Death on the Diagonal (6 page)

“What if he doesn’t make it?”

It was Abe who answered. “The doctors are giving him an eighty percent shot at pulling through.”

“Hey, Poly-Crates, don’t start giving me more work than I already have. I don’t need no more dead people right now.” Lever coughed again and reached for his cigarettes. Both Rosco and Abe shook their heads, while Abe picked up the
No Smoking
sign on the table and perched it atop Al’s coffee cup.

“Oh, you guys are cute. Anybody ever tell you that?” Lever coughed for a third time, but left his cigarettes in his pocket. “Anyway, until the fire marshal sends up a red flag, or someone dies, neither me or the good doctor here are going anywhere near King Wenstarin Farms. Which is fine by me.”

Martha arrived with two cholesterol-laden platters of cheeseburgers and French fries, then plopped a cup of coffee in front of Rosco. “What’ll it be, doll face?” she asked.

“I’ll wait for Belle.” Rosco reached over and snagged one of Lever’s fries. The lieutenant tried to slap his hand away, but Rosco proved too quick for him.

“I’ll bring a couple of extra orders of fries,” Martha said, “I wouldn’t want to see anyone get hurt, or have one of you boys starve to death on me.” She glanced down at Al’s well-endowed stomach, gave her eyebrows a sarcastic twitch, and walked off.

Lever groaned. “She’s worse that my wife. I don’t know why I come in here.”

“Any idea who insured the Collins farm?” Rosco asked.

Lever laughed. “You’re beginning to sound like an ambulance chaser, Poly-crates. Things
must
be slow over at the agency. Maybe you’d like to come back onto the force? Have yourself a steady paycheck, and all the other thrilling benefits that come from working for our beloved city.”

“The Dartmouth Group covers Wenstarin,” Abe said. “You’ve worked for them, haven’t you?”

“Yep. They’re a tight bunch. Clint Mize is their chief adjuster now. Left his job with Shore Line about a year ago. Dartmouth doesn’t pay out their claims lightly—or willingly. They’re going to need something a lot more specific than a
maybe
accident involving a heater and a bottle of fire-water before they get out their checkbook.”

Abe smiled and looked past Al and Rosco. “Here comes the
Belle of the Ball
now.” The other two turned and watched as Belle walked the length of the restaurant and slid into the booth next to Abe. Two young police officers ogled her as she passed, but when they realized she was joining Lever, Jones, and Rosco, they made feeble attempts to make it appear as if they’d been looking for a waitress.

After Belle kissed Rosco and all exchanged greetings, Al said, “You’re early.”

Belle looked at her watch. “Actually I’m ten minutes late. Sorry. Friday traffic.”

“No, no, no, I judge these things by using my wife, Helen, as a barometer. Any woman who’s less than half an hour late is early in my book.”

Belle laughed and looked at Rosco. “How’d things go with the potential client this morning?”

“Ah-ha!” Abe said, “Mister ‘Not Much’ has something shakin’ and refuses to share it with his trusted friends.”

“Hey, you know how it is, Abe,” Lever added. “These PIs squeeze us for the inside dope right and left, but share and share alike isn’t in their playbook.”

“Sorry guys, client privileges,” Rosco responded. “Don’t try to tell me you don’t have information you can’t divulge.”

“You can tell us though, Rosco,” Belle complained. “It’s not like we’re going to blab it all over town.”

“What’re we blabbing all over town?” Martha set a cup of coffee in front of Belle and two extra orders of fries in the center of the table. “Is there something I don’t know? Customers count on me to keep them informed about the city’s darkest and dirtiest tales—those items that don’t appear on the evening news.”

“I’ll have a grilled cheese sandwich with fries and coleslaw,” was Rosco’s evasive reply. “What about you, Belle?”

Belle looked at Martha. “Rosco’s refusing to tell us who his new client is or what he—or she—wants.”

“Tut, tut, tut, it’s not nice to keep secrets from your wife, buttercup. It may come back to haunt you in the bedroom later on this evening.” Martha winked at Rosco, then asked Belle, “What’ll it be, blondie?”

“I’ll have the waffles with vanilla ice cream and strawberries, syrup on the side.”

“Coming right up.”

Martha moved off, and Lever shook his head at Belle’s lunch choice. “Do you know what I’d look like if I ate like you?” He then pointed a finger at Jones. “And don’t even think of answering that question, wise-a—” Al was interrupted by the ringing of Rosco’s cell phone.

