by Edie Claire
Maura opened the folder and glanced inside. Her smile widened. “Andrew James Marconi,” she announced. “Good work, Allie. I think you may have something here.”
The girl’s face beamed.
“Tell me again what you know about it,” Maura asked. “Are you sure it was found inside the building?”
Leigh and Allison explained what little they knew about the history of the briefcase, and Maura’s brow furrowed. “Not much chance of decent prints,” she said thoughtfully, “after all this time and so many people handling it. The fact that it’s been smeared with ash doesn’t help either. But I may send it to the lab anyway. It definitely raises suspicion that Marconi could have met with foul play at that location.”
Allison puffed up with pride, but Leigh felt her heart sinking into her shoes. Call her crazy, but she would be happier if the number of unsolved homicides occurring inside her Aunt Bess’s theater remained at its current total of one.
“You know, it’s odd,” Maura continued, musing. “If this is Marconi’s case, he wouldn’t have carried it around empty. At some point, somebody else must have dumped its contents, and it’s highly likely that something in those contents would have identified him by name.”
“It could have been somebody working at the haunted house who’d never heard of Marconi or the mystery about him,” Allison suggested. “They could have just seen it as one more piece of junk in the pile.”
“True,” Maura agreed. “Although I’d wager a guess that most of the population of West View is familiar with the name, what with all the press about the strip club and the entire community pretty much waging war on the man.”
“People know the name, yes,” Leigh remarked, suddenly thoughtful. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean they would assume this briefcase was important to the police. Now that I think about it, everyone I’ve talked to about Marconi has had the impression that he skipped town. Whether he’s dead or alive now, no one seems to know or care, but they don’t talk about him like he was a victim of…” Leigh hesitated. She really did hate even saying the word. “Murder.”
Maura nodded. “You’re right about that, Koslow. In the department, we saw the investigation turn from missing person to possible homicide, but in the community, the story was already legend as it stood. The little people had won the battle, and the big bad Marconi had run away like a thief in the night. The suggestion of foul play against him didn’t surface for some time, and even then, what evidence did trickle in never got much traction in the press.” She patted the briefcase at her side. “Not until the Morton women came on the scene, anyway,” she said wryly, her eyes twinkling at Allison.
Leigh’s imagination flashed with an image of her daughter wearing a blue uniform and leaping about with a gun. She felt a strong surge of motherly panic. “Allison wants to be a veterinarian,” she blurted.
Both Maura and Allison turned and stared at her.
“Yes, well,” Leigh murmured, before either could comment. She stepped forward and retrieved Chewie from where he had nearly fallen asleep, his tawny muzzle draped across Maura’s baby bump. The dog eyed her reproachfully as she set him down on the ground and reattached him to the leash in her pocket. “We need to get back home, Allison, and your Aunt Mo needs her rest.”
Maura made a rude snort. “Rest? What do you think I do all day?”
Leigh threw her friend a meaningful look. She had more she wanted to discuss, including the claims of the neighbors regarding mysterious after-hours activity inside the building. But she had no intention of adding any more tidbits to the building’s already-macabre history within 500 yards of Allison’s hearing. Can I call you later? Her gaze begged. The kids were enjoying themselves, they were earning money, and with luck they would be done in two or three more days. She could accept that situation if she must, but surely the less they knew about the building’s dark side, the less likely they’d be to go looking for trouble.
Maura responded to Leigh’s unspoken plea with a tight-lipped frown. “I guess maybe I could use another snooze,” she said dutifully. “But thanks for coming, Allie, and for the dog therapy. Oh, and thanks for the physical evidence in the cold case — not just everybody delivers that sort of thing to my bedside, you know.”
Allison smiled back at the detective, and her dark eyes flashed. A look of understanding passed between the two of them.
Leigh sighed. The sooner the Pack got the basement cleaned up, the sooner they — and she — could get the hell out of that building and start spending the rest of the kids’ spring break someplace a little more wholesome. Someplace brighter, maybe. More uplifting.
Like, say, a mortuary.
