Never Buried: A Leigh Koslow Mystery (15 page)

***

She should have known better.

"The poem is interesting, but we should be careful not to make too much out of it," the policewoman said calmly, spearing a bite of pot roast.

"What do you mean?" Leigh insisted, irritated. Between the gooey roast and Frances's constant nagging about the foolishness of remaining in the Fischer house, the evening was an unqualified bust. "The poem proves that Paul knew who killed his father, and that the person was still alive."

"Was still alive when?" Maura challenged. "It isn't dated. And there are other possibilities. The writer, if it were Paul, could have blamed someone else for his father's suicide. He could have been looking into the eyes of a picture. He could have been looking forward to his own death so he could avenge the killer in hell. He could have been writing pure fantasy. Who knows?" She forked in the hunk of meat and began to chew contentedly.

Leigh stewed. Were police trained to be killjoys? "What do you think, Mrs. Polanski?" she asked hopefully.

Mary Polanski swallowed a bite of potato and looked up thoughtfully. She was as tall as her daughter, although not as solid, with lanky, angular limbs and a long, sharp nose. If it weren't for her handmade clothes and long gray ponytail, she might have passed for a senior Cruella deVil. But with her discerning gaze and purple Keds, Mary had a style all her own. "It's quite possible, I suppose," she offered noncommittally.

Leigh tried to conceal her frustration. Getting information from Mary had always been tough; her Alzheimer’s had nothing to do with it. Tonight, she seemed perfectly lucid

and as tight-lipped as ever when it came to community gossip.

"I'm curious, Mrs. Polanski," Cara said sweetly, giving it another try. "What do you remember about the deaths that occurred in 1949?"

Mary's intelligent-looking gray eyes turned slowly to her daughter, as if asking permission to answer. Maura nodded.

"I was only thirteen at the time," Mary began calmly, rearranging her napkin in her lap. "Robbie was a sweet boy, and I was a little sweet on him." She smiled, her thoughts far away. "When he disappeared, a lot of people thought he had shot Norman, but I never believed it. My husband and Mr. Mellman were good friends of his, too, and we were all very defensive of him. I remember once, a bully named Leroy Flynn started taunting Donald—Mr. Mellman—about having a murderer for a friend," she shook her head sadly. "That wasn't a good idea."

It hadn't occurred to Leigh that Chief Polanski and Mellman might have known Robert Fischer better than they knew Paul, but given their ages, it made sense.

"Robbie was afraid of his stepfather," Mary continued. "And with good reason. People didn't talk much about domestic violence back then, but we knew when it was happening. I always believed, and I still do, that Norman was responsible for his wife's death. I think Robbie ran away because he couldn't stand the thought of living with him anymore."

"You don't think Norman killed himself, do you?" Cara asked.

"Norman was a sick man. Nothing he did would surprise me," Mary answered without emotion.

"And what did your father think?" Leigh asked Maura.

Maura sighed and glanced at her mother. "Dad never talked about it. I know that's hard to believe—given how much he liked to gab. But even long after the fact, when it came to the Fischer case, his lips were sealed. If I asked about it, he’d just say 'the case is closed. Let's let it rest.'"

Mary shook her head sadly. "It was because of Robbie, dear. I told you they were close. Neither Ed nor Don have ever been able to talk about that time. It's just too painful for them."

Leigh found it odd that grief over a lost childhood friend should last for four decades; but then, she hadn't lived that long yet. She looked at Maura. "Did you ask Mellman about 1949? What he remembers?"

Maura helped herself to a third serving of potatoes before she answered. "We talked about it this afternoon. Mom's right—it's hard to get anything out of him. He did tell me that he believes Robbie Fischer is dead. He's sure that Robbie would have come forward otherwise, eventually, after the scandal died down."

"And what do you think?" Leigh asked.

"I'm not so sure. We know that someone wants you out of the house. Only a handful of people ever lived there, and almost all of them are dead. If Robert Fischer is alive, I'd say he's my prime suspect."

