The Crossword Murder Page 2

  Dae’s creation was a labyrinthine structure worthy of King Minos and his fabled man-eating Minotaur. Room twisted upon room in a convoluted mazelike design while the signature bloodred and ebony of the ancient civilization imparted to the stuccoed walls, floor tiles, even the lighting fixtures and custom-crafted furniture, a primitive, unearthly feel that was at once erotic and spare. To say that the crossword editor reveled in this peculiar construction would be an understatement. It was his haven and refuge, his fortress and obsession. In homage to his trade and to the mythical Aeolus, a Greek demigod believed to be ruler of the winds, Briephs had christened the singular structure Windword Islands; no man or woman set foot on its shores without receiving a prior commandment from its dictatorial owner.

  “Daddy’s home,” Thompson murmured while the Whaler made land. “Your daddy’s come home to his baby.”

  CHAPTER 3

  AFTER LASHING THE Whaler’s bowline to the dock at the western side of Windword Islands, Briephs followed a winding, wooden walkway, traversing rocks and tidal pools before reaching his home. He breathed another sigh of relief as he opened the door. Once inside, the summertime world of seagulls and beach scenes and hot-weather temper tantrums vanished. Briephs was embraced by his home’s cool and shadowy presence as if by a long-lost lover. He passed deeper and deeper into the secret corridors, smiling to himself as he traced pathways only he had memorized. Finally, he reached the kitchen, a mundane but necessary staple of modern life. In accordance with Briephs’ instructions and I. W. Dae’s fanciful invention, the room’s walls and ceiling had been drenched with a primordial red and so arranged that nothing electronic or functional intruded. The cabinets’ surfaces mimicked lath and stucco; the countertops had been carved of ancient oak; the sink was a rough-hewn bowl of stone, the faucet an amphora neck of curving bronze.

  Briephs opened a Sub-Zero refrigerator, whose double doors had been disguised with rows of trompe l’oeil funerary urns, pulled out a chilled bottle of Puligny Montrachet, poured a glassful into a goblet re-created from an ancient Attic design, took a long and healthy swig, then strolled another passage, ascending a staircase constructed of sea stones, and emerging at last in his bedroom overlooking the ocean. It was here that the real jewels of the editor’s collection of antiquities were kept: pieces so rare most were believed to be unique.

  “Daddy’s home,” he whispered again. He was feeling better—definitely better. “Your loving daddy’s home.” With a smug laugh, Thompson shucked off his clothes and entered the bathroom. Every inch of this retreat had been mirrored, allowing him to become a hundred nude men in the blink of an eye. He regarded the reflections fondly. Except for his silver hair, he was as fit as he’d been in his student days at Andover and Yale. “‘Mourn ye Graces and loves,’” Briephs quoted, then chuckled again. “Oh, I think no mourning today … We’ll welcome those lovely folk instead …”

  Thompson gazed at the mirrors a second more, then stepped into the shower, permitting the hot water to roll over his welcoming skin. In less than a minute, however, the peaceful mood was broken by the sound of a motorboat approaching the island.

  He switched off the water—soap still clinging to his body—and listened. It wasn’t unusual for tourists to let their vessels drift close to Windword for a look, but this visitor was clearly no stranger, nearing the island’s eastern shore. Briephs had a keen ear for outboard engines; whoever was maneuvering the boat was sailing from the west—and closing in quickly on the dock.

  He waited for the familiar sound of Fiberglas meeting wood piling. When the bump came, he returned to the shower and hurriedly rinsed away the remaining soap. Then he dressed in a burgundy-colored silk robe and descended to the living room. He held the wineglass like a scepter or a cudgel. Curiously, his other hand gripped his calfskin attaché case. Briephs didn’t stop to consider how ludicrous this object might appear as an accessory to a dressing gown.

  When he saw who his visitor was, his laugh rang out, half joyous and half hysterical. “Oh my God, you gave me such a scare! You mustn’t do that, pumpkin … arriving without phoning first … That’s really very naughty!”