Chapter 6
Leigh watched as her son stepped backwards, wound up his pitching arm, and hefted a thoroughly disgusting mold-ridden, broken-spoked umbrella up into the air and towards the top of the now-towering trash pile. The missile hit a ceiling tile, displacing it sideways and chipping its edge off. Then the umbrella bounced down onto the top of the stack and slid along its length to the bottom, creating a mini avalanche of refuse that spread out across the floor underneath a shower of dust and fiberglass from the ceiling.
Ethan grinned sheepishly. “Oops.”
“We really can’t add one more thing to this trash pile,” Lenna said with authority, coming to her cousin’s defense. “It’s too big. Everything just slides back down again. And we’re running out of room.”
“We should just start hauling the trash outside ourselves,” Mathias suggested, flexing his still-negligible adolescent biceps. “It’s not that hard.”
“The dumpsters are already overflowing,” Leigh informed, looking hopefully at her watch. She was starving, and Warren had promised to bring them all some of his famous enchiladas for dinner. The Pack had worked all day Saturday, half of Sunday, and now most of Monday as well, and they were all weary of delivered pizza. She couldn’t wait to dig her teeth into some warm tortillas — and to get this whole wretched project over with.
Unfortunately, they had already filled up not one but two rented trash containers, and Bess was unable to get another delivered until Tuesday. So while the kids continued to sort and pile, the hired men had been pulled away to help with the sprucing up of the former sanctuary. According to Bess, this alteration to the plan was just as well, because the director of the Society’s upcoming production was absolutely adamant that the cast be allowed to rehearse in their actual performance space… starting tonight.
“We’ll have to start a second trash pile further from the steps,” Leigh ordered. “Just make sure you can walk between them and that it doesn’t block anything.”
Ethan immediately flung a chipped vinyl record like a Frisbee, sending it skidding into an area they had only just managed to clear that morning. “How about there?” he suggested.
Leigh frowned. “The spot is fine, but surprising as this may sound, trash does not strictly need to be airborne. Carry it, please. Before somebody gets whacked in the face with half a coffin lid.”
Ethan gave a sigh and started back to work, but Lenna froze in her tracks. “Nobody really found a coffin in here, did they?”
“Yes, Len,” Mathias answered sarcastically. “We found coffins. And bodies, too. Dozens of them. Where were you?”
As Lenna’s inevitable shriek hit the basement’s stale air, followed by a whine of complaint at her brother’s mistreatment, Leigh headed for the steps. “I think it’s time for a break. Dinner should be arriving any minute; I’m going outside to keep a lookout. Why don’t you guys go wait in the annex kitchen? Get yourselves some drinks and we’ll bring the food in there.”
Leigh did not have to dismiss the Pack twice. They flowed around her like galloping mustangs and were out of sight within seconds. She walked the rest of the way up the stairs and through the annex toward the door to the parking lot. Her heart leapt to see her husband through the window, approaching the door with a foil-covered tray in one hand and a gorgeous bouquet of spring fl
owers in the other.
Her lips curved into a smile. Oh, but she did love this man!
She hurried forward to unlock the door. They had been keeping all the doors locked after the handymen had left for the day and were no longer trooping in and out, but the security measure did nothing to soothe Leigh’s ever-present angst, since she was certain that she and the kids would be safer on the opposite side of the doors.
She let her husband in and greeted him with an enthusiastic kiss on the lips. “I was happy enough with the enchiladas,” she teased, reaching for the bouquet. “Here, let me take these off your hands.”
Warren released the flowers and shifted the tray of food into a more comfortable two-handed grip. “Um… I really wish I didn’t have to admit this, seeing how fabulous a greeting they just earned me, but the flowers aren’t for you.”
Leigh’s cheer deflated. “Seriously?” she whined, burying her nose in the bouquet and inhaling the first pleasant scent she had experienced all day. “What if I take them anyway?”
He leaned over to plant an apologetic kiss on her cheek. “I’ll buy you another one later if you like. I’ll buy you five of them. But this one I need. It’s an emergency. Trust me.”
