Read Online Corpus de Crossword by Nero Blanc - Free Book Online

adjustments in attack, retrieved the ball, and dropped it at Belle’s feet. “I think we’ll wait for Rosco to get back from work, Kitty. I’m not in the mood to replace windows.”
    A quick bark of protest.
    Belle shook her head no. She then wrapped her sweater tighter against the cool air, breathed in the refreshing scent of sea air, lifted her face to the golden New England sun, shut her eyes, and whispered: “I’m so lucky. I’m so, so lucky …”
    Then she and Kit walked or romped—depending on foot shape and energy level—back inside.
    Belle preferred to construct the Crier ’s daily cryptics at home, where she was surrounded by her collection of reference material: the O.E.D., of course, but also two antiquated—but much beloved—sets of Encyclopædia Britannica, a number of foreign language dictionaries, a book of song titles, the plays and sonnets of William Shakespeare, and another shelf devoted entirely to poetry. The latter wasn’t necessarily part of her current craft; Belle had once intended to become a poet. It was after exposure to the compendia now lined up in her home office that she’d decided her poems would never measure up. Better to admire from afar.
    She and Kit walked into the room, a converted rear porch that had been crossword-themed to within an inch of its life. Black and white squares (scuffed by puppy claw marks) were painted on the floor, the curtains (slightly askew) mirrored the motif, the canvas covers of the two deck chairs were white and black—to say nothing of the in-the-works puzzles that covered the desk, the empty plate with a crossword design, ditto a calendar, a notepad, a lamp shade, a coffee mug. Belle took such surroundings for granted; newcomers were startled, to say the least.
    Reflexively, Belle reached her hand into a tall white jar containing licorice sticks (second to deviled eggs as her favorite comestible) and began munching while dialing the phone with her free hand. She plopped herself down on her desk chair, tapped her feet, then cradled the phone against her shoulder, stroked Kit’s ears, kept nibbling (Belle was a consummate multitasker), and when the answering machine at the other end of the connection picked up with a brisk male: “Polycrates Agency. Leave a message and we’ll get back to you,” she mumbled a mouth-filled:
    â€œHi, Rosco, it’s me … Just calling to say I love you heaps … Kit, too … Actually, she’s not saying anything. But she looks as if she could … Well, that’s it … See you later … Oh, it’s Belle …”
    She slid the phone back into place. “Darn, Kitty … I guess I’ll have to get serious about work today … Your dad obviously is …” She pulled the mystery crossword from the envelope again and studied it for a long moment, squinting at the clues and silently mouthing a couple of the more obvious answers. Then she sat up straight, muttered a surprised: “Oh, I get it …” and almost simultaneously reached for the phone.
    This time the voice at the other end was not recorded. “Briephs residence.”
    â€œHi, Emma. It’s Belle. Is her nibs around?”
    Only Belle—and maybe Rosco—could have gotten away with this irreverent tone when referring to Newcastle’s grand dame, the illustrious (some might say imperious) Sara Crane Briephs.
    â€œIndeed she is, Miss Belle.” Emma was as old-fashioned as her starched maid’s uniform. “In fact, Madam was just about to phone you … She wondered if you’d do her the favor of lunching with her today.”
    Belle grinned. “You bet. Tell her I’ve got something to show her.”
    â€œWe’re having deviled eggs,” was Emma’s calm reply.
    â€œYou certainly know how to weasel your way into my good graces.” Belle looked at her watch. “The usual