A Crossword to Die For Page 3

  “I can act like a zombie,” he replied. “Wanna watch?”

  This time Cleo had her way. Nick was propelled toward his cousins while his six-year-old sister approached. Effie had once been Belle’s nemesis; she was now her biggest fan although it was sometimes difficult for the child to reconcile her idol worshipping with her own sense of superiority. I’m a fairy princess and you’re not was written all over the little girl’s face.

  “Are you sad, Aunt Belle?”

  “Not really, Effie. My father had a good long life.”

  “You should be sad, though.”

  Belle smiled gently. “So, I’ve been told. I guess I am a little bit.”

  Effie pondered the words and tone. Her scrutiny of Belle intensified. “Mom wanted to have a party for you at our house. She says people should have parties after tragedies like these.”

  “I’ve been told that, too.”

  “Then how come you didn’t listen?”

  Belle gazed at her new niece. “Sometimes, we have to pay attention to what our own hearts tell us to do. Rather than listening to other people.”

  Effie’s eyes grew huge. “Don’t tell that to Mom. She’d make you count backwards from ten.”

  “I won’t.”

  Effie continued to regard her aunt. “What does it feel like to die, Aunt Belle?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Nick screams a lot when he’s playing soldiers and pretends he’s being killed.”

  By now, Rosco joined in. He also bent down to Effie’s level. “I’ve heard your brother.”

  “Mom says it’s ‘enough to wake the dead.’ Did your dad do that? On the train? Yell and everything?”

  Belle found herself smiling gravely again. The notion of her father calling attention to himself—or even calling out in pain—was so astounding she could scarcely picture it. “My father never once raised his voice, Effie. Not in his entire life.”

  “Then he’s not like my dad.” With that decisive statement, the little girl marched off to join her cousins and brother.

  After Effie came Sara, making her stately way forward. Following Sara was Martha, the head waitress from Lawson’s, Newcastle’s all-purpose coffee shop/gossip mill and decades-old institution. Belle considered the two women now standing almost side by side. They were so different in background, but so similar in intent. Sara was a New England WASP through and through. Martha, thirty years younger, had created her own heritage, but she bore it as royally as Sara’s.

  Martha never appeared without her blond, beehive hairdo well-shellacked, without undergarments that creaked with every turn, or fingernails painted a vivid American Beauty pink. She’d chosen the era and “look” she most preferred, and stuck with it through thick and thin. Belle was almost surprised to notice Martha had relinquished her flamingo-colored uniform for the occasion—and more surprised to see she was weeping softly. She was not a woman Belle had imagined knew how to cry.

  “It reminds me of when my own dad went …” Martha pulled a gauzy handkerchief from her purse. Belle noted it was edged in a delicate rose-hued lace; the small gesture of gentility and femininity made her feel a sudden stab of sorrow. Where had the handkerchief come from? she wondered. Had it been a gift from some long-vanished beau? An impulse purchase to “complement” her Lawson’s uniform? Or had she inherited it? A present her “dad” had given her mother?

  “You’re really kind to come today, Martha.”

  “It’s important for friends to stay together in times like these … When Mother went … and then my dad, I don’t know what I would have done without the support of the folks at Lawson’s …”

  Belle found herself grasping Martha’s hand in sympathy.

  “You’re going to miss him, Belle. You’ll never get over missing him.”

  Belle bowed her head. What could she say?

  “Never,” Martha repeated. “Your parents are your parents as long as you draw breath.”

  Vicariously, Belle felt her heart constrict.

  CHAPTER 5

  Belle flinched as she exited Fort Lauderdale’s airport. Not one piece of the picture seemed pleasant or inviting: the blindingly bright blue sky, the sun searing down on the concrete divider that cordoned off the mammoth parking facility, the humid air that billowed upward carrying the smell of diesel fuel, and wave after wave of scorching heat. Welcome to Florida in August, she thought. The weather wasn’t going to make sorting through her father’s effects any easier.

