by Edie Claire
She and her aunt swore simultaneously.
"Knock it off, Clem!" Bess yelled loudly, cupping a hand to her mouth. "We're at the pond!"
A moment's silence followed. Then a disembodied, whining voice carried back to them through the trees. "Sorry!"
"Don't worry, kiddo," Bess assured. "That shot was a lot farther away than it sounded. Clem's just doing some target practice. He usually makes sure I'm out of the way first, but I guess he thought I was in the house, since your car was out front."
Leigh pushed her feet back into her boots and tried to keep her teeth from chattering. The sudden shot had scared the crap out of her, as it obviously had Chewie, who had appeared from nowhere to attach himself to her shins like a barnacle. "Do—" she stammered. "Does he shoot like that often?"
"Not too much anymore," Bess said lightly. "For all his love of hoarding guns, he never was a very good shot. But he's always been careful with his target practice—he stays on his own land and makes sure no one else is around. He's never been shooting when you were at my house before, has he?"
Leigh shook her head. That, she would definitely have remembered.
Bess's expression turned thoughtful. "He had an accident once, when he was a boy. He and Anna used to practice hitting cans behind her house, and one day they set up the targets poorly, and Clem aimed too high. A stray bullet went out to the road and hit the car his mother was driving. She wasn't hurt, but it had a big effect on Clem. Even when he shoots in his own yard now, he climbs up to his deer stand and aims down toward the ground."
Leigh blinked. She would hardly have pegged Clem as a gun safety devotee. "Why shoot at all then?"
Bess shrugged. "It's a macho thing."
Leigh reached down to pet Chewie, who was still attached to her leg, and was dismayed to note that what part of his coat wasn't muddy was now laced with burrs. "It's okay, boy," she comforted, feeling less than comforted herself. "You go back and do some more excavating. We'll be done here soon." The dog seemed pacified enough to detach, but his eyes were wary and his ears remained perked as he trotted off toward the pond again.
Leigh's hands were still shaky, and her thoughts darkened. "Aunt Bess," she said soberly, "are you absolutely positive that Clem couldn't have shot Brandon Lyle?"
Bess's lips pursed. She faced Leigh squarely. "Of course I am! Clem's got no stomach for violence; he doesn't even hunt. He's such a nervous Nelly I've wondered if there weren't more to the story about his mother, or if some other accident didn't spook him somewhere along the line. But however he got this way, he's perfectly harmless!"
"All right, all right," Leigh conceded, moderating her tone. One could only go so far in impugning a friend of Aunt Bess's before having to duck. "But you have to admit, he is a bit wacko."
Bess dismissed the concern with a wave. "Clem may be a little wacko, but there's no harm in that. Hells bells, some of my best friends are complete crackpots!" She surveyed her camouflage job. "Perfect! We're all set to spy on smoking teenagers, mating cats, and panicky murderers. You want some tea?"
Leigh let that one pass, also. "Maybe after I hose off the dog. Aunt Bess, even if Clem isn't dangerous, somebody shot a man not twenty yards from here, practically in your own backyard. Doesn't that worry you?"
Bess looked at her with surprise. "Why should it? I told you before—and the gun being planted on Gil proves it—this was a crime of passion. I certainly didn't sleep with Brandon Lyle. At least, I don't think I did. Then again, the mind does wander when you're older. There was that one time last month, after Noreen made me that third fuzzy navel—"
"Aunt Bess!"
"Yes, Francie?" Bess drawled, one eyebrow raised high.
Leigh frowned. "Never mind. Are we done here, now? My foot is soaked, and I believe I was offered tea."
Bess cracked a grin. "You certainly were." She gestured for Leigh to follow her toward the house, then put a hand to her mouth and produced an ear-splitting whistle. "Chewie!" she called, "You've got a date with a hose, my dear!"
The brush rustled, and in a few seconds the corgi reappeared, toting an equally filthy prize in his mouth that looked like a much bigger dog's long-lost rawhide chew bone. The mud-covered mess collected more mud as Chewie half-carried, half-dragged it along the ground—which of course was only inches from his mouth to begin with. "Chewie!" Leigh warned. "You do realize that thing is not going home with us?"
