Free A Crossworder's Gift by Nero Blanc

crossword. “So, Mr. Verbeux’s two offspring—the sisters and their daughters—are supposed to find some ancient riverbank, and patch it up with new clay? That doesn’t sound like much of an apology—”
    â€œBank,” Belle almost shouted. “You’re brilliant, Rosco! Old bank …” She stared at Pamela, whose eyes had grown enormous:
    â€œLa Vieille Banque de Montréal —”
    â€œWhere it’s conceivable,” Belle continued, “that a patron might use a key which in French is clef pronounced ‘CLAY.’”
    â€œTo open a safe-deposit box?” Rosco demanded. “I admit it’s an intriguing story, but …”
    Pamela’s shoulders slumped dispiritedly. “And which Vieille Banque de Montréal? There must be twenty branches within the city limits alone … Sorry, Belle. Thank you for spinning this lovely fairy tale, but I’m afraid that’s all it is.” She sighed. “Maybe it’s simply another case of my grandfather’s meanness. Give hope, and then dash it.”
    But Belle, once convinced, was stubbornness itself. “Let’s go back to the first line of the Poetic Justice haiku thing … We must have missed something … REGRET … REPENT … synonyms: bewail, mourn, rue … rue , as in street! There’s your clue! The bank’s on—”
    â€œConfounded Street?” Rosco demanded.
    Belle gave him a temperamental glance, then turned to Pamela. “Do you have a phone book that lists the bank’s branch offices? We should look for one in a place where—”
    â€œWhere everything’s confused and blurred,” Rosco said; then shrugged. “It’s all French to me.”
    â€œRosco!”
    â€œI’m just trying to help—”
    â€œNo, you’re not—”
    But Pamela interrupted. “Here,” she announced. “There’s a bank on the rue de Bluery. ”
    Belle’s mouth fell open. “Blurry … that’s what happened to the words in your installation—”
    â€œI still don’t—” Rosco started, but Belle silenced him with an impassioned:
    â€œThe old man was probably heartsick at cutting his children out of his will. That makes sense, doesn’t it? More so than simply being a self-serving old miser who disowned his true heirs … But maybe he couldn’t change the official document, Rosco … Maybe his then wife or her sons had some means of preventing him from making the necessary …” The theory vanished as Belle began to attack a more immediate conundrum. “What we need is a FRESH clef —key … Green, do you think, Pamela? It can’t mean ‘new,’ because your grandfather …?”
    Pamela shook her head, a small smile growing on her lips. “FRESH translates to frais … but fraise means a ‘strawberry.’ I found a number of odd-looking large and small keys among Maxime’s puzzles. Helene tossed them out in a fit of pique when none proved serviceable, but I kept the smallest. It has a charming mark of a berry.”
    T HE cousins, with Rosco and Belle, stood in the venerable vault of the equally venerable banking institution situated on the rue de Bluery; aiding them, however, was not a remnant from the city’s past but a young man in a new and ultramodern suit. He looked no more than eighteen; and his clothing appeared to have just come off the rack at some impossibly hip and trendy store. “One of the old ‘strawberry’ keys,” he mused with a lofty smile. “I didn’t realize they were still in private hands.” He regarded the bank of vaults, searching for the corresponding number.
    â€œBut wouldn’t we—or our mothers—have been contacted when the box’s lessee died?” Helene ventured.
    The “boy” scowled as he drew himself and his shiny black suit