Death on the Diagonal - By Nero Blanc Page 0,46
rivers, or tallest mountains? Why don’t these people leave me alone? Who cares about word games anyway? We’ve all got more on our plates than wondering how many types of Halloween candy we can find that contain six letters and end with a T... It’s high time I looked for another job and got as far away from homonyms, synonyms, antonyms—to say nothing of caconyms, eponyms, and poecilonyms!
With a determined sullenness, she wrenched the new puzzle from the machine. “To Catch a Thief,” she read in silence, constructed by Alfred Hitchcock. Oh, great. Just great. Now I’m getting a word game from a person pretending to be a dead man. And it’s sent to me at home, on top of it. Why can’t people learn this is strictly off-limits! If Belle had been Kit or Gabby, she would have growled aloud.
Instead, she dutifully made a copy of the submission, slumped back to the desk, heaved herself into her chair, and took up her lucky red pen. “Okay, Alfred,” she muttered under her breath, “let’s see what kind of thief you’re hunting . . .” Then 17- and 19-Across caught her eye. BLAZING SADDLES, she wrote in firm block letters, sitting suddenly straighter. “Oh, my gosh . . . and the solution to 38-Across is DAWN OF THE DEAD . . .”
Belle’s pen was flying by now. It didn’t matter that the puzzle constructor hadn’t bothered with a clever step-quote or a guiding theme. She was convinced she’d received an obvious message—and that the bogus “Alfred Hitchcock” had private information concerning King Wenstarin Farms.
GOODBYE MR CHIPS, Belle penned at 55- and 58-Across. “Oh, wow!” Then she flew out of her chair. “What did I do with that last submission?” she grumbled. “The one that was faxed on Sunday morning and that made me so cranky . . . c’mon, Gab and Kit . . . you guys are always playing with the sheets of paper I ball up and toss out. Help me find the darn thing.”
While Belle—with the aid of the two dogs—rifled through her home office, Sara’s glowing black Cadillac tootled along Nathaniel Hawthorne Boulevard toward the Avon-Care facility and her “coincidental” meeting with Dawn Davis. At the wheel was Emma; Sara sat regally on the wide rear seat, her wheelchair stowed in the trunk—or as she sometimes referred to it, “the boot.” Sara was as fond of her Briticisms as she was this “automobile”—a 1956 model that she steadfastly refused to believe was over a half-century old.
“You’ll come in with me, of course, Emma,” she now stated in her genteel yet commanding tone, “and then what, I wonder? Should you return to the parking lot and wait for me? Or should you remain at my side? What looks more convincing for our charade, do you imagine?”
“I think both choices are equally appropriate, madam,” was Emma’s thoughtful response. “Someone in your weakened condition either requires aid from a caregiver or, alternatively, feels a need for greater autonomy.”
Sara nodded at Emma’s perception, approval that the maid/chauffeur noted while glancing in the rearview mirror.
“On the other hand, madam, I feel I could be of help in watching Ms. Davis’s reactions to your queries. Naturally, I won’t be speaking to her myself, and so may be able to note behavior that might elude you.”
Sara nodded again. “Then that’s just how we’ll carry out our mission. Two sets of eyes are always better than one.”
The entrance into Avon-Care of the two newest subcontractors to the Polycrates Agency was as theatrical as anything else Sara did. Emma, in a staid navy coat above her rustling gray dress and starched apron, pushed the wheelchair, while Sara surveyed the scene with imperial complacency. The old lady might as well have been a pasha perched upon an elephant, gracing the masses with a smile that indicated polite acknowledgment of her station. Those awaiting appointments couldn’t help but grin in return.
By prior arrangement, Emma pushed her mistress toward the reception desk, where Sara duly requested to speak with “someone in a managerial position” so that she could better “ascertain” her “treatment protocols.” Protocol was a new term for Sara when referring to medical matters. She’d been accustomed to the word being used in relation to diplomacy or other governmental convention and etiquette, but she liked its formal tone—especially when dealing with something as lowly as a battered joint. Then, knowing the “manager” would take a few minutes to summons, Sara had Emma steer her toward a chair near