A Crossworder's Holiday Read online

  “It’s the truth, though, Rosco. Every one of these small communities in Lancaster County is facing the same challenges. The same threats, I should say.”

  Rosco nodded. “And I’m sure this collection contains some seriously valuable items.”

  “You can say that again … Greta’s positively got dollar signs dancing in her head.”

  “No ‘visions of sugarplums,’ huh?”

  “Not unless the plums are prunes.” Despite the gravity of the situation, Steve gave a brief laugh, then crossed to a painted sideboard decorated with unicorns and tulips, and opened the center drawer. “You know, my aunt had a lot in common with your Belle … Take a look at these.” He pulled out a stack of crossword puzzles clipped from various newspapers. “Meg was a puzzle fanatic—had a shop in Lancaster mail her out-of-state newspapers. And even at the end, with her memory blinking on and off, it was her favorite hobby … Needless to say, the auction house isn’t interested in my aunt’s completed word games.”

  Rosco perused the puzzles. “Wow … Here’s one from 1952 and another from 1969 … and here’s one from a 1948 Philadelphia Inquirer.” He squinted at it. “Huh? Thomas Dewey and Harry Truman both have eleven letters in their names. Did you know that?”

  “Don’t get started; you’ll never stop … Meg liked to tell me she was as fascinated with the shapes of letters and words as I am with pieces of wood. Speaking of which, I should close up my shop on the way home. Hannah warned me not to be late. She’s making her famous chicken bot boi for you.”

  “And shoofly pie?”

  “You’re not going to leave Bird-in-Hand hungry, that’s for sure.”

  ROSCO and Steve walked through the snow-laced village. The sun was setting, and its salmon-colored rays reflected vividly off the icy white, bathing each house in lush pink and gold while the smells of home cooking perfumed the air: potato bread, apple fritters, and the sharp tang of sauerkraut. The chilled air seemed to make each aroma, each image, more pungent and compelling. The scents and sights filled Rosco with peace: small-town America settling into a cozy December night. Steve, however, bundled into his parka, his hands thrust deep in his pockets and his beard buried in a scarf, grew increasingly melancholy.

  “When I was a kid, I used to walk along this very street on my way home from sledding. Everything looks the same as it did then; it even smells the same …”

  Rosco let his friend’s sorrow linger in the night air before speaking. “The town’s going to lose something very important if your aunt’s estate is broken up.”

  “Only Greta would disagree with you,” Steve replied. “In fact, the entire village is up in arms over the situation … I guess everyone feels a way of life is being threatened: Old World traditions, neighbors helping neighbors, family members caring for one another … old folks, youngsters, newlyweds—”

  “Understandable.” Rosco interrupted as gently as he could. “You said that she and your uncle Amos had been married for only two years?”

  “That’s right. He met her down in Philadelphia during one of his infrequent forays into an urban environment. The next thing you knew we had an ‘Aunt Greta.’”

  Rosco smiled. “You make her sound like an orphaned rattlesnake. It must have been difficult for her to make friends—”

  “You can say that again. I don’t know anyone who didn’t think she was a gold digger as well as a city slicker.”

  “Tell me a little more about your uncle’s death,” Rosco pushed. “You mentioned it was unexpected.”

  His response was tinted with a deep tone of devotion. “You remember Amos, don’t you, Rosco? The epitome of the Pennsylvania Dutch elder: an ox of a man with a booming voice and a handshake that could crunch bones. He told me one time that when he’d had measles as a kid, his teacher had turned him away from the classroom out of fear he’d infect the other students … Those were the only days he missed school …” Steve chuckled briefly at the memory. “Absolutely nothing got Amos down. Nothing. Even in his seventies he was out there plowing with his team of mules—on foot, too … But then there was a community event—a potluck supper—and Amos contracted food poisoning …”

  “Did a lot of people get sick?” Rosco asked.

  “No … Just Uncle Amos.”

