Never Con a Corgi (Leigh Koslow Mystery Series)

by Edie Claire

  Diana felt the blood draining slowly from her face. Gil could be lying. But she knew that he wasn't. Damnation. Why, oh why did Brandon Lyle have to be such a friggin' moron?

  "Would you like me to escort her out of the building, Mr. March?" the security guard said loudly, stepping forward.

  "That won't be necessary," Diana assured, calling on every ounce of her willpower to maintain her composure. "If Brandon misinformed me, then I'm sure I have nothing to fear from Mr. March." She sidled over to the security guard as if he had arrived for her personal protection. "But please do consider my request," she said formally. "All I ask for is a positive job reference. I am an excellent administrative assistant, and my work performance for you was flawless. I am willing to forgive the unfortunate manner in which my employment here was terminated, provided you will offer me the very minimal courtesy of assisting me, in an honest and unbiased manner, to find other suitable employment."

  Nicely played.

  Diana threw back her shoulders and smiled to herself. Every word she'd said could be played back in court—it wouldn't hurt her. But he had received her message, loud and clear.

  Gil's hard eyes locked on hers. He must know she still had the upper hand. The blackmail threat had merely been the cherry on top. A public accusation of sexual harassment could ruin his reputation; if she wanted, she could do worse. Had she not already shown him just how dangerous she could be? The self-righteous bastard was putty in her hands.

  "Diana," Gil responded, his deep voice steady. "Go to hell."

  Chapter 23

  Leigh fought the nearly irresistible urge to reach over and grab her buzzing phone. Someone was texting her. But she was driving, it was illegal, and she was two minutes from her destination. When she reached the street by the clinic she pulled off in the first available space, threw the van in park, and practically dove for the device.

  The text was from Maura. Her fingers trembled as she opened it. "Call me when you can," it said simply. There was also a voice mail message from her father. "Can you come by the clinic? Allison has something she needs to explain to you."

  Leigh leapt out of the van and beat hasty steps to the clinic's basement door. When she passed Maura's beat-up car on the way, her anxiety reached new heights. Why was Maura here? What the heck was going on?

  She flew through the wash room and kennel room and headed for the stairs; but before she reached them, she heard voices coming from her father's "office." She walked into the back basement corner where his small metal desk sat perpetually buried in papers and where stacks of dog food bags served as furniture. No one in the room was sitting down. Randall, Maura, and Allison were all standing in a huddle at the desk, looking down at something.

  "What's going on?!" Leigh demanded breathlessly.

  For a moment, no one answered her. Only when she was certain her head would explode did Maura speak. "Nothing to panic about, Koslow," she said smoothly. "At least, I hope it's not. Come and take a look."

  The detective stepped back, and Leigh moved forward. The object at which they all stared was a broken bone.

  "I don't get it," she said blankly.

  "It's the bone Chewie found, Mom," Allison said softly. "The one he left in the van."

  Leigh's eyes widened. She leaned in for a closer look. To her eye, the object looked nothing like the gnarled, mud-covered mess she had seen Chewie dragging through the woods. That had looked like a half-chewed, long-forgotten, perfectly harmless hunk of factory-shaped rawhide. Then again, she had never looked at it closely.

  When washed off, cleaned up and dried, there really was no doubt. She was looking at an actual bone. From the looks of it, the top half of a femur.

  A disturbingly large femur.

  "I know you told me to throw it away," Allison said sheepishly. "But I really didn't think it was a rawhide, and I wanted Grandpa to see it."

  Leigh grit her teeth in frustration. "But why didn't you tell me?"

  Allison cast a quick glance at Randall. "Because I didn't want you to get all upset," she explained. "I know how much it bothers you to think about... bodies and stuff. And I thought, if it was just a deer bone or something, well... you wouldn't have to hear about it."

  Leigh's heart began a slippery descent to the pit of her stomach. She looked at her father.

  He cleared his throat. "It's the top part of a femur," he said evenly. "I'm no forensic anthropologist; but to me, it looks pretty old. Brittle, with no trace of soft tissue left."

