A Crossworder's Gift Read online

  Belle glanced at the newspaper in her hand. “Gosh! I didn’t even notice it was from July … I guess the situation wasn’t as pressing as I thought.”

  “And you call yourself a sleuth? Although it doesn’t surprise me that you managed to sniff out a five-month-old crossword. Where in the name of Beelzebub did you find it?” Conner took the paper from her and smiled. “And completed without a single error, and with the infamous Belle Graham red pen … May I keep this as a souvenir?”

  “So, you’ve heard of my wife?” Rosco asked.

  “Oh, indeed.” Conner motioned toward a table and chairs by the window. “Please sit … Our island may be far away from New England, but we puzzle people are well aware of your reputation … And the numerous mysterious outrages you’ve managed to solve, or shall we say resolve?”

  Rosco found Jolly Roger’s semiserious tone curious. It made him suspect that there was a good deal more to Roger Conner than he’d first surmised. “What surprises me,” he said, “is not so much that you’re aware of my wife’s ‘reputation,’ as you put it, but the fact that you mentioned none of this earlier. It makes me wonder if—”

  Conner held up his large hand. “I can explain this very simply.”

  Rosco gave him a slight shrug that said, I’m all ears, and Conner handed the puzzle back to Belle.

  “I guess I’ll start at the beginning. It was Digger Bonnet’s idea, really. It’s just that the poor old guy kicked the bucket before we could get the game off the ground.”

  “Cheerio, dumbbell,” Jimmy Bungs squawked from the far corner of the room. He then flew over to the table and landed on Belle’s shoulder.

  “Huh,” Conner exclaimed, “I haven’t seen him fly in years. Not since Digger owned this house. I think Mr. Jimmy Bungs must be in love. He’s certainly very fond of you—”

  “Digger Bonnet?” Rosco prompted.

  “Right. It was Digger’s idea to have a contest. Everyone puts ten bucks into a hat. I’m talking U.S., not Eastern Caribbean Dollars … And fifteen years ago ten bucks really meant something—meaning the pot was well worth competing for.”

  Belle and Rosco merely nodded.

  “Okay, for their ten bucks they get a sheet of quarter-inch graph paper. We planned to hold the contest at the Pirate’s Cove Bar.”

  Belle was ahead of him. “So, it was intended as a diagramless puzzle?”

  “Exactly! That way the contest would last longer. It would’ve taken some folks all afternoon to figure it out. The bar would have made a killing on drinks, conch fritters, etc. We were going to place the clues on a huge board and flip it over. This way everyone would have been guaranteed to start at the same time … First one finished wins the pot. And we planned to do second and third prizes of dinners and beers.”

  “So what happened?” Rosco asked, not convinced he was hearing the entire truth.

  “Like I said, Digger died.”

  “Bottoms up, maties,” Jimmy Bungs added.

  Roger Conner ignored him. “The only thing Digger had done was create the dang puzzle grid. I had to invent the clues and solutions later … But because the two sections aren’t connected”—he pointed at the puzzle in the newspaper—“see, the skull and crossbones have no connecting words—meaning it’s virtually impossible for anyone to solve the crossword as a diagramless … I ended up canceling the entire event.”

  “Back up a second,” Rosco said. “You mean this is the same grid Digger Bonnet created?”

  “Yep.”

  “How did it get into a newspaper fifteen years later?”

  “It’s a contest.”

  “But you said the contest was canceled?” Rosco’s forehead creased in confusion.

  Belle also frowned in perplexity. “Roger, I don’t think either one of us is following your explanation—”

  “Can I get you a beverage?” Conner asked suddenly. “I’ve got Piton, the local beer. Or Ting, which is a carbonated grapefruit drink.”

  Belle asked for Ting; Rosco was given a Piton. As soon as Roger had reseated himself, and appropriate words of thanks had been expressed, Belle repeated her question.

  “Okay … Here’s what happened: We advertised the contest. Digger created the grid but not the clues or solutions—then proceeded to die a few days later. End of story: I canceled the proposed competition.”

  Belle and Rosco waited for Conner to continue. When he didn’t, Rosco’s frustration got the better of him. “We know that. It was fifteen years ago. What we want to know is: How did the same grid get into this newspaper last July?”

