Never Tease a Siamese Page 15

  Yet here she was. She should be getting out of the car now, making her monthly visit to Maura’s ailing mother and then trooping off to make up some of the time she’d lost at Hook. Instead she was memorizing the shape of a rust patch on the back of somebody’s Honda.

  Maybe it was Nikki that was bothering her. Jared’s valiant defender Nikki, who might be the heir to millions and not realize it. Leigh had wanted to say something to her last night, but to say that the woman was otherwise occupied would be the understatement of the year. How would she find out now? Would Maura talk to her? The detective had not been exactly forthcoming with her plans.

  It’s not your problem, Koslow.

  On that note, she forced herself to hop out of the Cavalier and walk double-time toward the azalea-flanked entrance to Maplewood Eldercare. Visiting Maura’s mother would help her regroup. Mary Polanski, for all her renowned ability to retain local trivia, had always been a master at minding her own business.

  The fact that she had recently confessed to hating Lilah Murchison’s guts was irrelevant.

  Chapter 16

  The Alzheimer’s wing of Maplewood Eldercare was about as pleasant as such an institution could be. Mary Polanski’s room was in the blue hall, which was fitting given the number of pictures of her policewoman daughter and late police chief husband that were plastered from floor to ceiling on the wall opposite her bed. Leigh wondered how much Mary saw of them, given that the sprightly sixty-something woman was up and on the move every time Leigh came to visit.

  Mary had ceased to recognize her or Warren many months ago, but the older woman seemed to enjoy their company regardless and often entertained them with absorbing ramblings from her past. Today, Leigh found Mary walking in large circles around the lobby fountain and waterfall, which was conveniently flanked by a padded handrail. "Hello, Mrs. Polanski," she said pleasantly, extending her hand. "I’m your daughter Maura’s friend, Leigh."

  Mary’s light gray eyes looked at her critically, but she offered only a nod and kept walking. Leigh walked with her, and it was only a moment before Mary began talking. "Did you know Ed?"

  Leigh nodded emphatically. "Chief Edward Polanski, oh yes. Best Police Chief Avalon ever had."

  Mary smiled broadly. "I think he’s cute."

  The conversation continued in like vein for another few minutes with Mary circling the fountain at a good clip, shifting back and forth in time between her childhood and Maura’s. As always, Leigh learned an interesting tidbit; this one—which involved a certain detective, her aunt’s brassiere, and a tube of orange lipstick—was definitely a keeper.

  But there was more she wanted to know. Her guilt-o-meter was riding high at the prospect of pumping a friend’s mother for nebby information; but, she told herself repeatedly, it was true that if Mary didn’t want to answer a question, she wouldn’t—Alzheimer’s or not. And in any event, whatever reason Mary had for hating Lilah was unlikely to affect the issues at hand. Leigh was asking—she rationalized—out of simple, innocent curiosity.

  She took a deep breath. "Mary," she began casually, "do you remember Lilah Murchison?" She tried to catch the older woman’s eye, but Mary kept her head down, plowing around the fountain in earnest. Leigh decided to try again. "I think her maiden name was Lilah Beemish. I understand that Lilah Beemish and Wanda Loomis were second cousins. Do you remember either of them?"

  Mary Polanski stopped suddenly, straightened, and looked down at Leigh over her long, beaklike nose. Like her daughter and her late husband, she was over six feet tall and could definitely get one’s attention when she wanted to. "It’s none of my business what they do, is it?" she asked sharply.

  "I suppose not," Leigh said quickly, disturbed by the uncharacteristic animosity. "I just wondered if you knew them. Wanda’s daughter and son are very nice people. Her son Jared—"

  "How can that woman call herself a mother?" Mary interrupted.

  Leigh swallowed. "You mean Wanda?"

  "Lilah Beemish doesn’t care about anybody but herself. She’s despicable."

  Mary’s tone was growing agitated, and Leigh’s guilt-o-meter teetered into the red zone. "Oh, I’d have to agree with you there," she said soothingly, encouraging the older woman to resume walking.

  "To do that to a baby!"

  The word stopped Leigh in her tracks again. How could Mary know anything about a baby? Had Maura said something? Possibly. But things happening in the present almost never penetrated Mary’s mind anymore. "Do what to a baby?" Leigh whispered quickly.

