Belle was already ensconced in the far-window booth at Lawson’s Coffee Shop when Rosco opened the glass-paneled front door. His arrival was heralded by the noisy peal of a rusting tin bell attached to the upper hinges, an early-warning device left over from the 1950s when Lawson’s had been built. True to form, none of the aging waitresses—also relics of the poodle-skirt era—turned a mascaraed eyelash, although one shouted out a raucous: “She’s seated in the back, angel.”

“Thanks, Martha.” Rosco nodded at the speaker as he walked past the long, green Formica counter. Martha was as much an institution as the coffee shop. She never called customers by name, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know each and every one of them—and most likely their parents, too. Martha, with her defiantly flaxen beehive hairdo and rustling candy-pink uniform, was a font of information. She prided herself on keeping her eyes peeled.

“What happens next?” Belle asked while Rosco slid in beside her on the banquette. The motif, here, was also fifties flamingo pink, but the seats’ aging vinyl covers were cracked and the tabletop chipped and scarred. Regulars like Rosco and Belle wouldn’t have changed this homey ambience for all the tea in China, however. To them, Lawson’s was as important a landmark as Newcastle’s historic district or the resuscitated clipper-ship wharves. “Now that the inflatable’s been found?” Belle continued, then added, “I take it the discovery ensures that Al Lever is officially involved?”

But Rosco didn’t want to discuss the PD’s role yet. He knew Lever’s conclusion that the women were now “presumed dead” would be difficult for Belle to assimilate and accept. To buy time, Rosco asked to see the second crossword puzzle.

“I swear I’m not in any danger,” she said, placing it between them on the table’s scratchy surface. “This one was faxed—also anonymously—but I called the sender’s number. It’s that enormous new office-supply store, Papyrus, near the interstate . . . The woman who accepted the order is supposed to call me back when she returns from her lunch break . . . However, the exceedingly officious person who answered the phone said that supplying client information is a breach of privacy. In that case, I’ll simply go out there and weasel pertinent details from them . . .” Belle was on a roll; Rosco could feel kinetic energy bounce from her body; her skin smelled like gardenias and warm wool. He was sorely tempted to wrap his arm around her shoulder.

Instead, he said, “I don’t think that’s wise, Belle.”

Her monologue stopped mid-word; she stared in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t think you should go out to Papyrus.”

Belle continued staring.

“Look,” Rosco continued, “if these puzzles are the work of a sicko—something I strongly suspect—then you’ll be playing into his hands.”

“It’s a public place, Rosco . . . It’s no different than walking into Lawson’s—”

Rosco interrupted her. “In a case of arson, who do you think is usually the most noticeable person extinguishing the blaze? The perpetrator. The bigger the fire, the more obvious that person’s heroics. And those antics aren’t confined to arsonists . . . People of that type get their jollies from participating in the chaos they’ve created. It’s a giant ego trip . . . I’ll bet this kook is hanging around Papyrus right now waiting for you—which will only escalate an already problematic situation by encouraging his behavior.”

Belle continued studying his face. Rosco could see her weighing, then gradually accepting his theory. “Okay, so scratch Papyrus, but I still believe someone is trying to tell me something—something about Genie and Jamaica . . . Look at the clues, Rosco . . . Look at these answers.” Her fingers jabbed at the cryptic, making crosses where the Across and Down lines intersected.

“3-Down: THE LAPPING SHORE . . . See that running down the puzzle? And, PRACTICALLY DEAD at 6-Down? Isn’t that scary? No matter what you say—and it’s convincing, I have to admit—intuition tells me this isn’t the work of a crazy . . . Someone is trying to tell us that these women are in terrible danger.”

Martha sauntered over, armed with tall, laminated menus across which Lawson’s Coffee Shop was printed in cherry red. “Want to take a peek? Or do you two want the usual?”

Rosco and Belle’s heads swiveled toward her in unison. “The usual?”

“What you folks always order: grilled-cheese sandwiches, and a side of French toast with syrup, blueberry sauce, and whipped cream . . . coffee light for the lady, black for my man, here. . .” A smug smile wreathed Martha’s primrose-painted lips.

“Always? We always order that? I didn’t realize we’d become so predictable,” Belle murmured.

