NEVER BURIED
Copyright 1999 by Edie Claire
Originally published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam, Inc.
Smashwords Edition published 2011.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Dedication
For my friends at IUMC
Chapter 1
The sounds filtered through Leigh's sleeping brain, nagging her into consciousness. She knew them all too well. First the series of short, wet, hiccups—then the muffled splat. Her cat, Mao Tse, was throwing up. Again.
Leigh groaned and pried up an eyelid just long enough to read her clock.
3:37 AM. Wonderful.
She was almost asleep again when she remembered she wasn't at home.
Get up, you ingrate. Now.
The bed was warm, the mattress comfortable. Leigh's eyes remained closed as she rationalized. The mess was probably in the kitchen on the linoleum. It wouldn't matter if she waited till morning. It wouldn't matter at all.
She lay quietly a little longer, trying to believe herself as she nestled more deeply under the covers. It didn't work. In her mind all she could see was her cousin's favorite throw pillows—liberally laced with cat vomit.
She sighed and opened her eyes. "Who am I kidding? Blasted diva heads for upholstery at the first sign of nausea."
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, letting the momentum pull her upright, then slipped on her house shoes (a lesson well learned) and hoisted herself up. The corridor outside her room was pitch dark. Yawning, she slumped over against the wall and fumbled for a light switch, using a brass sconce for a head rest. Her fingers soon found a switch. Unfortunately, it was the switch for the sconce.
By the time the dancing dots had faded, Leigh was alert. She remembered her mission and looked down. The hardwood floor seemed an unlikely place—it would be too easy to clean. The other upstairs doors were closed. She padded down the front staircase and flipped on the light in the entry hall.
Not on the Persian rug. Anywhere but the Persian rug.
Experience led her to the room with the densest concentration of fine fabrics—the parlor. The cat was there, of course, resting comfortably on one of the antique wingbacks. Leigh resisted the urge to throttle her. "All right, girl. Give me a hint. I'm really not in the mood for this."
Mao Tse, a large black Persian with an imperial attitude, turned up what little nose she had and stared blankly.
Leigh's eyes scoured the rug, the furniture, the pillows. Nothing. Good girl. She moved into the dining room and turned on the chandelier. The floor was clear. Perhaps the cat had settled for linoleum after all? The hope faded as her eyes traveled upward.
Fabulous.
Right in the middle of the handmade tablecloth.
Spouting curses, Leigh shuffled off to clean up. Two swinging doors led her to the large kitchen, dimly visible by moonlight. She sighed. She hadn't a clue where her cousin kept anything. With Cara's sense of organization, the paper towels would probably be next to the dill weed. Once again her fingers fumbled for a light switch. Nothing.
After a few more moments of grumbling, she found a set of switches by the back door, and flipped one. The outdoors turned bright as day. Squinting through the back window, she counted no fewer than six stadium-sized spots trained on the patio. Her brow wrinkled. Sure, the patio had a nice view of the Ohio River, but weren't six lights a bit excessive? Perhaps she shouldn't be surprised—most everything about her cousin was excessive.
Leigh was about to turn away when she noticed movement. It happened quickly, but she could just see the back of a head and shoulders—a person standing on the bluff below the level of the patio. One second the figure was there, the next it was gone. She shook her head and blinked her eyes. There was nothing more to see.
Her heart beat fast. She wasn't into bravery, but she did try to avoid panic. Panic could be terribly embarrassing. She took a deep breath and tried to think of legitimate, nonthreatening reasons why someone would be wandering around her cousin's back yard in the middle of the night. It took a while, but eventually her creativity won out. Someone had been walking down the Boulevard and cut through Cara's yard to see the river. No problem. She smiled. Sure, Pittsburgh’s borough of Avalon had its share of wacky residents, but most of them were harmless. The doors were locked and the security system was on. Hysterics were not called for. Neither was waking up Cara in the middle of the night.
Promising herself she would get butch and check out the back yard in the daylight, Leigh found the paper towels (next to the pancake mix) and headed back to the dining room. She tore off a few sheets and began sopping up the mess.
Damnable cat.
Mao Tse appeared in the doorway to the parlor, stretched her front paws gingerly,
and let loose with a dignified yawn. Leigh wanted to throw the roll of paper towels, but her conscience forbade it. She couldn't be too hard on the beast. After all, she had missed the embroidered trim.
***
Leigh walked into the breakfast nook the next morning feeling less than vital. The ecstatic chirping of her finches, who were enjoying the morning sunshine from their cage in the bay window, only vexed her. Cara sat at the table looking bright-eyed and energetic, savoring a pastry with the morning paper. Leigh groaned. "I'm glad somebody got a good night's sleep. Hey, aren't pregnant women supposed to eat healthy? You keep this kind of food in the house and I'll gain more weight than you will."
Cara, seven months along and still leaner than Leigh would ever be, smiled cheerfully and held out the bakery box. "Consider it a special occasion—your first breakfast in the March house. Eat. I got cake donuts."
"Maggie Mae's Bakery?"
Cara nodded.
"You know me too well," Leigh sighed. "I can't fight you and Maggie Mae both." She pulled out a chocolate-frosted and sat down. Moving in with Cara temporarily had seemed like a good idea. With Gil March off globetrotting and the baby's due date fast approaching, Leigh's normally independent cousin had had a sudden yearning for companionship. Leigh, after spotting a family of roaches under her apartment sink, had had a sudden yearning to move out before her lease expired. Unfortunately, the night's events made her wonder how long her menagerie could coexist with antique furniture and parquet floors. "Um... Cara, about the tablecloth..."
Cara dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand. "No problem. I've already got it soaking in Woolite."
Her generosity only made Leigh feel worse. "You shouldn't have done that. She's my cat and we're your guests. I'll clean up after her." On cue, the cat strolled into the breakfast nook, contentedly licking her lips. Leigh knew what that meant. "You shouldn't have to feed her either, Cara, even if you are up first."
"I didn't have much choice," Cara laughed, reaching for another pastry. "She was driving me nuts meowing and pawing up my legs. I haven't had my shins attacked like that since Tiger Lily."
