deal Shylock strikes . . . a hefty loan predicated upon the safe arrival of several heavily laden trading ships?”
Belle looked up and caught Sara’s keen stare. “All of which sink before reaching port and discharging their lucrative cargo,” the young woman answered.
“And what happens to Shylock’s daughter—his dearest female companion—as this disaster unfolds?”
“She disappears,” Belle said. “And her name begins with a J . . .”
17
After he left Belle’s house, it had taken Rosco only twenty minutes to retrace his path to the Pepper home. He’d been informed by Anson that Tom was deeply involved with pressing matters surrounding the G.O.L.D. Fund and had given strict orders not to be disturbed—“under any circumstances,” according to the butler. The injunction brought Rosco a certain sense of relief; after his discussion with Belle, he had no desire to be called on the carpet about possible hidden meanings in the perplexing crossword.
With Anson hovering at his elbow, Rosco wrote the following on the back of the envelope containing the completed puzzle: Mr. Pepper—look this puzzle over and let me know your thoughts. I suspect it’s the work of a disturbed mind, but if you feel there may be more to it, give me a call.
He handed the envelope to Anson and left. Pepper would make his own inferences on the crossword’s clues and answers—or he would not.
Lieutenant Al Lever and his forensics expert, Abe Jones, weren’t due to start work at Mystic Isle Yachts until four P.M. As a result, Rosco gauged that he had plenty of time to drive out to Warren and investigate the elusive truckers, Moe Quick and Bob Stingo. Establishing their whereabouts would hopefully fill in a large piece of the puzzle.
Warren’s run-down neighborhoods were as unwelcoming as they’d been on Tuesday, and the Stingo house appeared consistently dark and unoccupied. Rosco banged on the front and rear doors, but the house’s interior remained silent. The home also emitted a morguelike chill, the feel of a building that’s been without heat or human habitation for several days. He stood pressed to the kitchen door for a couple of long minutes, but detected no odor of cooking gas, food preparation, or dishes either washed or piled in the sink. The house smelled only of standing water, cold concrete, and aged vinyl siding.
He returned to his Jeep. The neighboring homes seemed equally devoid of life, although Rosco was certain he was being watched—if only by a nosy populace. He considered approaching one or two of those dwellings, then realized his current attire had “official snoop” written all over it. If he hadn’t been singled out as an undercover cop, he probably looked like something worse: a repo man or enforcer from a rental agency. None of these folks would open their door to such a heinous character, so Rosco turned his Jeep toward Duxbury Court and the Quicks’ mobile home.
Doris Quick seemed truly frightened to see him. Her ruddy complexion blanched; and she slammed the door in his face without speaking. But before Rosco had time to call out or knock again, he heard her voice whisper through the door. “Okay, okay, I’ll open it.” The inflection made it impossible to determine whether the response was intended for Rosco or someone within the trailer. She reopened the door, but only enough to show her eyes, nose, and mouth. “Sorry,” she said in a halting tone. “I . . . I thought you were someone else.” She attempted a smile but failed.
Rosco assumed his most wholesome demeanor. “Better safe than sorry, I always say.”
Doris studied him, trying to determine his motive. “I suppose you want my husband.”
“Right . . . Just for a minute or two, Mrs. Quick. Is he home?”
“Nope, he ain’t.”
“I thought I heard another voice . . .”
“You didn’t.” Her jaw muscles tightened. Rosco could see she wanted to slam the door shut again. “And I told you, I don’t like being called Missus . . . makes me feel older than I should.”
“All right, then . . . Doris . . . I’m assuming your husband has finally checked in with you—that you have spoken to him since I was here on Tuesday?”
She took her time before responding. “I can’t say I recall when I last talked to him.”
Rosco scratched the back of his head and sighed as if in total sympathy with women married to fickle men. At the same time he was convinced she wasn’t alone. Rosco raised his voice. “Would you like to know