Death on the Diagonal Part 1

Death on the Diagonal.

by Nero Blanc.

A Letter from Nero Blanc Dear Friends, Connecting writers to readers requires a special talent, and we'd like to acknowledge the many people whose savvy, humor, and insight-not to mention business ac.u.men-have made our mysteries a success story. Each of you deserves an Author's Appreciation Award. Lacking a suitable lexical offering, we'll simply list you and extend a mult.i.tude of kudos from two very grateful authors.

Thank you to: Mary Alice and Richard of Mystery Lovers Bookshop; Jim at The Mystery Company; Sharon at Books & Company; Barbara and The Poisoned Pen; Creatures 'n Crooks and Lelia; Bonnie and Joe of The Black Orchid Bookshop; Augie of Centuries & Sleuths; Bruce and Turn the Page; Mystery Loves Company's Kathy; The Mystery Bookstore's Sheldon; Ed and Jean at M is for Mystery; Partners & Crime and Marshall; Richard at Head House Books; Joanne at Murder on the Beach; Booked for Murder's Mary Helen; Tom of Murder Ink; Bridge Street Books' Suzanne; Debbie at Mechanics-burg Mystery Bookshop; Angie of Voices and Visions; The Book Garden and Esther; Barry of Book'em Mysteries; Katie of Village Books; Kate at Kate's Mystery Books; the many kind folks at Chester County Books, The Bookworm, and Baker Books; and, last but not least, Nancy of The Virginia Festival of the Book.

Getting to know you has been a delight, Cordelia and Steve

CHAPTER 1.

Although his name might suggest otherwise, Moon-dog was a proven champion. He was an eight-year-old gelding, a commanding seventeen-hand Dutch Warmblood and a world-cla.s.s jumper, with enough blue ribbons to fashion a debutante's satin ball gown. He had been foaled and trained at Glen-Rosalynne Farms in Louisville, Kentucky, then sold to an Oscar-winning film director with a three-hundred-acre ranch overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Santa Barbara, California. The film director had jumped Moon-dog-shooting schedules permitting-in every major compet.i.tion from coast to coast for a solid year before he'd suddenly grown tired of the entire equestrian thing and decided to sc.r.a.p one toy for another and try his hand at offsh.o.r.e sailing instead. He sold Moon-dog for $100,000-about a quarter of the price of the boat-to an investment banker in Newcastle, Ma.s.sachusetts, a medium-sized city just to the west of Cape Cod across Buzzards Bay.

The banker bought the animal for his sixteen-year-old daughter because her primary equitation horse, a gray Thoroughbred mare by the unlikely name of Willow-whisp, had yet to finish above second-meaning the beast had yet to win the banker's daughter a single blue ribbon. Not one! And this despite Daddy paying a trainer one hundred bucks a day, rain or shine, show or no show. Naturally the situation was both galling to the banker and a source of extreme exasperation to his daughter, Tiffany.

Both mounts, Moon-dog and Willow-whisp, were now boarded at King Wenstarin Farms, a show and breeding stable fifteen miles outside of Newcastle. It was a top-drawer place, as befitted the pricey animals residing there, but the lower stable in which the gelding and mare were housed had one disturbing complication on this particular early October evening, and that was the unmistakable presence of smoke.

Moon-dog was the first to smell it. In fact, he'd heard the unusual noises that had initially triggered the problematic situation, watched the culprit flee the scene, and so knew precisely how the predicament had begun. The only thing the animal didn't know was how to unlatch the gate to his stall-or how the story would end.

Horses do not react well to smoke. As with most mammals, humans being one notable exception, their internal mechanisms take them rapidly to the logical conclusion: Fire! Danger! Death! This intelligent insight creates in them a burning desire to put large distances between themselves and the smoke as quickly as possible. Moon-dog first snorted and then began anxiously pawing at the straw that covered the dirt floor of his roomy box stall. The acrid smoke tickled at his flaring nostrils. He whinnied and backed solidly into the wooden gate that barred his exit. The iron hinges creaked, and the steel latch jumped, but both held the gate in place. It would be only two minutes before Moon-dog would begin to do some serious damage to the stall and to himself.

