all went down, but my guess is he’s trying to save his own hide. I mean, supposedly it was his hooch that started the blaze, and his reputation for not being what you’d call a teetotaler is apparently common knowledge out here.”
Rosco closed the folder. “Well, you know me, Clint; if I smell a rat, I’ll go to the fire marshal with it. And the DA, too. I won’t bury anything.”
Mize raised his hands. “Hey, I’m with you, buddy. That’s why I called you rather than some PI who’s going to roll over and play dead for the fat cats. I don’t like games any more than you do. I just wanted to brief you on company policy before we drove in there.”
The two men returned to their vehicles, passed through the gate, and proceeded along the alley of copper beeches. After a quarter of a mile they came to a rise in the lane. When they got to the top of the hill, they could see the whole of King Wenstarin Farms stretched out below them. The Collins mansion commanded another rise. From this vantage point, the entire house was visible. Built in the early 1920s, the residence looked as though it belonged in New-port, Rhode Island, rather than on a farm in Massachusetts. Six stately pillars spanned the front elevation, creating an imposing entrance and broad portico. The remainder of the structure was mostly Georgian in design: Palladian windows, French doors on the lower level, a slate roof punctuated by six chimneys. It was clearly a comfortable and spacious home. A number of large and small ancillary cottages stood at a respectful distance; lawns of perfect grass rolled between each building.
Five stables lay below the farm residences, one of which was now half-destroyed by fire. Each barn was equipped with a paddock as well as a fenced exercise area. Within sight also were two professional-sized practice arenas; one was fully enclosed for winter use, and the other was open-air and equipped with a small grandstand. That ring was presently arranged in jumping-course mode, with fifteen obstacles set at varying heights. Four teenage girls and a boy were taking their mounts through their paces, as a trainer stood at the center barking orders alternatively to the youngsters and their horses. Three women, whom Rosco guessed to be the kids’ mothers, sat in the grandstand chatting and laughing and paying little to no attention to their children’s activities. To a person, the women were clad in woolens and tweeds that were intended to appear casually mismatched as if the costumes had been hastily tossed together; instead the muted colors, the buttery Italian leather, and quite obvious cashmere and silk bore the unmistakable stamp of wealth. The mothers had their backs to the burned building, and their animated conversation seemed to indicate that they either didn’t notice the acrid scent of fire still lingering in the air and the muddy landscape surrounding the charred structure or that they refused to do so. If it’s not pretty, their postures said, it’s not worth wasting our time.
Rosco followed closely behind Clint’s Toyota, and also parked by the ruined stable.
“Mr. Collins said he’d meet us down here,” Mize told Rosco as they stepped from their cars. He then nodded back toward the mansion. “That must be him and the missus now.”
Rosco turned and watched Todd Collins and his wife, Ryan, stroll down to meet them. Collins was exactly as he’d been described: tall, rangy, white-haired, and uncompromising, with a slight limp he seemed determined to ignore. Ryan also matched prior descriptions: a strikingly beautiful woman in her late thirties with blond hair braided into a single plait and sharp green eyes. As the couple neared, however, deeply etched lines in her face became evident, turning her expression into one of perpetual disappointment rather than ease, while the braid took on the tightly woven appearance of a show horse’s tail.
Mize conducted the introductions, and Ryan responded with a testy, “I don’t see why we need a private investigator. It makes us sound like we’ve committed some sort of crime, and personally I find it a little insulting.”
Mize’s response was conciliatory but assured. “Don’t think I’m being flippant when I say this, Mrs. Collins, but even though Polycrates and I are both working for the Dartmouth Group, we have cross purposes. My job is to assess damages, make certain that you get a settlement you’re comfortable with, and that we get it to you in a