Rosco followed closely behind Clint’s Toyota, and also parked by the ruined stable.
“Mr. Collins said he’d meet us down here,” Mize told Rosco as they stepped from their cars. He then nodded back toward the mansion. “That must be him and the missus now.”
Rosco turned and watched Todd Collins and his wife, Ryan, stroll down to meet them. Collins was exactly as he’d been described: tall, rangy, white-haired, and uncompromising, with a slight limp he seemed determined to ignore. Ryan also matched prior descriptions: a strikingly beautiful woman in her late thirties with blond hair braided into a single plait and sharp green eyes. As the couple neared, however, deeply etched lines in her face became evident, turning her expression into one of perpetual disappointment rather than ease, while the braid took on the tightly woven appearance of a show horse’s tail.
Mize conducted the introductions, and Ryan responded with a testy, “I don’t see why we need a private investigator. It makes us sound like we’ve committed some sort of crime, and personally I find it a little insulting.”
Mize’s response was conciliatory but assured. “Don’t think I’m being flippant when I say this, Mrs. Collins, but even though Polycrates and I are both working for the Dartmouth Group, we have cross purposes. My job is to assess damages, make certain that you get a settlement you’re comfortable with, and that we get it to you in a timely fashion.” He cocked his thumb toward Rosco. “My buddy here plays the bad guy. It’s his job to come up with a reason Dartmouth can use for
not
paying the claim. It’s S.O.P., standard operating procedure. Works the same with any large claim—fire, theft, personal liability, you name it.” He smiled his brisk, no-nonsense smile. “I want to be thoroughly up front with you both, because Dartmouth has every intention of making good on this claim. So please, don’t let anything Rosco asks insult you; he’s only doing a job. Dartmouth’s CEO has a board of directors to answer to, and if we didn’t play this by the book it would only raise more questions than answers.”
“Fine,” was her less-than-gracious reply, “but I still don’t like it. How long’s this going to take?”
Rosco opened his mouth to respond, but Todd jumped in with a placating “Ryan needs to leave shortly for Logan Airport. The wife of our injured barn manager has been away in Kentucky. She’s arriving in an hour, and she hasn’t yet seen her husband. Ryan’s taking her straight to the hospital.”
Clint glanced at his watch. “You can go now if you like, Mrs. Collins.” He then looked at Rosco. “Do you have anything to ask?”
Rosco pulled a small pad from his pocket. “Just one or two quick questions, if you don’t mind? Were you home when the fire broke out, Mrs. Collins?”
“What? You think I started it?”
“No, not at all; consensus seems to be that your barn manager was responsible. I only wondered if you were home, and if you might have seen or heard anything unusual prior to the onset of the blaze.”
“Yes I was home, but no I didn’t see or hear anything suspicious—if that’s what you’re getting at. Of course, I saw the stable burn. Everyone did.”
“And it wasn’t you who called the fire department?”
“No. Todd said I . . .” She stopped and looked at her husband, but his eyes were fixed to the charred and hulking building, and his expression gave no indication whether or not he’d heard her speak. She returned her concentration to Rosco, and gave him a small and chilly smile. “No. It wasn’t me who called.”
“The dispatcher said it was a woman. Do you have any idea who it might have been?”
“What difference does it make?”
“I’d just like to talk to her, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” Ryan Collins glanced at her watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go.” Then she headed back toward the main house without another word.
CHAPTER
7
Rosco, Clint, and Todd watched in silence as Ryan Collins’s blue Mercedes coupe roared down the lane.
“Sorry about all that,” her husband said after the car had disappeared, “this situation has been tough on her. On everyone actually. We lost a lot of good leather in that tack room. And with the Barrington coming up so soon . . . let’s just say we’re all extra tense.”
“Fortunately there was no loss of life,” was Rosco’s quiet response. “Human or equine.”