“Everyone is, angel. Not to worry . . .” Heavy-duty support garments creaked beneath Martha’s uniform while her left hand extricated a pencil from her lacquered hairdo. She poised the pencil above a pad marked Guest Check in faded lime-green lettering. “. . . So, what’ll it be while you two palaver about that missing actress and Tom Pepper’s hoity-toity wife?”

This time it was Rosco’s turn to look stunned. But Martha didn’t give him a chance to speak. “Why else would you lovebirds look so frazzled?” Then she marched off toward the kitchen, yelling: “Double cheddar melt and Froggers, extra crisp on the Froggers.”

Shy grins crept over Rosco and Belle’s faces. Involuntarily, they sat up straighter—and farther apart. Both toyed with their stainless-steel cutlery. Belle was the first to resume conversation, returning doggedly to her narrative as if Martha hadn’t said a word.

“Of course, there’s another nautical theme here, Rosco . . . 14-Across: St. Elmo’s Fire actress; 41-Across: Beam & L.O.A., e.g; 46-Across: Morro——, 1934 shipwreck; 35-Down: Lifeboat actor . . . And here . . . look at this! 26-Down: Mayday! Could anything be more plain? Mayday! From the French m’aider . . . The international call of distress! And what’s the answer? S.O.S.!”

Belle’s tone had increased in speed and fervor; her cheeks were flushed; turning to face Rosco, she almost glowed. “I know I’m right, Rosco. I just know it! . . . Wait, don’t answer yet. There’s more . . .”

Again, her fingers stabbed at the crossword puzzle. “See this? Starting at 19-Across? A series of three lines across that combine to form a quotation from Macbeth? Everyone in theater knows it’s unlucky to say the play’s name . . . It’s referred to as The Scottish Play instead . . . So, that’s a message in itself.”

“It’s no good, Belle,” Rosco finally said.

“You’ve got to hear me out, Rosco. This wasn’t constructed by some media-crazed weirdo. This is a warning. And it was sent to me, because I can discover the hidden meaning. ‘FALSE FACE MUST HIDE,’ she quoted, ‘WHAT FALSE HEART DOTH KNOW.’ ” She clasped her hands in impatience; her fingers were taut. “I even looked it up. Me! . . . And this one from Hamlet at 10-Down; it’s from the famous ‘mirror to nature’ speech: ‘. . . show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image’!”

“Belle. Please . . . listen to me . . .” Rosco slipped his hands around hers. “It’s no good because Lever has decided to shift the investigation’s focus. And with justifiable cause. I saw the dinghy. It has a mile-long gash . . . It’s totally deflated. It could never have supported human life. If those women were on it, they weren’t there for long . . .” Rosco took a beat while allowing Belle to process the information. “ ‘Missing—presumed dead’ is how Lever’s officially listing their disappearance . . . I’m sorry, Belle.”

Belle stared at the crossword puzzle. Rosco could see tears forming in her eyes. “But . . .” she said, “but . . .”

“And, whether you like to hear it or not, this puzzle—and the other one—are the work of a nutcase. A smart one, I grant you, but a lunatic nevertheless . . . And I am genuinely concerned about your proximity to such a person. Especially someone so obviously clever.”

Belle looked out the window. Across the street was the limestone, granite, and marble home of the Newcastle Herald, the Evening Crier’s rival newspaper. The building stood, noble and imposing, a paean to the turn-of-the-century publishing industry. The grassy area fronting the facade and the cars parked neatly at the curb were dwarfed by the Herald’s lofty demeanor.

“I want to publish this puzzle,” Belle said while still gazing at the street. “In my column. I want to invite the constructor to come forward and claim authorship.”

A clatter of dishes interrupted them. Soon the table was piled with cholesterol hell. Belle absentmindedly dabbed whipped cream on a slice of grilled-cheese sandwich, then ate it without seeming to notice.

“I really advise against that, Belle. You don’t want to flush this loon out into the open. With Lever’s official read, this thing will blow over, and Mr.—or Mrs.—Psycho will disappear. On the other hand, if you give this type of person additional attention, you risk further upsetting an imbalanced psyche. There’s also a matter of ‘transference’—turning you into this character’s weird obsession.”

Belle stabbed a piece of French toast dredged in blueberry sauce and maple syrup, then chewed with fierce concentration. “But if my theory is correct, Rosco, and the puzzles have genuine linkage to the case, then printing this crossword will send a message that we’re ready to talk.”