BARTHOLOMEW KERR’S “BIZ-Y BUZZ”:

CRYPTIC NEWS FROM QUEEN B

“It’s me.” The male voice on the phone slurred the words drunkenly, but they didn’t lose their tension or their fear.

“Where are you?” the woman demanded.

“Where I’m supposed to be,” he answered. She could hear a dangerous measure of defeat enter his tone. She was tempted to carry the phone to the window, yank wide the curtains, throw open the sash, and bring a breath of welcome fresh air into the claustrophobic room, but she remained where she was: frozen in inactivity beside the rumpled double bed.

“You saw the newspaper?” she asked. “The gossip column?”

The response was a bitter: “Oh, I’ve seen more than that . . . There’s a crossword puzzle in the same edition . . . a snotty-nosed, incriminating word game only an idiot could ignore . . . This Graham chick’s a wild card I never bargained for.”

“What are we going to do?”

Again, his reply was bitter. “It’s your call, babe . . . I’ve been dancing on live coals over here . . . I’m about played out.” He laughed; the sound was hollow and mean.

“You creep,” she hissed, then thought, but didn’t say: You can’t fall apart on me now! The pause while her brain examined and reexamined the facts was deadening; at the far end of the receiver, the hiatus seemed endless. “How much does this Graham broad know?” she finally asked.

“No telling, toots . . .”

Rage exploded from her. “Don’t you care about this situation at all?”

His response was equally infuriated. “You know damn well I do!”

“Well, don’t give up on me, then!” Again, the woman thought for several long moments. “We’ve got to scare off little Miss Annabella Graham. Make her retract whatever comments she supplied . . . make her vanish. She’s a loose cannon.”

“And how do you propose doing that?”

“Leave it to me,” she answered. “Cherchez la femme . . . , that’s French, in case you didn’t know.”

“Hey, you’re a surprise a minute.”

Belle’s phone rang at the grotesque hour of three A.M. She fumbled for it in her sleep, first upbraiding herself for oversleeping—she imagined it was daytime, then glanced with half-closed eyes at the alarm clock’s illuminated face. Her next sensation was worry—something terrible must have happened to Rosco! Her third was irritation—this was clearly a misdialed number. When she answered the phone, it was with a cross “yes?”

“Belle Graham?”

“Speaking.”

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Belle almost said no—such is the conditioning of the human spirit; no one is supposed to be too sleepy or unconscious to make a full and intelligent response. Instead, she answered a disbelieving, “It’s three in the morning!”

“I did wake you, then . . .”

Belle sat up straighter in bed, punching her pillow into a cushion behind her back. She realized she had no idea who her caller was, nor could she identify whether the person were male or female. The accent was equally impossible to place. It could have been South African; it could have been northern English; it could have been German or Dutch with a British education. Or it could have been plain, old American pretending it was something more exotic. “Who is this?”

“Let’s just say someone concerned with your well-being.”

“Then perhaps you should have let me sleep.”

The person laughed, a malevolent sound that caused Belle to reach for the lamp on the nightstand. But when the room was bathed in light, she felt no more secure.

“Good try, Belle, but not, I’m afraid, appropriate under the circumstances. Strong-willed women like you can be your own worst enemies. Do you understand my meaning?”

“Who is this?” Belle repeated.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” Again, the malign laugh. “Now, let’s have a little chat about the Pepper case.”

Belle was tempted to lie, and protest ignorance, but suddenly realized a phone call like this was precisely what she’d hoped to instigate. Her tone changed; she became conciliatory and chatty. “Are you calling about the anonymous crossword puzzle I published?” she asked.

“That—and the gossip column.”

“Are you the constructor?”

“What?”

“Are you the—” A warning whistle rang in Belle’s brain. The caller didn’t know the term for a crossword creator was “constructor.” “Who is this?” she demanded for the third time.

“Let’s say that I am not your friend . . . Let’s say, we are not your friends.”

In the golden lamplight, Belle’s gray eyes grew huge and agate-colored. She didn’t speak.

“And let’s further add that we want you to walk away from this Pepper business . . . that we strongly advise you to forget every detail . . . make like it didn’t happen. Get it, Belle?”

Belle nodded to her empty bedroom.

“Because otherwise you might vanish like those two dumb broads. Understand?”

“Where are they?” Belle asked. “Do you know? . . . You do, don’t you?”

“Cut the chat, sweetie. Those babes are no concern of yours.”

Belle realized that the caller’s vocal quality had taken on an obviously masculine tone. “I could help you, sir . . . if you’d let me . . . take a message to Mr. Pepper perhaps—”

The laugh at the other end of the receiver was piercing. “Bodyguard city!” the voice scoffed. “And then, you and who else would be in on this gig? . . . No, I’m telling you to butt out, honey. And I mean now!”

Belle was silent, playing for time. “You won’t harm them, will you? . . . Genie and Jamaica, I mean?” she finally asked.

“That depends on you, little lady. You walk away, those dames may see the light of day . . . You keep sticking your nose in this mess, you’re gonna find yourself stuck in one big tragedy!” Then the phone went dead; the caller had gone.

“Tragedy,” Belle repeated. “Tragedy.” Comedy. . . tragedy . . . Shakespeare . . . Was it possible the caller was connected to the puzzles, after all? But if not, who was he? And why did he call? She fell asleep pondering the questions.

The bedside lamp burned through the rest of her fitful night. When 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.