Until Hope Whispers: Crossroads of America

By Valerie Banfield

March 1924. Mattie Duncan has a word for every occasion and a cryptic clue to define each one, but when she is accused of a crime that carries a severe punishment, the situation leaves the crossword puzzle creator D-U-M-B-S-T-R-U-C-K, ten letters; astonishingly silent.

 

Hugh Duncan wrestles with an unreasonable work assignment that keeps him from investigating his sister's legal woes. He can't afford to hire an attorney, but he'll cough up the dough and sacrifice some shut-eye until he wrings the truth out of the eyewitness or tracks down the guilty party.

 

Olive Thayer's daughter claims her mother is dead, but the living, breathing widow just landed a job. The spine-chilling incident that led her to the Indiana Woman's Prison makes her wonder if she'd be better off without the room and board. The way she sees it, the differences between being down on her luck and living a nightmare are the locks and keys that separate the two.

 

When trouble leaves no room for escape, what's a body to do?

 

Crossroads of America selections are stand-alone novels, each with unique characters and story lines. This novel is 354 pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valerie Banfield
• Release date: Jun 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201969066

Book preview

Until Hope Whispers

~

Crossroads of America

~

Valerie Banfield

Copyright © 2022 by Valerie Banfield

ISBN: 979-8-8313-7488-9

Cover postcard: The Indiana Trust Company building at Virginia Avenue and Pennsylvania Street, Indianapolis, Indiana, circa 1920. To the left of the bank building is the Pembroke Arcade’s arched entryway and cupola. Cover portraits, Depositphotos.

Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

This book is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, entities, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements are the product of the author’s imagination.

The Days Gone By

O the days gone by! O the days gone by!

The apples in the orchard, and the pathway through the rye;

The chirrup of the robin, and the whistle of the quail

As he piped across the meadows sweet as any nightingale;

When the bloom was on the clover, and the blue was in the sky,

And my happy heart brimmed over in the days gone by.

In the days gone by, when my naked feet were tripped

By the honey-suckle’s tangles where the water-lilies dipped,

And the ripples of the river lipped the moss along the brink

Where the placid-eyed and lazy-footed cattle came to drink,

And the tilting snipe stood fearless of the truant’s wayward cry

And the splashing of the swimmer, in the days gone by.

O the days gone by! O the days gone by!

The music of the laughing lip, the luster of the eye;

The childish faith in fairies, and Aladdin’s magic ring-

The simple, soul-reposing, glad belief in everything,-

When life was like a story, holding neither sob nor sigh,

In the golden olden glory of the days gone by.

James Whitcomb Riley

Chapter 1

March 1924

Duncan, get in here!

Warren Gardner’s voice could scratch the pitch off a building’s roof. When he summoned an employee to his desk, his tone accelerated into the realm of stone blasting. Hugh forced himself out of his chair and adjusted his bowtie. He brushed paper dust off his lapel, providing a clean slate for whatever it was that Mr. Gardner might hurl at him.

Ross Conrad, who sat opposite Hugh, used his fingertip to mark his place in the manuscript spread across his desk and offered an empathetic grimace as Hugh strode to the senior editor’s office.

Hugh rapped on the doorframe. You wanted to see me?

Mr. Gardner raked an unruly hank of dark brown hair out of his eyes and gestured for Hugh to enter. His uncluttered desk was a stark contrast to the piles of paper that lined the perimeter of the room. Each manuscript represented a submission by a hopeful writer, some of whom may have been waiting for a reply since the turn of the century. That was a rude exaggeration, but a number of them probably predated the Great War.

Sit.

Hugh picked up the stack of documents sitting on a nearby chair and held the goods in his lap. It took willpower to keep from fanning the top sheet to clear the air.

Mr. Gardner’s tense forehead always resembled a furrowed field, but today a surly scowl bolstered his unpleasant mug. He chomped down on his cigar, forcing smoke out the side of his mouth. How many crossword puzzles can you compose in a day?

Sir?

It’s not a hard question, son. How long does it take to compile one?

Hugh pinched his brow, but quickly smoothed the skin again. He wasn’t a prideful man, but he’d mind his expression so as not to acquire the sort of features etched into Mr. Gardner’s face.

I’ve no idea. Nor did Hugh have any desire to learn the answer.

Now, listen here, Duncan. The last proofreader who sat at your desk proved to be more dysfunctional than adept, and your name stood out among the applicants who wanted to replace him.

