Death on the Diagonal - By Nero Blanc Page 0,29
open the can they heard the steady beep of the fax machine emanating from her home office at the rear of the house.
“Yuck,” she said. “It’s Sunday. Don’t people have anything better to do with their time than to send faxes?”
Rosco placed the frozen muffins on the work island. “I’ll go see what it is. It’s probably a land deal in Florida that we’d be absolute idiots to ignore. We may need to respond within the next twenty minutes, though, so get your credit card ready.”
He walked back to the converted porch that served as Belle’s office and returned empty-handed a few seconds later. “It was a crossword puzzle submission.”
“Argh, that’s even worse. These constructors know I only accept contributions at the Crier. And sending it on a Sunday? I’ll bet whoever it is wouldn’t like to be pestered on their day off.”
“Don’t let it bother you.” He stepped up to her and gave her a long kiss. “We’ve got the whole day ahead of us. A cheery visit to our favorite recuperating invalid . . . then a romp in the countryside with the you-know-whos, culminating with a romantic fire while the sun sinks in the golden west . . . And you’ll note, there’s not a step-quote puzzle in sight.”
Belle smiled then shook her head in perplexity. “How do these people get our fax number, anyway?”
Rosco laughed. “Here’s how.” He took the kitchen phone from the wall and auto-dialed the Crier’s main operator. When a voice responded, he said, “Yes, could you please give me Annabella Graham’s fax number?” He held the phone at a distance, so Belle could hear the operator rattle off the number, then added an energetic “Thank you so much!” before hanging up.
“Hmmmm. Maybe you should consider becoming a private detective. You seem to know all the tricks.”
“That’s what they pay me for.”
Belle placed the hash in a frying pan and lit the gas range. “I hope I can get this as crispy as Kenny does down at Lawson’s. Do you think there’s a trick to it?”
“Hey, if you ruin the stuff, we still have plenty of Alpo.”
Belle chuckled, but her smile turned into a frown when Rosco’s cell phone rang a split-second later. He walked to the counter where he’d left it and looked at the caller ID. “I should get this. It’s the surgeon at Newcastle Memorial who operated on Dawn Davis. I’ve left him three messages since Friday. This is the first he’s called back.”
Belle’s “Fine” was less than enthusiastic; there was no disguising her irritation at having their peaceful Sunday interrupted twice in three minutes by communiqués from the outside world.
Rosco put the phone to his ear and walked into the living room, so Belle wouldn’t have to listen to the drone. When he returned two minutes later, his expression was no longer lighthearted and sunny. “Bad news, I’m afraid. I’m going to have to run over to the hospital and see this guy. It’ll take me an hour, maybe two by the time I get back.”
“Oh, Rosco, that’s not fair,” Belle protested. “We were going to have the entire day together.”
“I know, but Dr. Bownes is leaving for a two-week vacation tomorrow morning.”
“He can’t answer your questions over the phone?”
Rosco shook his head. “Information concerning patients is confidential. He may not tell me anything, even if I see him in person. It depends on how he wants to play it.”
“Well then let it wait two weeks. What difference does it make?” Even as she posed the question she realized that Rosco couldn’t let his case go cold for two weeks. His wasn’t a nine-to-five job and never would be. “I’m sorry,” she said as she moved close to him. “I’m just disappointed, that’s all.”
“Me, too.” He kissed her. “Here’s an idea: How about we save the hash for supper and have a late lunch out after we visit Sara? That way we can have our hash and eat it, too.”
“Har har . . .” But the attempt at levity fell short, and Belle cleaned the frying pan in silence, while Rosco slugged down the remnants of his coffee and spooned up dry granola.
“Think of it as trail mix,” she offered.
“I’m trying . . . any vanilla ice cream left?”
“Sorry. It’s chocolate chocolate chip or nothing.”
“Don’t say we lack for exotic cuisine.”
With Rosco gone, Belle slouched disconsolately into her office. Despite the abundant sunshine streaming in through the numerous windows, the glorious red leaves of the sugar maple in the