A Crossworder's Holiday Read online

  Rosco was ill-prepared for the question, but Belle replied with a reasonable: “Sometimes a violent allergic reaction can present an appearance of asphyxiation—or if, as Mrs. Jaffe suggests, her husband had coronary—”

  “Gene was strangled?” Marcia yelped.

  “I didn’t say that—” Belle began, but Charlotte cut her short with a ghoulish:

  “And that ‘someone’ is still here …”

  “Oh, my God!” Marcia screamed, then flailed her arms, snagging Rosco’s shoulder. “Get the police! Get them up here! Get them up here now!”

  “We tried that already, Marcia,” Frank Finney said as he walked into the room. “Remember? There’s been an accident near the bridge.”

  “But … but—” was her near-hysterical response while Chuck Sacks barked a sharp:

  “Let’s calm down, everyone. Let’s pull ourselves together … We don’t need an outside private eye making a difficult situation worse. Maybe Gene died of an acute allergic reaction as has been suggested … or maybe it was heart failure like Marcia said … but it wasn’t homicide, I guarantee you that. And we can’t let ourselves get into a lather imagining we’ve got some crazed killer lurking among us.” He turned his attention to Belle, obviously deciding she was more reasonable than her husband.

  “You’re the crossword expert, right? So, I take it you figured out the recipe for last night’s pudding?”

  Belle nodded.

  “Well?” Sacks demanded. “Anything unusual in it? I mean any ingredient that might provoke a fatal reaction?”

  “I’m not an allergist, Mr. Sacks. I’m a crossword puzzle editor … Offhand, though, I’d say that none of the ingredients seemed life-threatening—unless Mr. Jaffe had developed a sensitivity to nuts; in which case the presence of essence of almonds—”

  “Gene wasn’t allergic to anything,” Marcia insisted. “Not nuts or anything!”

  Belle turned her attention to Frank Finney. “You made the recipe according to Mrs. Lavoro’s instructions?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And there wasn’t any additional substance you—?”

  “I used only what Mrs. Lavoro called for.” The inn’s host had grown defensive and stiff. “It’s not in my best interest to make my guests ill, let alone kill them.”

  “But if the mixture was left sitting on the kitchen table, someone else could have inserted another ingredient?”

  “Obviously, Miss Graham. But in that case, I would imagine we’d all be facing Mr. Jaffe’s fate.”

  Sara didn’t speak although she distinctly recalled her discomfort the previous night. Unconciously she gripped her stomach.

  “What about the brandy sauce?” Belle continued.

  “Are you suggesting I poisoned a guest, Miss Graham? Because if that’s the case—”

  “No one’s suggesting you did anything,” Rosco interjected while Sara, still at the window, added a pensive: “Those snowshoe tracks look decidedly odd … The weight doesn’t appear to be on the toe portion as it should be. It appears to be on the heel. Do you think …?”

  The tense band of friends paid no heed to her remarks; instead they began scrutinizing Marcia afresh, recalling in increasingly vivid detail the dead man’s convulsed body, the overturned water glass, the wife who claimed she’d been absent when her husband had been stricken.

  “Don’t look at me like that!” the widow ordered. “None of you know what was going on between Gene and me.”

  Belle studied Marcia, then thoughtfully picked up the crossword again. Suddenly her eye caught a message no one had noticed. It ran across the diagonal, left to right, bottom to top. She stared at Gene’s wife. “Why would Stacy put this in her puzzle?” Belle pointed to the hidden words.

  For a long moment, Marcia’s sole response was a frozen, almost vacant stare. Then her immobility turned dervishlike. “It’s not fair! She can’t even let me alone now! And how am I supposed to feel—with her writing trash like that?” She jabbed at the crossword. “That’s all it is—just trash!”

  “And Stacy’s husband, Tad?”

  “What about him?”

  “What does he know about this?”

  “Who cares what he knows or doesn’t? Besides, why do you think those two didn’t bother to show?” Marcia all but shouted while Chuck Sacks broke in with an irritable:

  “What’s going on here?”

  But further explanation was curtailed by a harsh mechanical noise coming up the inn’s drive.

