windowpanes were missing—victims of wind-borne debris. Belle peered inside at the chilly, vacant reception rooms. Again, a sense of ineffable sorrow swept over her.
She shook off the feeling and retrieved the folded crossword from her purse, searching for clues she might have missed or misconstrued. 7-Down: Actress admirer; 16-Down: Bribes. The answer to 39-Across—Why?—was: AN ENDGAME. What did it mean? Surely whoever had called her to this spot possessed some answers.
The door closest to the promontory was slightly ajar. Belle pushed, but couldn’t move it. She leaned her weight against it; the door reluctantly gave way, and she forced her way inside. Several chairs and tables littered the interior, which was overhung with a pall of dust and gritty sand. Cobwebs obscured many of the windows; nesting material from birds or rodents lay festering on the grimy sills.
Belle studied the floor; there didn’t seem to be any trace of previous footsteps. Briefly, she wondered if the space was safe to walk across, then began gingerly edging her way across the room. She’d been summoned to the inn, there had to be a message somewhere.
In a blind corridor between rooms, she heard the thud of feet on the porch. Her heart pounded within her chest; she felt her mouth go dry. She waited, only able to half see the area she was approaching; the one she’d left behind was now invisible—as was the building’s exterior. The footsteps continued, navigating the porch’s rotten flooring and piles of castaway branches and leaves. It became obvious that her unseen visitor was seeking an entrance.
Slowly, she turned and began retracing her steps. Fear caused her ears to ring; she was aware of staring without seeing. She clutched the crossword in her hand as if its presence could ensure her safe passage. Bizarrely, she felt as though she were entering some grade-school test for which she’d memorized all the answers. DEW DROP INN, she wanted to say, AT ELEVEN AM.
Suddenly a gust of wind billowed through the dust-filled air; Belle realized that the door she’d entered had been pushed wide open and closed.
She froze. She simply could not force herself to move. Then she heard a dog barking; it was very near. No human voice responded, and the animal continued yapping. Belle drew a breath and walked toward the entry.
“Hey . . .” It was the woman in the jogging clothes. She shifted forward on her toes as if Belle’s appearance had badly frightened her. Then she stared disbelieving at the puzzle in Belle’s hand.
Belle found her own glance descending to the crossword. She realized how stupid she looked—trespassing in a derelict building with a sheet of graph paper clenched in her fist.
“You’d better be careful that your dog doesn’t fall into one of those holes on the porch,” she said, attempting a nonchalant smile.
“I tied him up,” the woman said. She didn’t move, and didn’t smile. In fact, her body language seemed downright challenging.
“Are you . . . are you one of the owners of the building?” Belle asked.
The dog started another spate of barking, and Belle remembered her mission. COME ALONE, the crossword had warned, but here she was talking to some disagreeable female while her equally contentious pet announced to the world that the Dew Drop Inn was less than deserted. Belle walked past the woman and yanked open the door. Annoyance at herself and this unwanted visitor made her shoulders rigid.
“What are you doing in here?” the woman demanded.
“Looking around,” Belle answered without turning to face her. “That’s not a crime, is it? Besides, unless you’re an owner, you have no more right to be here than I do.” She looked at her watch. It was one o’clock. The person or persons attempting to contact her had obviously decided against it.
“Those word games are a big waste of time,” the woman announced to Belle’s retreating back.
“To each his own.” The answer was frosty; Belle added an equally irritable, “Your dog doesn’t seem too happy.”
“My dog’s fine.”
Belle didn’t answer. If the woman wanted to pick a fight, she’d have to look elsewhere.
“Don’t you worry about my dog!” she called out. “Animals have as much right to run around free as humans do. It’s people like you who make their lives miserable, not the folks who own them!”
Amid this tirade, Belle marched to her car, slid into the driver’s seat, and locked the doors. A subcontractor for the Polycrates Agency, she told herself. What a joke! If Genie and Jamaica are alive, I’ve probably