by Edie Claire
"Oh my God!" Michelle wailed when she had caught her breath. "Is that what was in that box! It could have been a bomb or something!"
"A bomb!" Marcia squealed. "Did anybody check for wires?"
"Calm down, please." Randall said quietly. He voice was perfectly controlled, but there was no missing his simmering annoyance. "Michelle, you’ve seen this box before?"
The young woman nodded, her face pale. "It was on the back doorstep when we came in this morning. I thought it came UPS or something."
"Does it have a UPS label?" Jeanine sniped. "Does it have any label at all?"
"Sorry," Michelle gulped.
"Who is it supposed to be for?" Marcia asked, her voice shaking. "What does it mean?"
Leigh seized her opportunity. "We think maybe a guy named Dean sent it. You know anybody named Dean?" She watched the three suspect faces carefully.
Nora’s registered a blank, but Marcia and Michelle nodded in unison. "There’s two in Avalon," Marcia said quickly. "Dean Hamly and Dean Murchison."
"Dean Hamly’s a sweetheart," Michelle chimed in. "He’s got three kids. We used to baby-sit for him."
"Dean Murchison’s an asshole," Marcia added unapologetically. "My sister dated him once, and she said—" The assistant broke off when she glanced up at her boss. "Well, anyway. He’s a goof, and he’s like, weird, too. I can see him doing something like this."
"But why would he?" Michelle asked no one in particular. "You think he could be, like, a psychopath or something?" They both looked at fearfully at Randall.
"We don’t know who sent it," he said simply.
"It’s just like the rock," Jeanine proclaimed. "This makes two threats. And whoever it is, now they’re threatening all of us."
Leigh cringed again, but not fast enough, as Marcia’s and Michelle’s renewed screams rattled the lightbulbs in the surgical lamps.
"Stop that!" Nancy Johnson cried harshly. The normally serene business manager’s face was angry as she forced her way into the surgery. Leigh had never seen her miffed before, but dealing with Marcia and Michelle all day could fray anyone’s nerves. "We’ve got clients out front who are convinced some poor animal is being tortured back here. What’s going on?"
All the principals in one room, Leigh thought to herself. Excellent. "We’ve gotten another anonymous threat," she answered, motioning toward the box.
Nancy stepped up and looked into it, then backed up, obviously daunted. She said nothing.
"I’m going to call the police and let them handle it," Randall said firmly. "Nobody else touch the thing. Marcia and Michelle—go home. Nancy—tell the people the girls saw a mouse. Nora—go back to whatever you were doing. And Jeanine—take Number One Son to a cage and keep a close eye on him till he’s awake. Now."
Reluctantly, the staff scuttled, and Leigh wished that her father had waited a few moments longer. The staff’s reactions were giving her valuable information. She would bet money that Nora had nothing to do with the threats. On the other hand, Marcia and Michelle’s personal knowledge of Dean made them very likely to know something, whether they were aware of it or not. And Nancy had been visibly disturbed by the box, which deserved further questioning.
As her father headed off to call the police, Leigh peered again into the nest of dirt and Styrofoam. It was undeniably creepy, even if the sender hadn’t been so macabre as to injure the doll itself, which, other than being muddy and having no clothes on, was fine. But what did it mean? Did the fact that it was a baby doll have something to do with the mystery heir that no one—with the apparent exception of Dean—believed existed?
She let out a breath and shuddered a little. Marcia and Michelle knew Dean, and they had said he was weird. They had even wondered if he was a psychopath. Having had some acquaintance with a psychopath in the past, she didn’t think so. She didn’t even think he was a violent person. But then, she had never really talked to him one-on-one.
Perhaps it was time.
***
"You want to meet for lunch today?" Warren J. Harmon III, District 2 County Councilman, was dressed in his standard business suit, and looked divine. He generally did, a fact which Leigh had foolishly overlooked during the first twelve years of their acquaintance. It had taken her a long time to see past the skinny, acne-scarred teenager she had met as a University of Pittsburgh freshman, but when her eyes had finally opened, she had been instantly hooked. Her good-hearted geek of a buddy had morphed into a savvy and successful local politician, with his integrity still amazingly intact. Along with—conveniently enough—his weakness for her.
