Wrapped Up in Crosswords (9 page)

“Drag him down to the far end of the counter, so's he can't get at either one of them. And tape his feet to that table so's he can't crawl back down here no time soon.”

Cooper did as he was told as Scraggs began studying the weapons in a wall-mounted display case.

“I don't see nothin' here I like,” he groused. “I don't want no rifle.”

Lee hopped behind the counter and tried to open the case. “It's locked.”

“Well, smash the friggin' glass, then,” Cooper said. “Let's just grab something and get outta here.”

“Ten'll get you twenty if this case is alarmed, you idiot,” Lee grumbled. He made no attempt to conceal the fact that he'd be happier without the other two cons. “Ask the punk where he keeps the keys.” He raised his voice to be certain Don could hear him. “If he don't tell ya, bash his head in.”

Lee's menacing tone was enough to convince Oliver that there was no sense in putting up a fight. Through a series of head and shoulder movements, he indicated that the keys were in his left, front trouser pocket at the end of a chain hanging from his belt. Cooper yanked on the chain, ripping off the belt loop in the process, then returned to the case and unlocked it. “I say we each grab .32s. That way were usin' the same ammo … like in case one of us don't make it.”

“Hell, you ain't as dumb as you look,” Scraggs said with a chuckle, but the sound was sadistic.

Lee made no response to Cooper's suggestion; instead, he pulled a Glock 9mm from the case, retrieved a box of shells from the lower shelf, and began loading it. “You two yokels grab what you want. Me, I'm takin' somethin' I'm comfortable with. 'Cause as soon as I can find me a decent set of wheels, I'm changin' outfits and splittin' from you two. Jolly old Saint Nick and the Salvation Army line can only get you so far in this world. Besides, the cops are probably onto us by now.”

“I'm tellin' ya, Lee,” Cooper insisted as he grabbed a revolver out of the case, “my sister lives nearby. She'll put us up for a bit. And we don't need to be scroungin' for no food no more neither. She's a good cook, too.”

“I take back my earlier comment, Cooper,” Scraggs remarked. “You're dumber than dirt. Your sister's joint's gonna be the first place the cops start lookin'.”

“Naw, she's got a different last name. Trust me, the cops don't know nothin' about her.”

“Hand me that .357 and some ammo, and let's get the hell outta here,” was Scraggs' blunt reply. “Lee's right, we need to locate us some new wheels and kill the jolly old elf.”

T
HE
“real” Santas, with Gabby at their side, missed the escapees by less than five minutes. When they entered Don Oliver's Gun Shoppe everything seemed perfectly normal—except that Don was nowhere in sight.

“That's odd,” Al said as he looked around the store, “Guess he must be in the John.” He strolled to the fishing section and removed a large saltwater lure from a wall display. “Don't ever buy one of these babies. I tried one last summer and didn't catch jack.”

“You're kidding me,” Abe said, attempting to keep a straight face beneath his newly replaced beard. “I've got that exact same lure. I couldn't keep the stripers off it. And sea bass? I had to give them away.”

“Ho, ho. You don't even fish, you jerk.”

Rosco laughed. “Neither of us do, Al. I wouldn't know a fishing lure from a Kewpie doll. In fact, all those feathers make them look kind of like—”

He was interrupted by a curious thumping noise coming from behind the far end of the sales counter. The three men moved toward the sound, where they found Don, his mouth gagged, his hands bound, and his feet taped securely to a heavy, metal work desk. Gabby, mistaking this for some type of human game of hide and seek, began licking his face, which prompted Rosco to pick her up.

“Not now, girl.”

Jones bent down and began removing duct tape from Don's arms and legs, while Lever phoned NPD headquarters. Once the shop owner was on his feet, but before removing the tape from his mouth, Abe asked, “How long have you been like this?”

Don held up both hands and spread his fingers.

“Ten minutes?”

Don double-checked his watch and nodded.

“Okay,” Abe said, “I just wanted to be certain the tape hadn't been there for a few hours. Depending on the brand, removal can be a nasty experience. But I think we're okay, as long as we take it nice and easy.”

