by Nero Blanc
“I’ll have a grilled cheese sandwich with fries and coleslaw,” was Rosco’s evasive reply. “What about you, Belle?”
Belle looked at Martha. “Rosco’s refusing to tell us who his new client is or what he—or she—wants.”
“Tut, tut, tut, it’s not nice to keep secrets from your wife, buttercup. It may come back to haunt you in the bedroom later on this evening.” Martha winked at Rosco, then asked Belle, “What’ll it be, blondie?”
“I’ll have the waffles with vanilla ice cream and strawberries, syrup on the side.”
“Coming right up.”
Martha moved off, and Lever shook his head at Belle’s lunch choice. “Do you know what I’d look like if I ate like you?” He then pointed a finger at Jones. “And don’t even think of answering that question, wise-a—” Al was interrupted by the ringing of Rosco’s cell phone.
Rosco glanced down at the caller ID readout and stood to leave the table. “I should take this.”
“Who is it?” Belle asked.
“Clint Mize over at the Dartmouth Group.”
CHAPTER
5
“Why won’t you tell me?” Belle protested as she studied the meatloaf ingredients lying in a stainless-steel bowl on the kitchen countertop. Being “culinarily challenged,” this was the first time she’d ventured into such haute cuisine since her first dinner with Rosco. On that occasion she’d misinterpreted the recipe, substituting hot red-pepper flakes for chopped red bell peppers. To say that the result was spicy would have been an understatement. Just to be certain history didn’t repeat itself, Rosco sat on a stool nearby flipping the plastic jar of pepper flakes in his hand as he watched his wife blend together ground veal, pork, beef, chopped green and red bell peppers, and an assortment of nonlethal spices such as oregano and basil. The couple’s two dogs, Kit and Gabby, were also showing a great deal of interest in Belle’s labors. Kit, a brown and black Lab-shepherd mix, politely waited at her side, on the off-chance that some morsel might escape the bowl. Gabby, a gray terrier-poodle blend, took a more aggressive attitude, placing her front paws on the counter’s edge and voicing low, guttural groans intended to solicit direct handouts.
“Gabby, get down,” Belle said without much conviction. She waved her wooden spoon at the dog, but Gabby only leaped up in an attempt to grab it from her.
“Okay, Gabsters, that’s enough, beat it.” Rosco nudged at the determined creature with the tip of his shoe, and she proceeded to flop down on the floor beside Kit, the picture of mischief, wounded pride, and woe.
“Maybe we should have a nice, cozy fire tonight,” he added, wondering if the inspiration had come from the events at King Wenstarin Farms or the jar of pepper flakes in his hand. “What do you think? First one of the season . . . a little romance to heat things up?”
“Don’t change the subject,” was Belle’s airy reply. “Why won’t you tell me who you’re working for? And what you’re doing? Don’t you trust me?” Although the tone was half-teasing, she was dying to know. Belle was a determinedly inquisitive person, and patience had never been her strong suit.
“We’ve been through this, Belle. If a client asks me not to reveal their problems, I have to honor the request. It’s as simple as that.”
“I don’t think that applies to your wife. Especially this wife, who is the very soul of discretion. Besides, maybe I can help. What good is a subcontractor if I can’t throw my two cents in? I might even know your client. I mean, how big is Newcastle?”
Rosco laughed. “All the more reason why you shouldn’t be involved.”
“You mean I’ve already met this person? Hand me those pepper flakes, will you?”
“Not on your life. I’m not letting you anywhere near these. And no, you and my client have never met.”
“Hmmmm . . . At the risk of repeating myself, how can you be so certain I don’t know him?”
“Him? Did I say it was a he?”
“It’s a woman? You’re working with a woman? Rosco, you can’t sit here and tell me you’re secretly meeting with another,” she put on a Bogart accent, “gorgeous dame, and expect me to take it lying down.”
He hopped off the stool, stood behind Belle, and put his arms around her waist. But when he tried to kiss the back of her neck, she moved her head to the side. “It’s not a woman. I promise,” he lamented.
