Never Tease a Siamese

by Edie Claire

  She smiled ruefully at the ancient memory. "Which, if you know Dean, will not surprise you, because he always knew everything. I was like a little-sister substitute—more accurately, a warm body to impress his great wisdom upon." She laughed a little. "As my mother used to say, 'have mercy.'"

  Leigh grinned. "What did Mrs. Murchison keep in the box?"

  Nancy’s eyes narrowed in concentration. "Not much, as I recall. There were papers in the bottom, but that was boring to us, of course. She had black and white photographs of some cats: not Siamese, pets from her childhood, I think. No jewelry or anything like that. I’m sure the only reason Dean found it so fascinating was that Mrs. Murchison always kept it locked with a key." She opened her hand and gazed at her palm. "This key. And the really intriguing thing was—she hid both the key and the box in different places."

  Leigh’s eyebrows rose with interest. "Where?"

  "The key was in one of her jewelry boxes. Dean had watched her enough to know what it was, and he used to sneak it out now and then and open the box just for fun. He would take me along and we would pretend we were on some grand, top-secret expedition. We always hoped that maybe next time, there would be real treasure."

  "And the box," Leigh coaxed, trying not to sound too eager, "where did she keep that?"

  "On the bottom shelf of the linen closet, off the second floor hallway. It was under some sheets or blankets that weren’t used very much." Nancy looked suddenly apologetic. "Oh, but that was ages ago. She could keep it anywhere, now."

  She held the key out and Leigh pocketed it again, thinking hard. So far, every word Nancy was saying only confirmed her previous theory. If Dean and Rochelle had expected that Mrs. Murchison would not return from New York, they would have had no need to fuss with retrieving the key. They could simply acquire the box’s contents by lifting it from the mansion and smashing it with a sledge hammer. Clearly, it was Mrs. Murchison’s wrath they had feared when hiring Ricky Rhodis. They wanted to check out the contents of the box without Mrs. Murchison ever finding out.

  And Leigh was pretty sure she knew why.

  "Nancy," she said quickly, fearing that the clinic’s afternoon clientele would show up at any moment. "I don’t know how much of this you’re aware of, but…" She offered a brief summary of the events before the plane crash, including the facts that Mrs. Murchison had recently changed her will and that she and Dean—according to Nikki—had had some sort of row immediately before the New York trip.

  "So tell me," Leigh asked anxiously. "What would you guess that Dean was looking for?"

  Nancy shrugged, but it was a purposeful gesture. "I can’t tell you exactly what kind of papers used to be in the box, if that’s what you’re asking. Much less what she might keep in it now. But from what you’ve told me, I would guess the same thing you already think. That Dean wanted a peek at her new will."

  Leigh smiled broadly and rose. "Thanks, Nancy."

  "No! Wait," the other woman said earnestly, rising also. The anxiety that had faded from her voice as she talked about her childhood was now back in full force. "I’m not sure why you think this is related to the threats. I mean—you don’t suspect Dean of those, do you?"

  She looked genuinely concerned, and Leigh paused. "You don’t?" she asked carefully.

  Nancy shook her head. "No." She glanced around the clinic furtively for a moment, then stepped closer. "Not that I want to be known around here for defending Dean Murchison—but, Leigh, I did know him very well once. And I know that he’s not a cruel person." She paused a moment as if considering whether to say more. Finally, she exhaled sadly. "He used to cry every time one of the cats killed a sparrow. He gave them all funerals in the back yard."

  She paused once again, fidgeting with the pen over her ear. "I’m not saying the man’s a saint," she continued finally, her voice low. "But if the police are thinking for one moment that he would kill his own mother—they’re just plain wrong."

  Leigh’s eyes met Nancy’s levelly. She was pleased that her own gut instincts about Dean seemed to be on target. But there was more to the story. "What about Rochelle?" she asked quietly.

  The business manager shook her head. "I don’t know anything about her. But I refuse to believe Dean would ever involve himself in anything—. Well, violent."

  Leigh regarded her closely. "Did you tell the police that?"

  Nancy immediately turned away and returned to her desk chair. "I know this may not make sense to you," she said finally, her voice resolute. "But unless absolutely necessary, I would rather the police didn’t know anything about my history with Dean."

  "But why not?" Leigh protested, following her. "It could help them rule him out as a suspect, so they could concentrate on finding the real killer—or extortionist—or both."

  Nancy’s gaze fixed on the blank computer monitor in front of her. "I’m hoping Dean will be cleared on his own," she answered. "But if I say anything to the police—" she broke off. "Well, it might not be smart, that’s all."

  Leigh thought she was beginning to understand. She pulled over the second desk stool and sat, putting herself and the other woman back at eye level. "You think the threats are directed at you, don’t you? You think someone suspects you know something because of your history, and that if you cooperate with the police at all, they’ll think you squealed. You’re afraid that someone here at the clinic may get hurt because of you."

  Nancy’s dark eyes bored into Leigh’s. "But I don’t know anything," she said vehemently, her voice gradually rising. "I don’t know who Mrs. Murchison’s other child is—if there even is one; I don’t know who’s making the threats; and I don’t know who could have killed her." Looking suddenly embarrassed, she turned away again. "I’m sorry, but I don’t," she finished softly.

  The clinic door opened wide, and three small children filed in noisily, followed by their harried-looking mother and a boisterous chocolate Labrador retriever. Nancy jumped at the interruption, then shuffled some items on the desktop to regroup. "Hello, Mrs. Castellani. Just have a seat. Dr. Koslow will be right with you."

  Leigh rose again and slipped quietly out of the reception area before she could be re-recruited. She had officially exceeded her quota of toenail clippings for the day.

  And the key in her pocket might as well have been a hot coal.

  ***

  "Going somewhere? Besides Hook, I mean." Warren leaned casually against the side of her Cavalier, his fingers drumming on the hood.

  "Well, hello," she answered, trying hard not to appear disconcerted. He looked darned appealing standing there with his tie loosened and his sunglasses on. Very unpolitical. But she couldn’t afford to be distracted.

  Or waylaid. "What are you doing here? I thought you were busy at lunch."

  "I changed my plans," he said, straightening. "Mo called me this morning and filled me in on the latest. She said you might still be here. How about a grilled cheese sandwich?"

  Leigh’s eyebrows rose. It was that mind-reading thing again. But this time it went both ways. "Maura told you not to let me out of your sight, didn’t she?"

  He opened the door of the Cavalier with his spare key, slid behind the wheel, and opened the passenger door for her. "Actually, her exact words were a bit stronger. Something about leg irons."

  Leigh got in the car. She was starving. But there was no time for grilled cheese. Mrs. Murchison’s "treasure box" might contain a copy of the will—but it also might contain something else of interest. Something Dean and Rochelle would not even have been looking for.

  "How about Wendys?" she suggested innocently. "I’m kind of in a rush. Work’s piling up."

  "Fine," he said agreeably, steering the Cavalier out into the street. "Then afterwards I’ll drop you off at Hook. I can come back for you around five-thirty."

  She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him impishly. "You know that won’t work."

  He grinned, but kept his eyes on the road. "And you know you’re not going back to the
Murchison house alone."

  ***

  Leigh stamped her foot impatiently on the mansion’s front walk. "Nikki will talk to us," she assured herself more than her husband. "I’m sure she will."

  It was several moments before the security guard returned from inside the bizarre maze of shrubs. "Yeah, okay," he announced blandly, gesturing them past. "Ring the bell."

  "I guess it was a good idea to hire a guard," Leigh admitted as they proceeded. "There have probably been some reporters here, not to mention general busybodies."

  Warren, who was not at all pleased to be back at the scene of the crime, didn’t answer. He just followed her up the walk with his standard "you owe me for this" look, which Leigh took quite in stride. He was the one person she didn’t particularly mind being in debt to.

  "I’m just going to see if she’ll show me what’s in the box," Leigh stated again. "Maura would want to know if Dean had access to a copy of his mother’s will before the plane crash, right? And we need to know if he and Rochelle had time on Friday to sneak a peek before Number One Son ate the key. If not, I think the evidence really points against them—at least for the threats. Just let me do the talking, okay?"

