Death on the Diagonal - By Nero Blanc Page 0,43

of discretion, young man.” Then she thought for a moment. “Something about this case of yours rings a bell . . . what is it . . . ? What is it? Oh, I remember now. There was a similar situation down in Florida several winters ago: a young woman preying on elderly widowers. I’m not sure the crime was ever resolved.” Sara took her refilled teacup. “Just right his time, dear,” she said to Belle before returning to Rosco.

“So, you’re proposing I cozy up to Ms. Davis, who doesn’t know me from Adam. But if she believes her cover’s been blown—that is the correct term, isn’t it?—then who’s to say she’ll even return to complete her scheduled therapy sessions? I wouldn’t. I can tell you that. I’d be on the next plane to Belize—” Sara interrupted herself as she abruptly set aside her cup. “Oh, my goodness! Emma forgot the deviled eggs she made you, Belle dear. They’re not on the tray, and I didn’t notice the oversight until this very second. That’s what age does to one. People forget the simplest of things . . . Hand me the silver bell, will you? Our Emma will be so bitterly disappointed if she can’t present you with your favorite treat.”

Emma was Sara’s maid and alter ego. The two women had been together for half a century, and had weathered so many communal storms that the labels of mistress and servant had become irrelevant, although Emma continued to cling to her traditional taffeta uniforms: pink or gray during the day, black at night—with the requisite starched white apron, of course.

“I can go out to the kitchen, Sara,” Belle offered. “There’s no need to bother Emma.”

“It will do her good, my dear. She gets far too little exercise, and I certainly wouldn’t wish my current sedentary state to befall her. Imagine her tooling around in the kitchen in this unwieldy device—”

“You could do the cooking, in that case,” Belle tossed in.

“What! And deprive her of the opportunity of lording it over me from her home on the range? What a terrible notion. Emma’s the queen of the cuisine. I wouldn’t dream of tampering with that title.” With that Sara rang the bell, then returned her gaze to Rosco. “The problems I foresee with your suggestion are these: One, I’m not scheduled to begin physical therapy until the swelling in my knee subsides—by which time your Dawn Davis may well have skedaddled. And two, I can’t be accompanied by Belle—as I was to Dr. Arthur’s office—because she’s so instantly recognizable. Anyone with half a brain, and it sounds as though your Ms. Davis has more than that, will make the connection. She may not have realized that you were the private eye to whom the illustrious cruciverbalist, Belle Graham, is wed, but I’ll warrant she’d put two and two together if she saw me with your lovely bride. Now, as for the first quandary: I believe I can successfully make a preliminary foray to Avon-Care—under the pretext of examining the place before making a decision about which physical-rehabilitation facility will garner my business. As for the second—”

At that moment, Emma entered. In her hands she bore the promised deviled eggs. “I spotted these on the counter not two seconds ago, madam—before you rang for me.”

“Did you now, Emma?” was Sara’s wry reply.

“I did.” Emma’s posture was as commanding as Sara’s, notwithstanding the wheelchair and their present difference in height; and there might have been more conversation as to when the bell had rung and when the treasured eggs had been discovered were it not for the fact that Sara suddenly burst out, “Guess what, Emma? You and I are going to become subcontractors of the Polycrates Agency! Think of that! Just like our Belle, here. Rosco has asked us to infiltrate a health-care facility this coming Thursday. But my news is completely hush-hush, of course; strictest confidence and all that.” She eyed Emma from head to foot. “You may dress as my maid, if you’d like, unless you feel the choice would cause undue suspicion—which is a possibility. Perhaps we should invent a more devious disguise for you.”

Rosco shook his head and shot Belle an amused glance. A pair of “subcontractors” whose combined age is one hundred sixty, the look said. Who else will Sara decide to “hire” on my behalf?

“I believe the choice of a uniform is an excellent one, madam. Which one do you wish me to wear?”

“Oh, I think