Death on the Diagonal (14 page)

“Dear brother sounds as if he’s just a wee bit hungover this morning, Daddy,” Fiona observed in a voice that oozed both oil and venom.

“Can it, Fee! Like you’re Miss Perfect, you who’s screwing—”

“Excuse me? Are you talking home repair once again, Chipper?” was the fierce retort. “Because you know I don’t have a clue when it comes to—”

“Home repair! That’s a laugh. Home
wreck
is more like it.” He forced a remembered laugh.

“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
take over the house?
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.

“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
, between these walls. On
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 compassion.

“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 glass.

“Without the vodka this time,” was Fiona’s acid addition to the request.

“That’s what a
screw
driver 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,
she thought,
they’re too cold-blooded for this lot. Maybe tigers is a more apt analogy. And one of them is a killer.

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
, 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
—to write an obituary on Madame Ryan Collins! An obit, for Heaven’s sake, Dear
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 duchesses?” Bartholomew asked them, bending down to pat each in turn. “My Winston sends his fondest regards. At least, I assume 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.
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
, or so she stated,” and how she’d “insisted that the
brutish
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
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
? 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
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 recumbent 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.
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
, 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
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
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
, I’m a gossip columnist; I don’t require evidence!”

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 Saturdays 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 button. The headlights flashed, and the horn sounded two short beeps. The remote remained clutched in her hand with a finger poised on the panic button. “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.