Todd regarded him, shifting his weight as if in pain. “You’re right, of course. What was I thinking?” Then he shook his head as though Rosco’s remark had finally sunk in. “We competitive riders tend to forget everything except the next show, the next event. Anything that causes even minor setbacks—damage to a lucky saddle, for instance—is a problem, and we act out accordingly. The days surrounding a major competition can be downright ugly; nerves are frayed; tempers are continually on edge. I’ve heard the world of professional yacht racing is the same, although I don’t have any firsthand experience since most of my life has been devoted to the fickle business of getting big and contrary beasts to run and jump as if they were circus-trained poodles.” Then he gave Rosco a crooked smile. “I know who you are. Are you aware of that?”
“Pardon me?”
“You’ve done a marvelous job of keeping your mug out of the newspapers, but I recognized your name immediately.”
Mize laughed. “Yeah, that chop-shop case Rosco cracked back in March got more press than a presidential visit. Guess you had to pull some major strings to keep the paparazzi off your front door, didn’t you, pal?”
“No,” Todd continued, “I was referring to who he’s married to. I’m a crossword puzzle addict, and I go to bed with your wife every night.”
Rosco laughed while Clint said, “I’m not going near that line with a ten-foot pole.” He pulled a small tape recorder from his jacket. “Getting back to business; I’m just going to poke around and make some verbal notes, Mr. Collins.” He began to head toward the stable. “I’ll need a list of everything that was in the tack room with a value placed on it. The policy was drawn up for a content value of three hundred thousand dollars. I assume that’s going to cover it, but we’re going to need to see some written appraisals or receipts. Whatever documentation you have.”
“I’ll have to look around,” Todd replied. “Most of the saddles cost upwards of four thousand dollars. They were French Bruno Delgranges and Luc Childérics as well as English Crosbies . . . but it’s not simply a matter of replacing them. Once a rider gets his—or her—rump into something he’s comfortable with, anything else feels like a wooden merry-go-round seat. Stupidly, most of the paperwork was kept in the filing cabinet right in the tack room—which wasn’t fireproof.”
“I think we’ll be able to give you some leeway there,” Mize told him. “I’m sure your supplier will have records on what you paid.”
“I’d like to take a look at what’s left of the tack room myself.” Rosco added.
“Sure.”
The three men walked through the mud and entered what was once the building’s west entrance. That half of the structure had collapsed into a pile of charred beams and ruined box stalls; the threatening odor of smoke and drenched wood and ash remained, while the burned leather of the saddles and bridles emitted a ghoulish stench of scorched flesh. Apart from the pervasive smell and a few blackened patches of wood, the eastern end of the stable remained untouched. Once the sprinkler system had been activated, the fire had been stopped dead in its tracks.
Collins shook his head as he stared at the scene. “I could just shoot that damn plumber.”
“As long as you had a work order for the sprinkler repair, you’re in the clear as far as Dartmouth is concerned, Mr. Collins,” Clint told him. “It shows intent.”
“I don’t give a hang about the insurance. I just hate to see the place torn up like this.” Collins kicked at a number of steel bits and stirrup irons lying near his feet, all that remained of some of the ornate trimmings that were as much a part of a horse show as rider and steed.
“Maybe you could tell me what happened the other night,” Rosco prompted.
Collins drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “I had just finished watching the evening news, so I can place the time as being a bit after seven. I was in the den. The room looks out over this stable, which is damn lucky. I don’t know why I happened to glance outside, but I did . . . and that’s when I spotted flames kicking up through the window in the tack room. I saw the shadow of someone swatting at them with a large cloth, which I assume was a horse blanket; obviously that person was Orlando. I don’t know how he could’ve been so stupid; we had three-quarters of a million dollars worth of horseflesh stabled in this barn, and there he was trying to put out the fire before getting the animals to safety. Anyway, I just tore out of the house, bum leg or no. All I could think about was, save the horses.”
“Which you did,” Clint said.
“Damn straight. I ran down here, yanked open one of the doors, and found Orlando standing there like a bump on a log. I don’t know what the hell he was thinking. Anyway, we got all the stock out. Then Polk ducked back inside to activate the busted sprinklers.” Collins abruptly ceased talking; his eyes moved past Rosco and Clint. “Ah, here’s Jack . . . Jack Curry. He’s the head trainer around here. He helped me drag Orlando out. Good thing he showed up when he did. I couldn’t have done it alone.”