“I don’t believe you. And if you don’t tell me exactly who she is, I’m not going to share all the juicy stuff Bartholomew Kerr told me about the Collins family.”
“I doubt that. You’re desperate to blab. Look at your face.”
“Not a word, I swear. Give me those pepper flakes, you cretin.”
He reluctantly handed her the jar. “Go easy. I think one or two will be plenty.” Then he crossed to the refrigerator. “Do you want a glass of wine?”
Belle nodded, then removed the cap from the jar and began shaking flakes through the perforated lid. It was clear her mind wasn’t on her task. “Who is she?”
“It’s not a woman.” He turned to face her. “Hey, that’s enough . . .”
“Ahhh . . .” she almost screamed. “Who put the lid on so loosely?”
Rosco shook his head and walked to his wife’s side. He held a bottle of white wine in his hand as he looked down at the mixing bowl. The lid had dislodged, and the entire jar of pepper flakes was now sat scattered across the meatloaf ’s surface.
“I can’t believe I did that,” Belle groaned.
“We can go out for dinner.”
“No, no, I can fix this. Where’s the vacuum cleaner?”
“You can’t vacuum a meatloaf, Belle.”
“It’ll work just fine. I’ll use that pointy little nozzle thingamajig. It’ll just suck the flakes and seeds right through the air—without even touching the food.”
Rosco rolled his eyes, walked off to the hall closet, and returned a moment later carrying a small canister vacuum cleaner. He plugged it into the wall socket and opened the bottle of wine while Belle aimed the vacuum nozzle into the mixing bowl.
“There! Perfect!” she announced triumphantly when she’d finished. “I got almost all of them.”
“What’s your definition of ‘almost’?”
“The meatloaf may still be a little spicy, but who doesn’t like their food nice and zesty?”
“Nobody I know. Well, look at the bright side; we are now completely out of hot red pepper flakes. The odds of history repeating itself anytime in the near future are slim.”
Rosco returned the vacuum cleaner to the closet and then poured them each a glass of wine. He handed one to Belle and lifted his in a toast. “Here’s to my resourceful wife. What would I ever do without her?”
Belle gave him a long and loving kiss. When they parted she said, “That’s exactly the term Bartholomew used for Ryan Collins—resourceful.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning she saw a good thing in Todd and latched on to it. A typical trophy wife, but on the downward slope, according to Bartholomew. It also seems she has a classic evil-stepmother relationship with Todd’s kids.” Belle began to mold her creation into a loaf shape but stopped abruptly. “Oatmeal.”
“Oatmeal?”
“Yes. I forgot. The recipe calls for rolled oats instead of bread crumbs, remember? Do we have any oatmeal?”
“Why would we?”
“From the last time I made this, Rosco! Maybe it’s in the freezer.”
“There’s too much ice cream in the freezer for anything else.”
“No, wait, I know where it is. There’s a cardboard canister of rolled oats in the cabinet behind all that herbal tea your sister gave us last Christmas.”
“No wonder I’ve never seen it. I wondered what happened to that tea.” Rosco opened the cabinet, pushed the tea aside, retrieved the oats, and handed the box to Belle. “How fresh is this stuff?”
“It’s oatmeal, Rosco. It lasts forever. They found some in King Tut’s tomb.”
“You’re
making that up.”
She winked at him. “Maybe.”
“Okay, clarify your meaning of evil stepmother.”
“How about Cinderella? Twenty-plus years ago, Dad dumps the real mother for bride number two, then he proceeds to axe her, and eventually brings in Ryan who happens to be younger than his natural daughters. According to Bartholomew, the eldest Collins daughter, Fiona, is now forty-five; Heather, the next in line, is forty-one—meaning that the only sibling younger than dear step-mama is Todd’s son, Chip, who’s thirty-two compared to Ryan’s thirty-seven. To add insult to injury, the minute she took over the house, she tossed away all photos and other memorabilia that reminded her doting hubby of the past. So, I’d say the Cinderella slipper definitely fits the picture—”
“Except that I thought there were stepsisters in the story . . . Anyway, that sounds like a bit of a generalization, Belle—”
“Ever the innocent male.” She kneaded the meatloaf into shape, placed it on a broiling pan, and smeared steak sauce over the top. Rosco opened the oven, and she slid it in. The dogs followed each action attentively, then sighed mightily as Rosco closed the oven door. It was as if they believed that this was the last glimpse of food they’d be permitted during their brief and tragic lifetimes. “No wonder those kids are messed up,” Belle continued.