The dog, who looked extremely proud of himself, ignored her and scuttled ahead.
Bess snickered. "Well, Chester will enjoy it, anyway. If he ever comes out from hiding. I've never seen him act so skittish with Chewie! I do hope your mother refrains from borrowing any more dogs this evening. He's still traumatized from being forced to fraternize with the huskies and the bloodhound. So, other than trying to shore up Gil's alibi, what's next on the Morton power agenda? I haven't had any orders from Sergeant Frances for"—she looked at her watch—"a good three hours now."
Leigh let out a sigh. She had received a cryptic voice mail from her father a little while ago, asking Leigh if she had anything for her mother that needed sewing, mending, patching, or cleaning. Randall hadn't said why, but Leigh suspected her mother was once again attempting to burn off nervous energy by "helping out" at the clinic. The last time she was stressed over a family emergency, Frances had rearranged every bottle in the pharmacy by height, assigned numbers to the nylon leashes, and disconnected all the appliances to sanitize their power cables.
"I think she's at the clinic," Leigh responded.
"Oh, dear," Bess said sympathetically. "I suppose you had best get out there and rescue your father, then."
"I suppose so," Leigh agreed.
Chewie popped out of the brush in front of them, and both women let out a gasp. In addition to the mud and the burrs, within the space of the last few seconds he had somehow managed to cover his entire front end with tiny brown and white feathers.
"Oh, my," Bess remarked, her voice holding noticeably more mirth than chagrin. "I do believe he's found some of Ferdinand's leavings. That cat does wreak havoc with the sparrow population."
The corgi looked up at Leigh with a canine smile that was all innocence. One fluffy feather detached from the mud between his ears and drifted down to catch again on his jowl.
Leigh groaned.
"At least he dropped the bone," Bess commented.
"It's going to take more than a hose to handle this," Leigh said miserably. Then, as the thought occurred, she smiled.
"It's going to take... a Frances."
Chapter 17
Diana Saxton let out a sigh. She wasn't ordinarily the sighing kind, but assessing her bank records brought out the worst in her. She clicked the program closed and leaned back in her zebra-striped desk chair. So she had expensive tastes. What of it? Her big payout had always seemed close enough, and she knew how to manage a budget.
The loss of a steady paycheck, however, was galling. She had been fired twice in the last sixth months, through no fault of her own. She couldn't possibly have predicted that Gil March's rugged good looks masked the ardor of a frozen halibut, and she had every reason to believe things would work out with Brandon... until they didn't. So here she was again. Unemployed. And in serious need of some new satin sheets.
The doorbell rang.
Diana looked up warily. She wasn't expecting anyone. No one ever came to visit her at her apartment. Even Brandon had found it too sterile for his tastes, which was fine by her, since he was a slob. The tastefully decorated, meticulously kept studio was her private abode.
The doorbell rang again.
"Diana!" a shrill voiced called. "I know you're in there. Let me in, now! We need to talk."
Diana's irritation gave way to a slow, sly smile.
She was about to get lucky.
She rose, crossed the small room, and swung open the door without haste. "Yes?"
Courtney Lyle's upraised hand froze in mid knock. "You are home."
"Clearly."
Courtney opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it. She was looking less than her best today. Diana had rarely seen Brandon's wife dressed in anything but a skirt and heels, and her platinum hair was always perfectly coifed. This version of Courtney, wearing khaki pants and a polo shirt with her hair in a ponytail, was not exactly slumming it. But she probably thought that she was.
Courtney continued to stare at Diana, who was dressed exactly as she always dressed during the day: consummately professional, surreptitiously sexy. Never mind if all she had to do was distribute resumes via email. It paid to be prepared.
Brandon's wife was struggling. All manner of emotions flitted across her face in the space of a few short seconds: jealousy, hatred, disdain, resignation, and— interestingly enough—apprehension.
