Free Death on the Diagonal by Nero Blanc

questions than answers.”
    “Fine,” was her less-than-gracious reply, “but I still don’t like it. How long’s this going to take?”
    Rosco opened his mouth to respond, but Todd jumped in with a placating “Ryan needs to leave shortly for Logan Airport. The wife of our injured barn manager has been away in Kentucky. She’s arriving in an hour, and she hasn’t yet seen her husband. Ryan’s taking her straight to the hospital.”
    Clint glanced at his watch. “You can go now if you like, Mrs. Collins.” He then looked at Rosco. “Do you have anything to ask?”
    Rosco pulled a small pad from his pocket. “Just one or two quick questions, if you don’t mind? Were you home when the fire broke out, Mrs. Collins?”
    “What? You think I started it?”
    “No, not at all; consensus seems to be that your barn manager was responsible. I only wondered if you were home, and if you might have seen or heard anything unusual prior to the onset of the blaze.”
    “Yes I was home, but no I didn’t see or hear anything suspicious—if that’s what you’re getting at. Of course, I saw the stable burn. Everyone did.”
    “And it wasn’t you who called the fire department?”
    “No. Todd said I . . .” She stopped and looked at her husband, but his eyes were fixed to the charred and hulking building, and his expression gave no indication whether or not he’d heard her speak. She returned her concentration to Rosco, and gave him a small and chilly smile. “No. It wasn’t me who called.”
    “The dispatcher said it was a woman. Do you have any idea who it might have been?”
    “What difference does it make?”
    “I’d just like to talk to her, that’s all.”
    “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” Ryan Collins glanced at her watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go.” Then she headed back toward the main house without another word.

CHAPTER
    7
    Rosco, Clint, and Todd watched in silence as Ryan Collins’s blue Mercedes coupe roared down the lane.
    “Sorry about all that,” her husband said after the car had disappeared, “this situation has been tough on her. On everyone actually. We lost a lot of good leather in that tack room. And with the Barrington coming up so soon . . . let’s just say we’re all extra tense.”
    “Fortunately there was no loss of life,” was Rosco’s quiet response. “Human or equine.”
    Todd regarded him, shifting his weight as if in pain. “You’re right, of course. What was I thinking?” Then he shook his head as though Rosco’s remark had finally sunk in. “We competitive riders tend to forget everything except the next show, the next event. Anything that causes even minor setbacks—damage to a lucky saddle, for instance—is a problem, and we act out accordingly. The days surrounding a major competition can be downright ugly; nerves are frayed; tempers are continually on edge. I’ve heard the world of professional yacht racing is the same, although I don’t have any firsthand experience since most of my life has been devoted to the fickle business of getting big and contrary beasts to run and jump as if they were circus-trained poodles.” Then he gave Rosco a crooked smile. “I know who you are. Are you aware of that?”
    “Pardon me?”
    “You’ve done a marvelous job of keeping your mug out of the newspapers, but I recognized your name immediately.”
    Mize laughed. “Yeah, that chop-shop case Rosco cracked back in March got more press than a presidential visit. Guess you had to pull some major strings to keep the paparazzi off your front door, didn’t you, pal?”
    “No,” Todd continued, “I was referring to who he’s married to. I’m a crossword puzzle addict, and I go to bed with your wife every night.”
    Rosco laughed while Clint said, “I’m not going near that line with a ten-foot pole.” He pulled a small tape recorder from his jacket. “Getting back to business; I’m just going to poke around and make some verbal