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collapsing veranda. Each dog’s nose was felt, and a prognosis given. Martha tucked Princess away in a special primrose-hued carrying case, climbed into her car, waved, and drove off; but the other canines—with the exception of Winston—were urged on with sticks and balls and Frisbees. The afternoon had deepened into a coppery dusk; the water spreading below the inn’s quirky and multiturreted facade was turning inky while the building itself, unlit and uninhabited, was black and sinister against the sky. It didn’t look like a place anyone would have ever wanted to spend the night.

Five
    A T eight-thirty the next morning, Belle was scheduled to deliver “Belle’s Nöel,” this year’s competition crossword to The Evening Crier for publication in that afternoon’s late edition—with the winner to be announced in the early edition on New Year’s Eve. As Al Lever and every other word-game fanatic in Newcastle knew, this was the “biggie” that “lexicographomaniacs,” or folks who were crazy about crosswords, looked forward to annually—much in the same way dieters rhapsodize about hot fudge sundaes with caramelized walnuts, real whipped cream, and a side of freshly baked super-chunk chocolate chip cookies.
    The prize the Crier offered the winning contestant was always top-notch, this year being “a deluxe dinner for two” at one of the city’s new, up-market restaurants, Porto. But the chance to outdo friends and neighbors was better than a physical reward. Like any competition, the rules were strict; completed puzzles had to be returned to Belle’s Crier office by December 26; entrants with perfect scores were then eligible for a random drawing which took place in the office of the editor-in-chief on the morning of December 31, and involved the participation of a local bigwig—who was subsequently photographed with the lucky winner. No one in Newcastle was the least bit puzzled about the amount of attention given to a simple word game.
    Before leaving home for her nominal downtown office—Belle’s actual work space was the converted rear porch of the house on Captain’s Walk—Rosco facetiously asked if she needed an armed guard to escort her, or handcuffs to attach her briefcase to her wrist during the short drive from their home to Newcastle’s bustling commercial district. She was in the midst of straightening up her desk—a pretty futile effort—when he made the glib suggestion.
    â€œHar har,” she responded, still shuffling through notes concerning potential word play, thematic choices, and lexical references, as well as a bunch of Post-its drawn with squiggles that only she could decipher. Sometimes her own less-than-legible handwriting made the task well-nigh impossible. Belle’s hands stopped moving, and she looked up at her husband. Her astute gray eyes studied him for a long minute. “You’re not planning to do anything shifty are you? To help Al … or anyone else?”
    Rosco raised two hands in the air. “Hey … hey … I wouldn’t swindle my own wife. Besides, I believe that’s called cheating. And cheating, as we all know—”
    â€œBecause,” Belle interrupted; she knew that her husband could be very devious indeed. “Because, everyone has to be treated fairly. The puzzle doesn’t appear until the Crier ’s second edition this evening. Then correct answers have to be received by—”
    â€œI didn’t say I was up to any hanky-panky, did I?” He placed his hands tenderly on her shoulders. “Speaking of which …”
    â€œYou’re not attempting to distract me, are you?” Belle continued to regard him. She folded her arms across her chest.
    â€œDistract? Me? Actually, now that you mention it … a little distraction might be in order.”
    She gave him an amused smile. “How about we have