Jones slowly pulled the tape from Don's mouth, holding only the corners. After he'd finished, he attached the tape to a large, plasticized card that identified “The Ducks of North America” in full-color detail. “We should be able to lift some fingerprints off this—if the perp wasn't wearing gloves.”

“It wasn't one guy. It was three,” Don said, stretching his lips as if he were trying to remember how it felt to talk. “I thought it was you when they walked in, and I—”

“There were three of them?” Lever repeated half to Don and half into the receiver.

“Yeah. Three Santas … I don't usually let my guard down like that, but from across the room they looked just like you guys. One of them was even faaa … heavyset.”

Al gritted his teeth slightly and returned his full attention to the telephone. “Yeah … it looks like the clowns who skipped from Suffolk County … meaning they're in our jurisdiction, still together, still dressed as Santa Claus—and now armed and dangerous. Let's seal off the area as best we can. According to Oliver, they should only have a five-minute jump on us.” He cupped the receiver. “Did you get a make on their vehicle, Don?”

“It was a green sedan; I didn't get the make. It looked like your wife's car, Rosco, that's why I didn't pay much attention … I'm usually pretty good about noting who drives what into my lot. You can't be too careful in this business. We can check the security camera. That should give us some answers. Maybe a plate number if we're lucky.”

“Do that, will you?” Lever said. “I'd like to see if it matches what the Staties have been looking for.”

In the end, all the pieces fit—which meant that it made little sense for Abe, Rosco, and Al to parade around Newcastle dressed in the same outfits as dangerous criminals. So Lever phoned NPD once more and asked to have their street clothes and I.D.s brought out to the gun shop.

“Well, there are only four more merchants on our list,” Rosco said, “but it kind of takes the fun out things, going around in civvies. I think the store owners get a kick out of watching us make fools of ourselves.”

Lever shrugged and pointed to the telephone. “Hey, it's not too late to get a squad car to hustle up the Three Blind Mice.”

Eleven

“Y
OU
'
VE
got to be kidding! They were actually mistaken for three cons on the lam?” Martha clasped the collar of her coat tighter to her neck and looked across the bare grounds of the deserted Dew Drop Inn to where Princess, Winston, and Kit were cavorting during a mid-afternoon outing. Despite the fact that Lawson's was open for lunch, its head waitress had chosen to play hooky for the afternoon. She tried to tell herself she was in the park with Belle and Bartholomew Kerr because it was what Princess wanted. But the truth was that Kenny's words of counsel still stung; and Lawson's peculiar break-in still remained unnerving. And both situations merely furthered her belief that Christmas wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

“I would have given a million bucks to see the look on Big Al's face when that went down. It must have been as red as his outfit. What did the Staties think our boys were doing with the toys they were collecting? Planning to fence them at Kiddie Kingdom?” She gave a “Martha” cackle, but the sound was oddly hesitant and uncertain.

Belle shook her head, her face still lined with concern. “Rosco only said they'd been given a rough time of it when he phoned to tell me he'd be late returning.”

Bartholomew Kerr tilted his bespectacled head in the manner of a man for whom life has turned unexpectedly grave. “And then stumbling upon the tail-end of the gun shop heist? Committed by the self-same bogus Messers Claus? Thank Heaven there were no injuries. This is not the work of the winged seraphim and cherubim we normally associate with the season—”

“Maybe the holiday spirit's about grabbing rather than giving,” Martha rejoined with another short, brash laugh. “But I have to admit, the thought of six grown men dressed up as Santa Claus and having a knock-down drag-out brawl might be a huge draw in the pro wrestling circuit—the Slammin' Santas take on the Kris Kringle Krushers.” Then she clamped her mouth shut in a motion that was decidedly atypical. “I'm sorry, Belle honey, I didn't mean to be snide. You're worried about your hubby, and you should be. Goons like those on the loose—and armed—in Newcastle. We should all be a little more worried.”

“You weren't being snide, Martha,” was Belle's perplexed and gentle answer. “You were simply being yourself.”

“Yeah, well … sometimes ‘being yourself ain't so hot.”

“‘To thine own self be true,'” Bartholomew intoned in his delicate voice, “‘And it must follow as the night the day, Thou cans't not then be false to any man.'
Hamlet,
Act I, Scene III.”

