Preferring to create her week’s offering of puzzles in the quiet and comforting atmosphere of her home, rather than at the
Crier
’s offices, Fridays were one of the few times the other employees got a glimpse of their Belle.
On the weeks when she opted to deliver the seven puzzles
after
deadline’s witching hour, most of her coworkers stopped by to chat, inquiring chummily about her husband, Rosco, a local private eye, or their two dogs, Kit and Gabby. But when she chose to arrive in the morning, as she had today, very few greeted the resident “brainiac” with more than a preoccupied nod. They were a mercurial crowd whose personalities switched back and forth, depending on where the big and little hands sat on the clock; and they had hard news to attend to. Word games might be popular with readers—very popular, actually—but to those who wrote the leading stories, Belle’s contributions couldn’t compete with lethal twenty-vehicle pileups on the interstate, or corporate malfeasance, or government lies, or domestic violence, or celebrity scandals, or war dead, or starvation in Africa, or any of the other fun articles that made the front page.
Belle had never much liked spending time at the
Crier.
It wasn’t the people she objected to; they were an entertaining bunch once you got them away from work, and she and Rosco enjoyed socializing with them. Instead, it was the building’s architecture that she found off-putting. It was postmodern gone to seed, like an inner-city high school after a long and wearying week. A pale, dirty brown was the color of choice—which some politely called “greige” or even “sepia,” while others chose earthier and less flattering epithets: words that don’t normally appear in family newspapers.
Belle proceeded down the dingy hall, dodging the various messengers and copyboys, until she reached her own cubicle-sized office, where she opened the door into the stark and unlovely space. A chipped laminate desk, an office chair that listed to one side, and a bookcase (mostly empty) stared forlornly back at her. Atop the desk sat a small collection of pencils, a few sheets of quarter-inch graph paper that had been there so long they were almost as brown as the walls, a blotter pad, and an in-out box. It was there that Belle placed the manila envelope containing a week’s worth of crosswords accompanied by their solutions. After that major effort, she was free to go home—a simple and predictable ritual, albeit a little odd. As long as the interoffice mail boy found the package, there at seven o’clock on Friday evening (word games for the next week being exempt from the demon deadline), everyone was happy.
Belle fiddled with the envelope, repositioning it until the edges took on a military precision, then murmured a quiet, “Well, that’s that. Enough thrills and chills for one week. It’s off to the the dog park for me.”
“Oh, nay, nay, nay, say it isn’t so, my dear
Bellisima
. One can’t vacate the dank underbelly of the venerable
Evening Crier
simply because something as trivial as the sun may be shining in the bright universe beyond. You don’t see any of the other moles running for daylight, do you?”
She turned to find Bartholomew Kerr, the
Crier
’s diminutive gossip columnist standing in her doorway, the greenish glow of the fluorescent overhead lighting casting an olive patina over his nearly bald pate and on his upturned face with its oversized black glasses. Depending on circumstances, Bartholomew either resembled a scrawny baby bird or a housefly searching out a tasty bread crumb.
Despite his oddball appearance and his florid, and often pretentious, speech, Kerr was one of Belle’s dearest friends at the newspaper. He prided himself in knowing everyone in the city of Newcastle, and what they were up to and when—that is, everyone whose name could be recognized when reproduced in boldface type in his “Biz-y-Buzz” column.
“Good morning, Bartholomew,” Belle responded with a glowing smile. “Does it seem unusually hectic around here today, or is it my imagination?”
Kerr strolled into Belle’s office and perched his tiny frame on the corner of her desk. Only the tips of his suede loafers touched the linoleum floor. “Ah, alas, trouble ventures into the illustrious realm of high society. Why on earth do you think I’ve ventured into this fetid arena before eleven o’clock? I gather you haven’t heard about the fire?”
“Fire?”
Kerr released a cherubic chuckle. “Oh, my dear Bella. Please say that word one more time for me, will you? It has such an angelic and innocent ring when floating from your lips. Although from the fever in your eye, I might question whether you’re a devoted pyromaniac.”
“What fire, Bartholomew? I haven’t heard anything about it.”
“Tsk, tsk . . . that’s why the intestines of our
Evening Crier
are working overtime. The
Herald
went to bed too early and missed the story, so we have ourselves a good old-fashioned scoop. Apparently, someone torched one of the horse barns out at King Wenstarin Farms.”
“That’s horrible. Were any animals killed?”
