Death on the Diagonal (16 page)

“Just skip it, okay? But I’ve gotta tell you, this is getting way, way too harebrained for me.”

“Tortoise and the hare . . . You wanna play bunny rabbit instead? And I’ll be a big, old snapping turtle—”

“Stop it! I said I’d do Jesse, didn’t I? So quit it! I just don’t understand why we’re going through the trouble of making another stupid puzzle when the first one got no reaction whatsoever.”

“Frank’s” head shook in frustration. “That’s exactly
why
we need to create another one, Jes; clearly, the first attempt failed, or the transmission didn’t go through. Who knows? All I can tell you is that no one’s approached the guilty party. At least, not that I’ve heard.”

“Parties,” “Jesse” corrected acidly. “There’s more than one,
brother
dear.”

“Right, fine,
parties.
Have it your own way. Anyway, we also made a serious construction mistake with the last one. I checked out the newspaper crosswords. These things need to be symmetrical.”

“Well, that sure makes it
easier
,” was the muttered reply. However, Jesse’s hands were now trembling so violently that the caustic tone of voice sounded no more threatening than a puff of evening air.

“What’s wrong with you all of a sudden? You’re not losing your nerve, are you? Look, we agreed on this thing . . . We’ve got to get information to them; and we need to stay anonymous. And the only way to do that is—”

“Someone was murdered!” Jesse nearly screamed. “In case you’ve been so busy you haven’t noticed.”

Even though they’d returned to the deserted parking lot and the darkened beach, Frank swiveled around in the car seat to see if any other cars had approached.

“Will you settle down?” The voice was a snarl. “You’re going to blow this, you know that? You’re going to blow it for both of us. I’m willing to go out on the limb here, but you have to do your part.”

The response was another near-shout. “Why don’t you call that damn Polycrates and disguise your voice? You’re good at pulling accents. I’ve seen you do it at parties.”

“There’s a brilliant idea. Why don’t you call him yourself?” When there was no answer, Frank added a cold, “Point made, I take it . . . Which brings me back to our PI’s snooping wife. Now, maybe our other attempt failed . . . maybe the fax was screwy, who knows? But we made a mistake. The thing didn’t look genuine enough, maybe; and these things get signed, too. Like books. They’ve got authors’ names—”

“Are you nuts? We sign our names?”

“Not our real ones! What do you take me for? And no Bonnie and Clyde, or Frank and Jesse . . . or stupid Ant and Grasshopper, either. Why clue her in to the fact that there are two of us? But we do need a moniker that piques her interest. We want her to do the damn crossword, don’t we? Isn’t that what we’re doing sitting out here all by our lonesome? So, give me a name, any name.”

Jesse stifled another groan. “Alfred Hitchcock. You want to play guessing games, be my guest.”

“I’m doing this for both of us, remember?” A mini flashlight was flicked on. “And we title our little oeuvre ‘To Catch a Thief.’ ”

“ ‘Thief ’ isn’t altogether accurate, in case you’d forgotten.”

“Just stuff it, will you? Besides, that’s your opinion. The point is to get their attention. Accuracy comes later. Okay, let’s start to do some work here.” A fifteen-square area was marked out on a sheet of graph paper. “All right; give me some movie titles.”

“There’s that Mel Brooks one. That should attract attention.” Jesse’s answer was sarcastic and flat, and Frank responded in kind with a short, mean laugh.

“There you go! Now you’re getting the hang of it.”

“This is the last time I do this, brother dear,” was the icy reply.

“Never say never, Jes.”

“I’m serious, Frankie. I can’t do this any longer. I can’t.”

