by Edie Claire
NEVER PREACH PAST NOON
Copyright © 2000 by Edie Claire
Originally published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam, Inc.
First digital edition published in 2010 by the author.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Table of Contents
Dedication
For my parents, Jack and Pat, who gave me my love of mysteries, and who want you to know that they are not like Randall and Frances (except, of course, for my mom and the clean-freak thing).
Chapter 1
Deciding not to replace her recently deceased answering machine had seemed like a good idea at the time. Leigh Koslow was busy enough at her fledgling advertising agency without coming home to a message light that blinked like a neon sign in Vegas. Especially when half the calls were from some eager soul whose mission in life was to convince her that her fourth-floor apartment needed vinyl siding.
But the call-back-later plan had its disadvantages. One significant one, Leigh thought to herself as she buried her head under her pillow, was being awakened at midnight by someone who evidently wanted to make darn sure she was there.
Six rings. Seven rings. Maybe it was a wrong number. Even if she was somewhat inaccessible, who would have the gall to call her this late on a Thursday night? Eight rings. Nine. She removed the pillow and opened her eyes. What if it was an emergency?
She forced herself upright and stumbled into the living room, where her telephone sat vibrating on a cheap end table. She shook her head and attempted to clear her throat. "Hello?"
There was a short pause on the other end, then a woman's voice, unfamiliar and uncertain. "Hello. Is this Leigh Koslow?"
Leigh's heart skipped a beat. So much for the wrong number theory. "Yes, what is it?"
"This is Gretchen Cawley at Passavant Hospital. We've had a patient brought into our E.R. who asked us to call you. Her name is Elizabeth Cogley."
Leigh swallowed, then took a deep breath. She sank down on one end of the couch with shaky legs. "That's my aunt. Is she okay?"
Another pause. "Her condition is listed as fair," the woman said encouragingly. "I'm sure there's no reason for alarm, but it would be helpful if she had a family member here. Can you come down?"
"Of course," Leigh answered automatically. "What happened?"
"I'm sorry, but I don't know any details. You'll have to ask her yourself when you get here. All right?"
Suddenly feeling very cold, Leigh hung up the phone, ripped off the overlong T-shirt she'd been sleeping in, and pulled on a sweatshirt and jeans. She felt hideous, but knew she wouldn't be the first person to show up at Passavant with messy hair and bags under her eyes. She grabbed her wallet and coat, locked her apartment door, and started down the stairs.
When she got to the second floor, a strong impulse pulled her toward Warren Harmon's door. She wanted to tell him about Bess, to see if he could go with her. But she fought the urge. They were still just old pals, after all—he was under no obligation to help out with her family crises. She bit her lip and made her feet stay on a downward course. Work had been so crazy lately she'd neglected him even as a friend, and waking him up at midnight was no way to make up for it. She couldn't afford to tax his ordinarily abundant good nature, or things would never work out like she wanted them to.
The drive up McKnight Road was dark and cold, but the pavement was clear of snow, and there were hardly any other cars out. Such fantasy conditions on that hectic thoroughfare would ordinarily excite any local, but Leigh couldn't be cheered. What on earth had happened to Bess? And what did "fair condition" mean, anyway?
Her fears were not abated when the E.R. desk informed her that her aunt had been admitted to the intermediate care unit. Too antsy to wait for an elevator, Leigh located a stairwell and hastily climbed to the third floor. It was eerily quiet, and she could hear her heart pounding in her ears as she opened the door to the intermediate care waiting area.
The small lobby was separated from the patient area by thick glass windows, through which she could see the woman she sought in a bed by the far wall. Bess Cogley, Leigh's mother's older sister and the self-proclaimed black sheep of the Morton clan, sat propped up on a series of pillows, her body consuming a large majority of the slim hospital bed. Despite the oxygen cannula in her nose and the various wires trailing out from under her hospital gown, Bess looked much like her usual flamboyant self, and Leigh breathed a deep sigh of relief.
"Can I help you?" asked a nurse who had opened an adjoining window.
