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  But she was determined to get some questions answered or bust, and first on her list was whether Dean Murchison, or his equally charming wife, was indeed responsible for the threat on the rock. She wanted to think so, primarily because she suspected that the duo's bark was worse than its bite, but it bothered her that the rock had been thrown before the will reading. Had Dean and Rochelle had an inside scoop? If so, they had done a darn good job of acting surprised in front of the lawyer.

  She knocked on the flimsy wooden rim of the boarding house's screen door, but in looking through it, realized no one was likely to answer. The door opened into a bare corridor, off of which came a staircase and four other doors, each marked with a number on a cheap square decal. She entered tentatively, having no idea which room belonged to Peggy Linney, the woman Lilah's will had identified as her "most devoted" housekeeper. She was lucky the woman's name and address were even listed in the phone book. But given Mrs. Linney's age, it seemed a good bet that she might have worked in the mansion around the time Dean was born. And given the woman's comment of the night before, Leigh couldn't shake the feeling that this was one employee Ms. Lilah had kept in the loop.

  Things had happened pretty fast after the lawyer had dropped the mystery-heir bombshell, but Leigh did remember that it was the otherwise-somnolent Peggy Linney who had been the first to speak. "I don't believe it," the elderly woman had said softly. And they were reasonable words to say. But the phrase had hit Leigh, even at the time, as having an unexpected tone. One that implied it wasn't Dean's parentage she questioned—so much as the fact that Lilah was admitting it.

  Maybe Leigh had been the only one to pick up on that, and maybe she hadn't. But she was certain it had not been her imagination.

  She cast her eyes around the inside of the front door, but there were no mailboxes or buzzers to help her identify the right room. Having no better idea, she stepped up to door number one, ready to knock. But before her knuckles had struck the thin wood, an elderly man with a brace of salt-and-pepper schnauzers began descending the stairs.

  Leigh stepped over with a smile. "Hello," she greeted. "I'm looking for Peggy Linney. Could you tell me which apartment is hers, please?"

  The man threw her a long, critical glance, leaving his schnauzers ample leeway to sniff her shoes. The dogs must have had little interest in cats, because once their examination was complete they dismissed her entirely and pulled hard for the front door. "Number two," the man said gruffly as the leashes pitched him forward.

  Leigh knocked on the door at the end of the hallway, and a gravelly voice answered immediately. "Who is it?"

  She cleared her throat. "It's Leigh Koslow, Dr. Koslow's daughter from the vet clinic. I was at Mrs. Murchison's will reading last night; I wondered if I could talk to you for a minute."

  "About what?" The grating voice didn't miss a beat.

  "About my father," Leigh said, thinking quickly. "I'm afraid he might be in danger, and I think you might be able to help me figure out why." There was no response for moment, and she bit her lip anxiously. The poor woman had no good reason to talk to her, and Leigh knew it. Still, her gut instincts said that the best way to get the truth out of Peggy Linney would be to tell it herself.

  After a long pause and some shuffling noises, she heard a latch click, and the door swung slowly open. The woman who had fallen asleep at the will reading stood with one hand on the door knob and the other on a tattered walker. She surveyed her visitor critically from head to toe, her nose squinched up slightly as though smelling something unpleasant.

  "Come on in," she said gruffly.

  Chapter 7

  Leigh shifted slightly in the lumpy old arm chair, trying not to let on how uncomfortable it was, even for an individual with ample padding over the relevant bones. "I won't bother you for long," she said politely, trying not to stare at the rather large mole that dominated Peggy Linney's Roman nose. "But I got the idea from the will reading that you had been with Mrs. Murchison for a very long time."

  The older woman nodded proudly. "Been on there since '74. Ms. Lilah hired me herself, just after she married Mr. Murchison."

  "So you were there when Dean was born. I mean—" Leigh corrected awkwardly, "when Lilah and Albert adopted him."

  Peggy's eyes turned hard. "Bullcookies, missy! I don't care what Ms. Lilah said in that crackerbrained will of hers. That boy's hers and I'll swear it to my grave. He was born on the fourth of March, 1977. I was there every minute of it."