  Dutifully she followed the directional signs to the shuttle bus that would transport her to the rental car company. A queue of chatty businesspeople mingling with a group of beaming tourists were already waiting at the stop; their obvious enthusiasm for the bright skies and swaying palm trees made her feel even more isolated and despondent. She climbed aboard in silence while her fellow travelers bounded up the steps in a rush of enthusiastic conversation.

  Belle sank into a seat and stared through the windows as the shuttle skirted through the airport, entered a six-lane highway, turned, then turned again and again while a glut of highway signs zipped past. Miami. Everglades City. Coral Springs. Routes 595, 75, 95. How she was going to return her rental, or even relocate the airport, seemed impossible to imagine. Even under the best of circumstances, Belle’s navigational skills were no match for a Ponce de Leon or de Soto. She began to sorely wish she could have flown directly into Fort Myers on the west coast, but those flights had been booked—at least the ones allowing her to use frequent flyer points. Now, she was left to traverse the breadth of the state on her own recognizance. CROSSWORD QUEEN QUITS COURSE: CAR CRASHES IN EVERGLADES. Belle could almost see the headline.

  She squared her shoulders in a facsimile of bravery and derring-do, exited the bus, handed her driver’s license to the rental clerk, mumbled when presented with a plethora of automotive choices, and finally tossed her small suitcase into the trunk of a small, red, four-door car. Rosco would have recognized the make and been able to discuss its various merits; Belle wouldn’t have remembered the manufacturer or model even if it were printed on the steering wheel.

  Strapped into her seat belt, she gazed intently at the map provided by the rental company, then eased out of the parking lot—and made her first wrong turn. She did a 180 at a gas station that seemed located specifically for the purpose of aiding lost tourists, retraced her steps, and eventually found Route 595, where an exit sign indicating HIATUS ROAD arrested her attention. She smiled for the first time since stepping onto Floridian soil, although the expression wasn’t happy.

  Hiatus, she thought. An interruption … a missing part … It was at times like these that she missed her favorite possession: her multivolumed Oxford English Dictionary, the fabled O.E.D. Her brain began spinning its own lexical connections. A cleft is also a chasm, a gulf, a rift between two areas once attached. Belle frowned, then willfully turned off her thoughts.

  Soon 595 became Route 75, the flat and knife-straight highway officially called the Everglades Parkway but which every local referred to as “Alligator Alley.” The idea that there actually might be alligators dragging their thick bodies across the macadam or sunning themselves at the side of the road produced a second and easier smile. In spite of her mission, she found herself beginning to relax. Just then she caught sight of an enormous bird stretching brown-black wings above a barren and leafless tree; a few feet farther along, a white-plumed egret stood gimlet-eyed in the swamp grass swelling around the cypress roots. Nearby perched a heron whose breast was as blue as cobalt.

  “Miccosukee, Immokalee …” Belle mouthed the strange place names as she drove, peering at the wilds beyond Alligator Alley in the hopes of glimpsing human habitation. But as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but inhospitable swampland. She twisted on the radio dial, only to hear a wailing rendition of “Dust in the Wind” invade her air-conditioned pod.

  She flipped off the radio before the deejay could blitz her senses with additional ominous selections, then con
tinued in determined silence. Why did Father choose to live here? she asked herself again. What emotional climate was he trying to find—or escape? An apartment in the Keys last year, then this recent move to Sanibel … Belle couldn’t remember all the spots her father had inhabited during the years since her mother had died. She only knew that the sojourns had been brief, and that when he’d relocated—as he’d done from Marathon less than half a year ago—she’d been totally surprised.

  Finally, just east of Naples, the highway turned northward, and she found herself connecting to Route 867 and heading southwest toward Punta Rassa and Sanibel Island. As she began to traverse the causeway connecting the island to the mainland, a brown pelican floated into view, drifting at an unconcerned eye level with the steady stream of bridge traffic. Then another pelican appeared. And another and another and another: all five loafing lazily through the languid air until one of the group suddenly plunged out of formation and dove beak-first toward the water.