"Can I help you?" Diana purred. She could help her guest quite easily. She knew exactly what the other woman wanted. But what would be the fun in that?
"Can, um—" Courtney stammered, "Can I come in?"
Diana wordlessly stepped back and out of the way. Courtney entered. Both women continued to stand.
"Just so you know," Courtney said stiffly. "I left Detective Peterson a voice mail earlier. I told him I was coming to see you here."
Diana's eyebrows rose. Either Brandon's wife suspected her of the crime, or she wanted to make the authorities think she did. Either way, her appearance here, now, marked desperation.
Diana made no response.
"Could we sit down?" Courtney suggested. Her face strained with the effort of faking politeness.
"Certainly," Diana proffered, gesturing to her cream-colored suede and chrome couch.
Courtney sat. She pulled her purse into her lap and fidgeted with the clasp.
Diana lowered herself into a matching chair. She waited.
"Look," Courtney said finally, leaning forward. "We don't like each other. That's obvious. But I need your help."
Diana waited some more.
Courtney breathed out with a groan, stood, and began to pace. "The business is a disaster. Everyone's calling and wanting to know where things stand—and the accountant can't begin to figure it out by himself. I hired some supposed business guru to come in and get things straight, but he quit after half a day. He says nobody can figure out what the hell's going on except you—that you organized everything with some funky filing system, and that all kinds of important documents are written in shorthand. Not regular shorthand, either, but some weird version of it that he's never seen before. He said if I couldn't get your help, I might as well hire somebody to burn the office down, because the creditors were bound to sue, with all of Brandon's investors right behind them!"
Courtney stopped by Diana's chair and glowered down at her. "I don't want Brandon's stupid development business. I couldn't care less if it's sold off, dissolved, or baked into apple pie. But apparently," her voice changed to a whine, "just because I was idiot enough to marry Brandon, it's suddenly my responsibility!"
"Hmm," Diana responded, crossing her legs with flair. "That is a problem." She felt a sudden twinge of regret. Lyle Development was clearly worthless; living or dead, Brandon would have been bankrupt within the year. If it were worth something, she could easily manipulate Courtney into signing it over lock, stock, and barrel. But Diana didn't want Brandon's company now. No one would. Why couldn't Gil March have gotten whacked while she worked for him?
"I'm prepared to pay you for your time," Courtney continued. "And not from the business—I have money of my own."
Diana resisted the urge to bristle. Like she didn't know that? If it weren't for Courtney's precious inheritance, Brandon would have agreed to the damn divorce the first time his wife asked for it. And if Diana had known Brandon had no intention of agreeing to any damn divorce, ever, the current vile situation could have been avoided altogether. The nerve of the woman to come here and whine! Courtney had been a fool to marry Brandon without a prenup, and an even bigger fool to give him grounds for restitution by deserting him. If she couldn't get out of the marriage, it was her own stupid fault. "What is it you want exactly?" Diana asked without expression.
Courtney sat back down. "I want you to come back to the office. Work with the accountant; and with this other consultant I'm bringing on. All you need to do is answer their questions and translate the shorthand. They'll get a grip on where things stand and figure out how the hell I can unload this mess. Okay?"
Diana considered.
She crossed her legs the opposite way.
She considered some more.
Watching the sweat rise on Courtney's brow was immensely gratifying.
"I'll expect payment in advance," Diana said finally. "For two weeks' worth of work. I may finish before that. If it takes longer, we renegotiate."
"How much?"
Diana named a figure ten times her normal rate.
Courtney gave a little bounce. "Done!"
Diana's lips twisted. She should have asked for more.
Courtney reached into her purse, pulled out a checkbook, and started scribbling. After a moment she ripped out the check, handed it to Diana with a flourish, stood up, and headed for the door. Diana accepted the check, examined it, then rose to usher her out. But with one hand on the doorknob, Brandon's wife suddenly stopped and turned around.
"Before I go..." she said tentatively.
"Yes?" Diana snapped, still irked at underselling herself.
