Never Con a Corgi (Leigh Koslow Mystery Series)

by Edie Claire

  Leigh frowned. "What a load of—"

  "Clearly," Cara interrupted. "A load only a man would buy. What she wanted, of course, was her last paycheck and a spanking clean reference. What happened with Gil would never happen with any other boss, you see, because Gil was special, and because she'd learned how important it was to 'guard her heart.'"

  "Oh, please."

  "Tell me about it. But Gil believed her. At least a little bit... because he wanted to. And before you know it, the wench was working for the next most promising target on her list—a man that her job with Gil had already conveniently introduced her to."

  Leigh's eyebrows lifted. "Brandon Lyle."

  Cara put a finger to her nose. "You got it, cuz."

  "But couldn't Brandon see—"

  Cara threw her a look.

  "Right," Leigh corrected. "The man thing. And Gil wouldn't say anything because, if he believed her story about having real feelings for him—"

  "Then it would be like betraying a confidence," Cara finished. "He did wise up, eventually. Once Diana started working for Brandon, Gil could see her playing the same games. But Brandon was a big boy who'd cheated before; as far as Gil was concerned, it was their business. He was just glad to be out of it."

  Cara looked thoughtful for a moment. Her shoulders slumped. "Gil thought it was over and done with, Leigh. And I let myself think that, too. But I should have known better. When a woman lays it all out on the line like that... and I mean everything, and the man rejects her..." She bit a fingernail.

  "I see what you mean," Leigh said gently. The image of Brandon's stiff face and glassy, unseeing eyes swept unbidden across her mind.

  Shot in the back.

  She straightened. "Did Diana have a falling out with Brandon, too? I mean, do you think she would be capable..."

  "I have no idea what the woman is capable of," Cara responded grimly. "But at the very least, I intend to make sure Maura knows just how skillful a manipulator they're dealing with." Her voice caught. "Because if Diana Saxton resents my husband as much as I'm starting to think she might..."

  The words hung unspoken in the air.

  Gil could be in far worse trouble than he knew.

  ***

  Diana drummed her fingernails on the steering wheel of her "preowned" Audi, contemplating which direction to turn. She should not have to drive a second-hand anything. She should be tooling around in an Aston Martin Roadster, telling people like that witch in Harrisburg exactly what they could do with their anchor-sized engagement rings and stiff, patronizing smiles. She hadn't chosen wisely in Brandon, that much was true. But she had done everything else right. She always did. It was other people who ruined everything.

  The light remained red. Diana glanced to the left. Courtney Lyle was an idiot. Brandon's wife didn't need someone like Diana to bring her down; she was more than capable of doing it herself. It was clear from the detectives' expressions that they were unaware that Courtney had returned to the couple's Pittsburgh apartment last night—and yet they had obviously contacted her about his murder this morning. Had she lied to them on the phone, saying that she was still in Chicago? Or had she flown back to Chicago late last night?

  All Diana knew was that Courtney had not been at the apartment this afternoon, which was fortuitous all the way around. One murder in the family was enough.

  Diana's fingers drummed harder for a moment, then stopped abruptly as she reached a decision. Never mind the bubblehead. Courtney was her own worst enemy.

  The light was still red. Diana let out an exasperated sigh and glanced at the empty seat next to her. Her prize was stowed underneath, waiting. It was a risky thing to do, but the temptation was just too great. Certain people had it coming to them. They were practically begging for it.

  She glanced to the right. Would Gil March be at home now? Most likely he would, clutched in the loving arms of his older-than-dirt wife and his two sickeningly perfect children. Eating bean sprouts and sipping pomegranate juice. Going to sleep at night on top of giant piles of money...

  Diana's eyes narrowed. Yes, it was worth it. Gil March would get his—and then some.

  The light turned green.

  But not quite yet, she mused, gunning the accelerator and shooting into the intersection with a squeal of rubber.

  The Audi turned neither left nor right, but sailed straight ahead.

  She would wait until the time was right.

