The Crossword Connection Read online

  Lever and Jones watched as Carlyle finished the prelim. He made notations on a form attached to a stainless steel clipboard; when he’d finished, his driver appeared with a black plastic body bag. He and Carlyle placed the victim in it, zipped it up, then positioned the bag on a stretcher, which they wheeled into the morgue van. Carlyle closed the van’s doors and turned to Lever.

  “I’ll try to get the information by noon, Al. This alley gives me the chills.… Always has.”

  “It’s just an alleyway.”

  Carlyle looked at Lever. “It’s not a place I’d walk down at night.”

  After the van disappeared, Lever and Jones studied the saturated newspapers. The blood was still sticky where the body had been; in other spots, it was dry.

  “Have you ever known anything to give Carlyle the chills?” Lever asked somewhat rhetorically. “Penguins get more chills than he does.”

  Jones chuckled, “He’s an odd one, all right.… Hmmm, this is interesting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Look at the papers. John Doe used a local newspaper, the Evening Crier, to sleep on. But his head rested on the Boston Sentinel.”

  “He probably pulled whatever he could find out of the recycling bin over there.” Lever cocked his head toward a large wheeled plastic cart. It was piled high with discarded newspapers and magazines with a number of empty bottles and cans semisubmerged in the morass. A garbagey odor rose from the container, and a furtive scuffle indicated the stealthy presence of rats. “Or, maybe he likes the comics. The ones in the Crier stink. They never did have Peanuts.”

  “I’ll see if I can lift some prints from the paper bin.”

  Lever stared at the blood-soaked papers. “Right. Whatever you do, Abe, don’t chuck these babies back inside it. Might not sit well with the neighbors.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “The word begins with a C,” Belle said gently, “not a K.” She pointed to the lined-paper practice notebook the other woman was laboring over. It was full of snippets of poetry, beginnings of stories, phrases heard and jotted down, and sidebar doodles that reflected a hidden artistic talent.

  “Like in Sister Mary Catherine?”

  “Exactly, Rayanne! Just like Sister Mary Catherine!” Belle gave her student’s shoulder a quick, affectionate pat. “Courage,” she said. “C-O-U-R-A-G-E. The word has heart at its center. Two thousand years ago, in what is now Italy, cor meant heart.”

  Rayanne stared at the notebook. “How’d you get to know stuff like that? Is it on accounta you working at the newspaper?”

  Belle considered her answer. She and Rayanne were both in their early thirties: two healthy women of medium height and slender build whose only outward physical difference was that Rayanne had brown hair and Belle was a blond. Technically, they should have had equality in choices and careers, but their dual backgrounds had obviously presented such a disparity of opportunities that it was only Belle Graham who had learned that education mattered, and only Belle who had been taught to value self-respect and pride.

  “I know about language, Rayanne, because it fascinates me, and I’ve worked hard studying it. The same way you work on your poetry and all those stories you’ve begun.”

  Rayanne’s face clouded with an old habit of frustration and anxiety. “But I can’t spell like—”

  Belle’s gray eyes smiled. “I’ll tell you a secret, Ray. Spelling’s not nearly as important as the emotions you intuit and experience.… All the thoughts you’ve expressed in your notebook.”

  “I can’t get a job if I can’t spell. That’s what Sister Mary Catherine says.”

  “Well, she’s right. That’s why you and I are working together.”

  “You gonna make me do crossword puzzles like the ones you put in the newspaper?” Rayanne asked this in jest, and Belle just as lightheartedly responded, “I’m not about to force you to do anything you don’t want. Besides, Ray, you’d win hands down. My idea of exercise is picking up a dictionary.”

  “Brains and brawn, you and me.”

  Belle grinned. “You know what you’ve got there, Ray? Alliteration. Two words with repeated consonants … similar sounds.”

  “Fear and beer … beaten, cheatin’ …”

  Belle hesitated. Her students’ struggles and life stories often came out in unexpected ways. “Those are rhymes actually, Ray. Did you put them in your new poem?”

