Never Tease a Siamese: A Leigh Koslow Mystery (20 page)

"What if he forgets and opens a door to leave without punching in his code first?" Hollandsworth asked.

"Jared never forgets his routine," Nikki said defensively. "The alarm didn’t go off tonight because Mrs. Murchison turned it off herself. She always turned it off completely when she came home; she was too lazy to learn how to manage the settings."

Leigh wondered if Hollandsworth had taken note of the personal assistant’s distinct lack of empathy for her murdered employer. Whether Lilah had been killed in a plane crash four days before or strangled to death a matter of hours ago seemed of little consequence to Nikki. The only thing that appeared to matter was protecting her brother.

"I’d like to interview you privately now, Ms. Loomis," the detective said emotionlessly, rising and pointing toward the door to the family room. "Shall we?"

Nikki hesitated, throwing a nervous look at her brother. "It’s all right," Leigh said, moving over to take Nikki’s empty chair. "Jared will be fine. We’ll stay with him."

Somewhat appeased, the younger woman stepped out with the detective. Jared perked up as soon as Leigh began chit-chatting with him about his routine at the clinic, but she was only half listening to his answers. Nikki’s reaction to Mrs. Murchison’s murder was nothing less than callous; her devotion to her brother, endless. Could she have no feeling at all for a woman she knew to be her biological mother?

Maybe Leigh was wrong, but she didn’t think so.

***

"I hope to hell you’ve got something good to eat," Maura Polanski announced when Leigh opened her front door at 6:45 the next morning.

Leigh blinked back some cobwebs and squinted. "Did I invite you over?"

Maura chuckled grimly as she walked inside. "What do you think?"

"Um…I think not."

"Ten points." Maura looked around the house as she strode purposefully toward the kitchen. "Where’s Harmon?"

"Are you kidding me?" Leigh responded with a yawn. "You’ve got to get here earlier than this to catch the world’s most conscientious politician. Time is taxpayer money, you know."

"Damn." Maura removed a bagel from the refrigerator and popped it into the toaster. "How is he?" she asked more seriously. "Okay?"

Clearly, the detective had already heard all about last night’s adventure. "He took it like a trouper," Leigh answered, feeling a renewed sense of guilt. When you had karma as lousy as hers, you eventually got used to stumbling over dead people. But for Warren, it had been a first. And the fact that he had been involved at all was—of course—her fault.

Maura poured herself the last cup of coffee, and began to make a fresh pot. "You know," she said philosophically, "I was all set to come over here and ream you out."

"Does that mean—"

"I’m not done talking yet," the detective said sternly, delivering her best glare. "I was going to come over and ream you out for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong
yet again
, but then I thought to myself: Polanski, you’re going to get an ulcer. So why fight it? I thought maybe marrying Harmon would keep you in line, but now I see that you, my friend, attract crime like garbage attracts bees."

"Lovely analogy. Thanks."

"Any time." The bagel popped up, and Maura began slathering it with a huge knifeful of margarine. "So, here we go. As of this morning, the Avalon PD is turning over the case of the threats against the Koslow Animal Clinic to me, to investigate any possible connection to the murder of Lilah Murchison. Since I warned you approximately—" she glanced at the thick black plastic watch on her wrist, "eighteen hours ago to lay low about the threats and to stay the hell away from Dean and Rochelle Murchison, I’m assuming you’ve now talked to both of them and about three other suspects, plus you’ve got some new crackpot theory about who Murchison’s other kid is. Am I right?"

Leigh sat down at the table and folded her arms defensively. "No, you’re not. For your information, I interviewed Dean and Rochelle Murchison exactly
nineteen
hours ago. And my theory is not crackpot. I’m 95% certain I know exactly who the real heir is."

The detective threw her a long, hard look, then cursed under her breath. "I was kidding, Koslow."

Leigh tried not to smile. "Oh."

Maura exhaled loudly as she popped another bagel in the toaster, brought the first to the table, and took out her notebook. "Now, start with
nineteen
hours ago," she said with a scowl, her round baby face a disturbing shade of red. "I want it short, to the point, and complete. Because if I find out later that it’s not—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Leigh said with a wave of dismissal. "The disemboweling thing,"

Maura narrowed her pretty blue eyes. "You’d better believe it."

***

Leigh sat idly in her Cavalier, her eyes glued on the Civic parked in front of her. Between the endless visual replays of Lilah Murchison’s twisted body that had kept her up most of the night and the extra crack-of-dawn police grilling, her brain was fried.

Nothing about Lilah Murchison’s murder made any sense to her, but—she dutifully kept telling herself—it didn’t have to. Because both good and common sense dictated that now was the time for her to wash her hands of the whole ugly mess. Trying to figure out who was pestering her dad’s staff was one thing, but bumping into a murderer in the night was another. And with Maura on the case, the threats at the clinic were sure to get the attention they deserved. Her assistance in the matter was no longer needed—nor, as the detective had made so abundantly clear—wanted.

Furthermore, after hearing all Leigh had to say, Maura herself did not seem in the least bit confused. According to the detective, it was blatantly obvious that Dean and Rochelle were the prime suspects in both the threats and the murder.

It seemed blatantly obvious to Leigh, too. But it also seemed dead wrong.

She sat for almost ten minutes, waiting for some reasonable explanation to pop into her head for why she gave a damn if Dean and Rochelle were falsely accused of anything. None did. Maybe it was some primitive sense of justice, or maybe it was just an ego thing. Either way, the issue didn’t justify the mental energy she had already put into it, much less the waste of any more.

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."