  Belle uttered a pleased “Yikes!” dispensed with the “climate control system” and rolled down the window. At that point a sudden revelation hit her. Of course, she realized, that’s why Father decided to move here. It was because of his pet project on the ancient Olmec civilization. This is the Gulf of Mexico, the same body of water that carried the Olmecs’ canoes as they embarked from La Venta or Veracruz. Maybe Father imagined he could see beyond the modern cruise lines and tankers and cargo containers into the distant past. Maybe he was trying to find a connection between the east coast of Mexico and the western half of Florida.

  Belle studied the scene, trying to see it as he might have, but her brief inspiration began to evaporate so she maneuvered onto Periwinkle Way instead, carefully following directions faxed from the real estate agent as she passed Dixie Beach Boulevard and Casa Ybel, before making a right onto Palm Ridge. From there, she counted street numbers aloud until she found what she assumed was her father’s low-standing condo complex.

  Belle turned off the ignition and sat staring through the plantings of bougainvillea and hibiscus. She sincerely wished she hadn’t been so pig-headed in refusing Rosco’s offer to accompany her. Sorting through her father’s possessions wasn’t going to be fun.

  She drew in a weary breath, climbed out of the car, and started inspecting the grouped buildings, reasoning that 11B would probably be on the second floor, and most likely in the back overlooking the neighboring wildlife refuge. She was right—a hollow victory.

  Belle climbed the concrete exterior stairs, extracting her father’s key ring as she did so. It was simpler to concentrate on a commonplace object than consider the fact that the last time her father had trod these steps he was very much alive and on his way to Massachusetts. Alive and about to visit a daughter who hadn’t particularly wished to see him.

  She drew in another long, reflective breath, then walked the length of the outside corridor while gazing away toward the facing buildings, the date palms clustered in the center “square,” the Bermuda grass now sere and brown with summer’s heat. “No time like the present,” she finally muttered as she turned toward 11B and slid the key into the lock.

  Belle attempted to twist the key clockwise but couldn’t. She frowned and opted for counterclockwise. The lock’s inner mechanism clicked easily, but the door refused to open. She grasped the knob and shoved. No go. She pushed harder. Nothing. She stared at the painted metal face. The door merely gazed silently back. She tried the key again, this time rolling it slowly clockwise, then again gripped the knob.

  The lock dropped open and the door gave way. It had never been locked.

  A sudden fear overtook her. Had her fastidious father truly left his home unprotected? Or had someone entered the place in his absence: a maintenance person, a member of a cleaning agency—and had that employee forgotten to lock the door upon finishing their task? Or was it possible her father was the victim of a theft? And could that criminal be lurking inside the apartment now?

  Belle stood, motionless and quiet. Sweat made the knob slip in her hand. She was tempted to back away, find the building’s supervisor, and report the incident, but stubbornness and mounting irritation kept her feet pinned in place. Damn it! she thought. My father’s dead, and someone has either carelessly left his apartment unlocked, or else a lowlife has decided this is the optimal time to break in and rob the place. Anger at this unfair treatment propelled her forward. She grasped the knob in slick fingers and threw her weight against the door.

  What she saw waiting in the entry was a young woman. Her hair was black and cut so short it looked like a swimmer’s racing cap while her enormous dark eyes glistened with a mixture of anger and fright.

  “I’ve notified Security,” the woman rasped out. “They’ll be here in a second, so don’t try anything funny.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “And you are?” Belle’s teeth and knuckles were clenched, her voice aggressive.

  “Stay right where you are, sister,” was the black-haired woman’s rapid reply. “Security’s on its way.” Then she added a fierce: “Why were you trying to break into Ted’s apartment? There’s nothing here worth stealing.”

  “Ted?” Belle stammered. “Ted?”

  But her surprised query went unanswered, because at that moment “Security” arrived in the form of a twenty-something bodybuilder whose ultratanned face and arms belied the fact that guarding residences was his sole vocation. “Do we have a problem here?”

  Belle noted with dismay that he was armed with more than a walkie-talkie. His right hand maintained a firm grasp on a jet black pistol that rested in the holster on his hip—itching like “Billy the Kid” to go for the quick-draw.