Leigh smiled at the reference to their shared childhood pet. She and Cara had grown up like sisters, but since high school graduation, they'd seen very little of one another.
Cara stretched out a toe and stroked Mao Tse's shaggy back. "You didn't sleep well?"
Leigh started slightly, her eyes drawn over Cara's shoulder to the window. "The bed was heavenly," she answered, "but Mao Tse kept me up. You didn't—hear anything, did you?"
"I heard you moving around, but don't worry, it didn't bother me."
Leigh got up and walked over to the big bay window.
Cara's house, perched on top of the high northern bluff of the Ohio, stood a few miles downstream from the river's birth at the junction of the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers—known to Pittsburghers as "The Point." The Victorian had once stood in good company along the old brick River Road, but time and progress had been its enemy. When River Road was replaced by the busy Ohio River Boulevard, the bluff houses were cut off from the rest of Avalon and rezoned commercial. Most either fell into disrepair or just plain fell, but this one had been stubborn. It had also been lucky—Cara had wanted to fix it up and live in it ever since she was a child. And what Cara wanted, Cara generally got.
Leigh looked out the window to the East, where she could just see a sliver of brown water flowing lazily from the point. Carefully placed trees obscured the view across the river to Neville Island, whose looming smokestacks were a dead ringer for those in Dr. Seuss' The Lorax. She walked into the kitchen and opened the back door, sniffing tentatively.
Although the Pittsburgh air was practically sterile compared to the glory days of the steel industry, the blue-collar borough of Avalon could not escape an occasional foul blast from Neville Island. This morning, thankfully, the breeze was from the East. It was, in fact, a perfect warm August morning. Leigh allowed herself a deep breath. Had she really seen someone outside, so close to the house? A gray pigeon flapped down from above and landed on a patio chair. Nothing appeared amiss. Nevertheless, last night's trespassing nagged at her.
"That pigeon is aiming right for your loveseat," she called to Cara, " I'll go out and manhandle him." She walked out the back door and closed it quietly behind her.
Cara, used to such inane comments, returned to the morning paper.
Leigh stepped out onto the concrete patio, looking down at the intricate swirling pattern on its shiny new surface. The old Victorian seemed more of a plaything than a home. Gil's high-profile consulting work had provided plenty of cash to fix it up, but little time to enjoy it. And because nothing short of advanced pregnancy could keep Cara from tagging along with her husband, the house had, up until the last month, been little more than a weekend hideaway.
Walking purposefully around the expensive patio furniture, Leigh tried to remember if everything was in the same place it had been the night before. She came within two feet of the pigeon, which didn't seem to notice her.
Take a number, beakface.
If the furniture had been moved, she couldn't tell. Remembering where she had seen the figure, she crossed to the patio's edge. Had he been standing on the steps to the terrace?
Beyond the patio, the yard dropped off suddenly in its descent to the railroad tracks and river below. Trees and thick undergrowth blanketed the lower portion of the slope, but the upper part had been cleared to make the river visible. Jutting out from the hillside below the patio was a narrow terrace, just wide enough for a hammock with a tree-top view. Leigh leaned over the short stone wall that bordered the upper yard and glanced down. She would say she didn't jump. But she did.
Lying there, in Cara's hammock, was a small man in a pinstriped suit. An old-fashioned top-hat shielded his face; his hands were clasped serenely over his chest. He wore black dress shoes, dull and scuffed with dirt.
Leigh frowned. Whatever she had feared in a nighttime visitor, this wasn't it. This bizarre little person had cost her a good night's sleep, and she didn't appreciate it. She started down the steps to confront him. She was almost to the bottom when she stopped cold.
Something was wrong. This man wasn't lying in the hammock. He was levitating in it. His head and feet touched the nylon mesh, but his midsection hung above it. His body was straight as a board.
After several seconds, she exhaled. "Its a dummy," she decided finally. "Somebody's stupid old mannequin."
She moved towards the hammock, her uneasiness wrestling with her annoyance. The scene was just too bizarre. Who would leave a life-sized dummy in someone else's backyard at three o'clock in the morning? Especially one dressed like an idiot?
She peered down closely at the moth-eaten hat. It was of a greenish fabric, with half a red feather stuck in a dusty brown band. Wondering if this dummy had a face as demonic as the one from Magic, she lifted the brim.
Later, she would say she hadn't screamed. Nevertheless, the sound that echoed through the backyard and into the house was shrill enough to make waves in Cara's decaff.
Leigh attempted a dignified retreat, but her legs didn't seem to be working right. She tripped up the last of the steps and fell on her face, eye level with Cara's approaching feet. Struggling up, Leigh grabbed her cousin's arm and propelled them both back into the kitchen.
"What on earth is wrong with you?" Cara demanded, "Why did you scream like that?"
Leaning against the back door and taking deep breaths, Leigh slowly regained her poise. "I didn't scream. But I need to call Maura. Now."
Before Cara had time to respond, Leigh grabbed the phone and dialed. She asked the dispatcher for Officer Polanski, and soon heard a woman's voice, deep and pleasant.
"Avalon Police, Maura Polanski. What can I do you for?"
"Get over here now, Maura," Leigh said intently. "I want you to look at a corpse."
***
The husky voice on the other end of the line chuckled.
"Yeah right, Koslow. Don't tell me—some plumber called you 'Ma'am' and you smashed his head with a pipe wrench. Am I right?"
Leigh breathed deep. "Will you just get your carcass off that chair and get down here, please!"
She heard the squeak of Maura's ancient swivel stool. "Chill out, Leigh! Just tell me what the problem is."
"I already told you what the problem is. There's a corpse in my cousin's backyard. Now, are you coming over or do I have to track down Mellman?"
The only answer was a loud click, then silence.
Leigh hung up the phone. When she turned to speak to Cara, the kitchen was empty.
Breaking into a run, she caught up with her cousin about six paces from the edge of the patio. "Don't, Cara. Don't. It's not a pretty sight. Stress is bad for the baby, remember?"