The large round clock positioned in the center of the immaculate wall that rose above the stable's entry read 7:06 P.M., when Moon-dog began his nervous pacing and the building's equally gleaming windows revealed a deep-blue sky and a bright full moon hanging low and orange as it turned the autumnal leaves a molten silvery red. The color eerily replicated the light from the fire that was now brewing in the tack room located at the west end of the stable. Known as the "small" stable, the s.p.a.ce had room for only sixteen stalls, eight of which were presently occupied.

Moon-dog's antics swiftly attracted the attention of the other seven equine residents. Willow-whisp, three other mares, and three additional geldings trusted the chestnut-colored Warmblood, like baby ducks trust their mothers; and if the big guy wanted out, so did they. After fifteen additional seconds, all eight horses were rearing and bucking in their stalls, their eyes huge and terrified, and their whinnies panicked, while the smoke grew thicker and the brightness of the tack room fire illuminated the stable's center aisle from one end to the other.

"Fire! Fire at the lower stable! We need some help down here!"

Orlando Polk, the barn manager, seemed to appear from nowhere as he shouted the warning up the hill toward the Big House and the horse farm's owner, Todd Collins. Polk rightly surmised that the tack room's telephone and intercom system had most likely been reduced to melted b.a.l.l.s of plastic, and he also realized that trying to call the local fire-house, five miles away at best, would be a futile exercise. The barn would be ash long before the boys in helmets and waterproof gear could possibly arrive.

Orlando had been working at King Wenstarin Farms for six years. He was forty-two years old and had been around horses his entire life. He was proud to say he was one hundred percent Pequot Indian. He kept his raven black hair tied in a ponytail that reached halfway to his slim and sinewy waist, and his nose for smoke was as good, if not better, than Moon-dog's. He was already cursing himself under his breath for not having smelled the fumes sooner. But even if he had, he couldn't have stopped the blaze; it was spreading far too quickly, and he had a good idea why. Unlike Moon-dog, however, Orlando had heard no strange noises or spotted anything out of the ordinary. He shook off questions of how the fire had begun and concentrated, instead, on logistics. He realized that if the horses weren't freed soon they would claw at the sides of their stalls, pointlessly attempting to climb their way out and tearing their pricey flesh, or worse, fracturing their fragile bones.

With this a.s.sessment in mind, he ran up the aisle to the double barn doors at the stable's east side, shoving them open and outward and latching them in place before heading toward the structure's west end. A less-seasoned horseman might have made the mistake of freeing the horses from their stalls before opening the doors, thereby creating pandemonium and probably getting trampled to death in the process, but Orlando prided himself on remaining calm in times of crisis. At least where horses were concerned.

As he raced back to open the west-facing doors, he pa.s.sed the tack room, which was now completely engulfed in flame. The air in the building had turned as thick and dark as mud, but fortunately the stalls directly opposite the blaze were empty. No animal could have remained that close to the fire without killing itself out of fear. Polk pulled his shirt over his nose and mouth and forged his way to the western doors, but before he could reach them, they seemed to swing open on their own. He then saw the farm's owner, Todd Collins, yanking them back and securing the latches.

Collins was seventy-four years old with a lean and angular six-foot-three-inch frame, a full head of wavy white hair, and an ample, matching mustache. He'd made millions in the importation of Irish whiskey to the United States, and his pa.s.sion was horseflesh, especially the elegant creatures trained in the hunter-seat equitation discipline. A limp that was the result of a riding spill four years earlier sometimes made strangers imagine Collins was a frail man, but they were wrong. Todd Collins was weak neither in body nor mind.

Orlando gaped at his boss, the fire now reflecting vividly in Collins's craggy face and making him look as if he'd just stepped directly from the gates of h.e.l.l. Polk swore again, but too softly to be heard, while his boss's irate eyes bore into him.

From Todd Collins's point of view, it appeared as though Orlando had done nothing to try to save the horses or extinguish the blaze. At first sight, his barn manager seemed to be standing in the smoke dumbfounded, like a lost child.

"Dammit, man, get these horses out of here. What are you waiting for? An invitation? Get those stalls open. Force them out the other end. If any head this way stay with them; drive them through the smoke and up toward the Big House lawn."

Orlando stood frozen for a second too long, and Collins grabbed his shoulders and shoved him toward the far end of the stable.

"You work the right side stalls; I'll do the left," Collins barked.

Orlando stumbled slightly, but then sprang into action, hurrying his supple dancer's body from stall to stall, releasing the horses then swatting them hard on their rumps to direct them away from the tack room and toward the open east end of the barn. Collins duplicated the action on the other side of the stable until all eight animals had been safely driven from the building. The older man then turned to his manager and shouted, "Get to that sprinkler valve and turn it on. I don't care if we flood the entire state of Ma.s.sachusetts. I'm going to drive these babies down to B paddock. If the stable goes up in smoke, they'll panic where they are now. We need to give them some distance."

"Right, boss." Orlando Polk turned and headed back into the burning barn, while Collins unlatched the gate at the far end of the paddock and began moving the horses farther from the blaze.

By the time the manager reentered the stable, the entire building had filled with smoke. He pulled his shirttails up to cover his mouth and nose and worked his way back toward the tack room. The main sprinkler valve was located on the wall a few feet away from the room, but fortunately the fire had moved up rather than out and hadn't yet reached the valve. The system was old and had been shut down only the prior week because of leakage over a few of the stalls-which had resulted in a work order but no actual repair as yet. By the time he reached the valve, he was choking and coughing uncontrollably. The smoke clogged his lungs, and his eyes felt as though they were burning up. Tears coursed down his cheeks as he reached for the round handle of the valve.

But the moment he got his hands on the metal ring, a sharp pain shot through the back of his head. In the split second that Orlando remained conscious and aware of his surroundings, he heard a pinging noise he couldn't quite identify and a.s.sumed it was produced by whatever had slammed into the back of his head. Then his thoughts returned to the sprinkler valve, and he was able to twist it open even while his body began crumpling to the dirt floor where it remained, inert as a rag, as water cascaded from the ceiling.

After securing the horses in B paddock, Todd Collins hurried back to the lower stable. When he reached the east entrance, he found his trainer, Jack Curry, standing near the barn door, and noticeably out of breath. Jack was another large man, but only in his mid-forties and more solidly built than his boss. Curry loved to affect any posture and att.i.tude that remotely resembled John Wayne. Stance, swagger, speech, laconic grin, penetrating scowl: Jack had each characteristic memorized, and his private impersonation brought results. People instinctively respected and trusted Jack Curry. In Todd's opinion, the trainer was a cla.s.s act; "the best d.a.m.n horseman on the East Coast," who also happened to have once been married to Todd's eldest daughter, Fiona-the emphasis being on ex. In her father's estimation "Jack was, and continues to be, the only man capable of steadying such a high-strung filly. And look at her now," he'd add with a rueful shake of his white mane. "I swear, a brood mare has got more sense than that woman."

"I ran up the moment I saw the flames, Mr. C," Jack now told his boss in his typically easy drawl. He coughed, then spit emphatically into the dirt. "How'd this d.a.m.n thing get started?"

"No telling." Todd glanced into the barn. "Good . . . Orlando was able to get the sprinklers going. Have you seen him?"

"No, sir. I thought he was off today."

"No, no, he's around. He helped me get the horses out, then went back in to monkey with that blasted sprinkler system." Todd peered into the steamy, belching murk. "He must still be inside." Collins moved toward the stable entrance, but the trainer grabbed his arm.

"I wouldn't go in there, Mr. C. There's no guarantee those sprinklers are gonna do their job. They're old as the hills. Those pipes fail, or break along the line, the place'll go up like a haystack. Orlando probably scooted out the other end. He's no hero." The final comment held a note of cowboy disdain, as if the barn manager could never hope to compete with someone whose stock in trade was saving damsels in distress and rescuing wagon trains that were under savage attack.

Todd pulled his arm free. "I don't like it. If Orlando were outside, he would have come down to check on the horses. I say he's still in there. We've got to get him out." With that, Todd's tall frame limped decisively into the stable.

Jack watched his former father-in-law disappear in the smoke and shook his head. "Crazy old coot; gonna get us both killed over some lousy greaseball." He pulled a handkerchief from his rear pocket, pushed it into a neighboring horse trough, rang it out, covered his nose, and ran inside.

Jack had no idea whether the sprinkler system was going to win its battle or not. The crackling and sighing of burning wood appeared to be getting louder with every step he made, as though the barn were getting ready to collapse around him. He couldn't help second-guessing the wisdom of entering the structure. "Mr. C," he shouted through the swirling smoke, "where the h.e.l.l are you?"

"Over by the valve. Polk's been knocked unconscious. Get over here and give me a hand."

Coughing and blinking back acid tears, Jack worked his way over to the valve, where he found Todd crouched over Orlando's p.r.o.ne body. "Is he alive?"

"I don't know. Let's get him out of here."

"This place is gonna come down on top of us, Mr. C. Any second." Jack ducked to the side as a bale of burning hay thudded down from the loft above, hissing when it hit the water on the ground.

"I don't think so," the old man shouted back. "I think it's going to hold. Let's get Orlando out of here p.r.o.nto, though. I don't want to push our luck any more than we already have."

Jack bent down and slid his arms under Polk's shoulders and lifted his chest, while Todd took hold of his feet.

"Ready?" Jack said.

"You betcha."

They stood in unison, hefting the limp form and moving gingerly toward the east end of the stable. A loud and continual hissing sound now prevailed in the barn, and the smoke was heavy with steam and the smell of charred wood and ruined saddle leather.

Exiting the stable they heard the m.u.f.fled sirens of approaching fire engines. After they set the body down in a gra.s.sy patch, Todd straightened and looked at Jack. "Did you call the d.a.m.n fire department?"

"No."

Todd kicked at the dirt with his good leg. "d.a.m.n . . . It must have been Ryan. Why can't she listen?"

"Something wrong with the fire department, Mr. C.?"

Collins knelt down and checked Orlando's pulse. "I like to keep situations like this in-house."

CHAPTER 2.

Contrary to the sleepy atmosphere that presently prevailed at Newcastle's morning morning newspaper, the newspaper, the Herald, Herald, the offices of its the offices of its afternoon afternoon rival, the rival, the Evening Crier, Evening Crier, were rife with scurrying and worried feet, with furrowed eyebrows, grim expressions, and the kind of terse remarks that can't help but sound insulting even under the most benign of moments-which "deadline" at a daily city newspaper definitely was not. were rife with scurrying and worried feet, with furrowed eyebrows, grim expressions, and the kind of terse remarks that can't help but sound insulting even under the most benign of moments-which "deadline" at a daily city newspaper definitely was not.

Although the dreaded moment was nearly four hours away, the Crier Crier's editors, reporters, columnists, and advertising account executives knew full well that the time could evaporate in the blink of an eye; and most were secretly en-vying the Herald Herald employees as they did almost each and every day. Not that the folks at the employees as they did almost each and every day. Not that the folks at the Herald Herald didn't go through the same hysteria on a regular basis; it's just that for them it rolled around at nine at night, not nine in the morning. didn't go through the same hysteria on a regular basis; it's just that for them it rolled around at nine at night, not nine in the morning.

