A Crossword to Die For (9 page)

“Rosco!” Her pleased tone was mingled with more than a dose of confusion. “I saw your Jeep outside … I thought you were going to the office to wrestle with the Leland-Marine mess …” She gave him a long kiss. “This is nice … a nice surprise.” She pulled back and gazed at him. “Does this mean we have the afternoon to play?”

Rosco smiled; it wasn't one of his best.

“Uh-oh, that's not the famous Polycrates ‘let's play' smile; that's more like the famous Polycrates ‘I'm thinking' smile.”

“I tripped over Kit on the steps.”

“Are you all right?”

“I was carrying your dad's stuff upstairs. One of the cartons broke.”

“But you're okay?”

“Oh, yeah, I'm fine … but I decided to begin organizing his paperwork … Rather than just stuff it all back in the box.”

“Darn,” Belle said, giving him another kiss, “it's the ‘I'm thinking' smile.”

Rosco held up the piece of paper that Kit had so helpfully gnawed. “Want to take a guess at what this is?”

CHAPTER 11

Rosco waved the limp slip of paper between them as if trying to air-dry it. “This is what's left of a receipt—albeit slightly chewed and drooled on.”

“So?” Belle responded. She was still unwilling to switch over to Rosco's serious tone.

“I found it in your father's papers … Or I should say Kit found it … Did you know that your father went to Belize?”

“Hmmm? Really …? Well, I guess it had something to do with his research on the Olmec people. I assumed the culture was centered in what is now Mexico, but perhaps he found traces of the civilization elsewhere.”

“Belle,
Belize
isn't the point. The point is: How do you think I discovered he went there?”

“I don't know, Rosco. Is that a hotel bill?”

“No, but that's an interesting thought … Because now that you mention it, I actually
didn't
find any hotel bills, or dinner receipts, for that matter. And his records are immaculate—”

“Did you doubt they would be?” Belle's tone was teasing. “I told you that, in my case, the apple fell
very
far from the parental tree …”

But Rosco had already moved forward with his train of thought. “Perhaps your father stayed with an academic institution down there … or maybe he had friends?”

“It's possible … Although, I don't have a clue who those friends might have been.”

Rosco studied her. He didn't speak for a moment. “The reason I know about the trip, is because of this.” Again, he lifted the paper Kit had so diligently chewed. “It's a plane ticket stub, Belle. The name ‘Graham' is on it. Your dad flew there … on an airplane.”

Belle looked dumbfounded. She shook her head while an expression of utter disbelief swept across her face. “Are you sure?” She pulled the receipt from Rosco's hand. “Theodore Graham …” she read aloud. “But my father was terrified of planes. He wouldn't fly if his life depended on it.”

“Well, he did fly, Belle. He went to Belize. Not once, but three times.”

“By plane? Each time?”

“Yep.”

“Where are the other tickets?”

“Upstairs. With the rest of his stuff.”

“I can't believe this.”

“Well, believe it … Granted, it's the only way—or I should say
simplest
way to get from Florida to Belize. I can't imagine there are many regular shipping runs. And here's the other thing—each time he left from the Tampa Airport, but the receipts are dated well before he moved to Florida's west coast. If he was living in Marathon at the time, why didn't he leave from the Miami Airport?”

“But he never traveled
anywhere
by plane, only by rail or automobile … Thus his train trip up here to visit us … as well as his aborted journey to join our wedding.”

“He never went to Europe?” Rosco found it difficult to believe that a worldly type like Theodore A. Graham had never crossed the
Pond
.

“By ship … sure. That was long before I was born. Once the transatlantic runs dried up, I don't think my parents even considered going back.”

“Well …” Rosco took a deep breath and tried to feign an aura of indifference. “Like I said, if he needed to get to Belize, flying might have been his only option … You know, gulp down a few Valium and grin and bear it, right?”

Belle remained silent, so Rosco took her hand and gave it a light squeeze. “Okay … So, here we are … What would you like to do with this information?”

“What do you mean:
do
?”

