Free A Crossword to Die For by Nero Blanc Page A

cupped her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and whispered, “Do we have any stuff to eat?”
    â€œAs in a meal?” Rosco whispered back.
    â€œOr crackers and cheese? Actually, I’m famished …”
    Unfortunately, Sara overheard the last word in this dialogue. The words that rumbled through the receiver were loud enough for Rosco to hear. “You haven’t eaten, young lady! I knew it! And I assume that darling husband of yours didn’t properly stock the larder in anticipation of your return. Men are perfectly hopeless when it comes to the domestic arts. My late husband couldn’t have told you the difference between a pâte brisée and a pâté de fois gras … Unless he’d tasted both, of course—”
    â€œWe don’t have a larder, Sara,” Belle finally interjected.
    â€œYou’ll come over at once, my dear! Emma has concocted the most delightful tomato aspic—”
    â€œBut I just walked in the door.” Belle looked up in appeal to Rosco, who merely shook his head in bemused resignation.
    â€œYou two lovebirds can relinquish each other’s company for an hour, I’m sure.” The grand old lady’s voice continued to crackle through the phone. “Anyway, Rosco’s working on that despicable case, with those despicable people, and I’m sure he can’t be lollygagging around, making google eyes at you—”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œI won’t hear a word of objection, my dear child. I’m going to feed you, and that’s the end of the discussion. You may bring that man of yours along if you wish. If I know him at all—and I’m proud to say that I do—I assume he’s also in need of a decent repast …”
    Rosco mimed a laughing I’ve got work to do while Belle continued to cradle the phone. Her father was dead; her mother was dead; and Sara, generous and nurturing to a fault, suddenly presented a picture of the most ideal combination of parent/mentor/friend that anyone might wish.
    â€œI’ll be there in half an hour,” was Belle’s quiet response. “But I won’t bring Rosco. And Sara … thanks.”

CHAPTER 10
    Alone in the house, Rosco decided to postpone returning to his office long enough to carry the boxes shipped from Florida upstairs to the spare bedroom. If left to her own devices, his wife would probably begin sorting through the cartons’ contents in the front hall; and the house’s design scheme—such as it was—would suffer. Belle didn’t believe in expending energy on mundane things like tidiness and order. Clutter to her was freedom. The haphazard piles of books, the pillows tossed off the chair, were art.
    Kit decided to make herself useful, as well, although the puppy’s idea of work was to scurry after a squeaking ball that repeatedly leaped or rolled away. She gave herself wholly to the effort, anticipating hours spent at the chase; Rosco allotted twenty minutes to his activity before resuming the Leland-Marine case. These differing canine and human viewpoints were bound to collide.
    Which they did when Rosco lifted his foot from the second-to-last riser in preparation for carting the fourth cardboard box down the upstairs hall. Kit’s neon red ball was where the wooden landing should have been; and Rosco, lacking her nimble paws, was poorly equipped to balance atop it. He fell forward; the box slipped back, caroming down the steps with a number of mighty thuds while Kit, entranced with the new game, raced after the now-splitting carton, barking and trying to catch fragments of bank statements, tax returns, and other financial detritus in her mouth.
    â€œKit!” Rosco ordered. “Kit! No! Baaaad girl.”
    As Kit well knew, this admonition was absurd. Fun wasn’t fun without a little noise and discussion. And because she didn’t possess a tail, she wagged her entire body in glee while