Never Buried

by Edie Claire

  PAUL FISCHER

  1949—Witnesses deaths. Knows who killed his father. Doesn't say who. Why? Co-conspirator?

  1980s—Writes will, perhaps naming father's killer in it. May have other incriminating writings around too, but hidden.

  1989—Dies.

  She made a second column.

  VILLAIN

  1949—First crime: Murders Norman Fischer.

  1989—Second Crime: Steals Paul Fischer's body from funeral home. Why? Also probably steals will and other papers from house.

  Now—Starts to worry when hiding place is found? Plants body on our doorstep. Threats: Fish, phone, arson set up. Animal

  She put down her pen, the nausea rising again. Why would anyone want to hurt her pets? The finches were gone. She had put their empty cage in her closet, and no one had mentioned them since. But every time she opened a drawer or a closet door, she flinched a little. He had used fish before. What if—

  She shivered and put the pen back on the paper. There was no point in dwelling on what he might have intended. If her finches were dead now, at least they weren't suffering. She had had birds die before. Dozens, in fact. She had killed two herself once by putting the cage outside and letting their seeds get moldy in the rain. As for Mao Tse, she was fine, and that was all Leigh cared to contemplate.

  She looked at the questions she had written, but she couldn't answer any of them. No matter how hard she wanted to forget what happened at the break-in, it mattered to the case. Did he really want to burn the house down? If so, why the knife? Wouldn't burning everything be enough?

  But if he was only posturing in an effort to get the women out, he must be looking for something worth keeping. She made a third column.

  IT

  Evidence of Norman Fischer's killer, maybe Anita's.

  Money/family heirloom

  Her pen tapped over both possibilities, pockmarking the paper. She had been convinced that money was the root of all evil, and she still was. But there was no evidence that any of the Fischers had ever owned anything valuable, at least not since Norman squandered Anita's family money. Or did he? Perhaps he squirreled away more than just the deed to the house?

  Leigh's heart beat faster for a moment, then slowed. If Paul Fischer had anything valuable, what good did it do him? He spent his whole life working as a clerk, and he was hardly a big spender. What, or who, would he have been saving it for?

  She underlined the first theory again. Half of Avalon thought at least one of those deaths was murder. It made sense that Paul might know what really happened, but didn't want it public. Perhaps he was involved himself. Perhaps he wanted the truth to come out only after it couldn't hurt him.

  What if he just wanted to hurt someone else? Leigh frowned. She didn't care to participate in a petty scheme of revenge. On the other hand, if the person who was going to get it was the same one who hurt her pets, she didn't really give a damn.

  Looking back up at the first lists, she realized she was getting nowhere. If the killer wanted to avoid being exposed, he should have burned the house down at the first opportunity—there was no point in harassing them further by hurting the pets; they were just innocent bystanders.

  A thought occurred to her, and her heart started beating fast again. What if the person who wanted them out didn't know what they were looking for? What if they just wanted to know what happened in 1949?

  The person would have to search the house himself, so no one else would find the evidence. The threats would make sense—they had to stop Cara and Leigh from finding "it" first. Were they worried that Fischer would incriminate them? Perhaps even unjustly? Or were they trying to protect someone else?

  Leigh turned over the sheet and began to scribble again.

  GOAL

  To find the evidence before we do.

  THREATS/BARRIERS

  Body

  Fish

  Fake arson attempt

  Pet—

  She stumbled over the word again. She couldn't bear to print the one that came into her head. It was silly, but she just didn't want to look at it. She wrote "Pet harassment," then skipped to the next line.

  Threat on "boyfriend’s" answering machine

  Mary

  The word stared Leigh back in the face, and her eyes widened. She wasn't sure why she had written it. Mary's disappearance was certainly one in a series of stressful events, but it could hardly be blamed on this villain.

  Or could it?

  The attic was sweltering, but Leigh suddenly felt cold. Maura had been planning to help with the search today. All the police had been on alert. But since Mary's disappearance, Maura had been occupied, and the entire city of Avalon was distracted. Coincidence?