  “Right. Well, the next year, the year after Digger’s death, I made up words that fit his grid, then put the puzzle in the newspaper, and mentioned that anyone who solved it correctly could bring the opus to Pirate’s Cove and get a free sun downer’ or whatever beverage suited their fancy. People came from all over. I told them that Digger had created the crossword—which was partially true; and you all know Digger’s remarkable story. I guess folks thought they might get a clue—as it were—to where the loot was sequestered … Anyway, I’ve been rerunning the crossword every summer with new solutions and clues, and the same reward of a free drink for coming up with the correct solution …”

  Belle let out a small laugh that contained a certain degree of disappointment. “Darn. I felt certain the puzzle was going to lead us to the hidden treasure. It really had me going.”

  As if in reply, Jimmy Bungs squawked in her ear, and the sound seemed to return Jolly Roger Conner to his previous incarnation. “Aye, as I said earlier, me fair-haired damsel, if Digger Bonnet actually had a pile of lucre, only Jimmy’d be the wiser …”

  “And this was Bonnet’s house?” she asked.

  “It was. Left it to me in his will … along with everything else.” Conner waved a hand, indicating the home and its contents. “Not exactly the trappings of a successful old lobscouser. Like Elaine said, there are plenty of regular visitors who think the whole treasure trove tale was a crock.” He sighed slightly. “It makes for a lively story, though.”

  Belle retrieved the puzzle, and studied it as the parrot hopped from her shoulder onto the table and strode toward Rosco, who automatically slid his chair backward. Jimmy Bungs eyed him, turned back to Belle, pulled the paper from her hands, tossed it onto the table, and returned to her shoulder. Once again he began to nuzzle her earlobe.

  “I believe our fine-feathered friend doesn’t want to share you with anyone—not even a crossword puzzle,” Conner cackled. The newspaper had landed upside down in front of her.

  Belle didn’t answer for a moment. Instead she kept staring at the paper on the floor. “You know, when you look at the puzzle this way … upside down …” She raised her eyes toward the beamed ceiling, then lowered them to the word game. “These crossed bones take a shape similar to those support timbers up there …” She pointed; both men looked up.

  “I thought the bones looked like a dumbbell,” Rosco said. “But I figured I was being overly sensitive—given the bird’s comment.”

  Jimmy shrieked; obviously, the term “the bird” was still on his no-no list. Rosco drew back, and muttered a placating: “Sorry, Jimbo.”

  “And look …” Belle continued. “With the skull’s mouth upside down—at the top rather than the bottom, it looks like that small window up at the peak of your roof line.”

  Rosco glanced over Belle’s shoulder at the puzzle. “That’s kind of far-fetched …”

  “No, no,” Conner said excitedly, now standing beside Belle and pointing at the crossword. “See, this ‘eye,’ next to 16-Down here, it looks exactly like Digger’s built-in desk—”

  “And the square that’s the skull’s ‘nose’ is in the exact position of the television set,” Belle added.

  “That’s not a fifteen-year-old TV,” Rosco objected, still failing to see the similarity between the puzzle and the interior design of the bungalow. “It couldn’t have been there when Digger designed this crossword grid.”

&nb
sp; “No, it wasn’t. I bought that set last year when Digger’s ancient TV died on me. But I put the replacement in the same place.”

  “Okay”—Rosco pointed to the other eye—“but what’s this ‘eye’ represent? The black space below 18 and 19? There’s nothing there. Or”—he looked at Conner—“was something in that position at one time?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Never. I haven’t moved a single thing since I moved in. Well, I couldn’t move anything. All of this furniture was built by Digger. Most of it’s nailed in place.”

  Belle sighed. “It’s just … Well, it’s amazing how much this upside-down puzzle resembles this space. I felt from the first, it contained some secret …”

  “Bottoms up, maties,” Jimmy Bungs tossed in.

  “See, even cute little Jimmy was telling us to reverse the puzzle …”

  Rosco opted not to comment on Belle’s assessment of “cute.” Instead he asked Conner, “Do you have a ruler or tape measure?”

  “Sure.” Conner disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with a yardstick.

