by Edie Claire
Lydie's mouth twitched, but she smiled and nodded. "I'll let myself out. You take care of yourselves, you hear?"
As soon as her mother had gone, Cara climbed up onto the antique four poster bed and stretched out on her side. "Are you OK?" Leigh asked.
"As long as I relax, I'm great," Cara answered. "Don't keep me in suspense. What did you find out?"
"Well, nothing you didn't already believe," Leigh answered, sitting on the edge of the bed. She handed Cara the copies. "The newspaper accounts from 1949 matched Mrs. Rhodis' story pretty well."
"Of course they did," Cara said smugly. She took the copies and read them quickly. "Not much follow-up, I guess." She put the papers down and looked at Leigh wistfully. "You know I always thought you should write for a newspaper."
Leigh rolled her eyes. "Don’t start with me."
"But you know how well you can write that sort of thing!" Cara insisted.
Leigh shook her head. She liked writing stories, fact or fiction, but the reporter’s life was not for her. Crazy hours, incessant phone calls, writing obituaries to pay your dues. She preferred a nice, nine-to-five job where all she had to do was make boring products send chills down customer’s spines. It occurred to her that she still hadn’t told Cara about the lay off, but she was in no mood to get into that now. Instead, she diverted her cousin's attention to the box in the hall. "You got a package from Gil."
Cara's eyes lit up like candles and she sprung to the floor with a bounce. "It's here already?!" She gave the parcel a cursory exam, then went to fetch a pair of scissors while Leigh pushed the load down the hall and into the baby's room.
The nursery, which had been evolving into perfection since two hours after Cara saw the plus sign, had little room for a baby. The walls were charming—a bright bluish-lavender tint, with white wainscoting framing a beautifully painted border of a teddy bear picnic. Unfortunately, the walls were barely visible behind the sea of toy shelves and bookcases that covered the snow white carpet. Enough playthings for an army of babies were stashed in every crevice, as were a random assortment of high-tech parental toys like a motorized cradle and complete two-way infant intercom with video. The changing table, Leigh noticed with a sigh, was stashed tidily in the back of the closet.
The toys were an eclectic bunch, reflective of Gil's itinerary. A Black Forest cuckoo clock held a prominent position over the crib, while remote shelves housed Beefeater dolls and a Peggy Nisbet rendition of Princess Diana. Nearest the front were the Japanese offerings, including a miniature army of samurais, temple windchimes, and an ornate infant kimono that probably cost as much as Leigh brought home in a month. She shook her head and rolled her eyes. So the guy was handsome, rich, a good husband, and nutso about his progeny. He still had no sense of humor.
Cara flew into the room, scissors in hand, and knelt down to cut away the package tape. "I didn't expect it until next week!" she squealed. "I can't wait to tell him it's here." She worked her way through the layers of packaging until a rectangular piece of yellow wood emerged. After setting the shiny, lacquered board on its detachable feet, she began to pull out polished white and black stones from a pair of dark lacquered holders. She placed the stones in a geometric design that pleased her, then sat back and cooed in delight. "Oh! Isn't it beautiful?"
Leigh watched skeptically. "It's lovely. What the hell is it?"
Cara laughed. "It's a 'Go' board. Very traditional. Not really for an infant, of course, but Japanese children play simple games with them when they're quite young. It goes beautifully with the house, don't you think?"
The harmony of oriental craftsmanship and Victorian excess was not apparent to Leigh, but she nodded. Cara was the artist, after all.
"I don't know where I'll put it," the expectant mother mused. "This room is already full, and it will be so hard to check the closets as it is."
"Check the closets?"
"Of course. Every inch of this house has to be searched. Whatever Paul Fischer left behind, I suspect he hid it well."
Leigh's brow wrinkled. "I know Mrs. Rhodis’s story checks out about the deaths, but the bit about Paul Fischer hiding clues in the house is a bit melodramatic, don’t you think? Who could possibly care, after all this time? I still think the only thing at stake here is money."
Cara sighed. "You would."
