Death on the Diagonal Part 9

"Oh, how clever of you, Chipper. The bottle of whatever you're currently enjoying certainly elevates your wicked wit. I'm sure your little girlfriend heartily agrees, don't you, Angel, honey?"

But before a much chagrined Angel could reply or even move away from Chip's unsteady shadow, Heather ordered a brusque, "Leave her alone, Fee."

"What? And forsake our habitual, happy-family fun and games just because she's a fish out of water? Oooh, sorry about that. I didn't mean to imply you were as teeny-tiny as an angelfish."

"Leave her out of this," Heather repeated in a growl, and Fiona spun on her.

"Where do you get off, telling me what to do? You with your banker husband and your safe and predictable marriage. No wonder you spend all your time down in the stables-"

"Fiona. Heather." Todd's commanding voice broke in. "Girls. Stop. This isn't an easy time for any of us. Sniping only makes it worse. Now, I want you to apologize to one another. And to Chip and Angel, too."

But the "girls," instead of being mortified by this parental reprimand, simply glared at their father with a sullen rebellion usually reserved for teenagers. And who's fault is it that we're gathered here while a homicide detective and his prying team And who's fault is it that we're gathered here while a homicide detective and his prying team take over the house? take over the house? their lowering glances seemed to demand. their lowering glances seemed to demand. You're the one who married Ryan in the first place. You're the one who gave us a "stepmom" younger than we are. You're the one who cast us aside. You're the one who married Ryan in the first place. You're the one who gave us a "stepmom" younger than we are. You're the one who cast us aside.

"Pop's right," Chip added, a beat too late; then he lurched into Angel and gave her a hearty and wobbly squeeze, which caused her to rock back on her heels and nearly fall.

Out of the corner of her eye, Belle saw Heather share a meaningful look with Fiona; then their heads swiveled in unison toward Angel, both women steadily observing the shoes that had caused their brother's latest squeeze to lose her balance. They were sling-back, fire-engine-red stilettos: footwear woefully inadequate for tromping around a horse farm. The sisters' eyebrows raised in smug disapproval, while Angel-and then a still-swaying Chip-registered their sneers.

"How long do we have to sit around here, anyway?" he groused.

"It's my understanding," was Michael Palamountain's didactic response, "that we're expected to remain in situ until Detective Lever has had the opportunity to speak with all of us."

Chip replied with an elongated groan. "In situ," he muttered, dragging out the letters. "What an insight. May I cite your excellent use of Latin, Michael? And why stop there, old boy? Why not add intra muros intra muros, between these walls. On inter nos inter nos, between ourselves. Which we all know is how Daddy likes to keep things."

But before anyone could reply to this barb, another voice broke in. "Anything you need, Mr. C?"

The speaker who'd just entered the room through a nearly invisible service door had a soft southern drawl and a similarly gentle air. "Coffee or juice . . . or some sweet rolls, maybe? Or I could make up a batch of those biscuits you're so fond of."

"Ah, Kelly, I didn't know you were still here," Todd said. "I thought you were going to the hospital to be with your husband." Genuine concern echoed through the tone.

"I couldn't leave you all like this, Mr. C. Not with what's happened. I'll get up there later. Don't you worry. Anyway, Orlando'll understand. I know he will." Kelly gave him an uneasy smile. "Besides, I'm not altogether sure he even recognizes me."

"But he is improving, right?" Fiona asked, although her voice lacked both warmth and compa.s.sion.

"He's doing better, thanks. That's what they're all tellin' me, anyway . . . C'mon now, who wants me to fetch something from the kitchen? It's the least I can do, and I sure don't enjoy rattling around out there on my lonesome while the police prowl hither and yon poking their noses into everything. C'mon gang. Speak up. Your wish is my command, as they say. How about it? You Fiona? Or Michael? Heather? Jack? Mr. C.-?"

"I could use a refill on this O.J." Chip held out an empty gla.s.s.

"Without the vodka this time," was Fiona's acid addition to the request.