"I got a call about my aunt, Elizabeth Cogley," Leigh replied, still watching Bess. The older woman's modified beehive was intact, as always, and her cheeks were their usually ruddy hue, but her face seemed dirty. One heavily bandaged foot was propped up on a stack of extra pillows, and she seemed to be coughing. "I was told she needed a family member to come down. Can I see her?"
"One moment," the nurse answered.
Leigh took another deep breath. Bess didn't seem badly hurt. What could have happened? A car accident, maybe? Her attention wavered enough to notice that a man was standing near her aunt's bedside—a man who didn't look like a hospital employee. A new boyfriend, perhaps? Leigh watched the couple closely. The man was very attentive, and seemed to be speaking to Bess earnestly. Bess, oddly, was avoiding his eyes.
The nurse interrupted the scene, and the man nodded as if preparing to leave. Leigh watched as he placed a hand gently over one of Bess's hands. The patient just smiled stiffly and gave a cursory nod, and the man walked away. Leigh's brow furrowed. Perhaps he was more of an ex boyfriend.
She watched as the man made his way back into the waiting area, then lifted a pair of dazzling green eyes to meet hers. His whole face lit up instantly, as if he'd been waiting his entire life for just such a moment. It was probably the same greeting he gave everybody, Leigh thought sensibly, but it certainly packed a wallop. He smiled and extended his hand, then retracted it quickly. It was covered with white bandages, and from the way he was holding it, seemed tender He chuckled slightly and extended the other hand. "I'm so sorry, but we'll have to do this backwards. Do you mind?"
Leigh shook her head and extended her left hand, shaking his awkwardly.
"I'm Reginald Humphrey, Bess's pastor friend," he explained. "You must be her niece."
"Leigh Koslow," she offered. "It's nice to meet you. Thanks for coming." She studied the man carefully, wondering how he had gotten to Bess before she had. Was he a hospital chaplain? Last she heard, Bess didn't have a pastor. Not since the tiny Presbyterian church by her house had fallen on hard times and gone defunct.
"I'm afraid I have to get busy finding myself a place to stay, but you tell Bess I'll come see her again tomorrow. She's a plucky woman, your aunt!"
The pastor's eyes twinkled as he spoke. He was on the short side for a man, missing Leigh's own height by at least an inch. But he had a presence that was difficult to quantify. His face was weathered and lightly freckled, topped with a precisely trimmed crown of carrot-colored hair, and his light green eyes had an unusually piercing quality that gave the impression he could see straight through her. Yet despite his confident introduction, his clothes were rumpled, his face and neck were smudged with grime, and he smelled like a chimney sweep. "Plucky?" Leigh repeated, distracted. "Oh, yes, plucky. That's Bess, all right."
&nb
sp; Leigh stole a glance at her aunt, who was watching them from the bed, eyes anxious. An unsettling feeling brewed in Leigh's stomach—the feeling that Bess's anxiety was related more to this man than to her own medical problems. "If you'll excuse me," she said politely, "I need to see her now."
"Of course you do," Humphrey said pleasantly. He reached for her left hand again, but this time, he held it firmly. "If you need anything, you call me. Promise?"
Leigh smiled and nodded. Magnetic. That's what Reginald Humphrey was—and unnaturally so. She withdrew her hand, gave a small wave goodbye, and followed the nurse into the ward.
"Your aunt's a lucky woman!" the nurse said, depositing Leigh at her bedside. "You can stay a minute or two, but no more. She needs her rest."
Bess made a visible effort to seem cheerful, but Leigh could tell she was mortified by her patient status. Her aunt was one of the most independent people she knew. "I'm sorry to drag you down here, kiddo," she said regretfully. "I wish they hadn't called you, but when I first got in I thought I'd need a ride home, and then—" her face reddened as she broke into a heavy spasm of coughing.
The nurse returned instantly. "You're trying to talk too much," she admonished, fiddling with the oxygen machine. "You're going to have to write things down for a while." She produced a pad and pencil from a nearby cabinet and handed them to the patient, leaving only when Bess was breathing normally again.