"I do. Say Paul Fischer stockpiled a bundle. Maybe somebody ripped off his will to see if they were mentioned, and to destroy it if they weren't. Maybe they only stood to inherit if he died intestate."
Cara shook her head. "But no one did inherit. No heirs were located, remember?"
"So maybe they wanted to keep someone else from getting it. Or maybe we're not talking legal channels. Maybe Paul had something else of value that he wanted to pass on under the table."
"Now who's talking about gold doubloons?" Cara smirked.
Leigh's eyes narrowed. "It always comes down to money. Paul Fischer had something of monetary value, and someone else wants it. For some reason, you and I being in this house is an obstacle to that."
Cara's face lit up. "I wonder," she began, "if we're talking about something small—small enough to carry around."
"Why would that matter?"
"The body! Maybe they stole the body because they were hoping he had hid something on his person!"
Leigh scoffed. "A microchip in his dental work? Please!"
"No, no." Cara defended. "Our villain could have been looking for a particular ring or watch, and, when they couldn't find it in the house, figured he might have been buried with it!"
Leigh laughed. “Okay, so he pries up the coffin lid looking for a ring. It isn’t there, so he takes the whole body. Perhaps for a cavity search? Now there's a lovely thought! I can see it now—the boring old recluse swallows a bag of diamonds on his death bed, desperate to keep them from falling into the wrong hands..."
Cara sighed and began struggling to her feet. "I don't hear you coming up with a better explanation."
Leigh gave her cousin a hand. "Give me time. Money is at the bottom of this, one way or the other." Thinking about money and power and the people who crave them, she had a sudden flash of inspiration. She snapped her fingers and smiled. "And you know who's going to help me? The Allegheny County Register of Wills!"
"Excuse me?"
"Warren Harmon, remember? College buddy of mine and Maura’s. I helped him get elected. I have no idea what he actually does, but the title sounds relevant. Speaking of Warren, what's for dinner? Do you want me to order something?"
Cara shook her head. "Mom brought over a Mexican casserole. She said it would be ready at 5:30."
Leigh smacked her lips. God bless Aunt Lydie.
***
Warren J. Harmon III’s knock sounded on Cara's front door at precisely 7:00 PM. Leigh checked her watch. If it hadn't said 7:00, she would have reset it. She opened the door to one the few men she could count on to come over on a Friday night with two hours' notice.
"Leigh Koslow, Creative Genius!" he caught her in a swift embrace. "It's been ages. So glad you called. Take-out cappuccino was exactly what I needed tonight. How have you been?"
She took the paper bag out of his hand and replaced it with a ten dollar bill. "It's been a hell of a week, actually."
Warren opened his palm and let the bill flutter to the floor. "Please. My pleasure. You know I'd do anything for you."
Leigh smiled. Warren was a politician to the bone. Every word out of his mouth sounded like part of a State of the Union Address. It always had, even when they'd been eighteen-year-old freshmen paired off in Tennis 101. He had been on the fast track to the Presidency, she had just wanted not to be the worst player in the class. When he rescued her by taking that honor himself, she promised to write his campaign literature for free. And a decade later, in his first race for public office, he’d taken her up on it.
"Here." Leigh peeled the plastic lid off the first cup and handed it to him, then took the second cappuccino-in-Styrofoam and led
the way into the relatively casual atmosphere of the study. "Make yourself at home. I do."
Warren bent his tall form and sunk gracefully into a leather recliner. Leigh watched him curiously. Her tennis pal had been a gawky kid with acne-scarred cheeks and a toothy smile, but this Warren bore little resemblance. It must have been a slow evolution—because she'd missed it entirely. How long had it been since they'd seen one another? "You realize we haven't done lunch since the election?" she asked accusingly. "Big Jury Commissioner forgets the little people, eh?"
"Don't toy with me," he answered with a smile. "You know I'm the Register of Wills."
"Just testing you," Leigh grinned, settling in the opposite recliner. "I figure you'll be running for something else before too long."