Annabella Graham stepped off the elevator on the third floor of the Crier Crier building and into this tense melee, just as she had every Friday for the past seven years: equipped with a manila envelope tucked under her arm. Belle, as she preferred to be addressed after suffering too many puns of the building and into this tense melee, just as she had every Friday for the past seven years: equipped with a manila envelope tucked under her arm. Belle, as she preferred to be addressed after suffering too many puns of the anna-gram anna-gram variety, was the crossword puzzle editor at the variety, was the crossword puzzle editor at the Evening Crier. Evening Crier. She was thirty-three years old, bouncy, and lithe, with quizzical gray eyes, blond hair the color and consistency of dandelion down, and a radiant smile that revealed how little she cared about her looks. She was also smart. She was thirty-three years old, bouncy, and lithe, with quizzical gray eyes, blond hair the color and consistency of dandelion down, and a radiant smile that revealed how little she cared about her looks. She was also smart.

Preferring to create her week's offering of puzzles in the quiet and comforting atmosphere of her home, rather than at the Crier Crier's offices, Fridays were one of the few times the other employees got a glimpse of their Belle.

On the weeks when she opted to deliver the seven puzzles after after deadline's witching hour, most of her coworkers stopped by to chat, inquiring chummily about her husband, Rosco, a local private eye, or their two dogs, Kit and Gabby. But when she chose to arrive in the morning, as she had today, very few greeted the resident "brainiac" with more than a preoccupied nod. They were a mercurial crowd whose personalities switched back and forth, depending on where the big and little hands sat on the clock; and they had hard news to attend to. Word games might be popular with readers-very popular, actually-but to those who wrote the leading stories, Belle's contributions couldn't compete with lethal twenty-vehicle pileups on the interstate, or corporate malfeasance, or government lies, or domestic violence, or celebrity scandals, or war dead, or starvation in Africa, or any of the other fun articles that made the front page. deadline's witching hour, most of her coworkers stopped by to chat, inquiring chummily about her husband, Rosco, a local private eye, or their two dogs, Kit and Gabby. But when she chose to arrive in the morning, as she had today, very few greeted the resident "brainiac" with more than a preoccupied nod. They were a mercurial crowd whose personalities switched back and forth, depending on where the big and little hands sat on the clock; and they had hard news to attend to. Word games might be popular with readers-very popular, actually-but to those who wrote the leading stories, Belle's contributions couldn't compete with lethal twenty-vehicle pileups on the interstate, or corporate malfeasance, or government lies, or domestic violence, or celebrity scandals, or war dead, or starvation in Africa, or any of the other fun articles that made the front page.

Belle had never much liked spending time at the Crier. Crier. It wasn't the people she objected to; they were an entertaining bunch once you got them away from work, and she and Rosco enjoyed socializing with them. Instead, it was the building's architecture that she found off-putting. It was postmodern gone to seed, like an inner-city high school after a long and wearying week. A pale, dirty brown was the color of choice-which some politely called "greige" or even "sepia," while others chose earthier and less flattering epithets: words that don't normally appear in family newspapers. It wasn't the people she objected to; they were an entertaining bunch once you got them away from work, and she and Rosco enjoyed socializing with them. Instead, it was the building's architecture that she found off-putting. It was postmodern gone to seed, like an inner-city high school after a long and wearying week. A pale, dirty brown was the color of choice-which some politely called "greige" or even "sepia," while others chose earthier and less flattering epithets: words that don't normally appear in family newspapers.

Belle proceeded down the dingy hall, dodging the various messengers and copyboys, until she reached her own cubicle-sized office, where she opened the door into the stark and unlovely s.p.a.ce. A chipped laminate desk, an office chair that listed to one side, and a bookcase (mostly empty) stared forlornly back at her. Atop the desk sat a small collection of pencils, a few sheets of quarter-inch graph paper that had been there so long they were almost as brown as the walls, a blotter pad, and an in-out box. It was there that Belle placed the manila envelope containing a week's worth of crosswords accompanied by their solutions. After that major effort, she was free to go home-a simple and predictable ritual, albeit a little odd. As long as the interoffice mail boy found the package, there at seven o'clock on Friday evening (word games for the next week being exempt from the demon deadline), everyone was happy.

