Wrapped Up in Crosswords Read online

  Wrapped Up in Crosswords

  A Holiday Novel

  Nero Blanc

  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

  A LETTER FROM NERO BLANC

  Dear Friends,

  We were inspired to write this story because we have been blessed to share our home and life with a number of avian and canine friends. All of them have participated in our literary activities: a parakeet who was fond of typing (the m and virgule were her specialty), a parakeet who liked to wrestle with folded sheets of paper, a dog who recognized the novelist’s groans of frustration as pleas for the wet nose of solace and compassion, a dog who knew the importance of leaving work behind in favor of a rejuvenating walk …

  If our animal friends were able to effectively use the keyboard, this is the story they might have dreamed up. We hope you have as much fun reading it as we did creating it; and as always, we invite your comments and thoughts through our web site: www.CrosswordMysteries.com.

  In closing, heartfelt thanks to all those kind and good people who work at animal shelters. Kudos!

  Nero (aka Cordelia and Steve)

  The authors dedicate a percentage of their earnings from Wrapped Up in Crosswords to The Pennsylvania Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals*

  * The Pennsylvania Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (PSPCA) has six rural Pennsylvania branches, in addition to its Philadelphia main office/shelter at 350 E. Erie Avenue, Philadelphia, PA 19134 - www.pspca.org.

  One

  ROSCO Polycrates entered the Newcastle Police station through the side door on Cabot Alley. Although he’d been a private investigator for over six years, Rosco had served with the police department of this Massachusetts coastal city for eight years prior to that; and in all those fourteen years, the department had yet to alter the security entry code on the station house side door—02740. It was actually the local zip code, but it was surprising how many of the employees had trouble remembering it. Rosco had often considered suggesting to his former partner, Lieutenant Al Lever—now chief of homicide—that a numerical change might be advisable and even timely, but in the end, Rosco always nixed the notion. It was often beneficial being the only nondepartmental individual privy to this “secret” number. At the ripe old age of thirty-eight, he regarded the entry code as a “retirement bonus” unwittingly bestowed upon him by the NPD.

  One of the major advantages of using the side door was that he could avoid going through the metal detector and then facing undue harassment by the desk sergeant. Having been a former officer, Rosco’s stature within the Newcastle Police Department ran about 50–50; that is to say, half of the officers admired and respected him for his sense of honor and humor as well as his seemingly unorthodox, albeit efficient, approach to crime solving. The other half of the Newcastle Police Department disliked him for basically the same reasons.

  On this cold but unusually snow-free morning, the twentieth of December, Rosco had even more reason for using the department’s side door. Walking beside him, as he approached the building, was the latest addition to his small family: a thirty pound silver-gray bundle of canine fluff named Gabby. Just as Rosco habitually eschewed socks—except athletic ones for his morning runs—Gabby saw no use whatsoever for a leash.

  The puppy had been “adopted” earlier in the year when Rosco and his wife, Annabella Graham, had been in Los Angeles. “Belle,” as she was known to friends and fans, was the crossword puzzle editor for The Evening Crier, one of Newcastle’s two daily papers. She was also—although it made Rosco more than a little anxious—an amateur sleuth, and had been called to L.A. as technical consultant for a TV movie based on one of her more prominent cases. After some unpleasant business involving the murder of the show’s screenwriter, Belle and Rosco had been left with the door prize, which was Gabby.

  Belle liked to describe the puppy as a cross between a miniature poodle and a wheaten terrorist; at this point it was difficult to tell whether Gabby was more besotted with Rosco or vice versa. The two had become inseparable. When Rosco left their house on Captain’s Walk without her, she either spent the day sulking or demanding attention from her “sister,” Kit. When Rosco returned home, Gabby flew into such an ecstasy that Kit, who was a shepherd mix and older and wiser by a full year, would turn away in disgust. Then she’d seek out Belle, leaning her large body against her as though in empathy.

  Needless to say, this adoring act brought results with Rosco. He found excuses to take Gabby on many excursions, and since his “mission” today was not of a crime-solving nature, he saw no reason why the newest member of the household shouldn’t accompany him. The likelihood of any desk sergeant allowing him to enter the police station with a dog seemed remote, which was another solid reason to cherish his possession of the entry code for the Cabot Alley door.

  Before Rosco had left the Newcastle Police Department, he, Al Lever, and forensics wizard, Abe Jones, had taken it upon themselves to organize a holiday toy drive for the city’s neediest children. The initial effort had grown, and the three men now collected close to three hundred gifts—which they and a group of stalwart friends then wrapped and redistributed to Newcastle’s several homeless shelters, its two social services agencies, a host of after-school programs that aided kids at risk, and the hospital’s pediatric ward. The bounty was delivered Christmas day in time for each institution’s annual party.

  Although Rosco was no longer with the department, he wouldn’t have given up involvement with the gift drive for the world. And this was his “mission” on this particular Tuesday: to team up with Jones and Lever, don holiday costumes, and retrieve gifts the local merchants had been gathering from their customers since Thanksgiving.