Mary looked at Maura. "I bet Mr. Mellman wasn't too happy with that theory."

Maura returned a sly smile. "You got that one right. He got pretty hot. You'd think Robbie was some sort of saint."

"He was a sweet boy," Mary defended. "But time can change people. I wouldn't presume to predict his behavior now."

Looking at Mary, Leigh wondered how much crime-solving had gone on at the Polanski dinner table as opposed to the station house. Maura had a heck of a gene pool going for her.

Randall Koslow cleared his throat. "I'm sure the Avalon Police Department has the situation well under control. Shall we discuss something else for a while?"

Mary shifted in her seat, suddenly looking uneasy. The only one at the table who appeared happy with the suggestion was Maura. "Sure, Doc," she said cheerfully. "How's the job search coming, Leigh?"

Choking violently, Leigh tried in vain to keep bits of potato from sputtering through her lips. She wiped her mouth and reached for a glass of water, attempting to avoid Frances's gaze. She failed. The beady browns were staring right at her. "You
did
get laid off again, didn't you? I knew it! I told you the advertising business was too risky!" Frances turned scathing eyes on her husband. "You knew about this too, didn't you?"

"Now, dear," Randall answered calmly. "Leigh's a grown woman. She doesn't have to tell us everything."

"Of course you knew!" Frances continued, her hands wringing her napkin anxiously. "You would. All right. Let's think. There's my friend Doreen down at Mellon Bank, she might know of something—"

"
Mom
," Leigh interrupted, eyes still watering. "I do not need your help finding a job. I’ll be fine. Can we talk about something else, please? We do have guests, you know."

Rarely could Frances resist an appeal to her sense of propriety. She cleared her throat and wiped her mouth with her napkin. "I'm sorry. Would anyone like some more coffee?"

"I want to go home."

Mary had stood up at the table, her eyes anxious.

Maura spoke gently, motioning for her mother to sit. "It's okay, Mom. We're having dinner at the Koslows. You haven't had your dessert yet."

"Where's my coat?" Mary pushed back her chair and headed for the door that led to the bedroom.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Koslow," Maura said. "But I think we'd better be going."

"Don't you dare apologize," Frances said smoothly. "We're just happy you could come at all. Shall I wrap up the leftover pot roast for you?"

Maura nodded, her sad eyes glimmering a little. Within a few minutes, the Polanskis and the pot roast were gone.

"Now," Frances began sternly. "I think it's time for a good, old-fashioned family conference."

Chapter 14

"I can't believe you didn't tell me you lost your job," Cara brooded as they returned to her front door two excruciating hours later. "You know I wouldn't have told your mom."

"No," Leigh defended. "But you would have told
your
mom, and we both know those two can't keep secrets."

Cara grumbled as she turned her key in the lock and walked into the foyer to deactivate the security system. Leigh followed, unable to keep her eyes from fixating on the floor at the bottom of the staircase. A body had once lain there. An accident—or murder?

"Leigh?"

The tone made her turn quickly.

Cara's eyes were wide. "Look. The malfunction light is on."

Leigh knew only the basics of how to turn the system off and on, but she was sure that the blinking red light was not anything she had seen before. "What does that mean?" she asked, feeling a need to whisper.

Cara pushed a few buttons, and a message flashed on the display.
Failure to Communicate.

Within two seconds, both women were on the front porch. "I'll have Mrs. Rhodis call the police," Cara said, already walking.

Leigh nodded, but her initial shock was quickly being replaced with anger. Someone had been in her space, screwing around with her stuff. Who? She wanted to know. "Cara!" she hissed, "Why don't you keep an eye on the front door from Mrs. Rhodis's, and I'll stand in the driveway where I can watch the back. In case someone comes out." Cara nodded without argument.

