Never Tease a Siamese: A Leigh Koslow Mystery (13 page)

"I see," Leigh answered, a better picture of the Murchison household beginning to form. "I was sorry to hear about Peggy. Are you going to her funeral tomorrow?"

The waitress arrived with drinks, and Dean squinted at her over his Rolling Rock. "Who?"

Rochelle appeared equally perplexed, and Leigh paused a moment, surprised. "Peggy Linney, the housekeeper. She was at the will reading. I thought maybe she was one of the staff who raised you."

Dean snorted. "Linney the Ninny? That woman made my life more miserable than my own mother did. 'Eat your peas! Wipe your feet! Stand up straight!'" He shook his head. "Damn, what a bitch. She just died, huh? Hell, I thought she croaked years ago. Couldn’t believe it when she showed up at the will reading. Gave me the creeps."

He took a long swig of beer, and Leigh watched him curiously. Peggy Linney had spoken so positively of him; in fact, she was the only one Leigh had yet heard of who did. But the feeling was clearly not mutual. He had appeared not even to recognize the woman’s first name. Was he acting?

She studied his dark brown eyes carefully, but she wasn’t sure. Both these two could not be as neuron-deficient as they appeared, not if one of them had managed to come up with the cat-poisoning story that had so successfully manipulated Ricky Rhodis. If she had to guess now, she would say that it was psychotic-in-training Rochelle, and not her inflated husband, who was hiding half a brain up her sleeve. But she needed more to go on. "Wasn’t there anyone at the house that you were close to?" she continued with concern.

Dean started to speak, but his wife cut him off. "All the servants was mean to Dean except one," she remarked, her tone now slightly bored.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, Hetta was cool." Then he looked up at Leigh suspiciously, his face breaking into another too-wide, disturbing grin. "What do you care, anyway? I thought you wanted to know who was messing with your dad."

Leigh did a quick regroup. She had never been much good at keeping her deceptions straight. "It could be important," she answered, thinking quickly. "If someone’s planning on claiming to be Mrs. Murchison’s child, it’s likely to be someone who knew her well. Someone who had an inkling what would be in her will."

His face darkened. "Yeah, I guess."

"Are we ever going to eat?" Rochelle complained. She stood up and faced the door to the kitchen, cupping both hands around her mouth as she yelled, "What're you doing back there? Killing cows?"

Leigh shrank in her seat as Dean grabbed his wife by her waistband and pulled her back down into the booth. "They could at least bring the fries out," Rochelle responded, pouting.

Leigh stole a surreptitious glance at her watch and began to plan a premature exit. Fact-finding was one thing, but these two were loony toons. She had to get what she needed quick. "Anyway," she began intently, "Do you have any idea who might want to claim to be your mother’s heir?"

"Lots of people," Dean said mildly, grinning again. Leigh pulled her eyes away from his with frustration. To his credit, he was smart enough to notice that she was looking at him closely. Unfortunately, he seemed to be chalking it up to his sex appeal. As his wife continued to scowl in the direction of the kitchen, he offered Leigh a wink and a leer.

She tried not to shudder. "Do you know any of the staff at my father’s clinic?"

He seemed confused. "I don’t even know who works there. Except the retard."

Leigh’s blood began to simmer. Fifteen seconds. She would give him fifteen seconds, and then she was out of here. Case closed or not. Otherwise she’d be in jail for assault with a ketchup bottle.

Rochelle had zoned back in. "Why don’t you tell us who works there, and we’ll tell you if we know them?" she suggested sweetly.

A little too sweetly. Especially considering the fact that her husband was, at that moment, attempting to run a bare toe up and down Leigh’s thigh.

"Will you look at the time?" she announced loudly, bolting from her seat. "I’m so sorry. I forgot I had an important business meeting this afternoon. Advertising clients, you know, very demanding. Gotta run. But thanks for your help." She pulled a twenty from her wallet and slapped it on the greasy tabletop.