"Take it easy, please," Leigh begged, sitting down on what little space she could find on the edge of the bed. A wisp of her aunt's unnaturally auburn hair had escaped over her forehead, and Leigh pushed it gently back into place. "And stop apologizing. Of course you need someone here with you. Anyone would. What happened? And for heaven's sake, write—don't talk." As Bess began scribbling, Leigh found herself thinking up more questions than Bess could possibly answer. Not the least of which was why she had called Leigh—rather than Leigh's mother or one of the other Morton siblings. Not that she didn't feel honored—she and Bess had always been good buddies. But it was odd, no doubt about it. And what was the deal with the pastor?
Bess turned the pad toward Leigh. Ankle broken—needs surgery. Smoke inhalation. Leigh looked at her aunt in alarm. "Smoke! You had a house fire?"
Bess shook her head emphatically, and began writing again. Leigh was relieved. Her aunt's house catching fire would be a terrible disaster, given its numerous furry occupants.
Fire in parsonage, Bess scribbled.
Leigh's eyes widened in understanding. So that was why the pastor was here, and why he had seemed so bedraggled. He had been in the fire too. She waited for more explanation, but Bess dropped her hand to her side and gave Leigh a loaded look instead.
"Okay," Leigh said speculatively, trying to pick up the gist. "So you were at the parsonage. With the pastor. At night. Check." It made sense—superficially at least. But then…when she'd seen the two of them together, Bess had hardly seemed enamored of the man. And when she'd seen that he was talking to Leigh, she'd almost looked panicked. What the heck was going on?
"Aunt Bess—" Leigh began, but the other woman shook her head and started scribbling again. She turned the pad around towards Leigh and gave her another emphatic look along with the message.
Our secret.
The words were underlined twice. Leigh sat back and let out a breath. This was weird and getting weirder by the minute. It wasn't Bess's reputation that was the issue—the fact that Bess lived life to its fullest had not been missed by her conservative family at any point in the last forty years, so it certainly didn't matter now. Perhaps the pastor was married? Bess had always steered clear of that sort of thing, at least.
The patient started scribbling again, and Leigh leaned over to read the pad. Fell down my stairs. Cough—a bug. Okay?
Leigh sighed softly. She hated lying to people. Just because she was the only one in her family capable of keeping a secret didn't mean she was advertising for material.
"I want to help you, Aunt Bess," she said sincerely. "But you have to tell me what's going on. Lying to my mother has certain unpleasant consequences, and I can only be so witty at bending the truth. So you've got a new boyfriend, so what? Mom will get over it. She always does. And you know Lydie doesn't care. He seems like a nice enough man."
Bess shook her head fiercely, her eyes recapturing the same anxiety Leigh had seen before the pastor left. The words on the pad were written heavily. NOT MY BOYFRIEND!
"Time's up, I'm afraid," the nurse interrupted. Her body language brooked no dissent, and Leigh rose reluctantly. She had a feeling this mess couldn't be explained in broken phrases. Bess scribbled frantically, then held up the pad.
Bring clothes tomorrow. Take others away—okay?
Leigh looked around, and Bess pointed at the small cabinet by her bedside. "Her things are all in a bag there," the nurse instructed, after reading the pad herself. "You can take them if you want. But she'll need more street clothes for discharge."
"When can I take her home?" Leigh asked, opening the cabinet.
"Not until after the doctor sees her tomorrow morning," the nurse answered shortly. "Call first."
Leigh pulled a large, clear plastic bag out of the cabinet, and her eyebrows arched. Her aunt had a wider range of taste in clothing than most women in their sixties, but "biker chick" was definitely new to the rotation. Black leather boots, black leggings, a black turtleneck shirt, and a huge black leather jacket were tumbled in together. No purse, no keys. She looked up at her aunt with several questions in her eyes, but Bess just smiled stiffly and wrote one more note.
You promised.