  Briephs shook his finger playfully at the visitor, then threw himself on a banquette covered with tapestried pillows. “This hellish heat … The meteorologist at the Herald insists we’re not due for a break until late next week … if then …” He took a leisurely sip of wine, laughed again, then fell silent when he realized his guest didn’t share his mirth. The attaché case now rested on a pillow beside him. “Can I get you a glass of wine? Or something stronger? As you know, my liquor cabinet’s full of nasty spirits.”

  “The money wasn’t there, Tommy-Boy.”

  Briephs sat erect. “Excuse me? … Money …?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Money …” Briephs repeated. “Money?” He toyed with his dressing gown’s lapels as if they were the ermine trim on a royal mantle. “What money?”

  Then a sudden revelation shot into his brain. “Incredible! So, you are the one … the person who’s been sending those dreadful letters. My little hunch was correct, after all … Well, well, well … What do you know about that? Daddy was right …” Automatically, his hand stroked the calfskin case, then withdrew with a display of excessive calm. “The payment was there,” he continued blithely. “I left it in the locker as always … and the key in its customary place.”

  “Oh, the key was there all right. But no cash. You stiffed me, Thompson!” The name was spoken with an unmistakable sneer, although an undercurrent of sham bravado shaded the rest of the words.

  Briephs gauged the speaker’s unease, and his expression turned secretive and sly; he wasn’t cowed in the slightest. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he scolded. “Running me around like a perfect lunatic. I was frantic when those letters arrived …” All earlier apprehensions allayed, Briephs laughed again, then sipped languidly at his wine. “One piece of advice, though: never play word games with a master; I just might have a few tricks of my own—”

  “It’s no joke, Tom-Boy … I’m deadly serious.”

  “Are you? Well, in the future perhaps you might consider consulting your O.E.D. a bit more rigorously … Most of those puzzles you sent were laughable.”

  Startled at Briephs’ apparent unconcern, the visitor returned to the previous demand. “The money, Tommy. Now!”

  “You’re not getting another penny … In fact, I might consider asking you to repay what you’ve already pilfered from me … I recently happened upon some rather unsavory stories making the rounds down on Congress Street. Many of those ‘ladies’ are more than casual acquaintances, as we both know … They tell me you have a predilection for underripe flesh, and that you’re not too particular whether the child is a boy or a girl. I must say I was surprised … Impressed, but surprised … So there you are, my dear … Tit for tat, as they say …” Briephs’ eyes glowed; he downed the remaining swallow of wine. “Are you sure I can’t fix you a libation? This Puligny Montrachet is quite lovely—”

  “That’s a lie, and you know it.”

  “Are you referring to my cellar or my reference to Congress Street?” When the visitor failed to respond, Thompson continued in the same commanding tone: “What a nasty, backbiting town this is! So, you’ve never heard of the Lily Club …?”

  A stony glance greeted this question, but the answer was determinedly nonchalant. “I want that money, Tommy-Boy.”

  Briephs chuckled. “This is fun!” Then he abruptly changed tack. “Listen, pumpkin, you’d better scurry away home if you don’t wish the details of your ‘love life’—or this pathetic blackmail business—made public.”

  The visitor seemed to mull over this information. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve got my own form of life insurance right here.” Briephs calmly patted the attaché case. “Your name is revealed in my newest collection of puzzles. It’s a little game I’ve been playing with myself—trying to surmise your identity …”

  “That’s a lie!”

  “Another lie! You really do seem to be suffering from a persecution complex—”

  “I want that money …”

  “You’re not getting it, dear friend. Now, I suggest you vacate the premises. You may not be the most enlightened of souls, but I do believe we can attain a modicum of civilized behavior. Besides, this little frisson should add some spice to our relationship, don’t you think …?”

  In answer, the intruder lunged for the attaché case and yanked out the loose-leaf notebook. The covers flew open, revealing several pages of quarter-inch draftsman’s graph paper and nothing more. Briephs gasped while the blackmailer flung the notebook onto the floor, where it slid beneath the divan.

  “You lying twit!”

  “The puzzles were there this morning. I swear they were.” Briephs looked as horrified as his unwanted guest. “I’d never let them out of my sight … Oh my God, JaneAlice must have …”

  “Ante up, Tom-Boy!”