Not the skills listed on his curriculum vitae, not his reputation, but his name. What did Duncan have to do with standing out?

Don’t look so puzzled. The tips of Mr. Gardner’s narrow mustache charged upwards as he gloated at his clever inclusion of the word that seemed to encapsulate the matter at hand. I need someone who understands the English language. Someone with a vast and intimate knowledge of words—scads of words.

Trepidation plopped onto Hugh’s head and poured down his form in the same way a washerwoman drenches an unwary pedestrian when she empties a pail of water out a two-story window. He hadn’t claimed to be a compiler of those pastimes, neither had they broached the subject during his interview.

Hugh’s repertoire did not include a card player’s stony façade. Mr. Gardner waved off his wary response. You wanted to move up in the world, to become a vital cog in the machinery that promotes reading and comprehension.

Hugh loosened his bite until he could move his tongue again. I said as much, sir, but what does that have to do with puzzles?

I will elaborate when you need to know the answer to that question, but the obvious response is that in the process of completing a crossword puzzle, people improve their vocabularies. That, in itself, aligns with your lofty goals.

True enough. That imaginary dousing delivered by the washerwoman was soaking his clothing and dripping into his shoes.

Based on your previous employment at the newspaper and the weekly crossword that bore your name, I selected you over the other candidates. I believe that it takes a talented wordsmith to unearth and overlap a collection of words in the style of a crossword, and it also calls for an equally gifted individual who can hint at the correct entry based on an abbreviated clue.

Heavens to Betsy, Hugh owed his employment to a fad. It wasn’t the stale cigar smoke nor the current fumes wafting through the room that made him wheeze, but the recognition that life often turned in unexpected directions. This particular ride seemed to be leading downhill. Fast.

Mr. Gardner shoved his chair away from his desk and stood. It’s Friday, and it’s late. Let’s do this. Over the weekend, draw up a couple of puzzles. On Monday, we’ll continue our chat.

You want me to create a crossword puzzle?

Or two.

Sir, may I—

No need to thank me yet, Duncan. I could hire someone else and give him the same opportunity as I’m handing to you, but I’m certain that you are a living version of Roget’s Thesaurus. Mr. Gardner stood, grabbed his hat and suit jacket, and started for the door.

The pile of paper in Hugh’s lap tilted as he watched the editor walk away, but he managed to get up without dropping the stack. When Mr. Gardner’s face reappeared in the doorway long enough for him to bellow, Oh, and don’t forget to time yourself, the stack slipped out of Hugh’s hands and swooshed onto the floor.

~

Mattie stood in front of the stove, her back to the door. Judging by the lack of aroma that escorted Hugh to the kitchen, she was stirring one of her bland but edible concoctions. She glanced over her shoulder as he placed a box from the bakery on the table, poured a glass of water, and settled into a chair. Did you have a good day? she asked.

Mostly. How about you?

I did some mending.

Mattie?

Hmm? She set the spoon on the stovetop and joined him at the table.

How long do you think it would take a typical person to create a crossword puzzle?

A single burnt-umber eyebrow hitched at the same time she lifted her chin. "Typical, as in normal, or as in not like your baby sister?"

Ouch. She was decidedly sensitive today, although Hugh surmised that she didn’t have the urge to tame her moods, as she didn’t view them as such. As a rule, her straightforward, practical, and decisive qualities didn’t make way for emotions, but she did possess a few prickly attributes that came to the fore now and again.

As in an average fella who happens to be a talented wordsmith. At present, Mr. Gardner had a lofty opinion of Hugh’s potential. It would be wise to fulfill that role, but his success relied upon Mattie’s willingness to assist.

Pray tell, Brother, what interest do you have in such frivolous, mindless pursuits?

I never considered crosswords mindless.

The other eyebrow rose to meet its twin. Oh, right. Frivolous, then.

I never meant to criticize or . . . Drat. He’d forgotten the thoughtless remark he’d made when the County Courier—one of the local newspapers and Hugh’s former employer—published her first puzzle. I never meant to criticize or belittle your art.

So now it’s art, eh? Splendid. Art implies the designer has a degree of talent.

I’m trying to—

Save your apology. I’ve come to expect little in a world dominated by men.

Double ouch. But she had a point. Every week, readers across the region spread out the Courier’s Sunday edition and entered letters into tiny squares arranged by someone identified as Duncan. At the moment, Hugh was not inclined to feed Mattie’s sarcasm. He needed her help.

