by Nero Blanc
“Also, Palamountain definitely knew that the phone lines at the Dew Drop Inn were still operational. Someone had to fax that puzzle to Belle,” Rosco said in quiet agreement.
“Yeeeshh,” Al groaned. “From where I sit, it looks like a bunch of people have an awful lot to hide—not just Heather.”
Additional silence enveloped the foursome with each escaping into their private thoughts. Belle used the time to retrieve the crosswords she’d previously received, pulling them from a file folder and walking across to Al’s desk to spread them across the surface. “ ‘Submission,’ ” she read, “ ‘To Catch a Thief,’ and now ‘Measure for Measure.’ If I’m missing a hidden message, I don’t know what it is.”
“Unless you’ve got to submit to the thief in order measure your catch,” Lever wisecracked while Abe gave a stagy groan.
“Stick with police work, Big Al. You make a better detective than a linguist. Whatever you just said made absolutely no sense.”
Belle rearranged the puzzles, then studied them again. “Okay . . . my initial take on this situation was that the word games referred to the case of arson—which seems pretty obvious: BLAZING SADDLES, and so on. But now I’m wondering if that wasn’t just a big curveball, or something to pique my interest, which it ultimately did. We’ve got DAWN as the answer to 61-Down in ‘Measure for Measure,’ while WALT, or Mr. Disney, appears at 31-Across in ‘To Catch a Thief.’ So here’s my suggestion: I think it’s possible, in fact likely, that these crosswords refer to the Dawn Davis con job. That they’ve been connected to that situation from the start.” The three men looked at her; they didn’t speak. “And . . . is it possible the fire and Gudgeon’s quarter-of-a-million-dollar swindle are somehow intertwined?”
It was Lever who finally spoke. “Okay, Belle, I’ll bite. What’s the link? And if you can tie together the Curry and Ryan Collins murders, and come up with a guilty party, I’m making you a full-fledged member of the force. I don’t care what your lovin’ hubby says.”
Belle chortled. “Hey, I’m just a cruciverbalist, Al. Like Abe said, you’re the cop. You tell me.”
CHAPTER
28
The upshot of the Lever, Jones, Belle, and Rosco confab at NPD was the conclusion that two murders at the same location and only a week apart had to be connected. And the fact that the anonymous crosswords might have been created by one of the victims, and that they seemed to bear a link to the Gudgeon situation, meant that one scenario remained out in left field waiting to be resolved: the barn fire. It was for this reason that Rosco decided to clean up the mystery of the stable blaze once and for all by making a return visit to the Collins spread, where he intended to have a second face-to-face with the stonewalling Orlando Polk. This time, Rosco wasn’t planning any polite, I’m-your-best-pal-in-the-world approach.
When he braked the Jeep in front of the King Wenstarin Farms main gate, Pete swung it open without delay, simply noting a pragmatic, “You’re becoming quite the regular around here, aren’t you, Polycrates? Next thing you know, you’ll be taking riding lessons.” He forced a jovial laugh, but it quickly turned into a pensive frown. “These folks are going through some real hard times. I sure hope you and your police buddies can get it straightened out for them.”
“We’re working on it, Pete. We’re working on it.” Rosco drove up the long lane and parked his Jeep behind one of the horse barns, out of sight of both stable B and Todd Collins’s residence. He then walked directly to Polk’s apartment and entered without knocking. The barn manager was sitting on his couch watching a midmorning talk show on the TV. When he saw Rosco he reached for the remote, silenced the set, and stood.
Rosco glanced up at the loft area. “Is Kelly here? I need to have a word with you in private.”
“No,” was the tenuous answer. Orlando appeared both confused and irritated, although his eyes bore a wary watch-fulness. He shook his long black ponytail in a poor attempt at indifference. “I took her to the airport early this morning. She’s flying back to Louisville.”
“So soon?”
“She beamed in with her mother after we came back from Tulip House last night. Her mom was at the hospital. The doctors don’t think her father’s going to make it through the week.”
Rosco eased off his tough-guy routine momentarily. “Oh. Well, I’m sorry hear that. That’s not easy.”
