Death on the Diagonal - By Nero Blanc Page 0,23
riding since she could walk; her prematurely gray hair was cut into a flat and unflattering bowl as if real locks were of less value than a derby or velvet-covered hunting helmet; and her clothes bore the same stamp of disdain: a stained sweatshirt and frayed jeans that would be replaced by a monogrammed shirt, hand-tailored jacket, and color-coordinated breeches when she was in the ring. She stepped forward and offered Rosco her hand. He noticed that her grip was even stronger than Jack Curry’s, and that she was pleased with the fact. “I’m Heather Collins.” Her voice was equally firm, the tone as plain as her appearance. She nodded a brief greeting to the others. “Jack, Daddy, Mr. Mize.”
“I’m Rosco Polycrates, and I—”
“I gathered,” Heather interrupted. “You’re the PI.”
Rosco studied her. “And you feel there’s reason to suspect arson?”
“Heather,” Todd interrupted, “let’s not go into these conspiracy theories of yours right now.” He turned back to Rosco. “My daughter is convinced that Holbrooke Farms—those are the folks who will be our major competition at next week’s Barrington—are responsible for burning up our saddles.”
“And why not? You haven’t danced around a show ring with those creeps in a long time, Daddy. Last year they did everything they could to throw me off my game. You don’t remember Judy Holbrooke telling me she was going to see me burn in Hades after I took the blue?” Heather pointed at the sodden ashes at her feet. “This is no coincidence.”
Todd continued speaking to Rosco as though his daughter hadn’t voiced this opinion. “Of course, she hasn’t considered the fact that this mysterious arsonist from Holbrooke Farms would have to drive past a guarded and locked gate, start the fire, and then steal away without a soul seeing them.”
“It could have been an inside job,” Heather’s hard voice stated. “Someone could have hiked in; this isn’t Fort Knox. And all these people who come and go around here? A couple of hundred dollars, and they’d do anything they were told. You believe everyone has such devotion to you, Daddy. Me, I don’t think they care a lick. You don’t know what goes on behind your back.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Collins said quietly.
“I wouldn’t even put it past my darling sister to have pulled this off. You’ll notice she’s too highfalutin to keep her saddles and tack in this barn.” She glared at Jack. “What does she do, Jack, sleep with them?”
“Drop it, Heather,” was his level reply. “Fiona and I aren’t any of your business.”
“Really? Since when did that happen? I thought the Jack-Curry-and-Daddy’s-darling-daughter deal was all anyone cared about.” Then she spun toward Rosco. “Do you have a business card, Mr. PI?”
Rosco handed her a card, which she stuffed unceremoniously into a back pocket of her jeans.
“Thanks. I’ll call you.”
Then she marched off, jaw tucked in tight, eyes fixed, and elbows jutting as though she were aiming at a very high hurdle. There was something about Heather’s tirade that seemed rehearsed and premeditated to Rosco. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but wrote it off to the fact that she’d probably been waiting to get it off her chest for some time.
“Everyone’s out to get poor Heather,” Jack observed with a thin-lipped smile after she was out of earshot. “Don’t take her notions too seriously, Rosco. She views any bad news as a personal assault—especially when it comes to her big sister.”
Rosco glanced a Todd, finding it odd that Curry felt free to criticize Collins’s younger daughter in front of him.
Todd interpreted Rosco’s unasked questions and gave a dismissive shrug. “Jack’s known Heather for a long time. He’s almost family. And like the rest of us Collinses, he calls it like he sees it. We don’t mince words around here. Never have.”
It was Clint Mize who broke the ensuing uneasy silence. “I’m ready to move on now, sir. If you can fax me whatever paperwork you have on lost contents, I’ll get the claim in the works. I’m afraid we’re only going to allow you sixty percent of the replacement value on the building, though. The east end still appears sturdy as a rock.”
“You do what you have to do,” was Collins’s distracted response. “I’ll let you know if I have any problems . . . oh, and I’ll have our saddlery supplier contact you, as well.” He then nodded to his former son-in-law. “Jack, I need to talk to you in private.”
They excused themselves and walked up the hill