a con artist, which I’m convinced she is, she’s a genuine pro, because I couldn’t trip her up in the slightest.”
Sara Crane Briephs might have been confined to a wheelchair, and that contraption might now be resting on a magnificent Persian palace carpet in the midst of other singular antiques collected by generations of Crane family members, but in all other ways the doyenne of White Caps—as well as her domain—remained unchanged: an elegant and venerable residence awash in damasks and chintzes and mahogany furniture so polished it all but sparkled.
“Could you have been a trifle harsh in your approach, Rosco dear? Tipped your hand too soon, as they say?” the doughty lady suggested as she watched his wife pour afternoon tea; while Belle, for her part, forced her hands not to tremble. The proscribed ritual of simultaneously holding aloft both a silver pot and a gold-rimmed porcelain cup set in its saucer was one that Sara had only recently relinquished—and only then to the young woman she considered her surrogate granddaughter. However, Belle was keenly aware of her “apprenticeship” stature. There’s many a slip twixt the cup and the lip, she quoted the ancient epigram in silence, adding a rueful, and between the cup and the pot—as well as the activities Sara was hardwired to perform, and the meager hostess-type skills I was taught.
“I’m not saying you were harsh, mind you, Rosco,” Sara continued, gazing philosophically at Belle’s unsure labors. “But perhaps, there might have been another means of eliciting information from Ms. Davis—before getting her dander up, that is.”
Rosco sat back on the Hepplewhite settee. Unlike his wife, he felt genuine ease in Sara’s beloved White Caps, but then he wasn’t a gentlewoman-in-training.
“I honestly don’t know what to make of the situation,” he said. “I guess what I expected was a bunch of phony, sugarcoated responses . . . lies that would have given her away. Avon-Care assured me that Dawn arrived like clockwork for each appointment and was a conscientious and undemanding patient—personality traits that totally jibe with what Saul Bownes suggested.”
“I’m certainly glad he’s not my physician,” Sara piped in. “He sounds like a dreadful person. Sinister, really. Don’t you agree, Belle?”
Belle nodded, but kept her focus on the cup she was now transferring to her right hand, while she picked up a plate of lemon slices with her left, proffered both to her hostess, before returning her concentration to pouring herself the third and final cup of tea. Whew! her brain rejoiced. Thank heaven that’s over! And I’ll just brain Rosco if he asks for a refill.
While Belle completed her nerve-racking task, Rosco casually grabbed a fluted silver dish filled with homemade macaroons, passed them to Sara, then snagged two for himself. The freedom with which he began chomping away earned another grimace from his wife.
“I know Gudgeon only asked me to locate Dawn,” he said between heedless and happy mouthfuls, “but I’d really like to get some hard evidence that would prove she’s a crook; something that would convince Walter to go to the police and press charges. If he doesn’t, she’s free to pull the same stunt elsewhere. And that’s why I’d like to have your help with this, Sara.”
“My help? But I’m just an old lady confined to quarters for the foreseeable future—”
“Not from here . . . but when you become a patient at the Avon-Care facility,” Rosco answered.
Sara cocked her head to one side. Her blue eyes regarded him with birdlike intensity. “You want me to pilfer Dawn Davis’s files!”
Rosco chortled. “Not quite. What I want you to do is strike up a conversation with Ms. Davis—”
“And then get the goods on her!” Sara handed Belle her cup, adding a peremptory, “More tea please, dear. And you needn’t fill it quite to the top this time.”
Belle glowered at Rosco who remained blissfully unaware of his wife’s discomfort.
“It’s clear that I can’t talk to Ms. Davis again, Sara. If she even spots my Jeep at a distance, she’s liable to scream for the cops, which, as I said, Mr. Gudgeon wants to avoid. Clearly she knows this.” Rosco reached for another macaroon. “And while we’re on the subject, you do realize that everything I’ve told you must be kept in the strictest confidence? In fact, we wouldn’t be having this conversation if I didn’t need your aid. And I’m still not altogether comfortable sharing a client’s name.”
Sara nodded, but the expression held a hint of impatience. “You know I’m the soul