Death on the Diagonal Part 12

"Here's the problem I'm having with this telephone business: that phone rings all over King Wenstarin Farms, yet no one else-Jack Curry, Mr. Collins, Chip, Fiona, Heather, Michael Palamountain, none of them-has mentioned hearing it shortly before the fire broke out. How do you explain that?"

"Okay, maybe it wasn't the phone, maybe it was the intercom. I told you my mind's real blurry. I only remember little bits and pieces. And then not all the time."

"The intercom is a speaker phone; there's no receiver to reach for."

"There's a b.u.t.ton you have to push in order to talk. You hear a voice, but you can't answer without depressing the talk b.u.t.ton. Maybe I was reaching for that . . . yeah, I'm sure I was. It wasn't the phone at all."

Rosco stopped by the apartment door and turned toward Orlando. "Okay, now we're getting somewhere. And whose voice was so important that you spun around-triggering the events that produced the fire?"

Polk seemed to freeze. He stood in that awkward posture for a long moment, then finally whispered, "I don't . . . remember."

Rosco reached for the doork.n.o.b and flung open the door. Standing there was Heather Collins, who all but tumbled into the room.

"Oh," she said as she recovered her composure, "I was looking for Orlando. Ah . . . that . . . spare saddle of mine? The Crosby? Do you know where it is?"

Rosco smiled and held up his hands. "Don't mind me. I was just leaving."

CHAPTER 21.

As Rosco drove home, he left a message on Clint Mize's voice mail indicating he had real suspicions that there were serious irregularities concerning the blaze and suggesting that the Dartmouth Group delay payment until he completed his investigation. As far as Rosco was concerned, Orlando Polk was protecting someone, but he couldn't tell whom, or why, for that matter. He ended the call with, "Give me five more days, max; I'll have some answers."

He walked through his front door shortly before six that evening. Belle emerged from the kitchen and hurried toward him, faxes in hand, although she was no match for Kit and Gabby, who reached him in half the time, jumping and yipping, their short tails wagging out of control. Rosco walked to the center of the living room rug, flopped down on his back, and the two four-legged members of the household and its two-legged male resident began rolling around like tiger cubs freed into the wild.

Belle watched this lunacy for about a minute, then observed a sardonic, "I hate to interrupt your lovefest, but I think you might want to take a look at these crosswords."

Rosco shook himself free of the dogs and stood. The "girls" continued to grapple with one another in his absence, so he walked toward Belle and made an attempt to give her a kiss. She stepped to the side.

"What? What's wrong?" he said.

Belle reached up and brushed a few of Kit's hairs from his eyebrows. "I think I can wait on the smooching for a bit. Is that a new cologne you're wearing? Eau-de-road-apple?"

"Hey, I just came from a horse farm. What do you want?"

"Well, it certainly seems popular with the canine set. Perhaps you could patent it and market it to pet shops?"

He smiled, blew her a kiss, and gave her a rundown of his conversation with Orlando Polk, concluding with, "So, we've got ourselves a lying barn manager and a couple of suspicious crosswords? Do we know where they came from?"

"No. That's the weird thing." She handed him the two sheets of paper. "I thought return phone info was always printed at the top of a fax. It has been with every other one you or I have received."

"That's because they were transmitted by honest folk." Rosco examined the paper and began walking toward Belle's office. She followed him as he added, "The information that appears in the header of most faxes is programmed into the sending machine by the owner-just like we did with ours when we bought it. If you don't enter that data, or if you delete it, nothing appears at the other end." When he reached the machine he lifted the receiver. "Have you called out on this line since the message came in?"

"No."

"And no other fax has arrived since?"

Belle shook her head. "No."

"Good. Then as long as this crossword wasn't sent from an unlisted telephone account, we should still be able to access the source number."

Rosco tapped *69 into the keypad and waited. He then smiled, grabbed a pen from Belle's desk, and jotted down a telephone number dictated by an automated voice. "Bingo," he said as he showed it to Belle. "Recognize it?"

Belle thought for a moment. "No . . . do you?"

