A Crossworder's Gift Read online

  “And which camp are you in, Roger?” Rosco asked.

  Conner shrugged. “I have to admit, old Digger talked a good game. Once in a blue moon, he’d turn up when I was locking up the doors here, and give me a quick glimpse of something he’d insist was a piece of eight—Spanish gold—or a stone he’d swear up and down was an uncut emerald taken from the mines of Brazil … But he’d make me promise to keep my mouth shut for fear the government would be askin’ for too big of a slice of his briny pie … I’d say Digger must have had a nest egg somewhere. But then again …” Conner shrugged. “I’ll tell you this, if there is such a thing as hidden treasure, there’s only one person who knows where it might be, and he’s not talkin’ to nobody.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “He’s sitting right there on your sweetie’s shoulder.”

  “The bird?” Rosco said incredulously.

  Jimmy Bungs flapped irate wings, stretched his neck, and snapped at Rosco, who jumped back just before the powerful beak came in contact with his ear.

  Conner laughed. “Oh, and another thing, he doesn’t like to be called ‘the bird.’”

  “So I gathered.”

  BY the time the sun had begun to set, Belle and Rosco had returned to their rented bungalow, situated halfway up the verdant hillside, overlooking the sailboats and pleasure yachts that dotted Marigot Bay. The trade winds had cooled the evening to a comfortable seventy-five degrees, and lights were twinkling on in the houses and cottages on the opposite slope. The couple stood arm in arm on the veranda beholding the tranquil scene.

  “I wish we had sailed into this harbor, as Roger had imagined,” Belle murmured, “rather then arriving by plane.”

  “That’s a long trip from Massachusetts. I’d be greener than Jimmy Bungs right now.”

  “You know what I mean, Rosco. Wouldn’t it be romantic to drift in by sea—under canvas at sunset. Watching the famous ‘green flash’ in all its glory.”

  Rosco gave her a light kiss, then put on a Jolly Roger Conner accent. “Aye, my little wench, you mean like the wooden-legged pirates of old sailing under the skull and crossbones, cutlasses clenched between our teeth and a bottle of rum to ward off the night chill.”

  “It’s amazing to think that we left all that ice and snow in Newcastle this morning; and a few hours later were ensconced in an island bungalow: coconut palms, banana trees, the Caribbean spreading all around … I guess there’s something to be said for the efficiency of modern transportation—”

  “As long as your idea of transportation comes with jet propulsion and wings and not a mainsail … Because, the only cruising I want is the kind where there’s a steward in a starched white uniform with white gloves and a silver tray; serving me hors d’oeuvres on the fantail … None of this trimming the yardarms for me. I’ll leave that to salty buccaneers like Jolly Roger.”

  “Do you think that was true? All his talk about cannibals, and a pirate being the first European to settle on the island?”

  “You mean old leg-of-wood Jambe de Bois, François Le Clerc? I’m sure it’s true. You could see Pigeon Island, where Roger said Le Clerc set himself up, when we flew in. Seemed a logical spot for a buccaneer: easy to defend, with a nice high vantage point … What I found fishy, though, was the Digger Bonnet tale. If Roger truly believed his onetime buddy had buried treasure nearby, why would he spend his time mixing drinks? Why isn’t he out looking for it?”

  Belle thought. “Maybe he has found it, and isn’t telling anyone.”

  “I don’t know, Belle … Given Conner’s fondness for the dramatic, I’d say the entire fable is merely fodder for tourists.”

  “The others seemed to believe it.”

  “Gerda, Carlotta, and all?”

  “Hmmm-hmmm …”

  “I’m not so sure. I think the Pirate’s Cove regulars like humoring Conner, like egging him on. Besides, remember what Elaine said? That some folks doubt the man had one red cent when he died?” Rosco stepped back from the railing, sat on a rattan love seat, and placed his feet on the matching ottoman. The first star was just beginning to show itself. Belle snuggled up next to him.

