Death on the Diagonal - By Nero Blanc Page 0,54

I mean?”

“What, and risk you winning? You know how fiercely competitive I am. This way if I lose, I remain completely anonymous.”

Rosco chortled. “Okay . . . here it is; reverse lookup. Read that phone number to me, will you?”

Belle read it, and Rosco entered the numbers on the screen. “Ho, ho, ho,” he said as the information came up. “Look what we have here.”

Belle leaned over his shoulder. “Wow, you mean these crosswords were faxed from the Dew Drop Inn?”

“It looks that way.”

“But the place’s latest ‘rebirth’ into a ‘luxury resort and spa’ never got off the ground. It’s been boarded up for over a year—not that too many ‘renovations’ were accomplished.”

“Well, the telephone line must still be hot.” He reached for Belle’s desk phone, dialed the number, and let it ring ten times before hanging up. “Interesting; no disconnect message, but no fax squeal either. I guess the investment group that bought the inn is still hoping to accomplish their plans. Although given the fact that the old place has undergone a bunch of failed attempts at rehab over the years, things don’t look promising.” Rosco paused. “Periwinkle Partners, I think that’s the latest group to own it.”

“What?” Belle said as she turned to face him.

“Periwinkle Partners. Those are the investment folks who bought the Dew Drop Inn.”

“But that’s who Michael Palamountain works with when he’s not dealing with the horse farm. He’s CFO of Periwinkle Partners. Bartholomew told me.”

“I imagine it must be true then. Mr. Kerr prides himself on getting his info directly from the horse’s mouth.”

Belle made a face. “You’re unrepentant, you know that?” Then she added a perplexed, “But if Palamountain is the one sending these puzzles, does that make him innocent? Or guilty?”

“And therefore the poor penitent Palamountain of Periwinkle Partners?”

“Just stop right this minute.”

“Or Michael, the misguided and misbehaving millionaire?”

“Rosco!”

He was silent for a moment, only. “And where does Heather fit into the scheme?”

CHAPTER

22

In a kill-two-birds-with-one-stone concept, Rosco had originally hoped to take Kit and Gabby for an early morning run in the large park adjacent to the deserted Dew Drop Inn, while at the same time checking the old establishment’s phone lines. However, a steady downpour of unpleasantly cold rain greeted the threesome as they stepped out onto their porch. For a full five minutes, human and canines watched the wet stuff tumble from the sky in buckets. The waiting Jeep looked many sodden miles away. Then Rosco adjusted his plans, retrieved an umbrella, and hooked up their leashes.

“Sorry girls, no park today,” he said. And the three plodded out into the elements to return eight minutes later drenched to the core. He toweled off the dogs, fed them, wolfed down a bowl of granola, kissed Belle good-bye, and drove over to the Dew Drop Inn alone. If Kit and Gabby intuited where he was heading, they didn’t seem to mind. They gave him a Have fun, big guy look and curled up in Belle’s office.

Because the inn’s current owners had forsaken it the previous year, the rambling structure was beginning to again show serious signs of neglect. Several of the new windows had broken panes; the wide veranda facing both the sea and overgrown gardens was piled with the detritus of New England storms: leaves, twigs, and sand blown up from the dunes and bluffs overlooking Buzzard’s Bay, while the salt of ocean-splashed spray had turned what paint remained on the woodwork and shutters into a flaking and moldering mess that all but screamed Dry rot! and Save me before I crumble completely!

Rosco considered the series of investors the romantic old place had inspired over the years: all of them hoping to restore the inn and its spectacular grounds into a viable business—and all of them failing and quietly decamping. Now it was apparently Periwinkle Partners’ chance to return the hotel to its former glory; however, leaving the structure to lie fallow hadn’t helped their cause.

The locks, like most older hotel locks, weren’t sophisticated, and Rosco had little difficulty bypassing them. He’d worn jeans and work boots and had a telephone repairman’s tool belt strapped to his waist. He entered the inn by way of the back kitchen door. Worn and dented pots and pans still hung from large iron hooks, and the kitchen utensils appeared undisturbed since the last meal had been prepared circa 1960. A layer of dust covered everything, and a number of window screens had collapsed onto the countertops. He walked through the kitchen and large