  "Despicable. Absolutely despicable."

  Another resident stumbled into their path and grabbed Leigh’s arm. "Do you have a cigarette?" he begged.

  "Now, Mr. Travis," an aide said evenly, intervening, "let’s not bother our guests about that." She steered the man away from the fountain, and Mary Polanski decided to leave it as well. Ignoring everyone else completely, she began a determined march up the blue hall.

  Leigh caught up with her. "Mary, what was that you were saying about a baby?"

  The older woman didn’t stop walking, but did smile. "Maura’s my baby. Want to see her pictures?"

  Leigh’s hopes fell. "No, thank you. Not this morning. I’m afraid I have to be at work soon." She gave the older woman’s arm a light squeeze. "You take care of yourself. All right?"

  Mary continued walking, taking no notice whatever of her guest’s departure, and Leigh began wandering even more aimlessly in the other direction, eventually ending up at her car. She put the key in the ignition, but didn’t turn it, preferring to reacquaint herself with the rust spot.

  To do that to a baby. What could Mary possibly be referring to? If Leigh didn’t know better, she would assume that Ms. Polanski knew all about Lilah’s self-serving disposal of her own baby girl. But that was ridiculous. Mary might have had the inside track on Avalon residents, but by the seventies Lilah was already a rich Ben Avon socialite. Mary Polanski, on other hand, was vintage blue-collar—a stay-at-home policewoman’s wife raising a rambunctious little girl. There was no reason for the women to have any connection, and certainly no reason for anyone to know about the baby switch except for Peggy, Wanda, and whatever doctor they had bribed into signing the birth certificates.

  But that was okay, Leigh stressed to herself, letting out a long, tired breath. Because it wasn’t her problem anymore.

  ***

  Even after a large cup of McDonald’s coffee, the pile of work on her desk at Hook, Inc. was too frightening to contemplate. "Well, well," kidded her officemate, designer Alice Humboldt, who was in the midst of opening a steaming bag of microwaved popcorn when Leigh walked in. "I should have known the mere aroma of melting fat would make you reappear. Wish I’d made some yesterday—I got tired of listening to your phone ring."

  "My phone rang a lot?" Leigh asked, grabbing a handful of hot kernels. "That’s odd." Business at Hook was pretty decent, given that the firm was less than two years old. But it was their account manager and would-be motivational speaker Jeff Hulsey who got the calls. The only people who ever called her directly were relatives and clients who didn’t like her ideas. Clients who liked her ideas called Jeff Hulsey.

  She looked curiously at the illuminated voice-mail light on her phone.

  "Been ringing all morning too," Alice added, tilting up the popcorn bag to direct a stream of kernels directly into her mouth.

  Leigh smiled at her coworker. Alice was impatient, brusque, and lived on high-fat food. There was nothing better than working with someone who shared all your own vices—only worse.

  "One of them had to be your mom," Alice announced, flicking greasy white crumbs off her desktop.

  Leigh’s eyebrows rose. "How do you know?"

  "Something about the ring," the other woman said thoughtfully, leaning back in her chair. "It conveyed a certain 'motherly’ tone."

  "You mean guilt-inducing angst?"

  Alice tapped her nose. "Bingo."

  Leigh groaned. It was inevitable that news of L
ilah’s murder would spread quickly in the North Boros, regardless of whether or not it got top billing in the Pittsburgh news. Her and Warren’s names would probably not make the cut for the latter, but locally, no minutiae would go unspoken. Hence, hiding the details from her mother was not an option. But oh, how she wished that it were. Because this time, it would not be Leigh’s own role in discovering the body that would get Frances going. It would be the fact that she had dragged the world’s most sainted son-in-law along with her.

  As if she didn’t feel bad enough about that already.

  Leigh dialed into her voice mail with a heavy heart. To her surprise, only one of her many theoretical callers had actually left a message. Not to her surprise, that caller was Frances. Leigh, dear, aren’t you supposed to be at work by 8:30? It’s 9:30 in the morning now, and I’m calling to let you know that your father needs your help at the clinic right away. It’s important. I’ll meet you down there. There was a pause, as if Frances were readying to hang up, then a shuffling noise as she retrieved the phone. Oh! And bring your lunch. Something light, I hope.

