sparrow ruffled its feathers and cocked its head undisturbed. Belle dragged her eyes back to the puzzle. “5-Down: TOMORROW MAY RAIN . . . That means there’s more to come . . . ‘Tomorrow’—or ‘soon.’ ”
She stood, walked to the wall of bookcases, and removed a licorice stick from a clear glass jar, then bit the chewy end while deftly severing a four-inch strip like a cowhand with a length of beef jerky. Her mouth full of sticky black candy, she returned to her desk and began drumming her fingers on the puzzle, gradually focusing on the fax markings on the edge of the paper. The time and date of the transmission were neatly indicated, along with the return fax number—which Belle suddenly recognized as being Papyrus, the monster office-supply store from which the second puzzle had also been faxed.
She grabbed the phone to call the shop, then suddenly reconsidered. No, she decided, this time I’ll go out there and talk to a clerk in person, something I should have done in the beginning—despite Rosco’s warnings about “weirdos” and “validating aberrant behavior.”
It never occurred to her that the action could put her in peril or that a call to Rosco might be wise. In Belle’s mind, she was merely embarking on a “fact-finding mission.” “Tomorrow” or “soon” were the operative words in the time frame. If she could discover who had sent this latest crossword, then maybe she could anticipate that person’s next move. Besides, as she promised herself, there was no need for fear in a public place as huge as Papyrus. Patience, as Rosco had observed, was not one of Belle’s virtues.
She grabbed her purse, locked the house, jumped in her car, and pulled into Papyrus’s parking lot fifteen minutes later. Business was already booming; a surprising number of cars lined the expansive facade. Belle parked next to a powder-blue Range Rover, then walked to the entrance, where double electronic doors swept open and a gust of refrigerated air pulsed out, revealing the mammoth interior. Every imaginable stationery and office product was on display: neon-colored erasers, sparkly notebook covers, pens and pencils of every hue and type, clipboards, letter paper of every weight, size, and color, reading chairs, lamps, desks that unfolded hidden shelves. If such emporia had existed when Belle was a child, she knew she would have found heaven.
She spotted a young man in a dark green polo shirt embroidered with the store’s logo and marched toward him. He was arranging fountain pens in a display case, and quickly locked away the items as Belle approached. She wondered whether his mistrust was store policy or whether she had the words “ulterior motive” stamped across her forehead.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yes, could you direct me to the fax machine?”
“I don’t see it.”
“Pardon me?”
“Your fax. It has to be the correct size. Some weights of paper we can’t handle.”
“Oh . . .” Belle looked down at her empty palms, half expecting a sheet of paper to appear. “I didn’t bring it with me . . . I just wanted to check on your prices first.”
“It depends on the location you’re transmitting to.”
Belle didn’t respond, and after a beat he pointed toward the rear of the store. “In back—at the copy center. Tina handles the faxes.”
“Thank you.”
Belle turned and walked down a seemingly endless aisle lined with a vast array of envelopes. At the end of the aisle four self-service copy machines faced a long counter behind which stood a tall woman in her late forties with jet-black hair cut in a trendy retro bob. She also wore a green polo shirt.
Belle smiled. “Are you Tina?” she asked.
The succinct reply was a less than promising, “Yes.”
“Perhaps you can help me, then,” Belle began, although Tina’s wooden expression didn’t suggest she was in a benevolent mood. “I received a fax from this store at around eight o’clock this morning. Were you working then?”
“I start at seven when the store opens.”
“Oh, good. So you were here . . .” Belle smiled again. “You don’t happen to remember who sent it, do you?”
Tina’s long frame stretched taller and more austere, reminding Belle of time-lapse photography of some exotic botanical specimen—a Venus flytrap or other carnivorous plant. “It is not Papyrus’s policy to peruse private faxes or cover sheets for the purpose of obtaining telephone numbers. Our customers rely upon confidentiality and discretion when they bring a document into our emporium . . . Sorry.”
Belle doubted the sincerity of the apology; she