Cara's mouth opened as if to protest that Leigh was being ridiculous. Then awareness flickered in her eyes and she closed her mouth in a petulant scowl. Leigh felt a sweet sense of triumph. Trying to stop Cara from doing something was like trying to hold back the tides, but the baby was proving an excellent trump card. Leigh had promised Gil, her aunt, her mother, and half of the Greenstone United Methodist Women's Association that she would do her best to make Cara follow doctor's orders, and she wasn't going to let them down.
Cara sulked as Leigh pulled her back into the kitchen and steered her to a chair. "I'm not an invalid, you know," Cara said with a pout. Then she smiled slyly—a fresh gleam in her blue-green eyes. "I'm supposed to avoid stress, not intellectual challenge. You know I’m good at detective work!" She leaned towards Leigh expectantly. "So spill it. You said there was a body?"
"Well... yes." Leigh answered, uncertain what to say. Finding a bright side to the discovery of a body in one's backyard was vintage Cara, but hearing morbid details surely qualified as stressful. Perhaps the less Cara knew, the better.
"I can't tell you much more than that," Leigh said unconvincingly.
Cara shook her head sadly. "You're a wonderful actress, dear, but a pathetic liar. Now, talk."
Leigh searched for an unalarming way to describe the dark, cracking lips, the thin lids parting over shrunken eyeballs... it just wasn't possible. She squirmed in her seat and waited for inspiration. What she got was an interruption.
Leigh and Cara both jumped as the front door opened and slammed hard. Heavy footsteps crossed through the parlor into the dining room. Even though the six-thousand-person borough of Avalon covered only five-eighths of a square mile, it was physically impossible for Maura to have arrived from headquarters so soon. But then, Maura always seemed to do things that were physically impossible.
The doors between the dining room and kitchen swung open to admit six feet two inches and two hundred ten pounds of Avalon's finest. Maura Polanski was a big woman, period. Ordinarily she was rendered less imposing by a cherubic baby face, but no dimples could obscure her current displeasure.
"Leigh Koslow!" she boomed, hands on hips. "You had damn well not be jerking me around." Beads of sweat stood out on Maura's broad forehead, and dark brown hair clung limply to the sides of her face. Mao Tse uttered a trademark hiss and took cover under the kitchen stepladder.
"Would I do that to you?" Leigh's sarcasm held respect. Four years as Maura's college roommate had taught her how to diffuse her friend's wrath. The skill was necessary, as she was also expert at invoking it. She pulled open the back door and swept her arm across the opening. "After you!"
Maura nodded to Cara, scowled at Leigh on principle, and ducked out the door.
Leigh turned to Cara. "Stay here," she said firmly. "Have some more decaff." She started out the door, but ducked back in. "Just think about that baby!"
Leigh pointed Maura down the steps and followed close behind her. She couldn't suppress a sadistic sense of glee. Maura was always telling Leigh she overreacted to things, always accusing her of being melodramatic...
Not this time.
Maura's ability to remain cool in a crisis irritated Leigh to no end. Never mind that the policewoman came from law-enforcement stock (her late father had been the police chief and patron saint of Avalon), Leigh just didn't find it normal. She could make her friend blow a fuse on a moment's notice, but had never managed to spook her.
Maura's department-issue shoes clomped heavily down the concrete steps. When she reached the bottom she let out a sigh and walked casually over to the hammock. Leigh stayed at the base of the steps and held her breath.
Maura looked carefully at the folded hands, the position of the body, and the odd clothes. She pulled a notebook out of her breast pocket and began to write.
Leigh exhaled with a groan. "Aren't you at least going to flinch?"
Maura kept scribbling and replied without looking up. "You would prefer hysterics?"
"Well yes, actually," Leigh retorted, coming closer. "How many bodies have you seen before, anyway?"
"More than you care to know about. Did you touch this hat?"
"Of course I touched the hat! I thought it was a dummy. I only knew it was real when I saw the head.”
Maura lifted the brim of the hat with her pen and slid it off the face.
It was a man's face, no doubt about that. An old man. Wrinkled skin hung loosely off his facial bones, and his head was bald except for a few short wisps of gray hair. He might have looked like any other old dead man, but he didn't. His skin was unnaturally dark and shriveled, the folds above his collar looking dry enough to crumble off his neck.
Leigh stepped back again and waited. Maura said nothing, but began a rhythmic tapping of her pen against her notepad. Leigh waited some more.
"Well?" she finally asked. "Is there a dead man in Cara's hammock or isn't there?"
The tapping ceased.
"Oh, yes," Maura answered in her police voice, sliding the notebook back into her pocket. "That's a dead man all right."
"So," Leigh continued, "What do we do about it?"
Maura clucked her tongue. "We don't do anything. I make some calls." She left the body and started up the stairs. Leigh followed, trying to catch up.
"Don't you need to dust for fingerprints or collect hair samples or something?"
Maura snickered. "That's not my job, Koslow."
"Well it's somebody's job isn't it?" Leigh stifled her irritation. Maura had an annoying habit of not saying whatever she knew Leigh wanted to know. "This is a possible homicide, right? The man is dead. I'm no coroner, but I don't think he just keeled over while taking a snooze. He looks to me like he's been dead longer than he's been in that hammock."
"Ooh..." Maura answered, pursing her lips. "You're right about that one. Mr. Vaudeville there didn't die last night."
They reached the patio, and Leigh stepped around to face her friend. "Well then, how long do you think he's been dead?"
"Hard to say," Maura answered. "They decay a lot slower after they've been embalmed."
Chapter 2
Cara greeted them by the kitchen door, anxiously twirling a lock of strawberry-blond hair between her fingers. Her face was pale, her pupils wide. She was doing an excellent imitation of a damsel in distress, but Leigh knew better. What Cara wanted was information. Pronto.
"Is it true?" Cara asked in a stage whisper. "Is there a body in my backyard?" Maura assumed a calm, professional demeanor Leigh hadn't seen before. "Yes, there is a body. I know that's alarming, but from what I can tell at this point, the individual appears to have died some time ago. Quite possibly of natural causes."
Cara took a deep breath and nodded, her normal complexion returning. Whether she was relieved or disappointed, Leigh couldn't tell.
"So what happens now?" Leigh asked, looking at Maura with new respect. Police procedure, outside of detective shows and mystery novels, had never interested her. She presumed Maura spent most of her time writing traffic tickets and bouncing drunks. A cop's life suddenly seemed more intriguing.
