Corpus de Crossword by Nero Blanc

course … But late fall … this time of year when they’d turn the soil over … or early spring before the new crops are put in … you could have had a field day out there—”
    â€œWhere are the Quigleys now?”
    â€œOld Mrs. Quigley died eight or nine years ago; her husband ended up in an old age home here in Newcastle somewhere. I heard he’d died, too, although he was never buried in the graveyard next to his wife and I never read an obituary anywhere. Their house has been vacant for five years, easy.”
    â€œNo heirs?”
    â€œNope. No kids. No relatives. Kind of a shame … But they were private people, the Quigleys. Not mean, necessarily, but not friendly either. You didn’t want to be caught cutting across their land to get into town.” Lonnie allowed himself a small laugh. “Especially if you were a youngster.”
    Lever folded his arms across his chest, then sat on the stainless steel stool. He studied the skeleton for a long moment and finally said, “What’s the feeling about this in Taneysville, Lonnie? I guess folks must be pretty upset?”
    â€œI’d say curious is a better term, Lieutenant … We’ve got rumors, sure … Indian burial mound, that kind of thing … But what Abe’s sayin’ makes sense: Someone unknown in the community could’ve dumped a body, and then skedaddled out of there … I guess the next story to circulate is that we’ve found Jimmy Hoffa.” Tucker attempted another brief chuckle. “And that sure wouldn’t sit well in Taneysville. People out home don’t like a lot of fuss—or press.”
    â€œTrust me,” Abe said with a thin smile, “this lady’s not Mr. Hoffa.”
    Lever stood. “There’s not much I can do on my end until you give me a place to start, Abe. And I’ll admit I’ve got more pressing business on my plate right now than trying to track down a mystery murderer of an unknown woman … If you can narrow down the year she died, I’ll get someone started on the missing persons records … Until then, I’m afraid this is going to get ‘cold case’ classification.”

CHAPTER 11
    â€œPolycrates Agency.” Rosco stared out the window of his downtown office as he spoke into the phone. The afternoon had turned suddenly squally and grim, the sky a leaden color that presaged a storm rapidly moving in from the sea. He hoped Belle hadn’t taken advantage of the day’s earlier sunny weather to bring Kit out to Munnatawket Beach. If she had, it looked as if she and the puppy would be soaked through in about five minutes’ time. For the briefest of seconds he considered trying to phone her, then caught himself and shook his head. Belle didn’t appreciate cautionary advice any more than he did. In fact, she probably liked it less. “Hello?” he repeated into the telephone, “Polycrates Agency. May I help you.”
    â€œYes … I’m trying to reach Mr. Polycrates.” It was a female voice, young and vacillating between insecurity and pushiness.
    â€œThis is Rosco Polycrates. May I help you?”
    â€œUm … yes … I’m calling on behalf of Milton Hoffmeyer the Third, the candidate for—”
    Rosco interrupted what he assumed was a solicitation job, scaring up contributions for Hoffmeyer’s congressional bid. It seemed a little late in the game to Rosco—Hoffmeyer was holding a nice lead in the polls. “This is an office you’ve reached. A work number?”
    The woman at the other end of the line uttered a sharp, “I realize that—”
    â€œWell, phone solicitations to office numbers aren’t—”
    â€œPhone sales?” The tone was shocked, almost outraged. “I’m not engaged in phones sales.”
    Rosco sighed; he leaned back in his swiveling chair, letting his eyes sweep across his office: