Never Tease a Siamese: A Leigh Koslow Mystery (22 page)

She pictured them again at the will reading, jumping up and down with glee when the lawyer had said "one and only blood heir." They had thought, quite obviously, that that meant Dean. And what was it that Dean had said as he jumped? She remembered he had seemed pleasantly surprised. As if up until that point, he had not been at all sure of being included.

Her legs began to feel a little wobbly. Dean didn’t know who the real heir was either, she thought to herself tenuously. That explained his and Rochelle’s behavior when they had met at the diner. They had assumed the heir was real, but they didn’t have a clue. They had probably been hoping to get some information from her.

Her legs began to feel a lot wobbly. If everything she was thinking was true, then Maura was definitely on the wrong track. Dean and Rochelle really didn’t have anything to do with the threats. The threats had started Saturday—before the will reading, before they even knew another heir existed.

Maybe the gruesome twosome
was
responsible for Lilah’s murder—maybe it was a crime of passion brought on by the humiliation her will had put Dean through.

But any way Leigh looked at it, she couldn’t see the two of them as the force behind the threats to the staff. Which meant that someone else was.

Someone who was still out there.

Chapter 17

Leigh returned to her father’s office, opened his desk drawer, and rummaged until she found the key to his file cabinet. He would not be pleased if he caught her, but she would take that risk. Having the run of the place as a child offered her certain advantages.
Adults routinely allow children to witness things they wouldn’t let other adults witness, assuming they aren’t paying attention. But inquisitive children notice things, and Leigh was one inquisitive child.

She found the key just where she knew she would, in an old coin purse stuffed  behind stacks of outdated business cards. Randall, thankfully, was a creature of longstanding habit.

The rusted metal file cabinet was older than she was, and probably for at least as long as she had been alive, her father had kept his confidential files in the locked drawer on the bottom. She inserted the key and, after jiggling the lock, managed to coax the drawer open.

Gilmore, Marcia
.
Leigh pulled out the file and flipped to the relevant records quickly. DOB
: 11-20-79
. Leigh's brow furrowed. Hysterical-screaming Marcia was only twenty-two. And if hysterical-screaming Marcia was only twenty-two, her hysterical-screaming twin Michelle probably was also.

Did it matter? Leigh was already 95% certain that the missing heir was indeed Nikki Loomis; the birthdates were just a double-check. What she didn’t know was who at the clinic knew all about it, and how. What she also didn’t know, and what was currently making her heart beat like a jackhammer, was what second
who
was trying to make the first
who
keep their mouth shut.

If she ruled out Dean and Rochelle, who was left? The only theory that even halfway made sense—and she hated to admit it—was the idiotic thing she had come up with to rattle the couple when they had met at the Chuckwagon. What if the true villain wasn’t someone in the will at all, but a would-be heir imposter? Someone who knew about the baby switch, knew who the real heir was, and knew—even before the will reading—that a unnamed heir would inherit?

It made a sick kind of sense, because as soon as news got out that Lilah Murchison’s plane had crashed, the scare tactics had begun. But was this person trying to threaten Nikki through Jared, or were they trying to threaten someone else who knew who she was?

The room had started to revolve a bit, and Leigh sat back and forced herself to take a deep breath.
Holmes, Michelle.
DOB
: 6-10-79.
Naturally, the girls had been classmates. Both of their parents’ addresses were in Avalon. She flipped through the rest of the folder, but there was little else to help her. Michelle was allergic to shellfish and raspberries; Marcia had had her appendix out last year. Nothing.

Garrett, Jeanine
. Leigh chuckled. Her father had never been a zealous keeper of alphabetical order
.
DOB: 3-31-58. The queen bee was forty-four. She would have been nineteen when the babies were born. But, Leigh noted with a sigh, she appeared to have only moved into Pittsburgh in 1988. Furthermore, being perfect, she had no allergies.

Leigh replaced the file and moved on.
Loomis, Jared
. DOB: 4-24-1976. So—Jared was about to turn twenty-six. He and Nikki had been born close together. Not so close, however, that Wanda couldn’t pass both off as her own. Maybe she was a heavy woman who never lost much weight after Jared was born. Maybe she could simply show up with another baby eleven months later, tell people it was hers, and not have a head nod.

"
Leigh Eleanor Koslow!
"

Leaping up from a squatting position is tough for anyone over thirty, and being no athlete, Leigh proceeded to topple over sideways, smash her thigh on the corner of the file cabinet, and scatter Jared’s confidential papers in a wide arc over the concrete floor.

"
What in heaven’s name are you doing in your father’s files
?" Frances’s screeches were far worse on Leigh's head than the file cabinet had been on her thigh, and both the room and her mother’s disapproving, blue-hair-framed face were weaving about precariously.

"Calm down, Mom," Leigh croaked, trying to catch her breath. "You about gave me a coronary."

"I may give you more than that if you don’t explain yourself," Frances retorted waspishly, straightening her shoulders. "Now,
what were
you doing?"

"Looking something up for Dad, of course," she answered easily. She had long since learned the skill of telling her mother technical truths that were also practical falsehoods. Unfortunately, Frances had long since learned the skill of knowing when her daughter was doing it. Her eyes narrowed.

Leigh replaced the scattered papers and shut the file drawer. "I didn’t find it anyway," she finished, rubbing the dust off her hands and rising. "Am I needed upstairs again?"

Her mother’s features softened a bit. "No, the rush seems to be over for now. I’m going to start on the cages. They didn’t get thoroughly cleaned this morning and Jared still isn’t back yet. Did you bring a lunch?"

Leigh shook her head. She had been counting on talking Alice into walking half a block to their favorite North Side grill for cheese sandwiches with pickles. Now it was looking like a Wendys double with everything. And maybe some chili.

"Well, I brought a salad," Frances offered. "You can have half."

Leigh replaced her father’s key in its hiding place, then felt a sudden wave of warmth. The clinic basement seemed awfully muggy for April. "How’s Dad?" she asked, hoping to distract both from the salad and her health in general.

"Your father is disappointed in his staff," Frances offered critically. "Which reminds me… before Jeanine left in a fit of hysteria, she told me to make sure that if you came, you didn’t get anywhere
near
the x-ray machine." She crossed her arms and fixed her daughter with a classic, chin-down stare. "You mind telling me what that’s all about?"

Oh, no
. Not Frances. Not now. If Leigh ever saw that wretched little snitch Jeanine again, so help her—

"Leigh," Frances repeated irritably. "What exactly did you
do
to the x-ray machine?"

Leigh let our her breath with a whoosh of relief. "Nothing, Mom," she answered honestly. "You know Jeanine—she just likes to do all the radiographs herself. It’s a status thing."

Frances looked skeptical again. "Indeed. Well, why don’t you help yourself to that salad? Nancy has rescheduled most of the afternoon’s appointments, so you should get back to work at Hook. Thanks for pitching in. I know your father appreciates it."

"No problem." Leigh studied her mother’s face curiously. She was clearly annoyed about the employee walkout, but she didn’t seem half as agitated as she undoubtedly would be if she knew that Leigh and Warren had been the ones to discover Lilah Murchison’s body. Ergo, she didn’t know.

Major kudos to Randall; he must have kept his wife cloistered in the surgery all morning. Leigh rose again and patted the key that lay in her hip pocket. "I do have a lot to do today. And thanks for the salad, but I think I’ll grab something on the way."

Muttering something about fried foods and cellulite, Frances turned and began a visual inspection of the kennel room. Leigh trotted up the stairs with haste. Jared was a darned good kennel cleaner, but there was only one Frances Koslow, and Leigh knew that staying in that basement one more minute carried significant risk of recruitment. There were at least five types of household dirt that only Frances Koslow could see—God only knew what she could find in the basement of an animal clinic.

