CHAPTER 21

ON HIS RETURN ride from Lynchville, Rosco mulled over his conversation with Shannon McArthur. JaneAlice had described her as a plagiarizing snake in the grass, and although the woman seemed a trifle touchy regarding Steven Housemann, and somewhat phony with her fake tears, she didn’t appear to be the vile creature JaneAlice had described. However, Rosco knew better than to accept a first meeting at face value. People were capable of manipulating the truth, and it often took some detective work to discover their motives. As he stepped into his office, he made a mental note to look a bit deeper into Shannon’s relationship with Steven Housemann. There was more there than met the eye.

Rosco strolled across the room, tossed his car keys onto the desk and glanced at his answering machine. The LED readout flashed on and off signaling one message. He reached down, tapped the Play button, then sat, leaning back in his padded “thinking” chair while he put his feet on the desk. As the message played, he returned to an upright position and grinned at the machine. He tapped the Play button once more.

“Rosco, this is Belle. Sorry to bother you. I know you must be busy, but I just discovered some information I think you should have … And since I owe you a dinner, I thought we could talk then … I spotted this recipe for meat loaf on the top of an oatmeal box and decided to give it a whirl. I can’t guarantee anything. It’s just an experiment … I won’t go shopping for vegetables and so forth until I hear from you. Give me a call when you get in.”

Rosco immediately picked up the telephone and entered Belle’s number. As it rang, he thought: This isn’t a good sign; I have the number memorized. She answered on the third ring and asked him to arrive at seven. He offered to bring wine and a dessert, but she seemed quite pleased to have accomplished everything herself, so he said, “Okay, I’ll see you later,” and hung up.

By six forty-five Belle was fairly well organized, although the meat loaf seemed to require a good deal more chopping, mixing and shaping than the “simple” recipe had at first indicated. At seven on the dot she heard Rosco’s knock on her front door. She ran her fingers under the tap, tugged off her apron and used it to dry her hands.

“Right on time,” she said with a smile as she opened the door.

“Well, I got myself into a little trouble by being early last time. I try not to make the same mistake twice.” Rosco smiled. “Here.” He extended the brown paper bag he held in his left hand. “I picked up some stuffed grape leaves on the way. I thought we could have them as a starter course.”

Belle peered into the bag. “Oh, I love these things. They’re almost as good as deviled eggs.”

They walked into the kitchen, where Belle placed the dolmades on the butcher-block work island. She retrieved a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator, handed it to Rosco and said, “Is this all right? I’m not much of a wine expert. I tend to go by label and price, and not necessarily in that order.”

“A woman after my own heart, although I usually don’t waste time with the label. This looks fine to me.”

Belle arranged the grape leaves on a fish-shaped platter as Rosco opened the wine and poured two glasses.

“So, what’s this mysterious information you referred to in your message?”

“I wouldn’t call it mysterious … But let me finish my culinary efforts first … I’d hate to make a mistake this far into the process.”

They crossed to the stove and studied the slab of uncooked meat loaf. “So, this is it?” Rosco asked. “And those little white things are grains of oatmeal, I gather?”

“That’s the idea … Basically, the recipe suggests using rolled oats instead of bread crumbs. What do you think?”

“What else is in there? What’s all this?” He pointed to some red flecks.

“The recipe called for ground pork, veal and beef—and then chopped red and green peppers, some onion, and spices like sage and dried basil. Salt and pepper, too. The other red ingredient is hot red pepper flakes. I added that on my own. I thought the mixture might need spicing up.”

“How much did you put in?”

“Two teaspoons. Actually, almost three … You don’t think I overdid it, do you?”

“No. No.” Rosco coughed. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He brought his wine to his lips to keep from betraying his true assessment.

Belle crossed the kitchen to retrieve the oatmeal box. “The recipe suggests cooking the loaf for an hour and a half at three-fifty … Do you want to stick it in the oven for me?”

“Sure.”

“Do you know how to turn it on?”