Jack introduced himself to Clint and Rosco and finished with, “I saw you drive up. Just thought I’d swing by and throw in my two cents if you needed it.”
“Sure,” Rosco answered. He looked at Curry, who gazed affably back as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Rosco’s suspicious nature made him wonder whether Jack had arrived in order to validate answers rather than supply them. “Perhaps you could tell me when you first noticed the fire.”
Curry pointed to one of the three largest cottages farther up the hill. “I’m staying up in Tulip House. The minute I saw the flames, I was out the door and on my way down here. I didn’t bother to look at the clock.”
“And you didn’t consider contacting the fire department.”
Curry shook his head. “I’m a horseman. If my animals are in trouble, I want to be with them. The fire department’s ten minutes away—if we’re lucky. A lot can happen in ten minutes.”
Rosco turned back to Todd. “Did I understand Mrs. Collins correctly when she began to say that you told her not to call the fire department?”
Todd’s jaw tightened, and his eyes turned slit-thin as though he were staring at the sun. Rosco recognized the expression; it was the look of a man trying to decide whether or not to tell the truth—or whether it was more expedient to simply belt the person who’d asked the question.
“Yes,” Todd finally offered. “I’d totally forgotten that the sprinkler system was down. I didn’t think the department would be necessary. Plus, like Jack said, they would’ve never been here in time to save the stock, and all those sirens and noise, they would have spooked the other animals; which they ended up doing anyway when they arrived.” His mouth remained tense as he pointed to the far end of the stable. “As you can see, if the sprinklers are working they can handle just about anything.”
“And just so I can get a clear picture of who was where,” Rosco continued, “Mrs. Collins was watching the news with you? So you both noticed the fire break out at the same time?”
“No,” Collins answered, then paused a second too long before continuing. “Ryan had been trying out a new course in the enclosed arena. She was returning to the house when she saw the blaze and was actually running to get me at the same moment I dashed outside.”
“So her horse was in this stable?”
Collins shook his head and pointed off to his left. “Ryan’s equitation horses are over in A barn. This stable is mainly occupied by boarded animals.”
“But this is where you keep the saddles, right?”
“Most of the competition packages, yes. But casual work-out gear is stored in other barns.”
“Do you have any idea who
did
call the fire department?” Rosco asked. “As we know, it was a woman, and according to the fire marshal it came from your phone number.”
Jack answered for Todd. “From what I understand, the call came from the central number—which can be accessed from the stables, from Mr. C’s house, as well as from the three main cottages: Tulip, Magnolia, and Gardenia. Technically, the call could have been made from this stable, too—if someone got to the phone before it melted.”
“Are the other two cottages occupied?” Rosco said.
It was Todd who responded. “My daughter Heather and her husband, Michael Palamountain, live in Magnolia; my son, Chip, has Gardenia.”
Rosco glanced at his small pad and the notes he’d made from Belle’s telling of Bartholomew Kerr’s gossip. To confirm one of Kerr’s assertions he asked, “And your other daughter, Fiona, was she here, or are she and her husband, Mr. Applegate, at their home in Florida?”
Both Todd and Jack stiffened at Rosco’s question. After an uncomfortable silence, Todd said, “My daughter and Whitney Applegate are . . . Fiona was here when the fire broke out.”
Rosco pointed to the mansion. “With you and Mrs. Collins?”
“No,” Jack said sharply. “She resides in one of the other cottages. Temporarily, at least. What’s the point of all this?”
“Nothing really, I’m just trying to narrow down who was here, in case I have any follow-up questions later.” He made a note before continuing. “Now, I was under the impression that the barn manager lived here as well?”
“There’s an apartment in the back half of B stable.” Jack said. “Orlando and Kelly live there. Kelly’s his wife.”
“This is the woman Mrs. Collins is picking up at the airport?”
“Right.”
Rosco jotted down the name. “As Clint explained, the Dartmouth Group hired me. I know you’ve got a good relationship with Dartmouth, and that Clint—and you—want to settle the claim quickly. But is there any reason for you to believe that the fire was something more than the accident it appears to be? Is there any chance this might have been arson?”