  Leigh's heart sloshed on down to her toes. "Anthropologist?" she repeated weakly.

  Randall nodded. "Like I said, I'm no expert. But that bone didn't come from a dog or a deer. The shape and angle of the head are wrong."

  "That's what I thought," Allison added proudly. "I looked it up."

  Leigh turned to her daughter, and a tiny ray of light brightened the otherwise macabre thoughts swimming in her head. So that's what the girl had been doing online!

  "The hip joint is different in quadrupeds, even bears," Allison continued. "So I figured we'd better call Aunt Mo."

  Leigh's stunned gaze moved toward her friend. The policewoman offered a slight, sympathetic smile. "Don't worry, Koslow," she said calmly. "I can't blame you for this one, since you weren't the one who found it. Technically, Chewie was."

  Leigh swallowed. There was no use hoping she was hearing all this wrong. "You think it's..."

  "Human remains," Maura finished for her. "More than likely. We'll let the lab tell us for sure. But as your dad says, it looks old. Are you aware of any family cemeteries out near your Aunt's house? We could be dealing with something as simple as a shallow grave resurfacing from erosion. It happens."

  Leigh's breathing began to steady. An old cemetery. Of course. That would be where old bones came from, wouldn't it? Why had the mere mention of human remains made her mind jump immediately to murder?

  She preferred not to answer that question.

  "I don't know, but it's possible," she answered. "I can ask Aunt Bess."

  "Do you remember exactly where Chewie found it?" Maura asked.

  Leigh shook her head. "We'd been out at the pond, but I only noticed it when we got back closer to the house. He was off leash the whole time—he could have dragged it from anywhere."

  "How long a time did he have to dig it up?" Maura asked.

  Leigh considered. "Not very long. Maybe twenty minutes. But I saw him periodically without it. I don't think he could have dug very long in any one spot—more likely he just picked it up somewhere."

  Maura's brow knitted thoughtfully. "Then it could have been dug up first by some other dog, some other place, and Chewie just stumbled across it."

  Leigh nodded. "Sorry," she apologized. "I wish I'd paid more attention."

  Maura clapped her friend on the back. It was not a full-strength Polanski backclap—the kind even Warren had to brace himself for. But it nevertheless pitched Leigh forward a good six inches. "Not your fault, Koslow," Maura proclaimed charitably. "You've had a lot on your mind this week, after all."

  Leigh's eyebrow arched. She bit back the words she was tempted to say, namely, who are you and what have you done with Maura Polanski? She stole a bemused glance at Allison. If Maura's less-than-irate response to opening up yet another case file with the Koslow name in it had anything to do with her daughter's presence—which it undoubtedly did—she owed the child a cookie.

  Maura placed the bone carefully into a brown paper bag. "I'll get this down to the lab. It may take a while for a final verdict, but in the meantime I'd like to see if there's any more lying around where this came from." She turned to Leigh. "Do you think if we took Chewie to Bess's now, he might head back to the same spot?"

  Leigh considered. A bloodhound, the dog was not. Nor was she convinced that the place where he found the bone would hold any more interest for him now than the places where he had found the dead sparrow, Brandon Lyle's body, or the empty cat food containers that fell out of Bess's recycling bin.
<
br />   But it was worth a shot. "It's possible," she said dubiously.

  "Let's try it, then," Maura suggested. "I need to take a look around the area myself, anyway. And ask Bess about any local gravesites."

  "I know of one," Allison's small voice piped up.

  The adults all turned to look at her.

  "You do?" Leigh asked. "Where?"

  "I've never been there," Allison noted. "But I've heard of it. It's somewhere on Mr. Clem's property—that's why we haven't explored it. But Aunt Bess told us once that there were gravestones there from the 1800s. Not a whole cemetery or anything, just like two or three from one family."

  "Good memory, Allison," Maura praised. "Thanks. We'll check that out, too." She looked back at Leigh. "Can I meet you—and Chewie—over at Bess's in an hour? That'll give me time to get this bone to the lab."