Kerr threw up his hands in mock horror. “I’m sorry, I have misspoken myself. There is no evidence—as yet—that this was a torch job. That’s only my catty presumption. Although since the Family Collins is insured to the nines by the Dartmouth Group, I suppose it won’t be long before a certain crossword-puzzle editor’s hubby, one Rosco Polycrates by name, is called in to . . .
look things over
, shall we say? We all know your dear boy is this burg’s favored PI when it comes to ferreting out insurance fraud, don’t we, now?”
Belle stomped her foot on the floor. “Bartholomew, stop, please. Did any horses die?”
“Ah, the kindhearted demoiselle. Women do love their prancing steeds, don’t they? I believe most men would first ask if any of the human race had been injured.”
Belle raised an eyebrow. “That’s certainly a chauvinistic statement.”
“But true, nonetheless. I’ve been taking a little survey around the dungeon this morning, and I’ve found that on first hearing of the blaze, women ask only about the four-footed beasts; with men, it breaks down to about fifty-fifty.”
“I’d say that only proves that women are focused on one thing, and that men are all over the place.”
“You’re speaking metaphorically, I take it? I wouldn’t care to make any off-color references to the stud business. Well, at any rate, to answer your question: All valiant members of the
Equus caballus
family escaped without harm. However, the barn manager lies in a comatose state in ICU at Newcastle Memorial. If it turns out to be a torch job, and our dear fellow drifts into the hereafter, then we’ll have ourselves a dirty little murder among Newcastle’s hoity-toity. Won’t that keep ‘Biz-y-Buzz’ abuzzing?”
Belle sat in her chair and put her feet up on the end of the desk farthest from Kerr. Then she became aware that her jeans were beginning to fray at the cuff and wondered how long it would take Bartholomew to begin drawing comparisons to the Little Match Girl. She stifled a self-conscious groan. Shopping for clothes had never been one of her favorite pastimes; there were too many choices; blue was “in,” then it wasn’t; skirts were pencil thin, then flouncy; ditto with blouses and jackets and dresses: Who knew what to choose when designers and manufacturers seemed in such a state of flux?
“You’re certain King Wenstarin Farms is insured by the Dartmouth Group?” she asked as she edged her feet back off the desk and hid them under her chair.
“Oh, please, dear girl, there is nothing I don’t know when it comes to Newcastle’s idle rich. Of course Papa Collins—that would be Todd—has worked hard for his filthy lucre, as did his father before him . . . although one might say that importing Irish whiskey during the early twenties at the height of the Volstead Act was frowned upon by some, most notably the FBI and that dear dead man, J. Edgar Hoover.”
Belle bolted up straight in her seat. “You mean Collins’s dad was a bootlegger? King Wenstarin Irish Whiskey? That was bootlegged?”
Kerr rolled his eyes. “I think I like the way you pronounced that nasty word more than I liked the way you said
fire
. Yes,
mia Bella,
old man Collins was not in the most legitimate of trades. Where have you spent your life, my child? Everyone knows King Wenstarin started out as illegal hooch and that both of Todd Collins’s uncles evaporated from the face of the earth when they tried to expand their market share by moving their
product
from Boston to New York. Of course that was before Todd was born. After Prohibition, Collins
père,
the only member of the family not to have been Tommy-gunned out of the picture, managed to turn the business into a legitimate importer of ‘fine’ spirits. Then Todd took over King Wenstarin and turned it into the multimillion-dollar corporation it is today.”
Belle sighed. “
Multimillion dollar . . .
I like the ring of that. I wish Rosco and I could work our bank account in that direction.”
“Be careful what you wish for, dear child. Todd’s offspring are not to be admired or imitated. The three are nothing but a bunch of dilettantes. All they know about money is how to spend it, and spend it, and spend it. The eldest daughter, that would be the oft-married Fiona, used to pal around with your former competitor, Thompson Briephs, so I imagine your friend Sara might provide some pithy insights into the woman.”
Belle nodded. Thompson Briephs had been the crossword editor at the
Herald
before he was murdered a few years back. It was the case that had introduced Belle to the man who would become her husband, and had also cemented a lasting friendship with Thompson’s octogenarian mother, Sara Crane Briephs, a woman Belle had come to view as her surrogate grandmother.
“Wait,” she said, suddenly crinkling her brow, “You mean Fiona Collins and Thompson Briephs were an item? Before he died?”
“Well, dear girl, he wouldn’t have made much of an
item,
as you put it,
after
he was dead and gone, now would he? The Collins tots are a wild bunch, but I think necrophilia might be pushing the envelope, even for them.”
