Never Sorry Read online

  The man shook Warren's hand goodbye and took off down the hall away from Leigh. She crept forward slowly, her hands clamped tight on the struggling Mao Tse. Warren hadn't completely shut the door, so she walked on in.

  "Is the coast clear?" she teased, shutting the door behind her.

  Warren, who had collapsed into a recliner, didn't look up. "Yeah. Come on in."

  She sat on the couch opposite him, and released Mao Tse onto the coffee table. The cat sniffed tentatively at the tea-soaked Wall Street Journal, then hopped down silently and began strolling toward the bedroom. Warren scowled. "I don't have a litter box, you know."

  "Don't worry," Leigh said assuringly. "She'll make do."

  Warren threw her a hard glance, and Leigh noticed that he didn't look so well. "How'd it go with Tanner?" he asked.

  "Fine," she answered evasively. "Who just left?"

  He sighed. "Myran Wiggin, Chair of the Allegheny County Democratic Party. How's your talent for spin holding up these days?"

  "Superb, as always," she answered proudly. No doubt it was a big reason Warren tolerated her friendship. But why did he need PR now? "Myran Wiggin the philanderer?" she asked. "What did he want?"

  "He wanted to inform me of how having my fiancée convicted of first-degree murder is likely to affect my future."

  For a happy few seconds, Leigh didn't get it. Then the perpetual knot in her stomach twisted up another notch. Oh…right. The charade they had pulled last Thursday morning.

  Crap.

  She felt slightly nauseous. The publicity was annoying, yes, but she hadn't really thought about the fallout to her friends. She had certainly never considered herself a political liability to Warren.

  The wheels in her brain turned rapidly. A seat on the new county council was Warren's dream—at least his most immediate one. He couldn't lose it because of her. "But Barbara Wiggin didn't have any reason to think we were engaged!" she cried. "Just tell them it was a one-night stand. Myran should appreciate that!"

  Warren shook his head sadly. "It's too late. I sort of misled Barbara, you see."

  Leigh remembered when Warren had whispered into Mrs. Wiggin's ear. The shocked woman had visibly relaxed afterwards. "You told her we were engaged?"

  He sighed again. "I didn't lie to her. I just implied we were heading that direction, and she thought what she wanted to think."

  Leigh wondered what Warren could have implied that wouldn't be a lie. He wasn't the type to twist words. The Bill Clinton School of Semantics would have thrown him out in a day. "NOT TRYING HARD ENOUGH," his report card would say. "REFUSES TO COMPROMISE PRINCIPLES." It was a hard line to toe in politics, and it would probably be his downfall. But Leigh couldn't help but be proud of him.

  Looking into his sad eyes, she was miserable. "I'm sorry," she said sincerely.

  Warren sat up. "Don't apologize. None of this is your fault. You didn't ask to be falsely arrested or to role-play for Barbara. That was my bright idea."

  "I can tell the Wiggins that we broke it off," she offered. "I can tell them that you found out about my sordid past and dumped me."

  He gave a melancholy laugh. "You don't have a sordid past, remember? You didn't do anything wrong. You keep forgetting that."

  Oh. Right.

  He shook his head. "There's no reason to be apologetic. You're going to be cleared. In the meantime, I'm not going to avoid being seen with you just because Babs has been blabbing around that you're my fiancée. She can admit she was mistaken—she knows I never actually said we were engaged."

  "She'd do that?" Leigh asked hopefully.

  "If Myran tells her to, she will." He laughed a little. "This has all increased my net worth in Myran's eyes, if you can believe it. Despite his lecturing, the idea of dallying with a murder suspect seems to intrigue the old guy."

  Leigh's dislike of Myran Wiggin intensified. "So Barbara will tell everyone that I'm just a girlfriend, that you're not that serious about me?"

  "Something like that."

  She nodded approvingly. "That will work. No one will care nearly as much as if they thought we were engaged."

  "Probably not."

  Leigh relaxed a little. All she had to do was avoid being seen anywhere with Warren—whether he liked it or not—and she would no longer be mistaken for even a girlfriend. Everything would work out for him. She would make sure of it.

  She suddenly felt very tired. "I'm going to crash," she announced.

  "Big family conference tomorrow?" Warren asked with a grin.