  Leigh swallowed. "You were?"

  "I delivered him!" the older woman barked. "He was purple as an eggplant—came out mewling and never stopped since." Her thin lips parted in a smile. "He's a fine boy, Dean. His mum should have been prouder of him. Ms. Lilah was no youngster then, you know. And when he came, he came fast—no time for any hospital. I delivered him right there on the bedroom floor."

  "You delivered him?" Leigh repeated, incredulous. "Then why would Mrs. Murchison say in her will that he wasn't her biological son? I mean, she had to know that you were a witness."

  "Don't bother making sense of Ms. Lilah," Peggy said simply.

  Leigh sat quietly for a moment, attempting to regroup her thoughts. "Do you think she has another child somewhere, then? I mean, is it possible—"

  Peggy waved her off brusquely. "Ms. Lilah's just tormenting the poor boy." She sighed deeply. "He had a happy enough childhood, but when he turned into a teenager something went wrong. Ms. Lilah didn't have any patience with him. She was way too hard on him if you ask me, but she never did. When he married that Rochelle girl it was like the last straw—Ms. Lilah all but disowned him. That crazy will of hers was just one last dig. She'll give him his inheritance all right, but she'll take her time. Some people can be more ornery dead than alive."

  The speech seemed to take a lot out of the woman, and she slouched down further in her chair. "Still can't get over her dying like that," she said soberly. "Here I am with arthritis, diabetes, and bad kidneys, and she's the one that's dead."

  Leigh felt a wave of guilt at pestering the older woman, but there were still some things she wanted to know. She took a deep breath and attempted to explain the threat on the rock, and why she believed that it involved Mrs. Murchison's will. "So I guess what I'm really asking is," she concluded somewhat hesitantly, "do you think that with all that money at stake, Dean could be—well, dangerous?"

  Peggy's beaklike nose wrinkled disdainfully. "Of course not! Dean's got a temper, but he's not a bad young man. He's just not what Ms. Lilah seemed to want." Her voice turned even more sour. "Whatever the hell that was."

  "What about Dean's father?" Leigh asked quickly. "Did he have a good relationship with his son?"

  Peggy shook her head slowly. "They never had much of a chance. Mr. Murchison wasn't the nurturing type, and the boy was only five when he passed on. But the man was pleased as punch to see that baby, let me tell you." She smiled to herself. "He was 69, and finally had a son. You never saw a prouder papa."

  The older woman seemed to sink into some kind of reverie, and her eyes closed. Leigh took the opportunity to squirm into a more comfortable position in the wretched chair. "But besides Dean," she persisted, "are you absolutely sure that Mrs. Murchison couldn't have had another child?"

  Peggy's lids flew open, her increasingly impatient-looking eyes boring into Leigh's. "Have you ever had a baby, young lady?"

  The question was a no-brainer, but for some reason it took Leigh a moment to answer it. "No," she mumbled. Realizing that her hand had gone reflexively to her waistline, she pulled it back to her side.

  Stop thinking about it. "No," she repeated. "No, I haven't. Why?"

  If Peggy's glare could dig holes, her visitor's pupils would be long gone. "Because if you had," the woman continued icily, "you'd know that it’s not the kind of thing a woman forgets."

  Leigh managed to keep a reasonably pleasant look on her face as she stole a deep breath. She hadn’t suggested that Lilah had forgotten anything, but pointin
g that out didn’t seem wise. She had clearly struck the wrong cord with Peggy Linney, and it was too early in the game to strike out.

  "Well," she said brightly, "It's nice that Mrs. Murchison was able to have such a fine son so late in life. I'm sure the inheritance will all work out, then." She rose. "Thank you for your help, Mrs. Linney. I suppose my father might be right, and the message on the rock was just a prank. Or at least it doesn’t sound like it has to do with the Murchisons." She motioned for the older woman to stay seated and walked past her toward the door.

  "At any rate," she said en route, trying not to trip on the myriad waves in the worn carpet and wondering how the older woman could manage them, "at least Mrs. Murchison thought to provide you with a nice place to live some day." She meant only to provide some light chit-chat for her exit, but once the words were out of her mouth, she realized how asinine they were. Not only had she insulted the woman's house, but if the divers didn't find Ms. Lilah's body, a death certificate might not be issued for years. Years which Peggy Linney probably didn’t have.