The upstairs was eerily silent, and Leigh wandered into the recovery room to find her father and Dr. McCoy talking in low tones beside one of the cages.

"It’s amazing she’s lived this long," the associate veterinarian was saying. Leigh realized suddenly that she hadn’t even considered Dr. McCoy, who was nearing fifty, on her suspect list. But then she might as well not have. Not only was the level-headed veterinarian every bit as uninterested in life outside of work as Dr. Koslow, but she commuted every day from the East Hills and didn’t know squat about the North Boros.

Leigh pressed forward and peeked in at the slight form lying peacefully on a heating blanket in one of the smaller cages, one back leg connected to an IV bag. It was Mrs. Wiggs.

The ancient cat had seemed a little lethargic last night when she had been separated from her mistress’s body; Nikki must have brought her in first thing this morning. "What’s wrong with her?" Leigh asked quietly.

"She’s in end-stage kidney failure, I’m afraid," her father answered. "But it comes as no surprise, given her age. Mrs. Murchison had known for weeks that it was only a matter of time."

Leigh confessed surprise. "But what about all that sneaking around she did after the plane crash? I can’t believe she would drag the cat along for all that, if she knew how sick it was."

  Randall looked at her thoughtfully. "If you ask me, Mrs. Wiggs probably saved Mrs. Murchison’s life. At least temporarily," he added ruefully. "The cat’s got hematomas on all four legs—it’s obvious she’s been on IV fluids somewhere else. I bet Mrs. Murchison got off
that plane at the last minute because the cat took a turn for the worse, and she wanted to get her to the nearest animal clinic."

And when the cat was released, she brought it home to die
, Leigh thought to herself. Sometime in between Lilah must have heard about the crash and decided to capitalize on it. Sick pet or no, she would have to be aware of the plane going down—her hostess was missing and presumed dead, for heavens sake. Perhaps she had found the opportunity to see how Dean really felt about her too tempting to pass up. Or perhaps, upon realizing that the secrets of her will might already have come out, she was none too anxious to face the music.

Leigh left the vets and walked toward the reception area. She needed another crack at those personnel files, but even if she succeeded in sneaking past Frances to get there, she would never get back out without having to scrape, scrub, or dust something first.

Nancy
. Leigh had been wanting to question her ever since finding out that her mother had worked for Lilah Murchison, but she hadn’t gotten the chance. Could her mother—or by extension Nancy herself—know something about the baby switch? She poked her head around the doorway to the reception area and was pleased to find the business manager sitting alone, chomping carrot sticks while typing at her keyboard.

If Nancy did know something, it was ironic that she was the only employee besides Dr. McCoy who had
not
bailed out that morning. Pulling up a stool with a smile, Leigh thanked her for just that.

"Your father is a wonderful man to work for," Nancy responded modestly. "Of course I wouldn’t walk out on him."

There was a moment of silence, and Leigh considered her strategy. She didn’t want to frighten away the last of her father’s staff, but if it was common knowledge that the late Mrs. Johnson had worked for Mrs. Murchison, it could be Nancy herself who the threats were targeting. Had her mother been working for Lilah in 1977?

"I wondered if I could ask you a question," she began gently. "Exactly how old were you when your mother started working for Mrs. Murchison?"

The business manager’s eyebrows arched as she cracked another carrot stick. "I was five or so, I guess," she answered. "Why?"

Leigh tried to hide her disappointment as the math played out in her head. No way was Nancy more than thirty years old. That meant that her mother wouldn’t have come on the scene until the early eighties—several years after Dean was born. But the housekeeper could still have known something. She or even Nancy herself could have discovered something later…

Leigh’s hand felt for the key in her pocket, and a hopeful thought formed in her brain.
Children could be very observant
. "I thought maybe you could help me with a puzzle," she explained. "Did you spend any time at the mansion when you were little?"