought the day should be treated as just one out of three hundred sixty-five.”

Belle nodded. She could imagine Martha using those very words. She was a person who didn't believe in beating around the bush.

“I told her that she was spouting nonsense, of course, and that the holidays were about sharing and showing our love for one another.”

“And?” Belle asked.

“And she said that if we truly cared for one another we wouldn't need a special time of year to prove it. We'd do it every day.”

“She's got a point,” Rosco agreed.

“Well, of course she has a point, dear boy. A very good one, too. But the problem isn't whether Martha is right or wrong in her assessment, it's her motive that bothers me. Anyone who claims that Christmas should be viewed as merely another day seems determined to be unhappy.”

“She was her usual cheery self this afternoon,” Belle protested. “I saw nothing ‘Scroogey' about her, at all.”

“The self each of us shows the world is not necessarily who we truly are,” was Sara's quiet response.

Belle and Rosco looked at their aging friend. It seemed inconceivable that she could be anyone other than who she appeared to be: a strong-willed woman whose ancestors had been among the city's forebears and whose wise heart was made of the purest gold.

“You regard me as a bossy old bat, for instance; when I think I'm still an eighteen-year-old hellion who's masquerading as an adult. The face I see in my mirror is a constant surprise—and not always a pleasant one.”

“Well, you've fooled us,” Rosco chuckled. “I would have said you were definitely an adult.”

“I see you make no comment on my ‘bossy old bat' status,” Sara observed with a smile, then brought the conversation back to Martha. “She needs a gentleman in her life.”

“A gentleman—?” Rosco began.

“Too old-fashioned a term, dear boy? I forget that we
antiques
sometimes use obsolete phraseology. Simply put: She needs to start dating again. She's only fifty-two; she can't devote the rest of her life to a
dog.”

At this moment, Kit and Gabby, who'd been peaceably sleeping on the kitchen floor, leapt up and started barking.

“Quiet girls,” Belle ordered, then turned back to Sara. “I assume you've got a scheme all figured out whereby Martha gets her guy—”

Kit and Gabby interrupted again, flying out of the kitchen and racing through the living room to Belle's office, where they took up an angry guardianship of the door leading to the garden.

“Indeed I do have a ‘scheme,' my dear,” Sara answered as though the air were not filled with furious woofs and snarls. “The traditional Secret Santa we always have at the toy-wrapping party. We simply arrange it so that—”

“But the gift exchange is just luck of the draw,” Rosco said skeptically. “You can't
rig
it—”

“Oh, no? It's
my
house in which we're having the festivities this year. Therefore
my
rules apply.”

“You're not suggesting something illicit?” Rosco jested.

“Legality doesn't enter into it. What I'm proposing is strictly practical. I put every name in the hat except two—”

“And who are you targeting as Martha's Secret Santa and clandestine admirer?” Belle asked with a grin.

“Why, Stanley Hatch, naturally.”

Rosco shook his head. “I don't know, Sara. He may not be ready just yet—”

“Nonsense. Besides, I'm only suggesting
friendship
for two lonely people—”

“But they may not want—”

“I've already made up my mind. I'll assign Stanley to Martha and vice versa. Didn't you tell me that their two
dogs
get along?” With a touch of facetiousness, she added, “What more does anyone need?”

“Well …” Belle began and looked at Rosco.

“If you think I'm too aged to discuss the vagaries of sex-appeal, young lady, I'm not. But affection and love must have a basis in friendship and respect. Stanley's alone and gloomy; Martha's alone and despondent. If they develop nothing more than a comfortable companionship, that's fine. But I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that one day we'll see something more. And if you're concerned my little stratagem will be discovered, I assure you it won't—unless one of you gives me away. And I further pledge that those will be the only names I fix—”

The dogs interrupted with renewed vigor, and Rosco was suddenly alert. “What's going on? This isn't like them—” The words died in his throat. “The back door's locked, isn't it?”

He glanced at Belle, who nodded. “And the front door?”

“Well, you and Sara came in that way—”

“Stay here.” Rosco hurried into the living room. The two women could hear him rifling through the coat closet. “Lock the door behind me, all right?”

As Belle walked toward the main entry, she saw the revolver in his hand. Despite Rosco's work as a private detective, it was something he carried only on rare occasions. “What's this all about?”

The dogs anxious barking increased, but neither Belle nor Rosco turned toward the sound.

“I'll be right back,” he said. “And don't let the girls follow me.”

Belle did as she was asked, but she needn't have worried about Kit and Gabby. Neither one relinquished her post beside the office door. In fact, they seemed not to have heard Rosco leave by the front door—which was unusual in the extreme.

“A prowler?” Sara asked, joining Belle, who merely shook her head in confusion.

Minutes passed, punctuated by growls and spates of ferocious barking. Then, finally, Rosco returned by way of the rear door.

“Are you going to tell us what the problem is?” Belle asked.

He hung up his jacket and returned his revolver to its hiding place. He seemed unwilling to speak. “There was a prison break this morning … near Boston … a long way away, I know …” As he searched for words, Kit and Gabby were pawing at his trouser legs, all apparent worry gone. They greeted him as if he'd just returned from a mundane workday and were now preparing to devote himself solely to their canine concerns.