  “I have no idea who this woman is—” Belle began.

  “I caught her trying to break in—” was the equally aggrieved reply.

  “I was not breaking in! I was only—”

  Static squawked over the guard’s receiver, silencing both antagonists. The guard yanked it from his belt, and held it to his mouth. “Negative … Female …” He looked at Belle critically. “Mid-thirties … blond … average height. Yeah … Possible forced entry … No … Nothing I can’t handle … No visible weapon—”

  “I did not break in,” Belle reiterated while brandishing her set of keys. “I have—”

  The security guard removed his hand from his pistol and raised it like a traffic cop. “Hold on, lady.” Then he returned to his radio, “Subject claims legitimate access. Has keys she states belong to occupant. Did 11B leave vacation directives or any sublet notifications?”

  Before the walkie-talkie could bleat further instructions, the woman with the black hair started to retreat into the apartment. As she did, she affixed Belle with a baleful stare. “Thank you, Officer. Ted will be very happy you—”

  “No!” Belle exploded. “No, he won’t be! He won’t be happy … ‘Ted’ won’t even learn of this situation! Because ‘Ted’—Theodore Graham, my father—is dead.” She took a deep breath, tried to calm herself, then focused an outraged expression on the other woman. “He passed away last week.”

  The woman turned slowly toward her. “Ted …” she mumbled. “Ted is …?” Finally she added a shocked: “You’re … Are you Annabella?”

  “Of course, I’m Annabella! And who, may I ask, are you?” Belle fought her desire to use stiffer language, but a ferocious scowl made up for the lack of tougher speech.

  It was “Security” who answered. “Deborah Hurley. Professor Graham’s assistant. She’s the only one I recognize here.”

  Belle stared. “My father didn’t have an assistant.”

  “I’ve been here for almost three months, lady, and Ms. Hurley’s been around near as long as I have,” shot back the guard. “You’re the one I’ve never seen before.”

  The woman named Deborah looked at Belle with pained and horrified eyes. “What …? What happened …? When Ted left here, he was fine, in fact—”

  “He died on the train. A heart attack.” Belle ground out
the words. Frustration, latent grief, and the sudden appearance of a person like “Deborah” combined to make her tone less than kind. “The conductor found him slumped over and—”

  “That’s some swell attitude,” the guard offered. “You want this Annabella person escorted off the premises, Ms. Hurley?”

  “Are you really Ted’s daughter?” Deborah began while Belle found tears inexplicably filling her eyes.

  “Why would I claim to be someone I wasn’t?”

  “Easy, now … Easy …” said the guard. He made a step as if to separate the women, but Deborah Hurley ignored him.

  “Ted can’t be dead,” she said. “He can’t be … He was … He was …”

  “My father never told me he’d hired an assistant,” was Belle’s equally distressed response.

  Left alone, at long last, in her father’s apartment, Belle stared about in utter bewilderment. Her brain seemed to be echoing and pinging as if sloshing full of seawater. First, there was the discovery of a person so familiar and comfortable with her difficult parent as to refer to him as “Ted.” Then, there was the equally unpleasant sensation that not a single piece of furniture in the two-bedroom condo looked remotely familiar. Her father had moved from Marathon Key to Sanibel Island, and had apparently decided to refurnish his life. Or else someone had done it for him. And the evidence pointed to Mrs. Hurley—as the guard had helpfully revealed her marital status to be.

  Belle sank down on a sea green couch covered with a flowery chintz throw and an armful of matching pillows. She regarded the ultrafeminine decorating scheme with dismay. The Dr. Graham she’d known had held no truck with such “boudoir-appropriate blandishments”; and they made Deborah Hurley’s status as “assistant” seem even more specious and peculiar.

  “Besides, she must be several years younger than I am,” Belle found herself muttering. She shook her head; her brain clanged louder. Then she realized it wasn’t Deborah’s age that bothered her, but the fact that she’d never known of the woman’s existence. Why didn’t my father tell me? her thoughts demanded—to which another part of her mind replied with an equally insistent: Why didn’t you ask? Why didn’t you bother to visit?