Local Woman Stops Graverobbing Ring: Police Grateful.
"Koslow? Did you hear what I said?" Maura's stern gaze implied she knew what Leigh was thinking, and wasn't amused. "This is what happens. First, nobody goes near the body again. Second, I make the necessary contacts. Third, you two relax and get ready to answer some questions."
Cara nodded cooperatively. Leigh did the same, but Maura eyed her skeptically. "Could I use your phone, please?" she asked Cara.
Leigh frowned. She had been looking forward to hearing both sides of the conversation. She tapped a finger on the two-way radio clipped to Maura's belt. "Why can't you use this thing?"
Maura's eyes narrowed. "This 'thing,' as you so eloquently put it, is for communication between on-duty officers. Chief Mellman is not on duty this morning. In fact, I have a pretty good idea he's sitting on his fanny in the Chuckwagon Cafe, stuffing down pancakes and sausage with Vestal Fields. But he gets beeped for all unusual deaths, and this qualifies. The phone?"
Cara threw Leigh an admonishing glance and led Maura inside to the kitchen. Leigh followed, but her attempts at eavesdropping were unproductive. Maura called several different people, but she talked to all of them in numbers. Her radio conversation with the dispatcher was no help either—all Leigh heard was static. When the squeal of brakes finally sounded, Leigh trailed Maura outside. Perhaps now someone would speak English.
A dilapidated sedan sat parked in the drive, its chassis springing up a foot as two hefty occupants scooted out.
Donald Mellman, recently named chief of police after a lifetime of playing second fiddle to Maura's father, stood up with an automatic tug at the waistband of his uniform pants. He was a large man, over six feet tall with a roundish midsection and slightly oversized head. His nose, large even for his head, was distinctly crooked. Leigh watched him run a pudgy hand through his graying hair and stifle a belch with a fist.
Sausage. No doubt.
Vestal Fields, owner of the Fields Funeral Home, rose quickly to his feet and adjusted his tie. Vestal missed Mellman's six feet by a fair margin, but in weight, they were about even. He scrambled immediately to Maura, rubbing his hands anxiously. "You've got a body you think's already been embalmed, eh?"
Maura let out a barely perceptible sigh. Vestal was trying hard to act somber, but his glee about being a "police consultant" was poorly contained. "The body's in the hammock in the back yard," she replied. "You can take a look at it yourself and see if it's anyone you recognize. But don't touch anything!"
Vestal nodded soberly while his baby-blue eyes danced. He turned on one heel and started around the corner of the house.
Chief Mellman ambled slowly up to Maura. He looked at Leigh as though he thought he should recognize her, but didn't. She wasn't surprised. Almost a decade had passed since her days at the Koslow Animal Hospital. Then, she had seen him frequently. Whenever a dog was hit by a car or a crazed raccoon wandered into somebody's yard, Officer Mellman—the animal lover—got the call.
"County's on the way, Chief."
The stiffness in Maura's voice was hard to miss. Leigh sympathized. It couldn't be easy to have a man you'd grown up calling "Uncle Don" suddenly become your boss. Especially if you'd always considered him a nincompoop.
Mellman nodded once. He smiled politely at Leigh and lumbered off after Vestal.
***
Leigh drummed her fingers impatiently on the patio table to which Maura had threatened to chain her.
A secured scene, indeed. I found the damn thing, didn't I?
Cara, incapable of idleness, made coffee. Finally, the privileged trio of Maura, Mellman, and Vestal climbed up from the terrace and were persuaded to sit down for some java. Cara buzzed hopefully about with her pot until Leigh, still worried about her cousin's stress level, made baby-rocking motions with her arms. Cara scowled, but went inside.
After Maura's stoic reaction, Leigh hadn't expected either of the men to be upset by the corpse. Mellman had been a cop ever since he graduated from high school, when he and Maura's dad had joined the force together. Vestal, who had inherited the family business, had been pickling friends and relatives even longer. It seemed odd, therefore, that he should now be pale as a ghost.
Maura and Mellman both looked at Vestal with concern. "Take it easy there, old buddy," Mellman said nervously, giving a hearty slap to his friend's back.
"Is there a problem, Vestal?" Maura asked, studying him carefully. "If the body isn't familiar, is there something else about it that concerns you?"
Vestal waved off her concern and swiped at the beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. "No, no. Delores's white gravy didn't agree with me, that's all." He reached out a shaky hand and grabbed the coffee cup in front of him. Some of the brown liquid sloshed out over the rim. He turned to Leigh. "Straight?"
"Decaff," she replied.
He brought the cup to his lips and drained it without putting it down, then looked better. He wrenched a handkerchief out of a tight pocket and cleared his throat. "I can tell you a few things," he said in a steadier tone, mopping his brow. "The body's been embalmed, no doubt about that. But it's desiccated. It's been around a while."
Leigh's eyebrows rose. "A while? How long is a while?"
Vestal turned to look at Leigh, and a dash of color returned to his cheeks. The spotlight must have suited him, because the more he talked, the more animated he became.
"I'd say that body was embalmed, oh, at least five years ago. Hell—it could have been twenty years ago! You can't tell without knowing how it's been stored, you see."
Vestal went on to describe the effects of humidity on decaying tissue, but Leigh's mind drifted. She tried to imagine where a body might lie for twenty years without being noticed. Other than a grave, nothing sprang to mind. Why would anyone rob a grave? She didn't think scientists bought off the street anymore, but didn't medical schools keep embalmed bodies in stock? She ran through a mental list of twisted acquaintances who had wanted to be doctors. There were several. "Some medical student's idea of joke, perhaps?" she interrupted.
"Now, let's not get carried away." Mellman said in his usual, even drawl. "We won't know anything for sure until the coroner's had a look."
Vestal, now thoroughly full of himself, glared at Mellman indignantly. "You don't think I can tell when a man's been embalmed?"
Leigh sensed an argument coming on, but Maura broke in. "The county detectives will notify the coroner. If it's a homicide, it'll be out of our hands anyway. If it's not... Well, we'll see what they report."
