Death on the Diagonal (17 page)

Dawn’s face grew darker. “Kidneys?”

Sara beamed grandmotherly reassurance all the while thinking:
Bingo! That got her attention!
“Yes, indeed. Or diabetes, or high cholesterol—”

“What do you mean, ‘kidneys’?”

“It was just a nasty situation that popped into my mind,” Sara continued to lie. “I had a dear friend who had to undergo a kidney transplant. That was an ordeal and a half, I can tell you. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. And it cost the very moon, as you can imagine. So, tell me, my dear—if you don’t think I’m being too nosy—what do physicians do with torn rotator cuffs?”

“I had surgery. Arthroscopic. I’m not sure how it works or what he did, but it sure feels a heck of a lot better than it did four weeks ago.”

“Ah,” Sara said as though she’d never heard of such a procedure. “And what kind of surgeon performs such an operation?”

“An orthopedist.”

“I went to one for my wretched knee! Fancy that! Mine is Dr. Arthur. Is that who treated you, by any chance?”

An emotion that looked like regret crossed Dawn Davis’s face. It wasn’t an expression Sara expected. “Your surgeon’s the best—at least that’s what I was told. He didn’t have time to deal me, so I got Dr. Bownes. He was very good, though. Very pleasant and everything.”

Something in this delivery, whether it was Dawn’s palpable sorrow or hesitant tone, began to affect Sara in ways she hadn’t anticipated. “What do you mean Arthur didn’t have time to
deal
with you?” she demanded. “That’s what physicians are supposed to do, isn’t it? Deal with problems.”

Dawn gave a dismissive, one-shoulder shrug. “I guess . . . but you know, how everything happened . . . the emergency room and all that ugly stuff . . . my boyfriend and his run-in with the cops on account of how bad he hurt me . . . oh, man . . .” The words died in her throat. “I didn’t mean to say that. Besides, it was a while ago. Forget I talked about him. Okay, ma’am—?”

“You can call me Sara,” was the staunch and surprisingly protective reply.

“Sara? Okay? Just forget what I told you, okay?”

Sara glanced at Emma to see what her assessment of Dawn Davis was, and observed a worried and pensive expression that mirrored her own. “Your boyfriend caused this ‘accident’?” she asked.

“I shouldn’t talk about it, okay? I shouldn’t have blabbed. That was just plain dumb. Water under the bridge, or whatever they say. Ancient history.” Dawn looked at her watch. “For pete’s sake, what’s keeping them? I’ve gotta get to work. We’re running short of staff at Papyrus—that’s where I work—and the manager’s gonna tan my hide if I don’t show up for my shift.”

“He can’t blame you if your physical therapist kept you waiting.”

“Wanna bet? He’s as big a jerk as my—” Dawn clapped a hand over her mouth.

“As your boyfriend? Is that what you were about to say?”

Dawn didn’t reply, and so Sara took the lead. The conniving subcontractor to the Polycrates Agency was nowhere in evidence. “It sounds to me as if you should walk right out on that good-for-nothing person,” she stated. “Mistreating a woman! How low can a man stoop? And you realize, dear, that those types don’t stop at a single abusive incident.”

“Yes, I know . . .” The words were so muffled Sara could hardly hear them. “Look, Sara . . . ma’am . . . I didn’t mean to talk about this. I’m really trying to pull things together. I’m taking night school classes and everything. I mean, I don’t want to take home the diddly pay I get at Papyrus forever, you know? I want to be a paralegal and work in a law firm or somewhere fancy like that, and well, Andy—he’s my boyfriend—he’s not too happy about me, you know, giving away all my time—”

“You’re hardly
giving
it away if you’re earning a paycheck, dear.”

“Well, you know how men like to talk . . . and, anyway, I don’t think he likes the paralegal stuff, either. He thinks I’m getting ahead of myself or something.”

Before Sara could make another incensed comment, Dawn Davis was called for her appointment. She jumped to her feet with the alacrity of someone anticipating being reprimanded—or slapped. “Gotta go . . . listen, forget what I said, Sara. It’s just me running off at the mouth. Oh, I’m Dawn, by the way. Dawn Davis.” She shook Sara’s hand. “I’ve never met anyone like you. You know, with a maid and everything. That’s pretty cool.”

