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.”
“Is that science you’re spouting, or the World According to Belle?”
“Smart aleck.” Then Belle returned to her previous subject. “Anyway, Bartholomew told me—”
“That Ryan is hardwired to be a gold digger, that her mothering gene is severely undeveloped, and that the resulting mutant breed is ruining the Collins kids’ lives.”
Belle raised a caustic eyebrow as she regarded her husband. “That wasn’t what I was about to say, but I’ve got to admit it’s an intriguing concept.”
Rosco chortled. “Right. And maybe those pepper flakes are genetically engineered to attack a mixing bowl in huge clumps.”
Belle crossed her arms. “Should I have the feeling you’re not taking me seriously?”
“Never.”
“Never what? That you’re not giving my theories the weight they deserve, or that you are?”
“Whichever choice is going to get me off the hook.”
“Hmmmm.”
“Actually, I’d like to hear more about Bartholomew’s take on the Collins family, since I’m meeting with Clint Mize out there tomorrow. If the fire were purposely started in order to collect insurance money, most likely a family member set it. And if there are darker forces at work—sibling rivalries, for instance, or long-standing resentments, or feelings of parental betrayal—then that information also goes into the mix.”
“Ah-ha!” Belle grinned. “That just goes to show how much I help with your cases. Okay . . . I’ll show you mine, but only if you show me yours first.”
“You’re not suggesting I reveal client confidences?”
“Of course I am.”
The couple strolled into the living room, a treasure trove of eclectic secondhand-store “rescues,” and Belle sat on the couch, while Rosco lit the fire. When he stopped playing Boy Scout, Belle leaned forward. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
She grinned. “Don’t play dumb with me, buster. You’re no good at it. You may be able to pull off that dim-witted-guy stuff with some poor unsuspecting crook, but I’m on to you.”
“I can’t tell you what my client wanted. It’s privileged information.”
“I know. However, as your wife and a subcontractor for the Polycrates Agency, aren’t I entitled to—?”
Rosco raised his hands in a gesture of mock-surrender. “Just tell me why I ever gave you that title.”
“Love?”
He snuggled in beside her, followed immediately by Kit and Gabby, until the couch was full of entwined human and canine bodies. Then he proceeded to outline Walter Gudgeon’s story about the vanished and needy Dawn. “I asked him point blank about their relationship,” Rosco concluded, “but he wouldn’t go there.”
“So the answer is yes, they were intimate.”
He laughed. “You don’t know that for a fact.”
“Sure, I do. If they hadn’t been romantically involved, Gudgeon would have emphatically denied it.”
“And if he had denied it, I guarantee your response would have been, ‘I don’t believe that for a second.’ ”
Belle thought for a moment. “You may have something there.”
“Some people just get insulted when you ask the question, and they refuse to answer it; I put Gudgeon in that category.”
She gave him a kiss. “Do you know what I love about you?”
“What?”
“That you can be so naive at times.”
“At least ‘Young Walt’ won’t have Dawn hanging around dictating