Another thought struck, one that pressed against his chest and forced a dry cough that he failed to hide beneath his fist. Was Mr. Gardner one of her loyal fans? If he read the Courier on a regular basis, did he assume that the ongoing Duncan puzzles had been prepared months in advance of their publication, or did he think Hugh was moonlighting?

Mattie’s attention wandered to the bakery box. Six hours.

What?

"If it takes me around two hours to compile a puzzle for the Courier, it would probably take a man who knew his way around a dictionary and thesaurus six hours, give or take."

Six hours? Hugh envisioned the minute hands sweeping around the clock face.

That’s assuming the writer intended to create one for the newspaper.

As opposed to what?

As opposed to the variety I assemble for my own enjoyment. Those require a higher level of vocabulary and cleverness to complete.

I see.

Mattie’s pale gray eyes blinked in rapid succession, a silent reply that said she disagreed with his self-assessment. Do you?

Considering he had no time to waste, Hugh ignored the barb. How long did it take you to compose your first puzzle?

I didn’t keep track, but I suspect it took twice as much time.

Math wasn’t Hugh’s forte, but six hours times two would steal half his weekend. The second puzzle in Mr. Gardner’s assignment would rob the other half. The speed at which the minute hand swept away his free time suddenly matched the pace at which an Indianapolis Speedway contestant circled the racetrack.

I need your help, Mattie.

Creating a puzzle?

Yes.

Why the sudden interest?

Mr. Gardner expects me to drop two of them onto his desk come Monday morning.

Why? Pembroke Press publishes books, not crossword puzzles. Mattie tapped her finger to her lips. Although . . . Her shoulders inched upwards as she filled her lungs with a noisy gasp.

What?

Of course. It makes sense. Pembroke Press is in the business of printing books. An entire collection of crossword puzzles would set the American public on its ear.

Hugh’s eyes could have popped out of their sockets at the suggestion. Was that Mr. Gardner’s plan?

Mattie clapped her hands. That’s brilliant. Oh! And better yet, he’ll need to hire a talented and experienced puzzle creator, preferably one who already has a following.

When their gazes met, her shoulders slumped. She wagged her head ever so slightly and took another deep breath. This time, the corresponding exhale included a soft-spoken, "He thinks you’re the Courier’s crossword Duncan, doesn’t he?"

Hugh swallowed hard and evaded the question. I don’t know what Gardner has in mind.

It’s as plain as black and white newsprint, Hugh. And kudos to him for visualizing such an outlandish and equally outstanding product.

If that turns out to be his objective, I’ll tell him that you are key to its success.

You can’t.

I must and I will. Not only do I lack interest in the assignment, I believe it’s the fair thing to do.

"Fair or not, he was mistaken when he assumed you designed the Courier’s puzzles. If he decides that your skills don’t meet his standards, he’ll fire you."

Hugh rubbed the back of his neck and shoulders while he sought a remedy. Mattie’s view of Mr. Gardner’s motives made perfect sense, as did her supposition of the consequences, should the editor discover his proofreader hadn’t the faintest idea how to create a puzzle.

So, Mattie, what plans do you have for your weekend?

That depends. How many gingersnaps did you bring me?

Tons.

Sit tight. I’ll be right back.

Mattie’s shoes tapped against the floor when she walked down the hallway. As the sunlight that breached the narrow windowpane gave way to dusk, the kitchen’s pastel blue walls took on a grayish tint, and shadows crept into the corners. The sound of drawers scraping against their guides finally ceased, and Mattie reappeared with a single sheet of paper in her hand.

Hugh expected a pile of samples, a notebook filled with crossword grids ready for the insertion of words. And clues of some sort.

What’s this?

One cannot create puzzles until he has learned to complete them. This is one of my latest inventions, if you’d be so kind as to acknowledge it as such.

Of course. Anything Mattie wanted, Hugh would surrender.

Before you begin and I return to my dinner preparation, let’s start with a verbal exchange that will awaken your creative mind.

He clamped his jaw and closed his eyes. Mr. Gardner had high expectations. Mattie’s were higher still. He needed his job, and to keep it, he needed his sister, her grating teaching skills notwithstanding.

Anything you say.

Mattie flicked on the overhead light. "Your answers must begin with the letter Z."

Hugh straightened his spine. Fire away.

Your interest in preparing crossword puzzles is . . . what?

Was that a trick question? Of course it was. Puzzles involved trickery, did they not?

Z. The answers had to begin with the letter Z. Zoopendous wasn’t a word, neither was zimmense. The truth of the matter was that his interest in the assignment was—Aha!