  As Rosco and his dog stepped onto the olive-green linoleum of the station house’s inner hallway, the heavy metal exit door slammed behind them with a crash. Gabby leapt six inches in the air at the sudden noise, then turned toward the offensive slab of black steel and yipped three times in rapid and noisy succession. Neither her barking nor the clang of the door seemed to garner the attention of any of the officers, most of whom were too involved in their own particular pieces of police business. Rosco acknowledged the nod of a plainclothes officer as he passed. The man was escorting a known drug dealer down the hallway, the detainee’s handcuffs being the only item that distinguished cop from hoodlum. Gabby gave both a low growl as they ambled by, and the cop laughed.

  “And a Merry Christmas to you, too, pooch. You better teach her who the good guys are, Rosco, before she runs off with the likes of Archie, here.”

  “We’re working on that. Her previous housemate was arrested on murder-one, so this is sor
t of a work-release program Belle and I have going. Gab’s a parolee.”

  The cop laughed again and continued down to the stairway that led to “lock-up,” or “the hole,” depending on which officer you spoke to.

  Rosco scanned the inner action of the NPD. Not only hadn’t the security code at the side door been changed in fourteen years, nothing else appeared to have been altered either. Most of the cops were the same ones he knew from his stint there. There were a couple of new faces, but not many; and the walls had probably been painted a few times, but their color was the same institutional green it had always been. Does the city get a deal on this paint? Rosco wondered. Dusty ceiling fans hung down and rotated lazily, even in late December. The idea was to move the heat, coffee fumes, and cigarette smoke around so that no one felt slighted. Rosco guessed that NO SMOKING signs at NPD were still a good five years off.

  The large room, separated into fifteen work cubicles, was sparsely populated. Only five or six officers worked quietly, filling out paperwork, while two groups of uniformed patrolmen and -women swapped jokes at two separate coffee stations on either side of the duty desk. A feeble attempt had been made to give the place a touch of holiday cheer. The desk sergeant, who had her back to Rosco, wore reindeer antlers instead of a police hat, and a string of red and green lights had been hung along the back wall—the same string of lights Rosco had purchased eight years ago. About twenty percent of the bulbs had blown out and had yet to be replaced.

  On the far side of the room were three glass-paneled offices. An artificial wreath hung on the door closest to the duty desk. It belonged to the captain. Rosco was relieved to see the office empty, the captain being one of the officers with whom Rosco had often been at odds. The center office belonged to the captain’s executive officer. It was empty as well. And the final room belonged to Rosco’s ex-partner, Al Lever. Al could be seen perched behind his desk, his back to the station house, reading the Crier and smoking a cigarette.

  Rosco looked down at Gabby and said, “I see that our friend Detective Lever has finally kicked that nasty habit of chewing nicotine gum all day long.”

  Gabby let out a small whine. Her previous housemate, as Rosco had referred to her, had found great success using “the patch,” but Gabby had no effective means of communicating this information to either Rosco or Al.

  As Rosco worked his way across the station house, with Gabby at his heels, his progress was slowed as “The Gabs,” or “The Gabsters,” or “Gabby-Girl” received pats and treats from Rosco’s old pals, and disapproving scowls from his former detractors. When they reached the lieutenant’s door, Rosco tapped twice on the glass and walked in.

  Lever swiveled in his chair, glanced at his watch, and dropped the newspaper on his desk, along with a chewed No. 2 pencil. He’d clearly been working the daily crossword puzzle. He stubbed out his cigarette and intentionally gave Rosco’s surname the same drawn-out and inaccurate pronunciation he’d been giving it for years and years. What had started out as an off-hand reference to Rosco’s Greek heritage had become a familiar and collegial habit—an inside joke between two old friends.

  “Poly—crates. What’s up? Ten o’clock already, huh?”

  Rosco glanced down at the puzzle. “Yep. Time sure flies when you’re wrapped up in serious investigative police work.”

  His former partner was only a year or two older than Rosco, but those years had left their mark. Where Rosco was fit, with thick, dark hair and a lean, youthful face, Al Lever was overweight, balding, pasty white, and had a constant smoker’s cough—even on those rare occasions when he’d switched from cigarettes to nicotine gum. And he loved to play the curmudgeon: the gruff, hardboiled cop who had little time for chit-chat and life’s small pleasantries.

  Al tapped the newspaper. “This is all the fault of that wife of yours. If she hadn’t gotten me hooked on crosswords, a hell of lot more work would get done around here.”

  Rosco laughed. “Hey Al, what are friends for? You want me to take a peek at the answers for you, you have only to say the word—as it were. I know where Belle stashes her unpublished work, and I’m certainly not above bribes. My hockey skates are looking a little ratty.”

  Lever cocked his head to one side. “Hmm … There’s an excellent idea. And I pay my snitches well.” He lit another cigarette, tossed the match into an overflowing ashtray, then pushed the crossword aside and sighed heavily. “I was hoping Belle’s puzzle here would give me some inspiration—all that clever info she tosses in: vintage movies and rare birds and quotations and things …’cause I’ve been wracking my brains for a Christmas gift for my wife—”

  “Surprise, surprise, what else is new?”

