Free A Crossworder's Delight by Nero Blanc Page B

as they stepped out of the Jeep. The twelve-year-old’s excited rush of words were aimed at Rosco, but his focus was wholly on Belle. “Mr. Morgan’s gone to Boston,” he stage-whispered in his best junior-spy voice, “which is really, really suspicious. Why would anyone go up there in all this snow? I bet he’s got the poem and is going to fence it! In fact, how do we know he’s really going to Boston? That’s only hearsay.” As if he’d just remembered his manners, he whipped off his hat and stuck out his hand, adding a self-important, “I’m E.T. Whitman. Your husband asked me to keep an eye on things.”
    â€œBelle, I’d like you to meet another language aficionado,” Rosco said with a broad smile.
    E.T. seemed to grow an inch or two, and his flaming red hair all but quivered with pride. “But if Mr. Morgan did go up there, it must have been for something totally nefarious.”
    Belle grinned as she shook E.T.’s hand. Nefarious was one of her favorite words, too. “I’ve heard a lot about you, E.T. Thanks for helping.” She didn’t have the heart to tell him that Mitchell had already explained that his brother had had a long-standing commitment to attend the city’s traditional and contemporary furniture exposition, but Rosco knew he needed to set the record straight.
    â€œMr. Morgan’s considering purchasing some new furnishings for the inn,” he said. “That’s why he drove to Boston today. He had an appointment with a design consultant. He’s due back tonight. Mr. Mitchell told us all about it.”
    The term crestfallen might have been invented for E.T.’s reaction to this news. His head and shoulders sagged; his smile drooped; even his springy hair looked deflated and flat. “Oh …” He looked at his feet. “Yeah … Mr. Morgan’s always saying there’s too much old stuff around …” Then E.T. seemed to recover a little of his feisty spirit. “We’ve had four and a half inches of snow since you left, Rosco, which makes almost seven. I measured it. None of the cars in the overnight lot have been moved or visited, and no one’s carried anything into or out of the inn. That goes for the decorators, too, although they’ve all gone home on account of the weather. I’ve been watching everyone, and I can promise you nobody had the poem.” He paused and scowled in concentration. “Okay, here’s my new theory: Mr. Morgan rips off the Longfellow, sells it in Boston, and then also collects the insurance money.… He waits until this weekend to grab it because it fits right in with his scheduled trip, and he knows the place is going to be full of potential culprits.” E.T. put special emphasis on the newest addition to his vocabulary. “And listen to this: he tells me to go out back and shovel the kitchen steps, and then he sneaks out the front door; probably with the frame all wrapped up and everything.… Because when I was done with the steps he was long gone. And footsteps in the snow show that he definitely visited the trunk of his car before driving off.”
    Rosco gave the boy a pat on the back. “It’s a theory, E.T., but I’m not certain it holds water. Mr. Morgan is just as worried about the theft as his brother.”
    E.T. frowned as if he wasn’t certain this were the case.
    â€œBesides,” Rosco continued, “people don’t generally steal from themselves … at least, not any I’ve found.” Then he added a conciliatory “On the other hand, Mr. Morgan’s absence will provide plenty of opportunity to question the guests. Mr. Mitchell’s gathering them in the parlor for me.”
    Belle looked at her watch. “Mitchell figured that most of the overnighters would be ready for some refreshments right about now.”
    â€œGood thinking,” E.T. agreed, giving Belle