  Finally pushed to the limit, Briephs stood. “Absolutely not!” His guise of bemused indifference had evaporated, supplanted by the indignant wrath of his forebears. “I insist you leave Windword Islands immediately. This entire charade is an outrage.”

  “What if I don’t want to leave? I can be a dangerous person when I’m angry, Tommy-Boy.”

  “Really! This discussion has degenerated into something unbelievably common and unpleasant. Now, I suggest we repair to the kitchen, decant the wine and ponder our joint future. I’d say we both have some … ah … interesting secrets.”

  “You’re not running out on me, Tommy-Boy.”

  “I decry that ridiculous soubriquet.”

  “I can give you a lot more to cry about.”

  Briephs considered explaining the linguistic differences between the two verbs, but instead marched into the kitchen, where he attempted to revive his jesting attitude. “You’re not going to tie me up? Or get rough? Isn’t that what usually happens in these circumstances?”

  “Can the chitchat, Thompson.”

  “‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks’ … or words to that effect … You really should try reading Shakespeare some time, dear friend … His style and use of metaphor does wonders for elevating one’s personal lexicon … That particular reference is from Hamlet … apt, don’t you think, given the young Dane’s oedipal leanings and your proclivities …?”

  “Dare I say that’s all Greek to me?”

  Thompson chuckled serenely. “Now, you’re catching on. Very good.” He turned his back on the interloper and began pouring himself a second glass of wine. “Now, my suggestion is that you climb into whatever vessel you’ve got docked out there and leave … We’ll pretend this shabby little scene never occurred … Plus, I want you to promise to desist from sending those threatening missives.”

  “I’m afraid that isn’t possible, Thompson.”

  “Of course it is. Or haven’t you heard of gentlemen’s honor? Morality? Probity? Rectitude? You’re familiar with those ideals, are you not? Besides, you can’t need money that badly. No one I know does. But, alas, this isn’t about money, is it, pumpkin?”

  Briephs felt two hands touch his shoulders. “Really! This psychodrama is unnecessary. Unless, of course, you enjoy it. In which case, you must permit me to join the party.”

  The hands were withdrawn, but Briephs’ body trembled. His heart raced while a severe tightness assaulted his throat. At first he imagined it was a reaction to the wine—perhaps a bad bottle or one with too many sulfites. His throat burned and his eyes bulged. He lifted his head, but the movement increased his agony. He reached toward the source of the pain, clutching at his neck and encountering what seemed to be a woman’s stocking twisting around his throat, cutting off his air supply.

  “Have you gone mad …?” he squeezed out in a raspy cough. He tried to work his thumbs under the nylon tourniquet as it tightened around his throat.

  He made another attempt to speak, but no sound came. He clawed at the strangulating nylon and then at the oaken countertop. As the peril of the situation finally hit home, he grasped the kitchen faucet, trying frantically to dislodge it. But the fixture was solid bronze; it held fast. In a frenzy of despair and rage, Briephs’ arms flailed across the counter, knocking his wineglass and a hidden microwave oven crashing to the floor. Finally, he dropped to his knees, gurgled a long and liquid rattle and collapsed in a lifeless heap.

  The visitor withdrew the nylon stocking, and, staring at the prone body, murmured, “‘Good night, sweet prince’—or words to that effect. Hamlet, by the way … Act V,” then proceeded to clean up the mess.

  CHAPTER 4

  SARA CRANE BRIEPHS’ maid opened the door for Rosco Polycrates. As she permitted him entry into White Caps’ marble-tiled foyer, she looked him over, her stiff black dress, organza apron and lacy cap rustling and creaking with an air of distinct disapproval. Rosco guessed the illustrious residence had never required the services of a private detective before.

  “Wait here, Mr. Polycrates. I’ll see if madam is ready to receive you.”

  Her uniformed figure stalked stiffly away, disappearing into a hushed realm of antique mahogany furniture, silver bowls and picture frames, Oriental Export vases and burnished, paneled walls. Even the crystal chandelier remained aloof and unlit, and the densely curtained windows regally somber while the heat wave, as if denied access for social reasons, clung to the door frame, leaving the foyer surprisingly chill and dank. Rosco shifted from foot to foot and silently cursed himself. “I should have worn socks,” he thought. “At least today.”