  “Still …” she said, “I find the notion of treasure fascinating. Think of all that’s been lost in the sea over the centuries … Spanish doubloons, emeralds from South America—”

  “Exactly! That’s exactly my point. All that’s been lost—including many, many people. Another good reason why you’d never catch me out there on the briny, sailing around on some yawl or ketch or something. A hurricane comes along, next thing you know, you’re fish food.”

  “There are no hurricanes in December.”

  A small black bird with a ruby-colored throat soared down out of the sky and landed on the veranda railing in front of them. He then marched back and forth on the painted wood, and chirped insistently at Belle and Rosco.

  “I think he’s trying to tell us something, Rosco.”

  He laughed. “‘Feed me,’ would be my guess.”

  “You’re right.” Belle stood and walked into the cottage. “There are some bananas in the fruit basket,” she called. “I’ll bet he’d like that.” She returned with a half-peeled banana and placed it on the railing. None of her movements seemed to frighten the bird in the slightest; instead, he hopped onto the banana and began pecking away. Within a matter of seconds, he was joined by four other red-throated black birds.

  “He must have been the advance scout,” Rosco observed. “Probably recognized us as easy marks when we deplaned, and has been following us all afternoon; just waiting to make his move.”

  “So,” Belle said as she leaned against the railing only a foot from the feeding birds, “back to hidden treasure.”

  “Hmmm, why doesn’t it surprise me that you’re so intrigued by all this malarkey?” he said. He knew full well that his wife couldn’t resist the lure of solving a mystery. Curiosity might as well have been her middle name.

  “Well, of course I’m intrigued,” she said. “I used to love to paw through the boxes stored in my grandmother’s attic. There was always a chance of finding an old Indian head penny, or buffalo nickel tucked away in some ancient sewing kit. So how could I not be fascinated by Bonnet’s treasure—”

  “Purported treasure.” He stood and placed his arms around her. “This is vacation, remember? No sleuthing? Besides, it’s kind of nice to be in a place where finally people haven’t heard about the crimes you’ve solved, ‘Ms. Annabella Graham, Cryptic Queen and Criminologist’ … I’m looking forward to reading a few books on the beach and forgetting ice, snow, slush, sleet, and W-O-R-K for the entire W-E-E-K.”

  The birds decided they’d had enough banana, and flew off toward the harbor. Within a few minutes a small gray and brown lizard poked his head around the railing post and checked to see if the coast was clear. Like the birds, he saw no immediate danger in the large humans, and after a moment he crossed the railing to what was left of the fruit and started in on his dinner.

  “I guess they would have all starved to death if we hadn’t arrived,” Rosco said.

  “Something tells me that the owners of this place leave food for the wildlife rather than the guests. I’ll bet the people who rented this cottage last week never got near the bananas … Look.” Belle pointed. “Here comes another lizard. This should be good.”

  “You’re expecting a jousting match? Pistols at twenty paces? Épées, maybe?”

  “Shhh. I just want to see what they do. I have the feeling this guy isn’t in any mood to share.”

  “That’s a lot of snacks for one little guy … Let me know when the action starts. I’ll work out our itinerary for tomorrow …” Rosco began flipping through the Saint Lucia tourist information. “According to this, all that pirate Jambe de Bois stuff that Roger fed us was on the mark … Hmmm, it says here that Pigeon Island wasn’t connected to the mainland back then. That didn’t occur until 1971 … Anyway, we can hike out there if we want to … See where the buccaneers did their conni
ving …”

  “These lizards aren’t doing anything but staring at each other …”

  “And the cannibal stories are genuine as well. It seems the French and English swapped ownership of Saint Lucia on a regular basis. I’d gather this necessitated the exchange of a fair amount of buckshot as well—given how fond the French are of the English, and vice versa. Eventually the cannibals were … shall we say, eliminated. Or perhaps they just had their fill of white men shooting at each other and decided to hit the road … Or in this case, sail off into the sunset.”

  “Maybe if I pushed this one toward the banana a little?”

  “The island changed hands a total of fourteen times in a hundred and fifty years. Can you believe that?”

  “This is a real Mexican standoff …”

  “Statio baud malefidia carinis!”

  Belle turned away from the lizards and faced Rosco. “What did you say?”