  Chapter 10

  Leigh reached into the back of Cara's van and attempted to fasten leads on both Chewie and the March's Brittany spaniel, Maggie, without the two of them becoming hopelessly intertwined in the process. It wasn't easy. Maggie might be old and arthritic, but the dog was as much of a spaz as ever. Leigh finally managed to attach the spaniel's lead and put her down on the ground, only to struggle even harder to hook up the corgi while Maggie jerked her arm around like a marionette. By the time she got Chewie on the ground also he was panting as if he'd run a marathon, and he hadn't walked a step yet. The two dogs riled each other up under the calmest of circumstances; a mutual road trip was heaven.

  "Why exactly did we need both dogs?" Leigh asked, handing Maggie's lead gratefully over to Cara and wiping corgi slobber off her other arm and onto her shorts.

  "Mom wants us to split up," Cara answered, leading the foursome across the parking lot toward the light post under which the three Morton sisters—Bess, Lydie, and Frances—stood waiting. Leigh wasn't surprised to see Bess toting her Pekingese mix, but since neither her mother nor Cara's owned dogs, she was surprised to see Lydie and Frances each attached to a husky.

  The women let the dogs sniff noses, then pulled them back out of leash-tangling range.

  "All right, everyone," Frances announced in her best troop-leader tone, forestalling any attempt at pleasantries. "Now that we're all here, let's get the mission straight. Lydie?"

  Leigh's Aunt Lydie, a lean, serious woman who resembled her identical twin Frances only to those who didn't know them, stepped around and handed everyone a small pad, a pen, and a large home-printed photograph. It was a picture of Gil, unfortunately cropped from a family photo of a summer vacation at Yosemite, in which he was dressed in shorts and hiking boots and sported a wide, carefree smile. If Leigh knew anything about her cousin-in-law, and she did, the appearance he had presented after leaving Brandon at the church last night would bear not the slightest resemblance. Lydie could have captured a better likeness by snapping a candid shot after pricking her son-in-law with a pin.

  "It is critically important," Frances lectured, "that we not intimidate our potential witnesses in any way. That's why I've suggested that the men not accompany us—particularly Gil himself. And why each of us needs a—"

  Frances' upper body bowled suddenly and violently backward. Lydie and Bess both made a dive for her, but after a brief cry of surprise, Frances threw back a foot and made a brilliant recovery, bringing her husky—which had apparently just noticed a wild turkey skulking near the edge of the woods—back to heel with a determined snap. "Sit, Denali!" she said firmly.

  The dog obeyed with a sulk.

  "As I was saying," Frances continued, unruffled, "people with dogs will gladly talk to us if we have a dog of our own. It will make the perfect conversation starter. Once you're accepted, find out if the person was walking in the same place last night, and if so, show them the picture of Gil and ask if they remember seeing him. But don't badger," she said accusingly, her eyes darting between Leigh and Bess. "It won't do us any good to find someone if they're not willing to testify."

  Frances gave a nod to her twin, then took a half step back out of the way as if she was at a podium.

  "Gil says he remembers getting here shortly before dusk," Lydie explained. "He parked in this lot and walked the whole loop around the lake. He's certain he passed several people with dogs before it got dark, but he can't recall any details, which I think we can all understand. He does remember seeing some younger people on roller blades, so you might
keep a look out for that. The crowd thins significantly the closer it gets to sundown, so we need to work quickly right off the bat."

  "Right," Frances agreed, taking the lead again. "We'll need to divide the loop into five sections. Not everyone walks the whole length of the lake, of course, and there are any number of parking lots or pavilions one could start from. So, as you can see here, I've taken this map and laid out a grid—"

  "Oh, keep your panties on, Francie!" Bess huffed, tucking her notepad and photo beneath a flabby arm and pulling her feet out from underneath the rear end of Chester, who could take any cat in stride but was nervous around other dogs. "I think we've all got enough neurons to spread our carcasses evenly around a lake. I'll start by heading this way. And I'm telling you, you'd better hold on tight to those huskies. I'm sure they're otherwise well-behaved, but take it from me, if they get—"

  "I am perfectly capable of handling a medium-sized dog, Bess," Frances retorted irritably. "And I'll have you know that Mr. Reynolds was grateful for our help in exercising them. He's always been a good neighbor, and ever since he had that knee surgery last month—"

  "TMI!" Bess shouted over her shoulder, heading off. She threw a conspiratorial glance at Leigh as she passed. "Learned that from one of yours, kiddo," she said with a wink.

