Two Down by Nero Blanc

it . . .”
    Charlie’s laughter was infectious; another patron joined in to tease Fogram. “Tell me another one, Vic. I’ll bet you old fogies have them cuties stashed away for a rainy day.”
    Vic’s simian face suddenly flushed; he spun toward the man in anger. “I’m telling you I didn’t see those broads. And I’ll tell you another thing. If I’d known it was Tom Pepper’s wife who’d chartered that boat, I would have done just like Baltimore here said.” He pointed at Rosco. “Except I would’ve gone one better. I wouldn’t’ve just left that wreck out there . . . I would have blown it clear out of the water!”

8
    O n Wednesday morning, Belle stood in a sunny window of the converted rear porch that served as her home office. Her eyes drifted across the small patch of greenery that composed her garden. Broken twigs and branches—the detritus of Monday night’s storm—made the area look as though giants had been playing pick-up sticks and become bored with the game. Sparrows hopped exuberantly among the wreckage, discovering tasty new sources of sustenance, but Belle shuddered as if chilled. The sunlight, the lingering green of the grass, the gilding of the autumnal leaves did nothing to dispel an ominous sense of doom.
    Her brow furrowed and her wide eyes narrowed. She’d felt the same palpable fear ever since her conversation with Rosco the evening before. Something was amiss, and it wasn’t simply poor nautical “procedure,” or an accident that could have befallen any unlucky sailor. Without intending to, her mind conjured a litany of maritimedisasters: shipwrecks, collisions, winter gales, freak waves. Why didn’t Genie and Jamaica use that cell phone? her brain demanded. Where could the inflatable tender have gone? Why disengage the locator beacon?
    Belle sighed aloud and returned to her desk—a hodgepodge of graph paper, open dictionaries, empty coffee mugs, and one conspicuously denuded platter upon which three deviled eggs had recently rested. The plate had a crossword design—as did the mugs, and a seriously tilting lamp shade. In fact, the entire room was a symphony—perhaps, a cacophony—of black and white: curtain fabric with bold, black letters on a white ground, two deck chairs in white-and-black canvas, a wood floor painted to resemble a crossword grid. Belle had lived with this unusual decor so long, she assumed it was normal. Besides, as she liked to boast, her bathroom was worse; there, the cryptics theme had run seriously amok: black-and-white ceramic tiles running up, down, and across.
    Belle stared at the empty plate, muttered a quiet, “Darn. I don’t remember finishing them,” then opened her “bible,” the Oxford English Dictionary, her much-thumbed O.E.D. She’d been attempting to create a crossword on a garden theme—thus her stroll to the window—but her fascination with botany rivaled her love of cooking. If it was green and survived without human care, a plant was her friend. If it required nurturing, it would need another home.
    Suddenly she glanced up. She had a horrible sense of being watched by sinister eyes. She looked through the windows. No one. Captain’s Walk with its row of tidy homes and quaint, secluded gardens was as silent and peaceable as ever. She turned toward the door leading into the near-naked living room. Nothing. No sound. No stir of air. Belle’s eyes spun over the shelves of research books: the Larousse, Harrap’s Italian Dictionary, Roget’sInternational Thesaurus, the atlas, her treasured Encyclopaedia Britannica —the famous eleventh edition. The books stared dumbly back.
    She returned to her crossword, a work combining horticulture and women’s names. Whither Flora ? was the puzzle’s name. Black-eyed SUSAN, she scribbled on a pad, LADY’S slipper, VENUS flytrap, Queen ANNE’S lace, Christmas ROSE. Belle’s mind began making double and triple connections, then her head jerked up again. She was certain someone was