  Rosco walked over to the far wall and measured the distance between the built-in desk and the television. Conner and Belle followed, and Jimmy flew back to Belle’s shoulder. “Four feet, six inches,” Rosco said. He moved to the right of the television, and measured out the same distance. He then knelt in front of the wall and studied it for a few minutes.

  “Well?” Belle finally demanded.

  Rosco looked at Conner and said, “I saw something like this back in Newcastle. It was actually in a mansion that had belonged to a nineteenth-century sea captain, but the principal was the same … Do you have a wire coat hanger, or an ice pick?”

  Conner nearly tripped over himself as he darted into the other room.

  “What is it?” Belle asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  Conner returned with a coat hanger, and Rosco bent the hook end out straight. “The way this system works,” he explained, “is by counterbalance—something like the lead weights in old window frames. You know, the type attached to a cord within the sash, that makes opening and closing the windows easier. We have them in our house, Belle … Anyway, in this case the weighted material sits on a small shelf inside the wall …” Rosco pointed the tip of the hanger toward a tiny hole hidden below the bamboo molding on the wall. “I’m not surprised no one has ever noticed this opening … Well, that’s the whole idea, right? It’s supposed to be a secret …”

  Rosco pushed the end of the hanger through the hole, forcing an unseen object to drop from an interior shelf. There was a muffled clunk as a hidden panel slowly lifted. “Voilà!” Rosco pulled a small leather satchel from behind the wall, handed it to Conner, and stood. “When you slide that panel down again, the weight will automatically reseat itself on a shelf. It’s a simple, but very effective, device.”

  They walked back to the table, and Jolly Roger dumped the contents of the satchel onto its surface. There were six or seven unusually shaped pieces of coral, a dozen shards of colored glass worn to a frosty finish from months of tumbling in the waves, a near perfect scallop shell, a small antique medicine bottle, one pearl, a shark’s tooth, a corroded button, five gold coins tinged a discouraging moldy blue, a savings account passbook, and three thumbnail-sized veined and jagged green stones that could have been uncut emeralds—or perhaps just glass.

  Conner opened the passbook. “It’s not even his. It’s from a bank in Oklahoma. Some tourist must have lost it on the beach. The last entry was thirty years ago when the account was closed out.”

  “Well, the coins may be worth something,” Belle offered. “The emeralds, too, although …” She picked one up, and examined it with growing skepticism. “That is, if they’re not—”

  “Glass … which they most probably are,” Conner said. He sat back in his chair.

  “And the doubloons?” Rosco asked.

  Conner shook his head. “They look like brass reproductions to me. And not very good ones.”

  The three remained motionless, staring at the dismal pile, then Jolly Roger Conner started to laugh. The sound grew in strength and amusement, an infectious, happy noise that boomed out into the darkening night. Finally, he gathered up Bonnet’s “treasure” and, with great ceremony, returned it to its hiding place. “Digger left his ‘loot’ to me for safe-keeping,” he stated, “and with me it will stay—as will every single one of his very tall tales.” Conner glanced up at the bungalow’s ceiling. “Shiver me timbers, the old coot must be smiling now.”

  Jimmy Bungs hopped from Belle’s shoulder onto Conner’s. “Bottoms up, maties!” he cooed.

  The Mystery of Wordsworth House

  BELLE Graham’s dark brown fleece hat stopped just above her eyes; her red scarf stopped just below, leaving her quick and observant gray eyes the sole features exposed in an otherwise winter-muffled face and body. A bulky down jacket, long chocolate-colored wool skirt, tall snow boots, and waterproof mittens completed her wardrobe, giving her the air of a desperado headed for the Yukon Territory rather than a woman who made her living manipulating words.

  “You look like a Santa’s helper gone bad,” her husband, Rosco, chuckled as they moved through the crowds exiting the Champs de Mars metro stop in Montreal, “an elf bound and determined to rob the sleigh rather than stuff it with goodies for little kids.”

  Beneath her layers of concealing warmth, her shoulders wiggled once in mirth as she mumbled a reply.

  Rosco bent down toward her. “What’d you say?”

  She pulled the scarf away from her nose and lips. “I said, ‘Thieves don’t wear red.’”