"That's what a screw screwdriver is, sister dearest-or maybe you need Mr-Fix-It there to tell you," her brother hissed while Todd's voice thundered out: "I won't have it, I tell you! All this backbiting and sniping . . . My wife is lying up there dead at this very moment. Attacked. Stabbed! Murdered in this very house! And not one of you has the courtesy to remember that fact, or to consider what my feelings might be." Then his angry speech suddenly faltered, and his shoulders slumped; and Belle watched the commanding and patriarchal figure diminish into that of an old and griefstricken man. Not vipers, Not vipers, she thought, she thought, they're too cold-blooded for this lot. Maybe tigers is a more apt a.n.a.logy. And one of them is a killer. they're too cold-blooded for this lot. Maybe tigers is a more apt a.n.a.logy. And one of them is a killer.

CHAPTER 15.

" 'He who rides a tiger,' as the Chinese proverb so aptly warns us, 'is afraid to dismount.' " The statement was delivered by Bartholomew Kerr as he stood on Belle and Rosco's front steps. "Of course, Sir Winston Churchill applied the same adage to the world's dictators in his sterling work While England Slept While England Slept, and then concluded with a customarily pithy: 'And the tigers are getting hungry.' "

Bartholomew paused in his monologue only long enough to add a peeved, "I simply cannot believe I'm being asked-strike that: ordered ordered-to write an obituary on Madame Ryan Collins! An obit, for Heaven's sake, Dear Bella Bella! As if I were no more than a snotty-nosed copyboy or a drooling features editor being put out to pasture." He groaned in abundant self-pity. "Aren't you even going to ask me in for a spot of morning sustenance? Sorry, I didn't call in advance, and all that, but the dictator we call our beloved editor in chief is riding my striped and tortured back. Why else would I be up and about at the unholy hour of eight-thirty in the morning?"

Ordinarily, Belle would have happily invited Bartholomew in for a cup of his favorite jasmine tea, but she had a sense that this visit was less social than he was pretending. She'd seen Bartholomew Kerr in story-hunting mode many times before, and this was definitely one of those moments.

"Your darling hubby's not around perchance, is he?"

Belle shook her head as she opened the door-which set off a ferocious amount of yapping from the two dogs, who raced around the corner and threw themselves at their diminutive friend.

"And how are the dear d.u.c.h.esses?" Bartholomew asked them, bending down to pat each in turn. "My Winston sends his fondest regards. At least, I a.s.sume he does. Bulldogs are reticent creatures. But then, of course, they're English. Need I say more?" Then in typical Bartholomew fashion, the little man skipped back to his previous subject.

"I'll wager Rosco might be out at King Wenstarin Farms. A return jaunt to supplement yesterday's sojourn?"

"How did you know we were there yesterday?" In a flash, Belle recognized her mistake. If Bartholomew's question were no more than a fishing expedition, she'd obviously taken the bait.

He laughed in reply. "Don't worry, Bella-bella. Bella-bella. I already knew you were on-site with Big Al et alia. A wee birdie named Estelle blabbed. It seems her confrere is not one of your husband's staunchest admirers. Though dear Estelle seems a bit infatuated with your hubby's body; purely from a medical standpoint, I would hope. So, tea and sympathy for a poor wight consigned to write an obituary of a vapid vamp . . . ? What do you say?" I already knew you were on-site with Big Al et alia. A wee birdie named Estelle blabbed. It seems her confrere is not one of your husband's staunchest admirers. Though dear Estelle seems a bit infatuated with your hubby's body; purely from a medical standpoint, I would hope. So, tea and sympathy for a poor wight consigned to write an obituary of a vapid vamp . . . ? What do you say?"

While Belle prepared Bartholomew's jasmine tea, he rambled on about Ryan Collins: how her marriage to Todd had "wrought enormous changes in the manse," how "she sacked all the live-in help and hired day laborers-for a little privacy privacy, or so she stated," and how she'd "insisted that the brutish brutish Jack Curry be reinstated in the Wenstarin Stable." Jack Curry be reinstated in the Wenstarin Stable."

"The conclusion to such activities is quite obvious, I'm afraid, Belle," he observed as he delicately sipped the fragrant brew his hostess had set before him. "Our tragically demised Ryan was having an affair with Jack before she met Daddy Big-Bucks. When she set herself up as mistress of the Collins domain, she forced her besotted bridegroom to reinstall Curry in his former role-while ridding herself of any pesky staff who'd spot any questionable nocturnal comings and goings . . . snoring, indeed!" Bartholomew snorted. "Most likely the guest bedroom was the lovely Mrs. Collins's normal habitation of an eve; and Todd is too proud or too pigheadedly vain to admit his wife had decided to take her charms elsewhere."