Mellman stood up. "Let me give you a lift back to the Chuckwagon," he said to his friend. "Once the detectives get here, I'll be tied up for a while." Vestal nodded impassively and rose. He smiled at Leigh and handed her a business card. "Anytime I can be of service, my dear."
Leigh took the card, colorfully embossed with the slogan "Grateful to serve you."
Charming.
Mellman nodded to Maura. "I'll be back in a few." He and Vestal walked around the side of the house, their departure confirmed by a series of squeaks and groans from the sedan. Maura leaned forward and took a swig of coffee. Leigh watched her.
"What are you staring at?" Maura asked.
"I'm just enjoying seeing you in action." Leigh smiled. "All those criminal justice classes. Now you're the real thing. And here, on my first day in your jurisdiction, I bring you a body. Am I good, or what?"
Reluctantly, Maura smiled back. "You'll get yours, Koslow. Be prepared for a grilling when the detectives get here."
Leigh's brow wrinkled. "They won't have to question Cara, will they?"
"Of course they'll question her. Why shouldn't they?"
Leigh's fingers tapped nervously on her coffee cup. "She's having these abnormal contractions. Her OB said she's supposed to restrict her activity and avoid stress, or she could go into premature labor."
"Oh." Maura was out of her element. "I'll ask them to go easy."
The sounds of arriving vehicles echoed around the side of the house, and Maura rose. "That'll be the county. Why don't you go back in the house and stick with Cara for a while? I'll let you know when we need you."
Leigh chafed at the dismissal, but collected the coffee cups and headed back inside. The door swung open for her. "Just put them in the sink," Cara said, a little too pleasantly.
***
"Sit down and have another donut. We need to talk."
Leigh winced, but complied. A donut sounded good, bribery or not.
"I've been good so far," Cara began, lowering herself into a chair on the other side of the table. She was using her debating tone, which was bad news. Leigh was good in an argument; Cara was better. "I haven't looked at the body, and I've let you handle the gory details with the police. My obstetrician would be proud. But you can't expect me to forget all this. A body is in my back yard. I need to know why, because not knowing is more stressful than hearing the truth. Did he drown and wash up on the bank? Did he trip and roll down the cliff? Did he OD sucking gas out of my grill? What? "
Leigh propped her elbows up on the table and sunk her chin into her hands. What could she say? It wasn't just the pregnancy. Protecting Cara had been a childhood mission; now it was habit. Cara was everything Leigh wasn't—naive, tender hearted, optimistic, and drop-dead gorgeous—in other words, a disaster waiting to happen. Leigh was amazed her cousin had survived this long. Yet survived Cara had—through a degree from the Rhode Island School of Design and the building of an illustrious career in graphic design. Not to mention marriage to a handsome husband and the conception of a much-wanted baby.
Lucky breaks.
Leigh sighed. Cara had a point. Being too secretive might make things worse; the quest for information could become a game in itself. But the mystery aspect had to be played down—one shred of encouragement and Cara would be crawling around the terrace with a magnifying glass.
Leigh looked away, reached for a strawberry-frosted, and tried to think. "All right. I'll give you the short version. A man died, probably of natural causes. He was embalmed. His body took a wrong turn on the way to its coffin and ended up in your hammock. The police will find out who it is and give him a proper burial. End of story."
Cara's eyes grew wide. "You've got to be kidding. Somebody stole a body?"
Leigh stuffed the rest of the donut in her mouth and chewed as slowly as she could. Cara waited politely for a moment, then stretched a foot under the table and kicked Leigh's chair. "Where was it before? Who took it? Why did they leave it here?"
After recovering from a melodramatic choke, Leigh shrugged her shoulders.
"Don't be ridiculous. You know more than that! And I'm going to find out everything soon anyway." She looked out the window over Leigh's shoulder. "The detectives will want to speak with me. Those men wandering around out there are detectives, aren't they? As in homicide?"
Leigh swallowed and cleared her throat. "Calling detectives is standard procedure for any discovery of a body, homicide or not," she said authoritatively. She had no idea what she was talking about, but it sounded good. "They'll remove the body, identify it, bury it. It's not a big deal to them. And if Maura's methods are any indication, they'll ask a heck of a lot more questions than they'll answer."
Cara studied her cousin, then tried another tactic. She leaned closer, eyes beaming, voice conspiratorial. "Come on, Agent L. It's debriefing time. You do remember The Agency, don't you? Mrs. Peterson's missing cat? The bicycle speedometer?"
Sentimentality—Leigh's Achilles' heel! She felt herself beginning to weaken and stood up. "We were just kids then," she answered, pushing images of bowler hats and spy rings out of her mind. "Now we're adults, in case you haven't noticed, and we know better. You're a twenty-eight-year-old artist on the mommy track, not a private eye. Just stay out of it and concentrate on the baby. I'll work with Maura and take care of anything that needs to be done."
Cara swept some table crumbs into a napkin. "Last time I checked," she said smoothly, "you weren't a private eye either. What exactly makes an advertising copywriter more qualified at assisting the police than a graphic designer? And even a thirty-year—"
"Don't say it!" Leigh interrupted. "I'm not there yet and you know it."
Cara smiled smugly.
Someone knocked softly on the back door.
It would be a long morning.
Chapter 3
Leigh's nocturnal activities had never been considered so fascinating by so many people. Nor had Mao Tse's digestive problems. The questioning was almost fun—for about fifteen minutes. Then the monotony began. By midmorning, Leigh had described the figure on the bluff so many times she was tempted to embellish the story just to amuse herself. Cara had hung on every word, disappointed at not having a story of her own to tell and annoyed at not having heard Leigh's earlier. Then, much to Leigh's chagrin, Cara had insisted they play brunch hostesses to the army of public servants and journalists streaming in and out of the yard. By the time the body was removed and the crowd gone it was almost twelve-thirty, and even Cara was drained enough to lie down for a nap. It was around this time that Leigh remembered she had a job.
Deciding against a phone-in apology, she grabbed some low-fat breakfast bars from the pantry and took off in her Cavalier. The more disheveled she looked for this explanation, the better.