“In what way are they messed up?”
“Well, this is from Bartholomew again, so you have to take it with a grain of salt . . .” She stopped and looked around the kitchen.
“What?” Rosco asked.
“Did I put salt in the meatloaf?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I wasn’t watching. Don’t worry about it. We can sprinkle it on later if we need to.”
Belle’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Oh darn . . . I really thought I had this recipe nailed.”
“Well, one less ingredient isn’t bad.”
“I almost forgot the oats, too, Rosco . . .”
“But you didn’t.”
Belle sighed again. “Maybe cooking is a skill that can’t be learned. Maybe it’s a gene you have to be born with, like musical ability or perfect pitch or a good ear for languages.”
“Or ironing and cleaning?”
“Exactly! I’ve never made that connection before. Some people are absolute naturals when it comes to domestic chores; they enjoy vacuuming and washing windows and scrubbing kitchen tiles, but I get bored to tears. Besides, everyone knows that dusting only attracts more dust.”
“Is that science you’re spouting, or the World According to Belle?”
“Smart aleck.” Then Belle returned to her previous subject. “Anyway, Bartholomew told me—”
“That Ryan is hardwired to be a gold digger, that her mothering gene is severely undeveloped, and that the resulting mutant breed is ruining the Collins kids’ lives.”
Belle raised a caustic eyebrow as she regarded her husband. “That wasn’t what I was about to say, but I’ve got to admit it’s an intriguing concept.”
Rosco chortled. “Right. And maybe those pepper flakes are genetically engineered to attack a mixing bowl in huge clumps.”
Belle crossed her arms. “Should I have the feeling you’re not taking me seriously?”
“Never.”
“Never what? That you’re not giving my theories the weight they deserve, or that you are?”
“Whichever choice is going to get me off the hook.”
“Hmmmm.”
“Actually, I’d like to hear more about Bartholomew’s take on the Collins family, since I’m meeting with Clint Mize out there tomorrow. If the fire were purposely started in order to collect insurance money, most likely a family member set it. And if there are darker forces at work—sibling rivalries, for instance, or long-standing resentments, or feelings of parental betrayal—then that information also goes into the mix.”
“Ah-ha!” Belle grinned. “That just goes to show how much I help with your cases. Okay . . . I’ll show you mine, but only if you show me yours first.”
“You’re not suggesting I reveal client confidences?”
“Of course I am.”
The couple strolled into the living room, a treasure trove of eclectic secondhand-store “rescues,” and Belle sat on the couch, while Rosco lit the fire. When he stopped playing Boy Scout, Belle leaned forward. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
She grinned. “Don’t play dumb with me, buster. You’re no good at it. You may be able to pull off that dim-witted-guy stuff with some poor unsuspecting crook, but I’m on to you.”
“I can’t tell you what my client wanted. It’s privileged information.”
“I know. However, as your wife and a subcontractor for the Polycrates Agency, aren’t I entitled to—?”
Rosco raised his hands in a gesture of mock-surrender. “Just tell me why I ever gave you that title.”
“Love?”
He snuggled in beside her, followed immediately by Kit and Gabby, until the couch was full of entwined human and canine bodies. Then he proceeded to outline Walter Gudgeon’s story about the vanished and needy Dawn. “I asked him point blank about their relationship,” Rosco concluded, “but he wouldn’t go there.”
“So the answer is yes, they were intimate.”
He laughed. “You don’t know that for a fact.”
“Sure, I do. If they hadn’t been romantically involved, Gudgeon would have emphatically denied it.”
“And if he had denied it, I guarantee your response would have been, ‘I don’t believe that for a second.’ ”
Belle thought for a moment. “You may have something there.”