Chapter 2
Getting Bess out of Leigh's Cavalier proved even more difficult than getting her into it. The broken ankle was twice its normal size, and the bulky splint seemed only to increase Bess's odds of banging into something. Leigh tried to help by supporting her aunt's arm, but Bess grimaced as Leigh touched her.
"I'm sorry. You're bruised all over, I'm sure," Leigh said anxiously.
Her aunt waved off the concern with a weak smile. "I've felt worse." Between Leigh pulling on one arm and her anchoring the other against the roof of the car, Bess finally managed a stand. A one-footed stand, anyway.
"Here are your crutches," Leigh said, handing them over. "You've only got a few more feet now, then you can rest all day if you want." She had pulled the car up to the front walk of Bess's old, but nicely preserved farmhouse. It was a country charmer that had once actually been in the country, but now sat nestled in the midst of Franklin Park, one of Pittsburgh's more prestigious northern suburbs. And though developers had been drooling over her ten rolling acres of woods for years, Bess refused to sell. She had a thing about mature trees, and she refused to sacrifice any of hers for the sake of yet more new, unnecessarily opulent houses squeezed together on small, stripped lots.
"You've fed everyone already?" Bess asked, making a gallant effort to hoist her unwieldy frame forward.
Leigh winced, but tried not to intercede. At least the walk wasn't icy. In Pittsburgh in January, that was a stroke of luck. "Of course," she answered lightly. "Chester was a gentleman, as always, but the cats were frantic. I didn't think I could finish filling the bowls without needing a transfusion."
Bess chuckled. "What about Punkster? Did he behave?"
Leigh rolled her eyes at the reference to her aunt's most psychotic feline. Punkster's habit of attacking passers-by made her own Mao Tse look sociable. "We have an understanding," she said soberly. "I don't come within four feet of him, and he doesn't try to kill me."
They reached the front door, and Leigh held it open. But instead of coming through, Bess paused a moment with her shoulder to the frame, breathing heavily. "Take your time," Leigh said quickly, letting the door close. "You don't want to start coughing again."
She watched as her aunt caught her breath. There had been nothing but small talk in the car, and Leigh hadn’t wanted to push. But sooner or later, she was darn well going to hear the story behind al
l this. She had arrived at the house earlier that morning to find nothing much amiss, but just enough to pique her curiosity. Like the fact that the television had been left on, along with several lights. And the fact that her aunt's blue plastic recyclables bin had been sitting on her front porch instead of by the detached garage with the other trash cans. Bess's car was in the garage, her purse and keys were on the hall table where she always kept them, and the front door was unlocked. So why had she been at a burning parsonage in the middle of the night, decked out for a spin on a Harley?
Bess pulled herself upright again, and Leigh opened the door. Chester, Bess's primarily Pekinese, made an enthusiastic run for his master, but Leigh intercepted and scooped him up. "Take it easy, pal. Let her sit down first, okay?"
The dog appeared offended, but licked Leigh's hand anyway. Bess shuffled a few more feet to her couch, then dropped the crutches and plopped down with a sigh. "This may be harder than I thought," she admitted ruefully. "My armpits are killing me."
Leigh lowered Chester to the floor, and when his legs—which had been paddling from three feet down and counting—made contact, he was off like a shot.
"Hello, Chester, love," Bess smiled, pulling the dog into her lap. "Did you keep an eye on the family for me?"
The cats began to spiral en masse, several inching over to examine the swollen foot. Punkster, Leigh noted, was lounging on top of the television. Bess scratched all the cats she could reach. "I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you've done for me, kiddo," she said, turning to Leigh again. "Especially bringing these clothes for me. Er, by the way, where did you put the other ones?"
Leigh's eyebrows rose. "I hung the jacket up in the coat closet. The rest are in a laundry basket by the washer."
"In the hospital bag?" Bess asked quickly, her eyes anxious again.
"No, I threw that away," Leigh assured, just a little proud of her deviousness. "Now, perhaps you can tell me why—"