Chip swiveled his stool around so that he was facing Rosco. “What? You think I started that fire? And that I’m paying off Orlando to keep his mouth shut? Because I don’t want to get in Dutch with my old man for what I did? Is that it?”
Rosco shrugged and pasted a diffident smile on his face. “Hey, that’s not a half-bad scenario . . .” He cocked his head as though weighing the notion and then discarding it. “But my hunch tells me the idea won’t hold water. You just don’t seem like the kind of guy who’d let someone else take the fall for him. So, if not you, who? Your brother-in-law, Michael? Heather? Fiona?”
“I don’t know about my sisters, but I was nowhere near that barn. And Angel can back me up on that,” Chip insisted hotly. “Besides, if I
had
inadvertently set the place ablaze, I would have owned up to it and tried like hell to save the building. Sure, the old man and I have had our differences over the years, but I’m not afraid of him. And believe me, Rosco, I’ve done worse things in my day than burn down a barn, and he hasn’t thrown me off the property yet.” By now, Chip’s tone had become neither confrontational nor defensive; in fact, it carried a certain amount of familial pride. Rosco found himself believing the pronouncement.
“Okay, then what about your sisters? How’s their relationship with your father? Or Jack Curry? Could he have started the fire and be afraid of losing his job?”
“I guess . . . but what difference does it make? No matter who did it, it’s still an accident, and the insurance has to pay off. Anything else is a Wenstarin Farms’s internal problem, right?”
Rosco nodded. “Then let’s look at arson as a possibility. I recall Heather stating that your competitors at Holbrooke Farms might have had a motive.”
Chip finished off his ale. The bartender arrived with their platters, and another round of beers was ordered.
“I’d love to believe that Holbrooke Farms business of Heather’s, I really would,” Chip said between oysters. “They’re a bunch of jerks over there. But they wouldn’t stoop to that. And logistically it’s next to impossible for them to sneak into our compound—or pay someone to do their dirty work for them. Despite Heather’s allegations to the contrary, my father commands too much loyalty from his employees. He can smell a rat quicker than a cat can.”
“Then we’re back to Orlando, and who he’s covering for. What can you tell me about his wife, Kelly?”
“Pretty girl. Nice. Quiet. Helpful. Friendly without getting in the way. She was in Kentucky when the fire broke out—and that’s a long way to toss a lighted match, let alone a space heater.”
“I know. I’m just trying to see how the pieces of the puzzle fit together.”
“Kelly serves dinners up at the Big House; cleans and so forth during the day. Her father’s ill, so she’s been going back and forth to Louisville a lot lately.” Chip was quiet for a long moment. Finally he said, “You’re convinced Orlando didn’t start that fire?”
“Not
convinced
, necessarily. But I do know he’s lying about the events of the evening in question.”
Chip nodded. “It’s an interesting thought . . . an innocent person putting himself at risk because he’s determined to protect the guilty party. We could all learn from that model.”
Rosco swallowed another oyster and said, “These
are
on the money, thanks for the recommendation.” Then feeling that Chip was being honest with him, he opted to move on to Ryan. “I’m sorry about your stepmother. It must be tough. I didn’t want to pipe up the other day at the house. It was Lieutenant Lever’s show, and I was trying to stay out of the way.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish. That’s my position on the situation. She won’t be missed.”
Rosco raised his eyebrows. “That’s kind of cold.”
“Hey, that’s how it is.”
“I wouldn’t talk that way around Al Lever if I were you, he’s apt to put you at the top of his suspects column.”
“Don’t make me laugh. As much as I disliked Ryan, I wouldn’t kill her. My old man adored her. Just look at him. He’s a wreck. I wouldn’t put anyone through what he’s experiencing right now—and that goes double for my own dad. He married the snake, he must have seen something no one else did.”
“What about Heather and Fiona; how did they feel about Ryan?”
Chip let out a long laugh. “If you think I’m going to rat out my sisters, you’re crazy. The fact is, I don’t care who killed Ryan. It’s over. ‘Who did it,’ is the cops’ problem. And if they try to cart one of my sisters off on a murder charge there’s going to be more Boston lawyers at Wenstarin Farms than horses. O. J.’s Dream Team will look like public defenders.”