As she listened, Belle began to wonder if there were any any secrets left in Newcastle; and Bartholomew's next question confirmed her suspicions. secrets left in Newcastle; and Bartholomew's next question confirmed her suspicions.

"How's Sara faring with Dr. Arthur? Favorably, I hope. I've been told he's a gentle man as well as a gentleman-unlike others of his staff."

This time Belle was better prepared. "I've only met Dr. Arthur; he seems thoroughly professional."

Bartholomew pointed his sharp nose at her, as if he were sniffing for a fib. "Dame Sara will have to undergo physical therapy, won't she, Bellisima Bellisima? What a bore! All those yaw-ping types urging one on to greater heights of fitness and prowess. Of course, Dame Briephs is a New England original. She enjoys enjoys being hale and hearty-which is precisely why she found her son's friendship with the Collins gang so distasteful. Not that they're a sickly crowd, lord knows-unless you count murder as detrimental to one's health. But then, robust specimens are not always the most stellar examples of clean living, are they?" being hale and hearty-which is precisely why she found her son's friendship with the Collins gang so distasteful. Not that they're a sickly crowd, lord knows-unless you count murder as detrimental to one's health. But then, robust specimens are not always the most stellar examples of clean living, are they?"

"More tea?" Belle asked.

Again, Bartholomew gave her curious stare. "Methinks the lady doth conceal something."

"No, I'm not, Bartholomew. I promise. Rosco and I happened to be invited out to the farm yesterday, that's all. It was pure coincidence that we arrived to find Ryan Collins had been killed."

"No signature crossword puzzles tucked under the rec.u.mbent body, I take it?"

Belle laughed. "Not a one."

"Tell me about Heather's husband, Michael Palamountain," Bartholomew said.

"You're putting the entire family into the obituary?"

"It's background, Bella mia. Bella mia. I like to gather a full spectrum of details before I put pen to paper-or fingertips to keyboard, as the case may be." I like to gather a full spectrum of details before I put pen to paper-or fingertips to keyboard, as the case may be."

"I was in the room for half an hour tops tops, Bartholomew. I can't possibly tell you what he's like."

"Hmmmm . . ." was the thoughtful reply. "How's this for a possible scenario? Palamountain is the farm's banker, which means he handles stud fees, et cetera. High finance, which as we're all painfully aware, can lure the greedy into the naughty land of embezzlement-or mountains mountains of cash, in this case . . . Thus, the aforementioned Ryan learns that her middle-aged stepson-in-law has his proverbial fingers in the till, threatens to of cash, in this case . . . Thus, the aforementioned Ryan learns that her middle-aged stepson-in-law has his proverbial fingers in the till, threatens to finger finger him herself-which leads to her untimely demise. It was a hoof pick, wasn't it, rather than an ice pick? Or, dare I say, an accountant's red pen? Oh, and wait, you being a word couturier, as it were, would appreciate the allusion: Palamountain employs a device normally used on a Palomino." him herself-which leads to her untimely demise. It was a hoof pick, wasn't it, rather than an ice pick? Or, dare I say, an accountant's red pen? Oh, and wait, you being a word couturier, as it were, would appreciate the allusion: Palamountain employs a device normally used on a Palomino."

Belle crossed her arms and laughed again. "You're too much, Bartholomew! Have you ever considered joining Al's homicide unit at NPD?"

"I don't like doughnuts," was his starchy response. Then he added a pensive, "Of course, if Ryan Collins had the goods on our boy, Michael, why didn't she simply tattle to Toddie?"

"I don't think there's any evidence to suggest Heather's husband was pilfering funds from King Wenstarin Farms, Bartholomew."

"Oh, goodness, Bella Bella, I'm a gossip columnist; I don't require evidence!"

CHAPTER 16.

After Al Lever had given him the green light to leave King Wenstarin Farms the previous afternoon, Rosco had driven Belle home so that she could keep her appointment with Sara, and then continued to his office. Once there he'd phoned the Avon-Care rehabilitation clinic, claiming to be Dr. Saul Bownes checking on a patient-one Dawn Davis. The clinic had been good enough to inform him that Ms. Davis had not missed any of her appointments thus far, which had been scheduled for Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sat.u.r.days at 10 A.M. So on this Tuesday morning at ten minutes before ten Rosco found himself sitting in his Jeep in the Avon-Care parking lot on Nathaniel Hawthorne Boulevard waiting for the arrival of a twenty-six-year-old woman, five-foot-five with auburn hair, which Walter Gudgeon described as falling midway down her back-a woman both he and the surgeon had seemed to believe was innocence personified. From Rosco's point of view, however, that word was slated for serious revision.