  He looked at her sternly. "My orders from Maura are to keep you from saying anything to Nikki Loomis about your theory that she’s the real heir."

  "I won’t!" she protested, and a guilty feeling immediately began brewing up in her chest. She didn’t make a habit of lying to her husband, and try as she might to justify the claim as a white lie, she knew full well that it was patently untrue. "Unless absolutely necessary," she amended.

  He wheeled around towards her and opened his mouth to speak, but as luck would have it, Nikki chose that moment to push open the front door. "Come on in," she said gruffly, turning back inside.

  Leigh followed her, avoiding Warren’s gaze. They stopped in the foyer, which was dark, cat-filled, and loud. And for the first time at the mansion, she noted the distinct aroma of cat litter wafting through the air. "Is Jared all right?" she asked with concern.

  Nikki crossed her arms over her chest. Her eyes had huge bags underneath and she was sporting wrinkles Leigh hadn’t noticed before. "He’s a wreck," she answered blandly. "Seven o’clock in the morning those blasted detectives were back here wanting to take him to the station. Kept him there for hours saying the same things over and over. Then they made us take the freaking bus back home!"

  The woman looked ready to kill something, and Leigh took a reflexive step backward. "I’m sorry," she offered genuinely. "I thought they were going to go easy on him. They don’t really think—"

  If a person’s ears could steam, Nikki’s would have. "They wouldn’t think it if it weren’t for that son of a—" The stream of vulgarity that issued from the younger woman’s mouth included several adjectives Leigh had never heard before. All were applied to Dean Murchison.

  "You wouldn’t believe what he told them! They picked him and Rochelle up too, early this morning, and grilled them over good. So Dean goes and starts saying all sorts of complete crapola about how his mother was scared of Jared, how she was worried about him becoming violent—he even said she was worried about Jared attacking her in her bed!"

  "That’s ridiculous," Leigh agreed. It was ridiculous. It also smacked loudly of more husband-coaching on the part of dear, devious Rochelle, who was undoubtedly smart enough to fear being blamed for the murder herself.

  "Well, those idiot detectives didn’t seem to think so!" Nikki railed. "They wanted to know about any violent incidents in Jared’s past—any fascination with whips or torture—" her voice broke up briefly, and she took a deep breath and swallowed. When she spoke again her voice was controlled, but simmering. "Jared doesn’t have a violent bone in his body. Not one. He’s big, yes, but he has no idea what kind of power that could give him. His mind doesn’t even work that way. He could never intentionally hurt anybody."

  "The police will see that," Leigh agreed. "They’ll know exactly what Dean and Rochelle are trying to do."

  "The detectives are idiots!" Nikki yelled, her eyes flashing fire. "If it weren’t for this broad with the hair, we would never have gotten out of there. She told that Hollandsworth guy to lay off Jared, and damned if he didn’t listen to her. If she hadn’t I swear they would have arrested him then and there."

  Leigh and Warren exchanged glances.

  "Um…what kind of hair did 'the broad’ have?" Leigh asked tentatively.

  Nikki looked at her as if she had gone mad. "Red. And it was all piled up on her head like in the sixties or something."

  Kudos to Aunt Bess, Leigh thought with a smile. The woman could always be counted on when the cavalry wasn’t available. What she was doing interfering in her paramour’s work on the middle of a Wednesday morning was an open question, but, given her gene pool, not a particularly surprising one.

  "I’m sure they were just doing the good cop/bad cop routine or something," Leigh assured. "They have nothing to charge Jared with. They were probably just testing him out for themselves, to see if they could get a rise out of him—"

  "A rise?" Nikki shrieked again.

  Leigh noted that of the half-dozen cats that had been prowling around the foyer when they arrived, only one remained. Odds were, it was deaf.

  "A rise!" Nikki repeated, smacking a fist into a palm. "Do you have any idea what hell my older brothers put Jared through? They beat him up every chance they got. Treated him like a damned punching bag! And Jared never fought back—never. He would just huddle up and take it. If I hadn’t been there to protect him, I hate to think what might have happened!"

