Death on the Diagonal (19 page)

“Man . . . just when you think you know someone . . . Backgammon, huh? You know we could play together—in real life, I mean?”

“What, and risk you winning? You know how fiercely competitive I am. This way if I lose, I remain completely anonymous.”

Rosco chortled. “Okay . . . here it is; reverse lookup. Read that phone number to me, will you?”

Belle read it, and Rosco entered the numbers on the screen. “Ho, ho, ho,” he said as the information came up. “Look what we have here.”

Belle leaned over his shoulder. “Wow, you mean these crosswords were faxed from the Dew Drop Inn?”

“It looks that way.”

“But the place’s latest ‘rebirth’ into a ‘luxury resort and spa’ never got off the ground. It’s been boarded up for over a year—not that too many ‘renovations’ were accomplished.”

“Well, the telephone line must still be hot.” He reached for Belle’s desk phone, dialed the number, and let it ring ten times before hanging up. “Interesting; no disconnect message, but no fax squeal either. I guess the investment group that bought the inn is still hoping to accomplish their plans. Although given the fact that the old place has undergone a bunch of failed attempts at rehab over the years, things don’t look promising.” Rosco paused. “Periwinkle Partners, I think that’s the latest group to own it.”

“What?” Belle said as she turned to face him.

“Periwinkle Partners. Those are the investment folks who bought the Dew Drop Inn.”

“But that’s who Michael Palamountain works with when he’s not dealing with the horse farm. He’s CFO of Periwinkle Partners. Bartholomew told me.”

“I imagine it must be true then. Mr. Kerr prides himself on getting his info directly from the horse’s mouth.”

Belle made a face. “You’re unrepentant, you know that?” Then she added a perplexed, “But if Palamountain is the one sending these puzzles, does that make him innocent? Or guilty?”

“And therefore the poor penitent Palamountain of Periwinkle Partners?”

“Just stop right this minute.”

“Or Michael, the misguided and misbehaving millionaire?”

“Rosco!”

He was silent for a moment, only. “And where does Heather fit into the scheme?”

22

In a kill-two-birds-with-one-stone concept, Rosco had originally hoped to take Kit and Gabby for an early morning run in the large park adjacent to the deserted Dew Drop Inn, while at the same time checking the old establishment’s phone lines. However, a steady downpour of unpleasantly cold rain greeted the threesome as they stepped out onto their porch. For a full five minutes, human and canines watched the wet stuff tumble from the sky in buckets. The waiting Jeep looked many sodden miles away. Then Rosco adjusted his plans, retrieved an umbrella, and hooked up their leashes.

“Sorry girls, no park today,” he said. And the three plodded out into the elements to return eight minutes later drenched to the core. He toweled off the dogs, fed them, wolfed down a bowl of granola, kissed Belle good-bye, and drove over to the Dew Drop Inn alone. If Kit and Gabby intuited where he was heading, they didn’t seem to mind. They gave him a
Have fun, big guy
look and curled up in Belle’s office.

Because the inn’s current owners had forsaken it the previous year, the rambling structure was beginning to again show serious signs of neglect. Several of the new windows had broken panes; the wide veranda facing both the sea and overgrown gardens was piled with the detritus of New England storms: leaves, twigs, and sand blown up from the dunes and bluffs overlooking Buzzard’s Bay, while the salt of ocean-splashed spray had turned what paint remained on the woodwork and shutters into a flaking and moldering mess that all but screamed
Dry rot!
and
Save me before I crumble completely!

Rosco considered the series of investors the romantic old place had inspired over the years: all of them hoping to restore the inn and its spectacular grounds into a viable business—and all of them failing and quietly decamping. Now it was apparently Periwinkle Partners’ chance to return the hotel to its former glory; however, leaving the structure to lie fallow hadn’t helped their cause.

The locks, like most older hotel locks, weren’t sophisticated, and Rosco had little difficulty bypassing them. He’d worn jeans and work boots and had a telephone repairman’s tool belt strapped to his waist. He entered the inn by way of the back kitchen door. Worn and dented pots and pans still hung from large iron hooks, and the kitchen utensils appeared undisturbed since the last meal had been prepared circa 1960. A layer of dust covered everything, and a number of window screens had collapsed onto the countertops. He walked through the kitchen and large formal dining room and down a long corridor of guest rooms where he jimmied one of the room locks, entered, and tested the phone line. It was dead.