"I can’t," she said, genuinely regretful. "I have…other plans."
He looked at her thoughtfully. "Like what?"
When she didn’t answer, he pulled over a rickety chair and sat down next to her at the breakfast table. "All right. Enough. Tell me what you’ve been doing all weekend. And don’t say unpacking, because I’m not blind."
Leigh’s eyes scanned the cluttered room. "I found the toaster," she offered weakly.
Her husband just looked at her. He had always had the unnerving ability to read her mind, and since their marriage a year earlier, he had only gotten better at it. "Perhaps I should ask, 'which relative is it?’ Has your Aunt Bess gotten into trouble again? Or is it Cara?"
Leigh smiled. "The Morton women are all fine, thank you. I’m merely helping my father with a little melodrama at the clinic. We’ll talk about it tonight. Promise." She finished off her java and rose, hoping she had sounded sincere. She did intend to tell him everything eventually; his opinion could be valuable. But this morning, there simply wasn’t time. Besides, if he knew what her immediate plans were, he wouldn’t like them. Neither would Maura.
"And why didn’t you mention this last night?" he asked, still eyeing her suspiciously.
An evil smile spread across her face. "We were preoccupied."
Warren hid a grin behind his coffee cup. "That’s no excuse."
Leigh planted a kiss on his cheek. "Gotta go."
***
Avalon’s Chuckwagon Cafe was short on ambience and long on grease, but it was easy on the budget, and Leigh came from a long line of cheapskates. She glanced over the stained plastic menu towards the dark wooden doors, which swung open to the sound of a clanging dinner bell. Dean and Rochelle Murchison entered, he dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt, and dirty sandals; she in a midriff-baring top and skin-tight leggings. They scanned the dingy room with sunglasses on.
"Over here," Leigh waved, plastering a smile on her face. It didn’t really matter if she was noticed, since no one she had any respect for could possibly be eating there also. "Have a seat."
The couple slid into the booth opposite her, the adornments on Dean’s massive belt clanking as they settled themselves on brown vinyl cushions patched liberally with duct tape. Dean wrapped an arm around his wife, removed his sunglasses, and eyed his hostess with amusement. "I still don’t know what you want to talk to us about," he said in the same overloud, self-important voice that had bugged her at the will reading. "Your dad want more of Lilah’s money?"
With great effort, she returned a smile. Dean Murchison was the kind of sleazeball who looked at every woman as though confident she wanted him. "Of course not," she said pleasantly, teeth gritted. "Your mother has already been extremely generous with her cats."
"Tell us about it!" Rochelle sniffed, her sunglasses still on. Leigh tried to read the other woman’s expression, but the dime-store mirrored lenses showed only Leigh's own reflection. It was a good trick. She would have to remember it.
"I asked you here because I need your help figuring out something." And also because it’s a public place, and as pathetic as you look, you may still be dangerous. "Ever since your mother’s plane went down, my father has been receiving threats at the clinic. We wondered if the two things might be related, and we figured you were the best one to ask. What do you think?"
Dean didn’t answer immediately, and Leigh squirmed in her seat.
Perhaps confronting the couple head-on had been a bad idea, but she didn’t think so. Despite Maura’s rather forceful insistence to the contrary, she did know the difference between police business and a little harmless fact-finding. Namely, that only one of the above ever happened fast enough. She wanted to know if Dean Murchison was behind the threats at the clinic, and she wanted to know now. Sure, if he was guilty, the Avalon PD would eventually catch him in the act, or come up with some physical evidence tying him to the rock or the doll. But why wait for the wheels of the justice when, for the cost of a few burgers, a clever story, and a ditz act, she might very well settle the whole mess over her lunch hour?
"I’m sorry," she apologized as a waitress appeared. "I’m picking your brains and I haven’t even fed you yet. Please, order whatever you want. It’s the least I can do."
She selected the grilled cheese and bacon combo on page three; her guests mumbled off their orders without looking at the menu. It figured.
