Death on the Diagonal - By Nero Blanc Page 0,24

toward the house.

Mize glanced at Rosco’s face and laughed. “You don’t like the situation, do you?”

Rosco shook his head. “I can’t say I do. I’m getting some weird vibes here.”

“Hey, isn’t that what makes the rich different from you and me? They’re encouraged to be eccentric. Us? We’d lose our jobs. But weird or not, Polycrates, arson ain’t part of what’s going down here.”

“I’ll feel a lot better after I get a chance to talk to the barn manager.”

Mize chuckled again. “How did I know you were going to say that? Well, fish around all you want. If you come up with something, even if it’s real iffy, let me know, so I can put a stall on Collins’s check. Like I said earlier, that’s what the Dartmouth Group pays you for. And I don’t roll over and play dead for anyone.”

The two men returned to their cars, and as Rosco was about to start the Jeep, Clint called back to him, “Off the subject, but did a Walter Gudgeon ever get in touch with you?”

CHAPTER

8

Maxi’s “Manes on Main” didn’t sound like the name of a high-class beauty parlor—which was precisely what had originally attracted Sara Crane Briephs to the place. Not for her the froufrou decor and fawning attention of its pricier competitors, or the cooing clucks of how resplendent her coiffure, or how classic and timeless her aging face. Sara was an old lady; she was proud of the fact; and at eighty-plus she didn’t like pussyfooting around—not that she ever had.

Sara Briephs was New England through and through; her ancestors had helped build the city of Newcastle, and it was a history she regarded as both her legacy and duty. Thus, she liked Maxi’s Manes, with its reasonable prices, with its dearth of little extras, like spa treatments and massages with warm aromatic oils or—heaven forbid—seaweed wraps. A weekly hair appointment was all Sara wanted and needed, and Maxi’s was the shop she chose. Besides, if Sara wanted to cover herself in seaweed, she had only to lie on a beach at low tide and let the slimy stuff wash over her.

She found a parking space directly in front of the shop, a feat that would have been remarkable for anyone other than Newcastle’s reigning grande dame. But wherever she rambled in her ancient and gleaming black Cadillac, empty spots magically appeared as if the years had rolled back to an era when there were fewer vehicles on the road, and when automobiles such as hers were piloted by ladies and gentlemen dressed in formal hats and gloves.

Sara could still parallel park with the best of them, which she did in a heartbeat, then set the emergency brake, removed her own kid-gloved hands from the steering wheel, daintily retrieved her purse from the passenger seat, and swung her still-athletic and taupe-stockinged legs from the car. As she stepped out she glanced at the lettering on Maxi’s window and smiled as she always did. “ ‘Manes on Main,’ ” she mused aloud. “The name makes it sounds as though Belle should be bringing her monsters, Kit and Gabby, here for a wash and blow-dry.” It was ten minutes before three in the afternoon; her standing appointment was at three—every Saturday, week in and week out.

But no sooner had Sara opened the door to Maxi’s Manes than Fiona Collins zoomed out, nearly colliding with the elderly lady. Without slowing her pace she giggled a decidedly unapologetic, “Sorry about that. Must be the champers I had at lunch. I can’t seem to see straight any longer.” Fiona giggled again, then flitted up the street toward the municipal parking lot on Thirteenth Street and Winthrop.

“I trust she’s not driving,” Sara sniffed as she walked into the salon.

Maxi—or Maxine as she seemed to call herself on alternating days—raised a caustic eyebrow. “Well, guess again, Sara.”

“Those people,” was the imperious response, but the shop owner merely grinned a wide, amused smile and handed Sara a cotton wrapper.

“So, what are we doing this week, Sar . . . ? Spikes? Orange and green streaks, a touch of violet to match your doll-baby blue eyes?”

“I didn’t know the Collins girls were your customers,” was Sara’s still-haughty reply. “I would have guessed anyone other than Bruno or Claude at Chez Claude would have been beneath their stature.”

“It’s only Lady Fiona, and this is only her second appearance. She runs through hairdressers like she runs through men, so I’m not counting my chickens before they come home