“Actually my kitchen experiences have taken me as far as heating ovens—”

“Wait a minute! Don’t put it in yet!” She carried the box to Rosco and pointed to the wording as if displaying a piece of crime evidence. “I didn’t notice this earlier. It says we should preheat the oven …”

“Check.”

“I’m glad you brought the grape leaves. We might have starved while waiting for my experiment to cook.” Belle smiled at Rosco and their eyes locked for three or four uncomfortable seconds. Finally, she turned away. “Do you think this is right?” she asked. “Me cooking you dinner?”

“Hey, I’m just a guinea pig, right? I could sign a release form if you want. That way, if I die an agonizing death, you won’t be held legally responsible.”

Belle let out a quiet sigh and leaned against the kitchen sink. “You know what I mean, Rosco.”

“Yeah, I’m afraid I do.” He stared into his glass and rolled the wine from side to side. “Okay … I’m attracted to you, what can I say? There it is—out in the open. But I’m an adult. I know you’re married … I can handle myself like a gentleman. We’ll have dinner together, and it won’t go any further. We can be friends. Why not? It works for a lot of people.”

“Thanks, Rosco.” Belle didn’t offer her assessment on what was happening between them. She’d felt her own attraction, and had pushed it aside more than once. It was dangerous ground, and she was happy he’d managed to sidestep it so gracefully.

“Now, for my news …” she said. “I went to the theatre today.”

Rosco was relieved to move to safer ground. “What did you see?” he asked before biting down on a stuffed grape leaf.

“I didn’t see anything … It was a rehearsal at Plays and Players. I figured it would be a good way to meet Vance Kelly without arousing unnecessary suspicion.”

“And who might Vance Kelly be?”

“Vance Kelly is playing John Wilkes Booth. He’s an actor—the actor in Briephs’ puzzle.”

Rosco set his wine down on the butcher-block table. “Correct me if I’m wrong; as per our meeting this morning, weren’t you supposed to butt out of this investigation?” His tone had turned overly serious.

“Oh, come on, Rosco. It was completely natural for me to go there. You would have looked out of place—except, perhaps, for your lack of haberdashery … Anyway, I was able to talk to the actor, the stage manager and the director … Just your average Newcastle theatregoer.”

“The point is—as I believe I mentioned earlier—whoever killed Briephs is dangerous. How many times do I have to repeat that?”

“Do you want to hear what I learned or not?”

Belle’s enthusiasm was too much for him. “Okay, but first we have to make a deal.”

“What?”

“Since you seem incapable of staying out of this case—or following simple orders—I want you to promise you will not look into anything else on your own. If you have any further brainy ideas, you have to clear them with me first. A deal?”

Belle let her eyes drift toward the ceiling. “Okay … it’s a deal.”

“Right. I don’t believe you for a second, you know.” He refilled their wineglasses, returned the bottle to the refrigerator, looked at her long and hard and said, “Well …?”

“Well, what?”

“What did you find out about our friend, John Wilkes Booth?”

Belle knew Rosco’s curiosity had been primed, so she opted to make him suffer. She walked to the work island and sat on a stool near the dolmades, then picked up one and bit into it. “These are wonderful. I could eat the entire plateful. Where do you get them?”

“A place near my office … Well?”

“Oh, hold on—the meat loaf … I should put it in the oven or we’ll never have dinner.” She placed her creation on the oven’s center rack while Rosco drummed his fingers on the butcher-block table. “Do you think I should set a timer?” she asked.

“Couldn’t hurt.”

“How long did the box say?”

“An hour and a half.”

Belle depressed the button on the electric timer until it read ninety minutes. “Well, that takes care of that. Now, what were we talking about?”

“I believe it was John Wilkes Booth.”

“Oh, right.” Belle’s enthusiasm wouldn’t allow her to stall further. “First off, he’s large—and strong, certainly strong enough to handle Briephs. Second, he’s been to Briephs’ house—more than once—so he knows his way around. Third, he point-blank admitted he thought it would be good preparation for his role to kill someone. And four—this is the best—he asked if I was a cop.”