"Naturally. But the row offices are on their way out, as you should know. Next is the new County Council. Then perhaps the State Senate. Of course, the earlier I can get a seat in the House, the younger I'll be as Governor." Like most politicians, Warren rarely sounded sincere. Unlike most politicians, he usually was. "And as for forgetting the little people, it's you who's been too busy to get together, remember?"
"Oh, right." Leigh said absently, taking a swig of cappuccino.
"But enough about me. I want to hear about this body you found. And I'm curious as to what sort of favor you're angling for. Fair warning: if the two are related, I'm leaving."
"What happened to 'I'd do anything for you?'"
"I stop short at the macabre. And I would never do anything outside the law, naturally."
"Naturally."
"So?"
"So...I need some information and I'm not sure how to find it. I need to figure out how much money someone had when he died."
Warren laughed. "Is that all? Good grief, Leigh. You could have come in during business hours for that."
"Really? You mean, anyone can find out what's in anyone else's will?"
"I don't have copies of wills on file, if that's what you mean. But the office keeps inheritance tax returns, which are matters of public record. Did this person die in the last 9 months?"
"1989."
"No problem. Give me the name and I'll look it up Monday. I can tell you who the heirs were, how much they inherited. Is that what you need?"
"Perfect," Leigh smiled. "And what if there were no heirs?"
"Property would revert to the state. The records will show that. What's all this about?"
Leigh took another long drag of cappuccino while she sized up Warren's sense of discretion. Oh, what the hell.
She started at the beginning. It wasn't long before Warren was thoroughly engaged. "I'll check out the records for Anita and Norman as well," he offered. "If Anita had family money, it might have been put in trust for her son."
"Great! You can check this out first thing in the morning, right?"
Warren cleared his throat. "Seems like I said Monday."
"Yes," Leigh cooed, "but that was before you cared. Come on, you're the big cheese down there, aren't you?"
Warren studied her as he swished dregs of cappuccino around in his cup. "One condition. You come with me. No—two conditions. We do breakfast first. You buy."
"That's three conditions."
"So be it."
"Deal." Styrofoam cups met with a squeak. There was a soft rapping on the door.
Leigh got up and admitted Cara, who had finished an early bath and was now looking divine in frilly evening wear. "Cara, this is Warren Harmon, Allegheny County's most recent and soon to be last Register of Wills. Warren, this is my cousin Cara, whose study you're sitting in."
Warren rose immediately and extended a practiced hand. "Charmed! Leigh has told me so much about you over the years, and you're even lovelier in person!"
Leigh rolled her eyes.
"Why, thank you." Cara answered sweetly. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I just wanted to say hello before I turned in, and to tell you two to make yourselves at home." Her eyes appraised Warren, then threw Leigh a sideways "go for it" as she turned to leave. "I can't hear a thing from my room. You two continue your chat."
The way Cara said "chat," it was all Leigh could do not to slam the door on her perfect behind. When they were alone again, Warren laughed. "So, she's the one who stole all your boyfriends, eh? My, my."
Leigh glared.
"Sorry," Warren said, not bothering to stifle his grin. "I see we're still a little sensitive where that's concerned. But on the upside, I'm honored. You appear jealous."
Her eyes narrowed further.
Warren crumpled his cappuccino cup into a ball and dropped it into the trash can. "Don't you worry," he said, dropping a brotherly arm around Leigh's shoulders, "one of these days you'll bring a man home and he won't look twice at her. Then you'll get married and live happily ever after."
"Fat chance."
"Don't be so negative. I'd marry you myself, but, well—you know."
"I know. I'm not First Lady material."
"Absolute death. I know just what you'd say: 'Am I getting paid for this? Because if I'm not—I'm outta here!' You'd leave all those foreign dignitaries' wives balancing teacups on their laps while you put on sweats and went out for a Diet Coke."
"Damn straight."
Warren sighed. "You'd make a much better President."
Leigh smiled. It was nice to have friends who understood you.
Chapter 12
The next morning, Cara watched shamelessly out the window as Warren stepped out of his new VW beetle and started towards the front door. "What do you mean average-looking?" she said to Leigh accusingly. "He's quite attractive, and I know you get along. What's your excuse this time?"
