A Crossworder's Delight (3 page)

“It's getting close to midnight, after all …” Rosco raised an exaggerated woolly arm, gesturing toward the blackness of the night sky that lay beyond the windows of Belle's home office; a converted rear porch decorated as a crossworder's fantasy: a wood floor painted in a bold black and white grid, lamp shades pasted with puzzles, the drapes hand-blocked to resemble both clues and solutions.

“You'll note that our neighbors aren't burning the midnight oil,” Rosco added. “One can only guess what they might be up to? In fact, I was thinking that we might try to entertain ourselves elsewhere as well. ‘Bed' is a word that pops into my mind for some reason. Three letters, down or across: your choice.”

Seated at her desk and intent on the anonymous crossword cookbook, Belle failed to answer her husband—behavior he didn't find surprising because he doubted she'd actually heard him. When she was in “full lexical mode,” she was often totally unaware of physical sensations: hunger, cold, human or animal sounds, or the fact that her spine had been twisted into a contortionist's position for longer than she could remember.

He repeated his suggestion while the canine part of the picture went to work: Gabby, an excitable curly gray “wheatoodle” or “poodlier” or “combination-wheaten-terrorist-and-wired-poodle-type,” skittered forward to nudge Belle's arm with an insistent, wet-nosed snout; and Kit, a wise and normally self-composed brown and white shepherd mix flopped on the painted floor with a dramatic groan.

Belle finally looked up, although Rosco could see from her distracted gaze that she was trying to find a word or phrase that would best describe her present circumstances. When she was concentrating on one of her puzzles, the rest of the world was often reduced to synonym, antonym, or homonym status. At this moment, he decided that she was probably trying to recall how many Tartans she could name, and what the differences were between a Royal Stewart and a clan MacGregor. “What? What's going on?” she asked him.

“I said, are you thinking of coming to bed anytime this year?”

“Bed?” Belle echoed.

“You know, the warm, cozy piece of furniture upstairs where almost anything is possible?”

“Do you realize, Rosco, that the Scottish Highlanders were forbidden to wear their native dress after the rebellion of 1745? Absolutely forbidden by acts of Parliament, whose members believed that the clans would again rise up to fight the English if they were permitted to continue proclaiming their heritage, i.e. by donning kilts …
plaide
is the Scottish Gaelic word—”

“Just as I thought,” Rosco said.

Belle stared at him, dumbfounded. “You mean you were mulling over this very same subject at the very same time? Wow! I guess that's what marriage does for people. You start sharing thoughts as well as finishing each other's sentences.”

“I suspect that we
weren't
sharing the same thought. And when I said ‘just as I thought,' I wasn't referring to acts of Parliament or Scottish kilts. I meant ‘I thought' your mind wasn't focused on what I was saying, which it wasn't.”

Belle continued to stare in perplexity. “Which was?”

Kit responded to this question with another stagy groan then stretched her long legs across the floor while Rosco answered an amused, “I asked if you planned on getting any shuteye tonight, or whether you intended to keep filling in empty white squares with your handy red pen.”

Belle glanced at the photocopy of “
Holiday Slay Ride
,” the crossword recipe she'd been working on. “How can I sleep when I've got this conundrum in front of me?”

“Simple. You put down the book. Then you put down the pen. Then you climb the stairs, slide into bed, put your head on the pillow, and bingo: dreamland. Works for me every time. Unless, of course, you have a husband who insists upon being a pest.”

“That's not what I mean, and you know it.”

“At the risk of pointing out the obvious, this is an old cookbook you found at the inn, right?”

Belle cocked her head to one side. “And your point would be?”

“The mystery of who ‘Mama' is—or was—as well as her daughter's identity has remained unsolved for a while. Maybe even a very long while. Another night's not going to make a difference. Dare I also suggest that given the somewhat lugubrious title these folks may even be deceased? Demised? Dead as a doornail? Six feet under? In which case you can get to it after the New Year. Valentine's Day, even.”

“That's so callous, Rosco! Besides, I'm figuring the title is a clever turn of phrase for a ‘killer' dessert.… Like a ‘Death by Chocolate' kind of thing.”