  “A snowplow,” Sara observed. “Followed by a state police car.”

  “I didn’t kill my husband!” Marcia Jaffe screamed. “I didn’t.”

  “Then who did?” Rosco asked.

  THE police officer’s report dealt the group another blow. The vehicle involved in the accident near the covered bridge had been driven by none other than Tad Lavoro—who’d survived, but was in critical condition. At the scene he’d been hallucinatory, ranting incoherently as the fire department raced to extricate him from the mangled car.

  “He seemed to be in one heck of a hurry,” the state trooper added. “Never a good idea in this weather—and in the dark.”

  He went on to explain that, as a paramedic had worked an IV into the back of Tad’s hand, she’d heard what she believed to be a mumbled confession; of Tad suffocating a man who had stolen his wife. A pair of old-fashioned snowshoes had been found on his car’s rear seat.

  “He must have used the pair I kept in the shed,” the inn’s host concluded. “They belonged to my grandfather—”

  While Sara interrupted with a decisive: “I thought those tracks looked peculiar … Tad must have come to the inn early, before the snow grew heavy. By the time Gene was in bed, the snow had become impassable, so our murderer strapped those contraptions on his feet backwards … thus walking out while appearing to walk toward the inn … Well, well … Wasn’t it Jung who said, ‘The shoe that fits one person pinches another; there is no recipe for living …’?”

  “Touché,” was Belle’s admiring reply.

  A Partridge in a Pear Tree

  FOR SALE. Rosco spotted the sign a full block and a half from the old, but immaculately maintained house. The highly colored and geometrically decorated placard was exactly how his former college buddy, Steve Sutter, had described it in his letter. “Remember, we do things differently down here in Bird-in-Hand. We’re Pennsylvania Dutch through and through—right down to the old-fashioned lettering on our real estate signs. No cell phones … No e-mail … Yet. Folks around here may be practical, and they may be hard-nosed when it comes to business, but they don’t like the look of ‘modern’ and they probably never will.”

  Rosco agreed with the assessment; his drive through rural Lancaster County had allowed him ample time to notice how intent each resident was on forestalling the pernicious winds of change. Dairy barns still proudly bore old-world hex signs; teams of woolly mules pulled wagons along unpaved farm lanes; plain, gray-black Amish buggies were led by high-stepping horses; smoke from hardwood fires rose from stone chimneys; tidy laundry lines abutted each house: the black trousers, shirts, and dresses worn by a traditional Lancaster County family flapping stiffly in the cold winter breeze. While settling around every house corner, every furrow in the plowed and now-barren fields, lay thin ribbons of snow, so white they looked like frosting on a new-made cake. Yes, it was a picture from another era.

  But just as Rosco considered the charms of the world he was now entering, an enormous tractor-trailer sounded its air horn, then barreled past, roaring twenty-first-century impatience at the sleepy town.

  For sale, he told himself. For sale. This wasn’t going to be an easy visit. But then, things hadn’t been particularly easy—or pleasant—in the old house for some time.

  He drove across Maple Avenue, and parked in front of the venerable brick home that had once belonged to Steve Sutter’s aunt. Miss Meg, as she’d been affectionately known, had been a village institution, once as famed for her gregarious wit
as for her caramel-glazed schnecken. Miss Meg, born in this house to a father who’d also been born here—an entire line of Sutters: grands, great-grands, cousins, and siblings, all congregating within these walls for as long as anyone could remember.

  Rosco stepped onto the porch, reflecting back fifteen years to his days at U-Mass—and then his first visit to the tiny town of Bird-in-Hand. He and Steve had been polar opposites in school, and unlikely friends: Rosco, the hard-nosed poli-sci major, grandson of Greek immigrants who’d disembarked in Boston Harbor and never left coastal Massachusetts—and Steve, a BFA student whose family tree extended over three hundred years to the German settlers who’d first begun farming this bucolic region of Pennsylvania.

