A Crossword to Die For Read online

  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.” —BookBrowser

  A Crossword to Die For

  A Crossword Mystery

  Nero Blanc

  For Alice Martell,

  With many thanks for her friendship and support.

  A Letter from Nero Blanc

  Dear Reader,

  Who is Nero Blanc? Many of you have asked us this question.

  We chose the nom de plume because of its crossword connection: nero being black in Italian, and blanc being white in French. The words are also favorites with many puzzle constructors.

  Writing the Nero Blanc series is a dream come true for us. Like our protagonists, Belle and Rosco, we find working together a true pleasure. We love the surprises that arise when creating mystery novels, and hope you do, too.

  And we always enjoy hearing from you! We invite you to send your messages through our web site, www.crosswordmysteries.com, where you’ll find information about other Nero Blanc books as well as original puzzles.

  Happy solving and sleuthing,

  Cordelia and Steve

  AKA

  Nero Blanc

  Every man is as Heaven made him,

  and sometimes a great deal worse.

  —Cervantes

  CHAPTER 1

  “Oh, yes, ma’am … On this train? Are you kidding? I’ve seen just about everything that can come down the tracks … No pun intended …” John Markoe turned his hefty frame sideways, allowing a lanky and large-footed teenager in a Celtics’ tank top to pass. The narrow center aisle of the Amtrak car hadn’t been designed for people of John’s girth, and the act of twisting his body sideways had little effect on how much space he consumed.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he continued after the teen had squeezed by, “I’ve been a conductor on this Northeast Corridor run for twenty-three years now, and nothing surprises me anymore. Back in ’ninety-seven a woman gave birth to triplets … Just after we pulled out of New Haven. We had to clear the club car for her. Lucky we had a doctor on board or I guess I would’ve had to do the honors myself—”

  “I think I read about that in the newspaper …” the woman chimed in. Her hair was dyed an aggressive ebony color, and her journey had been spent in detailing her life story to all and sundry until she’d worn out every ear around her. The conductor was her final target, but he was proving as voluble as she:

  “… I make it a habit to read both the local paper and the Boston—”

  “Yes, ma’am … Big news. Right on election day, too—”

  The woman opened her mouth, but the conductor continued without pausing for breath:

  “Stole the headlines in the Boston papers right out from under the pres-eee-dent-eee-lect.” John Markoe wheezed slightly. “But it’s something crazy on nearly every run. There’s always some freeloader trying to get a complimentary ride; you know, beat the fare by complaining about this or that? Or trying to hide in the can … And, of course, we get the pickpockets and the wierdies. But if you’ve been working for this line as long as I have, you develop a nose for them, a kind of sixth sense … Oh, yes, and an engine slammed into a pickup truck once, and a cow another time … That was about fifteen years ago. No cows around these parts anymore … Winter it was when that particular event took place. Remember when we had three major blizzards in as many years? Ninety-three inches in total?”

  The slowing of the engine returned John’s thoughts to the job at hand. He checked his watch. “Yes in-deed-dee, right on time … Early, actually … Yes, ma’am, nothing surprises me anymore.”

  “Is this Boston already?” the woman asked. “I’m visiting my son up there, you know. He’s a doc—” She was about to say more, but again John curtailed her speech.

  “Oh, no, ma’am. This next station stop will be Newcastle, Massachusetts. Boston won’t be for another thirty minutes or so, so you can relax.”

  “I’ve never visited Newcastle, but I’ve heard that the city is quite a—”

  “A pleasure to be of service, ma’am.” John Markoe turned to face the front of the train, raised his voice, and barked to the carload of passengers, “Newcastle! Newcastle! Our next station stop will be Newcastle, Massachusetts. This way out, please!”

  He strolled along the aisle, pulling Newcastle ticket stubs from the metal clips that adorned the overhead luggage racks, all the while announcing: “Please use the rear door out, folks. The front door will not open at this station stop. I repeat: The front door will not open at this station.”

  The train began chugging to a crawl, allowing passengers on the harbor-front side of the cars a sweeping view of the river and distant bay that led down into the Atlantic Ocean. Fishing boats, oceangoing tugs, and pleasure craft bobbed in water now suddenly grown dark and squally while the sky was turning equally black and ominous with rain.

  A smattering of warning drops flung themselves against the windows as passengers waiting to detrain began grabbing bags, suitcases, children, and attaché cases as they rushed to avoid what seemed an imminent deluge.

  “Take your time, folks! Take your time! No one’s going to leave without you!”

  Those still seated on the station side of the track watched the massive brick edifice loom into view. Designed by H. H. Richardson, the master of midnineteenth-century baroque-revival architecture, the hulking station house had the peculiar distinction of affording shelter only to southbound passengers. Those disembarking on the northbound, shoreward lane had to stand beside the track and wait until every rail car departed for Boston before crossing to the twin-turreted and multidormered building. Rain and snow—neither one a rarity in New England—often made the transition to the dry comfort of the interior waiting room a trial.

