Never Buried

by Edie Claire

"No will was ever found. Nor were any other papers. The closest thing he had was an address book, and no living relatives could be located."

  Leigh remembered the legal hassles Cara and Gill had gone through to buy the house. The sale had taken years. Just thinking about it made her head start to pound. Or was the pounding from another source? Her eyes panned the kitchen anxiously. If she didn't get some caffeine in her veins soon, civil conversation would become impossible. Maybe on the very top shelf? "So, Mrs. Rhodis has got you believing that this Paul Fischer guy hid something in the study? A treasure map, perhaps?" Leigh fetched the step ladder and started to climb.

  Cara watched with amusement. "If you can control your cynicism for a minute, I'll tell you exactly what she said. But as I told you yesterday, you won't find any regular coffee. I went cold turkey when I found out I was pregnant."

  Leigh stepped down reluctantly.

  "I'm not expecting gold doubloons." Cara continued. "More along the lines of an answer to an old mystery."

  Leigh couldn't help rolling her eyes. Once again, the promise of a mystery had Cara drooling. Thanks a lot, Mrs. Rhodis.

  Cara caught Leigh's expression and set her jaw in irritation. "And what's so wrong with trying to solve a little puzzle here and there? What else am I supposed to do for the next seven weeks? Sit around and file my nails?"

  Leigh could think of several better suggestions, but stopped herself. Cara clearly enjoyed such things. So much so that she had stayed up till all hours of the night rattling around measuring bookshelves. Harmless fun, right?

  The image of a dusty hat and pinstriped suit formed unbidden in Leigh's mind. She rounded up her breakfast bar wrappers and threw them in the trash. A real mission was hers this morning—one that didn't involve catchy slogans for industrial soap dispensers. She needed to make sure Cara wasn't getting herself into trouble, and she needed to do it without Cara knowing about it.

  But first, she needed caffeine.

  It was twenty minutes later when an angel of mercy finally leaned down from heaven to hand Leigh the cup of life. "Thank you for choosing McDonald's," the pimple-faced teenager said flatly, slamming the glass window.

  Leigh placed the brew delicately between her knees and steered into a parking spot, a technique she had perfected long before scalding your crotch had become a national cash cow. After half a large cup, her mind began to clear, and she tried to connect Cara's rantings with the appearance of the corpse. The note on the body was written in first person: get out of my house. Unless the deceased had the presence of mind to write it himself before he kicked off, it seemed reasonable that the note was planted by whoever left the body in the hammock. Since writing a note to a dead man would be pointless, the note must have been intended for whoever found his corpse. And with the body placed at the old Fischer house, it seemed reasonable to assume that the deceased was Paul Fischer himself.

  Leigh took another long drink. When had Paul Fischer died? Years before Cara and Gil bought the house; she knew that. And they had owned it a few more years before they fixed it up and moved in. No need for a nice house when you spend 90% of the time living out of a suitcase bopping around the world.

  And what could have happened to his body? She was fairly certain that most residents of Avalon ended up at Fields Funeral Home, intestate or not. Then again, Vestal hadn't recognized the body. Where had Fischer died? And where had his body been between then and yesterday night?

  The more Leigh considered that the body might be Paul Fischer, the more certain she became. Surely Maura already suspected him—he was an obvious choice for anyone who knew about the note, which Cara, Leigh remembered, did not. That was just as well.

  Finishing off the last of her coffee, she drove to the parking lot pay phone and placed a call to the station. After a considerable delay, Maura's voice came through in a harried bark.

  "Polanski here!"

  "Hi, it's Leigh. What's up?"

  The officer sighed. "What's not? Look, I'm really swamped right now. Has something happened?"

  Until yesterday, Leigh would have assumed "swamped" meant a stack of reports to fill out. Now she wondered if any other bodies had turned up. She was smart enough not to ask, however. "No, Maura, I called because I wanted to know if Paul Fischer is being investigated as a possible ID for the body."

  "I'm out of that loop now, like I said. But that was my first thought, too. I do know that Paul Fischer died in 1989, and that his body went to Fields Funeral Home."

  "How do you know that?" Leigh asked.