  Leigh scowled. "Don't taunt me, or I'll drag you along. My mother would love it."

  "Frances has already invited Mo," he said, pretending envy. "She's going to be a guest panelist, I hear."

  Leigh cringed. The terms she jokingly used to describe family get-togethers were a bit of an exaggeration, but her mother was definitely getting more systematic with the process. Family conferences used to be a simple matter of bad advice given over dinner. Now there was a whole damn program.

  "I'll need my sleep." She started toward the door, then suddenly wondered how Warren would be spending the rest of the weekend. She turned around. "So, you and 'Kath' have any more plans?"

  He looked at her with undisguised amusement. "Not yet. Shall I call you if we do?"

  She narrowed her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. It's none of my business. Even if she is too old for you."

  Warren smiled, but didn't respond. Leigh opened the door.

  "Oh, Leigh," he said playfully.

  "Yes?" She was oddly happy he was calling her back. Perhaps he didn't have plans with Katharine. The emotion, and the thought, surprised her. And what did it matter if he did? He'd had girlfriends before. None serious, of course. But Katharine was different. She was smart, and she seemed to make him laugh, though Leigh couldn't fathom why. What if they got serious? Would she and Warren still be able to pal around, or would it be Christmas cards and an occasional dinner with him and the missus?

  "Haven't you forgotten something?" he asked.

  She considered. She seemed to be forgetting a lot of things lately. She hadn't really said goodbye, but then, she rarely did. Did he want her to?

  "Leigh!" he laughed. "Go fetch your wretched cat, will you?"

  ***

  Church was bad enough. Leigh was too cognizant of the stares all around her to pay any attention to Reverend Albers' discourse on intolerance. They were people she'd grown up with, and they meant well. But this kind of spotlight was not to her liking. She suffered through a morning of shaking hands, accepting hugs, and assuring people she was fine only to move on to an even more humiliating event.

  "Family conference" was a term first used jokingly by the younger set. Frances didn't get the joke, but she liked the name, so it stuck. Frances had inherited the role of family-reunion orchestrator, and it was well accepted that the power had gone to her head. Under her regime, reunions weren't just for fun anymore—they were a mission. When Frances wanted the family to get together, the family got together.

  First came the personalized invitation. Either a call or, time permitting, a handwritten note. The next step was the visit. Frances had once driven to Erie to convince a cousin that it did not, as he had insisted, take over four hours to get from his apartment to the Koslow's dinner table. After everyone accepted the fact that coming to family conferences was considerably less annoying than being pestered by Frances, attendance was good.

  It wasn't always a bad thing. Family conferences had helped one of the cousins out of bankruptcy, and provided round-the-clock companions for Leigh's grandmother after her apartment was broken into. But brainstorming to help a relative was one thing. Being the victim of honor was another.

  When Leigh arrived at the Koslow homestead, most of the crowd had already gathered. It was her mother's family, naturally. Although Leigh's Grampa Koslow had been a genuine Pittsburgh steelworker, there were no other Koslows left in the area, and her grandmother's people were all Kentuckians.

  The Morton
s, however, were ubiquitous in western Pennsylvania. Frances and Lydie had been two of six Morton children, and there were many more Mortons on other branches of the tree. "Leigh, dear," said a thin, older woman with hair of an unnaturally uniform dark brown. "Frannie told us it wasn't true, and of course we believe her. Even if this girl was the one who got you in so much trouble a while back."

  Leigh smiled painfully. It wasn't enough that her mother found it necessary to clarify her innocence. Now she was elaborating on possible motives. Oh, yes. This would be fun.

  Leigh moved stiffly through the throngs of relatives, accepting sympathy and resisting specific offers of crisis counseling, phone harassment, and aromatherapy. She was about to lose her tenuous hold on pleasantness when a large-boned woman with a modified beehive swept her off center stage and started walking with her towards the back door.

  "You looked like you needed some fresh air," The woman said in her typical half sincere, half tongue-in-cheek manner.

  Leigh smiled back. "Thanks, Aunt Bess." Bess Morton was one of Leigh's mother's siblings, and like Lydie, bore a resemblance to Frances that was only skin deep. Bess was a radical independent, hence the beehive. She had it because she liked it. It was only "modified" because she'd had to switch hairdressers when arthritis forced her original to retire. "Nobody does beehives like Ruth Ann," she had bemoaned.