  Before Leigh could apologize, however, the older woman laughed. "Ms. Lilah's been after me to get out of this place for ever. She never did understand that I like it here. I got everything I need, and the kids and grandkids are right nearby. I wouldn't move into no swanky old folks home whether it was free or not, and she knew it."

  Leigh removed her foot from her mouth, said a courteous goodbye, and shut the door behind her.

  ***

  "So, do you think I'm just being paranoid," she asked, snatching the piece of pepperoni that was attempting to escape from her pizza on a mozzarella rope, "or could my dad be in any real danger?"

  Detective Maura Polanski wrinkled her wide brow in concentration for a moment, shoveling several large mouthfuls of sausage and mushroom into her mouth at the same time. "Hard to say," she announced finally, leaning back with satisfaction.

  The cheap folding chair groaned under the husky policewoman's two-hundred plus pounds, and Leigh wished she had bothered to unstack the real kitchen chairs from their heap in the dining room corner. But since she and Warren still hadn't had a real sit-down meal in the house, the demand had not been critical. "I suppose I should take Peggy Linney's and Nikki Loomis's word for it that the mystery heir is a hoax," she continued. "After all, they did know Lilah Murchison as well as anybody. But I have trouble accepting that the rock was just a coincidence."

  Maura looked thoughtfully at her friend for another moment before answering. "Even if Mrs. Murchison did make up the other heir as a hoax, her son may not be sure of that. Maybe he even suspects someone in particular—someone at the clinic."

  Leigh's eyes widened. She had been assuming that the message on the rock was meant for her father because he had the most obvious connection to Mrs. Murchison. But what about the other employees? There was Jared, of course, but several of the others were also locals; there could be any number of connections she didn't know about.

  "If it is Dean behind the rock, I'll be relieved," she admitted. "I'm no psychologist, but he doesn't seem evil to me—just a little slimy. And far too dim not to get caught. But I still can't get around the fact that the rock was thrown before the will was read."

  Maura shrugged as she poured a generous amount of cola out of a two-liter and into a plastic Pirates cup. "Money is power. And from everything I've ever heard about Lilah Murchison, she was the controlling type. She probably taunted him about the will on a regular basis. I'd be surprised if he had no clue. Real surprised."

  The policewoman downed the cola, then sat forward again, her voice turning official. "Here's what we'll do, Koslow. I'll give Chief Schofield a ring and let him know that you suspect Dean Murchison of throwing the rock, and why. He'll take it from there. If Dean's planning any other intimidation tactics, they'll probably be able to trip him up."

  Leigh nodded in thanks. The Avalon police force was Maura's alma mater, and if she trusted the current police chief, he had to be trustworthy. Maura, only daughter of the late, great Avalon icon Chief Edward Polanski, knew her stuff. If she hadn't, she never would have been promoted to the county’s General Investigations squad.

  On the other hand, she thought uncharitably, what could Schofield really do? He could keep an eye on Dean Murchison, sure, but unraveling the complexities of an eccentric socialite's psyche required a more feminine touch. And she was already half-way there.

  "Knock it off, Koslow."

  "Excuse me?" Leigh looked up into her friend's scowling face, which given its hopelessly adorable cherry cheeks never seemed as imposing as the detective might like. "I didn't say anything."

  "You didn't have to," Maura answered, still scowling. "I can see the wheels turning in that devious little head of yours all the way over here. Now drop it. You can't know that this Dean guy isn't dangerous, and the Avalon police force needs your help about as much as it needs tea and crumpets. Got it?"

  The policewoman leaned forward threateningly, but her six-foot-two-inch frame and dagger-shooting eyes had little effect on the woman she had known since she was a teenager.

  "Sure," Leigh replied agreeably.

  Maura rose to her feet with a groan. "Like I believe you. Anyway, you're not my problem. When's the future President of the United States getting back, anyway? He'll be thrilled to hear all this."