  NIGHT brought a heavy snowfall; and at dawn it was snowing still. The sun tried in vain to put in an appearance, then left the sky colored a thin, winter gray while the fields and distant barns and farmhouses vanished under an ever-growing blanket of white. Bird-in-Hand existed only as a tiny settlement: a main street, a crossroads, a handful of homes, as if in the space of twelve hours, time had flown backward two hundred years.

  The sense of remove was strengthened as Rosco entered the kitchen and found Hannah making coffee over the wood stove.

  “The electricity’s out,” she said cheerfully. “Not that it’s an unusual occurrence during a storm … Lucky thing I made the sticky buns yesterday—”

  “And it’s a lucky thing Belle and I don’t live any closer to you two. You’d have to roll us in and out the door—and then bounce us down the street.”

  “Nothing wrong with a sticky bun once in a while,” was Hannah’s breezy response.

  “Or a daily helping of shoofly pie … or potatoes mashed in cream … or lima beans in a cheese sauce … sausages in gravy … or bread with real butter.”

  “Don’t forget scrapple.” Hannah chuckled. “Hey, you want nouvelle cuisine, you gotta go to where they do things nouvelle.”

  “Why does that statement remind me of Steve?”

  “I guess most married couples end up sharing a single brain.”

  “The lucky ones,” Steve added as he entered the kitchen. Despite the buoyant words, his expression still wasn’t happy.

  “It’s okay, hon,” his wife said. “We’ll find a way to keep everything the way Meg wanted it. Cheer up—it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas—”

  “Hmmm. This is going to be the first Christmas we won’t be celebrating in the Sutter family home. The first holiday Meg will miss.”

  “I know,” was Hannah’s quiet reply.

  ROSCO and Steve arrived back at Meg’s to find Greta waiting on the porch.

  “You didn’t lock everything up last night.”

  “Yes, I believe I—” Steve began, but Greta interrupted with an impatient:

  “I don’t know why you insist on poking around this old place. Just a lot of musty memories.”

  “That’s not what my aunt Meg felt,” Steve answered coolly. “And it’s not the opinion of the local folks, either. And speaking of poking around—”

  “Well, it’s my opinion,” Greta shot back while pointedly ignoring Rosco. “Just make sure you don’t disturb anything—like you did yesterday. The auctioneers have already cataloged the collection, and the moving truck and crew arrive tomorrow afternoon; if this damn snow calls it quits in time.” Then she stormed off the porch, waded through snow drifts to her car, and attempted to speed off, zigzagging dangerously across the roadway and spewing exhaust in her wake.

  “Charming lady,” Rosco observed. “Good thing there wasn’t a big truck out there.”

  Steve smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, that sure is fortunate, all right.”

  “I didn’t realize Greta was so much younger than your uncle.”

  He gave a terse laugh. “That fact didn’t sit well with Meg, I can tell you … though she really tried hard to be tolerant. Everyone did. We all wanted—hoped—that Uncle Amos would be happy.”

  “But you suspected otherwise?”

  “Just suspicions, that’s all.”

  As they entered the house, Steve flicked the light switch, but nothing happened. He flicked it twice more before saying, “Oh boy … I forgot the power’s out. If it stays out much longer, I’ll need to light a fire to keep the pipes from bursting. Come on, Aunt Meg kept some candles in the kitchen.”

  The two men passed through the rooms, and Rosco posed another question
. “Did Meg share your feelings that all wasn’t perfect in her brother’s marriage?”

  Steve stopped in his tracks. “Meg couldn’t abide Greta. Flat out. Insisted she was sneaky and conniving; a ‘heart of a magpie’ was a term she used. Of course, she didn’t say any of that till Amos was gone … But three and a half weeks after his death, Meg mistook Hannah for Greta and screamed to beat the band … even went so far as accusing Hannah of ‘villainous threats.’ It was a lucky thing I was here and could intervene and calm her down.”

  Rosco shook his head. “That’s gotta be tough.”

  “We could almost pinpoint Meg’s mental decline from that date: reciting the alphabet backward instead of speaking, talking in rhymes … Once, she even left the doors open so ‘the bees could come in and nest’… She could be entirely lucid on occasion, but those times grew increasingly infrequent—especially with Greedy Greta lurking around so often.”