“I think you have to make a decision, Belle. We can close up this Pandora's Box we've opened, and move your dad's belongings to the attic. Or we can look for an explanation for this uncharacteristic behavior. It's not a decision I can make, though; it has to come from you. And to be honest, I think digging into the past is liable to cause you pain. A lot of pain.”

Bell squeezed his hand in return. “Thanks.”

“My suggestion is to tape up the box, and tackle it in six months or so—after you've put some distance between yourself and the entire matter.”

Belle was quiet for a long minute. “Is there more? More ‘uncharacteristic behavior,' I mean?”

“There are other oddities, yes. However, your dad's gone … I suggest you let sleeping dogs lie.”

Belle's pensive face broke into a rueful smile. “Have you ever known me to let sleeping dogs lie, Rosco? Have you? Kit notwithstanding …”

Rosco smiled back at her, his expression filled with concern and love. After a moment, he continued. “Okay. Here's what we have …” He stressed the word
we
, which Belle acknowledged with a grateful nod. “
We
have three trips to Belize via Tampa. Now, the only people who might have an explanation are this Woody guy, or Deborah Hurley … You've already attempted to track down Woody—to no avail … So, do you want to call Debbie yourself, or should I—acting in an official capacity?”

Belle thought for a second. “I'll phone her. We have a relationship … sort of. I've got her number in my office.”

As they walked to the rear of the house, and an excessively crossword-puzzle-themed room that served as Belle's home office, Rosco placed his arm over her shoulder. “I love you, Belle. Anytime you want to call it quits on this … investigation, just let me know.”

“I will.”

She crossed to a filing cabinet, removed a manila folder, placed it on her desk, then picked up her phone and tapped in Debbie's number. It was answered on the second ring by a male voice.

“Hurley residence.”

“Yes. Is this Mr. Hurley, by any chance?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Mr. Hurley, this is Belle Graham calling … Ted Graham's daughter—”

“Oh, yes … Deb mentioned she'd seen you when you were down visiting.” The voice was surprisingly free of tension or animosity, and Belle began wondering just what Debbie had
mentioned
. “I'm sorry about your dad, Mrs. Graham. It came as a shock to all of us down here. He was a great guy. Everyone was real fond of him.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hurley—”

“Mike. Call me Mike. Please.”

“Thank you …” Belle took a breath for courage. “Mike, I was wondering if I could speak with Debbie for a second?”

“She just stepped out, but I expect her back in about twenty minutes. She went to rent a movie. Would you like her to call you when she gets in?”

“Thanks. Yes. She's got my number.”

“Is this about the sale of your dad's apartment?”

Belle frowned, uncomfortable once again with how interwoven these strangers' lives were with her father's. “No. I haven't heard anything from the broker.” She hesitated. “Have you?”

“Not unless Deb knows something I don't.” Another brief pause ensued. “Look, Mrs. Graham, please let us know if we can do anything for you … It's not easy handling these situations long distance, and we're here to help if we can. What I mean to say is: the offer still stands even if Deb is no longer in your family's employ.”

Belle found herself smiling at the polite formality of Mike Hurley's words as well as his obviously genuine suggestion of help. “Thank you, Mike … And call me Belle, okay?”

“Will do.”

Belle placed the receiver back in its cradle and slumped into her chair. “Well, he seems like a nice enough guy. Too bad he got hooked up with Debbie … Although maybe he'll never learn what her true feelings for my father were.”

“You don't know for certain she wasn't simply what she appeared, Belle: the star-struck young assistant. I need to see more proof before jumping to far-out conclusions.”

She didn't answer immediately. “That's what Sara said, too … But I was there, Rosco. And intuition tells me there was another relationship at work.”

Rosco thought. “What does Mike do?”

“Deborah said he was down there T-A-D.” Belle grinned for the first time in many, many minutes, although as an expression of mirth, it was unconvincing. “I bet you don't know what that means.”

Rosco returned his own slow smile. “Temporary Assigned Duty … So, he's in the military.”

Again, Belle tried for a light approach. “Yes, Mr. Know-it-all.”

Rosco rubbed his chin. He was clearly pondering this new piece of information. “And since there aren't any large military installations in the immediate vicinity, I would guess he's with the Coast Guard. How long did Deborah say they'd been down in Florida?”

