Death on the Diagonal - By Nero Blanc Page 0,15
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 stepsisters in the story . . . Anyway, that sounds like a bit of a generalization, Belle—”
“Ever the innocent male.” She kneaded