Sara watched as Dawn gathered up her purse and book-bag. “You know, my dear, I’m a lonely old lady. I’d be delighted if you felt like visiting me someday. My
maid
could prepare us a meal.”

“Really? That would be so cool. Yeah, I’d like that . . . and we could compare doctors and things.”

Or talk about a man named Andy whose girlfriend wound up in the operating room,
Sara didn’t add; instead she opted for a noncommittal: “How about tomorrow after you finish work?”

Dawn thought for a second. “Darn, I can’t. I’ve got a class. Maybe I could cut it, though—”

“Nonsense. You keep up with your schooling. It’s very important.”

“I could do Saturday,” Dawn offered. “Andy won’t be around. Like, maybe supper after my shift at the store?”

“That’s a date, my dear. Saturday, it is. I’ll leave a note with directions to my home with the receptionist—in case I’m already gone when your appointment concludes.”

20

This wasn’t the first time some oddball had sent his wife crosswords that seemed to relate to a case Rosco was investigating; and, as in past situations, a number of familiar dilemmas presented themselves. One: Was the message in the puzzle genuine? Two: If it was, who was sending it? And three: Or, could it be that Belle’s growing notoriety as a word-game editor and sometime crime solver was making her the target of a person who got his or her jollies by imitating felons and murderers? It was the couple’s experience that there were more than a few warped brains in the world, and would-be copycat criminals who constructed complex crosswords during their spare time definitely made that list.

Pondering the telephone call he’d just received from Belle regarding the newly faxed missive, as well as the seemingly innocent puzzle that had arrived on Sunday morning, Rosco again drove out to King Wenstarin Farms. The afternoon had become gray and ominous, and the canvas top and side curtains had been returned to the Jeep, a fact Pete commented on as Rosco stopped at the front gate.

“I guess this means summer is officially over,” he said with a broad smile. “You seemed to be the last holdout. All the BMWs and Benzes put up their tops a month ago.”

“Never give up, that’s me.”

“Does this mean you’re wearing socks, too?”

Rosco smiled. “Let’s not go overboard; still a little early for anything that drastic.”

“Well, Mr. Collins has your name on the list, so I’ll open up. Hang on a sec.”

“Actually I’m here to speak with the barn manager, Orlando Polk. I gather his brush with amnesia has been remedied, and he’s back on the job.”

“I’m not sure about ‘on the job,’ but Kelly brought him home from the hospital yesterday. He seemed fine; remembered my name anyway.” Pete chuckled, then added, “ ’Course I made a real jerk out of myself.”

“How’s that?” Rosco asked.

The guard shook his head. “Well, I assumed he’d heard the news about the missus being murdered and all, so I was just makin’ small talk, you know? Said something like, ‘That’s a real shame about Mrs. Collins being killed.’ ” He sighed. “Anyway, the news seemed to hit Orlando pretty hard . . . which is natural . . . I mean hearin’ about it for the first time and all. Stuck my foot in my mouth, that’s for dang sure. Yeah, my wife tells me to keep my big yap shut, and I never listen to her. It’ll dawn on me someday, I guess.”

Rosco thought,
Thank goodness there are people who do talk too much; my job would be a heck of a lot tougher if there weren’t.
What he said, however, was a sympathetic, “I could have fallen into the same trap myself, Pete. I would have assumed his wife would have already broken the bad news.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Pete opened the gate, and Rosco drove up the long lane of trees, eventually emerging at the center of the farm. He drove directly to stable B, where the barn manager and his wife had their apartment. Rosco wanted to avoid the main house in hopes that he could speak to Orlando without being
chaperoned
by any Collins family members. Parking the Jeep behind the stable, he entered the barn through the large doors on the west end.

The structure’s ground floor was divided in two sections. The western end had six roomy box stalls on either side of a broad central aisle; then came a side entrance with double doors leading to an exercise corral, and beyond that, the building was sealed off into what was obviously the manager’s living quarters. The entire upper level in the stable area was covered with a hay loft, and Rosco noted it was already well stocked for the winter ahead. He strolled along the aisle toward the apartment, passing the stalls, each of which was occupied by a sleek and handsome steed, who regarded the stranger with curious and haughty eyes. Small frames screwed to the walls separating the boxes displayed the boarded horses’ names as well as those of their owners on removable four-by-six-inch file cards. Rosco silently read as he passed, deciding the animals’ names could just as easily pass for the gold-leaf monikers members of the Patriot Yacht Club spread across the aft end of their expensive vessels:
Pricey Lady, Windmill, Hokey-Pokey, Flashdance, To a T, Daddy’s Girl, Good Guess, Beautiful Dreamer, Endymion,
Zephyr, Flight of Fancy, Oh, My Word!
He chuckled to himself and tapped three times on Orlando Polk’s door.

