Both men shook their heads, but a voice behind Rosco said a loud and emphatic, “Absolutely.”
Rosco turned to see a woman striding toward them. She had the ramrod-straight bearing of someone who’d been riding since she could walk; her prematurely gray hair was cut into a flat and unflattering bowl as if real locks were of less value than a derby or velvet-covered hunting helmet; and her clothes bore the same stamp of disdain: a stained sweatshirt and frayed jeans that would be replaced by a monogrammed shirt, hand-tailored jacket, and color-coordinated breeches when she was in the ring. She stepped forward and offered Rosco her hand. He noticed that her grip was even stronger than Jack Curry’s, and that she was pleased with the fact. “I’m Heather Collins.” Her voice was equally firm, the tone as plain as her appearance. She nodded a brief greeting to the others. “Jack, Daddy, Mr. Mize.”
“I’m Rosco Polycrates, and I—”
“I gathered,” Heather interrupted. “You’re the PI.”
Rosco studied her. “And you feel there’s reason to suspect arson?”
“Heather,” Todd interrupted, “let’s not go into these conspiracy theories of yours right now.” He turned back to Rosco. “My daughter is convinced that Holbrooke Farms—those are the folks who will be our major competition at next week’s Barrington—are responsible for burning up our saddles.”
“And why not? You haven’t danced around a show ring with those creeps in a long time, Daddy. Last year they did everything they could to throw me off my game. You don’t remember Judy Holbrooke telling me she was going to see me burn in Hades after I took the blue?” Heather pointed at the sodden ashes at her feet. “This is no coincidence.”
Todd continued speaking to Rosco as though his daughter hadn’t voiced this opinion. “Of course, she hasn’t considered the fact that this mysterious arsonist from Holbrooke Farms would have to drive past a guarded and locked gate, start the fire, and then steal away without a soul seeing them.”
“It could have been an inside job,” Heather’s hard voice stated. “Someone could have hiked in; this isn’t Fort Knox. And all these people who come and go around here? A couple of hundred dollars, and they’d do anything they were told. You believe everyone has such devotion to you, Daddy. Me, I don’t think they care a lick. You don’t know what goes on behind your back.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Collins said quietly.
“I wouldn’t even put it past my darling sister to have pulled this off. You’ll notice she’s too highfalutin to keep her saddles and tack in this barn.” She glared at Jack. “What does she do, Jack, sleep with them?”
“Drop it, Heather,” was his level reply. “Fiona and I aren’t any of your business.”
“Really? Since when did that happen? I thought the Jack-Curry-and-Daddy’s-darling-daughter deal was all anyone cared about.” Then she spun toward Rosco. “Do you have a business card, Mr. PI?”
Rosco handed her a card, which she stuffed unceremoniously into a back pocket of her jeans.
“Thanks. I’ll call you.”
Then she marched off, jaw tucked in tight, eyes fixed, and elbows jutting as though she were aiming at a very high hurdle. There was something about Heather’s tirade that seemed rehearsed and premeditated to Rosco. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but wrote it off to the fact that she’d probably been waiting to get it off her chest for some time.
“Everyone’s out to get poor Heather,” Jack observed with a thin-lipped smile after she was out of earshot. “Don’t take her notions too seriously, Rosco. She views any bad news as a personal assault—especially when it comes to her big sister.”
Rosco glanced a Todd, finding it odd that Curry felt free to criticize Collins’s younger daughter in front of him.
Todd interpreted Rosco’s unasked questions and gave a dismissive shrug. “Jack’s known Heather for a long time. He’s almost family. And like the rest of us Collinses, he calls it like he sees it. We don’t mince words around here. Never have.”
It was Clint Mize who broke the ensuing uneasy silence. “I’m ready to move on now, sir. If you can fax me whatever paperwork you have on lost contents, I’ll get the claim in the works. I’m afraid we’re only going to allow you sixty percent of the replacement value on the building, though. The east end still appears sturdy as a rock.”
“You do what you have to do,” was Collins’s distracted response. “I’ll let you know if I have any problems . . . oh, and I’ll have our saddlery supplier contact you, as well.” He then nodded to his former son-in-law. “Jack, I need to talk to you in private.”
They excused themselves and walked up the hill toward the house.
Mize glanced at Rosco’s face and laughed. “You don’t like the situation, do you?”
Rosco shook his head. “I can’t say I do. I’m getting some weird vibes here.”
