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upstairs. The steps seemed to grumble with each footfall. “Une vieille maison,” she explained in French. “An old house. It was unoccupied for many years. I think it resents the return of human habitation.” She made a face of mock indignation. “I do daily battle with the building.”
    â€œYou bought the property in order to turn it into a B and B?” Rosco queried. He was a person keen on asking questions—a useful attribute for an ex-cop turned private investigator, or a curse, depending on how one might view it.
    â€œNo,” Helene replied with some asperity. “Wordsworth House originally belonged to my great-great-grandfather. It was my grandfather who supplied the name.”
    â€œThen your ancestors were English?” Belle asked as they climbed a second set of stairs.
    â€œNot that branch of the family, no.”
    In the softly lit corridor, Belle smiled. “Your grandfather must have been a lover of poetry. William Wordsworth was a romantic—”
    â€œThe name is a play on words. The surname ‘Verbeux’ would be translated as verbose in English. As to his fondness of poésie —poems, I’m afraid I have no answer.” With that, Helene opened a guest room door. “Here you are. Please do not hesitate to ask if there is anything you need … And now I will leave you. A tout à l’heure. ” The door shut decisively behind her.
    â€œW HAT do you think that was all about?” Belle turned to face Rosco, her bag in her hand, her coat and hat still on.
    Rosco took the suitcase from her, but she didn’t seem to notice. “You mean the fact that our hostess is busy and didn’t choose to stay and gab about her forebear’s taste in reading material?”
    â€œNo, Rosco, the fact that she obviously doesn’t like her granddad—”
    â€œWhoa … whoa … Hold on there, ‘Miss Jump-to-Outrageous-Conclusions.’ I didn’t hear anything about liking or disliking.” Rosco pulled off his coat and walked toward the armoire. “I guess you haven’t warmed up yet, huh?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œYou’ve still got your hat and coat on.”
    Belle sighed with the impatient sound of someone who has weightier issues at hand, then yanked off her outer garments, creating a field of static electricity that caused her fine, blond hair to rise straight up in the air. “Helene’s tone positively reverberated with anger.”
    â€œHuh. I thought the way she said ‘ A tout à l’heure ’ was kinda cute. Belle, I’ll bet our hostess simply has a lot on her plate … As she indicated, this is a new establishment …” Rosco looked at his wife, unmoving in the middle of the room. Except for the strands of hair that continued pointing ceilingward, her entire being was obviously focused on a single thought. He shook his head and smiled.
    â€œI take it your determined brain has already begun inventing family tragedies our host is unwilling to address … grandfather disappearing up in the Alaskan oilfields or down the darkest Amazon … alligators, headhunters—”
    â€œAre there headhunters in the Amazon basin? I didn’t think of that!” Belle’s eyes were thoughtful.
    â€œI take it that means you’re buying the ‘lost in the jungle’ scenario? As opposed to the ‘ravenous polar bears in the Arctic’ possibility.” Rosco laughed, and began unpacking. “Which side of the bed do you want?”
    â€œRosco! Aren’t you even curious?”
    â€œMy middle name.”
    â€œWell?”
    â€œI didn’t come up here with my all-time favorite woman to start creating mysteries where none exist.”
    Belle, in true form, wasn’t listening; instead, she was walking toward the window to gaze at the street below. “But you could tell Helene was upset, couldn’t you? Old