  Leigh nodded mutely. She was proud of her daughter's good memory, too. She just wished the child could have remembered something a little less death related.

  ***

  Diana's face felt hot. Her entire body felt hot. Not because of the blazing July sun that was currently frying the concrete plaza in front of the high-rent skyscraper that housed Gil March's office. No. Her heat was generated internally.

  She hated Gil March with a passion.

  He had humiliated her once, and he had suffered for it. But apparently he hadn't suffered enough. Not when he still refused to respect her, to fear her. And he should fear her. Oh yes, he should! Yet instead, he had humiliated her. Again. It was not to be tolerated.

  It would not be tolerated.

  She perched her lithe body on the stone rim of the plaza's sterile, artless water fountain. The water looked hot. If she touched it, she was sure it would boil. Just like her blood.

  She forced herself to a take deep breaths. Explosion was not her style. She needed to calm down. To think. To plan.

  Her gaze passed over the pedestrians strolling in front of her—their clothing an appalling mishmash of cheap, tattoo-revealing rags and stuffy business suits. Pittsburgh's "business district" could be walked end to end in less time than it took to polish one's nails—at least, to polish them properly. She needed to get out of this city. To make a fresh start somewhere else, somewhere more exciting, more sophisticated, somewhere much, much bigger...

  But not quite yet. First, she must finish her unfinished business.

  She made a growling sound under her breath and shifted her hips on the stone. Her gaze scanned over the crowd again—and then stopped short.

  It was him.

  He was dressed differently from this morning: less expensively, less conspicuously. His suit was run of the mill, mimicking an executive trying to impress on a less-than-impressive salary. But this man couldn't help but wear it well. As he stepped from the sidewalk onto the plaza Diana watched no fewer than three younger women turn their heads at him. It occurred to her that she hadn't yet had the pleasure of watching him walk away from her. She would have to fix that. But not just yet.

  His dark eyes met hers, and his steps changed course.

  A ripple of thrill shot through her.

  "Hello again, Bruce," she said invitingly, recrossing her legs. "I see you're following up on my advice."

  He paused a step in front of her. "Were you waiting for me?" he said without expression.

  Diana laughed. "Don't flatter yourself. I have business in this building that's nothing to do with you. Business that went wretchedly, I might add. I'm resting here to soothe my wounded pride... running into you again is an unexpected treat."

  What was it about this man that made it so easy for her to tell the truth? The proportion of lies she told him was way below average.

  "Any luck locating Courtney?" she dared.

  He shook his head slowly. "Not yet. Of course, you could have tipped her off."

  Diana frowned. "Why would I do that?"

  He stared back at her. "Why, indeed?"

  Diana's jaws clenched. She did wish she could get on his good side. Without his knowing she was trying, of course. A man like him could be so... useful.

  Like a flame igniting in her chest, the idea arose. As it spread through her veins like hot lava, her mouth curved into a smile.

  Why not?

  "I told you that I don't know where Courtney is staying, and I don't," she said levelly, looking him straight in his devilish eyes. "But if you're putting yourself out to try and help her, you needn't bother. As I learned only this morning, she's well protected."

  Diana watched the tell-tale muscle in his jaw. It popped out, right on cue.

  "Protected by whom?" he said in a low voice.

  She swallowed her annoyance at the man's obvious dedication to Courtney. She was using it, wasn't she?

  "Look, Bruce," she explained, "I don't know what's up with you and Courtney, and I have no reason to care about either of you. But I do hate to see a man like you, who can obviously do better, getting jerked around by a woman like her."

  Outwardly, he remained impassive. But Diana could feel the ambient air temperature rise a degree.

  "I mean, I'll admit," she continued, carefully blending lies with the truth, "I made a play for March. He's married, but he's rich and he's hot. Can you blame me? But Courtney doesn't need him. She's got money of her own. What's the appeal? I mean, hell—you're way sexier than he is! And here you are, come to rescue her—her husband's grave not even cold yet—and she's already doing another man!"