Rosco decided to push the edge of the envelope. “I guess you know that some people around Newcastle believe that your relationship to Ryan might have been a little closer than it should have been.”
Chip roared with laughter at Rosco’s statement. After he’d regained his composure he said, “I haven’t heard it phrased that politely before.”
“Well?”
“I wouldn’t do that to my old man, either. Not in a million years. Besides, I just told you how much I detested her.” He finished his last oyster and ordered a dozen more. “How about you, Rosco? Another round?”
“Why not?”
“Sure, Ryan came on to me; she came on to everyone. Why the hell do you think I despised her so much? Fiona and Heather were well aware of her activities, too. Her behavior made them sick. We tried to warn the old man a few months ago, but he wouldn’t believe a word of it. It got dicey for a while there, so we let our accusations drop. The issue became a don’t-go-there kind of thing.”
“Lever’s got this inheritance-money-is-the-root-of-all-evil theory. In cases like this, that’s often the first motive homicide detectives jump to. Do you know whether your father was planning to leave everything to Ryan—rather than to you kids?”
Chip swigged his beer, then stared into the half-f glass. “Well, bully for Lever. The fat man got something right,” was all he said.
CHAPTER
23
Daylight was waning over the still-soggy grounds of the Dew Drop Inn when Belle’s cell phone rang with its distinctive “Brinnnnggg Brinnnnggg.” The sound she’d chosen was similar to an old-fashioned rotary phone; and combined with the dusky air and the coal black hulk of the abandoned building, the effect was eerie and unsettling—as if a message from the departed were about to be delivered.
“Hello?”
“Where are you, dear girl?” crackled through into the autumn twilight. Sara simply couldn’t get used to the notion that one could receive and transmit calls wire-free and from any location. When Belle lent her elderly friend her cell, Sara stood rooted to one spot while she talked—as if she were speaking into a wall-mounted hand-crank model with a party-line system eager to eavesdrop on the conversation.
“Rosco and I are at the dog park—”
“Oh, of course you are. It’s Saturday afternoon. Where else would Newcastle’s dog fanciers be other than the grounds of the old inn? I do wish one of those consortia that keeps snapping up the place would finally renovate it to its former glory. It’s a shame to allow that marvelous structure to decay. Of course, if anyone ever does return it to its heyday I would guess they would invite all of you dog fanciers to depart—”
At this point, a prodigious amount of barking overpowered Sara’s speech. Al Lever’s canine buddy, Skippy; Abe Jones’s “lab mix,” Buster; Martha’s Peke, Princess; Stanley Hatch’s elderly collie, Ace; and Bartholomew’s beloved bulldog, Winston—accompanied by Kit and Gabby—had picked up an unfamiliar scent and were voicing their concern—or their ardent enthusiasm at discovering a new and tantalizing smell.
“Sorry, Sara,” Belle said as the pack roared away, “I didn’t hear you.” She walked a distance from the two-legged throng, as well. Talking to a disembodied voice while in the company of flesh-and-blood companions was something she frowned upon.
“No matter. I was simply rambling on about the Dew Drop Inn during its prime. Actually, I called to tell you that Dawn Davis just phoned to say she was not able to keep our date this evening.” Belle’s ears perked up. She looked over at Rosco, who caught her glance, and sent back a quizzical look in return.
It’s Sara,
Belle mouthed, then turned around and strolled farther off. The elusive Ms. Davis didn’t need to become a subject of discussion among those gathered on the inn’s sodden lawns.
“Apparently, her odious boyfriend didn’t want her ‘hobnobbing with the rich’ . . .” Sara continued with more than a little ire. “That happens to be a quote, if you can believe such nonsense.”
Belle frowned into the air, and the expression grew into a scowl as Sara’s voice continued:
“Of course, the poor girl was mortified, and so attempted to pass off his remarks as a jest. But I could detect the ruse. I’m genuinely concerned about her, Belle. I understand the scheme you and Rosco suspect her of orchestrating, and I realize that I was chomping at the bit in my desire to aid you. But I cannot believe that such a sweet young lady would—” More yaps and yips and growls and snarls cut short Sara’s remarks again. Belle covered her free ear with her hand.
