Never Tease a Siamese: A Leigh Koslow Mystery (14 page)

"Last night, I was talking out loud about some things on my mind. I don’t usually give details about cases, just in case someone’s listening or Mom decides to start repeating things. But I did mention the name Lilah Murchison."

The detective threw up her hands. "I don’t know why that name struck a chord with her, but it did. She hadn’t said a word all evening, and all of a sudden she sat straight up in her chair and looked right at me."

Leigh leaned forward. It hadn’t occurred to her that Mary Polanski, a working-class girl and life-long Avaloner, would be all that familiar with the rich and notorious Lilah Murchison. But it should have. Lilah was an Avaloner by birth. Plus, she and Mary were about the same age.

"What did she say?"

"She said," Maura answered slowly, "and I quote: Lilah Beemish is a filthy, selfish slut, and I hate her."

Leigh’s eyes widened. She had never heard Mary Polanski utter so much as an H-E-double-hockey-sticks, nor had she ever heard her malign anyone short of a convicted murderer.

"Beemish was Lilah’s maiden name; I checked," Maura continued. "The Alzheimer's can change a person’s personality, I’ve heard that. And I’ve heard that victims can get more unpleasant or even violent. But so far mom hasn’t shown any signs of that. It seemed to me like the kind of thing that maybe before her illness, she would have just thought to herself. But now, she can’t help saying it out loud."

"A slut?" Leigh repeated. It was a relatively tame word now, but she knew that to someone of her mother’s generation, it was a strong condemnation. "Mrs. Rhodis said Lilah had a trashy reputation as a teenager," she added. "But—"

"But that doesn’t explain why my mother would have such strong feelings about her," Maura finished, reading her friend’s mind. "I know."

"Did she ever say anything about Lilah before?"

"Not a word. Her friends would all gossip about Lilah like everyone in town always did, but mom would just listen politely."

Leigh thought a moment. It was tantalizing to think that Mary Polanski might have some long-buried resentment toward Lilah Murchison. What could the woman have done? Stolen one of Mary’s boyfriends? It seemed unlikely, since the only boy Mary had been interested in post-adolescence was the man she had eventually married. But unfortunately, whatever Lilah had done to Mary seemed unlikely to shed any light on the problems at hand.

"It’s probably neither here nor there," Maura offered, reading Leigh’s mind again. "Just thought I’d mention it." She rose.

"If you or Schofield find out anything more, will you tell me?" Leigh asked.

Maura eyed her warily. "If it affects the threats at the clinic, sure." Her voice turned gruff. "But I’m warning you, Koslow, this is police business, not
Encyclopedia Brown
.
Stay away from Dean and Rochelle Murchison. No cute little spy missions. I mean it. Those two could be dangerous."

Leigh offered a salute and a smile.
Too late
.

The detective’s eyes narrowed knowingly, but she held her tongue.

***

Leigh stepped tentatively into the parlor of Fields Funeral Home, marveling that its crimson-on-maroon color scheme had still not been reigned in by female hands. The marriage of its aging proprietor had long since been given up as a lost cause, but Vestal Fields's inadvertent ability to hire equally color-blind employees was astounding.

She gave the suited gentlemen at the door a vague greeting and scooted quickly to the side, camouflaging her own maroon dress next to a heavy crushed-velvet drape. The wall board said that the Linney funeral was to begin at two o’clock, but she wasn’t entirely sure she was in the right crowd. Only twenty or so people were present, and she didn’t recognize any of them.

Then again, why would she? They were obviously family members. Kids in their fifties, grandkids in their thirties, great-grandkids. Only a few older people, the neighbor with the schnauzers not among them. No one from the will reading. She sidled around the walls of the parlor as inconspicuously as possible, attempting to get a good look at everyone. In a moment they would all be called into the chapel to sit, and then her vantage point would be poor.