  Bess directed Leigh out onto the patio, where Cara was nursing her infant son in one of the deck chairs.

  "You stay out here and relax a while," Bess said kindly, squeezing Leigh's shoulder. "It's safe as long as Cara's nursing out here. None of them would chance it—they might see something scandalous, you know." She looked at Leigh with twinkling eyes, winked at Cara, and went back inside.

  Cara laughed. "Aunt Bess is a gem, isn't she?"

  Leigh nodded.

  Her cousin's tone was light, but she looked worried. "How are you holding up? I've been calling you, but I keep getting that stupid machine. I don't believe you pay any attention to those messages, by the way."

  Leigh smiled. Cara knew her well, which was no surprise. They had grown up side by side—more like sisters than cousins. "I'm coping," she answered. She stepped forward and admired her guzzling "nephew." "How's little Mathias? Seems happy to me."

  "Oh, he is," Cara beamed. "He's sleeping through the night now. At two months old. Do you believe it? Most breast-fed babies take much longer."

  Leigh could believe it. She knew from before Mathias' birth that he would be perfect, just like his Mom. Cara didn't a look a pound heavier than before she'd gotten pregnant, except for a little extra voluptuousness in the chest area. As if she needed it. The petite, strawberry-blonde Cara had always been a vision. She was also smart. And before she had started on the mommy track, she had been a graphic artist of considerable acclaim. But now the professional look had been replaced by the earth-mother aura, complete with flowing tie-dyed garb and sandals over socks. Cara never did anything half way.

  "I'm sorry I haven't been by to see you," Cara apologized. "I wanted to go to the hearing with Gil, but Matt has me on an hour's leash."

  Leigh waved away the apology. "Don't sweat it. You're busy. There's nothing you can do, anyway. You've already done too much by posting my bail."

  "Don't be ridiculous," Cara reproached. "You had to have bail, and it's not hurting us any. What's the use of having money around if you can't use it for a good cause?"

  Leigh had no response to that. Cara was one of the most matter-of-fact nouveau riche she knew. Of course, she didn't know that many. Cara and Gil had made their fortune themselves, why couldn't they spend it however they wanted?

  "I promised myself I wouldn't ask you anything about your case today," Cara said proudly, though not without a lamenting undertone. "And I won't. But when you're ready to talk, I'm ready to cook. How about my homemade spaghetti sauce, with strawberry cheesecake?"

  Leigh laughed. "Have you been taking Morton lessons? Feed them, and they will talk?"

  "Whatever works," Cara grinned. "You know I'm dying here."

  Leigh did know. Her cousin was exhibiting remarkable self-restraint, in fact. And some day, Leigh would tell her all about the fun and excitement of being arrested on murder charges. But for now, she was sick of talking about it.

  Matthias Luke March detached and yawned. Leigh smiled at him. It was nice to be around someone who didn't wonder if you really had chopped a woman's legs off. "Could I hold him?" she asked.

  Cara rose and placed the warm bundle in Leigh's arms. Mathias didn't seemed disturbed by the switch, but contentedly nuzzled deeper into his blanket. "He's such a doll," the new aunt beamed.

  "Thank you," Cara answered proudly. "He looks just like his Dad, I think. And he's tall for his age already. Part of that is nutrition, you know."

  Leigh's bore-o-sensor started chiming. All the signs were there. As much as she loved to be around Cara and her nephew, if she was forced to endure one more lecture about the health benefits and unparalleled rapture of breastfeeding, she was going to get her tubes tied.

  "Where is Gil, anyway?" she asked quickly, pouncing hopefully on Cara's second favorite topic.

  "On a day trip to Chicago."

  Leigh looked up accusingly. "He swore he wasn't going to do any more business travel till Matt was six months old!"

  Cara smiled slyly. "He's not."

  Leigh rolled her eyes with begrudging respect for her cousin-in-law. He had risked France's wrath to avoid the Mortons. Good for him. If only she were so brave.

  "Leigh, I know these family gatherings aren't always too productive, from the standpoint of real help," Cara began apologetically. "But the Mortons mean well. And if there's anything else I can do—"

  "There isn't," Leigh answered quickly, feeling self-conscious again. "Not unless you know what really happened to Carmen Koslow."