She practiced. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Lacey, but there was this corpse, you see, on the hammock, and what with the police and everything I just clean forgot about the deadline on the DecoDripless account..."
Oh, sure. That'll go over in a big way.
Leigh pulled into her usual spot in the stadium lot and walked across the Sixth Street bridge to downtown. It wasn't a bad day for a walk—warm, but not too humid. Perhaps the fresh air would help her think.
It didn't. When she reached the lobby of the USX building she was tired, but no more inspired. She boarded the elevator to the fifth floor, where for the past four years she had worked more or less happily at the offices of Peres and Lacey Advertising, Inc. She loved her work, but the advertising climate in Pittsburgh was fiercely competitive, with certain undesirable consequences for a young copywriter. She had lost two jobs already—one to a merger, one to bankruptcy. And although Peres and Lacey was a relatively stable mid-sized firm, the last six months had not gone well.
Although everyone on Leigh’s team agreed that she had done an excellent job of making the patented Twist-it Rim sound exciting, they had lost the account—by far their most lucrative—anyway. Apparently the Carttran Milk Caps CEO had a relative who was starting up her own agency, and what else could he do? Leigh considered herself fairly powerless against nepotism; her boss hadn't agreed. She'd been busting her butt to make up for the loss, but this morning's no-show would create problems. Big ones.
She stepped off the elevator just as Jeff Hulsey, her team's manic but capable account representative, stepped on. She greeted him optimistically, with her usual humor. "Going the wrong way, aren't you?" Her smile faded as Jeff looked through her with hostile eyes, cracking his knuckles in tandem. He leaned to one side and pounded the control panel with a fist. The elevator doors closed.
Okay. Let's not panic.
Leigh turned around to face Esther Reed, the office receptionist. "What was his problem?"
The perpetually work-weary Esther studied her wrinkled hands with discomfort. "Good morning, Leigh. Mr. Lacey said he wanted to see you as soon as you got in."
Now let's panic.
Esther turned away and pushed a button on the office intercom. Leigh felt the artificial smile she'd been wearing slosh down into her shoes. What was the point?
She plodded down the hall to the door that bore Mr. Lacey's brass name plate. She and Lacey hadn't had a heart-to-heart in his office since the last big catastrophe. From all indications, this meeting would prove comparable. Leigh took a deep breath. It was her own fault; she could have called this morning. But then, she had been involved in official police business. She shouldn't be too apologetic, should she? She knocked.
Almost instantly she heard the booming response. "Come on in, Leigh."
She slipped around the heavy door, her level of wariness increasing. The voice was loud, but not angry. In fact, it was almost kind.
Mr. Lacey slouched in his high-backed recliner. He was a giant man, about six-feet, four inches, and bald as a cue ball. The Daddy Warbucks image was ill-suited, however. Despite his apparent efforts to be a good ole boy, his demeanor was decidedly sharklike. He motioned for Leigh to sit, then tapped his fingers together lightly beneath his chin.
Conversation with Lacey never came easily. He had the creative instincts of a copy machine and tended to avoid any discussion that couldn’t be summarized with a spreadsheet. After about fifteen seconds of silence, Leigh felt obligated to jump in. "I'm sorry I'm so late getting in, Mr. Lacey, but the fact is, I encountered a rather strange situation this morning. You see..."
He wasn't looking at her. He stared at his desk, shook his head slowly, and waved her explanation away. She stopped talking. He let her suffer in silence for a few more seconds, then stood up and walked around to the front of his desk.
It was not looking good.
He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. Leigh fought the urge to grip her armrests tighter. He exhaled, leaned back, and perched himself on the edge of his desk. If he was trying to be casual, it wasn't working.
After about six hours, he spoke. "I told the rest of your team this morning."
NOT a good intro.
"I'm sorry, but the DecoDripless account is gone. Wainwright called me yesterday."
Leigh's heart seemed to stop. DecoDripless was the only major account her team had held since the milk cap fiasco. They couldn't survive the loss of two big accounts in six months.
"We just can't carry your team through this one," Lacey continued. "We've already shifted as much work as we can."
It was Leigh's turn to gaze at the floor. She was being laid off. Again.
"So I'm afraid your team is being laid off, effective immediately. You'll receive a severance package, of course."
"Of course," Leigh echoed.
"And a top-notch recommendation." Mr. Lacey was doing his best to sound warm. Leigh tried to appreciate it. "You've done a good job for us, Leigh. I don't think you'll have any trouble finding another position. I wish we could keep you on, but we can't."
She stood up and faced him. "Why did Wainwright pull the account?"
"Nothing to do with our performance, at least, that's what he said. He claims they're restructuring and pulling more work in-house."
Mr. Lacey didn't say anything else, and Leigh gathered she was being dismissed. She started to leave, but he spoke again just as she was opening the door.
"Mrs. Reed will give you the details about your severance package...and the office situation."
You mean, how soon I have to be out of here.
Leigh turned around. "Goodbye, Mr. Lacey. Thank you."
She went out the door and shut it behind her.
Thanks a lot.
***
Had she been an actress in a movie, Leigh would have headed straight for Point State Park. She would have watched the pigeons fighting over bread crumbs, then let the spray of the Point fountain settle on her hair while she reflected on the meaning of life. As it was, she walked straight to her car, drove to the nearest convenience store, purchased a Tootsie Roll, a Snickers bar, and a Diet Coke, and consumed them in the parking lot. Her only reflection was that she had neglected to buy a lottery ticket. When the Snickers wrapper was licked clean, she started the car. An ancient instinct took control of the wheel and steered her to the Koslow Animal Clinic.
The business that was her father's pride, joy, and lifetime obsession was only slightly larger than the other brick row houses that flanked it; a tiny lot in the back passed for a parking area. Leigh squeezed the Cavalier into a slot behind the dumpster, throwing in the candy wrappers as she headed towards the clinic's back door. She opened it and stepped into the kennel room, wincing when a canine chorus announced her arrival. A harried-looking veterinary assistant paused in the midst of dumping cat litter and raised her eyebrows at Leigh. "Sorry Denise," Leigh said sheepishly, closing the door. "Just need a word with The Man." The younger woman tossed her head in the direction of the exam rooms and went back to work.