Leigh walked back to the driveway, keeping her cousin in her line of sight. Cara didn't attempt the stairs, but called to Mrs. Rhodis from below the porch. When their neighbor appeared, Leigh moved farther down the driveway until she could see the back patio.

Her heart was beating against her chest so hard she thought her sternum might crack, but she kept walking. Everything looked normal. Cara's Lumina, tucked carefully against the hedge by the house. Traffic noise from the boulevard, as always. Streetlights casting artificial shadows on the low shrubs that lined the drive. Nothing out of place, nothing to frighten. And yet, someone had been inside. They must have been. Where were they now?

She walked in the open, giving a wide berth to anything with hiding-place potential. "Stay calm," she told herself out loud. "No one's going to jump you. They've probably already got what they wanted and left. And if they're still here, they'll just want to get out."

"Leigh!" Cara was back out in the front yard. "Stay where I can see you!"

Leigh held up her fingers in an "okay" sign. She could almost see the back door. When she did see it, her body stiffened. The door was wide open.

She stood still. Someone had broken into the house, that much was for sure. That someone, in all likelihood, had left through the back door. Probably in a hurry.

Leigh's calm logic lasted only a few seconds before the sight of the open door brought out a more primitive sentiment. Maternal instinct.

"Mao Tse!" she cried, and started running, ignoring Cara's calls for her to stay put. She reached the open door and stepped into the kitchen. "Mao Tse? Are you here?" She flipped on the lights, and suddenly felt cold.

The room really hadn't changed—much. The stepladder had been moved to the middle of the room. A yellow beach towel lay crumpled on the floor. None of the cabinets were open, no drawers overturned. But the feeling hung in the air like a disease. A feeling of violation.

Cara stepped into the kitchen behind Leigh. "Come on out," she said sensibly. "The police will be here any second."

Leigh walked into the breakfast nook. The finch cage wasn't on its hook. It was sitting on top of the table. Her eyes scanned its lonely perches. The birds were gone.

A wave of nausea overtook her. Cara walked up softly and put a hand on her arm. "We have to wait for the police—please, Leigh. Come outside."

Leigh shook her arm loose, panic rising. "Mao Tse," she whispered, moving into the family room.

Cara followed closely on her heels. "Wait, Leigh! You can't go in alone. Stop!"

But Leigh wasn't listening. She flipped on the lights, her eyes desperately searching the places she'd seen Mao Tse before—the armchair, on top of the stereo. Nothing.

A siren sounded.

Cara grabbed Leigh's arm with a vengeance, dragged her firmly backward through the breakfast nook, and deposited her in the kitchen by the back door. "Don't you take another step!" she hissed, then called out to the police.

But Leigh's attention was now focused on the dining room, and when Cara released her to meet the officers, she began walking stiffly toward it, turning lights on as she went. Cara's good china and silverware were untouched. The parlor was spotless, except that the kitchen broom was lying in the floor. Had she left it there? Of course not. Had Cara?

"Mao Tse!" She was afraid to raise her voice above a whisper, though she wasn't sure why. She tried to think. A stranger had walked into the house. What would Mao Tse have done? An idea raised a spark of hope. The cat would hide, of course. She fell to her hands and knees and started looking under the furniture. Nothing.

"Ma’am!" an unfamiliar voice, followed by an unfamiliar pair of feet, approached her from behind. "Ma’am? I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to step outside until we've had a look around."

Leigh got off her knees and faced an attractive uniformed officer in his early forties. His badge said "Schofield." Had Maura ever mentioned a Schofield?

"Ma’am, I insist. Right away."

Leigh still could only whisper. "My cat..."

Schofield took her arm. "You'll have to look for it later." His grasp was gentle, but firm. Before Leigh knew what was happening, he had deposited her on the front porch and gone back inside.

Mao Tse. Leigh tried to push away the horrible thoughts swimming in her head. Mao Tse was fine. She was just hiding. No one wanted to hurt her. They wanted something else.