1. Brown or Thorpe
4. Govt. consumer agcy.
7. Grocery chain
10. Cut grass
13. Boxing great
14. “Give me some ___!”
15. Atomic energy watchdog; abbr.
16. Baseball stat.
17. With 19-Across, film by 10-Down
19. See 17-Across
21. Summer in France
22. Dry, in Roma
23. Beals hit film
27. Pen tips
31. Mr. Disney
32. Drunkard
33. M.A.S.H. role
34. Surface fish
35. Construction sign
37. Idaho range
38. Classic Romero film
41. Dollars and cents
42. Shakespearian bad guy
43. Collar
45. Ensemble
46. Prescription notation; abbr.
47. Mr. Autry
48. Six-sided state
49. Classic McQueen film
52. Moral element
54. ___ guzzler
55. With 58-Across, classic O’Toole film
58. See 55-Across
62. Some savings; abbr.
63. Diplomat; abbr.
64. Cry of surprise
65. New, prefix
66. Neither’s partner
67. Female ruff
68. Pig pen
69. Mr. Beatty

 

1. Option for 13-Across
2. Not well
3. Ms. Farrow
4. Trust
5. Ate
6. Patagonia’s home; abbr.
7. Bee or ant
8. Meal prayer
9. Current option
10. Director, Brooks
11. Mine find
12. Had been
18. Pep
20. Offer up
22. Willy’s winter weather wear
23. Send on; abbr.
24. Illustrated
25. Its capital is Tiranë
26. From here on
28. Reaffirm one’s vows?
29. Cowboy’s cloth
30. Grads
33. Make over
35. Dagger
36. ___ Angeles
37. two-year-old sheep
39. Bound with osiers
40. “If we don’t ___ together . . .”
41. Bozeman campus; abbr.
44. Turkish title
46. Ms. Cates
47. Deep cut
49. Cooking herb
50. Shore bird
51. Still wet
53. Ski lift

TO CATCH A THIEF

55. Sloe ___ fizz
56. Spanish gold
57. Crewman
58. Mine in France

59. Rest stop
60. Que preceder
61. Turf

19

The persistent beep of her home fax machine startled Belle out of a reverie that was far from pleasant. Ryan Collins’s brutal murder was weighing heavily on her. Added to the slaying was her memory of Todd Collins and his offspring, their backbiting and jockeying for position, their casual cruelty when dealing with one another. And then there was the media circus currently surrounding the dead woman. Stabbed in a guest bedroom at King Wenstarin Farms, she’d been reduced to the unkindest of boldface slurs. It was enough to make anyone weary of reading a newspaper or watching the local evening news.

Belle released a sigh that was more like a heartfelt groan, pushed back from her desk, where she’d been staring blankly at a piece of graph paper, then rose and walked to the fax.
What now?
she groused.
Some frothy crossword submission naming state flowers or trees, or the world’s longest rivers, or tallest
mountains? Why don’t these people leave me alone? Who cares about word games anyway? We’ve all got more on our plates than wondering how many types of Halloween candy we can find that contain six letters and end with a
T
... It’s high time I looked for another job and got as far away from homonyms, synonyms, antonyms—to say nothing of caconyms, eponyms, and poecilonyms!

With a determined sullenness, she wrenched the new puzzle from the machine. “To Catch a Thief,” she read in silence,
constructed by Alfred Hitchcock. Oh, great. Just great. Now I’m getting a word game from a person pretending to be a dead man. And it’s sent to me at home, on top of it. Why can’t people learn this is strictly off-limits!
If Belle had been Kit or Gabby, she would have growled aloud.

Instead, she dutifully made a copy of the submission, slumped back to the desk, heaved herself into her chair, and took up her lucky red pen. “Okay, Alfred,” she muttered under her breath, “let’s see what kind of thief you’re hunting . . .” Then 17- and 19-Across caught her eye. BLAZING SADDLES, she wrote in firm block letters, sitting suddenly straighter. “Oh, my gosh . . . and the solution to 38-Across is DAWN OF THE DEAD . . .”

Belle’s pen was flying by now. It didn’t matter that the puzzle constructor hadn’t bothered with a clever step-quote or a guiding theme. She was convinced she’d received an obvious message—and that the bogus “Alfred Hitchcock” had private information concerning King Wenstarin Farms.

GOODBYE MR CHIPS, Belle penned at 55- and 58-Across. “Oh, wow!” Then she flew out of her chair. “What did I do with that last submission?” she grumbled. “The one that was faxed on Sunday morning and that made me so cranky . . . c’mon, Gab and Kit . . . you guys are always playing with the sheets of paper I ball up and toss out. Help me find the darn thing.”