  "Real heavy-duty investigative police work, Koslow."

  "Your mother told you?"

  "Yeah."

  Leigh smiled. Maura's father might have been a legend in Avalon law enforcement, but her mother was a legend, period. Mary Polanski had a memory for names, faces, and minutia that boggled the mind. She knew who had twins in 1958, and she knew who got audited in 1974. Better yet, she wouldn't tell unless you had a good reason to ask.

  Maura's chair was squeaking again. "Look, Leigh, if you want more information, you'll have to call the detectives. The coroner's report should be in sometime today. I've really got to go."

  "Okay," Leigh said idly, her mind working. "Take it easy."

  "Always do," Maura replied, and hung up.

  Leigh crumpled her coffee cup and tossed it over her shoulder into the back seat. So far, her instincts were on the mark. And with fresh caffeine surging in her veins, she was ready to roll.

  Chapter 5

  Fields Funeral Home was located on California Avenue, Avalon's main drag. It was a spacious stone building spread out on a large, treed lot, and it could have passed for a house if not for the telltale awning over the side porch. The parking lot was filled.

  "Who has a funeral at nine in the morning?" Leigh grumbled as she circled the lot looking for a space. She found one near the back door, which was just as well. It wouldn't do to walk in the front and interrupt.

  She opened the unlocked door and surprised an older man in a red Fields-issue suit as he collected a drink from the vending machine. This was an informal lounge, most likely for employees only. Oh, well.

  "Can I help you?" The man said politely. If he was annoyed at her, he did a good job of hiding it.

  "I hope so," Leigh said with a smile, stepping forward to shake his hand. "My name is Leigh Koslow; I'm a writer." She felt a slight pang of guilt for the misrepresentation, but dismissed it. She was a writer—sort of. "I was hoping to talk to Mr. Fields, but I can see he's a bit tied up right now."

  The man smiled and nodded apologetically.

  "You may be able to help me. I'm doing some genealogical research on Avalon families. I'm particularly interested in a man named Paul Fischer, who died in 1989. I was hoping you could tell me if he had his funeral at Fields, and where he was buried."

  The man smiled broadly. "Well, certainly." He then looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully, scratching his stubbled chin with a fat, liver-spotted finger. "Paul Fischer... he lived in one of those big houses on the river, didn't he?"

  Leigh nodded enthusiastically.

  "Didn't know the man personally," he went on, "but I suppose Mr. Fields might have. Our burial records are open to the public unless the family requests otherwise. Have a seat and I'll check for you. Make yourself comfortable, please."

  Leigh's benefactor obligingly shuffled off, and she plopped down on the red vinyl couch feeling smug. If investigating was this easy, perhaps she was in the wrong line of work. After fifteen minutes she began to get worried, but her red-suited servant did return, pink "while you were out" note in hand.

  "Sorry it took me so long," he apologized good-naturedly. "We put everything on computer in 1992, and the old records are a little disheveled. But I think I found what you need."

  He handed Leigh the paper, which bore some illegible pencil scribbles. "Paul Byron Fischer was entered into the books on June 5th, 1989. He was buried over at Peaceful Acres on the Eighth. Was he a relative of yours?"r />
  "Not a blood relative," Leigh answered honestly.

  "The records say that Fields Funeral Home picked up the cost of the burial plot, so evidently Mr. Fields did know him. Would you like to wait and speak with him?"

  Leigh's brow wrinkled. "Fields paid for the funeral? Is that typical?"

  "No, no," the man responded. "The funeral arrangements were made in advance, but apparently Mr. Fischer had not yet purchased a plot at the time of his death. It happens sometimes. Fischer being a lifetime resident of Avalon, and having already paid for the funeral, I suppose Mr. Fields was willing to help out. He's a good man."

  Leigh took the pink note and thanked the man profusely. She slipped out the way she had come in and returned to her car. The funeral, thankfully, was still in session. With luck, the procession wouldn't be following her to Peaceful Acres.