  Seated side by side at cast-off school desks, the women returned to Rayanne’s notebook. As a volunteer with the Margaret House Shelter, the women’s counterpart to Father Tom’s Saint Augustine Mission for Men, Belle had quickly discovered that her efforts at teaching literacy fared better if the students’ own words were used. Encouraged to write autobiographies or fiction, the women had ownership of the letters on the page. And ownership, Belle knew from experience, was empowerment.

  “What’s that Italian word for heart again, Belle?”

  “Cor. It’s Latin. That was the language of Italy then. Just as you and I are speaking English. Or some folks around here speak Portuguese or Spanish or Greek. Then cor evolved into cuer, an old French word that’s become coeur today. But even before cor, there was the ancient Greek kardia, which gives us the root for cardiac—”

  Rayanne’s pencil flew in the air. “You’re giving me cardiac arrest!”

  Belle beamed. “You’ve got it!”

  It was then that the shelter’s director, Sister Mary Catherine, walked into the room. She was in her midsixties, a person of indefatigable energy and zeal who had grown up on a Navajo Indian reservation in Arizona, been educated by nuns, taken vows herself, then devoted her life to teaching the most impoverished in the nation before moving to Newcastle and beginning a new career at the shelter she and Sister Zoe had helped establish. “This city!” she said, sinking heavily in a nearby chair. It was an uncharacteristic gesture of weariness and defeat.

  Rayanne looked at her, immediately nervous and fearful. She bit her lip and curled her gnawed fingertips into her palms. “They gonna get the building, ain’t they, Sister?”

  “Not if I can help it.” Sister Mary Catherine forced a tight smile, then deftly changed the subject. “How’s our star pupil?”

  “Creating alliterations and rhymes,” Belle answered. “And a super poem about courage.”

  Sister Mary Catherine nodded, but her mouth remained grim, the only discordant element in an otherwise grandmotherly demeanor.

  “Is it the Peterman brothers?” Rayanne asked.

  The nun paused before speaking. Belle could see her weighing how much information to share with one of the mission residents and then deciding that knowledge was the first stepping-stone to responsibility. “Yes, it’s the Peterman brothers, Rayanne, plus a close friend of theirs who sits on the City Council.… Also a Canadian real estate enterprise, some female venture capitalist from New York … and that’s only the folks that have come forward publicly.

  “When Father Tom established the Saint Augustine Mission and Sister Zoe and I started Margaret House, who knew that this part of Newcastle would become a ‘hot property’? I’ve actually seen the loft building across the street listed just that way in a real estate advertisement. ‘Hot property’ indeed.” She turned to Belle. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard the hateful rumors those money grubbers have been spreading. The shelters ‘attract undesirables’; we ‘encourage the criminal element’. Give me a break! God and Mammon: No man can serve two masters.”

  “They’re not gonna make us move, are they?” Rayanne’s tone had dropped to a fierce whisper.

  “Over my dead body,” was Sister Mary Catherine’s angry reply. Then her weathered face broke into a smile of genuine warmth. “How’s the almost bride?”

  “Eight days left.” Belle tried to match the nun’s determinedly jovial demeanor. She glanced at her watch. “Eight days, seven hours, and fifty-two minutes until Annabella Graham weds one Rosco Polycrates. But who’s counting? … Oh, geez, I didn’t realize it was so late. I told Rosco’s sis
ter Cleo I’d stop by and look at her kitchen renovation; then he and I are getting the all-important license.… I’ve got to go, Ray. See you Monday.”

  “Brains and brawn,” Rayanne replied.

  “It’s not either/or, Ray. You’ve got to give yourself credit.”

  “Fight. Right,” Ray said.

  Driving to Rosco’s sister’s suburban home, Belle was subjected to the usual conflicting emotions she experienced after leaving the shelter. There was no doubt that the two nuns who ran the mission were remarkable people. There was also no doubt that many of the residents had wonderful and untapped gifts and that enthusiastic support was all they needed to get their lives back on track: finish educations, find and keep jobs, discover self-worth.