  Rosco stared, somewhat surprised. “Greta had access to the house at the time?”

  “Yep. Meg had never locked a door in her life, and the doctor in Lancaster advised us not to alter her habits. Hannah and I tried to monitor Greta’s visits, but if we were out of town, attending a craft show—”

  Rosco assimilated the information as the two men walked into the kitchen, found the candles, and proceeded back toward the parlor. “Was there a criminal investigation into Amos’s cause of death?”

  Steve stopped and faced Rosco. “Absolutely not. Folks were upset enough; everyone who’d contributed food to the potluck felt to blame.”

  “I didn’t mean that type of investigation. I’m talking about a basic medical examiner’s report: the contents of the deceased’s stomach, that sort of thing.”

  “An autopsy? We’ve never had a need for that stuff around here,” was the somewhat edgy reply.

  “Okay.” Rosco remained quiet a moment before posing his next question. “Meg’s illness … the physical manifestations of it … Were there any symptoms that seemed similar to your uncle’s?”

  Steve studied his friend. “Are you … are you suggesting Greta might have—?” He didn’t finish the thought.

  “I don’t know what I’m suggesting, Steve … But the timing of the two deaths is bothering me—especially given the fact that your aunt and uncle were two apparently healthy and robust people. Accidents happen, sure, I know that. And people coping with grief often decline physically—and rapidly, but …”

  “But …?”

  “That’s just it … All I have to go on is a hunch we’re missing something.” Rosco paused. “You’re convinced Meg intended to write another will. I’m with you on that, but we need more … We need to corroborate your aunt’s mistrust of her sister-in-law.”

  “I don’t mind telling any judge what I’ve just told you.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not good enough. It would only be your word against Greta’s … You tell the court how your aunt screamed bloody murder when she mistook your wife for her sister-in-law. Greta claims it was Hannah who was at fault. It goes nowhere. In other words, you lose.”

  “I see your point,” Steve admitted after a long minute of silence.

  “But what I’m thinking is this … Is it possible your aunt might have written something indicating a change of heart …‘Intent’ is the proper term … For instance, did she keep a diary, maybe start to write a letter that wasn’t mailed—even scribble in a cookbook? When older people can’t sleep at night, they often jot down notes about things they don’t want to forget; then they toss ’em in a drawer and lose track of them. Of course, any indication of a change of heart would need to be dated as well.”

  “Greta cleaned out everything in Meg’s bedroom; and the only letters my aunt ever wrote were to me in college.” His expression had grown dark and troubled once more. “As for cookbooks, her recipes were handed down verbally from her mother and great-grandmother … Sorry, Rosco, but the only pieces of loose paper in the house are Meg’s old crossword puzzles.”

  “And the frakturs.”

  Steve allowed himself the smallest of smiles. “I don’t care how mentally unsound my aunt was at the end, she never would have written on one of her precious frakturs.”

  Rosco nodded. “Then I’d suggest we start looking through the crosswords. Maybe we’ll find a phrase, a doodle … something that might help us.”

  Steve stood quietly with his hands in his pockets for a moment. Then he shrugged and said, “What the heck … It’s worth a shot.”

  IT took over two hours to collect the hundreds of puzzles Meg Sutter had stashed in dresser drawers, closets, under window seats, in antique baskets, and old wooden apple boxes. When they’d finished, the dining room table was stacked high with bundles of crosswords tied with twine or folded into cardboard boxes. Among them sat the candles, flickering dimly and lending the scene an oddly medieval feel.

  “This is interesting,” Rosco said as he picked up a candlestick and held it closer to one of the stacks. “These puzzles all have themes beginning with the letter B: Baseball, The Beatles, Broadway Shows. I guess your aunt arranged her word games alphabetically rather than by newspaper or date.”

  “This is going to take us months,” was Steve’s dejected response. “There must be a thousand crosswords here … and Meg obviously completed each one.”