She looked up at him curiously. “Emergency flowers? For who?”
His reply was interrupted by the sound of a slamming door in the parking lot. Leigh looked out the glass panel to see a chauffeur closing the door of a limousine behind a small, white-haired man in a tailored suit.
“Oh, no,” Warren lamented, snatching the bouquet back from Leigh and placing the tray of food into her hands instead. “He’s early.”
“Who’s early?” she asked, confused. “Is that—”
“Gordon Applegate,” he answered tersely. “Come to make even more trouble for me, I’m sure. Would you mind carrying the food inside? You and the Pack go ahead and eat. Looks like I’m going to be tied up for a while here…”
As Warren opened the door to admit his client, Leigh slipped away down the hall. She felt no particular compulsion to impress Mr. Applegate, but given that the man was dressed so impeccably, she would at least like to remove any shards of ceiling tile from her hair before their first introduction.
She delivered the warm tray to the waiting Pack, threatened all manner of unrealistic punishments if all the enchiladas were eaten before she returned, and rushed into the bathroom to make herself as presentable as possible, which was not very. But her appearance would have to do. She was undeniably curious about the richer-than-God and — to quote her Aunt Bess — “randy as a sailor” Gordon Applegate. She also wanted to know why in hell her most-certainly heterosexual husband was buying flowers for another man.
She emerged into the annex corridor and followed the sound of the men’s voices to the curved hallway behind the sanctuary. She stopped just short of being seen.
“She’s got to know something I don’t,” Gordon Applegate’s thin tenor said insistently. “Damn woman’s hounding me like a pit bull over this ridiculous old fire trap. She thinks the property’s worth something and she’s looking to turn a quick buck. I’d bet anything she’s deluded about its worth, but the fact remains: whether or not she could turn a profit on this place, there’s no question that I could, just by unloading it on her right now.”
Leigh did a double take. At first she assumed the “damn woman” Gordon was cursing in hushed tones must be Bess, given her aunt’s natural association with the verb “hounding.” But now she realized he must be talking about the real estate attorney Sonia Crane, who had evidently confronted him after Leigh’s encounter with her on Saturday. Was Gordon seriously considering selling the building out from underneath the Society, mere days before their first opening night?
“You could certainly profit from a sale at that price,” Warren said smoothly. “But haven’t you been insisting all along that financial gain is not your goal here?”
Gordon Applegate’s only response was a gruff exhale. The men were quiet for a moment, and Leigh decided to show herself. She backtracked a few steps, quietly, then walked on into the hallway. But when she got to the place where the men had been standing, she found they had already moved into the sanctuary.
“Gordon!” she heard her Aunt Bess exclaim. “Oh, how wonderful that you’re here! Come in, come in. You have to see!”
Leigh hustled forward and entered the sanctuary a few paces behind the men. She watched as Gordon Applegate stepped out into the auditorium and was immediately pounced upon by her exuberant aunt. “Well?” Bess cooed, taking his arm and leading him out into the room’s center. “Not bad for less than a week’s work, hmm?”
As Gordon studied the transformed room around him, Leigh studied Gordon. He was a slight figure, on a level with Bess and considerably slimmer, but his bearing was that of a confident man who knew what he was about and brooked no dissent. He appeared to be somewhere around seventy, with snow-white hair on each side of his head and nothing whatsoever on top. His light blue eyes were piercing, set far back under prominent brows and narrowly on either side of a long, thin nose. To say that the man was handsome would be pushing it; to say that he reeked with the aura of wealth would not.
Gordon surveyed the room for quite some time, and Leigh could imagine the differences he must be seeing. The worn carpet had vanished to reveal original hardwood of a rich oak that, while permanently marred in any number of ways, shone with cleanliness and a fresh coat of varnish. The walls looked equally bright and clean, still wet in places with the latest coat of a warm, peachy rose color. The clear glass windows sparkled. Aside from the painter’s scaffolding and supplies, the room was still perfectly empty. Yet the same space that had seemed hollow and foreboding mere days ago now pulsed with new life and invitation.