Courtney hesitated. "I need to ask you something. The day Brandon died, did you by any chance see a man hanging around him that you didn't know? I mean, a man who didn't look like one of Brandon's usual business acquaintances?"
Diana was intrigued. "A man who looked like what, for example?" she inquired.
Courtney bit her lip. "A man dressed well, probably, but not for business in Pittsburgh. More... cosmopolitan. A tall, powerfully built man with gray hair and dark eyes."
Diana considered. "Good looking?"
Courtney frowned. "Extremely."
"My, my," Diana purred. "If only I had been in town."
The other woman's brow furrowed. "What do you mean? You weren't here?"
"On the contrary," Diana explained casually, moving to her desk and placing the check carefully under a glass paperweight. "I spent the entire day in Harrisburg, being legally harassed by an old nemesis. I didn't get back to Pittsburgh until after ten. A fact easily provable by the records of the Turnpike commission, by the way. Which should reassure you that I'm no murderess. Unless you think I hired someone else to drive my car while I flew in on a private charter for the express purpose of eliminating my primary source of income."
"I didn't—" Courtney cut off the protest.
"But you know who might have, don't you?" Diana accused, her voice even.
Courtney's cheeks reddened. "I didn't say that!"
"Of course you did," Diana argued. "Who is he? And why did you lie to the police about being at Brandon's apartment the night he died?"
The color in Courtney's face drained instantly. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "How do you know that?"
"I was there, of course. I went by the apartment looking for Brandon, but I didn't go in because I saw your car. I thought maybe he was with you. Evidently, somebody else was."
"No!" Courtney screeched, crossing the distance between them. "It wasn't like that! I never saw—" she bit back the words. Her eyes glared at the other woman maliciously. "It's none of your damn business why I was there. I had nothing to do with Brandon's death."
"But you're afraid your hottie did, eh?"
Courtney whirled away from her. "This conversation is over. Go cash your check and—" she stopped abruptly. She turned back to Diana with a look of alarm. "Did you tell the police you saw my car?"
Diana smiled. "Of course not. Why would I?"
Courtney released a long, slow breath.
"As I mentioned before," Diana continued. "I have an interest in protecting my sources of income."
Courtn
ey's breath drew in again, sharply. She gave a long, hard stare. "Brandon was out of his league with you, wasn't he?"
Diana grinned. "He thought I was brilliant."
Courtney stared another moment, then gave an undignified snort. "Brandon thought a lot of things," she muttered, heading for the door. "He thought he was a good lover, too."
Silence hung in the air for a second. Then Diana exploded with laughter.
Courtney stopped with her hand on the doorknob and looked sideways back at her.
The women exchanged a smile.
***
"No, Mrs. Koslow, Please Mrs. Koslow. Those cats like the little pans, Mrs. Koslow!"
Leigh heard the note of panic in Jared's voice the second she opened the clinic's basement door. Clearly, her father was not the only one requiring rescue.
"Now, Jared, don't be foolish," Frances' voice soothed. "The cats don't know the difference. It makes much more sense for the size of the pan to match the size of the cage."
Leigh turned the corner into the downstairs kennel room to see her mother's ample behind sticking out of an aluminum cage on the bottom row. Her father's longtime kennel cleaner and most trusted employee, Jared Loomis, stood in the center of the room, wringing a cleaning rag anxiously in his large, broad hands.
"But Mrs. Koslow—" His face brightened as he noticed the newcomer. "Hello, Leigh Koslow! I'm so glad to see you, Leigh Koslow!"
I bet you are.
"Hello, Jared," she said with a smile. "How's everything going today?"
The blond giant of a man, who was born with Down Syndrome but at times could show the wisdom of Solomon, contemplated the question a good five seconds. "It was going all right earlier, Leigh Koslow," he remarked.
Leigh tried hard not to laugh. Jared, bless his soul, was nothing if not brutally honest.
Frances's rear end backed out of the cage. She grabbed the bars for support and rose. "Now, that looks much better!" she said proudly, wiping her hands on a towel she had wrapped around her waist like an apron. "Big pans in big cages and little pans in little cages. Now everybody's happy!"