"Zero, zilch, zip."

I have hope for you, Brother. Give me a cookie and let’s begin.

Chapter 2

Hugh pressed his fingertips against his temples and massaged the tender spots. He didn’t have a headache, but his brain was ab-so-lute-ly numb. Mattie, as invigorated now as when she began her introduction to word games four hours earlier, still bounced in her seat. Had he considered how the now-empty box of gingersnaps would feed her enthusiasm—for crying out loud, fatigue had reduced his mind to puns—he would have purchased a tin of soothing chamomile tea instead.

It’s almost midnight, Mattie.

Is that all? Let’s go another hour before we call it quits. I’d hate to lose your attention.

Another hour? Hugh’s eyelids weighed as much as a dictionary, and his yawn stretched as wide as a splayed-open encyclopedia. A mind can only absorb so much information at one sitting.

She looked at him then. Really looked at him. Then she got up and marched toward the sink. Which would you prefer? Oolong tea or coffee?

I did not inherit your level of intelligence. I need sleep.

That’s nonsense.

You have the credentials to suggest otherwise.

Mattie spun around, surprise attending her expression. You know better than that. Stupid tests and a psychologist’s method of scoring do not produce credentials. They serve to place people—real heart-beating, free-thinking people—into a category that either stifles their potential or condemns them for not reaching their calculated ability.

Mattie would know. Early on, her teachers complained that her inattention and incessant scribbling distracted the other students. Hugh’s sister was anything but absentminded, as her grades revealed. She could pour herself into a book and devour it before nightfall, and when inspired to write a story or put her thoughts to paper, the earth could tremble and she would be unmoved until she finished her undertaking.

After the school administrators suggested that Mattie belonged in an institution that provided specialized classes for children struggling with a normal regimen, their father took her to several doctors to prove her heightened intelligence and the school’s apparent ignorance. His was a noble quest, but Mattie suffered nonetheless.

Don’t forget that although I scored under the gifted category on the IQ test, another doctor diagnosed me as an idiot savant.

What a horrible term for the medical profession to adopt. It carried the same demeaning tone as the word dumb described a deaf person. Besides that, Mattie was neither a savant nor a genius. She was good with words and numbers, and had a knack for picking up a musical instrument and making it sing. If she had a bent toward scientific things, those who inspected and measured her aptitude snuffed out any interest in the subject. If her accusers had bothered to look at the astonishing facets that made up the girl, they would have seen the obvious. She was a diamond disguised as a bored schoolgirl.

Mattie picked up the teapot but made no move to fill it. "Did you know that the Indianapolis Star ran an article that said Columbia University is using crossword puzzles as a means of intelligence testing?"

I find that hard to believe.

It’s not a joke, Hugh. Two prominent faculty members at Princeton University declared the puzzles were worthy educational tools. And at Mt. Holyoke College, the Department of English is requiring freshmen to complete crossword puzzles as a means to identify a student’s level of vocabulary. Although I hate its use as a measure of intelligence, you have to admit that this pastime is much more than a game.

Hugh could reference news articles too. The dark side of this particular international sensation includes reports of fanatic puzzle solvers forsaking their businesses and divorcing their spouses for the love of the game.

Mattie put the teapot back on the counter, returned to the table, and started collecting the papers scattered across its top. I submit that everything has the potential to be used for the good or the bad. It’s what one does with the gift that matters.

I thought you wanted to go another hour.

I’ll let you get some sleep, but before you hug your teddy bear to your chest and put your weary head against your pillow—

As if you’d give up your stuffed toy for one night.

"It’s not my bear if I gave it to you before you gave it back to me, Hugh-Bear." Would she ever abandon the name she’d manufactured when she’d first tried out her big brother’s name?

"You make Hubert sound so French, Ma-tilda."

She didn’t care for her own given name, but swatted the air instead of her brother’s arm. As I was saying, before we retire, I’d like to offer a brief recap.

May I—

Oh, no. Allow me. Every crossword diagram must be symmetrical and all words must overlap. Optimally, no more than one-sixth of the squares should be black.

One-sixth. Anything else?

These are merely highlights.

A moan erupted before Hugh could swallow it.

Mattie evened out the stack of papers with a noisy smack of the edges against the table. One more thing.

What?

The most important thing. Crossword puzzles are oodles of fun. She punctuated her sentence with enough exuberance to lift Hugh out of his chair. He’d thank her for that in the morning.

Sleep well, Mattie.