  "Sorry," Cara said softly. Then her eyes began to shine. "But I do remember her. Not as well as you do—I don't think I ever really talked to her. But I do remember the stories you told me."

  Leigh's eyebrows rose. "I told you Carmen's stories?" Cara had been two years behind Leigh in school, and to say that Leigh had been overprotective would be an understatement.

  "A watered-down, censored version, I'm sure," Cara laughed. "But I remember them well. Especially the boyfriend with the sanitation department. Carmen was quite selective about her men, as I recall. They had to be tall and skinny, with no butt."

  Leigh's eyes widened. Of course! Tall, skinny, no butt. It was Carmen's mating maxim. How could she have forgotten? An image of Tanner fleeted across her mind, but she squelched it.

  "And then there was the parole officer, and the gym teacher at the middle school—"

  "Cara, dear?" a grating voice intervened. "Are you finished feeding the baby? The lasagna's ready and we're waiting for you and Leigh." Frances smiled sweetly.

  Cara and Leigh nodded and headed back inside. "I'm lucky I got to feed the baby on the patio," Cara whispered as they went. "I thought maybe Frances would stick me in the half bath."

  Leigh snickered. "Consider it your ticket to solitude," she whispered back. "And mine. Ten bucks says Mom wouldn't let anyone set foot on that patio until your shirt was down."

  Cara laughed. "I bet you're right. And hey—if things get bad after dinner, just tug on your ear. Mathias will suddenly be starving."

  Leigh smiled. Between Cara and her Aunt Bess, she might survive the family conference after all.

  ***

  It was a close call. Despite the fortification wrought by two large pieces of Aunt Lydie's to-die-for lasagna, Leigh had a tough time with the "debriefing" part of the program. Her mother had half the facts wrong, and her delivery indicated she'd been watching entirely too much television. Leigh begrudgingly clarified a minimum outline of her case, after which the formal "solutions" part of the program began. Of course, virtually every relative with an idea had been unable to resist spilling it before dinner, so here the program sagged a little. L
eigh took advantage of the lag by explaining what an excellent job her lawyer and "private investigator" were doing, and on a suitable parting line, Mathias got hungry.

  She was recovering in her apartment when Maura stopped by. "I'm sorry I couldn't get to your folks' house," the policewoman apologized. "I was really looking forward to that lasagna, too."

  "Well, today's your lucky day," Leigh answered tiredly. "I've got some leftover in the fridge. Help yourself."

  It was dinnertime, but Leigh wasn't hungry. The post–family conference depression still lingered, and the lasagna she'd already consumed would last well into the evening.

  Maura wasted no time loading a large helping into Leigh's microwave. "Ick," she protested. "Don't you ever clean this thing?"

  Leigh didn't respond. She was lost in thought. "Maura," she asked. "What do I do next? I mean, I have to do something."

  "You can talk to me," Maura answered matter-of-factly. "There are a lot of things about this case I still don't understand."

  "Like what?"

  "Like why the police only found two legs and an arm. Where is the rest of the body, and why did the killer take it with them?"

  It was the last thing Leigh wanted to think about. Pondering in the abstract about who might have wanted to kill Carmen was one thing. Reliving the horrors of what she'd seen in the tiger run was another.

  "And what about Stacey Tanner?" Maura continued. "Are the two murders connected? Frank already thinks you were working with somebody—otherwise there's no way the rest of the body could have disappeared. I'm sure he suspects Tanner. They don't have evidence against you for Stacey's death, just like they've got nothing on Tanner for Carmen's. But don't think they're not working on it."

  Leigh sighed and stretched out prone on the couch. Maura rotated the plate of lasagna, then continued. "I want you to tell me everything you know about Carmen. If we're lucky, maybe we can figure out what might be going on here."

  Leigh was highly skeptical, but Maura's calm confidence was comforting. "It's like this," she began. "Carmen had no conscience whatsoever. As far as she was concerned the world was a hopelessly rotten place, and she had every right to do whatever she had to do to get along in it. She used people, especially men. Women bored her. For whatever reason, she was possessive of Tanner. He liked certain things about her. Somewhere along the way, he and Stacey divorced."