“Is their mother still around?”
“
Around?
Yes, but discarded long ago. You know how such familial relationships work in the moneyed set, my angel. Toddie has his millions, then reaches the fine old age of fifty-plus and starts shopping for a trophy wife. Long-suffering mother of his offspring is unceremoniously shown the exit, and Miss Twentysomething moves into the Big House instead. That first little bride took Mr. Todd for a pretty penny and skedaddled to Miami’s South Beach and a stable of Cuban houseboys—or so I hear. Todd is now on wifey number three, a comely lass named Ryan. Of course, even she will fade in time. It’s now two years or so post-white-gown-and-lace-veil. So I’ve been told that at the age of thirty-seven, she’s interviewing only the best of cosmetic surgeons.” Kerr clasped the palms of his hands to his cheeks. “I’m sorry. Was that naughty of me? Oh, well . . . But then again, Toddie-pie is presently seventy-four. Perchance he has lost his wandering eye and will keep Mistress Ryan for the duration. Only time will tell.”
“It’s kind of odd,” Belle said as she pointed to the manila envelope in her out-box, “but one of the puzzles I drew up for next week has a horse theme. Not show horses like the ones at King Wenstarin Farms, but race horses. I had a wonderful time researching the names . . . famous Kentucky Derby winners and champions who went on to take the Triple Crown. For instance, Omaha, who won it in 1935. Nowadays, the clue would be the city or the famous beach, but back then—”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Kerr interrupted as he waved a cautionary index finger at Belle. “I’d be careful there if I were you,
Bellisima.
If some
evildoer,
to borrow a term, is out to wreak havoc on King Wenstarin, and the horse trade in general, you certainly don’t want to join the throng. Guilt by association? It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve gotten your tush mixed up with the wrong crowd because of those infernal puzzles of yours.”
“I hardly think whoever was responsible for last night’s fire would notice one of my puzzles.”
“Well, to quote Wilfred Owen, ‘All a poet can do is warn.’ ”
“He was referring to war, Bartholomew, not crosswords,” Belle said with a chuckle.
“Yes, but don’t forget he died when he was only twenty-five.”
“Which I’ve already passed.” Belle laughed again. “I’m not concerned. The puzzle I constructed has nothing to do with arson—either real or imagined—or Mr. Collins’s family.”
Kerr leapt off Belle’s desk. “Oh, please, don’t get me gabbing about Clan Collins again. I have work to attend to.”
Belle smiled. Getting Bartholomew “gabbing” was never a trick; stopping him, however, was quite another story.
Across
1. Gardner creation
6. Toss
11. Sixth sense; abbr.
14. Derby winner of 1905
15. Spanish queen
16. My ___
17. Cut-ups
18. Suggest
19. SM, MED, ___
20. Police radio call; abbr.
21. 1973 winner
24. Upper NYC thoroughfare
25. Sizzle
26. Black Sea port
27. Attach
30. Hair raiser?
31. Big name in insurance
33. Int. commerce grp.
35. A Winkler
39. Milking aid
40. Manhattan campus; abbr.
41. Harlot of Jericho
42. D.C. naval facility
43. Poetic evening
44. Kansas City university
45. U2 or ELO
47. Roofer
49. San Fernando Valley town
52. Pats’ old org.
53. Grass court org.
56. 1977 winner
59. Tire need
60. Stooge
61. Easter in Italy, e.g.
62. Certain manual
64. Ike’s WWII turf
65. Actor, Davis
66. 1935 winner
67. “Ask __ . . .”
68. Scratches
69. Songster, Leo
Down
1. Certain parrot
2. Wide open
3. 1919 winner
4. ___ Rosebud, 1914 Derby winner
5. Stack role
6. Adjective for 21-Across, et al.
7. A Winkler
8. Overrun with
9. ___ many; over the top
10. 1937 winner
11. Winning jockey, 1931 Preakness
12. Long tales
13. Michelangelo masterpiece
22. Little lizard
23. Try it again
28. Circling
29. 1930 winner
30. 1943 winner
31. Tempe campus; abbr.
32. UFO crew
34. Lanyard
36. 1941 winner
37. Baron tack-on
38. Hoopster’s org.
46. Even so
48. Chill
49. City on the Ruhr
50. “Cool!”
51. 1949 Preakness winner
52. Spite in Spinazzola
54. Church offering
55. Like the crowd at the track
57. Old gas sign
58. “___ Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”
63. Tumor; suffix