  “This way out, folks! Taxis are across the platform at the station. Seating areas across the platform.” John opened the coach’s sliding door and lowered the metal steps to meet the wooden platform. A group of fifteen or twenty passengers, luggage in hand, waited anxiously to board. The wind had begun whipping around them, forcing several to lunge for summer hats, and several more to brace themselves against the sudden blasts.

  “Please stand back, folks,” John ordered in his stentorian tone. “Let’s let the arrivals off, shall we? No one’s going anywhere without you!”

  The sky was now inky, and those gathered to entrain so tightly clustered that the new arrivals could hardly fight their way down onto the platform.

  “Folks! Folks! A little elbow room …! Let the passengers through! Boston! Boston! Plenty of seats to your right.”

  Boarding finished, the conductor lugged his weighty body back up the steps, waved to the engineer, and shut the sliding door. Within a minute the train was r
olling again, and the rain already driving at the hurrying metal and glass. Those seated nearest the windows drew back reflexively as if the storm were capable of entering the carriage. Overhead reading lights flickered on, and a sudden sizzle of lightning rent the sky.

  “Oh my,” said the chatty lady to the group in general. “I hope we all brought umbrellas.”

  Positioning himself at the rear of the car, John pulled his punch from his belt and called out the familiar, “Tickets. Tickets, please. The next station stop will be Back Bay Boston. Boston, Massachusetts, next station stop. All doors open in Boston … Tickets, please.”

  He worked his way down the aisle, removing Boston-bound stubs from the overhead as he inspected and punched the tickets of the passengers who had boarded in Newcastle.

  About halfway down the car, the conductor spotted a man sleeping unconcernedly, his head resting against the window, and his sports jacket carefully folded into a square pillow shape. John glanced at the metal clip on the luggage rack above the peaceful figure but found no ticket stub—meaning one of two things: someone had taken it by mistake, or more likely, the passenger had intended to detrain in Newcastle and missed the stop altogether.

  The conductor bent across the aisle seat. “Sir? We’ve passed Newcastle, sir—”

  The man didn’t stir.

  “Sir,” John repeated in a louder voice, “we’ve passed Newcastle. If you intended to detrain there, you’ll need to get off in Boston and take the next southbound train.”

  Still, the man refused to awaken, and John was reluctant to nudge him. Passengers roused from a deep sleep often made irritable riders. He bent down closer to the man’s ear.

  “Sir …? We’ve passed Newcastle.”

  This had no effect. After a minute, John opted to give the man’s shoulder a slight nudge. “Sir?”

  Again, there was no reaction so John tried with more vigor. His efforts caused the passenger’s head to roll to one side while his torso slumped forward and slammed onto the open tray table in front of him.

  “Sir?” The conductor sat beside the man. “Sir? Are you all right …?” He placed his hand on the man’s wrist and checked for a pulse. Nothing. He moved to a vein in the man’s neck.

  “Dammit!” John pulled his walkie-talkie from his belt, and radioed the other conductor. “Herb, this is John, do you read me?”

  A gravelly “Go ahead” crackled through the receiver.

  “Herb, I think we’ve got a heart attack victim on Car Three.”

  “Oh, boy … Do you need some CPR up there?”

  “No … This guy’s a goner.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Annabella Graham raced into the parking lot just in time to see the last car of Amtrak’s Boston-bound train disappear down the track. She squinted her gray eyes in exasperation as she grabbed up her purse. Of course, Amtrak would have to be on time for once! she thought. And not only on time; by her watch it was positively early. She cursed herself for not arriving sooner even as she imagined the cutting critique she’d receive from her father: The daughter who had failed to “achieve” her “potential” has failed again.

  Belle jumped out of her car, slammed the door, inadvertently locking her key in the ignition while, simultaneously, a vast zigzag of lightning slashed across the late afternoon sky. Thunder barreled and crashed in its wake; the air filled with wind-whipped water; and the river beyond the asphalt-covered parking lot churned itself into an angry dirt-black indicating a storm heading in from the Atlantic Ocean. Belle turned and ran for the station, but by the time she’d reached the passengers clustered beneath the protective awning on the southbound platform, she was drenched through. And her father was nowhere in sight.

  She took a breath and sighed. It went without saying that Theodore A. Graham, former professor of anthropology at Princeton University, would have been one of the first travelers to detrain. He’d probably been gauging the storm’s approach, velocity, and estimated moment of impact since the train had departed New Haven, Connecticut. Naturally, he’d now be anticipating his daughter’s arrival while comfortably ensconced within the brick building’s comforting walls. Let those who were unprepared, whose brains were scattered, and whose thinking was muzzy brave the elements! Dr. Graham would stay high and dry and very much in control.