Belle fiddled with the envelope, repositioning it until the edges took on a military precision, then murmured a quiet, "Well, that's that. Enough thrills and chills for one week. It's off to the the dog park for me."

"Oh, nay, nay, nay, say it isn't so, my dear Bellisima Bellisima. One can't vacate the dank underbelly of the venerable Evening Crier Evening Crier simply because something as trivial as the sun may be shining in the bright universe beyond. You don't see any of the other moles running for daylight, do you?" simply because something as trivial as the sun may be shining in the bright universe beyond. You don't see any of the other moles running for daylight, do you?"

She turned to find Bartholomew Kerr, the Crier Crier's diminutive gossip columnist standing in her doorway, the greenish glow of the fluorescent overhead lighting casting an olive patina over his nearly bald pate and on his upturned face with its oversized black gla.s.ses. Depending on circ.u.mstances, Bartholomew either resembled a scrawny baby bird or a housefly searching out a tasty bread crumb.

Despite his oddball appearance and his florid, and often pretentious, speech, Kerr was one of Belle's dearest friends at the newspaper. He prided himself in knowing everyone in the city of Newcastle, and what they were up to and when-that is, everyone whose name could be recognized when reproduced in boldface type in his "Biz-y-Buzz" column.

"Good morning, Bartholomew," Belle responded with a glowing smile. "Does it seem unusually hectic around here today, or is it my imagination?"

Kerr strolled into Belle's office and perched his tiny frame on the corner of her desk. Only the tips of his suede loafers touched the linoleum floor. "Ah, alas, trouble ventures into the ill.u.s.trious realm of high society. Why on earth do you think I've ventured into this fetid arena before eleven o'clock? I gather you haven't heard about the fire?"

"Fire?"

Kerr released a cherubic chuckle. "Oh, my dear Bella. Please say that word one more time for me, will you? It has such an angelic and innocent ring when floating from your lips. Although from the fever in your eye, I might question whether you're a devoted pyromaniac."

"What fire, Bartholomew? I haven't heard anything about it."

"Tsk, tsk . . . that's why the intestines of our Evening Crier Evening Crier are working overtime. The are working overtime. The Herald Herald went to bed too early and missed the story, so we have ourselves a good old-fashioned scoop. Apparently, someone torched one of the horse barns out at King Wenstarin Farms." went to bed too early and missed the story, so we have ourselves a good old-fashioned scoop. Apparently, someone torched one of the horse barns out at King Wenstarin Farms."

"That's horrible. Were any animals killed?"

Kerr threw up his hands in mock horror. "I'm sorry, I have misspoken myself. There is no evidence-as yet-that this was a torch job. That's only my catty presumption. Although since the Family Collins is insured to the nines by the Dartmouth Group, I suppose it won't be long before a certain crossword-puzzle editor's hubby, one Rosco Polycrates by name, is called in to . . . look things over look things over, shall we say? We all know your dear boy is this burg's favored PI when it comes to ferreting out insurance fraud, don't we, now?"

Belle stomped her foot on the floor. "Bartholomew, stop, please. Did any horses die?"

"Ah, the kindhearted demoiselle. Women do love their prancing steeds, don't they? I believe most men would first ask if any of the human race had been injured."

Belle raised an eyebrow. "That's certainly a chauvinistic statement."

"But true, nonetheless. I've been taking a little survey around the dungeon this morning, and I've found that on first hearing of the blaze, women ask only about the four-footed beasts; with men, it breaks down to about fifty-fifty."

"I'd say that only proves that women are focused on one thing, and that men are all over the place."