She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for. But her irrational guilt over Peggy’s death was weighing even heavier since Maura’s visit, and she figured that taking time to attend the woman’s funeral couldn’t hurt. Since there was no autopsy, no one might ever know if her innocent visit on Sunday had preceded a peaceful final slumber—or a vicious attack. But Leigh couldn’t help wonder if someone attending the funeral knew more than she did. If so, she hoped they would tip their hand just like in
Columbo
. If not, at least she would be another warm body in the sparse crowd.

"Well, well. If it isn’t Leigh Koslow," a booming voice sounded behind her left ear. "I didn’t know you knew the late Mrs. Linney—God rest her soul."

Leigh cringed. Vestal was a nice enough man, especially considering her less-than-completely-aboveboard dealings with him in the past. But when trying to be inconspicuous, Vestal was about as convenient to have around as a hot-pink feather boa.

"Hello, Mr. Fields," she returned politely, her own voice barely above a whisper. "I’m….um…..trying not to disturb the family."

"Oh, of course not," the round little funeral director answered, lowering his own voice dramatically. "We all grieve in our own ways."

Leigh looked back at him out of the corner of her eye. It was an odd comment, even for a man as perpetually absorbed in the hereafter as Vestal was. He had inherited Avalon’s premier funereal establishment at a young age, and though he could be accused of a little cost-cutting hanky panky here and there, his prowess at his craft was unquestioned. A born schmoozer, the man knew everyone living, dead, and hovering in between for a borough in either direction, and, if approached in the appropriate manner, would dish all their dirt for a song.

Or, preferably, your signature on a prepaid burial plan.

He cleared his throat and stood silently next to Leigh by the curtain, rocking back and forth on the heels of his shiny black shoes.

Perhaps she was being overly hopeful, but she swore there was something the man was dying to say. "I don’t know the family at all," she whispered, trying to encourage him. "I only met Peggy the day before she died. It seemed to happen so…suddenly."

"The end always seems sudden," Vestal said knowledgeably. "No matter how long you’re expecting it. The time of a person’s passing is always the most stressful time for a family to deal with details. That’s why we believe so firmly in planning ahead, you know." He paused only a second, then leaned his mouth closer to Leigh’s ear. "Although in Peggy Linney’s case, I’d say it was a necessity—otherwise the poor woman would wind up in a particle-board crate."

There was no doubt remaining. Vestal had dirt.

"I’ve heard that Peggy’s children were a bit opportunistic," Leigh said charitably, remembering Lilah Murchison’s will. "But I’m sure they cared for her. You don’t think they were—" she opened her eyes unnecessarily wide and batted her nearly nonexistent lashes. Vestal was of the old school; a demure woman in need was his call to action. "
unkind
to her, do you?"

"No, no," the funeral director said comfortingly. Then he glanced furtively in either direction. "There was no evidence of physical abuse on the body, anyway. But they bled her dry, they did. She was Lilah Murchison’s right-hand woman, you know, for years and years. Only quit when she couldn’t do stairs anymore. Now, say what you will about Lilah Murchison—God rest her soul, but when she liked her staff, she paid them well. Yet Peggy had nothing. She gave it all away or the kids took it, one or the other." His concave front puffed up high. "I knew her kids wouldn’t pay for a funeral, so I pitched her on a prepaid. Peggy would have none of it. Said it was wasted money. But when I sold Lilah Murchison her package I pled Peggy’s case, and darned if the woman didn’t set up her housekeeper with the Bronze Elite II package.
Cash
."

Leigh couldn’t help but be impressed. First by the generosity of a woman so widely touted as a miser; second by Vestal’s uncanny sales ability. "That was certainly charitable of Mrs. Murchison," she responded. "How long ago did she buy the plans?"

She had no conceivable business knowing that information, but as she had correctly guessed, Vestal did not care. "Oh, years ago," he said proudly. "We started Bronze Elite in ’89; Bronze Elite II came along in ’91. I thought more of the women would want perpetual upkeep on graveside florals, and I was right." He looked at her with a lifted eyebrow. "We don’t have Bronze Elite anymore, but we do have a new package I put together just for young people concerned about their parents. It’s called—"

"Oh, my," Leigh interrupted. "That woman in the green looks so much like Peggy. She must be her daughter."

