asked them, bending down to pat each in turn. “My Winston sends his fondest regards. At least, I assume he does. Bulldogs are reticent creatures. But then, of course, they’re English. Need I say more?” Then in typical Bartholomew fashion, the little man skipped back to his previous subject.
“I’ll wager Rosco might be out at King Wenstarin Farms. A return jaunt to supplement yesterday’s sojourn?”
“How did you know we were there yesterday?” In a flash, Belle recognized her mistake. If Bartholomew’s question were no more than a fishing expedition, she’d obviously taken the bait.
He laughed in reply. “Don’t worry, Bella-bella. I already knew you were on-site with Big Al et alia. A wee birdie named Estelle blabbed. It seems her confrere is not one of your husband’s staunchest admirers. Though dear Estelle seems a bit infatuated with your hubby’s body; purely from a medical standpoint, I would hope. So, tea and sympathy for a poor wight consigned to write an obituary of a vapid vamp . . . ? What do you say?”
While Belle prepared Bartholomew’s jasmine tea, he rambled on about Ryan Collins: how her marriage to Todd had “wrought enormous changes in the manse,” how “she sacked all the live-in help and hired day laborers—for a little privacy, or so she stated,” and how she’d “insisted that the brutish Jack Curry be reinstated in the Wenstarin Stable.”
“The conclusion to such activities is quite obvious, I’m afraid, Belle,” he observed as he delicately sipped the fragrant brew his hostess had set before him. “Our tragically demised Ryan was having an affair with Jack before she met Daddy Big-Bucks. When she set herself up as mistress of the Collins domain, she forced her besotted bridegroom to reinstall Curry in his former role—while ridding herself of any pesky staff who’d spot any questionable nocturnal comings and goings . . . snoring, indeed!” Bartholomew snorted. “Most likely the guest bedroom was the lovely Mrs. Collins’s normal habitation of an eve; and Todd is too proud or too pigheadedly vain to admit his wife had decided to take her charms elsewhere.”
As she listened, Belle began to wonder if there were any secrets left in Newcastle; and Bartholomew’s next question confirmed her suspicions.
“How’s Sara faring with Dr. Arthur? Favorably, I hope. I’ve been told he’s a gentle man as well as a gentleman—unlike others of his staff.”
This time Belle was better prepared. “I’ve only met Dr. Arthur; he seems thoroughly professional.”
Bartholomew pointed his sharp nose at her, as if he were sniffing for a fib. “Dame Sara will have to undergo physical therapy, won’t she, Bellisima? What a bore! All those yaw-ping types urging one on to greater heights of fitness and prowess. Of course, Dame Briephs is a New England original. She enjoys being hale and hearty—which is precisely why she found her son’s friendship with the Collins gang so distasteful. Not that they’re a sickly crowd, lord knows—unless you count murder as detrimental to one’s health. But then, robust specimens are not always the most stellar examples of clean living, are they?”
“More tea?” Belle asked.
Again, Bartholomew gave her curious stare. “Methinks the lady doth conceal something.”
“No, I’m not, Bartholomew. I promise. Rosco and I happened to be invited out to the farm yesterday, that’s all. It was pure coincidence that we arrived to find Ryan Collins had been killed.”
“No signature crossword puzzles tucked under the recumbent body, I take it?”
Belle laughed. “Not a one.”
“Tell me about Heather’s husband, Michael Palamountain,” Bartholomew said.
“You’re putting the entire family into the obituary?”
“It’s background, Bella mia. I like to gather a full spectrum of details before I put pen to paper—or fingertips to keyboard, as the case may be.”
“I was in the room for half an hour tops, Bartholomew. I can’t possibly tell you what he’s like.”
“Hmmmm . . .” was the thoughtful reply. “How’s this for a possible scenario? Palamountain is the farm’s banker, which means he handles stud fees, et cetera. High finance, which as we’re all painfully aware, can lure the greedy into the naughty land of embezzlement—or mountains of cash, in this case . . . Thus, the aforementioned Ryan learns that her middle-aged stepson-in-law has his proverbial fingers in the till, threatens to finger him herself—which leads to her untimely demise. It was a hoof pick, wasn’t it, rather than an ice pick? Or, dare I say, an accountant’s red pen? Oh, and wait, you being a word couturier, as it were, would appreciate the allusion: Palamountain employs a device normally