Belle was gazing solemnly into a cookbook when the doorbell rang. “I’m coming!” she sang out, grabbing a tea towel as she ran through the stark and shadowy living room to fling open the door. The force of her gesture was so powerful the door’s edge nearly hit her in the head. “Well? What happened at the Coast Guard?”

On the porch, bathed in the navy-blue darkness of an autumn night, Rosco grinned despite his raucous encounter with Pepper. “I could tell you out here, or . . . you could ask me in.”

“Oh! In . . . Come on in.” She led the way toward the kitchen while Rosco followed close behind.

“You might consider another lamp, Belle . . . I’m like a moth, attracted to illumination.”

She turned back to survey the scene. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “This home-decorating business has me awfully confused. The choices seem so . . . so permanent.”

“I was only suggesting a lamp—”

“I know. But that’s the problem . . . In theory, a lamp should ‘complement’ a couch, which, in turn, ‘reflects’ a table which ‘matches’ a rug which ‘echoes’ the pictures on the wall . . . See what I mean? One wrong step, and you’ve got a design disaster on your hands; the fashion police are called in, and you’re forced to throw out everything and start from scratch with Lava lamps . . . Besides, I’ve been considering candles as a less demanding alternative . . .”

Rosco chuckled. “Candles don’t give off a heap of light.”

“But they’re very romantic . . . A World Lit Only by Fire . . .” Her voice was dreamy. Then, in typical Belle fashion, the conversation spun around 180 degrees. “Well, what happened with Pepper and Green Point? I’ve been on pins and needles ever since our phone conversation. I gather there’s no news on Genie and Jamaica?”

But Rosco wasn’t ready to discuss that subject yet; instead, he said, “I take it you’re quoting a line from a poem.” He moved beside her, and slid his hands around her waist.

“It’s a book title . . . William Manchester . . . A discourse on—”

Rosco’s kiss stopped her words. When they finally backed away from each other, Belle fondly gazed into his eyes. “You’re an anti-intellect, you know that? With a one-track mind.”

“Sometimes I lose control . . . So, it was a discourse on . . . ?” A quiet weariness had crept into his voice, but Belle didn’t yet hear it.

“I’m not going to tell you,” she answered as she entered the kitchen. “There’s wine in the fridge . . . Achaia, like we had on our first date . . . And dolmades . . . I drove clear across town to get them . . . The rest of the menu isn’t quite so reliable. . .” A self-deprecating grimace accompanied this statement. Then Belle returned to her original query. “So, tell me what the Coast Guard said.”

Rosco didn’t answer; instead, he studied a glass bowl in which a pound of raw, peeled shrimp was marinating in a thin, bluish liquid. Belle joined him, presenting the bottle of Achaia and a corkscrew. “Shrimp Pernod,” she announced. “But I substituted Ouzo—in your honor.”

“Ouzo . . . there’s an idea . . .” he said, failing to conjure up a more positive response. “Ouzo, instead of Pernod . . .”

“I figure they both have a licorice flavor . . .”

“Hey, the world loves experimentation . . . Blue shrimp.”

“Why not? Anyway, there are spinach timbales if the shrimp dish fails . . . I haven’t made them before, but I figure you can’t go wrong with spinach . . . I hope . . . Anyway, it’s green—and a food group . . . No, perhaps not . . . Darn. How does that food-pyramid-chart thing work? . . . Spinach must be on there somewhere—”

“Perhaps as a vegetable?”

“Very clever, Rosco. That part I know. But I think it also supplies calcium . . .”

“Maybe we should leave this to the experts, Belle.”

“I hope you’re not insinuating that I can’t cook anything except deviled eggs.” She smiled as she spoke.

Rosco laughed. “Me? Never.”

Belle raised amused eyebrows, then resumed her no-nonsense tone while arranging the dolmades on a stoneware plate. “So? What did the Coast Guard say?”

Again, Rosco hedged. “I thought you wanted to discuss your mysterious crossword puzzle . . . or some discourse on fire . . .”

“A World Lit Only by Fire,” Belle answered with a happy grin as Rosco poured the wine and handed her a glass. “It’s about the Middle Ages—”

“Well, here’s to the modern world,” he interrupted, “and a long vacation in Greece.”

“And here’s to someone who doesn’t willfully change the subject—one-track mind or not.” Belle laughed. “So? Tell me what that phone call entailed.”

Rosco put his glass on the counter. “The Coast Guard had Pepper in the lockup . . . at least their version of one.”

“What? You’re kidding!”

“No . . . it wasn’t a pretty scene. And things got worse when I drove him home . . .” Rosco described the situation at Green Point, then proceeded to the violent run-in with the reporters. “He really lost it, Belle . . . I couldn’t control him; and I don’t think he could control himself . . . He’s going to wind up slapped with a lawsuit if he’s not careful . . . There’s nothing these slander sheets like better.”