Successfully, if temporarily, derailed, Vestal cast a knowing eye. "Yes, that’s Carol Ann. Her brothers are over by the potted palm: Dick and Robby." He lowered his voice to where it was barely audible. "Those boys took their mother for every dime she had. Peggy wasn’t the type who could say no to her own flesh and blood—God rest her soul."

Leigh’s gaze shifted from the two overweight, under-dressed men smoking cigarettes by the potted palm to a woman in a cheap purple cocktail dress who had stepped out from behind them. Leigh took one look at her heavily made-up face, and swallowed. "Who is that woman?" she asked, pointing.

"Oh, her," Vestal answered, poorly disguising a measure of delight in the topic. "She’s the granddaughter from Cleveland. Carol Ann’s girl Becky. Several of the older kids here are hers, I believe." He paused for another short throat-clearing. "Of course, it’s my understanding that she’s never been married."

He uttered a loud tsk tsk, to which Leigh did not respond. She didn’t give a hoot about the woman’s marital status. Nor did she give a hoot that the provocative dress and gaudy make-up Becky was wearing was glaringly inappropriate for a grandmother’s funeral. What Leigh was fixated on was the woman’s thick, dark eyebrows, her narrow, close-set brown eyes, and the way her cleft chin tapered down to a near-perfect point.

It seemed an uncanny coincidence, and she knew in her gut that it was not a coincidence at all.

The woman was the spitting image of Dean Murchison.

Chapter 11

"How old is she?" Leigh asked in a whisper.

If Vestal thought this an odd question, he didn’t show it. "Oh, about forty I’d say. Very—um,
well preserved
."

The pun was far too bad to acknowledge. Even if it weren’t, Leigh’s mind was otherwise occupied. The math made perfect sense; Peggy’s granddaughter would have been a teenager when Dean was born. A young, unwed mother looking for an out—an older, possibly infertile one desperate for an heir.

The pieces fit perfectly. Peggy Linney might very well have delivered Dean Murchison. She just hadn’t delivered him from Lilah. And with her own progeny set to inherit the Murchison millions, she certainly wouldn’t want anyone to know it.

So Peggy had been hiding something. Did it get her killed?

Leigh’s head swam. It would make no sense at all for Dean to want Peggy dead, since they wanted the same thing. In any event, she would bet a week’s pay that Dean had no idea that the crabby old housekeeper who was always telling him to wipe his feet was actually his great-grandmother.

Vestal was talking again, but Leigh wasn’t listening. If the will had been correct about Dean not being Lilah Murchison’s biological child, was it correct about her having a real blood heir, too?

She felt like she needed to sit down. The room was blisteringly hot all of a sudden, and the maroon curtains appeared to be doing the wave. She half-felt Vestal take her by the arm and lead her into the chapel, and she willingly settled into a pew, automatically muttering some assurances that she felt just fine. By the time Vestal had reappeared with a Dixie cup full of water, she did feel fine. But she couldn’t even begin to concentrate on the service.

Leigh watched the back of Becky’s head, platinum blond with a good two inches of dark brown roots, bob around irreverently as the pastor spoke of Peggy's devotion to her family. An adolescent boy on one side of her played on his GameBoy, while an older teenaged girl popped her gum and examined her nails.

A mother of two
, Leigh thought to herself,
at least
. Did she know about Dean? Did she know who he was, where he was?

She straightened as a grim thought struck her. If Peggy Linney was killed because of what she knew—could her granddaughter be in danger also?

By the end of the service the Dixie cup in her hand had been kneaded into a gritty lump of mush. Becky and the children rose, and Leigh didn’t hesitate in standing up to follow them. The woman might end up thinking Leigh was completely crazy, but she could deal with that. What she couldn’t deal with was another member of the Linney household dropping dead while she stood idly by.

"Feeling better?"

Vestal had reappeared at her side—inconveniently blocking her path. "You look like a young woman who shouldn’t have skipped lunch," he said cheerfully, extending a packet of cheese crackers.