Rosco glanced down at the caller ID readout and stood to leave the table. “I should take this.”

“Who is it?” Belle asked.

“Clint Mize over at the Dartmouth Group.”

5

“Why won’t you tell me?” Belle protested as she studied the meatloaf ingredients lying in a stainless-steel bowl on the kitchen countertop. Being “culinarily challenged,” this was the first time she’d ventured into such haute cuisine since her first dinner with Rosco. On that occasion she’d misinterpreted the recipe, substituting hot red-pepper flakes for chopped red bell peppers. To say that the result was spicy would have been an understatement. Just to be certain history didn’t repeat itself, Rosco sat on a stool nearby flipping the plastic jar of pepper flakes in his hand as he watched his wife blend together ground veal, pork, beef, chopped green and red
bell
peppers, and an assortment of nonlethal spices such as oregano and basil. The couple’s two dogs, Kit and Gabby, were also showing a great deal of interest in Belle’s labors. Kit, a brown and black Lab-shepherd mix, politely waited at her side, on the off-chance that some morsel might escape the bowl. Gabby, a gray terrier-poodle blend, took a more aggressive attitude, placing her front paws on the counter’s edge and voicing low, guttural groans intended to solicit direct handouts.

“Gabby, get down,” Belle said without much conviction. She waved her wooden spoon at the dog, but Gabby only leaped up in an attempt to grab it from her.

“Okay, Gabsters, that’s enough, beat it.” Rosco nudged at the determined creature with the tip of his shoe, and she proceeded to flop down on the floor beside Kit, the picture of mischief, wounded pride, and woe.

“Maybe we should have a nice, cozy fire tonight,” he added, wondering if the inspiration had come from the events at King Wenstarin Farms or the jar of pepper flakes in his hand. “What do you think? First one of the season . . . a little romance to heat things up?”

“Don’t change the subject,” was Belle’s airy reply. “Why won’t you tell me who you’re working for? And what you’re doing? Don’t you trust me?” Although the tone was half-teasing, she was dying to know. Belle was a determinedly inquisitive person, and patience had never been her strong suit.

“We’ve been through this, Belle. If a client asks me not to reveal their problems, I have to honor the request. It’s as simple as that.”

“I don’t think that applies to your wife. Especially
this
wife, who is the very soul of discretion. Besides, maybe I can help. What good is a
subcontractor
if I can’t throw my two cents in? I might even know your client. I mean, how big is Newcastle?”

Rosco laughed. “All the more reason why you shouldn’t be involved.”

“You mean I’ve already met this person? Hand me those pepper flakes, will you?”

“Not on your life. I’m not letting you anywhere near these. And no, you and my client have never met.”

“Hmmmm . . . At the risk of repeating myself, how can you be so certain I don’t know him?”

“Him? Did I say it was a he?”

“It’s a woman? You’re working with a woman? Rosco, you can’t sit here and tell me you’re secretly meeting with another,” she put on a Bogart accent, “gorgeous dame, and expect me to take it lying down.”

He hopped off the stool, stood behind Belle, and put his arms around her waist. But when he tried to kiss the back of her neck, she moved her head to the side. “It’s not a woman. I promise,” he lamented.

“I don’t believe you. And if you don’t tell me exactly who she is, I’m not going to share all the juicy stuff Bartholomew Kerr told me about the Collins family.”

“I doubt that. You’re desperate to blab. Look at your face.”

“Not a word, I swear. Give me those pepper flakes, you cretin.”

He reluctantly handed her the jar. “Go easy. I think one or two will be plenty.” Then he crossed to the refrigerator. “Do you want a glass of wine?”

Belle nodded, then removed the cap from the jar and began shaking flakes through the perforated lid. It was clear her mind wasn’t on her task. “Who is she?”

“It’s not a woman.” He turned to face her. “Hey, that’s enough . . .”

“Ahhh . . .” she almost screamed. “Who put the lid on so loosely?”

Rosco shook his head and walked to his wife’s side. He held a bottle of white wine in his hand as he looked down at the mixing bowl. The lid had dislodged, and the entire jar of pepper flakes was now sat scattered across the meatloaf ’s surface.

“I can’t believe I did that,” Belle groaned.

“We can go out for dinner.”

“No, no, I can fix this. Where’s the vacuum cleaner?”