"You're speaking metaphorically, I take it? I wouldn't care to make any off-color references to the stud business. Well, at any rate, to answer your question: All valiant members of the Equus caballus Equus caballus family escaped without harm. However, the barn manager lies in a comatose state in ICU at Newcastle Memorial. If it turns out to be a torch job, and our dear fellow drifts into the hereafter, then we'll have ourselves a dirty little murder among Newcastle's hoity-toity. Won't that keep 'Biz-y-Buzz' abuzzing?" family escaped without harm. However, the barn manager lies in a comatose state in ICU at Newcastle Memorial. If it turns out to be a torch job, and our dear fellow drifts into the hereafter, then we'll have ourselves a dirty little murder among Newcastle's hoity-toity. Won't that keep 'Biz-y-Buzz' abuzzing?"

Belle sat in her chair and put her feet up on the end of the desk farthest from Kerr. Then she became aware that her jeans were beginning to fray at the cuff and wondered how long it would take Bartholomew to begin drawing comparisons to the Little Match Girl. She stifled a self-conscious groan. Shopping for clothes had never been one of her favorite pastimes; there were too many choices; blue was "in," then it wasn't; skirts were pencil thin, then flouncy; ditto with blouses and jackets and dresses: Who knew what to choose when designers and manufacturers seemed in such a state of flux?

"You're certain King Wenstarin Farms is insured by the Dartmouth Group?" she asked as she edged her feet back off the desk and hid them under her chair.

"Oh, please, dear girl, there is nothing I don't know when it comes to Newcastle's idle rich. Of course Papa Collins-that would be Todd-has worked hard for his filthy lucre, as did his father before him . . . although one might say that importing Irish whiskey during the early twenties at the height of the Volstead Act was frowned upon by some, most notably the FBI and that dear dead man, J. Edgar Hoover."

Belle bolted up straight in her seat. "You mean Collins's dad was a bootlegger? King Wenstarin Irish Whiskey? That was bootlegged?"

Kerr rolled his eyes. "I think I like the way you p.r.o.nounced that nasty word more than I liked the way you said fire fire. Yes, mia Bella, mia Bella, old man Collins was not in the most legitimate of trades. Where have you spent your life, my child? Everyone knows King Wenstarin started out as illegal hooch and that both of Todd Collins's uncles evaporated from the face of the earth when they tried to expand their market share by moving their old man Collins was not in the most legitimate of trades. Where have you spent your life, my child? Everyone knows King Wenstarin started out as illegal hooch and that both of Todd Collins's uncles evaporated from the face of the earth when they tried to expand their market share by moving their product product from Boston to New York. Of course that was before Todd was born. After Prohibition, Collins from Boston to New York. Of course that was before Todd was born. After Prohibition, Collins pere, pere, the only member of the family not to have been Tommy-gunned out of the picture, managed to turn the business into a legitimate importer of 'fine' spirits. Then Todd took over King Wenstarin and turned it into the multimillion-dollar corporation it is today." the only member of the family not to have been Tommy-gunned out of the picture, managed to turn the business into a legitimate importer of 'fine' spirits. Then Todd took over King Wenstarin and turned it into the multimillion-dollar corporation it is today."

Belle sighed. "Multimillion dollar . . . I like the ring of that. I wish Rosco and I could work our bank account in that direction." I like the ring of that. I wish Rosco and I could work our bank account in that direction."

"Be careful what you wish for, dear child. Todd's offspring are not to be admired or imitated. The three are nothing but a bunch of dilettantes. All they know about money is how to spend it, and spend it, and spend it. The eldest daughter, that would be the oft-married Fiona, used to pal around with your former compet.i.tor, Thompson Briephs, so I imagine your friend Sara might provide some pithy insights into the woman."

