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a baby duck’s down. It was a striking shade, as bright as a halo; from the haphazard way it was pushed behind her ears, Rosco guessed she’d spent a good deal of her life trying to convince the world she wasn’t just a pretty face. But it was her smile he liked best. It was honest and happy; it made him want to grin in return.
    â€œWhy don’t we talk in my office?” she said as she led him through the house. “If I seem pushy, don’t take it personally. I’m in the middle of lunch, and running late with a deadline.”
    â€œI can come back, if there’s a better time.”
    â€œThere’s never a better time, I’m sorry to say. I’m one of those people who schedule an hour for a job that takes three—and never learn my lesson. Never. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you when to leave.”
    The interior of the house was as fastidiously restored as the exterior; even the furnishings were appropriate to the period: a subtle blend of Queen Anne interspersed with more rustic pieces of Shaker design. Nothing was out of place—not a pewter pitcher, not a needlework footstool or bentwood box; Rosco began to feel as if he’d stumbled into a museum. Out of politeness, he commented, “You’ve done a great job here.”
    â€œOh, it’s all my husband’s work. Garet was one of the vanguard in the Captain’s Walk restoration. He bought the house seven years ago. I waited for him to finish fussing with rattail hinges, brass door latches, fabric swatches and paint chips before I married him.” She paused and looked at the room as if assessing it with new eyes. “I guess you’re right, though … The place is picture perfect.” A wistfulness tinged the words, but was quickly expunged by the breeziness of her next comment. “I’ve never been adept at home decor. Scratch that statement … I’m truly terrible at interior design.”
    They stepped into her office with a timing that seemed to punctuate the remark. A small rear porch had been enclosed and transformed into a work space. It was an absolute disaster: papers strewn everywhere, on the desk, the window seat, the radiator cover and nearly every inch of the floor; what little space remained was crammed with books—French, German, Italian, Spanish and Latin dictionaries plus an enormous world atlas, an Encyclopaedia Britannica and an O.E.D .
    Resting on the sole piece of unused furniture—a canvas deck chair—was a black-and-white dinner plate containing a dozen deviled eggs. Rosco looked at the plate, gradually realizing the design employed a crossword puzzle grid. Then he noticed the curtains followed the same motif: bold black letters marching up and down a white ground. Two empty coffee mugs sat on top of the atlas; they also sported a crossword theme—as did a lampshade tilted crookedly above the mugs. As Rosco continued to study the room, he realized the entire place was a symphony of black and white; even the cluttered floor had been painted to resemble a puzzle grid.
    â€œYou seem to take your work seriously,” he said.
    â€œThey’re mostly gifts,” was the slightly embarrassed response. “You should see my bathroom … towels, shower curtain, even some of the tiles … Garet claims it’s hideous … Have a seat, Mr. Polycrates—Wait. I’ll take the eggs …” The crossword dinner plate was transferred to a prominent place on the desktop—beside a date book emblazoned with a word game. “Are you hungry?”
    â€œI don’t think so, thanks.”
    Annabella Graham sat at her desk while Rosco took the canvas deck chair. Sure enough, the fabric was black and the wood supports a shiny white.
    â€œDo people actually call you Rosco?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThat’s a slang term for pistol, you know. Spelled R-O-S-C-O-E. I use it in my puzzle occasionally. Were you born with