  Leigh’s eyes widened as she looked at the tiny woman, who, compared to Jared, gave new meaning to the phrase little sister. "But how did you—"

  Nikki offered an evil smile. "Let’s just say I wrote the book on fighting dirty. If Bill and Red ever have kids, it’ll be a miracle."

  Warren, who had up to that point been standing close by Leigh’s side, shrank back a step.

  "Nikki! Are you up there, Nikki?" Jared’s voice traveled up from the direction of the kitchen, and his sister quickly turned toward it.

  "Just a minute!" she called back. Then she turned to her guests. "Just sit somewhere."

  As soon as the other woman had disappeared down the hall, Leigh poked her husband soundly in the ribs. "Wuss."

  "Hey!" he protested, rubbing his side. "You didn’t marry me because I was macho."

  "Why did I marry you, then?"

  "Free financial advice for Hook."

  "Oh. Right."

  Nikki returned almost immediately, and she appeared to have rethought the sitting idea. "I’m taking Jared to the clinic as soon as he finishes here," she announced. "The sooner he gets back to his normal routine, the better."

  She eyed them critically then, as if realizing she had not been offered an explanation for their presence. "So, what do you need?" she asked sharply.

  Leigh pulled the key out of her pants pocket. "Remember this?"

  "Yeah," Nikki responded, unimpressed. "What about it?"

  "We think it unlocks a decorative box of Mrs. Murchison’s. Something hand-painted with scenes from the Orient."

  Nikki still looked unimpressed. "Yeah, so? I’ve never seen anything like that."

  "She kept it hidden," Leigh continued. "Dean has known about it since he was a kid. She kept it on the bottom shelf of the linen closet on the second floor."

  Nikki’s eyes widened a little. She took the key from Leigh’s hand, and an evil smile spread slowly across her face. "So. Dean wanted something of Ms. Lilah’s, did he?"

  She turned from her guests without ceremony and started up the stairs at a jog. Careful to avoid catching her husband’s eye, Leigh followed. He might have made a grab at her arm as she went, but the whoosh of air behind her right elbow, she reasoned, could just as easily have been a draft.

  Leigh kept pace with her hostess up the flight and down the corridor, stopping outside a dark paneled door. Nikki
flung it open to reveal a closet with two opposing walls of wide, relatively shallow, wooden cabinets. She then dropped to her knees and flipped the tiny metal latch that held the bottom compartment shut tight.

  Leigh had seen such "Pittsburgh closets" before; with all the ash that used to float around during the days of big steel, one’s linen’s had to be protected from "the gray factor." She could still remember the smoky skies from her own childhood, but for the last two decades, the burg’s air had been almost squeaky clean.

  "Which side?" Nikki asked, hauling out piles of linens into a tangled jumble on the floor. "And by the way, how do you know all this?"

  "I guess the other side," Leigh answered, noting that the first compartment contained nothing but yellowed sheets and a few odd place mats. "And Nancy Johnson told me. She used to roam around the place when she was a child and her mother worked here."

  Nikki paused for a split-second only. "Nancy? Oh, yeah. I guess I knew that." She had the mirror-image compartment half emptied when a gleeful smile spread across her face. Leaning further into the deep cabinet, she pulled out a shallow, gold-gilded oriental chest, its gleaming black sides beautifully decorated with pastoral scenes from the Orient.

  "That’s it," Leigh whispered breathlessly. She threw a quick look over her shoulder to see if Warren had followed her up the stairs. Oddly, it appeared he had not.

  "I’ve got one word for you, Dean old boy," Nikki chortled malevolently, taking the chest into her lap. She inserted the key into the tiny golden lock, and it fit perfectly.

  "Gotcha."

  Chapter 19

  Nikki pulled, and the lid of the chest creaked open on stiff metal hinges. She gave the contents only the most cursory of glances before diving in and pulling things out.

  "Wait!" Leigh begged, kneeling down to collect the stray sheets of paper the other woman was strewing across the closet floor. "Some of this might be important!"