  “We could start with M for Message … W for Will?” Rosco offered, but his friend didn’t appear to be amused. Instead, the two men began to carefully open every piece of folded newsprint, scanning each section for a potential communication from Meg. “All we need to do is establish intent,” Rosco reiterated. “And date.”

  “I’d rather see the words LOOK UNDER THE HALL CARPET FOR MY NEW WILL,” said Steve with a smile.

  “You and me both, buddy.”

  An hour later, Steve found a newspaper that contained an empty puzzle grid and no clues. “Look at this … Aunt Meg never attempted this one. In fact, she cut out the clues and only saved the grid.”

  “Let me see.” Rosco took the folded newsprint, and as he did, a piece of paper dropped to the floor. He studied it as he picked it up. Handwritten, in separate columns, were Across and Down clues. Meg Sutter’s signature appeared at the bottom. “Your aunt used this published puzzle grid but created her own clues … and her own solution …”

  Steve retrieved a pencil from the kitchen while Rosco began reading clues aloud. “6-Down … Certain flounders … The solution contains eleven letters …”

  “WINDOW PANES,” Steve said. “They were Aunt Meg’s favorite fish. She and I used to share a joke about ‘cleaning window panes’… She didn’t like either job.” He smiled at the memory. “This is almost like having her write me a letter … almost like having her talking to me …” He pointed to 9-Across. “Barcelona buddy … AMIGO! Hah, and you accused me of never studying in Spanish class …”

  Rosco smiled and wrote, but after another fifteen minutes the men were stopped cold. “I hate to admit this, but we’re going to have to call the expert.”

  “The phone’s in the kitchen.”

  “It’s not one of those hand-crank numbers, is it?” Rosco jested.

  “You’d be amazed how hard it was to get Aunt Meg to even consider Touch-Tone.”

  “Try me,” Rosco said as he lifted the receiver to phone Belle in Massachusetts. He found the line dead, then sighed a half-amused, half-frustrated: “No electricity, no phone … Is this a plot?”

  “Hey, folks did just fine before the advent of the information superhighway.”

  “That’s a joke, right?” He reached into a zippered pocket in his parka and pulled out his cell phone. “Tah-dah, modern technology saves the day.”

  By the thin and snowy light filtering through the windows, Rosco continued to peruse clues while waiting for Belle to answer. “Oregon border town?” he asked the moment she picked up. “Five letters, begins with N.”

  Her reply was a quick chuckle and an indulgent: “NYSSA … and hi to you, too … Or are
we dispensing with the formalities from now on?” Then she added, “What gives? I thought you were helping Steve with an inheritance issue.”

  “I am … I think … What about a Washington border town beginning with K and ending with O? Five letters.”

  “KELSO.” Belle laughed. “What are you guys doing: playing Scrabble? No proper names; remember the rules?”

  Rosco answered with a rather lame, “It’s snowing—”

  “It’s December. It’s supposed to snow. We’re getting pounded up here, too. A good day to be curled up in front of the fire … With someone you love … If you get my drift. Pun intended.”

  “Actually, what happened is that Steve and I found a crossword—”

  “And I love you too, Rosco … Look, if you wanted to become a word game addict, you could have stayed home … In front of the fire, with someone you—”

  “No. It belonged to Meg.”

  “Something tells me I’m not getting through—”

  “It’s a published puzzle grid to which she added her own words and clues.”

  A quick intake of breath greeted this information. Rosco could tell that his bride was mentally sitting up and taking notice now. “Let me guess … Your theory is that she left a message hidden in the crossword—”

  “It sounds loony, I know—”

  “No, it doesn’t. I remember reading about a case like that in England … it was five or six years ago … Look, I don’t want to cast aspersions on your lexical talents—or on Steve’s—but why don’t you just fax me the crossword. It’ll save time.”

  “I told you it was snowing—”

  “And?”

  “And the electricity’s off. The phones, too.”

  Belle groaned, and Rosco laughed.

  “Don’t say it,” she groused.

  His response was a not-so-innocent, “Say what?”

  “‘Curiosity killed the cat.’” Belle sighed. “Call me as soon as you discover anything … Call me for any reason whatever … Or I could just stay on the line—”