  Diana refrained from looking Bruce straight in the face. He wore murderous rage extremely well, but still—it was a private moment.

  "I'm sorry," she lied, her voice sheepish. "I shouldn't have been so blunt. But that's the way it is. I thought you'd want to know."

  Bruce said nothing. He lifted his head and looked up at the top floors of the office building.

  Excellent.

  "If you still want to find Courtney," she said with a practiced sulk, "he'll know where she is. But he's not going to tell you. He's nothing but a damned bully."

  The man started to walk away, toward the building.

  Diana rose, enjoying the view. "Bruce?" she said tentatively.

  He turned. His face was a mask of stone.

  "There's a button hidden on the receptionist's desk, near the phone. It's silent, but it rings straight to security."

  His beautiful, masculine lips curved into a smirk. His eyes raked her figure again, from face to toes and back. "Diana," he said, more to himself, seemingly, than to her. "Diana Saxton."

  He turned around, strode toward the main doors, and disappeared inside the building.

  "What are you doing here?"

  Diana whirled, then startled at the unexpected sight of Courtney Lyle, who stood before her dressed to the nines in her usual low-cut, perfectly tailored linen dress and sexy heels. Her concession to looking inconspicuous, apparently, was to wear designer sunglasses and tie a scarf around her head, á la Jackie O. Her voice was tight.

  "I could ask you the same question," Diana replied slowly, stalling for inspiration. Crap! Why did the woman have to come here, now?

  "I'm picking up something from Gil," she answered shortly. "I thought you were working at the office today."

  "I finished early," Diana returned. In fact, she had been at the Lyle Development office all of about two hours. The new "business guru" was a pompous idiot who kept telling her she'd done everything wrong, and she'd left him to stew in his own juices for a while.

  "Just get it done," Courtney snapped. Without another word, she turned and walked away toward the building.

  Diana's pulse quickened. The last thing she needed was for Lover Boy to run into the widow Lyle prematurely. He was on a mission, and she needed for him to finish it. She watched ruefully as Courtney's long legs strutted away from her. Painful as it was for her to admit, she could understand Bruce's near-obsession with a woman not young enough to be his daughter. The bubblehead was terribly well-preserved. Diana could only hope to look so good at her a
ge, dammit.

  "I saw him," she called out.

  The long legs stopped. Courtney spun around and whipped off her shades. "You saw who?"

  Diana said the words slowly, watching with pleasure as all color drained from the other woman's face. "Bruce Anjelo."

  Courtney's breathing became jagged. After a moment of paralysis, she rushed to Diana's side and grabbed her arm roughly. "Where? Where was he?"

  Diana brushed off the arm and nodded her head toward the building. "He just went in."

  Courtney's wide eyes scanned the front of the building. "Are you sure? Why? How do you know it was him?"

  "How else would I get his name?" Diana answered. "He came by the apartment this morning looking for you. We chatted a bit. Now he's looking for Gil."

  "But why?!" Courtney demanded.

  Diana shrugged. "As a way to get to you, perhaps."

  Courtney's eyes flashed fire. "You're insane. You'd do anything to hurt Gil, wouldn't you?"

  Diana shrugged again. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. I thought that Gil might know where you were staying; I was only trying to accommodate Mr. Anjelo. He seems determined to find and help you, even though you insist on running from him." She faked a dramatic sigh. "I really don't know why you're doing that, by the way. The man's a total hottie. Those muscles, the clothes, that shiny piece—"

  "What?!" Courtney exploded. "He had a gun with him? You saw it?"

  "Well, I don't think he'd strap on that holster just to carry a can opener," Diana commented. "You're not really afraid of him, are you?"

  "Hell yes, I'm afraid of him! And you should be too, you vicious wench!" Courtney turned and stared up at the windows on the top floor. "Gil will know who he is," she said to herself. "He'll call security right away. Then they'll get him."

  Diana's brow furrowed. "What do you mean, Gil will know who he is? How could he?"