Death on the Diagonal - By Nero Blanc Page 0,77

many employees stood dead in their tracks the moment they spied her. And as she walked down the hallway toward Kerr’s corner office her astonished coworkers greeted her with a collection of sarcastic comments like: “Is the world coming to an end?” or, “Now I’ve seen everything,” or, “Is the week over already?” or, “That’s not Belle Graham, is it?” while others simply shook their watches questioning whether their timepieces were suffering a communal malfunction. She graced all these antics with a knowing smile then tapped on the frosted-glass panel of Kerr’s door.

The door was flung open as if the tiny man had been lying in wait on the other side since the moment she’d agreed to see him.

“Finally,” he gushed. “What in blazes took you so long? I feel as though I was about to go into cardiac arrest.”

“Seven minutes, Bartholomew. That’s how much time has elapsed since you called. What’s all the excitement about?”

“Seven minutes? The Hindenburg went up in seven seconds!”

She laughed. “The Crier building seems to be in one piece.”

“Hah! That’s a debatable issue, but beside the point. The reason I positively, absolutely needed you here on the QT is because I have received a crossword puzzle, and it’s entitled ‘Social Climber’!”

“Well, you are the society editor.” Belle sat in the chair opposite Kerr’s desk as she spoke. “Possibly someone is suggesting a combination of our two sections of the newspaper? Although I think I might have entitled it ‘Words in Boldface,’ or ‘Clues for the Parvenu’ . . . or maybe one of your gossip-loving spies is pulling your leg.” She looked at Bartholomew’s intent and worried face and forced herself not to smile. “Does the puzzle have a theme, perchance? What are some of the solutions?”

Kerr sighed mightily. “Oh please, dear Bella, I have no patience for these word games. This is why I phoned you the second the mail boy tossed the thing on my desk. And I do mean tossed. One would think that child believes he’s handling Frisbees rather than serious journalistic correspondence.”

“So you haven’t completed the crossword, then?”

“Mais, non. I can only suspect that it has something to do with the horrible situation out at King Wenstarin Farms. Situations in the plural, I should say.”

Belle nodded although she had her doubts. The world of “Biz-y-Buzz” was a long way from the homicide division of NPD. “Well, let’s have a look at it.” This time she did smile, but the expression was indulgent.

Kerr opened the center drawer of his desk as though he expected it to be booby-trapped. With tense fingers he removed a piece of graph paper and walked it over to Belle who perused it, sat bolt upright, and dropped her fatuous grin.

“Well, I have to admit, it does look like the same handwriting as the other three . . .”

“Ah-ha, I thought I was on to something!”

“We’ll need to get this copied, Bartholomew. If I’m correct and it’s the same constructor who did the others, then it may fall into the category of evidence.”

“I anticipated as much, mia Bella.” He reached into the drawer again, retrieved a Xerox of the original, and with a smug and seraphic smile handed it to Belle.

She didn’t respond; instead, she leaned toward Kerr’s jar of pens, grabbed one, and began filling in the grid. When she was almost half finished she said, “Do you have Abe Jones’s telephone number at the NPD forensics lab?”

“Oh, please dear girl, I have everyone’s phone number.”

“Silly me. Of course you do. Abe has the three previous puzzles on file. Could you ask him to fax them over? And while you have him on the line, see if he’s authenticated the handwriting of the constructor. The last one was found in Jack Curry’s pocket.”

“Oooohhh . . . The Case of the Puzzling Corpse.”

“There’s no evidence he created it, however. And besides, you just received this.”

“A plant, then! I amend my offering to The Case of the Killer Creator.”

“Do you want me to solve the clues or gab?” Belle chuckled.

“Oh, solve, solve . . . resolve, absolve, dissolve . . . I will turn mum as a mummy. I need to curry favor with you, after all, Bellisima.”

“You’re incorrigible, Bartholomew.” Belle laughed again and went back to work. By the time she’d completed the puzzle the fax had arrived with a note reading, Handwriting as yet unconfirmed. Keep us posted. We’re here late today. Surprise. Surprise.

“Jack Curry . . .” Kerr uttered as he paced the room. “One