"But you haven’t even got your food yet!" Dean protested, looking disappointed.

"Don’t worry about me; I’ll grab a Snickers," she answered as pleasantly as possible. "Thanks again! Goodbye!"

Trying not to run out of the restaurant as she fast as she wanted to, she forced herself to glance backward as she walked out the door. The food had just arrived, and Dean was picking fries off his plate while it was still in mid air.

Rochelle was staring back at her.

Chapter 10

Leigh nibbled on the emergency bag of pretzels she kept in her desk drawer. She
was feeling a bit woozy. A perfectly good opportunity for a romantic lunch with her husband wasted—and for what? Precious little information, along with the unwelcome knowledge that Dean Murchison’s toenails needed a trim.

She gazed at the half-written e-business pamphlet sitting idly on her monitor and sighed. Getting paid to be creative was great—unless something else happened to be on her mind, in which case her efforts weren’t worth squat.

Enough.
She clicked on
Shut Down
, switched off her monitor, and grabbed a handful of pretzels to go. She had gone into business for herself for several reasons, not the least of which was the ability to set her own hours. So what if she didn’t sleep the rest of the week? She couldn’t sleep as it was.

She had thought that talking to Dean and Rochelle Murchison face to face would somehow guide her instincts to an answer. Were they responsible for the threats at the clinic? And if so, were they actually dangerous? She still wasn’t sure. Her knee-jerk reaction was that they were perfectly capable of delivering the threats, and that Rochelle—at least—was wily enough to be dangerous. But she had also gotten the strong impression that the gruesome twosome themselves didn’t understand everything that was going on.

Whether they knew for a fact that another heir existed or whether they only suspected it, one thing was for certain. If they were behind the threats, they must have a good reason to believe that someone at the clinic was involved. And that’s what was driving her crazy.

That, and the gnawing fear she had been unable to rid herself of since she learned of Peggy Linney’s death. Peggy had been positive that there was no other heir; she even claimed to have delivered Dean herself. But what if that seemingly harmless old woman had been lying through her teeth? What if she
did
know something?

What if it had cost her her life?

"Working real hard, I see."

Leigh looked away from the black monitor she had been staring at to see over six feet of detective standing behind her. "Do you get paid more when the computer’s on?" Maura asked with a grin.

"Time and a half," Leigh answered, offering her absent office mate’s chair. "What brings you by?"

Maura sank heavily into the flimsy swivel seat. "Officially, a break-in at the State Store two blocks down. Unofficially, I wanted to let you know that I talked to Schofield."

Leigh leaned forward. "Then you know about the doll that came yesterday?"

Maura nodded. "There’s nothing to tie either threat to Dean Murchison yet, but they’re keeping their eyes open." She paused a moment, looking at Leigh with the serious, concerned expression Leigh had come to know and fear. Maura Polanski took most anything from bad manners to felonies in stride. When she got concerned, it was time to worry.

"I didn’t know about Peggy Linney’s death until this morning," she began solemnly." Schofield called me back to tell me about the doll, and he mentioned that the woman had died before he had a chance to question her." She eyed Leigh with a mixture of sympathy and annoyance. Ostensibly, she knew it wasn’t Leigh’s fault that her name seemed to turn up on an inordinate number of police reports. But that didn’t mean she held her friend completely blameless. "Did you realize that you were the last person to see the woman alive?"

Leigh blinked.
Damnation
. Couldn’t the woman have had a neighbor over for Sunday dinner? A pastoral call? A Jehovah’s Witness? "I didn’t realize," she answered grimly. "Mrs. Rhodis said she died in her sleep. I was there midafternoon."

"Mrs. Rhodis was misinformed," Maura responded. "At least partly. Peggy Linney’s body was found Monday morning by a home health aide. She was fully dressed, slumped over in her chair, and appeared to have been dead for some time."

Leigh swallowed uncomfortably. "And what did she die of?"