  Lever scowled. “I take it you’ve got your honey’s present already covered in shiny paper and hidden away, is that it?”

  “Well, no …”

  “So, let’s not throw stones in glass houses, shall we?”

  Rosco laughed. “No pretty package for Helen to open, huh?”

  “No, but I think you just supplied the solution … You sneak me the answers to Belle’s holiday puzzle contest for the Crier, I score the newspaper’s prize of ‘a deluxe dinner for two,’ and bingo, I’ve got a nice I.O.U. to lay on my wife on Christmas morning … Then I take the little lady out to dine the minute the winner’s announced on New Year’s Eve. Problem solved … I like it, buddy. I say, let’s go for it.”

  “Except that it’s kinda illegal to rig a competition.”

  “Yeah, I know …” Lever made a sound that was less a chortle than a groan. “So, what are you getting Belle?”

  This time it was Rosco’s turn to sigh. “Not a clue.”

  Al returned to the puzzle and filled in a word. “A partridge in a pear tree … How’s about that?”

  “This is no joking matter. I’m running out of time here.”

  “It wasn’t a joke. I like pears. Give her an I.O.U. for that fancy nursery up the coast aways, cut out a photo of a cute, little bird. In fact, maybe that’s not a bad notion for me to consider”…

  At this point, Gabby interrupted the conversation by jumping up, placing her front paws on Lever’s desk, and attempting to grab what was left of a jelly doughnut.

  “Hey, hey,” Al barked. “This is a police station, in case you two haven’t noticed.” He glowered at Gabby as though spying her for the first time. “How’d you get that mutt past O’Hara at the duty desk?”

  “You know O’Hara; she’s never been very observant.”

  “Didn’t anyone tell you there’s a leash law in this city?”

  Rosco gently lifted Gabby’s paws from the desk and placed them back on the floor. “Bad girl.”

  “That didn’t have a very authoritative ring to it, Poly—crates. That’s the most spoiled dog in Newcastle. If I pull your name at our Secret Santa party, I’m getting you, both of you, a leash.”

  Gabby dropped her head and walked behind Rosco as Al continued, “And then I’m assigning a patrolman to follow you around town, just to be sure you use the dang thing.”

  Lever’s office door opened once more and Abe Jones walked in.

  “What is this?” Al grumbled. “No one knocks around here?”

  “Hey, Al, you’re talking to Rosco; how important could it be? And besides, we’re meeting at ten, right?” Jones shook Rosco’s hand and looked down at his feet, spotting Gabby. He dropped into a crouch and held his arms open. “Well if it ain’t the Gabsters. How’s my second-favorite canine?”

  Gabby placed her paws on Abe’s thighs and began licking his face.

  “Arrgh,” Lever growled. “You two and your dogs; you’re making me sick. I’m gonna puke, really.”

  “Kiss the girls and make them cry,” Jones said as he straightened. He was younger and slightly taller than Rosco, African-American, and in perfect physical shape. He looked like a movie star masquerading as a forensics expert. “So, are we ready to do this thing?”

  Lever stood. “Yep.”

  “I take it
the costumes are still up in the evidence room?” Rosco asked. “Or is that the one thing that’s changed since the last time I was here?”

  Jones laughed. “Nothing changes, Rosco. Nothing ever changes.”

  “Ho, ho.” Lever pointed at Gabby. “What are you going to do with the dog while we’re up there?”

  “The dog?” Rosco asked incredulously.

  “The dog.”

  Rosco shrugged. “She can’t come with us? She’s very well behaved.”

  Jones suppressed a laugh, and Gabby gave him a dirty look.

  “No dogs in the evidence room,” Lever announced.

  “Come on, Al …”

  “No dogs in the evidence room.”

  “Who’s gonna know besides us?”

  “No dogs in the evidence room.”

  “Come on, lighten up, Al, it’s Christmas,” Abe said.

  “Not for five more days it isn’t. No dogs in the evidence room. How many times do I have to say it?”

  Rosco shook his head. “Man, talk about a Scrooge. If we leave her in your office, Al, I guarantee you won’t have any doughnuts left when we get back. Even if you stick them all the way on top of the filing cabinets in the corner.” He patted Gabby’s head. “Besides, look at that face. How can you say ‘no’ to that?”

  “You two make me sick.”

  “Me and Abe?”

  “All three of you …” Lever let out a lengthy and very stagy sigh, sat on the edge of his desk, and folded his arms over his chest. “Okay, just this once. But keep an eye on her. You know the penalty for destroying evidence?”

  “Ten years in the pound?”

  Two

  ROSCO, Abe Jones, and Al Lever meandered up the flight of stairs leading to the second floor of the Newcastle Police Department. Gabby ran ahead, which was a major part of her personality. She saw no point in walking if she could do the one-hundred-yard dash instead.