“Well, whatever was bothering those two seems to be forgotten,” Belle observed with a small smile.

“Probably a neighbor's cat—or a raccoon nosing around the trash bin,” Sara stated. “Besides, no escaped criminal would come south, Rosco. The entire northeast corridor is far too densely populated for a serious vanishing act. If I were on the lam, I'd go to Maine—and thence to Canada—”

“Where you'd hide in a snowbound cabin and subsist on hearts of palm and deviled ham,” Rosco couldn't resist tossing in.

“Perhaps a box or two of Melba toast would be a wise addition,” Sara replied, before continuing to “hatch” her Yule-tide conspiracy. Belle pulled the covered iron casserole dish from the oven, and Rosco proceeded to set the table for dinner while Kit and Gabby curled up on the kitchen floor.

“Oh, I meant to tell you, dear,” Sara warbled while her friends made their final dinner preparations. “I glanced at your
“Belle's Nöel”
contest puzzle in the
Crier
before I left home tonight—”

“She can't be bribed, Sara,” Rosco joked. “I already tried.”

“My dear boy, I'd never consider such unlawful behavior.”

Seven

T
HE
sky the next morning was an ominous gray, and a blustery wind from the northwest made the twenty-four degree temperature feel more like ten, but there still was no snow in the forecast. Al, Rosco and Abe had returned to the NPD evidence room at eight
A.M.
and once again suited up in their Santa costumes. Belle had pinned miniature Christmas trees and plastic holly leaves to a red, fleece dog jacket so that Gabby could also share in the holiday finery, and the three humans and single canine were back at it: collecting the gift toys the Newcastle merchants had gathered.

“Six or seven inches of snow would be nice right about now,” Abe remarked as they loaded a cart full of goodies retrieved from Gilbert's Groceries into the back of the unmarked police van. “Well, maybe it would be better if it held off until we get these toys delivered to the kids. But then …”

“Forget about it,” Al said, tossing a football to Rosco, who stood in the back of the van with Gabby. “This ain't gonna be no white Christmas. Weatherman's predicting clear skies all week; which is fine by me. You two winter-sports bums can keep the snow.” He grabbed another football, took four or five steps backward, looked right, then left, and passed it into Rosco. Gabby leapt up in an attempt to intercept it. “You know, if we played for the Pats,” Al continued, “we'd be down in Tampa Bay right now getting ready for tomorrow's game. Eighty degrees, sunshine, warm breeze off the Gulf …”

“I hate to break it to you, Al, but we don't play for the Pats. And, yes, Abe and I are looking forward to getting in our share of winter sports sometime soon. December's almost over and we haven't had anything resembling a frozen pond or freshly packed ski trail—”

“My heart bleeds.” Lever handed the last toy to Rosco. “Speaking of which; your honey sure cooked up a doozy of a crossword competition for the
Crier.
No way am I scoring the ‘deluxe dinner for two'—with or without help.”

Rosco pointed to the grocery entrance. “How about a ‘deluxe' home-cooked job for Helen? You rustle up a nice filet of beef, do the lighted-candle bit, buy her an expensive bottle of champagne—”

“Do I look like a cook to you, Poly—Crates?”

“Well, now that you mention it, Al, you do have a certain chef-like girth … Kind of a Paul Prudhomme thing.”

“Ho, ho.” Al walked off to return the shopping cart to the store while Rosco turned to Abe.

“No snow, huh?”

“Well, I don't know about Christmas, but the
Almanac
's been predicting a dry and unusually frigid winter when we hit January and February.”

“Since when is the
Farmer's Almanac
always right?”

“How about since 1792?”

Rosco considered this sobering piece of information. “Cold, huh?”

“Does the word
arctic
mean anything to you?”

Rosco grimaced and shook his head. “Okie-doke … What's our next stop?”

Jones flipped through a few sheets of paper on a stainless steel clipboard and said, “Papyrus, the office supply store on the other side of the interstate. Everything else is to the south, so we might as well start with Papyrus and get it out of the way.”

“Sounds reasonable.” Rosco picked up Gabby and stepped out of the rear of the van while Abe closed and locked it. Then they circled around to the passenger's side and slid into the front seat; Jones in the middle and Rosco sitting by the door with Gabby on his lap. “Sorry, she goes crazy if she doesn't get the window.”

“Buster's the same way. Gotta ride shotgun.” Jones slipped on a pair of wrap-around dark glasses, making him look like the heppest Santa north of Rio de Janeiro. “Here's something to consider,” he said as he gazed through the windshield. “Do you think dogs understand that we humans are actually
driving
the cars?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, visualize it; we walk toward a car—pooches and people, that is—then we jump into it. As far as dogs are concerned, the backseat is nothing more than another comfy couch, right? While the people settle themselves in the two Bark-O-Loungers up front. The dogs don't bother to wonder what we're doing. Why would they comprehend that we're actually
controlling
the movements of the vehicle?”