  Belle worked her way through the crowd, murmuring a diffident but edgy “Excuse me …” with nearly every step. Her tan sandals squelched with water, a new Indian-print skirt clung dismally to her calves, while tendrils of soaking blond hair sent frigid droplets down her neck. The bride of three months’ time wasn’t about to make a great impression on a father she hadn’t seen in nearly a year. She tried to affix an enthusiastic smile, then pulled open the heavy door that led to the inside waiting area.

  There, another throng of damp, disgruntled passengers shuffled to and fro. The storm’s onslaught had delayed the southbound train and marooned many would-be travelers while the crowd whose journey had recently concluded were now encamped in the waiting room sitting out the worst of the rain before venturing outside to the parking lot or the taxi stand. The station house was packed.

  Belle attempted a brighter smile and strode into its midst, working her way toward the seating area near the building’s west entrance.

  No Theodore Graham tarried there, either.

  She suppressed a grimace, and a sudden fit of pique. Thanks a heap, Dad! her brain began carping. Another no-show! I suppose you missed your connecting train in New York … Or else we’ll get a call from Florida tonight with an excuse about mixing up the days … or a back spasm that kept you in bed … and you’re sorry you didn’t phone sooner, but the doctor put you on pain medication and you plum forgot you had a date in New England …

  She shut her eyes tight; tears of sorrow and anger welled beneath her lids. If my father doesn’t want to visit; if he never chooses to meet my new husband; if the idea of Rosco’s casualness—or his less than Ivy League education—annoys Father’s finicky sense of perfection, then he didn’t have to plan this trip!

  Belle yanked open the terminal doors and hurried to her car, unaware until she was thrusting her hand into her purse that her key was still in the ignition and the doors of the vehicle were locked. “Oh … oh … Honestly!” She clenched her teeth in frustration at her own disorganization.

  Thoroughly chilled now despite the returning summer heat, she dragged herself back through the rain to the waiting room, where she considered her options. She could phone Rosco and explain her predicament—he’d definitely have another set of keys—or she could seek help from a stranger. Neither choice made her feel remotely capable or wise, but she decided upon the second alternative, wondering even as she went looking for a maintenance man to jimmy open her car window why it was so much more embarrassing to admit personal defeat to an unknown person than to someone you loved.

  Brad was the name of her rescuer. He’d been in Newcastle only a couple of months, and was juggling two jobs in order to save enough money for college. He seemed like a nice kid—albeit one who was remarkably adept at gaining access to locked vehicles. Belle gave him a ten-dollar tip, which he greeted with an effusive: “Thanks, lady … ma’am … I mean it! Thanks a lot.”

  Belle tried for another smile, but found herself too cross or depressed or just plain aggravated to be successful.

  Rosco was waiting on the porch as she pulled into the small drive of their home in Captain’s Walk, an area that had once been the purview of eighteenth-century seafarers and that now housed three growing families, several “empty nesters,” and another young couple like themselves who appreciated the eclectic mixture of historical integrity and quirky modernity. Her husband was wearing a brand-new shirt, pressed chinos, and shoes with socks—a true mark of his unease and awe at finally meeting his illustrious father-in-law. Belle found herself wondering how long he’d been waiting in this fashionable pose, and grinned despite her cranky humor. Rosco in socks! Who would have thought it? The gesture—and his
entire outfit—filled her with a comfortable sense of belonging.

  Beside him sat Kit, their “found” mongrel puppy. The two created a picture that was almost too good to be true: a charming New England town home, interior lights flickering through ancient windowpanes to illuminate an exterior wicker settee, an old-fashioned letter box, and porch floorboards painted a soothing, time-worn gray. Even the rain now seemed pleasant and serene: a happy injunction to stay inside.

  “Where’s your father?” Rosco called out while Belle hurried up the walkway.

  “He either missed his connection in New York, or else he’s still in Florida … I take it he didn’t phone—”

  “No one called … Not even my client … Surprise, surprise. But I should have known better than to sit around waiting for him to beam in.”

  Kit ran down the front steps to meet her mistress.

  “Hi, Kitty … Ready for your supper?”

  Rosco scrutinized his drenched wife as she ascended the stairs to the porch. “A wild guess … You locked your keys in your car again, didn’t you?” His tone barely hid an amused and loving chuckle.

  Belle stamped her wet feet, ran a hand through her dripping hair, then ruffled the dog’s soft, brown ears. “I might have …”

  Rosco squelched another urge to chortle. “I don’t see why you refuse to keep a second set in your purse—”

  Irritation at herself and the situation made her voice turn snappish. “But I’d only lose those too, Rosco! You know I would! And pretty soon, the entire city would be awash in misplaced keys … No, what I need to do is start concentrating on one thing at a time … You know, finishing a task before beginning another. Keeping a schedule and writing things down … Learning how to be organized—”

  This time Rosco laughed in earnest. “I hope you’re not serious about that resolution.”

  “I am. Absolutely!”

  His smile grew. “I tell you what, why don’t you dry off, call down to Florida, find out where your dad is, and then I’ll take you out for dinner.”