Another Word for Murder

PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF NERO BLANC

“At last puzzle fans have their revenge … super sleuthing and solving for puzzle lovers and mystery fans.” —Charles Preston, puzzle editor,
USA Today

“Addicts of crossword puzzles will relish
The Crossword Murder
.” —
Chicago Sun-Times

“A puzzle lover's delight … A touch of suspense, a pinch of romance, and a whole lot of clever word clues … Blanc has concocted a story sure to appeal to crossword addicts and mystery lovers alike. What's a three-letter word for this book? F-U-N.” —Earlene Fowler on
The Crossword Murder

“Snappy, well-plotted … an homage to Agatha Christie and Ngaio Marsh … The solid plot never strays from its course and features a surprising yet plausible ending.” —
Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
on
Two Down

“Another neat whodunit, along with some clever crosswords … Blanc builds the suspense slowly and surely, challenging the reader with a dandy puzzler.” —
Publishers Weekly
on
The Crossword Connection

“A great investigative team in the tradition of Nick and Nora … Nero Blanc is a master.” —Book Browser

Another Word for Murder

A Crossword Mystery

Nero Blanc

For Jack and Ray Good friends can be hard to find
.

A Letter from Nero Blanc

Dear Friends,

Another Word for Murder
is our tenth collaboration as Nero Blanc. It's absolutely fitting that our wonderful cover artist, Grace DeVito, should put a clock on the jacket. Time does fly when you're having fun.

We're often asked how a husband and wife can write together without harboring lethal thoughts about one another, and our response is always: good communication. As former actors, we value collaboration in the creative process; in fact, we began the series because we wanted to work as partners once again. Each of us has different gifts, and when one of us is in a slump, the other's in fine fettle. We become our own tag team, cheering each other on.

A big thank you to all our readers for making the journey so pleasurable. Thank you for your letters of encouragement, your thoughtful queries, and your genuine interest in Rosco, Belle, Al, Sara, Abe, and the gang. Remember our website
www.CrosswordMysteries.com
has puzzles to download.

Cheers—and, yes, we're hard at work on another Nero!

Please write to us soon,
Cordelia and Steve

CHAPTER 1

Lily was one of those children whose beauty and wholehearted delight in the world around them made total strangers stop in their tracks and smile. She was four, almost four and a half, with the kind of curly blonde hair normally associated with baby angels in Italian Renaissance paintings, and a face that glowed with a cherubic sense of fun.

She liked knock-knock jokes, storybooks, and picture books—except those with an over-abundance of green or purple. And she loved to talk. “Why” had once been her favorite word, and she'd been persistent in demanding answers. Now that it was five months past her birthday, the question had been replaced by her own set of improbable and marvelous theories. She was an authority on everything, including the fact that the family dog, a chocolate-brown Labrador retriever named Bear, was a real bear—because of “his big feets.”

It was fortunate that Lily; her mother, Karen; Bear; and Lily's “very busy” father, “Doctor Dan” lived in the coastal Massachusetts city of Newcastle. Shaggy wild beasts of the
Ursus arctus
and
americanus
varieties had forsaken Newcastle's populous shoreline and its tree-dotted inland suburbs several centuries before. Not that this piece of information would have altered Lily's assessment. Her Bear was permitted to play in the large, cliff-side dog park with the city's other pets or swim at the several public beaches because he was a “gentle bear.”

This reasoning led her to wonder about the species of another visitor to the dog park, a brown and black Shepherd mix named Kit who was often called “Kitty”—causing Lily to often suggest that the tallish dog with the four white paws might really be a cat. Belle Graham, who usually brought Kit to the park, was deemed “Cookie” because of the four-year-old's fondness for graham crackers, which she called cookies; however Gabby, the terrier and poodle combination who was Kit's companion was allowed to retain her name.

“'Cause she likes to bark,” Lily stated, making it clear she'd heard the word “gabby” before, but not necessarily associated with a shortening of Gabriella. Cookie's husband “Rock”—Rosco to anyone over the age of six—was one of Lily's favorite people and one for whom she harbored just the smallest bit of a crush.

“Where's Rock?” she now demanded. Lily and her mother were standing on a broad, grassy rise overlooking the many-gabled building that had once been the Dew Drop Inn, a summer resort that changed hands every decade or so, but that never saw a lasting rebirth. A wide but dilapidated porch encircled the structure; on this sunny afternoon in late May, it exuded an aura of bittersweet nostalgia as if the rocking chairs that once lined its painted boards were still moving in gentle harmony.

“Rock needs to buy a new car,” Belle said. “He's out looking at some right now.”

“Finally biting the bullet, is he?” Karen asked with a chuckle. Like her daughter—and like Belle—Karen was also blonde, although her hair was now a tawny hue while Belle's and Lily's were the color of corn silk. Standing together, the threesome looked gilded and happy, just as the warm day spreading about them also seemed graced with prosperity and peace.

“Yup,” Belle chortled. “He and Al Lever are starting their ‘fact-finding mission.' I wasn't invited; I guess they thought I'd pick the first vehicle the salesman trotted out.”

“Men and their precious machines.” Karen shook her head while Belle laughed again.

“What's that weird relationship all about anyway?”

“True love?” Karen's blue eyes sparkled with mirth.

