Anatomy of a Crossword (5 page)

Belle was in the midst of preparing a plate of deviled eggs when Rosco came home that evening. In times of crisis, this was her favorite therapeutic food. She was so engrossed in the soothing chore of scooping hard-cooked yolks into a mixing bowl, adding a pinch or so of dried English mustard, and popping in some healthy dollops of mayo and a couple of spoonfuls of capers that she didn't hear the front door open or Kit's delighted yips as she greeted her favorite male companion of the two-legged, we'll-go-for-a-walk-in-a-minute variety.

It took a concerned, “Everything go alright with the visitors from Los Angeles?” from Rosco before Belle realized she was no longer alone.

She jumped. “You scared me.”

“That's what you get for having such a sotto voce watchdog.” He walked over to her, circled her waist with his arms, and kissed her neck.

His wife's brain was elsewhere. Ordinarily, Belle would have turned to face him and continue the embrace, then asked him how his day had gone. This time, she stood still, gazing at, without fully seeing, the fluffy yellow mixture in the bowl before her. “Maybe Kit was asleep …”

“Ah … Actually, she wasn't. I was kidding with the ‘sotto voce' bit. Her nibs was her usual chatty self.” Rosco gently shifted his wife's stance until he was looking down into her pensive face. “Was there a problem with the design team?”

“Well …” Belle's reply was drawn-out and hesitant.

“I assume they weren't rude to you, or out of line?” Gorilla-style, he facetiously pounded his chest. “A Greek-American like myself doesn't like to see women insulted. Especially one I happen to love a lot.”

“No one made a pass, Rosco, if that's what you mean.”

“Well, they should have.” He put on a Bogey accent, “Gorgeous dame like you?”

Belle smiled, but the expression was as rueful and uncertain as her tone. “The visit went according to schedule, but I felt very uncomfortable with them snooping around our house, so I decided to accompany them on their rounds.”

“NPD, Lawson's, and Sara's?”

Belle nodded.

“Let me guess … The folks at NPD didn't cotton to having ordinary civilians around? Especially ones with cameras?”

“No, everyone at the police station was okay … Well, pretty much okay.”

“Big Al, too?”

Belle shrugged. “A little cranky, I guess … But, then that's how he likes to present himself. Tough cop. No nonsense. He did some editing before he let them leave with their photos.”

Rosco laughed briefly. “I'm not hearing a heck of a lot of enthusiasm for the invading guys and gals from outer California.” He tried for a lighter tone, which on other occasions would have brought a quick grin to his wife's face. This time it did not.

Belle looked up at him, her troubled gaze growing. “The leader of the team, Miso Lane, took a lot of Polaroids of Sara.”

“She's quite a character. I can't say I blame him.”

“But he didn't tell her, Rosco! Or ask her permission.”

“He probably simply wanted candid snaps, Belle. Shots that would be considered more artistic and immediate rather than posed.”

“But there was something secretive in his behavior. Something … well, not nervous, really, but kind of sly. And his entire approach shifted the minute he set foot in White Caps. Up until then, he couldn't stand in one place longer than a minute. But when he saw Sara, he looked as if he'd been shot with a stun gun. It was almost as if he was suddenly fixating on her.”

“That's a strong term—fixate.”

“I know it is, and I'm not really sure why I use it, but there was a weird quality about him.” Belle let out an elongated sigh. “I can't believe this; I haven't even asked you how things went in court today.”

He shrugged. “The usual. Sit around and wait. Wait around and sit.” Rosco was in the final phases of a lengthy fraud case and had been asked to testify by a team of insurance company lawyers who believed a client had bilked the company out of two million dollars by submitting phony claims on “stolen” merchandise. Rosco had collected evidence that supported the company's position, determining that goods were simply being moved from warehouse to warehouse and then being shipped overseas by a subsidiary business under a different name. The job had required a substantial amount of undercover work, something Rosco enjoyed and had a knack for. And these initial hearings were only to determine if cameras would be allowed into the courtroom. Since he held a vested interest in not wanting his mug spread throughout every media outlet in eastern Massachusetts, he'd opted to attend the proceedings.