A woman matching Dawn Davis's physical description pulled into the lot a few minutes later, and Rosco immediately stepped from his Jeep and approached her.

"Excuse me. Are you Ms. Davis?"

She kept her eyes on him as she locked her car with a push of the remote b.u.t.ton. The headlights flashed, and the horn sounded two short beeps. The remote remained clutched in her hand with a finger poised on the panic b.u.t.ton. "Who are you? What do you want?" The tone was challenging, while the "green gold eyes" that Gudgeon had mentioned were anything but "soft"-or even polite. Rosco would have said they looked angry.

He offered her a business card. "My name is Rosco Polycrates. I'm a private investigator."

Dawn glanced at the card but didn't take it. "Anybody can make those up on a computer." She tossed her head in curt dismissal and began to walk away, although she was careful not to completely turn her back on Rosco.

He pulled his Ma.s.sachusetts-issued I.D. from his jacket and opened it for her. "I'm licensed by the Commonwealth, Ms. Davis. I have a few questions for you. I can always return with a police officer, but I suspect that wouldn't be in your best interests."

Dawn stopped and faced him fully. "What's this all about? I haven't done anything wrong."

"Really? You're in remarkably good shape for someone who was operated on just four weeks ago."

"The sling came off after two weeks, just like I was promised," was her belligerent response. "I don't know who you are, or what you want." Again, she began to move away, but she continued to keep her eyes on him.

Rosco kept pace with her. "I'm talking about your supposed kidney transplant."

Dawn spun around. "My what?"

"I've been hired by Walter Gudgeon, Ms. Davis." Rosco studied her face as he spoke, but failed to notice even a flickering of her eyelids when he mentioned the name. He also didn't spot any evidence of the supposedly sweet and gentle person either Gudgeon or Bownes had suggested Dawn Davis was.

"I don't know anybody of that name," she said with a hostile shrug.

"Mr. Gudgeon maintains he gave you $250,000 so that you could have a kidney transplant. He claims he dropped you off at Newcastle Memorial Hospital on September sixth for that purpose-the very day you had your shoulder operation."

Dawn stood frozen for fifteen seconds while she glared at Rosco.

"You are Dawn Davis, aren't you? And you did have rotator-cuff surgery performed by Saul Bownes?"

She didn't reply, but her face puckered in wrath. Then she pointed at irate finger. "I know what you're up to, mister, but if you bother me anymore, I'll I'll be the one going to the police. And if my hospital records were released without my approval, well that's just plain not legal." be the one going to the police. And if my hospital records were released without my approval, well that's just plain not legal."

With that she turned and stomped away into the Avon-Care Center.

CHAPTER 17.

"She's one tough cookie, Sara. That's all I can say," Rosco offered with a shake of the head. "The charming 'girl' who conned Walter Gudgeon was nowhere in evidence this morning. And if she's a con artist, which I'm convinced she is, she's a genuine pro, because I couldn't trip her up in the slightest."

Sara Crane Briephs might have been confined to a wheelchair, and that contraption might now be resting on a magnificent Persian palace carpet in the midst of other singular antiques collected by generations of Crane family members, but in all other ways the doyenne of White Caps-as well as her domain-remained unchanged: an elegant and venerable residence awash in damasks and chintzes and mahogany furniture so polished it all but sparkled.

"Could you have been a trifle harsh in your approach, Rosco dear? Tipped your hand too soon, as they say?" the doughty lady suggested as she watched his wife pour afternoon tea; while Belle, for her part, forced her hands not to tremble. The proscribed ritual of simultaneously holding aloft both a silver pot and a gold-rimmed porcelain cup set in its saucer was one that Sara had only recently relinquished-and only then to the young woman she considered her surrogate granddaughter. However, Belle was keenly aware of her "apprenticeship" stature. There's many a slip twixt the cup and the lip, There's many a slip twixt the cup and the lip, she quoted the ancient epigram in silence, adding a rueful, she quoted the ancient epigram in silence, adding a rueful, and between the cup and the pot-as well as the activities Sara was hardwired to perform, and the meager hostess-type skills I was taught and between the cup and the pot-as well as the activities Sara was hardwired to perform, and the meager hostess-type skills I was taught.

