a roll in the hay, as it were, with some secret honey. All this while your wife is back in Louisville looking after her dying father. What a charmer, you are. Of course, you need to take the fall for the fire, rather than have Kelly find out what you were up to.”
Polk placed his head in his hands, but still made no reply.
“But you know something, my friend? What you were doing—and with whom—doesn’t change a thing. Because if we determine that the blaze was a torch job, you’re still an accessory to the fact. Unless, of course, you care to come clean with what you know.” Rosco walked toward the door, then turned back. “It doesn’t make any difference to me who you were shacked up with, but believe me it’s going to come out sooner or later. I gather it was either Fiona or Heather, which obviously compounds your prob—” Rosco stopped himself midword.
Orlando lifted his head and made eye contact with Rosco for the first time in minutes, then he glanced away again. It was clear he knew that the detective had made the necessary leap to the truth. He shook his head, his ponytail swaying in defeat. “It was real stupid. I don’t know what I could have been thinking. Kelly probably would have understood, after a while, but not—”
“But not Mr. Collins.” Rosco took in a large breath and let the air out slowly. “You were up there in that loft with the boss’s wife. Of course, you couldn’t blab.” He moved over and sat on the couch’s armrest. “So Ryan Collins sneaks out the back of the barn and runs up to the Big House just in time to tell Todd she’s returning from her evening ride; how very ironic.” The barn manager failed to acknowledge the dig, so Rosco added, “And you don’t have any idea who was in the tack room?”
Polk shook his head.
“How about the whack on the back of your head? Falling timber? Or did someone come after you? Because if you were intentionally hit and then left to die in the blaze, that’s a murder attempt, and it doesn’t make for a pretty picture.”
“I can’t answer that, either. All I can tell you is that something hit me. Hard.”
“Well, Ryan Collins’s death was no accident, and you’re the only person in the world with an ironclad alibi. Do you think your boss had any knowledge of this sordid business between you and his wife?”
“I guess you’d have to ask him that.”
CHAPTER
29
Although it wasn’t yet noon, Todd Collins was perched at the wet bar in his study, drink in hand, when Rosco knocked on the open door. Orlando Polk’s surly comment, “I guess you’d have to ask him,” was still fresh in Rosco’s mind, and his hurried pace and determined expression reflected the encounter. If the owner of King Wenstarin Farms was surprised at the intrusion, or by the steely look in Rosco’s eye, he didn’t reveal it; instead, he waved his visitor in, the ice cubes clacking in the crystal rocks glass.
“I don’t suppose I can interest you in a libation, Polycrates?” Collins asked, then gazed briefly at the tawny liquid. “For someone who’s gotten rich on selling high-end hooch, I’m not much of a drinker—at least I wasn’t until now. Just ‘shows to go ya’ that you can teach an old dog new tricks . . .” The words trailed off. “What brings you out here? If you’re the bearer of more bad tidings, I’m not sure I want to hear what you’ve got to say.” But before his unexpected guest could answer, Todd continued with a dejected and bitter, “I guess your wife never figured out the name of the farm—the name of the whiskey, too. I thought she would have by now. Oh, we put a picture of some bogus Irish chieftain on the label, but that’s part of the inside joke . . .” When Rosco returned a blank stare, Todd added an apologetic, “King Wenstarin is an anagram for Winning Streak. So, your ‘Anna Graham’ didn’t pick up on that, huh? I must say, I’m disappointed. I was absolutely certain she would . . .”
He swirled the whiskey in his hand again and stared into the glass as though expecting to see either angels or demons. “But maybe that’s because our family’s been on such a losing streak recently. Winning would have been a long way from her lexicon.” He released a heartfelt