As soon as the waitress had departed, she dove in. "I have this theory, you see, but nobody can really help me with it except it you guys." She lowered her voice for effect, and was gratified to see both members of her audience leaning in. Rochelle even took off her sunglasses. "I think that somebody is planning to try and pass themselves off as your mother’s real heir. Now, you and I know that your mother doesn’t really have another heir—that she just made that up."
"We do?" Dean said suddenly.
Rochelle poked her husband in the ribs, and Leigh tried hard not to notice. "But I think that somebody’s planning to fake some evidence, like a birth certificate, and try to get your inheritance. Only someone at the clinic knows that this person can’t be Lilah Murchison’s child. And that knowledge is getting them threatened."
"Yeah," Dean bellowed, leaning back again. "We know all about the messages and stuff. The fuzz think we did it." He chuckled heartily.
Leigh feigned innocence, hard. "They do? Why would they think that?"
Dean shrugged. "Like because I’m the one with the most to gain, I guess. But they got it figured different from you. They think somebody at the clinic knows who the real heir is."
"But there is no real heir."
"Course not," Rochelle answered smoothly, her voice pitched low. "But the police don’t know that."
"They don’t know anything," Dean agreed, projecting an oddly goofy grin. "They have no clue what a witch mummy dearest was, either. She never gave me squat, did you know that? All those millions, and she let Rochelle and me live like pond scum."
Rochelle nodded enthusiastically, the spikes of hair on her head lagging a little behind the bobbing of her chin. Her voice was screechy again. "He’s had to work for a living!"
Leigh made a mental note of the tone switch, then turned back to Dean, trying hard to look sympathetic. "That’s awful. Did you have a rough childhood?"
Dean shrugged. "Eh. It was okay."
"Lilah was never around," Rochelle piped up bitterly. "He was, like, raised by the maids, you know? Servants and cats. That’s what he grew up with. Skinny, cross-eyed cats."
"I see," Leigh answered, a better picture of the Murchison household beginning to form. "I was sorry to hear about Peggy. Are you going to her funeral tomorrow?"
The waitress arrived with drinks, and Dean squinted at her over his Rolling Rock. "Who?"
Rochelle appeared equally perplexed, and Leigh paused a moment, surprised. "Peggy Linney, the housekeeper. She was at the will reading. I thought maybe she was one of the staff who raised you."
Dean snorted. "Linney the Ninny? That woman made my life more miserable than my own mother did. 'Eat your peas! Wipe your feet! Stand up straight!'" He shook his head. "Damn, what a bitch. She just died, huh? Hell, I thought she croaked years ago. Couldn’t believe it when she showed up at the will reading. Gave me the creeps."
He took a long swig of beer, and Leigh watched him curiously. Peggy Linney had spoken so positively of him; in fact, she was the only one Leigh had yet heard of who did. But the feeling was clearly not mutual. He had appeared not even to recognize the woman’s first name. Was he acting?
She studied his dark brown eyes carefully, but she wasn’t sure. Both these two could not be as neuron-deficient as they appeared, not if one of them had managed to come up with the cat-poisoning story that had so successfully manipulated Ricky Rhodis. If she had to guess now, she would say that it was psychotic-in-training Rochelle, and not her inflated husband, who was hiding half a brain up her sleeve. But she needed more to go on. "Wasn’t there anyone at the house that you were close to?" she continued with concern.
Dean started to speak, but his wife cut him off. "All the servants was mean to Dean except one," she remarked, her tone now slightly bored.
Dean nodded. "Yeah, Hetta was cool." Then he looked up at Leigh suspiciously, his face breaking into another too-wide, disturbing grin. "What do you care, anyway? I thought you wanted to know who was messing with your dad."
Leigh did a quick regroup. She had never been much good at keeping her deceptions straight. "It could be important," she answered, thinking quickly. "If someone’s planning on claiming to be Mrs. Murchison’s child, it’s likely to be someone who knew her well. Someone who had an inkling what would be in her will."
His face darkened. "Yeah, I guess."
