Death on the Diagonal by Nero Blanc Page A

what it was, but wrote it off to the fact that she’d probably been waiting to get it off her chest for some time.
    “Everyone’s out to get poor Heather,” Jack observed with a thin-lipped smile after she was out of earshot. “Don’t take her notions too seriously, Rosco. She views any bad news as a personal assault—especially when it comes to her big sister.”
    Rosco glanced a Todd, finding it odd that Curry felt free to criticize Collins’s younger daughter in front of him.
    Todd interpreted Rosco’s unasked questions and gave a dismissive shrug. “Jack’s known Heather for a long time. He’s almost family. And like the rest of us Collinses, he calls it like he sees it. We don’t mince words around here. Never have.”
    It was Clint Mize who broke the ensuing uneasy silence. “I’m ready to move on now, sir. If you can fax me whatever paperwork you have on lost contents, I’ll get the claim in the works. I’m afraid we’re only going to allow you sixty percent of the replacement value on the building, though. The east end still appears sturdy as a rock.”
    “You do what you have to do,” was Collins’s distracted response. “I’ll let you know if I have any problems . . . oh, and I’ll have our saddlery supplier contact you, as well.” He then nodded to his former son-in-law. “Jack, I need to talk to you in private.”
    They excused themselves and walked up the hill toward the house.
    Mize glanced at Rosco’s face and laughed. “You don’t like the situation, do you?”
    Rosco shook his head. “I can’t say I do. I’m getting some weird vibes here.”
    “Hey, isn’t that what makes the rich different from you and me? They’re encouraged to be eccentric. Us? We’d lose our jobs. But weird or not, Polycrates, arson ain’t part of what’s going down here.”
    “I’ll feel a lot better after I get a chance to talk to the barn manager.”
    Mize chuckled again. “How did I know you were going to say that? Well, fish around all you want. If you come up with something, even if it’s real iffy, let me know, so I can put a stall on Collins’s check. Like I said earlier, that’s what the Dartmouth Group pays you for. And I don’t roll over and play dead for anyone.”
    The two men returned to their cars, and as Rosco was about to start the Jeep, Clint called back to him, “Off the subject, but did a Walter Gudgeon ever get in touch with you?”

CHAPTER
    8
    Maxi’s “Manes on Main” didn’t sound like the name of a high-class beauty parlor—which was precisely what had originally attracted Sara Crane Briephs to the place. Not for her the froufrou decor and fawning attention of its pricier competitors, or the cooing clucks of how resplendent her coiffure , or how classic and timeless her aging face. Sara was an old lady; she was proud of the fact; and at eighty-plus she didn’t like pussyfooting around—not that she ever had.
    Sara Briephs was New England through and through; her ancestors had helped build the city of Newcastle, and it was a history she regarded as both her legacy and duty. Thus, she liked Maxi’s Manes, with its reasonable prices, with its dearth of little extras , like spa treatments and massages with warm aromatic oils or—heaven forbid—seaweed wraps. A weekly hair appointment was all Sara wanted and needed, and Maxi’s was the shop she chose. Besides, if Sara wanted to cover herself in seaweed, she had only to lie on a beach at low tide and let the slimy stuff wash over her.
    She found a parking space directly in front of the shop, a feat that would have been remarkable for anyone other than Newcastle’s reigning grande dame. But wherever she rambled in her ancient and gleaming black Cadillac, empty spots magically appeared as if the years had rolled back to an era when there were fewer vehicles on the road, and when automobiles such as hers were piloted by ladies and gentlemen dressed in formal hats and gloves.
    Sara could still parallel park with the