  The problem lay in the fact that for each woman who successfully passed through and out of the system, another appeared at the door. How Sister Mary Catherine and Sister Zoe lived with this dilemma while maintaining a sanguine outlook was something Belle didn’t understand, especially now that they were facing so much pressure from the city’s business interests. An ordinance declaring residential shelters illegal in the area wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

  Pondering these myriad problems, Belle turned her car into Cleo’s drive, swerved to avoid a jumble of neighborhood children’s bikes, parked, walked up to the entry, sidestepping a baseball bat, a soccer ball, a pint-sized football helmet, and two water pistols as large and black as military rifles.

  She rang the doorbell and was greeted by the sound of dogs barking, kids bounding up and down the stairs, the whine of a masonry saw, and the rhythmic pounding of a hammer. Belle knocked, waited, then opened the door and edged into the living room. “Cleo? Hello? It’s me, Belle.”

  A year-old basset hound running sideways while hoisting a two-foot-long rawhide bone almost bowled her over. “Cleo?” Belle called again.

  A five-year-old girl in pink ballerina regalia glared imperiously down from the landing. “That’s not Cleo,” she announced while scrutinizing the guest and adopting a pose that resembled a lilliputian Elizabeth Regina. “I know you. You’re Uncle Rosco’s fiancée.” The word was pronounced fancy and contained all the iciness a five-year-old can project when dealing with a beloved uncle’s future bride.

  “Hi, Effie.” Belle pasted on what she hoped was an engaging smile while another, larger dog careened around the corner followed by the girl’s older brother. He, in turn, was pursued by three additional eight-year-olds armed to the teeth with purple and silver intergalactic-style guns that shot rays of red light while emitting teeth-tingling squeals. “Where’s Mom?” the ballerina shouted. “Uncle Rosco’s fancy’s here.”

  “Mom!” the boy bellowed as he and his friends pelted out the door Belle had left ajar.

  “I like your costume, Effie,” Belle said, but her miniature nemesis only increased her scowl. Uncle Rosco had always been Effie’s favorite; his fancy was an interloper of the highest order. “It’s not a costume; it’s an outfit. That’s what Mommy calls it.” Then Effie vanished up the stairs.

  Belle took a breath and walked the length of the living room. “Cleo? Hello?”

  The masonry saw stopped whining. “She’s out in the garage arguing with Geoffrey about the color of the cabinets.” Sharon poked her head through the interior window that joined the upper kitchen and family area to the lower living room. “Cleo says it’s too red or something, but Geoff is sticking to his guns. I guess we’re into homeowner meltdown.” Sharon grinned with her Vermonter’s fleeting sense of joy. A well-padded six foot one with arms and hands that could easily handle the stone and marble that earned her her daily bread, she had a big face; and her dark hair was cropped so short it bristled over her broad and unperturbed brow. Sharon reminded Belle of a friendly giant peering down from the window. “What’s up?”

  “I just stopped by to see how things were progressing—”

  Sharon’s head disappeared. Belle heard slabs of marble being repositioned while a voice boomed above the noise. “Not to worry. We’ll get it done in time, Belle. You got bride jitters, is all. I’ve worked with Geoff long enough to know he always delivers.”

  Alone in the living room, Belle’s “I’m not nervous in the least,” was drowned by another screech of the masonry saw. White marble powder billowed through the open window. She walked outside, clutched her jacket against the morning chill, and entered the garage.

  “Cherry is what I wanted, Geoffrey. That looks like magenta.” The word was elongated into an operatic sigh; the eldest of the Polycrates siblings, Cleo had always had the temperament of a Greek diva. She turned around as her future sister-in-law entered. “Belle. Honeybunch. Come give me your opinion. Doesn’t this color seem overly pink? I mean, an entire wall of this shade …?” She let the words trail off as she and Geoff Wright returned their concentration to the cabinetry in question. The entire garage was filled with similar cuts of wood in various stages of completion.

  “I want authenticity,” Cleo insisted. “I don’t want plasticized American kitsch. That’s why I hired you. You’re an artist. Everyone told me you were the best.… Went to that fancy design school in Rhode Island and everything … I want the kitchen cabinets hand-crafted, and I want them to look hand-crafted.”