Maura’s policewoman gaze was unfaltering. "Well, that’s the problem. You see, Peggy Linney was seventy-nine years old and in very poor health. There was nothing particularly surprising about her death; in fact, both her doctor and her family were pretty much expecting it. So—"

"So there was no autopsy," Leigh finished.

The policewoman shook her head. "She was cremated at Fields Funeral Home last night. Service is this afternoon."

The two sat quietly for a moment while Leigh’s stomach flip-flopped. "You think she was murdered," she said finally, "Don’t you?"

The M word took a moment coming out of her mouth. Saying it out loud seemed to make it real, and she didn’t want to deal with that. Pranks and intimidation were one thing; killing was another.

The detective drummed her pudgy fingers on the desktop. "No way to prove that now," she answered tightly. "And not enough good reasons to open an investigation. But just between you and me and your blank computer screen—I don’t like it."

Leigh took a deep, but shaky, breath. "You know something I don’t?"

Maura paused a moment before answering. "Schofield talked to her neighbors in the building this morning. Turns out she had two other visitors last Sunday before you. The home health aide, who comes every morning, and a man in his late forties or early fifties, dressed nice and carrying a briefcase, that the neighbors didn’t recognize. The woman next door to Peggy said he was medium height, skinny, with a full gray beard, and that Peggy seemed to be expecting him. Any ideas?"

An image popped into Leigh’s head. "Yes," she answered quickly. "It sounds like Mrs. Murchison’s lawyer. Sheridan, I think his name was. I met him at the will reading."

Maura’s pupils widened slightly. "Mrs.
Murchison’s
lawyer?"

Leigh nodded mutely, disturbing thoughts crowding her brain. Peggy Linney had found out about her role in the will Saturday night and had seemed reasonably content. What did she have to see the attorney about that couldn't wait until Monday?

"Koslow," Maura said sharply, interrupting her thoughts. "I’ve got no good evidence of any foul play where Peggy Linney’s concerned, but I don’t like what I’m hearing. You and your dad both need to lay low until Schofield gets a handle on things. Capiche?"

Leigh didn’t answer, instead choosing to throw away the sweat-sodden pretzels she had been absently smashing in her fist.

"
Koslow
."

"Right, right," she answered as sincerely as possible. "Are you going to find out what she wanted to see Sheridan about?"

The detective shook her head. "I can’t overstep, Koslow. Unless the Avalon PD calls in the county, this is Schofield’s case." She paused a moment, then looked at Leigh thoughtfully and went on. "I have learned a little more about Lilah Murchison’s death, however."

Leigh nodded encouragement.

"The recovery team has found two bodies. Positively identified as the pilot and Bertha McClintock, whose husband’s company owned the plane. They’ll look for another day or so, and that’s about it. If no more bodies are found, it could take years for Lilah Murchison and the copilot to be declared legally dead."

"Years," Leigh repeated soberly. "Anybody know why the plane crashed?"

"Officially, it’s still under investigation. Unofficially, the pilot and copilot were both smashed when they got on board."

Leigh grimaced. Evidently there were some benefits to flying commercial.

"And there’s something else I wanted to tell you," Maura continued. "I went to see my mom last night."

Eyebrows lifted, Leigh braced herself. Maura going to see her mother was, in itself, not big news. She visited almost every day at the Alzheimer's care center where Mary Polanski had been living for over a year now. But since Mary’s condition had deteriorated considerably, Maura only rarely brought back reports.

Before Mary Polanski’s mind began to fail her, she had been one of the sharpest minds in Pittsburgh, and the undisputed genius behind the professional success of her husband, the late Avalon Chief of Police. Mary had had a photographic memory and near-perfect recollection of faces, times, and places of interest to her. But she was also both reticent and retiring, preferring to let her husband receive all the accolades.

"Mom said something that threw me a little," Maura began. "She doesn’t always know who I am anymore, and when she does talk, she’s usually somewhere in the past. Sometimes what she says makes sense to me; sometimes it doesn’t.