“You can’t vacuum a meatloaf, Belle.”

“It’ll work just fine. I’ll use that pointy little nozzle thingamajig. It’ll just suck the flakes and seeds right through the air—without even touching the food.”

Rosco rolled his eyes, walked off to the hall closet, and returned a moment later carrying a small canister vacuum cleaner. He plugged it into the wall socket and opened the bottle of wine while Belle aimed the vacuum nozzle into the mixing bowl.

“There! Perfect!” she announced triumphantly when she’d finished. “I got almost all of them.”

“What’s your definition of ‘almost’?”

“The meatloaf may still be a little spicy, but who doesn’t like their food nice and zesty?”

“Nobody I know. Well, look at the bright side; we are now completely out of hot red pepper flakes. The odds of history repeating itself anytime in the near future are slim.”

Rosco returned the vacuum cleaner to the closet and then poured them each a glass of wine. He handed one to Belle and lifted his in a toast. “Here’s to my resourceful wife. What would I ever do without her?”

Belle gave him a long and loving kiss. When they parted she said, “That’s exactly the term Bartholomew used for Ryan Collins—
resourceful.
”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning she saw a good thing in Todd and latched on to it. A typical trophy wife, but on the downward slope, according to Bartholomew. It also seems she has a classic evil-stepmother relationship with Todd’s kids.” Belle began to mold her creation into a loaf shape but stopped abruptly. “Oatmeal.”

“Oatmeal?”

“Yes. I forgot. The recipe calls for rolled oats instead of bread crumbs, remember? Do we have any oatmeal?”

“Why would we?”

“From the last time I made this, Rosco! Maybe it’s in the freezer.”

“There’s too much ice cream in the freezer for anything else.”

“No, wait, I know where it is. There’s a cardboard canister of rolled oats in the cabinet behind all that herbal tea your sister gave us last Christmas.”

“No wonder I’ve never seen it. I wondered what happened to that tea.” Rosco opened the cabinet, pushed the tea aside, retrieved the oats, and handed the box to Belle. “How fresh is this stuff?”

“It’s oatmeal, Rosco. It lasts forever. They found some in King Tut’s tomb.”

“You’re making that up.”

She winked at him. “Maybe.”

“Okay, clarify your meaning of
evil stepmother.
”

“How about
Cinderella
? Twenty-plus years ago, Dad dumps the real mother for bride number two, then he proceeds to axe her, and eventually brings in Ryan who happens to be younger than his natural daughters. According to Bartholomew, the eldest Collins daughter, Fiona, is now forty-five; Heather, the next in line, is forty-one—meaning that the only sibling younger than dear step-mama is Todd’s son, Chip, who’s thirty-two compared to Ryan’s thirty-seven. To add insult to injury, the minute she took over the house, she tossed away all photos and other memorabilia that reminded her doting hubby of the past. So, I’d say the
Cinderella
slipper definitely fits the picture—”

“Except that I thought there were step
sisters
in the story . . . Anyway, that sounds like a bit of a generalization, Belle—”

“Ever the innocent male.” She kneaded the meatloaf into shape, placed it on a broiling pan, and smeared steak sauce over the top. Rosco opened the oven, and she slid it in. The dogs followed each action attentively, then sighed mightily as Rosco closed the oven door. It was as if they believed that this was the last glimpse of food they’d be permitted during their brief and tragic lifetimes. “No wonder those kids are messed up,” Belle continued.

“In what way are they
messed up
?”

“Well, this is from Bartholomew again, so you have to take it with a grain of salt . . .” She stopped and looked around the kitchen.

“What?” Rosco asked.

“Did I put salt in the meatloaf?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I wasn’t watching. Don’t worry about it. We can sprinkle it on later if we need to.”

Belle’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Oh darn . . . I really thought I had this recipe nailed.”

“Well, one less ingredient isn’t bad.”

“I almost forgot the oats, too, Rosco . . .”

“But you didn’t.”

Belle sighed again. “Maybe cooking is a skill that can’t be learned. Maybe it’s a gene you have to be born with, like musical ability or perfect pitch or a good ear for languages.”

“Or ironing and cleaning?”

“Exactly! I’ve never made that connection before. Some people are absolute naturals when it comes to domestic chores; they enjoy vacuuming and washing windows and scrubbing kitchen tiles, but I get bored to tears. Besides, everyone knows that dusting only attracts more dust.”