 

 

While Belle—with the aid of the two dogs—rifled through her home office, Sara’s glowing black Cadillac tootled along Nathaniel Hawthorne Boulevard toward the Avon-Care facility and her “coincidental” meeting with Dawn Davis. At the wheel was Emma; Sara sat regally on the wide rear seat, her wheelchair stowed in the trunk—or as she sometimes referred to it, “the boot.” Sara was as fond of her Briticisms as she was this “automobile”—a 1956 model that she steadfastly refused to believe was over a half-century old.

“You’ll come in with me, of course, Emma,” she now stated in her genteel yet commanding tone, “and then what, I wonder? Should you return to the parking lot and wait for me? Or should you remain at my side? What looks more convincing for our charade, do you imagine?”

“I think both choices are equally appropriate, madam,” was Emma’s thoughtful response. “Someone in your weakened condition either requires aid from a caregiver or, alternatively, feels a need for greater autonomy.”

Sara nodded at Emma’s perception, approval that the maid/chauffeur noted while glancing in the rearview mirror.

“On the other hand, madam, I feel I could be of help in watching Ms. Davis’s reactions to your queries. Naturally, I won’t be speaking to her myself, and so may be able to note behavior that might elude you.”

Sara nodded again. “Then that’s just how we’ll carry out our mission. Two sets of eyes are always better than one.”

The entrance into Avon-Care of the two newest subcontractors to the Polycrates Agency was as theatrical as anything else Sara did. Emma, in a staid navy coat above her rustling gray dress and starched apron, pushed the wheelchair, while Sara surveyed the scene with imperial complacency. The old lady might as well have been a pasha perched upon an elephant, gracing the masses with a smile that indicated polite acknowledgment of her station. Those awaiting appointments couldn’t help but grin in return.

By prior arrangement, Emma pushed her mistress toward the reception desk, where Sara duly requested to speak with “someone in a managerial position” so that she could better “ascertain” her “treatment protocols.”
Protocol
was a new term for Sara when referring to medical matters. She’d been accustomed to the word being used in relation to diplomacy or other governmental convention and etiquette, but she liked its formal tone—especially when dealing with something as lowly as a battered joint. Then, knowing the “manager” would take a few minutes to summons, Sara had Emma steer her toward a chair near a young, auburn-haired beauty who was studying what looked like a legal textbook.
Our Ms. Davis is probably trying to figure out how far she can stretch the law,
Sara surmised while fixing her target with an energetic glance.

“You’re far too young to have a bum knee!” Sara announced, wincing from a pain she didn’t feel. Emma immediately began hovering solicitously, but Sara waved her away. “I’m fine, Emma. You toddle off and read a magazine or something while I wait. You’ve been far too concerned about me these past few days, and you know I’m perfectly capable of caring for myself.”

Dawn Davis looked up. Instead of appearing disturbed by the interruption, she also smiled.
She’s probably sizing me up as another mark,
Sara decided.
A vulnerable, old bat with a servant in her dotage. I must look as if I’d be as easy pickings as poor Walter Gudgeon.

“Oh, I’m not here on account of my knee, ma’am,” Dawn answered. “It’s my shoulder. I tore my rotator cuff.”

Ma’am!
Sara heard.
Oh, the little minx! She’s a good one, all right. Knows just how to be polite to us ancient crones. I wonder if Emma caught
that? Sara cast a surreptitious glance toward the figure in gray taffeta before continuing with an empathetic: “Oh, your shoulder! That must be exceedingly painful. How on earth did you do such a terrible thing? I fell at the hairdresser’s—which was very foolish. If I’d been wearing trousers, I probably would have torn a cuff, too.” Sara ventured a ladylike giggle, and Dawn also tittered politely. Then her face abruptly clouded.

“I had an accident.”

“Well, I should certainly hope you didn’t tear your shoulder on purpose!”

Dawn Davis studied Sara, while the older woman gazed back in seeming innocence and friendship.

“What sort of an accident, my dear? No . . . don’t tell me. I was impertinent to ask, but aren’t we fortunate, given all the ills that could have befallen us, that we have two injuries that are so eminently treatable? You and I could be facing problems with our kidneys, for instance, or our hearts, or—”