Leigh found Randall Koslow, DVM, sitting on the wheeled stool in exam room one, snipping away at the feathers of a displeased blue and gold macaw. The uncertain-looking teenage employee holding the bird was sweating bullets—the patient seemed to have an unhealthy fascination with her hot pink glued-on nails. Leigh's father was, as always, oblivious to such signs of distress. "Tighter around the neck, don't squeeze the chest," he said mechanically. "Now, let's do the claws."
Leigh nodded at the bird's owner, a thin, fiftyish-looking woman wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt. The woman responded with a plastic smile, her hands fidgeting over a pack of cigarettes protruding from her denim handbag. When the trim job was finished, Leigh's father replaced the bird in its cage. The bird's owner nodded hastily in all the appropriate places during the avian husbandry lecture, then swept out in search of a more carcinogen-friendly environment.
Dr. Koslow turned to his only daughter with his usual no-nonsense manner. "It's the middle of the day, Leigh. What's happened?"
She waited for the teenager to finish running cold water over her fingers and leave. Randall Koslow sat patiently, adjusting dark-rimmed glasses over his thin nose. He bore an amazing resemblance to Dennis the Menace's father, a burden that might have annoyed a man of lesser self-esteem.
"I got laid off again," Leigh said simply.
Dr. Koslow's wince was almost imperceptible. He removed his glasses and blew on them, then wiped an imaginary smudge with his smock. "Hard times for the company?"
"That, and I got caught dancing naked on the boss's desk."
Dr. Koslow's answer was matter-of-fact. "Then you'll get another job in no time. You have a good record; you're a talented writer. I assume you can dance half decently." He replaced his glasses. "This sort of thing is happening to everybody now. Don't beat yourself up over it, just go get another job."
A shrill bark from the crowded waiting room echoed through the door. Dr. Koslow rose. "Anything else?"
Leigh smiled. Her Dad wasn't the gushy type, but he could always make her feel better. "Um, actually there is," she answered. "Mao Tse's throwing up again. I need some Laxatone."
"Take whatever you need," he answered, reaching for the door. Then he turned. "I assume you don't want me to mention this to your mother."
Leigh shivered. "God forbid. She wouldn't eat for a week. I'll tell her after I've found another job."
Dr. Koslow nodded. "Good plan." He opened the connecting door to the waiting room and poked his head out. "'Sugar' Fedorchak?"
Leigh slipped out of the exam room, grabbed a tube of Laxatone from the pharmacy shelves, and left through the back door. The kennel dogs had no comment.
***
It was late afternoon before Leigh returned to Cara's house. Balancing several bags from the office supply store with one arm, she let herself in the front door. The phone was ringing as she stepped inside.
"Cara?" she called around the bags, "You here?"
There was no response. Leigh looked for a place to put her packages, but seeing only a spindly antique table, she dropped them in a heap instead. She ran to the security box, punched in the code, and dove for the phone in the study. The lady of the house didn't believe in answering machines; she rarely even answered in person. Apparently, letting someone think you weren't home was more polite than ignoring a message.
"Hello? March residence."
A cranky, shrill voice spat into the other end of the line. "Is this the maid?"
Leigh controlled her annoyance. "No, it isn't. Whom were you calling?"
Throaty laughter echoed out the earpiece, and Leigh's face reddened. "Maura Polanski! What the heck is your problem? I about gave myself a hernia running for this phone!"
The laughter funneled down into a dramatic exhale. "Just couldn't resist, Koslow. You sounded so formal."
Leigh was in no mood to be the brunt of somebody else's joke. "So what do you want, anyway? I've got work to do."
"What do I want?" Maura asked, after a short pause. "Have you forgotten you’re living at the site of an official police investigation?"
She had. "Of course not. But I thought you finished with all that. What is it now?"
This pause was longer, and the voice that followed was more serious. "I don't have the best news for you. In fact, it's rather worrisome."
Leigh was unmoved. Worries? She had her own to deal with.
Maura continued. "I just got a call from the medical examiner's office. They haven't finished the autopsy report yet, but they did find something when they removed the clothing."
Leigh tapped her foot on her cousin's new carpet and thought about whether or not she had bought the right printer cartridge. Perhaps she should invest in a laser printer anyway. Resumes had to look good in her line of work…
"There was a note pinned to the shirt. Handprinted on plain notebook paper—new, fresh paper."
"Yeah, all right," Leigh said impatiently, debating whether she could afford any computer supplies now that she was unemployed. "So what did it say?"
Maura cleared her throat. "It said: GET OUT OF MY HOUSE."
Leigh's brain shifted back to the present. Get out of my house. Whose house? Her brow wrinkled. "What is that supposed to mean, Maura? Was the note intended for Cara and me?"
"I've got no way of knowing that yet, Koslow. The medical examiner still hasn't officially stated that the body was embalmed or how long the man's been dead, much less cause of death. Then there's the matter of identity..."
Leigh clenched her teeth. Perhaps, on a better day, she might be more patient. Probably not. "So, why did you even call me?" she barked. "I don't know if the note was meant for us, I don't know who he is, what house he's talking about.... Oh, for God's sake. The man's dead! He didn't write the stupid note anyway!"
A long pause followed. When Maura spoke again, it was in her best calm-the-hysterical-citizen voice. "I realize this embalmed body thing has been unsettling. But you're sounding a bit over the edge. Is something else going on?"
Leigh remembered why she liked Maura so much. She was one perceptive human—a trait that undoubtedly served her well as a policewoman. Leigh's temper cooled. "Yeah," she said, more quietly. "I lost my job."
"Geez, Leigh," Maura sympathized. "I'm sorry. Did you see it coming?"
"I should have." The offer of an empathizing ear proved too tempting to pass up, and before Leigh knew it, she had vented a few years' worth of job frustrations. When she noticed several other phones ringing in the background at the station, her cheeks reddened. "Thanks for listening, but I don't want to hold you up."
"No problem," Maura answered, with ill-disguised relief. "I'll let you know if I hear any more about the case, but I doubt I will. The detectives will contact you themselves. My butt is back on traffic duty."