“Well?” Bess repeated, her merry eyes twinkling as she held Gordon’s skinny arm close to her side. “Tell me I’m a miracle worker.”
Gordon drew in a long breath, then let it out with a smile. “My dear, you are indeed. This place is unrecognizable.” He took her hand in both of his own and favored her with a lusty look. “Bravo,” he whispered.
“I agree,” Warren said, his own surprise obvious in his voice. “You’ve done a fabulous job here, Bess.”
To Leigh’s surprise, Bess’s eyes ceased their fawning over Gordon and turned to Warren with a look of practiced disdain. “Mr. Harmon,” she said coolly.
Warren’s face fell. “Now, Bess—” he began.
“Gordon, dear,” Bess crooned, cutting Warren off and pulling her benefactor toward Leigh. “You must meet my niece. Gordon, this is Leigh Koslow; she and her children have been helping out with the project downstairs. Leigh, this is Mr. Gordon Applegate, the most generous man in the world. Discuss!”
For a moment, Leigh found herself at a loss. Her aunt’s performance was applause-worthy, as neither of the men seemed to realize what total B.S. she was shoveling at them. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Applegate,” Leigh forced out finally. Then, remembering the conversation in the hallway, “I understand you’ve made a very generous donation to the Thespian Society. I’m sure the entire community will appreciate it.”
Bess’s face gleamed with approval. Gordon’s eyes held Leigh’s without modesty, false or otherwise. “Well, I suppose we’ll see about that,” he said noncommittally. He looked from her to Warren, then back over to Bess. “But I’m a businessman first, you know.”
“Oh, psshaw!” said Bess, trapping his arm at her side again. “You’re as tender-hearted as they come. You just make oodles of money despite yourself!”
Gordon frowned at her, even as his lips twitched toward a smile. “Don’t start up with all that again, Bessie. I told you before the sheriff’s sale, either it flies or it doesn’t. I won’t have my name attached to some slipshod, second rate—”
A phone rang in his pocket with one of the loudest, shrillest, most obnoxious ringtones Leigh had ever heard. It might as well have been a recorded voice shrieking wherever you are and whatever y
ou’re doing, I am more important! Answer me NOW!
And Gordon did. “Excuse me,” he said, pulling the phone from his breast pocket and glancing at the screen. “I have to take this.” He put the phone to his ear and moved off toward the stage area.
“Bess,” Warren said beseechingly as Gordon stepped out of earshot. “Don’t be like this. I told you I was sorry. Look—” he extended the bouquet. “These are for you. And… I brought enchiladas. Even made a couple with sour cream and green onions, just for you.”
He turned his liquid-brown, puppy dog eyes on his aunt-in-law with full force, and Leigh knew that inside, Bess was melting to a puddle. But her outward expression stayed hard. She reached out with a mechanical motion and took the flowers from his hands, her cool stare leaving his face only just long enough to glance down at the bouquet. “Grocery store?” she inquired sharply.
He shook his head with a smile. “Florist.”
The corners of Bess’s lips twitched.
Warren’s smile widened. “Am I forgiven, then?”
Bess’s lips continued to twitch, but she threw her nose in the air and turned around with a flounce. “Forgiveness pending,” she said haughtily. “I’m going to go put these in water,” she called to Leigh over her shoulder as she headed for the door. “If Gordon finishes with his call before I get back, send him toward the restrooms, would you? Francie has truly outdone herself on those urinals…”
Bess departed toward the annex muttering, and Leigh turned to face her husband. “What on earth was that all about?” she asked, baffled. Bess, like all the other Morton females, absolutely adored Warren. In their eyes, he was the man who could do no wrong. Which, although perfectly lovely now, had been annoying as hell in the years when Leigh had only considered him a friend. How she could have been the last one in the family to succumb to his charms was still hard to figure. “I can’t imagine what you could have done to her,” Leigh mused, her own lips twitching. “I would guess maybe you ran over one of her cats, except if that were the case, you’d be dismembered by now. What gives? What did you do?”