Belle listened to Rosco’s words while intently studying his face. “You’ve had a tough day,” she finally said, then changed tack with a worried: “Will the Coast Guard press charges, do you think?”

“I don’t imagine so. They’ve got better things to worry about . . . Why do you ask?”

“Well, I had a lot of time to think this afternoon. And I remembered Sara and her brother, Senator Crane, and how grateful they are for your work on the Briephs case . . . I’m sure the Coast Guard is being as diligent as possible, but if it were necessary to apply a little pressure to get quicker results—or well . . . Hal Crane is a U.S. senator after all . . .”

Rosco considered the suggestion. “I don’t know, Belle . . . Sara isn’t keen on Pepper, and I’m not certain she’d want to get involved if she knew his potential for volatile behavior.”

“He’s just worried about his wife,” Belle said. “Can you blame him?”

Rosco studied her compassionate face. “No, I can’t.”

While the rice steamed, Belle produced the crossword puzzle. “Shakespeare,” she insisted, slapping it down on the countertop. “That’s one of the through lines. . . another is a nautical theme. It’s obvious the constructor is linking the actress, Jamaica, and a boat . . . Look at 14-Across. ORION. It can’t get clearer than that.”

Rosco leaned over her shoulder to study the cryptic while she continued her guided tour of clues and answers.

“Don’t try anything funny, Rosco. This is serious . . . You’ll note that many of the Bard’s quotations are from Much Ado About Nothing.”

Rosco stared at the graph paper. “Where does it say that?”

“It doesn’t. I just happened to recognize the lines. I’ve always liked the play. I guess I relate to Beatrice. She’s too brainy for her own good . . . an intellectual snob.”

“You’re hardly a snob, Belle.”

“You didn’t know me in my younger days.” Then she shoved aside the crossword, yelping, “Oh jeez! The rice.”

A solid mass of glutinous white stuck tenaciously to the pot. Belle looked sorrowfully at it. “I’ll begin again,” she said gamely. “What’s an extra cup of rice? Anyway, to get back to the clues . . . Jamaica Nevisson did Much Ado a few years ago. I went up to Boston to see it. I was surprised how good she was in the role—and blond! Almost totally unrecognizable from her offstage appearance. Whoever constructed this puzzle has done his homework . . .”

Rosco retrieved the puzzle and ran his fingers over the letters. “What makes you think it’s a man?”

“A hunch . . . A strong hunch. Look at the Down column . . . Ship prefix; Naut. engine type; Mil. rank; Antiaircraft fire . . . Definitely guy stuff.”

Rosco looked hard at Belle. “I don’t want you trying to scare off any more prowlers,” he said. “There’s a serious sicko out there.” His expression was so grave, Belle’s grew pensive as well.

“Why do you say that?”

Rosco paused. “Your well-known involvement in the Briephs’ case, for starters. ‘Cryptics Queen Collars Killer.’ Remember that headline? One of many, I might add.”

Belle remained silent for a long minute. “Are you suggesting this crossword is merely a copycat situation? That it has nothing to do with the Orion?”

“Oh, it does, Belle. It definitely does. And that’s exactly what makes it frightening. Someone is playing a really perverted game. I saw those reporters gathered at Pepper’s estate . . . They’re giving constant updates, satellite feeds across the nation . . . which only increases a weirdo’s desire to be involved in the action . . . Promise me you’ll listen to that little voice that warns you not to personally chase away strangers?”

Belle frowned but didn’t speak.

“Please, Belle. I want you to take this seriously. Whoever brought this puzzle to your house could well be a borderline crazy. And crazies are fond of armaments.”

Belle walked over to the shrimp dish, absentmindedly dumping the Ouzo marinade down the sink. When she realized what she’d done, she let out a yelp of dismay. “Oh, drat! . . . Drat! I guess we’ll have to sauté the shrimp instead, what do you think?”

Rosco smiled gently. Dining on Belle’s cuisine was always unpredictable. “Sounds good to me.”

“Garlic, do you think?” she asked.

Rosco’s smile grew. “You can’t go wrong with garlic.”

While Rosco peeled and chopped garlic Belle tackled the necessary onion, celery, and parsley for the “original recipe.” As she sliced and diced, she returned to her premise with a thoughtful: “I disagree with you, Rosco. I think this crossword contains a special message for me—something that will help unravel the mystery of the Orion’s fire . . . This is how the Briephs case was solved.”

Rosco turned to face her. “And that’s exactly why I’m convinced that the puzzle is the work of a deranged mind . . . Fame can be a dangerous thing Belle. A very dangerous thing.”