Rosco repeated the process in a half dozen more rooms, and the same held true: all the lines had been disconnected. He crossed through the main lobby and stepped behind the reception desk. The reservation book was still open to the last day of operations as if awaiting the arrival of a ghostly visitor, and a doorway to the rear was still marked with a sign reading MANAGER. He glanced at the knob. The door had been forced, and the wood splintered at the jamb as though a crowbar had pried it apart. The damage was obviously recent.

He nudged open the door, stepped inside, and tested the phone line. Although it was hot, there was no fax machine in sight, leading Rosco to surmise that whoever had sent Belle the crosswords had provided their own machine.
If it was Michael Palamountain,
his thoughts continued,
he would have had a key. On the other hand, if he wanted to make the situation appear to be an ordinary break-in, this is the ruse he might have chosen.
Rosco stood studying the room. Nothing else seemed disturbed. No desk drawers had been disturbed, no cupboards ransacked. All evidence pointed toward a burglar too disappointed to hunt further.

Rosco returned to his Jeep, but as he left the inn’s empty parking lot he noticed Al Lever’s “unmarked” brown police cruiser resting on the far side of the dog area. Rosco drove around the park, stopping beside the cruiser so that the two driver-side windows were inches apart. He slid his window open, and Al lowered his. A plume of cigarette smoke escaped into the dripping morning air. Al’s dog, Skippy, jumped around in the backseat anxiously.

“Looks like Skippy has some business to attend to,” Rosco observed.

“It’s raining like hell,” was Al’s laconic reply. “Where’s Kit and Gabby?”

“Hey, I listen to the weather reports,” Rosco lied. “Who didn’t know it was going to rain all day? I left them at home. As far as I know they’re playing backgammon right now.”

“Yeah? Then what’re you doing all the way out here if you don’t have any dogs with you?”

Seeing no need to keep Al in the dark, Rosco briefed him on his reasons for being at the inn, as well as everything else he’d learned during the past few days. Al in turn brought Rosco up to date on his investigation into Ryan Collins’s homicide. One: The only fingerprints found on the murder weapon belonged to Orlando Polk, and the hoof pick had a B burned into the handle, indicating it came from stable B. However, as everyone knew, the barn manager was confirmed to have been at Newcastle Memorial at the time of the killing, which provided him with an airtight alibi. And two: According to Abe Jones’s report, there were no out-of-place fingerprints at the crime scene. Lever viewed the discoveries as confirmation of his own suspicions—that the killer was probably one of Todd Collins’s offspring. “Whoever bludgeoned Ryan Collins was angry as hell,” he concluded. “But like they say, being stiffed out of a large inheritance can produce a seriously bad heir day.”

Rosco grimaced at the play on words. “Who says that, Al—besides you, I mean?”

“You got a better motive, let me know,” was the terse response.

“You’re not ruling out Todd as the perpetrator, are you?” Rosco asked.

“I’m not ruling out anyone, Poly-crates. I’m just going with my gut. And right now, it’s pointing to the kids.”

“If I were you, Al, I’d keep remarks that refer to your waistline at a minimum.”

“Ho, ho.”

“Well, I’m going to try to catch up with Chip Collins out at The Horse With No Name,” Rosco added after a moment. “Apparently he shows up there like clockwork on Friday for the half-priced oysters.”

“Yeah, like he needs to count his pennies—or even his one-grand notes.” Then Al’s caustic tone softened as he looked at Skippy. “Bring us a doggie bag, Poly-crates, but forget the raw bar for my man Skippy, here. Fried oysters he likes . . . Rockefeller, clams Casino, whatever, but he’s not big on the sushi-style items.”

Rosco didn’t bother to ask how his former partner had ascertained the dog’s taste in seafood. For all Rosco knew, Lever hand-fed Skippy each and every meal. For such a dyed-in-the-wool curmudgeon and cynic, Al was a notorious pushover when it came to his beloved canine companion.

“You wouldn’t be influencing Skippy’s choice of cuisine, would you, Al?”

“Keep me posted,” was Lever’s sole response.

 

 

From the inn, Rosco drove directly to his office. He shook the rain from his parka, hung it on the coat rack, then sat at his desk. His answering machine blinked with one message that had been logged in only five minutes earlier. He tapped the play button.