And may your dreams be filled with diagrams and words, Brother.

Indeed.

Hugh had no words with which to reply—which was ab-so-lute-ly laughable.

~

Hugh pulled open the door to Pembroke Arcade where the early morning sun pierced the overhead glass and refracted against the marble floor with enough intensity to blind those who entered. With his hand shielding his eyes, he headed toward the Pembroke Press office, situated in the space above Sebastian’s Jewelry Store.

Having stepped into the Washington Street entrance of what Hugh considered Vonnegut & Bohn’s most striking and elegant architectural gem, he walked toward the far end. Sales clerks fussed with window displays in several of the boutiques that lined both sides of the spacious walkway, preparing to entice shoppers to part with their money. He exchanged nods with Mrs. Reynolds, proprietress of the flower shop, who held an enormous bunch of blooms in her arms.

Just before the building took a forty-five degree turn, which led foot traffic toward the Virginia Avenue entrance, he used his key to enter the jewelry shop. Although the arcade retailers wouldn’t open their doors for another hour, a soft melody spilled from the Victrola, filling the air with a soothing ambiance that would encourage patrons to linger.

Good morning, Mr. Duncan. Vera Burgess, the store owner’s middle-aged daughter, stood behind a line of glass cases, a damp rag in one hand and a dry one in the other. Did you have a pleasant weekend?

As he locked the door again, the scent of vinegar set his nose to twitching. Words cannot describe the time I had.

Mrs. Burgess stopped mid-swipe and studied Hugh’s face. Does that mean you spent all of your time pouring over a book? You ought to find yourself a nice girl and—

Hugh waved her off and made for the stairs at the back of the store. So you say. What she didn’t say was how anxious she was for him to ask her daughter on a date, an occasion that would never make its way to his calendar. He needed Mrs. Burgess to understand that. You know I’m not ready to settle down.

His introduction to the brash young woman dissuaded him as much as it was unwise to mingle professional and personal interests. Sebastian Foster wasn’t just Mrs. Burgess’ father. He was Warren Gardner’s uncle. Hence, the name and location of the budding publishing company that paid Hugh’s wages.

Mrs. Burgess mumbled under her breath but with enough volume to make herself heard as he retreated. Young folks think they have all the time in the world.

If he were in the mood for a debate, he’d disagree, especially in light of his unpleasant weekend. Hugh paused on the first step and called over his shoulder. Have a good day, Mrs. Burgess.

Upstairs, a sliver of light poked beneath the door that led to the office. Inside, the rhythm of a typewriter absconded with the Victrola’s reverie and set Hugh’s mind to the manuscript resting at the center of his desk. He was anxious to continue proofreading the text.

He appreciated the author’s clever characters, his vibrant descriptions and compelling storyline. Mattie’s perturbed face interrupted his train of thought as he considered his unfounded assumptions. It was possible that the person who submitted the novel was a woman using a man’s pen name so as to suggest credibility, much in the same way the County Courier acknowledged their crossword puzzle creator as simply Duncan. He couldn’t argue Mattie’s lament. Despite women earning the right to vote, men still turned the wheels that moved the country forward. Or backward, for that matter.

Hugh wouldn’t mind venturing into the world of a fiction writer, but the mountains of proposals and texts that bordered the editor’s office provided a daily reminder that few who endeavored to entertain the masses with the written word rarely saw their creations in a bookstore window.

Who could guess how long it took Indianapolis’ own Booth Tarkington to write his Pulitzer-prize-winning The Magnificent Ambersons, a tome of some five hundred pages? Creative genius aside, the exercise could take years, and for those just venturing into the field, it would take more than a pinch of luck to celebrate publication.

Hugh considered his own undertaking pointless, particularly in light of Tarkington’s response when the Times, two years earlier, included him among twelve men whom the tabloid considered America’s greatest contemporary men. The author responded, "Yes, I got in as last on the Times list. What darn silliness! You can demonstrate who are the ten fattest people in a country and who are the twenty-seven tallest . . . but you can’t say who are the ten greatest with any more authority than you can say who are the thirteen damndest fools."

Yes, Hugh had a hankering to write, but he’d settle for proofreading during work hours and satiating his imagination with frequent trips to the library where he could digest tales penned by those few who managed to rise above the whims of a publisher and the accolades or criticisms delivered by the reading masses.

Hugh unbuckled his satchel, removed his two homework assignments, and put them on the corner of his desk. Columbia and Princeton thought crossword puzzles had value, but he still doubted the pastime would earn a place of prominence and respectability within the publishing echelon.