“We’ve been expecting it. He’s been ill for some time now. Kelly seems ready to handle it—at least, she says she is. But it’s still going to be hard. It’s a shame I never met the guy. There seems to be no point at this late date with him not able to recognize much . . . And then, of course, there’s this whole awful mess with Jack.” Polk shook his head. “What did Kelly say the other day? About trouble coming in packs of threes? Well, boy, that sure seems right.”
Rosco pointed to the couch. “Why don’t you sit back down?” When Orlando did, Rosco continued to speak from his standing position. He folded his arms across his chest in case the barn manager misinterpreted his stance or the reason for his presence. “I came here to get some answers; and I’m sorry that this is a difficult time for you and Kelly, and I’m sorry I’m going to be playing hardball, but I’m not leaving here until you come clean with me about this barn fire. You didn’t start it; I know that. So who did?”
Orlando began to protest, but Rosco stopped him.
“Don’t. Don’t try to make a fool of me. I’ve been around too long. We’ve had two murders on this property in the last week. You were in the hospital for the first, but your alibi for last night is weak. You say you were with your wife, but where is she now? How do we know she hasn’t just headed for the hills, and you’ll be the next one to fly the coop?”
Polk stood, his black eyebrows pinched in rage. “You have no right to come in here and point fingers at Kelly. Go visit her family if you don’t believe me. Go to Louisville. Go to that hospital and talk to her. We have nothing to hide.”
“Yes, you do,” Rosco pressed. “You didn’t start that fire. Kelly didn’t either, because she was in Kentucky. So who are you protecting, if it’s not your wife? If this is a case of arson, you’re an accessory to the fact by not divulging the truth. You’ll pull just as much time as the perpetrator.”
“I don’t know,” Orlando almost thundered. “I don’t know who it was.”
“But it wasn’t you.” Rosco posed this as a statement, not a question, but the answer was a low and stifled:
“No. It wasn’t me.”
“How could you not know who started the blaze? You admit you were there in the stable when it began. Todd found you there. So, who are you protecting? It makes no sense for you to take the fall for this unless you’re saving someone else’s hide. So who is it?”
Orlando flopped back into the couch and shook his head. “Why can’t you leave well enough alone, Polycrates?”
“Because I can’t!” Rosco raised his voice and pointed an accusatory finger. “You were in that tack room with someone else, and that person started the fire—either accidentally or intentionally. Now, who was it?”
The two men remained motionless for a long time, Rosco studying Orlando, and the barn manager glaring accusingly back. Finally, sensing a change in Rosco’s mood, Orlando shifted on the couch, slumping forward and staring at the floor. “You have to go,” he mumbled. “I have nothing more to say.”
“No. No,” Rosco said, his lips forming a private smile. “I get it . . . I get it now. You really don’t know who started the fire, do you?”
“That’s what I’ve been saying all along.”
“But you are protecting someone, aren’t you? I mean besides yourself?”
Orlando didn’t answer, and Rosco pushed ahead.
“Half of that stable still stands. Something tells me that if I go over there right now and climb up into the hay loft I might just find a cozy little nest built for two. And I don’t mean something made by a couple of turtle doves. Am I right?”
The barn manager
remained stony faced.
“So when the fire broke out you were having yourself a roll in the hay, as it were, with some secret honey. All this while your wife is back in Louisville looking after her dying father. What a charmer, you are. Of course, you need to take the fall for the fire, rather than have Kelly find out what you were up to.”
Polk placed his head in his hands, but still made no reply.
“But you know something, my friend? What you were doing—and with whom—doesn’t change a thing. Because if we determine that the blaze was a torch job, you’re still an accessory to the fact. Unless, of course, you care to come clean with what you know.” Rosco walked toward the door, then turned back. “It doesn’t make any difference to me who you were shacked up with, but believe me it’s going to come out sooner or later. I gather it was either Fiona or Heather, which obviously compounds your prob—” Rosco stopped himself midword.