Leigh thanked Maura and hung up. To hell with disoriented corpses. She had résumés to write.
Chapter 4
Leigh unrolled the Thursday morning Pittsburgh Post with great expectations, her little-used optimistic side in full swing. First, she was going to be a celebrity. Second, she was going to find a new job.
The mood didn't last long. "Body Found in Avalon" held not a hint of sensationalism; in fact, it was downright dry. Leigh cursed the lackluster reporter who had interviewed her the day before. A journalistic purist—what were the odds? To add insult to injury, he had spelled her name "Lee," which was unforgivable.
The classifieds were no better. Not only were no advertising agencies dying for copywriters, but the only reference to a journalism degree came next to the words "salaries to 14K."
She tossed down the paper and tore the wrapper off her fourth low-fat granola bar. Coffee. I need coffee. She was about to search for some when Cara joined her in the breakfast nook.
"Morning," Leigh said, sounding more cheerful than she felt. Cara looked awful. Her normally perfect hair hung limply over her shoulders, several renegade strands sticking out in odd directions. Her eyes were red-tinged and her lids puffy.
"Yeah, I guess," she groaned, shuffling over to open the refrigerator. "Did you and Maura eat all those donuts?"
Leigh sniffed. "You, Maura, I, and half the coroner's office finished them by noon, yes." She rose. "You can have some breakfast bars if you want," she said, holding out the box. "They're sweet."
Cara looked at the box skeptically, but pulled out a bar and sat down. Leigh poured two glasses of orange juice and joined her. "Bad night?"
Cara glanced up in surprise. "Why do you say that?"
Leigh smiled slyly. "Um, gee, I'm just psychic I guess."
Cara looked at her hair out of the corner of her eyes and tried to smooth it down. "You were out at your mom's house pretty late last night," Leigh continued. "Did she make that great lasagna?"
Cara nibbled at the breakfast bar with distaste. "If she'd been making lasagna I would have invited you. Actually, she served chicken salad—it was a Ballasta Basket party. I thought the guests would never leave."
Leigh gave thanks for being spared the invite. Her aunt's chicken salad was second to none, but not even lasagna could make her spend an evening with thirty Martha Stewart fanatics cooing over Ballasta baskets.
"But even after I got back," Cara continued, "I didn't go straight to bed. Something Mrs. Rhodis said made me want to look around the bookshelves in the study."
This statement begged several questions, but Leigh decided to take first things first. "Mrs. Rhodis?" she asked. "That's the older woman who lives next door, right? I didn't know she knew your mom."
"She didn't," Cara answered. "I invited her. She was fussing over my Ballasta laundry basket the other day, and she's a neat lady. She hangs her clothes out on the line too. She has a dryer, but we both think there's nothing like that fresh smell—"
Leigh's efforts at polite conversation did have limits. "You were saying something about searching the house?"
"Yes," Cara backtracked, becoming more animated. "It's all very interesting. You know about how I found the money?"
Leigh nodded. A few days before, Cara, who was used to thinking in geometric terms, had noticed a discrepancy in the woodwork around the master bedroom fireplace. She thought there must be a potential space not accessible through the existing cabinets, and a more thorough examination revealed she was right. A camouflaged door opened to a small compartment, which contained a blank book and a metal tackle box with $300 in cash and some old coins. From Cara's reaction, you'd have thought she won the lottery.
"You still have it, right?" Leigh asked.
"For now," Cara answered. "But I think I'll give it to charity. It must have belonged to the man we bought the house from; but he's dead, and apparently he had no family."
The image of a small piece of paper flickered through Leigh's mind. Get out of my house.
Cara continued. "Anyway, this man, his name was Paul Fischer, lived in this house practically his whole life. Mrs. Rhodis lived next door to him for over forty years, but never got to know him very well. Do you believe it? She says he kept to himself, went to work and came back, and didn't have much of a social life. She only saw him when he was outside working on the house. He kept it in great condition, as you can see, so he clearly was a decent handyman and carpenter. Which led me to believe that he designed and built the compartment himself." She bit off a larger bite of breakfast bar.
"A miserly type who didn't trust banks?"
"That's what the police suggested when I found the money. Apparently he had no bank account, at least not when he died. So building a safe seemed a reasonable enough thing for him to do. But then I talked to Mrs. Rhodis."
A tiny bell went off in Leigh's mind. Hadn't she known a Mrs. Rhodis in her days at the Koslow Animal Clinic? She closed her eyes and tried to get a picture. "Yep," she said proudly, opening her eyes. "Got her. Short, round, wild hair. Polyester. Dynasty of clairvoyant white poodles."
"That's her," Cara grinned, "but I think the current poodle is apricot. Or maybe it's what you'd call champagne?" Realizing she was getting sidetracked, Cara shook her head and moved on. "The point is, she told me that before Paul Fischer died, he hinted that he had some important papers at his house."
Leigh's stomach twitched unpleasantly. "You mean, like a will?"
"No will was ever found. Nor were any other papers. The closest thing he had was an address book, and no living relatives could be located."
Leigh remembered the legal hassles Cara and Gil had gone through to buy the house. The sale had taken years. Just thinking about it made her head start to pound. Or was the pounding from another source? Her eyes panned the kitchen anxiously. If she didn't get some caffeine in her veins soon, civil conversation would become impossible. Maybe on the very top shelf? "So, Mrs. Rhodis has got you believing that this Paul Fischer guy hid something in the study? A treasure map, perhaps?" Leigh fetched the step ladder and started to climb.
Cara watched with amusement. "If you can control your cynicism for a minute, I'll tell you exactly what she said. But as I told you yesterday, you won't find any regular coffee. I went cold turkey when I found out I was pregnant."
Leigh stepped down reluctantly.
"I'm not expecting gold doubloons." Cara continued. "More along the lines of an answer to an old mystery."
Leigh couldn't help rolling her eyes. Once again, the promise of a mystery had Cara drooling. Thanks a lot, Mrs. Rhodis.
Cara caught Leigh's expression and set her jaw in irritation. "And what's so wrong with trying to solve a little puzzle here and there? What else am I supposed to do for the next seven weeks? Sit around and file my nails?"
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