A Crossworder's Delight by Nero Blanc

don’t share the same laissez-faire approach to those appalling people from Maine. They’re as common as dirt. Although, at least there’s nothing sham about their pose.”
    Rosco merely nodded, while Mitch uttered a conciliatory, “Thank you so much for your aid, Miss Cadburrie. You know what a pleasure it is to have you stay with us.”
    The cantankerous lady softened, but the transformation only extended to Mitchell. “Well, I wanted to relay my thoughts in private, Mr. Marz, so as to not alert any—”
    â€œThank you for your help, ma’am,” Rosco interrupted. He shook the lady’s cool and papery hand to indicate that the conversation was concluded, then he watched her spin irritably on her heel and march away before he turned his attention to Mitchell. “I’d like to question the two employees who were on the premises when the poem disappeared, if that’s convenient.”
    â€œYou’ll find Chef in the kitchen. But Joy didn’t come in until seven this morning, so she’s in the clear.” Rosco said nothing, and Mitch added, “Because Yorke heard noises down here before seven, remember?”
    â€œRight. Assuming he has no reason to lie.”

Eleven
    â€œI can recite the whole thing,” E.T. boasted as he trailed behind Belle. With Mitchell ensconced with the guests in the front parlor, and Morgan temporarily out of the picture, E.T. had forsaken his outdoor duties in order to “help” Belle in her private hunt through the inn.
    â€œWhat ‘thing’?” she said, although she was hardly listening to her chatty escort. For the ten or fifteen minutes E.T. had been with her, she doubted he’d stopped talking for more than a second.
    She depressed the antique iron latch of a door under the second-floor stairway and found it locked—the third such discovery she’d made, not including the closed guest bedrooms. Someone , Belle thought, must possess a good many old keys . “Are these closet doors usually locked?” she asked.
    â€œI don’t know, I never come up here. Mr. Morgan likes me to stay outside. I think he’s afraid I’ll break something.… So, do you want to hear me recite it?”
    â€œRecite what?” Belle walked the length of the hall, then turned and walked down two steps that led to another section of corridor and another part of the building.
    â€œThe poem, of course!” E.T. exclaimed. Then he raised a hand and rapped himself on the head in a gesture of impatience. It was the sort of half-teasing, half-serious reminder an older kid would give a younger one. “You’re right! Saying ‘thing’ and ‘it.’ That’s totally dumb. Use specifics . The teachers at school are always telling us that … I guess you know specific is related to species. I looked it up in the dictionary. Spy ’s another one, and so is specter .… You could say, ‘I spy a specific species of speckled specters,’ and be using words from the same family. Except for speckled , of course.”
    Belle chuckled, turning to face him. “Since when do ghosts sport spots?”
    â€œIt’s hypothetical …” In the corridor’s dim light, E.T.’s already serious face grew more so. “Actually, it’s a mnemonic—”
    â€œAnd you’re now going to explain that those memory aids are named after the Greek titan, Mnemosyne, who was in charge of such cerebral doings—and who became the mother of the Muses.”
    â€œYup.” A bright grin lit up E.T.’s face.
    â€œI’d better be careful or you’re going to take my job away from me.”
    â€œI can’t, ‘cause I’m only twelve,” was the sensible reply. Then E.T. repeated his previous offer. “So do you want me to recite the poem? I know the whole thing!”
    The boy’s need for approval and human connection was so