Wrapped Up in Crosswords by Nero Blanc Page A

can have nasty side effects, Belle. You don’t have to be physically present at the time of the crime to feel violated. And Lawson’s is like a second home to Martha—”
    â€œI don’t think that’s it. Besides, apparently nothing was taken. The police who responded to the call felt that Kenny’s arrival put the kibosh on—”
    â€œIf it was the same clowns who robbed Don Oliver’s Gun Shoppe, our Dr. K. wouldn’t have scared them off: six-foot-four or not. Don said these guys were a pretty rough lot.”
    â€œMaybe they just wanted some food, and—” Belle stopped, glanced at her watch, and spun around. “Oh, my dog biscuits! I almost forgot … the timer should have gone off by now.” She flew into the kitchen while Rosco followed at a more reasonable pace.
    â€œYou’re baking dog biscuits? What’s wrong with the kind that comes in a red and yellow box? We don’t hear many complaints about them from the girls.”
    Belle didn’t respond to his questions. Instead, she whipped a cookie sheet out of the oven. Creative pride sparkled in her eyes. “This batch is banana and peanut butter. Then I’m doing honey and banana. Winston loves bananas—at least according to Bartholomew.”
    â€œYou’re making biscuits from scratch for Winston?”
    Belle looked at her husband as if he’d lost either his hearing or the momentary use of his brain. “For my Secret Santa gift. Sara’s instructions ‘suggested’ that we ‘either find a reasonably priced remembrance or create something handmade.’” Belle slid the finished product onto a cooling rack, then rolled another ball of dough and began stamping out more cookies with a bone-shaped metal cutter.
    â€œAnd Sara assigned you a dog? What’s Winston supposed to give the person on his list? Or is a hand-me-down chew toy okay? Maybe something with a little slobber still attached? Or perhaps a molested slipper?”
    â€œRosco! These are for Bartholomew!”
    â€œI know the man’s last name is pronounced ‘cur,’ Belle, but I didn’t think he ate dog food.”
    â€œYou know, sometimes you are so dense.” She chortled, then returned the cookie sheet to the oven and looked at her watch once more. “Twelve minutes … I don’t know what’s wrong with that timer.”
    Rosco shook the small clock near his ear and said, “You need to wind it up. It works much better that way.” He then set it back on the counter, peered into the glass bowl with the remaining dough, and frowned. “I didn’t know you could bake cookies. In fact, I didn’t think you could bake anything.”
    â€œI can’t,” was Belle’s breezy reply. “At least I couldn’t until just now. I found the cutter in that fancy, new cooking store in town this morning. The owner also supplied two recipes—and voilà, or should I say: ‘Here you go, matey’—biscuits for the English bulldog, Winston!”
    â€œAnd how are we going to know if they taste okay?” The question was asked with a certain amount of delicacy. He reached into Kit and Gabby’s ceramic jar and removed one of their treats. “Have you ever noticed that these store-bought dog biscuits have the word Tasty embossed right on them? See, dogs read that, and they know what they’re getting into.”
    â€œWhat, you don’t trust me to make dog treats?”
    â€œWell …”
    â€œThat’s it for you, buddy,” Belle chuckled. “I was going to add to my repertoire and begin making you gingerbread bones, but you can just forget about it after that crass comment.”
    â€œBones? What happened to the traditional ‘men’?”
    Belle held up the cutter. “I only bought one cookie shape. I considered getting one shaped like a Christmas tree, but then I thought, what would a