“It's odd,” he said, “that we should both have our pea-brains focused on cameras. In retrospect, I'm glad I put my foot down when the Polaroid clan asked to shoot my office. I'm a little too fond of my anonymity. Though, in Sara's case, she must have known Mr. Miso Lane was taking pictures of her. A flash goes off every time someone fires one of those Polaroids.”

“You didn't see them at work. The five of them took so many photos, it was like being in the middle a summer lightning storm. Who knew what was in their sights?”

As Rosco thought, his arms returned to holding his wife close, sending a silent message of caring and concern. “And did you pick up on those same peculiar vibes when this Lane guy was here?”

“No, not the vibes, but they snapped as many pictures—none of me, though … And none of Martha when they were at Lawson's.” Belle frowned. “Then the odd thing was that when I returned home from Sara's, I noticed that the crossword I was constructing for Chick Darlessen was missing. Not that losing it is the end of the world. I just need to draw another grid and put in the words I still remember, which, fortunately, is all of them. The puzzle most likely got swept up among all the photos the team was taking of the office.”

Rosco was silent. Belle also was silent, while their two bodies, accustomed to fitting together in mutual and loving support, remained intertwined and interconnected.

“You don't have to go out there, Belle. If you're getting cold feet—”

She tried for a second smile. “Well, they're not really cold. They're more tepid.”

“I'm serious, Belle. You don't have to go. Darlessen et al will work it out.”

She sighed and attempted another small jest. “Martha would never forgive me.”

“Martha would get over it.”

Belle pressed her face against Rosco's shoulder. “You know what I love about you?”

“My sexy bod.”

“Very funny. What I love about you is that you're levelheaded.”

Rosco chuckled. “There's a recommendation for you! ‘Levelheaded,' that is,
boring guy
available for advice or snuggling or whatever. Only
serious
women need apply.”

“That's not what I mean, and you know it. What I'm trying to say is that you're centered. You don't let yourself fly into a tailspin. You don't let your imagination get the better of you.”

“There's nothing wrong with imagination, Belle—and everything
right
with following your instincts. Which, by the way, have gotten us out of hot water on more than one occasion.”

“Hmmm, they've also managed to get us
into
hot water from time to time …”

He chuckled and then repeated his previous suggestion. “Look, you don't have to go to California. You can overnight the crossword and stay home. Or fax it to them and call it quits.”

“But I gave my word.”

“Tell Darlessen your plans have changed. After all, it's his studio's fault for not giving you more advance notice … Or,
I
can phone him and say you fell on the ice, broke your leg … No, wait …! You were knocked unconscious, and have amnesia. They'll love that story line.”

“That's nothing to joke about.”

“Who's joking? Isn't that how all those soap operas work? Folks get hit on the head and end up shipping out on tramp steamers, wandering the globe for years and years, completely unaware that they're really the wealthy scions of some blue-blood family from Boston or Philadelphia …”

“Forget what I said about levelheaded.” This time Belle truly smiled while Rosco looked at the concoction on the countertop, noticing it for the first time.

“That's what we're having for supper? Deviled eggs?”

“For starters,” Belle said.

“And for finishers?”

“I was thinking maybe the Athena Restaurant.”

“How did I know you were going to suggest that?”

They kissed, all worries momentarily banished. When they pulled apart, Rosco looked down into his wife's smiling face. “You don't have to go to California, Belle. Think of Kit being without you for an entire week? Who's going to entertain her all day long? Toss balls, give belly rubs?”

“I work around here, in case you hadn't noticed.”

“Not according to Kit, you don't.”

Belle smiled again. “Everything's going to be fine, Rosco. It is.”

Maybe it was the
taramosalata
at the Athena Restaurant, or the spinach and feta pie or the moussaka or the honey-drenched baklava. Or perhaps it was a result of indulging in all four highly spiced delights, but Belle's sleep that night was disrupted by odd and disquieting dreams.

She saw Sara's house—but only as a series of doors and windows—all the places of entry and exit Miso Lane and his crew had so deliberately recorded.

