“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.”
Rosco sniffed at the pungent air. “To each his own. I hope their house is upwind of the stables.”
Pete laughed. “You get used to it after a few years; actually grow to like it.”
“I guess that was some fire the other night.”
“Oh, yeah. The stable’s one thing, but they lost a bundle in saddles and equipment. Real bad timing, too, with the Barrington coming up in a few weeks.”
“The Barrington?”
“The Barrington Horse Show, out on the Cape? It’s one of the top hunter-seat competitions in the country. Certainly the biggest in Zone One. All three of Mr. C’s kids plan to ride in it. Mr. C used to compete in it, too, until he had his spill a few years back. He’s got a string of ribbons from all over the country. Anyway, gonna be a little tough for the kids to compete without proper saddles.” Pete laughed again, but this time the sound was edgy and hard. It gave Rosco the impression the guard had far more respect for “Mr. C” than he’d ever have for Fiona, Heather, and Chip.
“I understand the barn manager got banged up pretty bad in the blaze. Friend of yours?”
“Orlando? Not friends, no . . . I mean, I say ‘hey’ to him, goin’ in and out of the gate. Him and his wife, Kelly. Nice folks, but private and businesslike, which is fine by me. They keep to themselves most of the time, but Orlando’s
The Man
when it comes to keepin’ the place in top-notch condition. Not gonna be an easy fella to replace.”
“Well, he’s regained consciousness, from what I hear. Hopefully he’ll be back to work before long.”
Pete shrugged. “If you say so.” He then looked down the road at a car slowing. “This must be Mr. Mize now.”
Rosco turned. “You know Clint?”
“No. But the swells who come and go through this gate all drive tanks. You know, Range Rovers, Hummers, and whatnot. Only
peasants
like me and insurance adjusters drive cars that get sensible gas mileage.”
Mize parked his Toyota sedan in front of Rosco’s Jeep and approached the two men. He was carrying a manila file folder. Mize was probably the same age as the security guard but short and bulldog-shaped; what little hair remained was white-white and buzzed to a stubble-length bristle. Clint Mize was an ex-Marine; he took pride in the fact that most people could guess that part of his history without being told.
“It’s good to see you again, Polycrates. Been a long time.” Mize shook Rosco’s hand and added, “What was it?” He snapped his fingers. “That torch-job on the yacht a few years back, right? When I was with Shore Line?”
“Sounds about right.”
“I’m glad you could fit this one into your schedule.” That was enough small talk for Mize. “I’d like to go over the fire marshal’s report with you before we go in.”
“Lead on.”
They walked over to Rosco’s Jeep. Mize opened his folder and set it on the hood.
“Okay . . . Mr. Collins has been a grade-A client of the Dartmouth Group for a long stretch, so they’re not looking to make any waves.” He tapped the report with his finger. “The marshal’s classifying the blaze as an accident, ‘nonsuspicious, ’ and Dartmouth’s inclined to agree. I just need to look it over and come up with a dollar figure that everyone can live with.”
“So why bring me in?” Rosco asked as he scanned the report.
“S.O.P. It’s going to be a hefty check, and Dartmouth’s board could raise a stink if I didn’t have a PI with some arson know-how look it over for me. But our CEO wants to handle this one P.D.Q. Scuttlebutt back at the office is that him and Collins are longtime buddies. And to be honest, any stalling would look bad in a high-profile deal like this.” Mize put on a Waspy accent and finished with, “Of course, nobody likes it when dirty looks are exchanged between long-standing members of the Patriot Yacht Club.”
“No, we certainly can’t have that.” Rosco chuckled, then read from the report. “So the barn manager allegedly knocked over a faulty space heater, along with a bottle of booze . . . which provides us with our primary source as well as an accelerant.” He looked at Mize. “That’s pretty much what I got from NPD yesterday.” He flipped over the report. “I don’t see evidence that anyone’s talked to the barn manager, Polk, yet. I understand he’s regained consciousness. Can he corroborate these facts?”
Mize shook his head. “Apparently there’s a slight case of amnesia going on there. He doesn’t remember how it all went down, but my guess is he’s trying to save his own hide. I mean, supposedly it was his hooch that started the blaze, and his reputation for not being what you’d call a teetotaler is apparently common knowledge out here.”
Rosco closed the folder. “Well, you know me, Clint; if I smell a rat, I’ll go to the fire marshal with it. And the DA, too. I won’t bury anything.”
Mize raised his hands. “Hey, I’m with you, buddy. That’s why I called you rather than some PI who’s going to roll over and play dead for the fat cats. I don’t like games any more than you do. I just wanted to brief you on company policy before we drove in there.”
The two men returned to their vehicles, passed through the gate, and proceeded along the alley of copper beeches. After a quarter of a mile they came to a rise in the lane. When they got to the top of the hill, they could see the whole of King Wenstarin Farms stretched out below them. The Collins mansion commanded another rise. From this vantage point, the entire house was visible. Built in the early 1920s, the residence looked as though it belonged in New-port, Rhode Island, rather than on a farm in Massachusetts. Six stately pillars spanned the front elevation, creating an imposing entrance and broad portico. The remainder of the structure was mostly Georgian in design: Palladian windows, French doors on the lower level, a slate roof punctuated by six chimneys. It was clearly a comfortable and spacious home. A number of large and small ancillary cottages stood at a respectful distance; lawns of perfect grass rolled between each building.
Five stables lay below the farm residences, one of which was now half-destroyed by fire. Each barn was equipped with a paddock as well as a fenced exercise area. Within sight also were two professional-sized practice arenas; one was fully enclosed for winter use, and the other was open-air and equipped with a small grandstand. That ring was presently arranged in jumping-course mode, with fifteen obstacles set at varying heights. Four teenage girls and a boy were taking their mounts through their paces, as a trainer stood at the center barking orders alternatively to the youngsters and their horses. Three women, whom Rosco guessed to be the kids’ mothers, sat in the grandstand chatting and laughing and paying little to no attention to their children’s activities. To a person, the women were clad in woolens and tweeds that were intended to appear casually mismatched as if the costumes had been hastily tossed together; instead the muted colors, the buttery Italian leather, and quite obvious cashmere and silk bore the unmistakable stamp of wealth. The mothers had their backs to the burned building, and their animated conversation seemed to indicate that they either didn’t notice the acrid scent of fire still lingering in the air and the muddy landscape surrounding the charred structure or that they refused to do so.
If it’s not pretty,
their postures said,
it’s not worth wasting our time.