  “It’s not really the color I was thinking of … It’s the you-can-only-see-my-eyes thing you’ve got going—”

  “But it’s so cold!”

  “Canada’s supposed to be warm? In winter? I don’t think so.”

  “It’s colder than Newcastle.”

  Rosco grinned. “Interesting observation … Maybe that’s because we’re further north and further from the coast. The last time I looked at an atlas, Massachusetts was—”

  “Smart aleck.” Belle chortled, then replaced the red scarf over her mouth. Most of her next words were lost, although Rosco heard what sounded like restaurant menu items—“… cheese fondue … crepes … crème brûlée …!”—as they passed numerous small bistros, and Belle tallied their offerings. For a person whose single culinary achievement was a plate of devilled eggs, she was exceedingly fond of food—especially the fattening variety.

  By now, they were maneuvering their way across a narrow and snow-steeped sidewalk in the heart of Montreal’s old city, the vieux port. Each carried an overstuffed overnight bag for their weekend getaway. The bags had grown heavier since detraining at the Gare Centrale, then jumping on the metro to finally traverse the small lanes that led to the wide and ice-caked Saint Lawrence River.

  “Brrrr,” Belle muttered.

  “I take it that means you’ll be cold enough tonight to require a lot of cuddling … flannel nightie or no.”

  “Head-to-foot cuddling …” came the chilly words. “… flannel nightie, wool socks or no.” She reached out a mittened hand, took Rosco’s gloved one, looked up, and again tugged her scarf loose. “Here we are—just like the directions said. Wordsworth House …” She cocked her head. “It looks identical to the photo in the brochure, except for the flowers in the window boxes, and the striped awnings—”

  “Which may have something to do with the subzero temperature—”

  “Wise guy,” Belle said, but she was smiling. “What a romantic hideaway.”

  They paused beneath the placard announcing the bed and breakfast—WORDSWORTH HOUSE. Were it not for that single and discrete sign swinging above the sidewalk, the building might have been easily mistaken for what it once was: a private home. Lace curtains hung in each window, allowing the golden, interior light to spread outward into the snowy street; vases of magenta and yellow Persian lilies stood on polished wood t
ables set before entry-level windows deeply recessed within the gray stone blocks of the facade. The picture created was both welcoming and formal: an old stone house built to retain the warmth of fireplaces and cooking stoves, built to attest to a certain affluence and place in the city’s long history, built, quite obviously, with pride.

  “Perfect,” Belle sighed.

  “Except for the cold,” Rosco rejoined.

  “Which is precisely why we’re going inside.”

  As they entered, the antique wood floorboards creaked in sudden discord and a bell jangled loudly, announcing the arrival of new guests, while a compact young woman appeared, hurrying down the two steps that led to the foyer. As she walked, she rubbed her hands on an apron dusted with flour. “Tomorrow morning’s bread—I hope … Welcome, or as we say in Montréal’s Vieux Port—Bienvenue. I’m Helene Armée. I’m your host.” She gave a laugh that was as brisk and energetic as she. Like her gestures and her gait, her congenial air had a pragmatic efficiency. Helene was clearly not a person to waste time. “No, I didn’t invent the name to suit my career.”

  In response to Rosco and Belle’s perplexed glances, she added a pleasant: “Armée in French means a military army—or a crowd, a host of people. I am the other kind of host.” Helene glanced at a guest register lying open on a writing desk at the foot of the stairs. “And you must be Belle Graham and Rosco Polycrates … I am pronouncing the name ‘Polycrates’ correctly?” Helene gave the surname its appropriate four syllables. “Greek, I think, yes?”

  “Greek-American,” Rosco answered.

  “You are a mixture—like me. Like many of us here in Canada. Like our language here in the city. French and English on our street signs, in all our shops and restaurants. You can order in both languages; the waiters and waitresses respond in kind.” Supporting that statement, Helene’s accent commingled France and Great Britain; her clothes also reflected a dual heritage: a chic French skirt, a cableknit cardigan in Scottish heather tones, dark brown hair cut in feathery, Parisian bangs. “I’ve put you on the third floor in the front if that’s acceptable. From your windows you have a view of the harbor. It’s very pretty at night, especially now with the Festival of Lights on exhibit, and spotlights on the waterfront.”