  "What exactly did she just say to me?" Frances inquired of her daughter, eyes narrowed.

  "Um... that means 'too much information,'" Leigh informed.

  Frances sniffed. She muttered a few words after her older sister's departing form, clucked to her husky, and took off in the same direction.

  Lydie cleared her throat. "Cara dear, why don't you and I head off the other way? Leigh, maybe you should stay in this area—catch people as they get out of their cars, maybe?"

  "Sounds good," Leigh agreed.

  The inquisition proved a bit more awkward than Leigh had hoped. Most people were happy to stop and chat—having a dog with giant ears and no tail helped with that—but as soon as she started asking questions, people's warning bells went off. Had she been trying to locate a lost dog, or even solicit a bone marrow donor, she might have had more luck. But no one seemed particularly eager to be a witness for a man who "may be accused of a crime he didn't commit," even if they did remember seeing him. Which so far, no one did.

  After the first twenty minutes, Leigh found that a good portion of the people she met had already been approached by one Morton woman or other, and her spirits began to plummet. Quick texts to Cara, Lydie, and Bess showed that they'd turned up empty, too. Her mother she didn't know about, since Frances steadfastly refused to learn to text and only carried her Paleozoic era no-contract phone "for emergencies." Lydie and Bess had both tried to bring their sister up to speed, but Leigh—while professing her support for the idea—had secretly rooted for failure. If Frances ever figured out how to text, God only knew how many times a day she could remind her daughter to clean something.

  It was nearly dark when a man about Leigh's age, walking alone, answered her welcoming smile with one of his own. Leigh introduced herself and asked the usual leading question, but before she could complete it, the man leaned in close and took a sneak peek at the picture she was carrying.

  "This your husband?" he asked, smiling.

  "No, he's my brother-in-law," Leigh fudged, stepping back. The man clearly had personal space issues. "We're trying to locate anyone who might have seen him walking here last night. Does he look familiar to you?"

  The smile continued, and the hairs on the back of Leigh's neck pricked. The man never had answered her first question about whether he had been walking the same route last night.

  "Yeah, I think I saw him," he said slowly, never taking his eyes off her.

  Leigh heart sped up—but at the same time, she fought a cringe. The man wasn't what you'd call threatening... he was a good inch shorter than she was, overweight, out of shape, and the definition of a middle-aged nerd. But the intensity of his gaze and the slipperiness of his smile made her skin crawl.

  "You did?" she asked civilly, reminding herself of the importance of her mission. "At what time? Do you remember?"

  He shrugged. "About now, I guess."

  He was still smiling.

  Leigh swallowed. Why, of everyone she had questioned tonight, did this guy have to say yes? "Would you be willing to tell the police that if they asked you?"

  His smile widened. "Sure."

  "So..." she faltered. "You really are sure you saw this man, here, last night?"

  "Absolutely." Smile.

  Leigh pressed on. "Would you mind writing down your name and how we could contact you again?" she asked politely, holding out the pen and pad.

  He took them both from her, his hand lingering against hers a little longer than necessary in the process. He scribbled something on the pad and handed it back. "You can come to my house if you want."

  "I don't think that will be necessary," Leigh responded, stepping back another pace and trying hard not to scream. "But thank you. We'll... I mean, someone will be in touch."

  "Awesome."

  He didn't move.

  Leigh glanced at her phone. "Oh my, I'm late," she gushed. "Sorry, I have to meet up with the rest of my group now. Thank you again!"

