Two down - By Nero Blanc Page 0,4
to this kind of elaborate getup. Those rarefied types could probably tie bow ties in their sleep—and they’d probably inherited the neckties from their fathers’ fathers. On the other hand, Rosco’s dad had been a commercial fisherman; he’d passed away when Rosco was a kid. Patent-leather shoes and puckery shirts requiring little gold buttons hadn’t been among his possessions. Neither had self-tie bow ties.
“Okay, just like shoes,” Rosco muttered as he stood before his bathroom mirror, fiddling with a few fractious inches of glossy black satin. As he struggled, his mind skimmed over the events that had garnered this coveted invitation and resultant necktie battle. Two and a half months earlier, Mrs. Briephs’ son, the much-lauded crossword editor at the Newcastle Herald, had been murdered. It had been a complex case, involving more than a few prime suspects and a series of bizarre crossword puzzles.
Rosco had finally apprehended the culprit; in doing so, he’d endeared himself to the elderly Mrs. Briephs. All spit and polish, with a personality that defied her eighty-some years, she’d found Rosco’s youthful vitality, casual demeanor, and rugged good looks welcomely refreshing in her otherwise constrained world.
“Dang it.” Rosco tugged at the ends of the tie and started from the beginning. “Okay . . . just like shoes . . . but backward.”
For all the ugliness of the Briephs’ case, there had been three very positive outcomes. One, Rosco had formed a lasting friendship with the redoubtable Sara. Two, the killer had been brought to justice. Three—and possibly the most important—Rosco had met Annabella Graham, the young crossword editor of Newcastle’s other daily newspaper, the Evening Crier.
With an expertise in cryptics and a stubborn streak that had insisted the puzzles were connected to the crime, Belle had not only identified Briephs’ killer, she’d also snared Rosco’s respect, admiration, and deep affection. Fighting their mutual attraction had proven difficult from the beginning. Now most of Newcastle was of the opinion that Rosco and Belle had become “an item.”
“Aghhh.” He yanked the tie loose once more and pressed the ends flat to his chest. “All right, bucko, concentrate. It’s the same as tying . . .” He looked down at his shoes as if to gain inspiration from their knotted laces, but realized he’d already slipped into a pair of rented patent-leather dancing pumps with tidy grosgrain bows. His feet looked as if they’d been clad in an oversized version of a little girl’s party shoes. He sighed again and continued to grapple with the tie, thinking of Belle as a sappy smile spread across his face.
The Yacht Club dinner dance would be the first opportunity for Sara and Belle to meet. And although Rosco didn’t particularly relish the idea of spending an evening dressed like a gigantic penguin, he was eager to ensure that the women’s relationship developed well. Belle was more than capable of holding her own, but Sara could intimidate a striking cobra if she put her mind to it. If the grande dame took it upon herself to be displeased with a person, it could take that individual a lifetime to elicit even the frostiest smile. Rosco’s fondness for both ladies made him acutely aware of the pressure he was facing. He had to make this dinner dance a success.
He glanced at his watch: six-thirty. The hour he’d set aside for tie tying had somehow managed to evaporate. He’d told Belle he’d pick her up at six forty-five, then Sara at seven, and deliver everyone to the Yacht Club by seven-thirty for cocktails and chitchat and whatever else they did in the halls of power, prestige, and nautical lore. He looked back into the mirror one last time and decided that although not perfect, the bow tie was acceptable. He grabbed his keys, ducked out of his apartment, and trotted over to his waiting chariot: a canvas-topped, four-wheel-drive red Jeep that predated the Sahara and Laredo models designed to attract the urban cowboys.
October 1 in Massachusetts was often heralded by the crisp signs of a New England autumn: scarlet-hued leaves, the cold blue of the bay, and scudding whitecaps that looked as clean and frothy as fresh snow. But this evening was unseasonably mild, and the sinking sun had left a mellow pink-orange streak in the sky. The bigwigs at the Patriot Yacht Club party couldn’t have asked for a better night.
Rosco seriously considered removing the Jeep’s canvas top for one final summery ride, but decided against it. Instead, he slipped a cassette of