Rosco stared at the numbers. "Not that I can recall. We can go on-line and do a reverse lookup. But let's think about this for a minute." He dropped down into a black-and-white canvas deck chair and began scanning the puzzles. "Clearly, both were constructed by the same person; the graph paper is marked out in a similar manner, and the handwriting looks the same. Other than that, I don't see what's gotten you all hot under the collar."

Belle stepped behind him and leaned over his shoulder. Again he tried for a kiss, but she put the kibosh on it. "No way, buddy, not until you hit the showers." Then she pointed at the "Hitchc.o.c.k" puzzle. "Obviously, the real Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k went to the Family Plot Family Plot years ago, so our constructor chose the name to get my attention-" years ago, so our constructor chose the name to get my attention-"

"Which worked."

"Correcto. And it also inspired me to resurrect the first illegitimate crossword . . . which took a bit of searching, because I'd already relegated it to the recycling bin-"

"Proving you shouldn't be too hasty when it comes to cleaning up the house," he said facetiously.

"Hardy har har."

"Hey, did I say I liked the squeaky-clean look? I'm the person covered in dog fur, remember?" Rosco studied the puzzles again. "Okay . . . what else can you tell me about these two word games?"

"Both employ a theme: song t.i.tles in the first, movies in the second-"

"Well, that's hardly a big red arrow, saying, 'Solve me! I know who dunnit!' "

"Come on, Rosco, BLAZING SADDLES? How obvious is that? Does someone need to hit you over the head?"

He raised an eyebrow. "As in Mr. Polk's accident?"

"Hmmmm . . ." was Belle musing response while Rosco gave an indulgent chuckle.

"Okay, I'll bite. But the t.i.tle is 'To Catch a Thief,' not 'To Catch an Arsonist.' And here in the middle, at 38-Across, you've got DAWN OF THE DEAD-which could refer to the same DAWN who's currently cozying up to Sara and has ripped Gudgeon off for a quarter mil. We also have a DEAD Ryan Collins . . . So, how do we know what crime these crosswords apply to-if they're connected to anything other than each other?"

"Todd Collins's wife was killed after after the first crossword was transmitted, so my hunch is that the puzzles have nothing to do with her death. However, I do believe the constructor is trying to tell us that Chip started the barn fire." the first crossword was transmitted, so my hunch is that the puzzles have nothing to do with her death. However, I do believe the constructor is trying to tell us that Chip started the barn fire."

Rosco smiled. "I take it you're drawing that rather far-fetched conclusion from BLAZING SADDLES and GOODBYE MR. CHIPS?"

Belle nodded energetically. "And there's this," she announced as she pointed to the first puzzle. "HORSE WITH NO NAME. When Bartholomew was here he mentioned a country pub called The Horse With No Name. It's not far from King Wenstarin Farms. Supposedly, all the riding set hangs out there."

"Including Chip Collins . . ." was Rosco's slow and pensive response.

"What a smart guy."

"And what about DAWN Davis?"

"I'm a.s.suming the reference is a fluke. Just like MIA being the solution to 3-Down in the second puzzle, or ILSA appearing at 4-Down in the first. Besides, DAWN relates to death in this instance, rather than financial chicanery."

Rosco nodded, but didn't speak for a moment. "I know exactly where Bartholomew's pub is. It might be a good time for me to have a little chat with the Chip off the old block." He glanced up at Belle. "This is all hush-hush, but Al considers young Mr. Collins a prime suspect with regard to his stepmother's murder. He asked me to ostensibly question Chip regarding the fire, but also do some probing of his relationship with Ryan. I think I'll swing by The Horse With No Name tomorrow at lunchtime. If I can catch him with a few beers in his belly, it may loosen his tongue."

"Well, I certainly don't want to be accused of spreading rumors," was Belle's own facetious reply, "but Bartholomew suggested that Chip and Ryan had a little fling-which is pretty darn sleazy."

"This is interesting," Rosco said as he pointed to 23-Across in the Hitchc.o.c.k puzzle. "One of the horses I saw when I went to interview Orlando today was named FLASHDANCE."

This time, it was Belle who paused in thought. "Do you think the barn manager's our mystery constructor?"

Rosco laughed. "Not unless this fax number turns out to be Newcastle Memorial Hospital, which is where he was when the first crossword appeared. He was also in a semicomatose state."