  Rosco Polycrates was third generation Greek-American; he’d been in the private investigation business for a little over six years. Before that, he’d spent eight years as a detective with the Newcastle P.D. Cited five times for bravery, and once more for simply being a good cop, he’d finally decided he was too much of a free spirit for the bureaucracy of law enforcement. He didn’t like filling out paperwork. He didn’t like jouncing around in the department’s unmarked cars; he preferred his rusting Jeep. He hated carrying a gun, and he refused to wear socks. He was now thirty-eight; the business was doing reasonably well; he was trim and healthy, and by most accounts a pretty good-looking guy—albeit a trifle unkempt.

  “Mrs. Briephs will see you now.”

  The maid led the way through the foyer, turning right into an even darker corridor, and finally opening a door to a sitting room so large it contained several distinct groupings of couches and chairs. The place reminded Rosco of photographs he’d seen of swanky hotels—or maybe the White House.

  “Mr. Polycrates, ma’am,” the maid announced. “Will you be requiring anything further?”

  “Thank you, no, Emma.”

  Whatever grief-stricken, maternal hysteria Rosco had expected, when he’d been telephoned at eight that morning, wasn’t to be found in Thompson Briephs’ mother. Erect and snowy-haired with a patrician angularity and penetrating, violet eyes, Sara Crane Briephs was ensconced in a high, straight-backed chair whose sole concession to human comfort was a thin cushion of crimson velvet. To her right and slightly behind her—as befitting a dowager empress—stood a middle-aged man in a perfectly cut charcoal suit. He had a powerful chest and jutting jaw. Rosco had the impression he’d seen him before.

  “Thank you for arriving promptly, Mr. Polycrates. I despise tardiness. If we’re to work together, I must insist that you conform to my wishes.”

  Rosco wasn’t asked to sit; so he stood, aware that the lady was scrutinizing him from head to toe. The maid’s examination paled in comparison to that of her mistress.

  “Do you have something against haberdashery, Mr. Polycrates?”

  “Pardon?” Rosco added a hurried, somewhat tentative, “Ma’am?”

  “You have no hosiery, Mr. Polycrates … No stockings … Did you forget them?”

  “No … ma’am. I-I don’t really like them.”

  “Ah … youth … youth …” Sara graced Rosco with a brief but glowing smile. “Never permit yourself to grow old and dreary, Mr. Polycrates. Age is merely a state of mind.”

  “I was sorry to hear about your son, Mrs. Briephs.”

  “So was I.” This was the first hint of sorrow Rosco had heard in her voice. Clearly, Sara Crane Briephs wasn’t a person who believed in wallowing in emotion. “That’s why I telephoned you … Please take a seat, Mr. Polycrates.”

  Rosco did as he was told, finding himself rigidly upright in a chair as stiff and formal as Sara’s. This one resembled the carved wood thrones that wealthy churches reserved for visiting bishops. He wasn’t certain if he should feel honored or switch to another seat.

  “The newspapers stated that your son died of heart failure, Mrs. Briephs. As I said on the telephone, there’s not much I can investigate … It sounded to me as if the M.E.—the medical examiner—had already made his ruling.”

  “My son was fifty-one years old, Mr. Polycrates. He was in excellent health—as am I. We are an indefatigable family. My father hunted tigers in Siberia when he was well into his eighties; I am now eighty myself, yet I continue to play tennis regularly, and each winter I revel in cross-country skiing at my cabin in the Berkshires. Last year, I trekked the Himalayas. My son came from very solid New England stock; he was an excellent athlete, and he had no history of coronary disease.”

  Rosco remained silent following this blistering speech, but the man beside Sara’s chair murmured a quiet, but emphatic: “You have to trust the doctors, Sara.”

  “I don’t have to do anything, Mr. Roth.” If Sara’s gaze had been capable of hurling flame, Roth would have turned to ash. “You are in my brother’s employ, not mine. Familiarity may suit him and his rabble-rousing colleagues down in Washington; it does not wash with me … Now, when did you tell me he was planning to return?”