At the onset of Mattie’s lecture on the subject, he hadn’t understood the frenzy. He had engaged in a love affair with words since he was a boy, and he took them—and their potential impact—too seriously to turn them into a game. He’d said as much to Mattie when she resumed her tutorial on Saturday morning, and she’d replied with a loud Bah!

His first stab at completing a Mattie’s variety puzzle, one of the difficult versions she created for herself, revealed that the activity was more elaborate, more intense, and more challenging than he imagined. On those occasions when a horizontal clue stumped him, he relied on the vertical interconnections to pave the way to the proper entry, and vice-versa. When the letters came together and interconnected properly, the outcome infused his pride at the same time the exercise annoyed him.

It was when he stumbled over those clues that required a trip to the living room, where he had to consult an encyclopedia or a world globe to ascertain the correct response, that Mattie had folded her arms and gloated. So here he was, settling behind his desk at Pembroke Press, tired and haggard after his lost weekend, but newly armed with the knowledge that Iceland’s monetary unit was the krona and that more than twenty-five thousand workers died during the construction of the Panama Canal. How he might apply those bits of information to his daily life still escaped him.

Ross turned away from the typewriter and flipped another page in the document he was editing. Moments later, he flicked his pencil into the air. It landed on the desk before it rolled off the edge and plinked onto the floor. He bowed his head and rubbed his temples. I think this writer was a cryptographer in his previous life.

It’s that bad?

Ross retrieved his pencil and tucked it over his ear. He’s made such a game of irrelevant and mindless chaff that I can’t venture a guess as to his meaning.

Why do you suppose Mr. Gardner agreed to publish the book?

He hasn’t. Leastways, not yet. He asked me to give the text a cursory edit, just to see how much work it would take to make it worthy of publication. Ross rubbed his jawline and leveled bloodshot eyes at Hugh. "Cursory and edit should not be used in the same sentence. When one edits, he edits. He doesn’t look at an error and say, ‘Well now, if I were conducting a thorough review, I’d mark that dangling participle, but I’ll just continue reading for now.’ Everyone in the industry knows that."

Is the topic engaging? Hugh asked.

Hardly. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Mr. Gardner has asked me to tidy up his daughter’s writing assignment before she turns it into her professor. Ross sat up straight. No. You don’t suppose . . .

On the few occasions Mr. Gardner’s daughter visited the office, she prattled on about her professional writing aspirations, a career she intended to pursue upon graduation. Talented or not, Katie Gardner had a massive edge over the competition who had to surmount a publisher’s examination.

Yes, Hugh supposed that Mr. Gardner might add to his employees’ duties for personal reasons. That’s an interesting theory when one considers that your evaluation would be faster and cheaper than if he were to hire a tutor.

You’re not funny, Duncan. I lost count of the hours I worked on this over the weekend.

Hugh’s tipped head must have signaled their common link, for Ross threw his shoulders against the back of his chair and spat some choice vocabulary into the room. He pointed to the papers Hugh had laid on the desk. What, pray tell, did he delegate to you on Friday?

The expression Ross wore after Hugh handed him one of the puzzles was as exaggerated as a character in an animated cartoon—part surprise, part disbelief, and a whole lotta indignation.

We must be idiots. Ross pointed a trembling finger toward the door. Since I walked into this so-called publishing company six months ago, my hopes for a successful stint in the industry have dropped with the same speed as a ninny floating toward Niagara Falls in a whiskey barrel. Candidates for jobs have to provide credible references. Had I not been so impatient to accept an editor’s position, I might have investigated Warren Gardner’s reputation.

Hugh pulled at his shirt collar. He was not one to discredit another individual as easily and heartily as Ross had done. Might you be overreacting? Surely, this little exercise was a one-time request.

When Ross folded over, his chair tipped forward so fast that Hugh jumped to his feet, ready to pick up the unconscious editor whose head was about to collide with the edge of his desk. Before he could reach his doomed co-worker, the sound that assaulted his ears jerked him to a standstill. It was a guttural groan tinged with hysterical laughter. Seconds later Ross came back up for air, his cheeks red and his eyes filled with tears.

He batted the air and let loose a few abbreviated chortles until he collected himself. Sorry, old boy. I think I need to share some gossip with you.

Hugh didn’t cotton to gossip any more than he would publicly air his opinion of a man’s reputation, but he did want to know what Ross apparently knew about the puzzles. Right now, silence was golden, which