  The old cemetery was in West View, another of the many Pittsburgh boroughs which, although a stone’s throw from the metropolis, had a distinctive small-town feel. It was in this larger borough to the North where Cara and Leigh had grown up in red brick row houses, side by side. That situation had occurred partly because their mothers, who were identical twins, were inseparable, and partly because Cara's father had abandoned the family before his daughter was born. Leigh drove through West View in a circuitous fashion, careful to avoid her parents' neighborhood. God forbid her mother should see her driving about on a Thursday morning.

  She pulled up to the small wood-frame structure that served as the cemetery office, and was relieved to see the door propped open. Someone was home. She parked the car, walked up to the door, and looked in. A small sitting room was empty. Leigh knocked on the door's inner surface. "Hello? Is anyone here?"

  A thin interior door opened slightly, then stopped. A woman's voice swore. With a grunt from the other side, the door broke loose from the buckled floor boards beneath. It burst open, followed closely by the shoulders of a stout woman of medium height and middle age. She slammed the door behind her and turned to look at Leigh with eyes eclipsed by black eyeliner and glittery blue mascara. She sighed heavily. "Damn door. I told Pete last spring to fix the thing." She gave Leigh a saccharin smile with lips that were a little too pink. "But then men never do do what you tell them, do they?"

  Leigh returned a smile. She wasn't sure she wanted to male-bash with this particular individual, but she did need help. "My name is Leigh Koslow. I'm doing some genealogical research, and I'm trying to find the gravesite of a Paul Fischer, who was buried here in June, 1989."

  The woman's mouth twitched slightly in disappointment, as if she had been hoping Leigh were selling cosmetics rather than visiting a grave. She sighed. "Sure, honey. Just let me take a look at the book." She pulled the door open again with a heave and a few strong words, not bothering to close it. Leigh couldn't see into the inner office, but she could hear heavy books being moved about, pages turning, and even more choice words. When the woman reemerged, her dyed-black hair looked a bit moister around the roots, and her expression was less friendly. "Paul Fischer's in section C, lot 14." She pointed out the area on a faded wall map encased in yellow-tinged plastic, and Leigh was dismissed.

  Leigh hiked out to the far hill, careful not to step directly on any graves. It was an indirect route, but eventually she reached the area of flat stones where the woman had directed her. They lay close together in rows, a bit more orderly than the hodge podge of graves with upright headstones. She walked up the fence line and read the stones as far as she could see. When she reached the fifth row from the top and read the third stone over, she stopped. "Paul Byron Fischer: Born February 13, 1925, Died June 5, 1989."

  So, Mr. Fischer, here you are. Or—here you were.

  There was nothing special about the marker, which looked just like those around it. The grounds were well tended, and no weeds covered the stone's edges. Remembering the purpose of her mission, she stepped back to look at the ground. It was covered with healthy grass that blended perfectly with that around it. Not a blade out of place. No telltale clods of dirt, no obvious swell of the landscape. No one had dug into this ground in months, maybe not even years.

  Leigh sighed softly, then felt a little foolish. And she had thought she was doing so well as a sleuth. Had she really expected to come out here and find a gaping coffin-sized hole that no else had noticed? She exhaled in disgust and started back towards the car. She was better off doing résumés. The body, whosoever it was, probably had nothing to do with Paul Fischer or Cara's house. She should let the police handle it. At least they were getting paid.

  ***

  Seeing the maroon Taurus parked in Cara's driveway did nothing to improve Leigh's spirits. She parked behind it and walked into the house, shoulders drooping. A prim, heavily accessorized woman sat in the parlor with Cara, teacup in hand. When she saw Leigh, she hastily put down the cup and rose, her face a perfect blend of concern and irritation. "Well, there you are! Are you feeling all right? I've been worried about you, you know. Why didn't you call me yesterday?"

  Leigh took a deep breath, wheels turning in her mind. She had to tread carefully. "I'm fine, Mom. Why do you ask?"

  Frances Koslow's orange-tinted lips formed an exaggerated "O." "Why do I ask? Why do I ask? I read in the morning paper that my daughter is a witness in a murder investigation, and I know nothing about it. And you ask me why I'm concerned?"

  Leigh exhaled. If her mother only knew half the story, she was in good shape. "It wasn't a murder investigation," she answered calmly. "I just found a body, that's all."

