The Crossword Murder Read Free

foot of their spacious lawns and gardens altered. Long-dead Cranes, descending on Newcastle from their homes in heaven or in hell, would have found their former domiciles undefiled.
    Briephs left Liberty Hill and turned onto the harbor road, pushing his foot to the accelerator as the lanes widened and flattened. He flicked on the Jag’s CD player; the Pavarotti recording of Turandot rang out at full volume but Puccini’s arias of dominion and power were of no avail. Thompson Briephs didn’t feel capable of conquering anything.
    As he approached the posh Patriot Yacht Club and its marina, he slowed and came to a halt beside the security gate, affixing his customary, noncommittal smile.
    â€œGood afternoon, Mr. Briephs, sure is a hot one, ain’t it? Weatherman says New England’s breaking all kinds of records this year.” The guard’s face bore the grin of a peace-filled man. “You’re home early today.”
    â€œYou’re most observant, Daniel.” Briephs hedged. “I assumed I’d be more comfortable at home. Sea breezes are generally considered cooler than those on land.”
    â€œHope you’re right … No end in sight, neither … Not even a drop of rain, the paper says … My wife’s tomato plants … well, they’re a right mess, that’s all—”
    â€œDifficult times all around,” Briephs interrupted, then gunned the Jag again, passing scores of multimillion-dollar yachts bobbing serenely in their berths. At the far end of the parking area stood a row of garages disguised as the boat sheds of an earlier era. The door to Thompson’s garage opened in response to the click of a remote control wand, and he slipped inside. From there, he proceeded on foot down a walkway until he reached a floating dock and his new seventeen-foot Boston Whaler. Boarding, he let out a sigh that was partly relief and partly joy.
    Briephs steered the Whaler past the marina and into open water. Less than a mile from shore, he spotted the three rocky outcroppings that comprised his island home. He’d purchased the clumps of land fifteen years earlier, then hired the minimalist architect Isham Walker Dae to design a dwelling that would span the islands and serve as a showcase for Briephs’ one true passion—his extraordinary collection of Minoan antiquities.
    Dae’s creation was a labyrinthine structure worthy of King Minos and his fabled man-eating Minotaur. Room twisted upon room in a convoluted mazelike design while the signature bloodred and ebony of the ancient civilization imparted to the stuccoed walls, floor tiles, even the lighting fixtures and custom-crafted furniture, a primitive, unearthly feel that was at once erotic and spare. To say that the crossword editor reveled in this peculiar construction would be an understatement. It was his haven and refuge, his fortress and obsession. In homage to his trade and to the mythical Aeolus, a Greek demigod believed to be ruler of the winds, Briephs had christened the singular structure Windword Islands; no man or woman set foot on its shores without receiving a prior commandment from its dictatorial owner.
    â€œDaddy’s home,” Thompson murmured while the Whaler made land. “Your daddy’s come home to his baby.”

CHAPTER 3
    A FTER LASHING THE Whaler’s bowline to the dock at the western side of Windword Islands, Briephs followed a winding, wooden walkway, traversing rocks and tidal pools before reaching his home. He breathed another sigh of relief as he opened the door. Once inside, the summertime world of seagulls and beach scenes and hot-weather temper tantrums vanished. Briephs was embraced by his home’s cool and shadowy presence as if by a long-lost lover. He passed deeper and deeper into the secret corridors, smiling to himself as he traced pathways only he had memorized. Finally, he reached the kitchen, a mundane but necessary staple of modern