“Hey, isn’t that what makes the rich different from you and me? They’re
encouraged
to be eccentric. Us? We’d lose our jobs. But weird or not, Polycrates, arson ain’t part of what’s going down here.”
“I’ll feel a lot better after I get a chance to talk to the barn manager.”
Mize chuckled again. “How did I know you were going to say that? Well, fish around all you want. If you come up with something, even if it’s real iffy, let me know, so I can put a stall on Collins’s check. Like I said earlier, that’s what the Dartmouth Group pays you for. And I don’t roll over and play dead for anyone.”
The two men returned to their cars, and as Rosco was about to start the Jeep, Clint called back to him, “Off the subject, but did a Walter Gudgeon ever get in touch with you?”
CHAPTER
8
Maxi’s “Manes on Main” didn’t sound like the name of a high-class beauty parlor—which was precisely what had originally attracted Sara Crane Briephs to the place. Not for her the froufrou decor and fawning attention of its pricier competitors, or the cooing clucks of how
resplendent
her
coiffure
, or how
classic
and
timeless
her aging face. Sara was an old lady; she was proud of the fact; and at eighty-plus she didn’t like pussyfooting around—not that she ever had.
Sara Briephs was New England through and through; her ancestors had helped build the city of Newcastle, and it was a history she regarded as both her legacy and duty. Thus, she liked Maxi’s Manes, with its reasonable prices, with its dearth of
little extras
, like spa treatments and massages with warm aromatic oils or—heaven forbid—seaweed wraps. A weekly hair appointment was all Sara wanted and needed, and Maxi’s was the shop she chose. Besides, if Sara wanted to cover herself in seaweed, she had only to lie on a beach at low tide and let the slimy stuff wash over her.
She found a parking space directly in front of the shop, a feat that would have been remarkable for anyone other than Newcastle’s reigning grande dame. But wherever she rambled in her ancient and gleaming black Cadillac, empty spots magically appeared as if the years had rolled back to an era when there were fewer vehicles on the road, and when automobiles such as hers were piloted by ladies and gentlemen dressed in formal hats and gloves.
Sara could still parallel park with the best of them, which she did in a heartbeat, then set the emergency brake, removed her own kid-gloved hands from the steering wheel, daintily retrieved her purse from the passenger seat, and swung her still-athletic and taupe-stockinged legs from the car. As she stepped out she glanced at the lettering on Maxi’s window and smiled as she always did. “ ‘Manes on Main,’ ” she mused aloud. “The name makes it sounds as though Belle should be bringing her monsters, Kit and Gabby, here for a wash and blow-dry.” It was ten minutes before three in the afternoon; her standing appointment was at three—every Saturday, week in and week out.
But no sooner had Sara opened the door to Maxi’s Manes than Fiona Collins zoomed out, nearly colliding with the elderly lady. Without slowing her pace she giggled a decidedly unapologetic, “Sorry about that. Must be the champers I had at lunch. I can’t seem to see straight any longer.” Fiona giggled again, then flitted up the street toward the municipal parking lot on Thirteenth Street and Winthrop.
“I trust she’s not driving,” Sara sniffed as she walked into the salon.
Maxi—or Maxine as she seemed to call herself on alternating days—raised a caustic eyebrow. “Well, guess again, Sara.”
“Those people,” was the imperious response, but the shop owner merely grinned a wide, amused smile and handed Sara a cotton wrapper.
“So, what are we doing this week, Sar . . . ? Spikes? Orange and green streaks, a touch of violet to match your doll-baby blue eyes?”
“I didn’t know the Collins girls were your customers,” was Sara’s still-haughty reply. “I would have guessed anyone other than Bruno or Claude at Chez Claude would have been beneath their stature.”
“It’s only Lady Fiona, and this is only her second appearance. She runs through hairdressers like she runs through men, so I’m not counting my chickens before they come home to roost. But you know me . . . if she doesn’t cause any trouble or make too many demands, or sulk or pout or whine about not looking simply
divine
at age forty-five, then she can get an appointment. If not, she’s outta here. All I do is hair, no face-lifts, no cosmetic dentistry, no laser treatments, no peels, no waxes.” Maxine tossed her own hair—this week a soft, strawberry blond—in a customary display of streetwise toughness. “I mean, I’m thirty-seven, and I’m a big girl. How divine am I gonna look once I reach the dreaded age of forty? Not very, is my guess. Even Bruno and Claude would have their hands full.”