"I'm not saying you were harsh, mind you, Rosco," Sara continued, gazing philosophically at Belle's unsure labors. "But perhaps, there might have been another means of eliciting information from Ms. Davis-before getting her dander up, that is."

Rosco sat back on the Hepplewhite settee. Unlike his wife, he felt genuine ease in Sara's beloved White Caps, but then he wasn't a gentlewoman-in-training.

"I honestly don't know what to make of the situation," he said. "I guess what I expected was a bunch of phony, sugarcoated responses . . . lies that would have given her away. Avon-Care a.s.sured me that Dawn arrived like clockwork for each appointment and was a conscientious and undemanding patient-personality traits that totally jibe with what Saul Bownes suggested."

"I'm certainly glad he's not my physician," Sara piped in. "He sounds like a dreadful person. Sinister, really. Don't you agree, Belle?"

Belle nodded, but kept her focus on the cup she was now transferring to her right hand, while she picked up a plate of lemon slices with her left, proffered both to her hostess, before returning her concentration to pouring herself the third and final cup of tea. Whew! Whew! her brain rejoiced. her brain rejoiced. Thank heaven that's over! And I'll just brain Rosco if he asks for a refill. Thank heaven that's over! And I'll just brain Rosco if he asks for a refill.

While Belle completed her nerve-racking task, Rosco casually grabbed a fluted silver dish filled with homemade macaroons, pa.s.sed them to Sara, then snagged two for himself. The freedom with which he began chomping away earned another grimace from his wife.

"I know Gudgeon only asked me to locate Dawn," he said between heedless and happy mouthfuls, "but I'd really like to get some hard evidence that would prove she's a crook; something that would convince Walter to go to the police and press charges. If he doesn't, she's free to pull the same stunt elsewhere. And that's why I'd like to have your help with this, Sara."

"My help? But I'm just an old lady confined to quarters for the foreseeable future-"

"Not from here . . . but when you become a patient at the Avon-Care facility," Rosco answered.

Sara c.o.c.ked her head to one side. Her blue eyes regarded him with birdlike intensity. "You want me to pilfer Dawn Davis's files!"

Rosco chortled. "Not quite. What I want you to do is strike up a conversation with Ms. Davis-"

"And then get the goods on her!" Sara handed Belle her cup, adding a peremptory, "More tea please, dear. And you needn't fill it quite to the top this time."

Belle glowered at Rosco who remained blissfully unaware of his wife's discomfort.

"It's clear that I can't talk to Ms. Davis again, Sara. If she even spots my Jeep at a distance, she's liable to scream for the cops, which, as I said, Mr. Gudgeon wants to avoid. Clearly she knows this." Rosco reached for another macaroon. "And while we're on the subject, you do realize that everything I've told you must be kept in the strictest confidence? In fact, we wouldn't be having this conversation if I didn't need your aid. And I'm still not altogether comfortable sharing a client's name."

Sara nodded, but the expression held a hint of impatience. "You know I'm the soul of discretion, young man." Then she thought for a moment. "Something about this case of yours rings a bell . . . what is it . . . ? What is it? Oh, I remember now. There was a similar situation down in Florida several winters ago: a young woman preying on elderly widowers. I'm not sure the crime was ever resolved." Sara took her refilled teacup. "Just right his time, dear," she said to Belle before returning to Rosco.

"So, you're proposing I cozy up to Ms. Davis, who doesn't know me from Adam. But if she believes her cover's been blown cover's been blown-that is the correct term, isn't it?-then who's to say she'll even return to complete her scheduled therapy sessions? I wouldn't. I can tell you that. I'd be on the next plane to Belize-" Sara interrupted herself as she abruptly set aside her cup. "Oh, my goodness! Emma forgot the deviled eggs she made you, Belle dear. They're not on the tray, and I didn't notice the oversight until this very second. That's what age does to one. People forget the simplest of things . . . Hand me the silver bell, will you? Our Emma will be so bitterly disappointed if she can't present you with your favorite treat."