  What the two men had shared was a firm belief in right versus wrong—albeit in a college sort of way, and their friendship had survived despite different careers in very different locations. After serving as a police officer in the city of Newcastle, Massachusetts, for eight years, Rosco had segued into the private detective line; while Steve, on the other hand, had become a master carpenter and builder of fine furniture. His studio in Bird-in-Hand had garnered a national reputation, and he’d married a local woman, also a crafts person, and also of Pennsylvania Dutch descent. Hannah was as renowned in the field of quilt design as her husband was in turning a piece of mahogany.

  Rosco knocked on a paneled front door that looked as ancient and scrupulously preserved as the house itself. The door flew open a few seconds later. “Hey, buddy! Thanks for coming down on such short notice. I owe you one.” Steve Sutter beamed. His laconic manner, full, sandy brown beard, wire-rimmed glasses, and rumpled plaid shirt stood in stark contrast to Rosco’s urban hustle and bustle. Rather than a handshake, Steve gave Rosco a large hug, and Rosco stiffened slightly at the intimate gesture. Not a New England thing, he thought, then: Yeesch, these artists …

  “Sorry to hear about your aunt Meg’s passing,” he said when he was finally released.

  Steve didn’t answer for a moment. “A blessing … I guess that’s what some people would say.” He paused. “You remember her from the old days: fun-loving, sharp as a tack, a real pillar of this community. She knew everyone’s name—even knew their great-grandmothers’ names. But that’s not how her life ended. The doctor over in the hospital in Lancaster referred to it as dementia … said it wasn’t uncommon in people her age. Meg used to call it ‘fate’… But it’s tough watching someone who was once so vital … and the symptoms came on so fast—” The words broke off. Even so, Steve attempted another smile for his friend’s benefit.

  “It can happen that way … And sometimes it’s people like your aunt who lose their will to live quicker … Maybe it is better she didn’t linger.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell myself.”

  The two men stepped into the parlor. Like the home’s exterior, like the village itself, it was the product of another era: early American settles, Lancaster County dower chests lettered in German, candle stands painted with the traditional Pennsylvania Dutch distelfink—the good luck goldfinch. On the walls hung dozens of framed needlepoint samplers and frakturs, the records of births and baptisms intricately spelled out in colors as rich as autumn leaves.

  Rosco stared at one sampler. “I don’t remember seeing that one before … OEHBDDE.” He read the letters aloud. “Is that a word? Because if it is, I’ve never seen it before.”

  Steve smiled softly, memories dancing deep in his black eyes. “It’s German … An acronym, I guess you’d call it … OEHBDDE stands for O Edel Herz Bedenk Dein End. Translation: ‘Oh, noble heart, consider your end.’ It was Meg’s favorite sampler. It used to hang in her bedroom, but she had me move it into the parlor near the end when she couldn’t negotiate the stairs very well. Said she wanted to be reminded of its message every minute of the day.”

  Both men remained silent for a moment, then Rosco attempted an upbeat, “Belle would be in seventh heaven surrounded by all these letters and words.” He looked at a dower chest boldly painted: BARBARA ANNO 1782, and an 1833 sampler in which the alphabet had been painstakingly stitched among birds and woodland animals. “She’d start seeing hidden messages …”

  “I’m sorry she and Meg never met. They would have hit it off like house-afires …” Steve’s words trailed off.

  “Why don’t you bring me up to speed on the latest developments,” was Rosco’s attempt at an unobtrusive response.

  Steve took a long and troubled breath. “Nothing new to report … Just what I told you over the phone. But I still want to contest Meg’s will …” He raised his hands, anticipating Rosco’s objections. “You know how much she loved this house, and how much she loved sharing its history. Before she took ill, she’d sit on the front porch, talking by the hour … Any passerby was her friend … Heck, she’d even flag down tourist busses and invite them to stop on over … Then she’d give each and every visitor the entire history of the community and of this house … She could tell you where each of these pieces originated. The OEHBDDE, for instance, was made by a great-great-great-aunt way back in 1832. Meg wanted this place to stay in the family—”

  “Look, Steve …” Rosco interrupted, scratching at his chin as he spoke. “Don’t you think a probate lawyer would be a better person for this job than a PI?”

  But he remained firm. “You’re an old buddy, and Meg liked you. The Pennsylvania Dutch put a good deal of trust in community. I don’t want to deal with someone I’ve never seen.”