“She didn't. Why?”

“Just curious. If Mike is T-A-D, they've probably been in Florida less than a year—”

The telephone rang out at that moment. Startled, Belle jumped while Rosco regarded her, noting how tense and anxious she was beneath her habitual I-can-handle-it exterior. “Belle Graham speaking.”

“This is Deborah Hurley.” Unlike her husband's, the tone was frosty.

“Debbie. Good … Thank you for calling me back so promptly.”

A long pause greeted Belle's effort at politeness. Then Debbie spoke again. “Mike said you needed to talk to me.”

This time it was Belle who hesitated. Part of her wanted to solve the problem of her father's mysterious journeys; another part now sincerely wanted to avoid all future contact with Deborah Hurley. Mike's kind—and trusting—voice seemed to clamor in her ears. “Yes, I did, Debbie …” she finally said. “I've been sorting some of my father's paperwork and I came across a receipt for a round-trip Cen-Am plane ticket from Tampa to Belize.”

The response to this statement was stony silence.

Belle shut her eyes, then forced them open. “It's dated seven months ago. Last February. I know my father hated to fly, so I was a little surprised—to say the least. Can you shed some light on this?”

Debbie didn't answer for a moment. When she did, her words were stiff, as though the speech had been practiced. “Look, I don't know what you're thinking my relationship with your father was, Belle … if I took trips with him, or things like that … What he hired me to do was research—and some secretarial work. That's all. And I've got to tell you that your … your suspicions are making me feel real uncomfortable … They'd make Mike feel uncomfortable too, if he knew. I mean, my husband's a great guy, and I don't like you—”

“Debbie … Deborah, I'm not asking you to explain your relationship with my father, and I'm certainly not about to interfere in your marriage. Or to infer
any
kind of innuendo with your husband … I'm only asking if you have any idea why my father flew to Belize?”

“No.”

“And you don't recall him leaving the country for seven days last February?”

“I wasn't working for Ted back then … Besides, February was a tough time for me. Mike and I had to go back up to New Jersey to deal with my kid sister … She died on Valentine's Day … We were expecting it … But still …” Debbie Hurley's speech ceased while Belle opened her mouth to respond, then realized any words of consolation would sound forced and false.

“So … so, I don't have any idea what your dad did—or where he went—during that time. All I can say is that he was really kind when he interviewed me, and I told him about my sister … He was really, really nice.… like he always was …” Debbie's voice threatened to crack; again, she paused. When she finally resumed talking, her composure had returned. “Ted never told me—or Mike—that he didn't like to fly,” she said before hanging up.

After what seemed an eon, Belle returned the silent receiver to its cradle. Her brain felt bludgeoned with contradictory information and with the many personalities that apparently had been her father. She squinted her eyes; she tried to focus her thoughts. “Deborah said … Deborah said …”

“I heard that much,” Rosco answered. He was tempted to put his arms around her, but sensed she needed space. “I'm sorry to say we've got another unsolved problem,” he finally added.

CHAPTER 12

Belle shook her head; her confusion was absolute. “So, what are you trying to tell me, Rosco?”

“That's just it; I don't know.” He held up a document she recognized: the sales receipt for
Wooden Shoe
. “The receipt is dated four years ago … for ninety-seven thousand dollars … A lot of moolah—even by today's standards. But for the life of me, I can't figure out where all the money came from.”

Belle didn't respond for a moment; her brow was knotted in concentration. “I didn't focus on the financial aspect of
Wooden Shoe
's purchase when I was down there … I should have …” From her position at her desk, she looked up and away from Rosco, instead gazing out the windows to the small and cozy garden beyond the house. The golden afternoon light of an August in New England bathed the hydrangea bushes and pots of petunias and lobelias in a warm, inviting glow. It was a scene made for patio chairs and glasses of lemonade, for the sounds of crickets chirruping or of seagulls lofting in on the harbor's salt breeze, but Belle was immune to the picturesque appeal. “It was just that everything came as such a surprise when I was down there …”