Another Word for Murder (16 page)

“Yikes!” she murmured, stretching forward in her chair as if she'd truly dozed off. Her eyes continued to rake the desktop before dropping to the floor, where she spotted Kit and Gabby; the dogs had found two sun spots and curled themselves into separate havens. Their human companion's behavior obviously hadn't been a cause for canine alarm.

Belle's gaze returned to the papers lying beside the plate. There were Xerox copies of the crosswords she'd given Al, and she'd arranged them in order of when she'd received them: “Baby Steps,” “Sugar and Spice,” “As Time Goes By.”

She read, or more accurately, reread, the step-quote in the first of the puzzles: A MAN OF WORDS AND NOT OF DEEDS IS LIKE A GARDEN FULL OF WEEDS. If that had been intended to be a reference to Dan Tacete's kidnapping and death, Belle couldn't find it. The second crossword contained a number of feminine names from nursery rhymes: Kitty, Polly, Lucy, Margery, as well as Bo Peep and Curly Locks. But there again, they seemed to have no bearing the case. The “Time …” crossword, however, listed
Jack
twice, once as a clue and once as a solution.

And that single name was enough to hurtle Belle out of her chair, out of her office, out of her house and into her car. Jack, as in Jack Wagner, had to be able to fill in some answers. Even as she drove toward downtown Newcastle and the Smile! office she knew how tenuous this clue might be; but Rosco had taught her that “coincidences” were rare when it came to criminal investigations.

“Ms. O'Connell?” Belle asked the woman sitting at the dental office reception desk. The nameplate indicated she was Bonnie O'Connell, but “bonny” wasn't a word Belle would have used to describe the austere matron facing her. “Dour,” “glum,” “testy” would have seemed a better fit—but those weren't appellations parents supplied to infant girls.

“I am not O'Connell,” was the receptionist's stern reply. “She was sent home early. I'm filling in. What may I do for you? If you're Mrs.”—she peered down through her bifocals at the appointment book—“Mrs. Schultz, just have a seat, your appointment isn't for fifteen minutes.”

This brief speech sounded like an unhelpful “Why are you bothering me?” rather than an expression of professional assistance, but Belle pasted on her most endearing smile. Then she touched her left hand to her cheek as though in sudden physical pain. “No, I'm not Mrs. Schultz. I have a bit of a toothache, I'm afraid … and I was wondering if Doctor Wagner could squeeze me in?”

“Are you a regular patient?” The nameless receptionist consulted the appointments book on her desk once more.

“Well, no … but I've heard such wonderful things about Doctor Wagner, and I—”

“He's completely booked this week.” A basilisk stare challenged Belle to refute this piece of information.

“Ohhh …” Belle's brain flew through a number of clever and winning responses while also providing a running critique of her lack of preparation for this interview.
Dummy! You don't just waltz into a doctor's office and expect to be seen that very minute, do you? Especially when you're not a patient
. “Oh, of course he is! I should have realized that, given the accolades I've heard about his work…. I was only driving by when this pain developed, and I was hoping—”

“I wouldn't know about that. I'm temping for the afternoon only. My sister owns the employment agency, or I wouldn't be here. I do legal, not dental. And only part-time.” Bonnie's replacement continued to fix Belle with her critical gaze. “So I don't
improvise
on a scheduling policy I'm not familiar with.”

The intensity of the scrutiny was unnerving; Belle took a leap of faith and concluded the sometime “legal” assistant must be a crossword fiend who had seen Belle's byline photo and was trying to recall where she'd spotted this would-be patient's face before. “I'm Belle Graham … from the
Crier
. I'm afraid this toothache has produced some swelling and distorted my features, so you may not—”

“I don't read the
Crier
. Too many damn words if you ask me; same as all newspapers. That, and the ads. A lot of wasted ink and paper. Besides, I get all the news I need on TV. I only use newspapers to line the bottom of the bird cage. My neighbor gives them to me.”

“Ah …” Belle found herself at a sudden loss. Someone who wasn't a fan of words was not likely to be won over by a person whose livelihood involved puttering about with language.