“The best?”

“Of course, don’t you see? If he believed Briephs had died of natural causes—and if he hadn’t heard anything about JaneAlice, why would the police be on his mind?”

Rosco appeared truly amazed at what she’d discovered. “How did you get all this?”

“People like to talk to me, I suppose. Vance also invited me to the show’s opening night on Saturday.”

“Vance?” Rosco was unable to disguise the jealousy in his tone.

“I assume he’s younger than I am, Rosco. You’d hardly expect me to call him Mr. Kelly, would you?”

“I guess not,” Rosco mumbled, then picked up his wineglass and began pacing the kitchen. “But where’s the motive? And don’t forget Housemann’s name also appeared in that puzzle.” He turned to face her. “Besides, if your crossword theory is correct, we only have two-fifths of the picture—”

“Wait! I forgot another important part of our conversation: Sic semper tyrannis.” Belle said this with a definitely gloating tone.

“And that would mean?”

“Literally, ‘Thus to tyrants’… But I looked it up; it’s also the motto of the state of Virginia. In that context, the inference is ‘Death to tyrants.’”

“I see.” Rosco looked bemused. “And because this ‘Vance’ spouts Latin, he’s now a prime suspect?”

“That was Booth’s statement when he assassinated Lincoln.”

“I take it then, that your hunky young star was reciting a line from the play. Maybe to impress a bright and attractive woman …?”

Belle looked crestfallen.

“It’s okay,” Rosco said. “I’ll store the information away for later consideration. At the risk of sounding domineering, though, I’d prefer that you not tangle with questionable types. This is a murder case.”

“What about Shannon McArthur?” was Belle’s quick response. “How did that interview go?”

“Well, she knows more than she’s letting on. I’m sure of it. And it wouldn’t surprise me if she and Housemann were linked romantically.”

Belle grabbed another grape leaf and gobbled it down. “This is great … Housemann and Shannon McArthur … and Betsey and Briephs.”

Rosco shook his head. “One big happy family.”

“That’s what Vance said!” She pointed at Rosco, waved her finger and laughed. “He was talking about the theatre, but still …”

Rosco pondered this for several moments. Eventually, he said, “I’ll go talk to Betsey Housemann tomorrow. See where that leads us.”

“Good idea.”

“Anyway, there’s no point in letting all this spoil your dinner. What else is on the menu besides meat loaf?”

“Salad and parslied potatoes. Is that okay? But it’s a bottled dressing. Sorry.”

“Sounds great.”

“Feel like washing some lettuce? It’s in the fridge.”

“Sure.” He moved toward the refrigerator. Lying on the nearby counter was Garet’s postcard from Egypt. Rosco picked it up and laughed. “Why do these camels always look like they want to tear your head off?”

Belle spun around. She could feel tension rising in her voice, but was unable to soften it. “Don’t you know it’s impolite to read other people’s mail?”

“I didn’t flip it over. I was just looking at the camel.”

“Give me that.” Belle yanked the postcard from his hand opening an inch-long paper cut at the base of his thumb.

“Ouch,” Rosco muttered as he brought the palm of his hand up to meet his mouth.

Belle ripped the postcard into several pieces and dumped them into the trash basket beneath the sink. She stood quietly for a moment, then said, “Here, let me look at your finger.” She took Rosco’s hand, but the move only served to rekindle the attraction they’d experienced earlier.

Rosco eased his hand away. “It’s all right.”

“No. Run it under warm water. I’ll get a bandage and some Mercurochrome.”

Rosco did as he was told while Belle returned with a first-aid kit. She dabbed disinfectant on the cut, then covered it with a bandage.

“Don’t think you’ve fooled me for a minute,” she said when her equanimity had returned. “I recognize this for what it is; a cheap trick to get out of washing the lettuce.”