“Yes. Rosco. Todd Collins here. I had a long talk at the club last night with my good friend Hank Farley—that’s Dartmouth Group’s CEO—but I assume you know who Hank is . . . I tried to persuade him to remove you from this damn fire investigation, because we need to straighten out this
conflict of interest
nonsense and get you working full time on finding Ryan’s killer. I’ll admit I’m not as confident in Newcastle’s Finest as you are.” Without the merest pause, Collins’s authoritative voice pounded ahead:

“Problem is, Hank’s hamstrung by the weenies on Dartmouth’s board of directors. He feels it’ll send up flags if he bumps you from the case. He told me the only solution is for
you
to remove
yourself
or close out the investigation. Well, there is one other option, which is for me to drop the claim, but we’re not going to go there.” Collins finally took a breath and added, “So what’s it going to be? I’ll make it worth your while. Give me a ring. I’m at the farm. You’ve got the number. I want Ryan’s murderer brought to justice, and I want it done yesterday.”

Rosco lifted the receiver to return the call, but then let it drop back into the cradle. He had nothing to say to Todd Collins. He would work the case as he saw fit.

 

 

By noon Rosco was nursing a draught beer at the long oak bar of The Horse With No Name. The spot had been a roadside tavern for over two centuries. Unlike the Dew Drop Inn, new ownership simply picked up where the former left off. The age-darkened beams of the ceiling didn’t undergo a sunny facelift; the publike atmosphere of the dining room didn’t morph into bistro French or southern Italian; no one tried a menu that was Asian-fusion or Hispano-Mayan or Tuscan-Bulgarian. The staples remained traditional American fare. At this point it had been in the same family for over thirty years, and Friday’s half-price oyster special meant that there wasn’t an empty table to be had. This fact worked in Rosco’s favor. Three people had already asked if the bar stool next to him was available, and he’d managed to send them on their way with, “Sorry. I’m saving it for a buddy of mine.” Ten minutes later Chip Collins arrived and approached him.

“Hey, how’s it goin’, Rosco? I didn’t know you liked this joint. You saving this stool for anyone?”

“Nope.” Rosco tapped the cell phone on his belt. “I was supposed to meet an old friend, but he just called and said he couldn’t make it. Have a seat.”

Chip sat next to Rosco and gave the bartender a nod. Without a word, a dark amber ale was placed in front of him.

“Only way to go,” Chip said. “The snobs think you’ve got to have champagne or some froufrou drink when you sit down with a plate of oysters. But anyone in the know will tell you a good beer keeps your taste buds sharp.” He pointed to the chalkboard behind the bar. “Try the ones from Fishers Island, New York; none better in the country. It’s a small-scale farm, and the owners know their business.”

“I’ll do that.”

“How’re you coming with that fire thing? I think the old man’s getting a tad annoyed with the insurance company.” Chip chortled as he spoke. “Pop’s not a pleasant man to be around when things don’t go his way . . . or as quickly as he’d like.”

Rosco smiled. “I imagine after all is said and done the Dartmouth Group will pay off. Clint Mize explained that to your father. Unless, of course, the situation proves to be a case of arson.”

Chip ignored the inference, turning instead to the bartender and ordering them both a dozen oysters. He was careful to specify the types he wanted served.

“Let me ask you something,” Rosco continued as if he were making casual conversation. “Orlando Polk insists he heard the phone, or maybe the intercom, just before the fire started. Did you hear it ring up at your cottage?”

“Not the phone, no. And I keep the damn intercom turned off. Most of the time it’s just my sisters knocking each other over something. I get tired of listening to their gab. It starts sounding like talk radio.”

Rosco took a sip of his beer. “I know what you mean. I’ve got sisters, too.
Greek
sisters. When it comes to vendettas, they take the cake.” Then he added a seemingly nonchalant, “Can I be up front with you?”

“I hope so.”

“I have good reason to believe your barn manager didn’t start that blaze. I think he’s covering for someone. I can’t figure out who, and I can’t figure out why. The thing is, I feel the fire marshal’s initial assessment is correct: that the blaze was an accident. There are a lot easier ways to start a fire than with a space heater. So I don’t get it. What do you think, Chip? Who’s Polk covering for, and what’s his reason?”