  Leigh replaced her own phone without taking a breath. Frances was on her way to the clinic? Frances was demanding her daughter play hooky from a paying job? This could not be good.

  When she could breathe again, she rose and headed for the door.

  "Hey!" Alice demanded. "Where’re you going? Is something wrong?"

  "The clinic," Leigh answered numbly. "And definitely."

  ***

  The Koslow Animal Clinic’s tiny parking lot was full as usual, but Leigh quickly found on-street parking a block up. She noticed as she walked in that the number of cars parked there seemed small—terribly small, in fact, for a Wednesday morning, when the full staff usually ran a dual appointment and surgery schedule.

  The staff. Leigh eyes widened as she looked over her shoulder and noted the lack of familiar cars. Where was Nora’s beat-up VW van? Jeanine’s annoying little Geo? The only cars she recognized were her dad’s wagon and her mother’s Taurus.

  Her steps quickened. And Maura Polanski’s Escort. She arrived at the back door at a jog.

  "Thank goodness!" Nancy exclaimed, grabbing her immediately by the arm as she entered the treatment room. "Can you get these stitches out? The doctors are both busy and the client has been waiting and waiting…" She struggled to put the wriggling young beagle in her arms down on the exam table.

  "Where is everybody?" Leigh asked, plucking a pair of suture scissors from the instrument rack.

  Nancy exhaled in frustration. "They walked out."

  Leigh’s eyes widened. "What do you mean, walked out?" She showed Nancy how to get a firm grip on the squiggling dog, then snipped out the spay sutures.

  "They just went home." Nancy paused painfully. "We got another threat this morning, by regular mail. At the same time, everybody found out that Lilah Murchison had been murdered, and they all got really scared."

  "Everybody?"

  "No, not everybody. Nora’s really sick I think; she didn’t even come in. But the others came and left. Paula, Kari, Marcia and Michelle—even Jeanine. We’re missing Jared, too, but not because of the threat. I think he’s being questioned by the police again."

  Leigh’s stomach did a painful flip-flop. Jared, being questioned again? He must be a wreck. And another threat? Wasn’t enough enough?

  "I’m working the desk, and your mother is helping your father in the surgery," Nancy continued, holding the slaphappy Beagle at arms' length to keep it from licking her face. "But Dr. McCoy has a full schedule, and we’ve got nobody to help in the rooms. We really need you, Leigh, if you can spare the time. I don’t know what else we can do."

  Nancy disappeared around the corner toward the reception area, and with like speed, Maura appeared through the door to the surgery. "Koslow," she said cheerfully. "You come to help out?"

  She nodded. "A new threat?"

  Maura reached into a shirt pocket and pulled out a sealed plastic bag. Leigh grabbed a corner and tilted it up to the light. Inside was an ordinary postcard, the kind one could buy in any local drugstore. It showed a man relaxing in a folding chair in the middle of a roadway, his fishing line cast in the depths of a large rain-filled pothole. The caption read "Springtime in Pittsburgh." On the reverse was the address of the clinic and four words in plain block letters. ANYONE TALKS—EVERYONE DIES.

  "Mailed yesterday," Maura elaborated. "Looks like our threatener is still feeling threatened."

  Leigh let go of the bag. "Nancy said Jared is being questioned again. What’s that all about?"

  The detective shrugged. "I need to talk to Hollandsworth again; see where he's at. But I have a feeling both these cases will be wrapped up pretty soon."

  "Have you talked to Nikki?" Leigh asked eagerly.

  "Not yet. I’ve got another case going to hell this morning." She threw Leigh a stern look. "But I’ll get to it. What I said earlier still goes. You keep your mouth shut. Got it?"

  Leigh nodded. It must not have been a convincing enough nod, however, because Maura responded to it with a distinctly evil eye. "What?" Leigh defended. How could one lie with a nod?

  "You know what." The detective began walking toward the door.

  "Wait," Leigh called. "Did you tell your mother anything about a baby? When you were talking about Lilah Murchison?"