Rosco gave his wife a wry look. “Ask Gabby or Kit here if I'm the one who's being
callous
.… These are two seriously sleep-deprived pooches. Look at poor Kit; she's forced to lie on the
floor
, for Pete's sake. A hard, black and white floor.”

Belle chuckled. “Well, you and your pampered pals can go back upstairs and snuggle under the quilt any time you wish.… Anyway, I'm almost finished.” Her eyes returned to the puzzle, her pen poised in the air. “There are a number of references to movies and actors from the mid 1940s.…” she muttered, half to herself and half as an explanation to Rosco. “
Gorcey of
Mr. Wise Guy
and others
, which is the clue to 24-Across—the solution being
LEOS
. Then 42-Across: WALTER
Slezak of
Lifeboat; LENA
Horne of
Stormy Weather at 61-Across;
Bandleader Shaw
, which is obviously ARTIE at 2-Down.… If this puzzle was constructed later than the 1940s, there would be more contemporary clues.”

By now Rosco had moved to Belle's side, and both dogs had given up on the humans, curling themselves into a disconsolate heap. The picture they created was one of both discomfort (the floor was chilly) and abandonment (the humans didn't love them sufficiently), but Belle and Rosco were familiar with these theatrical pleas for sympathy, and merely smiled at the supposedly woeful sight.

“You two sad sacks can head up to bed without us,” Belle advised as she pointed her pen at 65-Across:
Miss Crawford's husband
. “See? The clue's in the present tense,” she said to Rosco, “which means that the crossword must have been created when—”

“Well, it's not hubby
numero uno
, because Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. doesn't fit,” Rosco interrupted. “And number two was Franchot Tone …”

Belle stared at her husband, slack-jawed with wonderment.

“Of course, Alfred Steele, the chairman of PepsiCo came way later … so the solution must be Phillip TERRY, the third spouse. I think the dates were '42 to '46 … Clark Gable was on the list, too, but not in the signed-on-the-dotted-line category. I believe their relationship was called a ‘romance' back then, which remarkably brings us full-circle and back to that three letter word—B-E-D.”

Belle finally found her voice. “How do you know bizarre facts like those?” she demanded.

“The same way you've picked up tidbits concerning the wearing of certain plaids.”

Belle laughed again, then shook her head and regarded her husband with an amused expression. “You realize you look exactly like a fifties ad for pipe tobacco, don't you?”

Rosco also chortled. “I was afraid you'd say that. Just point me toward the brandy and the blazing yule logs.… Anyway, you're the one who gave me this sexy outfit, remember? Say, we don't have Prince Albert in the can, do we?”

Belle's smile grew. “Well, isn't it cozier than that threadbare black sweatshirt you're so fond of?”

But Rosco wouldn't concede this point. “Just remind me to change before I go into a waterfront dive pretending to be a disgruntled crew member who's lost his job on a fishing rig, and has a family of eight to feed. When I'm investigating a case of marine insurance fraud, that sweatshirt's a better choice than a dressing gown, plaid or otherwise … So, does
TERRY
fit?”

After Belle's chuckles subsided, she inked in the word. “Yup … but you haven't answered my question about why you know who Joan Crawford's various housemates were.”

Rosco sidestepped the query with a breezy, “So that's the T at the end of PAT O'Brien, and the Y at the end of PENNY for
Singleton of
Blondie.”

“Rosco,” Belle protested. “Come on. Fess up. You're a secret Crawford groupie.”

“Well, I'd like to say that as a PI who's done a fair amount of divorce work, I've made it a habit to study nasty celebrity cases from the past as well as the present, but the truth is that my mom was a major Joan Crawford fan.”

“You're kidding!” Belle couldn't imagine her mother-in-law, Helen, the quintessential Greek American matriarch—with the emphasis on Old World Greek—being a devoted admirer of filmdom's glamor-puss tough gal.

“Do I look as though I'm kidding?”

Belle gave her husband a knowing smile. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Just like you do a good deal of the time, I might add.”

“So you thought I was joking when I suggested you and I could huddle under the sheets?”