But Belle need not have fretted over this quandary, because the temporary receptionist suddenly lowered her fierce brow and flipped the appointments book. “Nope. Nothing. The doctor's booked into next week, too. You can call back tomorrow when the regular girl's here. Or leave me your number, and I'll make a note to have her contact you if there's a cancellation.”

“Thank you, I'll do that …”

“But if I were you, I'd just head over to the Emergency Room at the hospital. These fancy dentists don't come cheap. And if you're in pain, why wait?”

Belle expected further commentary, but instead a note pad and pen were thrust in front of her. Then the phone rang and the woman filling in for Bonnie O'Connell dismissed Belle with a curt nod and directed her attention to one of Smile!'s genuine patients.

Well, that was a total bust
, Belle thought as she returned to her car. She sat motionless for a moment, considering her next step. She was not a person who enjoyed being thwarted; in fact, frustration only caused her stubborn streak to become more tenacious.

So, no “Jack
,” her brain recited,
and no “Bonnie,” either, because she's been “sent home”
—
which was probably necessary given how upset Al told us she was…. Hmmm
… Almost before Belle was aware of having made another decision, she was turning the key in the ignition and preparing to pull into traffic. She'd drive to her
Crier
office and check to see if Bonnie O'Connell was in the phone directory…. No, she'd go home first and don the auburn wig and retro Harlequin glasses she'd worn at the
Crier's
New Year's Eve costume party, then she'd find Bonnie.
And why would Ms. O'Connell wish to speak to you?
Belle's thoughts demanded, to which the reply was an equally swift and obstinate:
I'll cross that bridge when I come to it
.

It hadn't required even the simplest of sleuthing skills to find Bonnie O'Connell's apartment complex. The Newcastle phone book had been the only tool necessary, and Belle found herself walking up a nicely landscaped and artfully meandering path toward her quarry's front door a mere fifty minutes after leaving Smile! The ease with which she'd accomplished her task was slightly disappointing, but her rueful attitude was tempered when she realized she hadn't yet prepared a convincing alias with which to chat up her prey. Then Belle noticed a discreet “Units Available” sign, and the fictional tale she decided to offer Bonnie all but created itself.
A would-be renter questioning a current tenant about facilities and the like … woman to woman, discussing issues of security, convenience, and the landlord's responsiveness if and when problems arose. The leasing agent would have provided Ms. O'Connell's name as an excellent source of information
. Of course, Belle was counting on the fact that Bonnie wouldn't phone the rental office for corroboration.

But not one single part of that easy scenario would materialize. Her most hopeful and innocent smile glued on her lips, Belle knocked on Bonnie's front door. There was no reply. Belle waited a minute and tapped again; after another minute or two had elapsed, she rang the bell—not once but twice. In the intervals of silence between her efforts at admittance, she was certain she heard noise inside the apartment—not merely a TV or radio left playing, but footsteps as if a person, presumably Bonnie, were peering at her through the peep-hole then retreating from sight.

So much for worming myself into the confidences of Ms. O'Connell
, Belle thought with some bitterness. She was about to leave a note detailing her bogus mission but suddenly decided it wasn't necessary. If Bonnie was indeed inside and spying on her unwelcome visitor, she could invent her own story about the red-headed woman with the odd-looking glasses.

Belle recrossed the tree-lined walkway and wandered slowly back to her car, where she slumped in the seat, yanked off her wig and glasses, and tossed them unceremoniously into the glove compartment. She felt irked and frustrated, but above all her competitive spirit was experiencing an unwelcome sense of defeat. She sat for some long moments pondering what a dearth of information there was on Dan Tacete's kidnapping and death. And then the corner of her eye caught sight of a taxi stopping near Bonnie's unit, and a woman's body lurching unsteadily out the front door, fumbling with keys, dropping and retrieving them, then almost running toward the cab. Instinctively, Belle started her engine and began to follow the driver and his fare.

The cabbie's destination was The Black Sheep Tavern. Belle watched as the person she assumed was Bonnie hurried inside. Giving herself the briefest of seconds to consider what her next step would be, Belle also walked toward the entrance. She ran her fingers through her hair, creating some fluffy bangs and hoping that no elastic marks from her false hairdo remained.

