Never Buried

by Edie Claire

  A quick glance around the room told Leigh that Gil had been busy. She'd been less mad at him since discovering his covert plans to trap the arsonist, but his other irritating traits remained. The sin of excess, for example. The room was packed from floor to ceiling with fresh flowers of a hundred different varieties, balloons, candy, wrapped packages, teddy bears, and an extremely large donkey with an Uncle Sam hat. Her brow furrowed. "What the hell is that?"

  "Shhh!" Cara laughed, "No cursing in front of the baby! I thought maybe you'd know what it was. It's from your friend, Warren. The note says something about raising the baby right."

  Leigh chuckled. "I think he means left."

  "Speaking of friends, how's Maura doing?" Cara asked, concerned.

  "Great. Her burns hardly bother her anymore. She was really lucky. We both were."

  Cara's eyes saddened. "I can't tell you how sorry I am. If I hadn't been such a romantic...."

  Leigh waved the sentiment away. "Don't be ridiculous. You and Gil"—she cringed at the admission—"had us safely moved out. I went back in of my own idiocy. If anybody should apologize, it's me, for getting Maura into it."

  "You haven't said..." Cara asked tentatively, "what will happen to Mellman?"

  There was a pause as Leigh sighed, tired of the topic. "His burns are healing, so physically, he'll recover. Emotionally is another story. I expect he's looking at early retirement and a hell of a lot of counseling, at the very least."

  "The evidence—"

  "There is no evidence. Paul's journals burned. All that's left of them is my recollection, and if you ask me, I'll say it's fuzzy. Not to mention that it was hearsay to begin with. 1949 won't cause him any problems. 1999 is another story."

  Cara's face had lost its shine, and Leigh found that unacceptable. "Look!" she cooed, pointing at the tiny face in the blanket. "He's waking up!"

  Mathias Luke March stretched against the wrapping with tiny fists until one plastic-banded arm escaped. He yawned, then returned to somnolence.

  "Isn't he precious!" Cara exclaimed, all traces of melancholy gone. "Gil says he looks like me, but I say he has his father's chin."

  "Where is the proud papa, anyway?"

  Cara laughed. "Out to lunch, and probably the mall. Our credit cards will never recover."

  Leigh doubted that. "I'm glad you two—I mean you three—are so happy."

  A thoughtful smile passed Cara's lips. "This whole business has taught me something, you know."

  "Oh? Don't get involved in half-century old mysteries?" Leigh said lightly. She hated when her cousin got mushy.

  "No, silly. Don't hold back things from people you love, even if you think you're protecting them. I should have told Gil about the threats from the beginning. He probably could have helped."

  Leigh looked skeptical.

  "And you," Cara said accusingly, "should have told me that you were worried about that butcher knife."

  Leigh sighed heavily. "How was I supposed to know you were the one who got it out?"

  Cara rolled her eyes. "For heaven's sake, Leigh, I was holding it right behind you the whole time you were looking for Mao Tse! I thought you saw it. You might be foolish enough to confront an intruder without a weapon, but I'm not!"

  "Well," Leigh said, reluctant to apologize, "it's over with now. Let's think about more pleasant things. Like little Mathias here."

  It was a guaranteed ploy. Cara looked down at the sleeping infant and kissed his red head tenderly. "Oh!" she said suddenly. "I almost forgot to tell you. We bought a farm!"

  Leigh blinked. "A what?"

  "A farm!" the new mother beamed. "Snow Creek Farm. Six acres right in the middle of McCandless! It's beautiful—you're going to love it. It's got an old farmhouse, and a big empty barn, and there's a pond with turtles. Won't that be great for Matt? And there's even a log cabin by the creek—"

  Leigh laughed out loud.

  "What's so funny?" Cara smiled.

  "Couldn't you just get one of those nice new mansions in a Franklin Park plan, complete with a wooden swing set and a fence?"

  "How perfectly boring," Cara teased. "I would die. Did I mention that the farmhouse is supposed to be haunted? And that the field in front is a flood plain?"

  Leigh promptly exploded into laughter, and was pleased to notice that her lungs no longer ached with the effort. "I give up!" she said. "You're hopeless."

  Cara laughed with her. "You'll see it for yourself soon enough. We'll be all moved in before the month is out."

  "No doubt."

  "By the way," Cara said, changing the subject, "any more newspaper gigs?"

  Leigh smiled. The ordeal at the Fischer/March house had had one positive effect. The story got reported just as she wanted it—because she had written it herself and sold it freelance. It was the first “real” story she’d ever gotten published, and a copy of the check was still taped to the refrigerator in her new apartment. "No more freelancing for a while, no," she answered. “I think I’ll be plenty busy.”

  Cara smiled. “So Jeff Hulsey finally won you over, eh?”

  Leigh grinned. She had to admit she’d been enjoying the account rep’s ceaseless badgering. Several key members of her old team had decided to start up their own agency, and they wanted her on board. Badly. On the bright side, there would be no more random layoffs. On the down side, they could all starve together. “It’s a scary proposition,” she answered. “But as soon as Jeff gets the financing together, it’s a go. And I’m in.”

  “And staying in advertising is really what you want?” Cara asked tentatively.

  Leigh thought about the negatives—losing accounts for spurious reasons, the occasional late night marathons. But she couldn’t help but think of the positives—rolling with laughter over a facetious ad campaign, collecting checks for dreaming up the same dumb stuff she’d been spinning off effortlessly ever since she was child. And now she had a chance to be her own boss.

  “Yes,” she said confidently. “It’s really what I want.”

  "Then you can do it," Cara encouraged. "I know you can."

  Leigh turned her head, embarrassed, and spotted a bouquet of pink balloons just behind the recliner. She pointed at them, puzzled. "Is this an effort at neutralizing sexism, or does Mathias have a twin sister I don't know about?"

  Cara grinned broadly. "Mathias isn't the only one with a birthday today. Did you think I would forget?"

  Leigh looked from the pink Happy Birthday balloons to the smiling face of her cousin, and her eyes grew moist. How could she expect her to remember? Today of all days?

  "I won't even make jokes about your age," Cara said slyly. "But we both know it doesn't have a two in it anymore."

  Leigh blinked forcefully and gave her cousin another hug. "That's okay. Sometimes change is for the better."

  ***

  Enjoy all five mysteries in the Leigh Koslow Mystery Series: Never Buried, Never Sorry, Never Preach Past Noon, Never Kissed Goodnight, and Never Tease a Siamese, available now as e-books! To find out more about these and other books by Edie Claire, including her novels of classic romantic suspense and comedic stage plays, visit www.edieclaire.com , or email the author at edieclaire@juno.com. Thanks for reading!

  Acknowledgments

  This book would never have existed if not for the willingness of several individuals to provide the patience and/or persistence I lack. For graciously reading assorted chapters in paper-clipped stacks and unformatted text files, then hassling me mercilessly until I finished the book, I thank my first guinea pigs, Kim Gibson and Teresa Stewart. For their benevolent nitpicking and endless emotional support, I thank my fellow writing workshoppers, Hairy and the Maidens. And for their constant encouragement and occasional virtual kicks in the rear, I thank all my Compuserve Sisters in Crime, especially Paula Matter and Sharon Zukowski.

  For technical assistance, I am indebted to Joe Szabat, Gregg Otto, Teresa Stewart (yeah, you get mentioned twice!), Laurie Lehew Rees (copywriter extraordinaire)
and the real Avalon Chief of Police, Robert Howie. Any slight manipulations of the truth—or more likely, blatant errors—are entirely my fault and not theirs.

  Last but not least I thank my family, especially my husband, for not insisting I get a real job.