Orlando lifted his head and made eye contact with Rosco for the first time in minutes, then he glanced away again. It was clear he knew that the detective had made the necessary leap to the truth. He shook his head, his ponytail swaying in defeat. “It was real stupid. I don’t know what I could have been thinking. Kelly probably would have understood, after a while, but not—”
“But not Mr. Collins.” Rosco took in a large breath and let the air out slowly. “You were up there in that loft with the boss’s wife. Of course, you couldn’t blab.” He moved over and sat on the couch’s armrest. “So Ryan Collins sneaks out the back of the barn and runs up to the Big House just in time to tell Todd she’s returning from her evening ride; how very ironic.” The barn manager failed to acknowledge the dig, so Rosco added, “And you don’t have any idea who was in the tack room?”
Polk shook his head.
“How about the whack on the back of your head? Falling timber? Or did someone come after you? Because if you were intentionally hit and then left to die in the blaze, that’s a murder attempt, and it doesn’t make for a pretty picture.”
“I can’t answer that, either. All I can tell you is that something hit me. Hard.”
“Well, Ryan Collins’s death was no accident, and you’re the only person in the world with an ironclad alibi. Do you think your boss had any knowledge of this sordid business between you and his wife?”
“I guess you’d have to ask him that.”
CHAPTER
29
Although it wasn’t yet noon, Todd Collins was perched at the wet bar in his study, drink in hand, when Rosco knocked on the open door. Orlando Polk’s surly comment, “I guess you’d have to ask him,” was still fresh in Rosco’s mind, and his hurried pace and determined expression reflected the encounter. If the owner of King Wenstarin Farms was surprised at the intrusion, or by the steely look in Rosco’s eye, he didn’t reveal it; instead, he waved his visitor in, the ice cubes clacking in the crystal rocks glass.
“I don’t suppose I can interest you in a libation, Polycrates?” Collins asked, then gazed briefly at the tawny liquid. “For someone who’s gotten rich on selling high-end hooch, I’m not much of a drinker—at least I wasn’t until now. Just ‘shows to go ya’ that you can teach an old dog new tricks . . .” The words trailed off. “What brings you out here? If you’re the bearer of more bad tidings, I’m not sure I want to hear what you’ve got to say.” But before his unexpected guest could answer, Todd continued with a dejected and bitter, “I guess your wife never figured out the name of the farm—the name of the whiskey, too. I thought she would have by now. Oh, we put a picture of some bogus Irish chieftain on the label, but that’s part of the inside joke . . .” When Rosco returned a blank stare, Todd added an apologetic, “King Wenstarin is an anagram for Winning Streak. So, your ‘Anna Graham’ didn’t pick up on that, huh? I must say, I’m disappointed. I was absolutely certain she would . . .”
He swirled the whiskey in his hand again and stared into the glass as though expecting to see either angels or demons. “But maybe that’s because our family’s been on such a losing streak recently. Winning would have been a long way from her lexicon.” He released a heartfelt sigh, then sank down into one of two leather club chairs that bracketed the fire-place. The hide was a dark, subtly mottled green; contrasted with the flickering orange flames in the hearth, the polished brass of the fender rail and the crisp white paint of the walls, the picture should have been one of affluence and serenity. Instead, it was somber and cheerless.
“Take a seat, Polycrates. I’m not going to bite. What’s the problem this time?”
Again, Rosco saw no reason for beating around the bush, but he also had no wish to hit Collins with more bad news if he could help it. “I just came from talking to your barn manager about the stable fire—”
“Don’t tell me Orlando’s finally figured it out?” Todd grumbled. “Sure he did. Of course, he did. The guy’s no dummy . . . I have to admit, I took a certain amount of perverse joy in watching him squirm and fess up to doing something he didn’t. But I guess he was bound to learn how the blaze began sooner or later. Heather never was able to keep her mouth shut.” When Rosco made no reply, the patriarch’s heavy voice continued. “This is not a family that keeps secrets from each other. I’m well aware that Heather started that damn fire, and I also know precisely how—and why. She admitted the whole thing just as soon as the emergency crews left. She felt awful about the situation. Naturally, she would. Anyone would. She sure as hell hadn’t planned to instigate that kind of conflagration when she followed my wife to the stable . . .” Collins permitted himself the briefest of pauses before plunging ahead. It was almost as though he’d forgotten Rosco was in the room and was speaking out of his own deep need for confession.