“But he's gone!” Belle heard Bonnie wailing the moment she stepped into the bar's dark interior. “And his phone is dead.”

“He's not gone, babe. He's probably just missing for a little while is all. Layin' low. You know how Frank gets. And this isn't the first time he hasn't kept his phone paid up, is it? Let's think about that, why don't we?”

“Well, I need him here! I need him here now!”

“What can I say, Bon? Frank's never been Mr. Reliable.”

Bonnie burst into a fresh spate of tears, although Belle intuited they were not from grief.

“C'mon, Bon, let's you and me sit down and—”

“I don't want to sit!”

“Okay, we'll stand, then. We'll stand at the bar and—”

“And where's Rob gotten himself to?”

“How would I know? I don't own this place, in case you forgot.”

“Well, you act like you do.”

“Act, and
action
ain't the same thing. Walt owns the Black Sheep—always has, always will.”

“Both of them! Both of them gone!”

“Hey, Bon … it's okay…. Let's be a happy lady, why don't we …?” By now, the man with whom Bonnie was so urgently speaking was gently but insistently steering her toward two stools at the bar's farthest end. Like a magnet, Belle moved after them, until a giant of a man stepped in front of her. He had russet-colored hair, a tawny, freckled face, and the kind of forearms that looked as though they hoisted yearling calves for a hobby. “Lookin' for someone, honey?” The smile that accompanied the question was not accusatory or unkind, but it seemed threatening to Belle because the person—and his face—loomed so tall against the age-blackened ceiling.

“Actually, I am…. I'm looking for … a waitressing job and wondered … I think I read somewhere, in the newspaper maybe, that you were hiring waitresses…. ”

“That so?” The giant gave Belle what she could only interpret as a leering grin, although she now noticed that the voice that accompanied the question had a curiously high-pitched tone, as if his vocal chords were straining within all that muscle-bound flesh. “I never seen no waitresses hereabouts. Walt's tryin' something new, is he?”

“Oh … well, I couldn't have gotten the name of the restaurant wrong…. ” Belle fumbled through her purse. “I should have brought the ad with me. This is the Black Sheep, isn't it?”

“None other.”

“Maybe I should talk to Walt?

“Ain't here.” Belle's would-be friend lowered his lofty head and looked down the bar toward Bonnie and her companion. “Yo, Carlos, you know anything about old Walt hirin' waitresses for this dump?”

Belle's ears pricked up.
One of Dan Tacete's patients was a Carlos…. Of course, the chance of this being
—

“Hey, yo, Quintero, I'm talkin' to you, buddy!”

Ahhh
, Belle thought while the object of Jack Wagner's professional censure swore a disgruntled curse. Then Bonnie released her own unintelligible oaths and began to cry loudly. A split-second later, she was hurtling past Belle and hurrying toward the door.

“Hey, Bon … calm down. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I'll drive you home.”

“Just stuff it, Carlos!”

“Bon … come on … Frank'll show up—”

“And Rob? What about him?”

“Lighten up, sweetpea. They're both big boys. Besides, what's the worry? They'll be back—”

“Just like Dan Tacete, huh? Just like that?” With that final question, Bonnie rammed her shoulder into the door and ran outside before Carlos had time to suggest phoning for a cab—which seemed to be the words on his lips as the door slammed shut behind her.

“Sugar and spice and everything nice.” He shrugged as he turned back to the room in general. “I'd say Ms. O'Connell forgot to stir in that sweet, little
sugar
part today.” Then Carlos caught sight of Belle. “Well, hello there…. Look what the cat dragged in.”

“The lady's lookin' for a waitress gig, Quintero. I ain't seen hide nor hair of Walt today. He didn't mention nothin' about puttin' on a waitress to you, did he?”

“Here?” A good deal of disbelief echoed in the tone.

“What she says. Maybe Rossi knows somethin' about it.”

“Rob hasn't been around for a while, in case you hadn't noticed.” Carlos focused again on Belle. “How about you, blondie? Can you tend bar? 'Cause it's beginning to look like Walt's gonna need to replace the Rob-man.”