"Hmmmm," Belle said as she strolled over to her computer and turned it on. "I wonder who is creating these . . . and why he or she won't come forward? Any guesses?"

"Not a one. Although, I did see both Heather and FLASHDANCE in the same barn this morning. And her behavior-the person, not the horse-seemed more than a little flighty."

Belle was about to make a smart-aleck comment about disco queens and equestriennes when her computer screen lit up. "Do you want to do this reverse lookup thing? I'm not sure how it works."

"Sure." Rosco crossed over and sat behind her computer. "What's this backgammon icon?"

"Don't worry about it."

He clicked on the icon.

"Leave it alone, Rosco."

"What? This is what you do all day? Play on-line backgammon?"

"I don't play all all day. I just gets my mind off crossword puzzles for a little while. This is why I don't let you near my computer. You start snooping around." day. I just gets my mind off crossword puzzles for a little while. This is why I don't let you near my computer. You start snooping around."

"Man . . . just when you think you know someone . . . Backgammon, huh? You know we could play together-in real life, I mean?"

"What, and risk you winning? You know how fiercely compet.i.tive I am. This way if I lose, I remain completely anonymous."

Rosco chortled. "Okay . . . here it is; reverse lookup. Read that phone number to me, will you?"

Belle read it, and Rosco entered the numbers on the screen. "Ho, ho, ho," he said as the information came up. "Look what we have here."

Belle leaned over his shoulder. "Wow, you mean these crosswords were faxed from the Dew Drop Inn?"

"It looks that way."

"But the place's latest 'rebirth' into a 'luxury resort and spa' never got off the ground. It's been boarded up for over a year-not that too many 'renovations' were accomplished."

"Well, the telephone line must still be hot." He reached for Belle's desk phone, dialed the number, and let it ring ten times before hanging up. "Interesting; no disconnect message, but no fax squeal either. I guess the investment group that bought the inn is still hoping to accomplish their plans. Although given the fact that the old place has undergone a bunch of failed attempts at rehab over the years, things don't look promising." Rosco paused. "Periwinkle Partners, I think that's the latest group to own it."

"What?" Belle said as she turned to face him.

"Periwinkle Partners. Those are the investment folks who bought the Dew Drop Inn."

"But that's who Michael Palamountain works with when he's not dealing with the horse farm. He's CFO of Periwinkle Partners. Bartholomew told me."

"I imagine it must be true then. Mr. Kerr prides himself on getting his info directly from the horse's mouth."

Belle made a face. "You're unrepentant, you know that?" Then she added a perplexed, "But if Palamountain is the one sending these puzzles, does that make him innocent? Or guilty?"

"And therefore the poor penitent Palamountain of Periwinkle Partners?"

"Just stop right this minute."

"Or Michael, the misguided and misbehaving millionaire?"

"Rosco!"

He was silent for a moment, only. "And where does Heather fit into the scheme?"

CHAPTER 22.

In a kill-two-birds-with-one-stone concept, Rosco had originally hoped to take Kit and Gabby for an early morning run in the large park adjacent to the deserted Dew Drop Inn, while at the same time checking the old establishment's phone lines. However, a steady downpour of unpleasantly cold rain greeted the threesome as they stepped out onto their porch. For a full five minutes, human and canines watched the wet stuff tumble from the sky in buckets. The waiting Jeep looked many sodden miles away. Then Rosco adjusted his plans, retrieved an umbrella, and hooked up their leashes.

"Sorry girls, no park today," he said. And the three plodded out into the elements to return eight minutes later drenched to the core. He toweled off the dogs, fed them, wolfed down a bowl of granola, kissed Belle good-bye, and drove over to the Dew Drop Inn alone. If Kit and Gabby intuited where he was heading, they didn't seem to mind. They gave him a Have fun, big guy Have fun, big guy look and curled up in Belle's office. look and curled up in Belle's office.

Because the inn's current owners had forsaken it the previous year, the rambling structure was beginning to again show serious signs of neglect. Several of the new windows had broken panes; the wide veranda facing both the sea and overgrown gardens was piled with the detritus of New England storms: leaves, twigs, and sand blown up from the dunes and bluffs overlooking Buzzard's Bay, while the salt of ocean-splashed spray had turned what paint remained on the woodwork and shutters into a flaking and moldering mess that all but screamed Dry rot! Dry rot! and and Save me before I crumble completely! Save me before I crumble completely!