  She turned tail and hoofed it. Chewie, who had not walked more than six feet in a straight line since jumping out of the van, launched into inchworm mode and galloped beside her obligingly as she jogged up the road in the direction Mr. Creepsville had come from. She didn't figure he would double back, and in any event, she didn't have the keys to Cara's van.

  She felt a sudden urge to take a very long, hot shower.

  "Leigh Eleanor!" her mother's voice barked unexpectedly from somewhere to her left. "Why on earth are you running?"

  Leigh halted in her steps. Chewie, less quick on the draw, let his back legs pass his front ones, spun around inside his collar, and came to a stop on his rear end. Unfazed, he popped back up immediately and began sniffing at a signpost.

  Frances was standing by a nearby clump of trees, allowing the handsome gray and white husky to do his business off the beaten track. She studied her daughter disapprovingly.

  "I... um..." Leigh faltered. Well, you see, there was this man wearing too-tight running shorts with black knee socks and loafers, and from the way he smiled at me, I'm pretty sure he was a serial killer... "I just wondered how you were doing," she finished.

  Frances frowned. "I thought you were supposed to be covering the parking lot."

  "I did," Leigh defended. "I am. Have you had any luck?"

  Frances clucked her tongue. "I'm afraid not. But wait"—she looked over Leigh's shoulder—"these people look likely. Gil said he saw roller skaters, didn't he? Here, you take Denali." Frances pressed the end of the lead against Leigh's closed hand and hurried back out to the road.

  "Yoo hoo! What lovely roller skates!" she cooed.

  Roller blades, Leigh thought to herself, making a perfunctory grab for the lead.

  But the loop of nylon was no longer there. And neither was the husky.

  Leigh spied the red ribbon of the lead snaking off through the grass as the husky made a beeline for the roller bladers. Dragging Chewie along with her, she launched into a desperate sprint—only too aware of the sound of several cars in the proximity. The dog was nearing the road. The lead was still traveling ahead of her... but she could reach it... just... if she made a dive for it... now!

  The husky trotted off into the roadway unhindered.

  Leigh did a face plant in the grass.

  A wet corgi nose snuffled at her cheek. Leigh lifted her head and saw that the husky had gone no farther than the nearest roller blader, and that his lead had been picked up again—no doubt with minimal effort—by Frances.

  She sighed and struggled back to her feet. Now she really, really wanted that shower.

  "Well, that was a bust," Frances said testily, rejoining her. "Skaters just aren't creatures of habit like dog walkers." She looked up at
the rapidly darkening sky and sighed dramatically. "Look, there's Bess coming our way. The walkers are all but gone; it's getting too dark. I guess we might as well head back. Let's hope the others had more luck. And by the way, dear—"

  Leigh braced herself.

  "You have goose poo in your hair."

  Chapter 11

  "So, did you find anyone to support Gil's alibi?" Maura asked, accepting the cup of coffee Leigh offered her and settling into a kitchen chair.

  Leigh poured another cup and joined her. "Well, that depends on how you look at it. Cara did talk to a couple of women she was certain had seen Gil. They even remembered that he was wearing business casual, which stuck out a bit, as we'd hoped. But as soon as she mentioned the word 'testify,' they got skittish. Started saying they weren't so sure after all, that they couldn't possibly swear to it. Refused even to give Cara their names."

  "That's not good," Maura said soberly.

  Leigh shook her head. "Cara was distraught, as you can imagine. She tried so hard to be polite about it—but they just seemed terrified of having anything to do with the police."

  "You have no way to contact them again?"

  Leigh smirked. "I didn't say that. Cara being Cara, she let them walk off, then followed them covertly until they got back to their car. She hid behind a tree and scribbled down their license plate number."

  Maura let out a smirk of her own. "Very enterprising. But we won't hassle them unless we have to; unwilling witnesses aren't much better than no witnesses at all. Anything else before you get to it?"

  Leigh looked up from her cup. "Get to what?"