Death on the Diagonal Read Online Free

do you?”
    She turned to find Bartholomew Kerr, the Crier ’s diminutive gossip columnist standing in her doorway, the greenish glow of the fluorescent overhead lighting casting an olive patina over his nearly bald pate and on his upturned face with its oversized black glasses. Depending on circumstances, Bartholomew either resembled a scrawny baby bird or a housefly searching out a tasty bread crumb.
    Despite his oddball appearance and his florid, and often pretentious, speech, Kerr was one of Belle’s dearest friends at the newspaper. He prided himself in knowing everyone in the city of Newcastle, and what they were up to and when—that is, everyone whose name could be recognized when reproduced in boldface type in his “Biz-y-Buzz” column.
    “Good morning, Bartholomew,” Belle responded with a glowing smile. “Does it seem unusually hectic around here today, or is it my imagination?”
    Kerr strolled into Belle’s office and perched his tiny frame on the corner of her desk. Only the tips of his suede loafers touched the linoleum floor. “Ah, alas, trouble ventures into the illustrious realm of high society. Why on earth do you think I’ve ventured into this fetid arena before eleven o’clock? I gather you haven’t heard about the fire?”
    “Fire?”
    Kerr released a cherubic chuckle. “Oh, my dear Bella. Please say that word one more time for me, will you? It has such an angelic and innocent ring when floating from your lips. Although from the fever in your eye, I might question whether you’re a devoted pyromaniac.”
    “What fire, Bartholomew? I haven’t heard anything about it.”
    “Tsk, tsk . . . that’s why the intestines of our Evening Crier are working overtime. The Herald went to bed too early and missed the story, so we have ourselves a good old-fashioned scoop. Apparently, someone torched one of the horse barns out at King Wenstarin Farms.”
    “That’s horrible. Were any animals killed?”
    Kerr threw up his hands in mock horror. “I’m sorry, I have misspoken myself. There is no evidence—as yet—that this was a torch job. That’s only my catty presumption. Although since the Family Collins is insured to the nines by the Dartmouth Group, I suppose it won’t be long before a certain crossword-puzzle editor’s hubby, one Rosco Polycrates by name, is called in to . . . look things over , shall we say? We all know your dear boy is this burg’s favored PI when it comes to ferreting out insurance fraud, don’t we, now?”
    Belle stomped her foot on the floor. “Bartholomew, stop, please. Did any horses die?”
    “Ah, the kindhearted demoiselle. Women do love their prancing steeds, don’t they? I believe most men would first ask if any of the human race had been injured.”
    Belle raised an eyebrow. “That’s certainly a chauvinistic statement.”
    “But true, nonetheless. I’ve been taking a little survey around the dungeon this morning, and I’ve found that on first hearing of the blaze, women ask only about the four-footed beasts; with men, it breaks down to about fifty-fifty.”
    “I’d say that only proves that women are focused on one thing, and that men are all over the place.”
    “You’re speaking metaphorically, I take it? I wouldn’t care to make any off-color references to the stud business. Well, at any rate, to answer your question: All valiant members of the Equus caballus family escaped without harm. However, the barn manager lies in a comatose state in ICU at Newcastle Memorial. If it turns out to be a torch job, and our dear fellow drifts into the hereafter, then we’ll have ourselves a dirty little murder among Newcastle’s hoity-toity. Won’t that keep ‘Biz-y-Buzz’ abuzzing?”
    Belle sat in her chair and put her feet up on the end of the desk farthest from Kerr. Then she became aware that her jeans were beginning to fray at the cuff and wondered how long it would take Bartholomew to begin drawing comparisons to the Little Match Girl. She