Death on the Diagonal by Nero Blanc

here as well?”
    “There’s an apartment in the back half of B stable.” Jack said. “Orlando and Kelly live there. Kelly’s his wife.”
    “This is the woman Mrs. Collins is picking up at the airport?”
    “Right.”
    Rosco jotted down the name. “As Clint explained, the Dartmouth Group hired me. I know you’ve got a good relationship with Dartmouth, and that Clint—and you—want to settle the claim quickly. But is there any reason for you to believe that the fire was something more than the accident it appears to be? Is there any chance this might have been arson?”
    Both men shook their heads, but a voice behind Rosco said a loud and emphatic, “Absolutely.”
    Rosco turned to see a woman striding toward them. She had the ramrod-straight bearing of someone who’d been riding since she could walk; her prematurely gray hair was cut into a flat and unflattering bowl as if real locks were of less value than a derby or velvet-covered hunting helmet; and her clothes bore the same stamp of disdain: a stained sweatshirt and frayed jeans that would be replaced by a monogrammed shirt, hand-tailored jacket, and color-coordinated breeches when she was in the ring. She stepped forward and offered Rosco her hand. He noticed that her grip was even stronger than Jack Curry’s, and that she was pleased with the fact. “I’m Heather Collins.” Her voice was equally firm, the tone as plain as her appearance. She nodded a brief greeting to the others. “Jack, Daddy, Mr. Mize.”
    “I’m Rosco Polycrates, and I—”
    “I gathered,” Heather interrupted. “You’re the PI.”
    Rosco studied her. “And you feel there’s reason to suspect arson?”
    “Heather,” Todd interrupted, “let’s not go into these conspiracy theories of yours right now.” He turned back to Rosco. “My daughter is convinced that Holbrooke Farms—those are the folks who will be our major competition at next week’s Barrington—are responsible for burning up our saddles.”
    “And why not? You haven’t danced around a show ring with those creeps in a long time, Daddy. Last year they did everything they could to throw me off my game. You don’t remember Judy Holbrooke telling me she was going to see me burn in Hades after I took the blue?” Heather pointed at the sodden ashes at her feet. “This is no coincidence.”
    Todd continued speaking to Rosco as though his daughter hadn’t voiced this opinion. “Of course, she hasn’t considered the fact that this mysterious arsonist from Holbrooke Farms would have to drive past a guarded and locked gate, start the fire, and then steal away without a soul seeing them.”
    “It could have been an inside job,” Heather’s hard voice stated. “Someone could have hiked in; this isn’t Fort Knox. And all these people who come and go around here? A couple of hundred dollars, and they’d do anything they were told. You believe everyone has such devotion to you, Daddy. Me, I don’t think they care a lick. You don’t know what goes on behind your back.”
    “Okay, that’s enough,” Collins said quietly.
    “I wouldn’t even put it past my darling sister to have pulled this off. You’ll notice she’s too highfalutin to keep her saddles and tack in this barn.” She glared at Jack. “What does she do, Jack, sleep with them?”
    “Drop it, Heather,” was his level reply. “Fiona and I aren’t any of your business.”
    “Really? Since when did that happen? I thought the Jack-Curry-and-Daddy’s-darling-daughter deal was all anyone cared about.” Then she spun toward Rosco. “Do you have a business card, Mr. PI?”
    Rosco handed her a card, which she stuffed unceremoniously into a back pocket of her jeans.
    “Thanks. I’ll call you.”
    Then she marched off, jaw tucked in tight, eyes fixed, and elbows jutting as though she were aiming at a very high hurdle. There was something about Heather’s tirade that seemed rehearsed and premeditated to Rosco. He couldn’t put his finger on