"Are we ever going to eat?" Rochelle complained. She stood up and faced the door to the kitchen, cupping both hands around her mouth as she yelled, "What're you doing back there? Killing cows?"
Leigh shrank in her seat as Dean grabbed his wife by her waistband and pulled her back down into the booth. "They could at least bring the fries out," Rochelle responded, pouting.
Leigh stole a surreptitious glance at her watch and began to plan a premature exit. Fact-finding was one thing, but these two were loony toons. She had to get what she needed quick. "Anyway," she began intently, "Do you have any idea who might want to claim to be your mother’s heir?"
"Lots of people," Dean said mildly, grinning again. Leigh pulled her eyes away from his with frustration. To his credit, he was smart enough to notice that she was looking at him closely. Unfortunately, he seemed to be chalking it up to his sex appeal. As his wife continued to scowl in the direction of the kitchen, he offered Leigh a wink and a leer.
She tried not to shudder. "Do you know any of the staff at my father’s clinic?"
He seemed confused. "I don’t even know who works there. Except the retard."
Leigh’s blood began to simmer. Fifteen seconds. She would give him fifteen seconds, and then she was out of here. Case closed or not. Otherwise she’d be in jail for assault with a ketchup bottle.
Rochelle had zoned back in. "Why don’t you tell us who works there, and we’ll tell you if we know them?" she suggested sweetly.
A little too sweetly. Especially considering the fact that her husband was, at that moment, attempting to run a bare toe up and down Leigh’s thigh.
"Will you look at the time?" she announced loudly, bolting from her seat. "I’m so sorry. I forgot I had an important business meeting this afternoon. Advertising clients, you know, very demanding. Gotta run. But thanks for your help." She pulled a twenty from her wallet and slapped it on the greasy tabletop.
"But you haven’t even got your food yet!" Dean protested, looking disappointed.
"Don’t worry about me; I’ll grab a Snickers," she answered as pleasantly as possible. "Thanks again! Goodbye!"
Trying not to run out of the restaurant as she fast as she wanted to, she forced herself to glance backward as she walked out the door. The food had just arrived, and Dean was picking fries off his plate while it was still in mid air.
Rochelle was staring back at her.
Chapter 10
Leigh nibbled on the emergency bag of pretzels she kept in her desk drawer. She was feeling a bit woozy. A perfectly good opportunity for a romantic lunch with her husband wasted—and for what? Precious little information, along with the unwelcome knowledge that Dean
Murchison’s toenails needed a trim.
She gazed at the half-written e-business pamphlet sitting idly on her monitor and sighed. Getting paid to be creative was great—unless something else happened to be on her mind, in which case her efforts weren’t worth squat.
Enough. She clicked on Shut Down, switched off her monitor, and grabbed a handful of pretzels to go. She had gone into business for herself for several reasons, not the least of which was the ability to set her own hours. So what if she didn’t sleep the rest of the week? She couldn’t sleep as it was.
She had thought that talking to Dean and Rochelle Murchison face to face would somehow guide her instincts to an answer. Were they responsible for the threats at the clinic? And if so, were they actually dangerous? She still wasn’t sure. Her knee-jerk reaction was that they were perfectly capable of delivering the threats, and that Rochelle—at least—was wily enough to be dangerous. But she had also gotten the strong impression that the gruesome twosome themselves didn’t understand everything that was going on.
Whether they knew for a fact that another heir existed or whether they only suspected it, one thing was for certain. If they were behind the threats, they must have a good reason to believe that someone at the clinic was involved. And that’s what was driving her crazy.
That, and the gnawing fear she had been unable to rid herself of since she learned of Peggy Linney’s death. Peggy had been positive that there was no other heir; she even claimed to have delivered Dean herself. But what if that seemingly harmless old woman had been lying through her teeth? What if she did know something?
What if it had cost her her life?
"Working real hard, I see."
Leigh looked away from the black monitor she had been staring at to see over six feet of detective standing behind her. "Do you get paid more when the computer’s on?" Maura asked with a grin.
"Time and a half," Leigh answered, offering her absent office mate’s chair. "What brings you by?"