  “Contesting a will ain’t easy, my friend.”

  “You told me that. And I appreciate your honesty … But I feel it’s my duty as the last remaining Sutter living in Bird-in-Hand to keep the house and collection together … I feel it’s my duty to Meg. It was the one thing she wanted. She said so over and over—and over again.”

  “But she—”

  “Let me back up for a minute … I told you my aunt’s will originally named her brother Amos as beneficiary?”

  “Right … But that he predeceased her.”

  “By only four months, in fact. His passing was totally unexpected. A real shock for the entire community, not just family.”

  “I remember you telling me that when it happened,” Rosco interjected, then waited for Steve to continue his tale.

  “Well, a few days after Uncle Amos’s death, Meg said she was creating a new will … She was going to leave the property and its contents to me—knowing full well it would remain intact.” Steve paused. “But you know how it is when old people start talking about their own deaths … It’s uncomfortable, and it’s sad.”

  Rosco only nodded.

  “Anyway, my response, whenever she brought up the issue of revising her will, was to tell her I didn’t want her having gloomy ideas like that. I said Amos’s death was just a terrible accident, and she was going to live to be one hundred or even more—which everyone in the town believed … But she always found a way to sneak her worries into our daily chats … She said she needed to ‘safeguard the future’ and make sure the place didn’t ‘fall into the wrong hands’…” Again, he paused. When he resumed speaking, his tone had turned pained. “And then, I don’t know … she just fell apart. You wouldn’t have recognized her, Rosco … All the old spunk was gone, and then her brain …” Steve’s voice broke. “I mean, it was weird how quick she went.”

  Rosco nodded again, more in sympathy, while his friend shook his head sadly.

  “What was really peculiar was that she was in great shape for nearly a month after Uncle Amos’s passing …” He drew another troubled breath. “Meg was a great gal. I wish I’d paid more attention when she started talking about wills and things. Maybe she had a premonition she was going to die. Maybe instead of doing the hearty ‘you’re going to outlast us all’ routine, I should have been more attuned to her fears …”

  Rosco didn’t answer for a moment; when he did, his voice remained low-key. “You did what you believed was best.”

  “I try to tell myself t
hat—”

  “It’s tough …”

  “The guilt’s the worst.”

  Rosco tried a lighter tone. “Hey, come on … Your aunt wouldn’t have wanted you to feel guilty, you know that, not in a million years.”

  But Steve’s shoulders sagged. “I know,” he said, clearly unwilling to lighten up.

  Both men were silent while Meg’s home, as if in sympathy with their feelings, echoed with the quiet sounds of all empty houses: a creak on the stair, a shift of a floorboard, the winter wind in the chimney flue, a clock still wound, still counting out its lonely minutes.

  It was Steve who finally broke the mournful spell. “I know I’m tackling the impossible—”

  “I wouldn’t say impossible,” Rosco responded. “But it sure ain’t gonna be easy … So, there’s definitely no evidence of a new will, I take it?”

  “None whatsoever … When we spoke on the phone, I mentioned that everything’s controlled by Amos’s third wife, Greta—and I mean everything. Hannah and I call her Greedy Greta. ‘Take the money and run’ is definitely her motto. That’s why Meg’s collection is about to be packed up and sent to a New York auction house. After that, Greta intends to sell the house. ‘To the highest bidder,’ she keeps saying. And she doesn’t give a hang whether it remains standing or succumbs to the wrecking ball.”

  “But why would anyone want to tear the place down?”

  “The street’s zoned commercially. It happened a long time ago—when the Farmer’s Market went in. Back then, the townsfolk thought commercial was the way to go: local produce sold locally, and all that … Now, everyone’s beginning to worry … Real estate’s gotten real valuable around here …”

  Rosco released a frustrated sigh and dropped his hands into his pockets as he looked around the room. The exposed beams had been hand-hewn, the wide floor planks lovingly polished, and every object seemed to embody the town’s credo of honest work and wholesome living. “You’re not painting a very optimistic scenario about Bird-in-Hand’s future.”