  “I thought that might get your attention. A safe haven for ships; it’s Saint Lucia’s motto. I’ll bet it came in handy for the corsair types. You know, throw around a little Latin? Impress the ladies? Make folks think you’ve got an education? Then go and plunder their vessels?”

  Rosco turned to the last page of the tourist publication. His eyes widened slightly, and his brow pinched. Then he closed the newspaper, and slid it to the bottom of a stack of magazines sitting under the side table. The maneuver was more obvious than he’d intended, and Belle immediately recognized its deviousness.

  “How about some dinner?” he said in an attempt to cover his activity.

  “Rosco?” Belle looked at her watch. “It’s not even six-thirty.”

  “Right.”

  “What’s going on? What’s in the newspaper?”

  “Oh … nothing really … skimpy swimsuit ad. Far too revealing, if you ask me. Nothing that would interest you.”

  She laughed. “I don’t believe you for a second.” Belle walked over to the stack of magazines, but he stopped her.

  “It’s only that we’re on vacation … and … well, there’s a crossword in the paper, and I thought you’d like to stay away from that while we’re away. No W-O-R-K for the W-E-E-K.”

  “Just because I see a puzzle doesn’t mean I have to drop everything I’m doing just to fill it in. I’m not that much of a fanatic.”

  He glanced down at the stack of newsprint. “You haven’t seen this puzzle.”

  She bent down and retrieved the paper. Realizing it was hopeless, Rosco made no attempt to stop her. On the back page, Belle found the crossword. She opened her eyes wide. “Digger’s Challenge … Let me get my pen.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to ‘drop everything you’re doing just to …’ Hey! It looks like these lizards are just about ready to go at it, big time.”

  Digger’s Challenge

  ACROSS

  1. Spark

  4. A developing area?

  8. Perrault villain

  10. Flat fish

  11. Tony winner, Arthur

  12. Nuclear watchdog; abbr.

  14. Baum’s land

  15. Hosp. rooms

  16. LTD & Inc. relative

  17. Cab in Cremona

  20. “The Hurricane” star

  23. Skipper of the Adventure Galley

  25. Hire again

  26. Mr. Mineo

  27. Old salt

  28. Right-rain link

  30. “Treasure Island” author’s monogram

  32. Buccaneer’s crew, usually

  33. “Murder___Death”

  35. Latin thing?

  37. Pipes down?

  39. “___No Evil”

  40. Charts

  42. Part of AT&T

  43. Oafs

  44. W. C. Fields’, “___a Gift”

  46. John Q. to John

  47. Barrie villain

  48. “The Beggar’s___”

  50. McQueen or Reeves

  53. Snake sound

  54. SNAFU

  55. “Tell___a Riddle”

  56. Bond doctor

  DOWN

  1. Commonplace

  2. Hot coal

  3. Enjoyable

  4. Price-y insect?

  5. Kokomo campus; abbr.

  6. Penlight battery

  7. Half a suit?

  8. Island market places

  9. Unscrambler

  10. Officer’s course; abbr.

  13. Line

  18. Asparagus unit

  19. Moonshine makers

  21. Harding or Hamilton

  22. Two-stage rocket

  24. “This___Your Life”

  28. Distribute cutlasses

  29. “The___Hawk”; Flynn role

  31. Ready-go link

  32. Mr. Brooks

  33. Plead

  34. “Sure!”

  36. Caribbean specialty

  38. You & me

  39. Treasure, often

  41. Navigational aids

  43. Pirates

  45. Retreat

  46. “Mayday!”

  48. Resistance unit

  49. “Easy as___”

  51. Panel truck

  52. Self

  To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords

  IT took Belle a little over ten minutes to complete the crossword, which she then handed to Rosco. “What do you think?” He shrugged. “Nicely done. No errors.” He checked his watch. “Ten minutes and eighteen seconds; not a record, but … I’m happy to see that you brought your red pen with you—one never knows when an emergency like this might pop up.”

  Belle grabbed the paper from him. “That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it! I’m talking about the design, and the title, Digger’s Challenge. What do you think that refers to? Definitely, not a clam digger, which means—” Her words were flying out of her mouth so fast she didn’t have time to finish one thought before embarking on another. “Because given the skull and crossbones pattern … and the clear references to pirates … Well, it’s obvious there’s a secret ‘challenge’ the solvers are supposed to take.”

