The Crossword Murder Read Free Page A

life. In accordance with Briephs’ instructions and I. W. Dae’s fanciful invention, the room’s walls and ceiling had been drenched with a primordial red and so arranged that nothing electronic or functional intruded. The cabinets’ surfaces mimicked lath and stucco; the countertops had been carved of ancient oak; the sink was a rough-hewn bowl of stone, the faucet an amphora neck of curving bronze.
    Briephs opened a Sub-Zero refrigerator, whose double doors had been disguised with rows of trompe l’oeil funerary urns, pulled out a chilled bottle of Puligny Montrachet, poured a glassful into a goblet re-created from an ancient Attic design, took a long and healthy swig, then strolled another passage, ascending a staircase constructed of sea stones, and emerging at last in his bedroom overlooking the ocean. It was here that the real jewels of the editor’s collection of antiquities were kept: pieces so rare most were believed to be unique.
    â€œDaddy’s home,” he whispered again. He was feeling better—definitely better. “Your loving daddy’s home.” With a smug laugh, Thompson shucked off his clothes and entered the bathroom. Every inch of this retreat had been mirrored, allowing him to become a hundred nude men in the blink of an eye. He regarded the reflections fondly. Except for his silver hair, he was as fit as he’d been in his student days at Andover and Yale. “‘Mourn ye Graces and loves,’” Briephs quoted, then chuckled again. “Oh, I think no mourning today … We’ll welcome those lovely folk instead …”
    Thompson gazed at the mirrors a second more, then stepped into the shower, permitting the hot water to roll over his welcoming skin. In less than a minute, however, the peaceful mood was broken by the sound of a motorboat approaching the island.
    He switched off the water—soap still clinging to his body—and listened. It wasn’t unusual for tourists to let their vessels drift close to Windword for a look, but this visitor was clearly no stranger, nearing the island’s eastern shore. Briephs had a keen ear for outboard engines; whoever was maneuvering the boat was sailing from the west—and closing in quickly on the dock.
    He waited for the familiar sound of Fiberglas meeting wood piling. When the bump came, he returned to the shower and hurriedly rinsed away the remaining soap. Then he dressed in a burgundy-colored silk robe and descended to the living room. He held the wineglass like a scepter or a cudgel. Curiously, his other hand gripped his calfskin attaché case. Briephs didn’t stop to consider how ludicrous this object might appear as an accessory to a dressing gown.
    When he saw who his visitor was, his laugh rang out, half joyous and half hysterical. “Oh my God, you gave me such a scare! You mustn’t do that, pumpkin … arriving without phoning first … That’s really very naughty!”
    Briephs shook his finger playfully at the visitor, then threw himself on a banquette covered with tapestried pillows. “This hellish heat … The meteorologist at the Herald insists we’re not due for a break until late next week … if then …” He took a leisurely sip of wine, laughed again, then fell silent when he realized his guest didn’t share his mirth. The attaché case now rested on a pillow beside him. “Can I get you a glass of wine? Or something stronger? As you know, my liquor cabinet’s full of nasty spirits.”
    â€œThe money wasn’t there, Tommy-Boy.”
    Briephs sat erect. “Excuse me? … Money …?”
    â€œYou heard me.”
    â€œMoney …” Briephs repeated. “Money?” He toyed with his dressing gown’s lapels as if they were the ermine trim on a royal mantle. “What money?”
    Then a sudden revelation shot into his brain. “Incredible! So, you are the one … the