  Belle studied the doors and drawers strewn about the garage. Eight days until the wedding, eight days before forty or fifty guests were to descend upon Cleo’s house for a postnuptial party, and the “new” kitchen was still inoperable. Forget the platters of homemade goodies, Belle told herself, we’ll be lucky if there’s enough space for take-out pizza boxes.

  “It’s cherry, Cleo,” Geoffrey insisted. “Just like you asked me for.… Now, I could apply more burnt umber if you’d like, but you didn’t want too much brown, remember?”

  Cleo sighed pointedly.

  “Let me try additional umber.… I think you’ll like it.” Geoff winked at Belle as if he’d just noticed her standing there and added a cheery “Hiya, Tinker Bell. You’ve done something new with your hair.”

  Belle stifled a wince. Why is it, she wondered, that certain people attract the most hideous nicknames? Born Annabella Graham, she’d been dubbed “A. Graham Belle” by waggish high-school classmates, then “AnnaGram” because of her career as an editor of crossword puzzles. Now Geoffrey Wright, wisecracking cabinetmaker, Ivy League graduate and enthusiastic resident of the Northern provinces had decided on “Tinker Bell,” which Cleo, Cleo’s sister Ariadne, and their respective husbands and children found excruciatingly funny. The only member of the extended Polycrates clan who didn’t crack a smile was the family matriarch, Helen.

  “I thought I’d try a new style for the wedding.” Belle patted her lacquered and upswept blond hair with inexperienced hands. “With only a week to go, I didn’t want to wait and leave experiments for the day before.”

  The hint about timing eluded the combatants. Cleo’s focus remained on the cabinet door while Geoff affixed Belle with another bright grin. “If you’re taking a poll, I like it better the way you always wear it. Don’t mess it up with goo and shellac. Be ‘authentic’ like her highness says.”

  “If you’re certain I won’t regret this decision, Geoffrey …” Cleo’s tone had turned simpering.

  “White Barre marble and cherry wood. You can’t get more New England, Cleo.”

  “See you both later,” Belle said, although no one responded.

  She walked back into the May sunlight and her blessedly empty car. After driving several blocks through the suburban subdivision, she turned into a side street and switched off the ignition. Rosco warned me, she told herself; it’s a big family … and a Greek family. There are uncles and aunts, nieces and nephews, and each of those people has many friends, colleagues, neighbors, enemies, and rivals. What does an only child raised by two absent-minded Anglophile professors know about communal living?

  She stared through the windshield. The clouds were rapidly darkening and the wind beginning to gust. All the same, a
group of robins bounced among the branches of a nearby apple tree, their breasts fat and red against the burgeoning greenery. If she rolled down the window or released the door handle, Belle knew she would hear them calling boldly to one another. Open: the noise of life. Closed: the silence of solitude. Open and shut, she thought. Life should be so easy. Or as Rayanne might put it: Open, hopin’, copin’.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Marriage License Bureau lay within the City Hall complex fronting Winthrop Drive. The tall central building had been constructed of granite, now aged to a rough gray white by one hundred fifty years of Massachusetts winters. Doric columns surmounted spacious steps that led from street level to the showy entry. It was a place that exuded power, responsibility, the wisdom of long-dead town fathers, and the austerity of their verdicts. As she circled the building looking for a parking place, Belle glanced up at the frieze carved within the pediment: sailing ships tossed on a turbulent sea. Newcastle had once been a whaling city; the ocean had made her rich; benign or perilous weather was another form of judgment.

  She circled City Hall three times, finally snagging a parking spot on Third Street, and glanced at her watch. “Oh, geez … late again.” Belle sighed. Why was it, she wondered, that she had such difficulty maintaining a schedule? Was it genetic, like her inability to gauge north from south and east from west, or tell a joke without garbling the punch line?

  She locked her car, hurried down Winthrop Drive, pelted up the exterior granite steps, and dashed toward the interior marble stairway. On the third floor, the central rotunda revealed a series of narrow corridors that glimmered uneasily with fluorescent light. Marriage Licenses, Belle read. She rounded the corner and ran.