Two down - By Nero Blanc Page 0,54

she awoke, she stared up into its hot, incriminating bulb. “Oh, darn,” she muttered, reaching automatically to turn off the switch, then suddenly recalling why she’d lit it. She swung her feet from the bed in a trice, threw on her robe, and dashed down the stairs. She had an overwhelming urge for the soothing comfort of a deviled egg—or maybe two.

Hideously, the refrigerator was empty. Belle stared woefully at the stark shelves, then straightened her shoulders and decided to walk to the mom-and-pop store at the bottom of the lane. Mayo, capers, and eggs were only a couple of minutes away. Relief was at hand.

She walked resolutely to the front door, opening it to assess her wardrobe choices on this autumnal Saturday morning. But her gaze was arrested by an envelope tucked halfway beneath the mat. She opened it with trembling hands. Inside was another crossword puzzle.

PUZZLE 4

20

Finished with the newest cryptic, Belle sat hunched at her desk as if expecting it to speak. In a blue terry robe that had seen happier days, her body shivered with cold, but she didn’t seem to notice. One slipper had fallen off, leaving her toes exposed and icy; again, she appeared unaware of physical discomfort. Her total concentration was dedicated to the crossword puzzle and the message it relayed. With clues indicating Who?, What?, Where?, When?, Why?, and How?, the constructor’s intent had become plain as day.

COME ALONE. Belle stared at the answer to 10-Down, then moved to 32-Across: TELL NO ONE. She remembered the threatening phone call she’d received just four short hours earlier. Someone obviously hadn’t wanted her involved in the Pepper case, but she now held in her hand proof that another person definitely needed her help. There was her name spelled out at 30-Down; the location was found at 55-Across: DEW DROP INN, a derelict resort spread across one hundred wild and scenic acres on the promontory known as Allyn’s Point an hour south of Newcastle.

Or, could it be, she wondered, that the puzzle was a means of luring her into danger? Invented by the very same person who had just phoned her the night before? The old inn’s grounds would be particularly empty of hikers or picnickers at this time of year. She’d make an easy target. Belle almost wished she owned a weapon, but then reminded herself that she didn’t know the first thing about guns. If she faced some hideous adversary, she’d probably discover she’d left the pistol’s safety on—and then her defenses would be reduced to throwing a two-pound piece of metal. She couldn’t throw any better than she could shoot.

Belle scanned the clues and answers again. When? was at 17-Across. The answer: AT ELEVEN AM. 33-Down spelled out ORION; 44-Down: FIRE; PERIL was the answer to 21-Across; SAVE at 13-Across. Genie and Jamaica were among the clues. Ensnare; Liar; Criminal; Revenge. Her attention returned to 32-Across: TELL NO ONE. The intent was plain; Rosco was not to be included in the excursion.

Belle stood and realized her slipper was missing and her foot asleep. She sagged toward the floor, grabbed her wayward scuff, then limped across the office while her toes revived. All the while her brain kept jumping to possible scenarios, solutions, and a raft of unanswered questions. One fact remained abundantly clear, however; she had been designated as liaison. If Genie and Jamaica were indeed alive, and if they were to be rescued, Belle would have to follow the crossword’s instructions implicitly.

She hurried out of her office, taking the stairs’ bare treads two at a time. She then rushed into her bedroom, threw on a pair of jeans, an Irish fisherman’s sweater she’d owned since her senior year in college, and white canvas Keds that had turned a permanent gray beige. In case she encountered a birder or late-season beachcomber, the costume was appropriately outdoorsy and nondescript.

Belle drove her car down the remaining loop of Captain’s Walk, turned right on Thirteenth Street, then left on Congress heading for the interstate south, the bridge crossing the river, and the long stretch of sparsely inhabited blacktop that led to Allyn’s Point. It was, she suddenly realized, a beautiful fall day.

The Dew Drop Inn had been built in the early twenties. Despite its pixielike name, it was a mammoth place and wholly incongruous with its primitive surroundings. For one thing, it was stuccoed with as much panache and abandon as a villa on the Riviera; for another thing, it was pink. Overwhelmingly so. The