“For one thing, you’re not big, Maxine; you’re tall. And for another: forty or, for that matter, forty-five or even fifty is a mere child when compared to—”
“I know . . . I know . . . eighty-whatever.” Maxi gave a hearty laugh that matched her ample frame. “So, surprise me, Sar . . . what’ll it be this week?”
Sara winked at the hairdresser’s reflected image in the mirror. “The usual. Shampoo and set.”
“You’re no fun, you know that? When I get to be an old broad like you, I’m gonna cut loose. I’ll be playing with hair colors they haven’t even invented yet.”
“Hmmmph,” Sara sniffed again, but the teasing exchange was interrupted by Fiona Collins’s return.
“Silly me . . . I forgot my purse.” She bumped into the reclining chair where Maxine’s assistant was now preparing to shampoo Sara. “Woopsie-daisy . . .”
Sara closed her eyes and leaned her stately head back into the sink. The activity made a strong statement, as if the likes of Fiona Collins—sober or tipsy—didn’t exist.
“Hey, I know you . . .” Fiona mumbled. “You’re Tommy’s mom . . . or were, I guess I should say, since he’s no longer with us . . . Ooh, sorry . . . Foot-in-mouth disease, that’s me.”
Sara stiffened, but made no reply. Nor did she open her eyes.
“He was a fun guy, Tommy, a real party animal. I miss him a lot.”
“So do I.” Sara’s voice was so firm and monotone that both Maxi and her assistant grew instantly silent. Not Fiona, however.
“I’ll just bet you do. Everyone does. I’m not a mom, so I wouldn’t know about maternal stuff, but Tommy was one hell of a good-time Harry . . . or Charlie or whatever . . .” As she spoke, Fiona hunted for her missing purse. “Damn! It’s not here. Maybe I left it in the restaurant. I paid you, didn’t I, Maxine?”
“In cash. You had a one-hundred-dollar bill in your pocket. A couple of them, in fact.”
“Really?”
“You put the change in the same pocket.”
Fiona checked her jacket. “Damn! So I did . . . I forgot this money was here. I’ll check the restaurant and see if I left my stuff there. Well, toodles, Tommy’s mom. Good to meetcha . . . again.”
“His name was Thompson, not Tommy,” was Sara’s taut response, but Fiona was already gone.
Seated at Maxine’s workstation with her white hair now dripping onto her shoulders, Sara’s expression remained grim. “That awful woman,” she announced between clenched teeth. “The whole lot of them. They’re simply cowboys with money. The worst sort of people.”
“If I had their kind of dough, you could call me a cow, and I wouldn’t care,” Maxi said to lighten the mood. But Sara was not to be appeased.
“Three husbands and counting, the first being that trainer the father apparently dotes on, and has rehired despite his hellacious past . . . and the third being that ne’er-do-well dilettante, Whitney Applegate, whom I’ve heard is still lurking in the shadows, despite the fact that his wife has rekindled her romance with spouse number one. Who, I might add, left Collins’s employ under a severe cloud last time . . . gambling debts . . . suspicions of filching his mate’s pin money. I imagine Fiona’s heading for a very messy divorce. Well, good for her. Thank goodness she never corralled my son, that’s all I can say.”
“It’s probably not called ‘pin money,’ Sar,” Maxi observed, as she affixed a Velcro roller to the thinning hair and pink scalp. “Especially, if you’re a Collins and your current hubby—and future ex—is Mr. Whitney Applegate, the fourth, of Palm Beach, et cetera. Pin money in their case probably means diamond brooches.”
“The Collinses are a most unstable family.”
“As it were,” Maxine rejoined, but Sara was on a roll and not inclined to play.
“And I’ve heard that the father’s present wife, Ryan, is the worst of the lot.”
Maxi laughed. “So Lady F. was telling me. ‘The Black Widow’ is what Fiona calls her stepmom. I just got the whole sordid story in a single sitting: how Ryan got her hooks into dear old Dad, while she was convalescing from a riding accident that Lady F. is convinced was staged. ‘Riding spill, my butt. No one even saw her fall,’ ” Maxine quoted. “And how self-same Dad blamed himself for Ryan’s misfortune, insisted on paying all medical bills and having her recuperate at his house, how much the kids hate her—despite the fact that Fiona suspects stepmom of coming on to Chip. Which little Chip has never denied. Yep, I got it all today. Of course, she wanted to refresh her highlights, so we had extra time to gab.”