  "That's all?! And poor Cara here alone and unprotected?"

  Cara bristled a little, but said nothing.

  "Mom," Leigh tried again, "There's nothing to be upset about. Maura thinks the man probably died of natural causes. We're fine. I didn't mention it because I didn't want to worry you."

  "You didn't think I would read the paper?"

  Leigh had no response to that.

  "And if you're so fine—"

  Here it comes.

  "—Why aren't you at work? Your receptionist told me you weren't coming in today, and Cara didn't know where you were either."

  Today? Leigh sighed in relief. Thanks, Esther. I owe you one.

  Cara rose and looked at Leigh around Frances's shoulder, a question in her eyes. Leigh shot her a warning look.

  "Well?" Frances insisted. "What's wrong with you? You know you just can't go taking off from work all the time. You'll lose your job for sure."

  Leigh bit her lip, and inspiration came. "I have plenty of time off coming, Mom. In fact, I just talked with Mr. Lacey yesterday, and he encouraged me to go ahead and take it."

  Frances's brow wrinkled slightly, but she seemed satisfied. "Well, good. I'm sure Cara can use some help around the house. No point wasting money on maids and nurses when family can pitch in." She scooped up her oversized embroidered purse and fumbled for her keys. "Thank you for the tea, Cara dear. It was lovely. I have to run. Music Club is at noon."

  She motioned for Leigh to walk her to the door. "I want you to let me know what's going on with this investigation, do you understand?" she said in a hushed tone. "Cara shouldn't be exposed to this. You know what her doctors said."

  Leigh nodded. She opened the door wide.

  "Oh, and I almost forgot," Frances continued, gesturing with her keys. "I want you both to come over for dinner on Saturday. It's been too long since we had a nice family meal. I want you to invite your friend Maura, too. I haven't seen her in years."

  Leigh wondered what motivated the latter invitation. "Maura may have to stay with her mother," she reminded. In a cruel twist of irony, the woman with the near-perfect memory was now in the early stages of Alzheimer's disease.

  "Oh, of course," Frances responded thoughtfully. "Then invite her too. The more the merrier."

  "Okay, Mom. Goodbye."

  Leigh shut the door, but soon heard a gentle rapping. She opened it to face a look of stern disapproval. "I can't go anywhere, dear. You h
ave my car blocked in. Oh, and by the way—"

  Leigh steeled herself for the honey-coated insult she knew was coming.

  "—your car is looking a little neglected. You can come over and use our hose if Cara's won't reach the driveway. No sense paying for a car wash. You should vacuum it out, too—I'm sure it's long overdue..."

  Leigh slipped into zombie mode and followed her mother out to the cars. Saturday would be a blast.

  ***

  With Cara off at an afternoon doctor's appointment, Leigh had settled herself in front of the computer with good intentions of updating her résumé. But when the phone rang half an hour and one rewritten sentence later, the interruption was welcome.

  "Hello again, Leigh," Maura said, sounding tired. "I have some news for you."

  Leigh wondered whether she should tell Maura of her own investigations. Probably not.

  "This doesn't usually happen," Maura continued. "In fact, I don't know if it's ever happened, but the county has kicked your case back to us. Seems this whole business boils down to an abuse of corpse, and the detectives are up to their eyeballs in real homicides."

  Leigh was lost. "Abuse of corpse?"

  "The coroner's report came out earlier today. The man whose body you found died at the approximate age of 60, and was embalmed about 10 years ago. The most probable cause of death was advanced pancreatic cancer—i.e., natural causes. There was no homicide. The body isn't where it should be, but messing around with a corpse is only a second-degree misdemeanor. Long story short—the county no longer cares. You're stuck with the locals."

  Leigh smiled. Maura was back in the loop. The detectives had been a disappointment anyway. She hadn't expected raincoats and cigars, but an unattached, thirtyish one with a sardonic smile and a cute posterior would have been nice.

  "I'm not sure who Mellman's going to put on it, but I've already made a few phone calls. Paul Fischer's records from his first and last admission into Suburban General Hospital match up with the coroner's findings."