“Some people just get insulted when you ask the question, and they refuse to answer it; I put Gudgeon in that category.”
She gave him a kiss. “Do you know what I love about you?”
“What?”
“That you can be so naive at times.”
“At least ‘Young Walt’ won’t have Dawn hanging around dictating what color his father’s ‘former’ business’s trucks get painted.”
“Unless you happen to find her. . . .”
CHAPTER
6
Rosco had agreed to meet Clint Mize, the chief adjuster for the Dartmouth Insurance Group, at the main entrance to King Wenstarin Farms shortly before 10 A.M. the following morning. The weather was gorgeous, another bright, crystalline day when autumn’s gilded leaves made such a magnificent photo-op contrast to the cobalt-colored sky. In time-honored tradition, the “leaf peepers” were out in force, yawing over the roads as they tried to focus both on oohing and aahing over the drop-dead scenery and staying within the pesky yellow lines. But who could criticize this entranced state? The views were almost too beautiful to be real.
Especially the rolling acreage of King Wenstarin Farms—a mile of whitewashed wooden fencing that looked as though Huck Finn had just finished work: paddocks, emerald green pastureland, immaculate stables, artistically arrayed on the sloping ground, the “Big House” all but hidden within plantings of oak and maple and yew, and a meandering drive climbing upward through an avenue of copper beeches. The leaves’ deep maroon color reminded Rosco of the oxblood shoe polish he’d used on his penny loafers during college days; an appreciator of beauty he might be, but a horticulturist he was not.
Rosco had driven past the farm’s main entrance many times over the years but, not being a horseman, had never considered entering. For one thing, the wooden gate could only be opened by a security guard stationed in a small but sturdy building nearby. The man’s forest green uniform matched the trim on the guardhouse, while its pristine white clapboard echoed the farm’s other structures—all of which provided Rosco a second reason for having avoided the place; it simply looked too rich for his blood.
He parked his red Jeep in a grassy spot not far from the gatehouse. Taking advantage of the sunny weather, he’d removed the Jeep’s canvas top and door panels and left them at home, now making the vehicle resemble an out-of-
place beach buggy. He was certain it wasn’t the type of ride that would be normally found on the grounds of King Wenstarin Farms, unless it was pulling a load of fertilizer. He stepped from the car, approached the security guard, and handed him a business card. The man looked to be in his sixties, and his eyes seemed to bear a perpetual squint as though he’d spent a lifetime staring into a questionable distance. The King Wenstarin Farms emblem was stitched onto the right pocket of his uniform jacket. Above the left pocket was the name Pete.
“Good morning. My name is Rosco Polycrates. I’m meeting a Mr. Mize. He hasn’t gone in yet, has he?”
“No, sir, but Mr. Collins is expecting you both. I can open up for you.” Pete smiled, a brief expression, but warmer than expected.
“That’s okay, I’ll wait for Mize.” Rosco leaned against the fence and glanced out over the pastures. “This is quite a spread. I’ve never visited before.” He glanced up at the crystalline sky. “Have you been working here long?” he asked casually.
“Almost twenty-five years now. Seen a lot of people come and go, I can tell you that. Some of the kids who took riding lessons when I started working here are now back with their own kids. ’Course the whole business has changed a heap since then.”
“How so?”
“Most of the newer riders don’t do it for fun no more. It’s all about competition. And who can outspend who. It’s nothin’ for some of these parents to buy their kids a hundred-thousand-dollar piece of horseflesh nowadays—or two or three. The only thing that matters to them is that their kids beats the neighbors’ kids. That kind of attitude is bound to take its toll on the youngsters themselves; they throw hissy fits when they don’t get their way, and back-talk their families and the trainers who try to teach them any kind of patience or control. And their language sure ain’t sweet as clover.”
“So the farm’s money is made mostly from giving lessons?”
“There’s that; but there’s also boarding, training champion jumpers, and so forth . . . and sales, of course. But all that’s really a sideline. The Collins folks don’t need the cash this place generates; they just live and breathe horses. And not just any horses. They’ve gotta be the best of the best, as well.”