“But Sara,” was her response once the hullabaloo had died down, “these are precisely the characteristics Ms. Davis presented to Walter Gudgeon: an innocent and helpless victim who only wanted a friend—”
“And so she does,” Sara swiftly interjected. “Remember, Dawn all but stated that her boyfriend physically abuses her.”
“That’s what she told
you
,” Belle persisted. “She gave Gudgeon another story: an ex-boyfriend who wouldn’t help when she most needed it.”
“She should have kept him confined to a list of
former
friends,” was Sara’s swift retort. “Instead of taking him back, or whatever she did. We women can be so foolish where our hearts are concerned—”
“But you don’t know what she said is true . . . whether he’s a current lover or not. You haven’t seen him; you don’t know if he even really exists—”
“I know what I heard in her voice, and that’s good enough for me.”
Belle stifled an anxious sigh. “And did you extend a second invitation to your home?” she asked in as reasonable tone as she could muster. Sara’s sudden and staunch defense of Dawn Davis was beginning to worry Belle. The pattern seemed uncomfortably similar to the ploy she’d used on Gudgeon.
“Well, no. She told me she’d call when she learned her new work schedule—which apparently is changing.”
“I gather Ms. Davis didn’t provide her telephone number,” Belle prompted.
“Her boyfriend doesn’t like her receiving calls from people he doesn’t know—”
“In other words you didn’t get it.”
The silence on the other end of the phone was excruciating. Holding the machine close to her ear, Belle could almost visualize Sara’s proud and defiant face, and she squinted in nervous anticipation of the old lady’s patronizing response.
“I did not choose to pry any further, Belle. To do so would only have added to her discomfort.”
Belle did her best to conceal her exasperation. “But don’t you see, Sara, this is the same approach she used on Mr. Gudgeon—”
“What the young lady is alleged to have done in the past, and what my present experience of her is, are two very different things—”
“But they’re not! This is precisely how Dawn Davis works her con—”
“Well, she hasn’t asked me for a dime!” was Sara’s irritable reply. “And I assure you she doesn’t intend to.” Then the old lady did something Belle could never have imagined. She hung up without a single word of farewell.
Returning to her friends who were now trying to corral the excited dogs, Belle’s expression was troubled.
“Is Sara okay?” Rosco asked.
“Oh, sure,” Belle lied, and everyone there immediately recognized the fib—if not its motivation.
“Oh dear,” Martha tossed in, “I hope that tumble she took in Maxi’s shop isn’t the sign of more serious problems to come.” She released a lengthy sigh. “Don’t feel bad, Belle, honey, your face is like an open book.” Martha sighed anew. “It’s a tough business getting old. My dad became real cantankerous when his health started to fail . . . forgot simple facts, couldn’t remember where he was sometimes or with whom. It got so bad, I had to take his checkbook away from him; and if that didn’t cause a ruckus, my name isn’t Leonetti. But Dad was giving his money away to any supposed charity that knocked on the door. Not that he had lucre to burn . . . but you write ten checks for ten dollars a pop, and it adds up.”
Belle couldn’t think what to answer. Savvy Martha was closer to the truth than she realized. “Oh, I’m sure Sara’s simply feeling a bit constrained and homebound,” Belle finally announced, attempting a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “After all, she’s not accustomed to depending on others to propel her around.”
“Sara Crane Briephs under house arrest,” piped up Bartholomew with an empathetic chuckle, but that single word
arrest
only heightened Belle’s sense of gloom. As far as she could determine, the infamous Dawn Davis was softening up another potential mark, and unless Rosco could prove the Gudgeon case, no criminal charges would be made. She glanced at Rosco, who shared her look of worry while he offered an overly robust:
“Looks like its getting too dark for Frisbees and ball-chasing. I guess we’d better pack it in.”
Abe Jones’s Buster was the last of the canines to be rounded up, and then only because Abe walked up onto the inn’s veranda and leashed him. “Looks like someone was walking around the old place,” Abe remarked as he returned to the group. “Recently. The footprints are fresh.”
“Really?” both Rosco and Al Lever responded too quickly and in near-perfect unison.
Abe chortled. “You two wouldn’t happen to have already heard about this, would you? The lock on the office door? No one needs to be a forensics expert to recognize a little B and E when the perp whacks away at a door like that,” he added facetiously.