Death on the Diagonal - By Nero Blanc Page 0,38

which birds raise their young, a haven, a retreat . . . as well as clutch of poisonous snakes. Belle studied the room; it seemed to corroborate the allusion: a peaceable place decorated in pale and tranquil shades and emitting a discernible aura of wealth—as opposed to the glittering and watchful eyes that now regarded her. If she hadn’t recognized them as belonging to human faces, she would have imagined viperous tongues flicking out to test the air as she approached. The decibel level also raised; it was the quick bump in sound that occurs when people are caught discussing a secret or a forbidden topic.

“Belle, I’d like you to meet my daughter Fiona. . . . Fee, this is the famous crossword queen, Belle Graham.”

The hand that shook Belle’s was limp with disinterest, although the eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. Ryan’s gone, they seemed to protest, and now Pop’s introducing another blondie into our midst. Great! We’ll have no end of girlie brides.

“My husband—” Belle began, sensing it was time to set the record straight, but Heather’s booming voice interrupted her.

“He’s the PI who’s charged with determining whether the barn fire was accidental or a case of arson,” she announced to the room as if she were in charge of disseminating all information. Belle decided Rosco’s description of Heather fit the woman perfectly. The word horsy seemed coined for the Heather Collinses of this world.

Fiona, with her perfect hair and flawless makeup, turned away to begin murmuring to a man Belle could only assume was Jack Curry—at least he looked like the rough and ready trainer Rosco had encountered.

Todd covered his eldest daughter’s rudeness by formally introducing Heather and her husband, Michael Palamountain, but any polite exchange was cut short by the roar of Chip’s voice as it rose from the other side of the room. “Pop, this isn’t some damn social visit . . . or another one of your cherished family reunions! None of us wants to be here, so let’s just cut the cute palaver.”

“Dear brother sounds as if he’s just a wee bit hungover this morning, Daddy,” Fiona observed in a voice that oozed both oil and venom.

“Can it, Fee! Like you’re Miss Perfect, you who’s screwing—”

“Excuse me? Are you talking home repair once again, Chipper?” was the fierce retort. “Because you know I don’t have a clue when it comes to—”

“Home repair! That’s a laugh. Home wreck is more like it.” He forced a remembered laugh.

“Oh, how clever of you, Chipper. The bottle of whatever you’re currently enjoying certainly elevates your wicked wit. I’m sure your little girlfriend heartily agrees, don’t you, Angel, honey?”

But before a much chagrined Angel could reply or even move away from Chip’s unsteady shadow, Heather ordered a brusque, “Leave her alone, Fee.”

“What? And forsake our habitual, happy-family fun and games just because she’s a fish out of water? Oooh, sorry about that. I didn’t mean to imply you were as teeny-tiny as an angelfish.”

“Leave her out of this,” Heather repeated in a growl, and Fiona spun on her.

“Where do you get off, telling me what to do? You with your banker husband and your safe and predictable marriage. No wonder you spend all your time down in the stables—”

“Fiona. Heather.” Todd’s commanding voice broke in. “Girls. Stop. This isn’t an easy time for any of us. Sniping only makes it worse. Now, I want you to apologize to one another. And to Chip and Angel, too.”

But the “girls,” instead of being mortified by this parental reprimand, simply glared at their father with a sullen rebellion usually reserved for teenagers. And who’s fault is it that we’re gathered here while a homicide detective and his prying team take over the house? their lowering glances seemed to demand. You’re the one who married Ryan in the first place. You’re the one who gave us a “stepmom” younger than we are. You’re the one who cast us aside.

“Pop’s right,” Chip added, a beat too late; then he lurched into Angel and gave her a hearty and wobbly squeeze, which caused her to rock back on her heels and nearly fall.

Out of the corner of her eye, Belle saw Heather share a meaningful look with Fiona; then their heads swiveled in unison toward Angel, both women steadily observing the shoes that had caused their brother’s latest squeeze to lose her balance. They were sling-back, fire-engine-red stilettos: footwear woefully inadequate for tromping around a horse farm. The sisters’ eyebrows raised in smug disapproval, while