  "Not till tomorrow night," she answered glumly. They had coined the nicknames—Future President, WonderCop, and Creative Genius, back in their college days, when they had been the Three Musketeers. They still inhaled pizza together on a regular basis, though the presence of Maura's beau—a city homicide detective Leigh had good reason to resent—had complicated the tradition. It was nice to have a girl's night in for once. "And I'm afraid he's in for a bit of a shock, since I told him I'd be unpacking boxes all weekend."

  Maura eyes scanned the bare kitchen counters and box-cluttered floor, then landed on the trash can that sat beside the sink. She raised an arm and lofted her greasy napkins cleanly into it. "I'll take that as my cue to leave," she said mildly, walking toward the door. "Tell Harmon I said to put your leash back on. By the way, next time Frank's buying."

  At the mention of the man who had once invited her on an involuntary tour of the county jail, Leigh forced her lips into a smile. "Right," she offered as warmly as possible. "Can't wait."

  ***

  Monday's eight hours in the office seemed to last seventeen, and by the time 5:00 PM rolled around, Leigh couldn't think up a single business tag line that didn't have the word "solutions" in it, and it was a cardinal rule that anyone at Hook, Inc. who resorted to the S word must both buy a week's supply of donuts and offer a public apology. Not yet ready to admit defeat, she closed the file and shut down her computer, resolving to be inspired tomorrow.

  The rest of today, however, was devoted to closure on the Murchison fiasco. True to his word, her father had managed to spring Ricky Rhodis, and per her request the teen was waiting to see her at his grandmother's house.

  She tooled up the Ohio River Boulevard from her office on the North Side and swung into the driveway of the lovingly dilapidated Rhodis home, one of the few private dwellings still remaining on the bluff side of the road. It had a beautiful view of the Ohio River, or at least it would have, if the Ohio River were beautiful. Unfortunately for the Rhodises, this particular stretch of the Ohio was dominated by the smokestacks of Neville Island, and it took a good deal of imagination to omit them from the vista.

  Her foot had barely touched the first crumbling porch step when Adith popped out, all smiles. "Careful, honey!" she begged in a sing-song. "I don't know when Bud'll get around to fixing those danged steps. He's always saying 'in the spring, Adie,' but I ask you, isn't it spring right now? Well, isn't it? Come on inside, child."

  Leigh, who knew better than to interrupt her hostess by answering rhetorical questions, entered the clean, but perpetually dank old house and paused to pet the obese apricot poodle gyrating at her feet.

  "See th
ere," Adith prattled on, "Pansy remembers you! I knew she would…"

  Leigh's attention was quickly drawn to the familiar slip of a teen who sat before her in the living room, slouched on a flowery couch covered with ancient yellow plastic. "Hello again, Ricky," she offered.

  He acknowledged her with a nod.

  "Now, everybody have a seat," Adith ordered. "Bud went walking, but he'll be back."

  Leigh had no sooner lowered herself into a plasticized armchair than Adith started in. "Now Ricky, honey, you go ahead. You tell Miss Koslow everything you told me. And don't leave nothing out, either."

  The boy looked up at her miserably and sighed. "Okay, grandma. I told you I would." He then began muttering in a voice Leigh could barely understand. "Grandma told me about the will. About Dean and Rochelle not getting anything, and so I figured it didn't matter anymore."

  Leigh's heart beat faster. So, he was working for the couple from hell. And he had been keeping his mouth shut in hopes of a higher payoff.

  "Dean and me—well, we used to work together at the Ponderosa for a while. Dean didn't stay long. He was just broke for a while 'cause Rochelle got fired from the nail salon again. But he was a funny guy, and after he left, we kept up. Every once in a while he had money and then he'd hire me to deliver stuff an'at. Once he gave me fifty bucks just to pick up some stuff from his mom's house. He was always going off about what a witch she was, and how she had all this money, but wouldn't give him any of it."

  He paused to take a breath, and Leigh took one too. It was hard work trying to understand the kid's mumbling Pittsburghese.

  "Anyhow, last week he told me he had a real important job needed done. He said his mom was mad at him and was trying to kill his cat."

  Leigh's eyebrows rose, and she eyed the teen skeptically.