Then her sleeping mind visited her own home, although she and Rosco were not living there. Instead, the place was inhabited by a band of brigands who remained locked inside during daylight hours and crept about at night to ransack the neighborhood, returning to the kitchen before dawn to gloat over their new-found loot. The actress Shay Henlee appeared suddenly among this unsavory group, cautioning a stern, “Nan DeDero is quite upset with each of you!” while Kit, who also made a surprise visit, began alternatively growling at the startled thieves and cringing in terror.

Belle awoke to find the dog truly growling. Curled at the foot of the bed, Kit was sound asleep and snarling at her own imagined enemy for all she was worth.

“Kitty,” Belle soothed. “It's only a dream.”

Then Belle sat up and stared at the night-dark windows, and began to wish she'd never heard of Chick Darlessen or his movie.

Over the next few days her dreams came full circle, so that the notion of balmy weather, royal palms waving in a languid breeze, and sun rather than Massachusetts' incessant gray began to seem like a very welcome respite. And as those days flew by, her friends in Newcastle became more and more excited for her, more envious of her chance to window-shop on Rodeo Drive, cruise along Sunset Boulevard, and star-watch at hot spots like, Liana by the Sea or String. The downside, of course, was spending a week away from Rosco, something Belle mentioned more than once as he drove her to Boston's Logan Airport on a blustery and frigid Wednesday morning, and something she reiterated after they shared one final kiss in front of an airport security sign that read
TICKETED PASSENGERS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT
.

“I'm going to miss you, too,” he admitted. “A lot. But don't worry, everything's going to be fine. It's only a week, and I'm sure you'll return bronzed and loving every minute of it.” He kissed her again. “Just don't fall for any movie actors.”

Belle smiled. “I'll try not to.”

“I'm serious.”

“Okay, I'll do more than try.”

“That's better. Uh oh, I almost forgot.” Rosco pulled an envelope from his jacket and handed it to her. “This is a little going away present from the Breakfast Bunch. It's a ticket to that crossword puzzle game show—
Down & Across.
It was Martha's idea.”

Belle opened the envelope. “But the show's tonight. In Burbank. How am I going to—?”

“Get from your hotel in Santa Monica to the San Fernando Valley?”

Belle nodded.

“For starters, I guess you'd better shake a leg and board that plane.” He kissed her again. “See you in a week.”

CHAPTER 6

“Whoever wrote ‘It never rains in Southern California' sure didn't have a night like this in mind, did he?” The cab driver gave Belle a broad smile through the rearview mirror as he swung through the cloverleaf that connected the number 10 Freeway to the 405 Freeway. His question seemed rhetorical, so she simply returned the smile and suppressed a weary, jet-lagged yawn.

How many hours had it been since she'd seen Rosco? Belle wondered as she counted on her fingers: one transcontinental plane trip, one on-time arrival at LAX, a forty-minute cab ride to her hotel in Santa Monica, half an hour to shower and change, and then back into another taxi that would take her to Burbank and the studio for
Down & Across.

She stifled another wrong-time-zone yawn as she listened to the wipers slap noisily against the framework of the taxi's windshield. The blades were doing very little, if anything, to squeegee the torrents of water that were cascading from the charcoal-black Los Angeles sky. The driver was young, possibly twenty-three or -four, with sandy blond hair hanging down to his shoulders. He reminded Belle of pictures of the Beach Boys from a mid-1960s' record album cover.

“Yeah,” he continued, “the rubber on these dang blades gets all dried and crackly sitting in the sun day after day … Then when it does rain, it's like you're rocketing through a fish tank—blind.”

Belle watched the speedometer's needle jump to seventy-five miles-per-hour as they headed north toward the San Fernando Valley. Given the horrendous driving conditions, she was shocked to see cars flying by on their left, while other drivers moved at a snail's pace to her right.

“And it's always the same old story,” the cabbie added. “These hotshots in Vipers and 'Vettes out in the left lane … sooner or later meet up with the toads in the Volvos and VWs in the right. Next thing you know, you get a chain reaction and a ten-car pile-up. Yep, that's why I like to take it nice and easy when the weather's like this. ‘Get there in one piece,' that's what I always say. Call me a weather wimp, it's okay by me.”