Death on the Diagonal - By Nero Blanc Page 0,4
she objected to; they were an entertaining bunch once you got them away from work, and she and Rosco enjoyed socializing with them. Instead, it was the building’s architecture that she found off-putting. It was postmodern gone to seed, like an inner-city high school after a long and wearying week. A pale, dirty brown was the color of choice—which some politely called “greige” or even “sepia,” while others chose earthier and less flattering epithets: words that don’t normally appear in family newspapers.
Belle proceeded down the dingy hall, dodging the various messengers and copyboys, until she reached her own cubicle-sized office, where she opened the door into the stark and unlovely space. A chipped laminate desk, an office chair that listed to one side, and a bookcase (mostly empty) stared forlornly back at her. Atop the desk sat a small collection of pencils, a few sheets of quarter-inch graph paper that had been there so long they were almost as brown as the walls, a blotter pad, and an in-out box. It was there that Belle placed the manila envelope containing a week’s worth of crosswords accompanied by their solutions. After that major effort, she was free to go home—a simple and predictable ritual, albeit a little odd. As long as the interoffice mail boy found the package, there at seven o’clock on Friday evening (word games for the next week being exempt from the demon deadline), everyone was happy.
Belle fiddled with the envelope, repositioning it until the edges took on a military precision, then murmured a quiet, “Well, that’s that. Enough thrills and chills for one week. It’s off to the the dog park for me.”
“Oh, nay, nay, nay, say it isn’t so, my dear Bellisima. One can’t vacate the dank underbelly of the venerable Evening Crier simply because something as trivial as the sun may be shining in the bright universe beyond. You don’t see any of the other moles running for daylight, do you?”
She turned to find Bartholomew Kerr, the Crier’s diminutive gossip columnist standing in her doorway, the greenish glow of the fluorescent overhead lighting casting an olive patina over his nearly bald pate and on his upturned face with its oversized black glasses. Depending on circumstances, Bartholomew either resembled a scrawny baby bird or a housefly searching out a tasty bread crumb.
Despite his oddball appearance and his florid, and often pretentious, speech, Kerr was one of Belle’s dearest friends at the newspaper. He prided himself in knowing everyone in the city of Newcastle, and what they were up to and when—that is, everyone whose name could be recognized when reproduced in boldface type in his “Biz-y-Buzz” column.
“Good morning, Bartholomew,” Belle responded with a glowing smile. “Does it seem unusually hectic around here today, or is it my imagination?”
Kerr strolled into Belle’s office and perched his tiny frame on the corner of her desk. Only the tips of his suede loafers touched the linoleum floor. “Ah, alas, trouble ventures into the illustrious realm of high society. Why on earth do you think I’ve ventured into this fetid arena before eleven o’clock? I gather you haven’t heard about the fire?”
“Fire?”
Kerr released a cherubic chuckle. “Oh, my dear Bella. Please say that word one more time for me, will you? It has such an angelic and innocent ring when floating from your lips. Although from the fever in your eye, I might question whether you’re a devoted pyromaniac.”
“What fire, Bartholomew? I haven’t heard anything about it.”
“Tsk, tsk . . . that’s why the intestines of our Evening Crier are working overtime. The Herald went to bed too early and missed the story, so we have ourselves a good old-fashioned scoop. Apparently, someone torched one of the horse barns out at King Wenstarin Farms.”
“That’s horrible. Were any animals killed?”
Kerr threw up his hands in mock horror. “I’m sorry, I have misspoken myself. There is no evidence—as yet—that this was a torch job. That’s only my catty presumption. Although since the Family Collins is insured to the nines by the Dartmouth Group, I suppose it won’t be long before a certain crossword-puzzle editor’s hubby, one Rosco Polycrates by name, is called in to . . . look things over, shall we say? We all know your dear boy is this burg’s favored PI when it comes to ferreting out insurance fraud, don’t we, now?”
Belle stomped her foot on the floor. “Bartholomew, stop, please. Did any horses die?”
“Ah, the kindhearted demoiselle. Women do love their prancing steeds, don’t they? I believe most