Belle grinned, then tilted her face up to his, waiting for a kiss. “No, I know better than that.”

“So we douse the lights, and—”

But Belle interrupted, almost jumping in her chair in her excitement. “Nineteen forty-two to
'46
.… Is that when you said this Phillip Terry was in the picture?”

“As it were—”

“Rosco! This is no time for puns!”

He gave her a mock frown. “I don't think I was the one who made the—”

But Belle was already on one of her proverbial tears. “
Lifeboat
was released in 1944. I know because I looked it up. John Steinbeck wrote the screenplay; bet you didn't know that one! Ditto on '44 for the Ameche flick
A Wing and A Prayer
. The other films were earlier.… Which means that this puzzle must have been constructed between '44 and '46.”

“That sure narrows it down.”

Belle ignored the facetious comment. “So, we have to find a mother whose daughter loved chocolate—”

“Will I sound like a broken record if I say, ‘That sure narrows it down'?”

“Rosco—”

“And who may or may
not
have lived in Newcastle during the mid 1940s. Sounds simple enough.… Wait a minute, what's this ‘we' business? How did
I
get involved in this?”

If Belle heard Rosco's question, she gave no indication that she had. “First thing tomorrow morning, I'm going to Legendary Chocolates. I'll bet they've got records dating back to the forties, and probably a whole lot earlier. The shop's been an institution in this city forever.”

“I guess it wouldn't occur to you that this might be a wild goose chase,” Rosco interjected.

“It's a chocolate chase,” was Belle's blithe reply. “Geese, either wild or domesticated, have nothing to do with it. Although I imagine Legendary has all sorts of chocolate geese and turkeys made up for the holidays … and snowmen and snowflakes and elves …” She looked at her husband, her expression again thoughtful. “I wonder why it is that kids get such a kick out of biting the heads off chocolate creatures.”

“As opposed to the pleasure adults feel doing the same thing?” Rosco chortled.

“Oh, I'm much more circumscribed when I devour a candy critter than I used to be.”

“In that case, I'm glad I didn't know you way back when. I know better than to stand between you and your favorite foods.”

“Ho, ho …” Belle rose and began turning off the lamps and shutting the puzzle-themed curtains against the cold night. Soon the room was reduced to basic black, with vibrant squares of white reflecting the lights still burning in the living room beyond. The sensation was akin to entering a three-dimensional word game.

She studied the scene while she reached out and took her husband's hand. “I bet you thought I was a nutcase when you first met me and saw where I did my best work.”

“Actually, it was love at first sight,” Rosco said as he embraced her. “The nutty part came later.”

Four

A
T
seven-twenty the following morning, there was a light coating of snow covering the garden behind Belle and Rosco's house. It hadn't yet begun to stick to their narrow drive or the paved road that fronted the row of eighteenth-century houses that made up “Captain's Walk,” but it soon would. The surprise snowfall was now predicted to continue all day, and perhaps into the night as well. At least ten inches was anticipated in the city, and more in the suburbs. Winter had officially arrived in Newcastle—or taken it by storm.

“Isn't it beautiful, Rosco?” Belle said as she sipped her coffee and stared through a kitchen window. She cupped her mug in both hands while she studied the scene. “Our first snow of the year.… Isn't it wonderful?” She sighed contentedly, then turned toward her husband. “Don't think for a minute, however, that it's going to delay my visit to Legendary Chocolates. No weather-wimp, am I.”

“Mm hm …” Rosco helped himself to a second cup of coffee. Although he'd already taken his morning run accompanied by the two dogs, he wasn't necessarily fully conversant. Exercised, showered, shaved, and dressed, yes, but ready to have an intelligent dialogue, no. Belle, on the other hand, was primed for chat—just as she was every single morning. She actually woke up not only talking but often in mid sentence: the previous section of which had been left in her brain the night before.

“What time do you think the shop opens on Saturdays?” she asked with a cheery smile.

“Shop?” Rosco frowned in thought as he alternately stared at the coffee machine and his wife's sunny face.

“Legendary Chocolates …”