"We’re just friends," Leigh answered automatically. Warren had always been her relationship-safe geek buddy, and she liked it that way. So he wasn’t geeky anymore. So what? “I prefer to date men who are—”
“Yes?” Cara prompted.
Leigh faltered. “Um…short. I like to date men who are short.”
“Oh, really,” Cara asked, amused. “And why is that?”
“No time to explain. See you later!” What had she been going to say? She made a hasty exit, cutting Warren off at the porch steps. "I'm starving," she announced. "How about Eat'n Park?"
After Leigh had treated him to a bountiful breakfast of pancakes and bacon, Warren led her into the City-County building and through a door on whose glass window was painted Warren J. Harmon III, Register of Wills. He went dutifully to work, opening and shutting drawers and fingering through yellowed files for what seemed to her like hours. Finally he collected a small stack of documents and motioned for her to follow him into his office. She stood impatiently over his shoulder while he sorted through them at his desk. "Well? What's the bottom line? Did Fischer have any money or didn't he?"
Warren fidgeted with the papers some more before he answered. "If we're talking about Paul Fischer, in a word, no."
Leigh's face fell. She walked around the desk and slumped into a comfortable armchair. "Really? But he had to. I mean, it's the only thing that makes sense."
"The only thing of value he owned was the house, and it reverted to the state. No heirs could be located."
"Not even a distant cousin?"
"The search only extends to grandparents and descendants, and then you have escheat. Sorry. No buried treasure there. However, Anita Fischer did have several thousand in stocks when she died."
Leigh perked up. "Who inherited?"
"Robert Fischer. She had no will, either. Ordinarily her estate would be divided between her husband and son, but since Norman failed to survive her by one hundred twenty hours, Robbie got it all. Or at least—he would have gotten it all."
"Would have?"
"Since he went AWOL, it was held in trust."
Leigh got an idea, and her eyes brightened. "So he could still claim it?"
Warren shook his head. "Afraid not. We're talking almost fifty years here. There are notice procedures that have to be followed, but then
it reverts to the state again."
Leigh exhaled loudly in frustration. "The state sure made a killing on this one, didn't it?"
Papers continued to flip as Warren searched further. "That's interesting."
"What?"
"I was wondering how Paul Fischer managed to hold on to Anita's house when he wasn't a beneficiary. Turns out it wasn't her house after all. Our friend Norman had her sign over the deed shortly after their marriage."
The cold eyes in the newspaper picture crept back into Leigh's mind. "Did Norman have any money of his own?"
"Nary a cent."
"It figures. He'd probably already gone through what his first wife left him."
"Paul's mother? How did she die?"
Her head turned. "You know—I don't know."
"What was her name? We could look her up too, if she died in the county."
Leigh shook her head. "I don't know anything about her. But I'm sure I will soon."
***
After thanking Warren for the favor by agreeing to write all his campaign literature in perpetuity, plus try out the new Chinese buffet on McKnight Road later in the week, Leigh stepped out of his car and walked up the steps to Cara's front door. She was surprised to hear a loud yapping inside.
Pansy?
She opened the door tentatively, but the poodle greeted her with affection. Apparently the dog fancied herself more of a butler than a bouncer. Leigh followed the sound of Cara's laughter (and the little dog's waggling rear end) into the parlor. Mao Tse was on top of the secretary, staring daggers.
Cara sat on the couch; Adith Rhodis, on one of the wingbacks. Both looked up at her expectantly. "Well?" Mrs. Rhodis asked loudly. "What did you find out? Paul didn't have a dime, did he?"
Leigh shook her head, explaining how Anita's money was lost to the state.
"So somebody bumped Norman off before he could inherit it," Mrs. Rhodis declared proudly. "And good riddance, if you ask me."
"The one-hundred-twenty-hour rule complicates things," Cara noted. "If, for instance, Paul wanted to kill both Anita and Norman so he could have everything, he timed it wrong. But if Robbie wanted to keep Paul from inheriting Anita's money, he timed it just right."