Belle nodded. Thompson Briephs had been the crossword editor at the Herald Herald before he was murdered a few years back. It was the case that had introduced Belle to the man who would become her husband, and had also cemented a lasting friendship with Thompson's octogenarian mother, Sara Crane Briephs, a woman Belle had come to view as her surrogate grandmother. before he was murdered a few years back. It was the case that had introduced Belle to the man who would become her husband, and had also cemented a lasting friendship with Thompson's octogenarian mother, Sara Crane Briephs, a woman Belle had come to view as her surrogate grandmother.

"Wait," she said, suddenly crinkling her brow, "You mean Fiona Collins and Thompson Briephs were an item? Before he died?"

"Well, dear girl, he wouldn't have made much of an item, item, as you put it, as you put it, after after he was dead and gone, now would he? The Collins tots are a wild bunch, but I think necrophilia might be pushing the envelope, even for them." he was dead and gone, now would he? The Collins tots are a wild bunch, but I think necrophilia might be pushing the envelope, even for them."

"Is their mother still around?"

"Around? Yes, but discarded long ago. You know how such familial relationships work in the moneyed set, my angel. Toddie has his millions, then reaches the fine old age of fifty-plus and starts shopping for a trophy wife. Long-suffering mother of his offspring is unceremoniously shown the exit, and Miss Twentysomething moves into the Big House instead. That first little bride took Mr. Todd for a pretty penny and skedaddled to Miami's South Beach and a stable of Cuban houseboys-or so I hear. Todd is now on wifey number three, a comely la.s.s named Ryan. Of course, even she will fade in time. It's now two years or so post-white-gown-and-lace-veil. So I've been told that at the age of thirty-seven, she's interviewing only the best of cosmetic surgeons." Kerr clasped the palms of his hands to his cheeks. "I'm sorry. Was that naughty of me? Oh, well . . . But then again, Toddie-pie is presently seventy-four. Perchance he has lost his wandering eye and will keep Mistress Ryan for the duration. Only time will tell." Yes, but discarded long ago. You know how such familial relationships work in the moneyed set, my angel. Toddie has his millions, then reaches the fine old age of fifty-plus and starts shopping for a trophy wife. Long-suffering mother of his offspring is unceremoniously shown the exit, and Miss Twentysomething moves into the Big House instead. That first little bride took Mr. Todd for a pretty penny and skedaddled to Miami's South Beach and a stable of Cuban houseboys-or so I hear. Todd is now on wifey number three, a comely la.s.s named Ryan. Of course, even she will fade in time. It's now two years or so post-white-gown-and-lace-veil. So I've been told that at the age of thirty-seven, she's interviewing only the best of cosmetic surgeons." Kerr clasped the palms of his hands to his cheeks. "I'm sorry. Was that naughty of me? Oh, well . . . But then again, Toddie-pie is presently seventy-four. Perchance he has lost his wandering eye and will keep Mistress Ryan for the duration. Only time will tell."

"It's kind of odd," Belle said as she pointed to the manila envelope in her out-box, "but one of the puzzles I drew up for next week has a horse theme. Not show horses like the ones at King Wenstarin Farms, but race horses. I had a wonderful time researching the names . . . famous Kentucky Derby winners and champions who went on to take the Triple Crown. For instance, Omaha, who won it in 1935. Nowadays, the clue would be the city or the famous beach, but back then-"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Kerr interrupted as he waved a cautionary index finger at Belle. "I'd be careful there if I were you, Bellisima. Bellisima. If some If some evildoer, evildoer, to borrow a term, is out to wreak havoc on King Wenstarin, and the horse trade in general, you certainly don't want to join the throng. Guilt by a.s.sociation? It wouldn't be the first time you've gotten your tush mixed up with the wrong crowd because of those infernal puzzles of yours." to borrow a term, is out to wreak havoc on King Wenstarin, and the horse trade in general, you certainly don't want to join the throng. Guilt by a.s.sociation? It wouldn't be the first time you've gotten your tush mixed up with the wrong crowd because of those infernal puzzles of yours."