“Yeah … well …” Martha repeated as she shrugged. “‘To be, or not to be'—me. That's what I'm wrestling with.” She drew her coat closer to her body. “Sure is cold today.”

“Too cold to snow,” Bartholomew added. “Which is a shame. I do so love a white Christmas. So does Winston. His Flex-flyer sled comes out of storage, and he rides like the prime minister as we carol the eve away.”

Martha's mouth turned downward at this cheery pronouncement. Noticing the expression, Belle remembered what Sara had shared with her, and how worried the old lady was about this seemingly tough-skinned woman. “Did you both receive Sara's e-mailed instructions about the Secret Santas for the gift-wrapping party?” Belle asked to brighten the mood.

“Every
bell
and whistle she attached to her missive,” Bartholomew stated. “Pardon the pun, my dear
Anna-gram,
but I couldn't resist. Some octogenarians would throw up their hands at having to become computer literate, but not our Sara. She seems bent on outdoing Mr. Gates himself.”

Martha's response was another lackluster shrug. “Yeah, I got the e-mail, but I'm not certain I'm going to be able to attend the party.”

“Not go to Sara's?” Belle was incredulous. “But you never work evenings, do you?”

Martha shook her head “no.” “I may I have other plans—”

“What other plans?” Belle blurted out.

“My niece—”

“I thought your niece and her husband were visiting his folks in Florida this year.”

“Well, there may be a change in their arrangements,” Martha lied; and both Belle and Bartholomew could see straight through this bit of deceit.

“It's not going to tarnish your trenchant, Garbo-esque image to celebrate the holidays, Martha,” Bartholomew enjoined with some warmth. She turned to him, a look of wounded surprise on her face.

“Is that how you see me? As … as ‘trenchant'?”

Unaware of how much damage his remark had caused, Bartholomew chortled blithely. “You're right to take me to task. Garbo was not an apt analogy. You're far more of a wisenheimer—let us say, a Bette Midler type. And since my business is chronicling the escapades of people who work overtime to construct newsworthy personae, I'd say you've crafted a very neat public image … and one that we all love, I might add, just like the Divine Miss M.”

But this single word “love” produced even more anguish. Martha turned away in order to prevent the others from seeing the tears that were filling her eyes. “Look at Princess,” she said with false cheer, “and Winston and Kit—all playing together completely unaware that there are problems in the world. A ‘dog's life,' that's what they say, isn't it?” Then she blew her nose and repeated her remark about how very cold it was. “When I come back, in my next life, I want to be your pooch, Bartholomew.”

“Don't tell me you want to ‘go to the dogs,' my dear Miss M.,” was Bartholomew's amused reply, then he turned to Belle. “Speaking of dogs and dogged determination, I hear your
Crier
competition's causing a good deal of anguish among puzzle aficionados this year. Or perhaps, given recent events I should say, it's producing a considerable
stir.

“Pro or
con
?” Martha couldn't help but quip, and Bartholomew beamed up at her.

“Good for you, Miss M. You see how much more fun it is to have the gift of human thought. Now, I don't wish to
bound
you, but our four-legged friends are simply not capable of producing anything resembling your ready wit.”

A
T
this point, the canines in question were not concerned with humor or wit—or even fun. Instead, they were in the midst of a troubling powwow. Winston, during one of his “peregrinations” with “Old Bug-eye”—the journeys being accomplished by auto rather than by foot—had noticed that the pair of lovebirds in the pet shop window were no longer on display. “And you know what that means, don't you?” he concluded with his chesty growl.

“Rosco can't have purchased them …” Kit also growled, but the sound was defensive. In fact, it was almost a whine.

“I'm afraid there can be no other conclusion—”

“But bringing birds into our home, Winston! What could he be thinking of? He knows Gabby and I have no use for them!”

“Does he?” This was Princess' question, and it was voiced in one quick, breathless yip while her petite body in its gumdrop-hued coat skipped in the air.

“Of course, he does … Well, I think he does … He should … What I mean to say is that all humans must have recognized that they can't mix predatory types, i.e., canines, with their natural prey. Surely, Rosco has noticed Gabby and I chasing after the pigeons, crows, and geese that descend into the landscape of this park? Birds have the sky; they have tree limbs; they have rooftops. And that's where they belong.”