Belle smiled in return. “You may be right. Although Rosco knows absolutely zip about cars, when those goons destroyed his Jeep last November, he acted as if they'd attacked a member of the family.

“And it's taken six months for him to get up the courage to hunt for a permanent replacement. Now, I don't want to get overly clinical, but—”

“You're suggesting he should have passed his period of mourning?” Belle's laughter grew.

“The way my Dan runs through cars, he doesn't have time for grief. If it's hot off the assembly line, he's got to get it in our driveway. And I mean,
pronto.”
Karen raised her hands in anticipation of her friend's next comment. “I know, I know…. Consumerism run rampant, the throw-away society, materialism at its worst, etcetera, etcetera. But Dan had such a hard-knock life as a kid that I just can't bring myself to criticize his spendthrift ways now. Besides, he insists he's actually
saving
money by leasing a couple of them…. Not that I believe him.”

“You can only drive one at a time.” But Belle stopped there; she liked Karen too much to point out the obvious: that she and her husband were fortunate to be able to indulge in such expensive habits. Instead, Belle offered a cheerful follow-up. “It's clear I'm going to have to construct a crossword for the legions of automotive buffs out there. How about ‘Driven to Distraction' for a title?”

“I don't like cross words,” piped in Lily. She was scowling fiercely, almost defiantly.

“But Cookie makes crossword puzzles for the newspaper, sweetheart,” her mother soothed. “You know that because your daddy—”

“I don't like cross words!” Lily insisted while Karen gently tried to correct her daughter's mistake.

“Being cross and using cross words isn't the same as doing Cookie's puzzles, sweetheart.”

But Lily's brain had already flown off in another direction. “Guess why Bear likes to swim?” she demanded of Belle.

“Why?” was the amused response.

“Because bears eat fish. Mommy and I saw them on TV. They catch them with their feets.” Then she pelted away from the two adults, calling “Bear! Bear! Bear!” at the top of her lungs.

Karen laughed as she watched her daughter and the dogs flying over the emerald-green grass, a whirl of furry legs, pink, little-girl knees, and two very turquoise and glitter-strewn shoes. “Imagine being accosted with that decibel level
inside
. Sometimes Dan claps his hands over his ears, but it only makes Lily yell all the more. Personally, I think he does it to egg her on. Then he threatens to go outside to the driveway and sit in his latest ride with the windows rolled up and the sound system blaring. One time I came home from the supermarket and found them
both
ensconced in the Explorer. They were fast asleep: Lily sprawled across the rear seat, Dan behind the wheel. I didn't have the heart to wake them, but I did turn the music down lest the neighbors report us to cops.”

“Maybe you should sell your house and move into a mobile home.”

“If Lamborghini decided to make such a vehicle, I'm sure Dan would consider it.”

CHAPTER 2

“It's been hit,” Al Lever said as he straightened from the crouched position he'd assumed beside the right front fender of a three-year-old red Ford Mustang. He groaned slightly as he rose, then leaned against the car. “Man, my knees just aren't what they used to be.” After that, he coughed twice and lit a cigarette.

Lever was Newcastle's chief homicide detective, a balding guy with a large paunch who relished playing the role of the gruff, hard-nosed police inspector—a demeanor that was all smoke and mirrors. He also had a solid knowledge of automobiles and how they worked, which was why on this particular Tuesday afternoon he'd taken some of his precious “liberty” time to accompany his former partner, Rosco Poly-crates, on his mission to purchase a vehicle that would replace his ruined Jeep. Greek American male or not, Rosco lacked a major masculine trait: he knew very little about cars and what it was that kept them moving forward. This lack of expertise in automotive matters was a source of perplexed embarrassment to his brothers-in-law, and even to his sisters, although they consoled themselves that at least he could talk intelligently and ardently about the Boston Red Sox and New England Patriots—in Greek, no less. You couldn't be a resident of Massachusetts and not be a Sox or Pats fan no matter what language you spoke, or how many.

Rosco broke other stereotypes, as well. His eight years as a detective with the Newcastle P.D. had taught him that he was too much of a free spirit for the bureaucracy of organized law enforcement. He didn't like filling out paperwork. He didn't like jouncing around in the city's unmarked cars. He hated carrying a gun, and he refused to wear socks except with running shoes. He'd left the NPD six years ago, opened his own private detective agency immediately thereafter, and never looked back—except for the bonds of friendship he continued to maintain with Lever and Abe Jones, who was the NPD's forensics honcho.

“What do you mean, it's been hit?” Rosco demanded. Unlike Al, he was trim and fit, and a devoted jogger, while Al's idea of exercise was walking up a flight of stairs—or maybe
half
a flight of stairs. “This is a great car. Look at it. I rented one just like it in Los Angeles when Belle and I went out there last winter.”

“You rented a three-year-old Mustang?”

“Well … no … I guess not. It only had 700 miles on it; maybe it was new…. I mean, I don't know…. It looked just like this one. It was red.”

“No one rents out three-year-old cars, Poly—Crates,” Lever said as the cigarette smoke left his lungs, “especially in LA.” His butchering of Rosco's last name had been a running gag between them for almost fifteen years and was predictably countered by Rosco's admonishing him over his sizable girth and ever-present smoker's cough.