  The walls of the attic suddenly seemed steeper, lower. The corners had grown darker. Threats were one thing; action was another. She shivered. What if he had Mary?

  Deciding to think no more, she collected her things and headed for the stairs. Only after opening the door did she step back in to turn off the light. Mao Tse was asleep at her post, and Leigh scooped her up and jogged down the stairs. It was time to get out of this place—guards or no.

  Back downstairs, by the light of the afternoon, everything seemed normal. Cara was asleep on the couch in the family room, an empty glass of water on the floor by her side. Lydie had several suitcases packed and was on her way to the door. "I'm glad you came down," she said in a whisper. "Can you stay with her while I take a load over? I'll come back again and pick her up before supper."

  Leigh nodded.

  "Thanks, honey." Lydie smiled. "You've been good to her. I know neither one of you wants to go back with the old folks, but under the circumstances, it's best."

  "I'll be happy to come keep Cara company," Leigh replied. "But I won't be staying at my parents' house. I'm—" She thought for a moment. She didn't know where she was going. "I'm going to crash with a friend."

  Lydie studied her and smiled, squeezing her arm. "Good luck, my dear." The last part of the phrase hung unspoken in the air. You'll need it.

  ***

  "Leigh! Leigh? Are you here?" Cara's high-pitched voice carried from the family room to the bedroom overhead, where Leigh was packing an overnight bag. She rushed down the stairs in two and threes, swung around the banister, and hurried down the hall.

  Cara was lying on the couch, feet tucked up like a child, her hands on her belly. Her voice was quieter. "Leigh. Good. You're still here."

  "Of course I'm still here."

  When they were children, Leigh had been the one to spook easy. Cara was never frightened of anything. Spiders, snakes, triple daredevil hot sauce, dates with older boys—all were taken in stride. She got concerned occasionally, anxious very rarely, but never, ever scared.

  Until now. The pitch of her voice had warned Leigh, now the look in her eyes confirmed it. Cara was terrified.

  "Tell me what's wrong." Leigh's adrenaline surged, but she made herself stay calm. "The contractions? They're regular now?"

  Cara nodded. "Almost every five minutes."

  Leigh was on autopilot. "Tell me where to find your doctor's number."

  The call to the doctor confirmed what Leigh already knew. She had to get Cara to the hospital. She moved mechanically, helping Cara to the door, grabbing whatever necessities her cousin asked for. The middle-aged guard now stationed out front insisted on carrying Cara to the car, and his offer met with little resistance.

  Leigh drove down the boulevard, past The Point, and back into Oakland, where she swerved into the entrance of Magee Womens Hospital, taking a temporary detour over a poorly placed curb. After a seemingly interminable delay in the registration area, Cara was finally wheeled into a exam room off the labor suite. As Cara changed into a gown, Leigh took her purse and wandered out to the payphones in the main lobby. The time had come.

  She fumbled around in Cara's purse, looking for a wallet. She found one. A policeman wandered down the hall, and Leigh smiled at him nervously. This isn't illega
l, she told herself, it just feels that way. Cara's wallet contained the usual—pictures of family and friends, mostly Gil, very little cash and a whole lot of plastic. Before long she had what she wanted: Gil's number. She picked up the phone and hesitated. She'd never made an international call in her life. She'd certainly never charged one. Collect? No. Gil would have a heart attack before she ever got to talk to him. She looked at the sheaf of plastic cards before her. One had to be a phone card.

  No. She felt guilty enough already. She fumbled around in her own purse and pulled out her phone card. It was the least she could do.

  After five minutes of clicks and pauses, a phone began to ring on the other side of the world. She wondered if it were a cellular. A happy, husky voice answered on the second ring. "Gil March."

  No words came out of Leigh's mouth.

  "Hello? Hello?"

  "Gil, it's Leigh," she blurted. "Don't worry, Cara's fine."

  "Leigh? What's wrong? Why are you calling?" the voice demanded. Gil was no idiot; he knew placation when he heard it.

  Leigh chose her words carefully. "Cara wouldn't have wanted me to call you, because she's fine and she doesn't think there's anything to worry about, but I thought you'd want to know that she's having more of the contractions."

  There was a short pause. "Where is she?"

  "We're at Magee, just as a precaution."

  There was a longer pause. "I'm coming home, Leigh. Tell Cara I'll be there soon." The background noise had increased, and she pictured him packing as he talked. "I appreciate your calling."

  "Sure. I'll tell her."

  "And, Leigh?"

  "Yes?"

  "Tell her I love her."

  Leigh swallowed hard. She was building up to a good cry, and she hated that feeling. "Will do," she squeaked, and hung up.

  When she returned to the exam room several minutes and a few local calls later, a student resident was just leaving. Cara was still pale, but her face was somewhat brighter. She hadn't even noticed her purse was missing.

  "I'm not dilating," she explained breathlessly, "so I'm probably not in labor. Not yet. The baby's heartbeat is strong. Hear?" A steady whooshing sound came from the machine next to Cara's bedside, which was connected to two wide straps around her abdomen.

  Leigh's mood quickly deteriorated to panic. The baby's heart sounded wrong. She leaned closer to the monitor. It was the same "washing machine" murmur she'd once heard in a tiny Maltese puppy that tired easily. Her father had explained that a vessel outside its heart—which had allowed the unborn pup to borrow its mother blood supply—hadn't closed after birth like it was supposed to. The pup had needed radical surgery...Leigh's own heart seemed to stop. It was too much.

  "What is it?" Cara asked, worried.

  Suddenly Leigh erupted into nervous laughter, and her heart started beating again. "Nothing, I'm just being an idiot. I thought your baby had a PDA—I forgot it hasn't been born yet!"

  Cara had only a passing familiarity with veterinary medicine. She had avoided the clinic like the plague ever since passing out in the surgery at the age of seven, and she saw no humor in the present situation. She looked as though she'd been struck.

  "Honestly!" Leigh answered, relieved and mortified at the same time. Could she possibly be any worse at this? "It sounds exactly like it's supposed to," she said firmly. "It's wonderful. Fabulous. Perfect. Just like this baby's going to be when it's born. In eight weeks."

  Cara smiled faintly. "Well, anything over six and a half would be fine," she said, rubbing her belly gently. "They're moving me to labor and delivery. They're going to get me started on an IV and monitor me for a while, just to make sure everything's okay."

  "That's good news," Leigh said, trying not to sound stiff. It wasn't easy. She took a deep breath. There was no point in dragging the whole business out. She had kept enough secrets. "I called Gil. He said he loves you, and he's coming as soon as he can."

  Cara's eyes widened, then turned moist. "I'm glad, Leigh. Thank you."

  Leigh's stomach tightened. Cara was afraid. Really afraid.

  Chapter 18

  Leigh stretched her sore neck and stood up from the recliner that had been her bed. At least this room had a window, and she knew it was morning. The prenatal floor was a definite improvement over the windowless labor room where she and Cara had spent most of the night.

  Cara was sound asleep, and deserved to be. When the IV fluids hadn't done the trick, the doctor had started her on ritadrin. The drug hadn't agreed with the patient, and after Leigh ran out to the nurse's desk screaming that Cara's heart rate was 165 and climbing, the orders had been changed. Unfortunately, the magnesium sulfate that was the doctor's second choice proved less than a miracle drug. The contractions, albeit not as frequent, had kept coming. For twelve long hours, Cara remained upbeat while the drug made her face burn and kept her eyes from focusing. Only after Leigh had told every lousy joke she could think of and had offered Cara her ninety-fifth cool cloth did the doctor stop the medication and release them from the labor suite.

  The contractions had never stopped completely, but according to the doctors, Cara wasn't in real labor. Her 33½-week-old baby was still in danger, however, and no one was inclined to take the situation lightly. She wasn't going anywhere soon.

  Leigh stretched her legs and contemplated stepping out for a cup of coffee. She was about to get up when she heard a gentle rapping at the door, which was slowly swinging open. Two very similar-looking faces peeked tentatively around the edge. Leigh put a finger across her lips, and the women came closer on tiptoe.