The man who answered was shorter than Rosco had expected, about five-seven or -eight, with long, jet black hair pulled into a ponytail. His skin was darkened and lined from the sun, and his black eyes shone with a sparkle and intensity that gave him a curiously boyish appearance. He extended his hand to Rosco and smiled; his teeth were a gleaming white in contrast to his swarthy complexion.

“I take it you’re Rosco Polycrates?” he said, then looked at his watch. “Right on time. Mr. Collins seems very impressed with you, which is good enough for me. Come on in; take a load off.”

The apartment consisted of a main room that served as kitchen, dining area, and living area. Open stairs led to a second-floor loft. The partial cathedral ceiling was crafted of exposed, rough-hewn wood, and the decorations reflected the manager’s Native American heritage, giving the place the feel of a hunting lodge hidden far off in the woods. Rosco observed that there seemed to be little evidence of a woman’s touch; as the thought passed through his mind, Kelly emerged at the edge of the loft. At that height she seemed taller than she actually was, but her short blond hair gave her a pixielike, Peter Pan appearance, and Rosco half expected her to fly down to the lower level.

“My wife, Kelly,” Orlando said.

“Yes,” Rosco offered as they shook hands, “I remember you from Monday—at Mr. Collins’s house.”

“Oh, that was a horrible day,” she said with her lilting drawl. “I hope I never, ever have to go through something like that again in my life. That poor family. It seemed to bring out the worst in them, rather than the best. It was so, so sad. I couldn’t help but feel all broken up inside.”

“It wasn’t the best of circumstances.”

“No, it sure wasn’t. And on top of the fire and all . . . I just hope that old saying about trouble coming in packs of threes isn’t right.” Kelly shook her head. “Well, I’ve got some work to do, and you two don’t need a nosy woman eavesdropping, so I’m just going to mosey along. It was nice meeting you again, Mr. Polycrates.”

After she left, Orlando said, “Love of my life. She certainly turned me around.”

“I know what you mean. I feel the same way about my wife,” Rosco replied as he sat on a couch covered with a woven blanket striped with orange and earth brown lines. “And I appreciate you putting aside the time to meet with me. I gather it can get hectic around here with the Barrington competition coming up.”

“Hey, no problem. My doc says to take it easy for a week, and that’s exactly what I’m gonna do—kick back, ride my pony, and make sure none of the stable hands messes up too bad. But as far as the Barrington’s concerned, we’re out of it. That’s dead meat. No way we can replace our tack in time.”

“Too bad . . . I gather Mr. Collins told you I was investigating the fire for an insurance company?”

Orlando said, “Yep, sure did,” as he dropped himself into a wooden rocker across from Rosco.

“I’d like to start by getting a little background information if I could.” Rosco pulled a pad and pen from his jacket.

“Shoot.”

“How long have you worked for King Wenstarin Farms?”

“Almost six years now.”

Rosco noted the information. “So you and your wife arrived before Jack Curry returned to the farm, is that right?”

“Actually, I met Kelly here, at King Wenstarin. We were married a little over a year ago. She was hired as day help for Mr. C. and Ry—” Orlando stopped and corrected himself. “Mrs. Collins . . . Kelly got her job a few months after Jack got his old gig back. Maybe two years ago? Something like that, anyway. What’s all this got to do with the fire?”

“Dates are important for the pencil pushers reading the claims forms,” Rosco lied with an easy smile. “It’s simple, black-and-white stuff. But I suppose the polite thing to ask would be, how’s your head feeling?”

Orlando instinctively rubbed the back of his skull and gave a brief laugh. “I’ve still got a good knot there, I can tell you that. But it’s coming along. I’m just happy whatever beaned me didn’t break the skin. I’d hate to have to get a haircut just so the docs could throw in a few stitches.”

“Any idea what hit you?”

“You’d have to ask someone else that. I heard the crack more than I felt it. Mr. C. told me I managed to get the sprinkler valve turned on, but I don’t recollect doin’ it.”