Rosco considered the series of investors the romantic old place had inspired over the years: all of them hoping to restore the inn and its spectacular grounds into a viable business-and all of them failing and quietly decamping. Now it was apparently Periwinkle Partners' chance to return the hotel to its former glory; however, leaving the structure to lie fallow hadn't helped their cause.

The locks, like most older hotel locks, weren't sophisticated, and Rosco had little difficulty bypa.s.sing them. He'd worn jeans and work boots and had a telephone repairman's tool belt strapped to his waist. He entered the inn by way of the back kitchen door. Worn and dented pots and pans still hung from large iron hooks, and the kitchen utensils appeared undisturbed since the last meal had been prepared circa 1960. A layer of dust covered everything, and a number of window screens had collapsed onto the countertops. He walked through the kitchen and large formal dining room and down a long corridor of guest rooms where he jimmied one of the room locks, entered, and tested the phone line. It was dead.

Rosco repeated the process in a half dozen more rooms, and the same held true: all the lines had been disconnected. He crossed through the main lobby and stepped behind the reception desk. The reservation book was still open to the last day of operations as if awaiting the arrival of a ghostly visitor, and a doorway to the rear was still marked with a sign reading MANAGER. He glanced at the k.n.o.b. The door had been forced, and the wood splintered at the jamb as though a crowbar had pried it apart. The damage was obviously recent.

He nudged open the door, stepped inside, and tested the phone line. Although it was hot, there was no fax machine in sight, leading Rosco to surmise that whoever had sent Belle the crosswords had provided their own machine. If it was Michael Palamountain, If it was Michael Palamountain, his thoughts continued, his thoughts continued, he would have had a key. On the other hand, if he wanted to make the situation appear to be an ordinary break-in, this is the ruse he might have chosen. he would have had a key. On the other hand, if he wanted to make the situation appear to be an ordinary break-in, this is the ruse he might have chosen. Rosco stood studying the room. Nothing else seemed disturbed. No desk drawers had been disturbed, no cupboards ransacked. All evidence pointed toward a burglar too disappointed to hunt further. Rosco stood studying the room. Nothing else seemed disturbed. No desk drawers had been disturbed, no cupboards ransacked. All evidence pointed toward a burglar too disappointed to hunt further.

Rosco returned to his Jeep, but as he left the inn's empty parking lot he noticed Al Lever's "unmarked" brown police cruiser resting on the far side of the dog area. Rosco drove around the park, stopping beside the cruiser so that the two driver-side windows were inches apart. He slid his window open, and Al lowered his. A plume of cigarette smoke escaped into the dripping morning air. Al's dog, Skippy, jumped around in the backseat anxiously.

"Looks like Skippy has some business to attend to," Rosco observed.

"It's raining like h.e.l.l," was Al's laconic reply. "Where's Kit and Gabby?"

"Hey, I listen to the weather reports," Rosco lied. "Who didn't know it was going to rain all day? I left them at home. As far as I know they're playing backgammon right now."

"Yeah? Then what're you doing all the way out here if you don't have any dogs with you?"

Seeing no need to keep Al in the dark, Ros...o...b..iefed him on his reasons for being at the inn, as well as everything else he'd learned during the past few days. Al in turn brought Rosco up to date on his investigation into Ryan Collins's homicide. One: The only fingerprints found on the murder weapon belonged to Orlando Polk, and the hoof pick had a B burned into the handle, indicating it came from stable B. However, as everyone knew, the barn manager was confirmed to have been at Newcastle Memorial at the time of the killing, which provided him with an airtight alibi. And two: According to Abe Jones's report, there were no out-of-place fingerprints at the crime scene. Lever viewed the discoveries as confirmation of his own suspicions-that the killer was probably one of Todd Collins's offspring. "Whoever bludgeoned Ryan Collins was angry as h.e.l.l," he concluded. "But like they say, being stiffed out of a large inheritance can produce a seriously bad heir day."

Rosco grimaced at the play on words. "Who says that, Al-besides you, I mean?"