  Rosco retrieved the newspaper. “Do you think you might be reading more into this than there is?” he asked. “Nowhere does the crossword suggest a contest of some sort. Besides, Digger Bonnet is long dead. He couldn’t have constructed—”

  “Then who did create it?” she demanded. Belle could be stubborn; this was one of those times. She squared her shoulders; her jaw was set. “Okay, if not Bonnet, then—”

  “Belle, this is just a little island entertainment in a local handout.”

  She sighed. “You’re right, I guess …” Her shoulders hunched in thought. “A little island entertainment, because Roger said Saint Lucia has plenty of crossworders …”

  “You can find out Monday. The newspaper’s office will be closed by now, and tomorrow’s Sunday …”

  Belle squinted her gray eyes and furrowed her brow. It was an expression Rosco had seen many, many times before. He laughed. “I guess the mystery of the constructor won’t keep until Monday—”

  “We can call Roger Conner. He may have some ‘insight’ on the situation—and even if he doesn’t …”

  Rosco chuckled and walked into the bungalow. Belle followed, and watched her husband chat on the phone for all of thirty seconds.

  “Well?” she asked the moment he hung up.

  “He was on his way out the door—heading home after ‘Happy Hour’ and letting the late shift take over. Apparently, Jimmy Bungs gets cranky if he stays at the bar past seven.”

  “Not a night owl, huh?”

  Rosco raised an eyebrow. “I guess not. Roger suggested we stop by his house, since we’re in the market for chat and not rum. We take the ferry across the bay, and walk up the hill. His place is on the first dirt road to the right.”

  They strolled out of their bungalow and headed down the walkway hand in hand. A series of lights bordered the path on either side and shone upon
groupings of bird of paradise, hibiscus, and bougainvillea while the stars and a three-quarter moon cast silvery blue shadows among the nodding palm fronds and giant ferns. The tree frogs were beginning their evening ritual; their flutey chirps and whistles floated effortlessly into the night air.

  Before leaving the trail, Belle and Rosco stopped, faced each other, and exchanged a long kiss. “This is an awfully romantic spot,” she said as they pulled apart.

  “Does this mean you want to put this puzzle thing on the back burner?” Rosco asked hopefully. She didn’t answer, so he added, “I didn’t think so.”

  The couple retraced their steps to the Pirate’s Cove Bar then crossed the beach to the ferry—a minibarge that traversed Marigot Bay at all hours of the day and night. The trip to the far shore took a brief minute of putt-putting among fishing skiffs now deserted until morning.

  Once again on shore, they passed the marina’s general store and the sleepy police station, and began climbing the hill, turning at the crossroads as per Roger’s instructions. After a few hundred yards, Rosco stopped. “This should be his place.”

  The house didn’t appear much larger than the bungalow Belle and Rosco had rented. It had the same style of windows—sans glass panes—a tin roof, and a wraparound veranda, and was surrounded by dense vegetation. However, it was considerably older than their cottage, and time and innumerable tropical storms had left a mark, making the structure look like a fisherman’s shack rather than a residence. The door had been left open, but Rosco knocked twice before they stepped inside.

  The interior had been decorated à la Thirties Caribbean Nautical. Torn fishnets had been slung from the rafters, each adorned with glass and cork floaters, and an assortment of seashells, starfish, and coral fans. The furniture was rattan, and once had been brushed with bright tropical colors, but the paint was now faded to pastel shades, as were the thin and lumpy cushions on the couch and armchairs. Conner was sitting on the couch reading a battered paperback. He didn’t appear to have heard their knock, but Jimmy Bungs squawked his habitual “Bottoms up, maties” as the couple passed through the entryway.

  Conner glanced up from his book. “Ahhh, there they are! Good old Jimmy; better than a watch dog, he is.” He stood and crossed to his guests, extending his hand to Rosco. “Welcome to my humble abode … So, you’ve found the puzzle from the summer issue?”