“Heather told me she and Michael had strong suspicions Ryan was sleeping with Orlando—among others. A lot of different men, according to them. So Heather decided to spy on Ryan and catch her redhanded—which is how the whole mess started. Heather was trying to get me down there to confront my wife, discover her in a compromising position. My daughter was the one who was reaching for the damn tack room telephone to call the Big House, not Polk. The rest of the story you’ve already heard: the booze bottle, the damn space heater; it was an accident waiting to happen. Unfortunately, it was an accident that seems to have been the first in a tragic chain of events. Ironic, isn’t it, that a bottle of whiskey could cause such ruin?” Todd paused again. His craggy face was covered in a dark and angry frown.
“What about Orlando’s crack on the head? Some folks would suggest that a jealous husband might have left him there to die?”
Todd shook his head. “No, that’s not me; I don’t favor the death penalty. I’d rather sit and watch people rot and pay for their sins for the rest of their lives, day in and day out. Death is too easy for some people. I saw how the beam hit Orlando, so did Jack. Don’t forget we were the ones who pulled him out.”
“Your witness is dead, Mr. Collins.”
“That he is; but Orlando’s alive . . . I know what you’re thinking, Polycrates: ‘Why did we let him take the fall for the fire?’ Well, let me just say that it was easier than airing all this dirty laundry in public. And like I said, I took some enjoyment in watching him sweat bullets. I think he owes me one, wouldn’t you agree? And being blamed for causing an accidental fire isn’t necessarily a career-breaker. Not everywhere, at least.”
Rosco didn’t speak for a second or two. He intuited that expressing any surprise over Collins’s admission of Heather’s guilt, as well as his prior knowledge of his wife’s unfaithfulness, might force the man to clam up. Instead, Rosco ventured a soothing, “Your daughter must love you a good deal, Mr. Collins. Both your daughters.”
“Yeah, and I was the dope who tossed them aside. Married a woman who couldn’t hold a candle to either of them . . . didn’t listen to them saying that Ryan wasn’t worthy of my affection. I cut them off, turned my back on them—and Chip, too. Why do us old dogs do stupid things like that? Why do we let pretty young women flatte
r us into thinking they care? And then why do we ignore our true families, our own flesh and blood, as a result?”
Rosco considered the question. For a weird moment, he almost imagined he was talking to Walter Gudgeon. “Mr. Collins, let me ask you something—”
“Go ahead. It feels good to finally get this stuff off my chest.”
“You said your daughters made other attempts to expose your wife—”
“And Chip, too. In their own way, each of my kids tried to tell me she was cheating. Hell, Chip went so far as to call her a tramp, and I slapped him across the face.”
“Is it possible that one of them killed her? You know the police love to play the inheritance card. I understand you intended to leave the farm, pretty much everything, to your wife?”
Collins shook his head slowly. “I don’t believe they would do that. Not because they’re not capable of rage, or keeping their eyes on a buck. My kids are definitely a chip off the old block—no pun intended—and they’re damned used to getting their own way, and can be ferocious when they don’t. But I believe their concern over me would have prevented them from killing Ryan out of spite. Oh, sure, they wanted to prove her to be the trollop she was and hoped and prayed that I’d toss her out . . . but bashing her head like that, and letting me find the body? No, that’s not their style. Ryan would have to do something pretty abhorrent to push them over the top.” Collins smiled a weary smile. “And that’s saying a lot, because they surely must have hated the woman. But I didn’t raise any murderers, Polycrates.”
Again, Rosco was silent. He was aware of a clock ticking on the mantelpiece, of the distant whir of a vacuum cleaner moving through the second floor, of a leaf blower working the far end of the garden: all homey and comforting sounds intruding into a space that was far from peaceable. “So you must not believe that Heather killed Jack Curry.”