  "How is she doing?" Lydie whispered.

  "Fine," Leigh answered. "She's been asleep since I called you last. They'll probably want to keep monitoring her really closely, though."

  "That's just fine by me," Lydie smiled, moving closer to her daughter.

  Frances sidled up to Leigh. "And how are you holding up, dear? I was so glad you could stay with Cara last night. Is Gil here yet?"

  "No, Mom," Leigh yawned. "I suppose it takes a while to get here from Tokyo." He'll be here today if he has to hijack the Concorde.

  "Well," France continued, "Lydie is here to stay today, and I'll be in and out too, so you'll have plenty of time to pack."

  "Pack?" With too little sleep and no coffee, Leigh's brain was in a fog.

  "Yes, of course. Pack. I noticed you hadn't made much progress by the time we got there yesterday. Of course, I understand—with Cara's problems..."

  Leigh's thoughts drifted. What day was it? Monday? She turned to her mother. "Maura's mom is okay, right? They found her?"

  Frances rubbed her lips together, a nervous habit. "No, dear. There's been no sign."

  "Two nights now. Maura must be frantic," Leigh thought out loud.

  "Half of Avalon is out looking for her," Frances continued. "Your father was up at the crack of dawn taking a shift. But you need to concentrate on your own situation. I brought you something." She fished around in a giant purse sporting a red-sequin cardinal and pulled out a folded section of newspaper. "With everything that happened yesterday, I figured you didn't have time to look at this yourself."

  Leigh snatched the paper, wondering how bad the media blitz had become. She looked down and sighed. It wasn't the Monday news page. It was the Sunday classified section, marked up with red ink. She scanned it briefly. The first two circled jobs were secretarial.

  She put the paper on the floor and got up. "I'm going to take a walk, Mom. I'll check back later." She exited hurriedly and took the elevator down to the main floor. Some fresh air would do her good.

  The elevator doors opened to reveal the kind of face that inspired sculpture. Square jaw line, full lips, heavy lashes framing hazel eyes, and a full head of sandy blond hair. Unfortunately, the man connected to the face looked as though he had just completed a transoceanic migration. Which, in fact, he had.

  "Hi, Gil."

  Cara's husband had only one thing on his mind. "Hello. Is she all right?"


  Leigh delivered the most accurate, yet most inspiring report she could muster, and Gil hastily boarded the elevator. She walked on through the revolving glass door to the parking lot, stopped, and took a deep breath. Cara wouldn't be needing her anymore. But Maura certainly did.

  ***

  The surface of Officer Polanski's desk was not visible, nor was Officer Polanski. According to the young woman at the front desk, Maura was not officially on duty, but would probably be in and out. Leigh returned to her Cavalier and tried to think what she should do next. It was cloudy, and pleasantly warm inside the car. Her body made a suggestion, and her brain took it. She fell asleep.

  She awoke some time later to the unpleasant sound of her stomach rumbling. The fact that it was past lunchtime was irrelevant, since she hadn't had breakfast. The nap had been refreshing, but it hadn't done her neck any favors. She tossed her head in small, painful circles and cursed herself for not being smart enough to lay down on the back seat. On the fourth toss, she noticed something—a small piece of notebook paper stuck under her windshield wiper. She cranked down the window and collected it. Looking for me? the scrawl read. I'll be inside. Leigh smiled and hauled herself out of the car.

  Maura sat slumped over a mound of paper, her chin resting on a propped-up hand. "Rise and shine, Koslow," she smiled weakly. "I thought about waking you, but I figured you could use some shut-eye. No safer place than outside the police station, I suppose." She looked awful. Her face was puffy and her eyes bloodshot. "How's Cara doing? I heard she's at Magee."

  "She's fine. No labor—they're just watching her."

  "That's good. And how are you? Warren told me about the call."

  "I'm fine," Leigh answered quickly, not wanting to think about it. "How can I help you? Gil's home, and I'm off duty. Just tell me what you need."