  Maura stopped and turned. "No. Why?"

  Leigh explained.

  "Interesting," the detective commented, her eyes flickering. "Very interesting."

  "Maura, I really don’t think—"

  "Gotta go, Koslow."

  With a brisk wave, the detective was gone.

  "Leigh? You back here?" Dr. McCoy, her father’s associate, poked her head around the corner. With all these well-timed entrances and exits, Leigh was beginning to feel like she had walked into a stage play. "I need to draw blood in room two. Can you come?"

  "Sure," she answered mechanically, following the veterinarian. At this point she wished she were in the middle of a stage play. At least then there would be an intermission.

  ***

  "Just squirt this in her mouth three times a day," Leigh explained, holding out a bottle of pink liquid to a woman with a black and white cat. "Get it as far back in her mouth as you can, otherwise she’ll just spit it out."

  And she’ll probably spit it out anyway, Leigh thought to herself. It was the fourth batch of medicine she had doled out, in addition to the ten veins she had held off, the three heartworm and two feline leukemia tests she had run, the dozen or so vaccines she had drawn up, and the hundred or so toenails she had trimmed. She was beginning to remember why she had gone into advertising. It was easier on the feet.

  Thankfully, Dr. McCoy was now with the last patient of the morning, and after ascertaining that the vet would not need any help with the ear recheck, Leigh retired to the basement bathroom for a few minutes of solitude. It was on her exit that she realized from whom the loud caterwauling she had been listening to all morning had come.

  "Number One Son!" she exclaimed, rubbing the Siamese’s elongated nose through the bars of his cage. "You’re looking awfully chipper for having had major surgery just—" She thought a moment. It had been less than forty-eight hours since her father had performed that surgery. Only the day before yesterday. It seemed more like a week.

  The key. The memory washed over her with the same stupefying clarity with which one realizes, in the classic nightmare, that they have arrived at school wearing only their underwear. How could she have forgotten about the key? Dean and Rochelle Murchison had been so desperate to retrieve it that they had hired Ricky Rhodis to steal the cat from the clinic. But right after Randall had recovered it, the package with the doll had arrived and everything had turned to chaos. Leigh’s plan had been to show the key to everyone in the clinic, to watch and see if anyone’s eyes lit up…

  She had gotten sidetracked. But the game wasn’t over. She left Number One Son’s cage and walked quickly to the basement
supply closet. It was highly irregular of her, and she would probably still get in trouble with her father over it, but she hadn’t left the key in the surgery as she should have. Instead, she had pocketed and stashed it. She knew that her father would simply give it back to Nikki, and since Nikki claimed to have no idea what lock the key fit, Leigh knew that route would be a dead end. No—she had had other plans. She had been certain, once upon a time, that the key held the secret they were all being threatened over.

  Did it still? She moved a small stool to the rear of the closet, stepped on it, and stood on tiptoe. An ancient plastic flower pot was crammed into the back corner of the highest shelf, and she could just reach the bottom rim with her outstretched fingers.

  She pulled the pot down into her arms and smiled. There was the key all right—just as smelly and disgusting as ever. She carried it, pot and all, to the sink in the kennel room and began to rinse. After a little dishwashing liquid, the stench of the attached cloth was almost tolerable.

  If Dean and Rochelle were so anxious to get this back, she thought to herself as she cleaned, why did they give up so easily? There hadn’t been any more break-ins at the clinic. Nor did Dean or Rochelle simply present themselves at the door saying that they had dropped their key in Lilah’s living room. As long as Ricky Rhodis kept his mouth shut, there would have been no reason they couldn’t—as far as they knew, no one had yet connected them to Ricky, or Ricky to the cat. And Ricky’s silence was assured with the promise of inheritance money. At least until…

  Until the will was read.

  The wheels in Leigh’s overcrowded brain began to turn again. When Dean and Rochelle contracted Ricky Rhodis’s services, the plane had not yet crashed. Since the plane crash was due to pilot error and the pilot had gone down with the plane, she would be hard pressed to assume it was anything but a horrible accident. Therefore, it stood to reason that Dean and Rochelle, whether they thought Lilah had a long life ahead of her or not, at least expected her to return from New York and pick up Number One Son.