by Edie Claire
Leigh swore.
With deft timing, Warren managed to reach his car and start up the engine just as Frances Koslow's intent rapping sounded at the front door.
Leigh took a centering breath and opened it.
"Oh, poo," the woman on her porch exclaimed. "I just missed Warren, didn't I?"
Leigh surveyed her mother, who had clearly left home in a hurry. Never in Frances's sixty-some-odd years had she been known to leave her residence without a complete matched outfit (currently in fashion or not), a fully equipped bag (roughly the size of a newborn elephant), and a generous coating of lipstick (usually orange, occasionally pink, but never, ever red). And yet here she was— lips bare, polyester top and cotton slacks both alarming shades of olive. Thank God she at least had her handbag.
"He had to get back downtown," Leigh explained unnecessarily. In her mother's eyes, Warren could do no wrong under any circumstances.
It was Leigh that was the problem.
Frances shifted her gaze to her daughter and twisted her lips with disapproval. "He didn't have to make a special trip home, did he?"
Leigh considered her response. "Why would he?"
Frances' lips pursed further as she swept past her daughter and inside. "You know perfectly well why. Are the children around?"
"They're playing outside with their cousins," Leigh answered mechanically. "Did you know you forgot your lipstick?"
Frances gave a distressed little jump, then plopped down on Leigh's couch, dug out a gold hand mirror and orange tube, corrected the oversight, and stood up again.
Leigh felt better. "So, why did you come by?" she asked as politely as possible.
Frances scowled. "To make sure this fiasco goes no further, of course."
Leigh's brow furrowed. "Further than..."
Frances sighed. "If you must go around tripping over bodies, there's nothing I or anyone else can do to stop you. But really, dear... to involve your Aunt Bess? And poor, poor Gil?"
Leigh found herself, once again, speechless.
"Bess said she'd been trying to call you, but you weren't picking up," Frances accused.
Leigh cast a glance at her phone, which she had indeed been ignoring while she and Warren were talking to the children.
"Maura and her friend, the other detective, were very polite in their questioning, I'm sure," Frances continued. "But you know how Bess always plows into such situations head first—Lord only knows what she told them. She was raving on and on to me about how she caught the whole thing on tape, and how you knew but didn't tell her, and some nonsense about how some cat had made it all possible—always with those cats!—and then she suggested I come out and see how you and Cara were doing, because she was going to be busy running interference at the church all day."
Leigh's eyebrows rose. Her aunt might have said most of that, but no way had she sicced Frances' ministrations of support on Cara and herself. Bess might be dotty, but she was never cruel.
"Now," Frances began with a flourish, settling herself on the couch once more. "What we—" Her eyes narrowed. "These cushions could use a vacuuming, dear. And I daresay a little upholstery cleaner on these stains wouldn't hurt, either. Now, as I was saying, we'll need to plan what to do about this. Perhaps a family conference—"
"No!" Leigh interrupted, a bit more vehemently than intended.
Frances proffered the dreaded chin-down, eyebrows-up maneuver.
"I mean," Leigh backtracked, "it's too soon for that. Maura warned me not to go around telling anybody in the family what happened; she wanted to interview Bess and Gil first. That's why I couldn't say anything to Aunt Bess when I—"
"Well, the principals all know now," Frances interrupted. "Maura is interviewing Gil and his lawyer even as we speak."
"How did you—"
"Cara told her mother, of course. Your Aunt Lydie and I have already discussed this situation thoroughly. Clearly, what we need to do is—"
"Mom," Leigh interrupted again. "We don't need to do anything. I am not a suspect. Aunt Bess is not a suspect. It looks bad for Gil at the moment, but he does have an alibi—we just need to verify it."
"Aha!" Frances pointed a finger. "Yes, we do. Lydie and I already have a plan for that. We could use your cooperation. And as for your not being a suspect this time..." her eyes narrowed again. "What, dare I ask, is your alibi?"
Leigh bristled. Her mother wasn't actually accusing her of murder, merely of doing something stupid. Like being alone without proper documentation on the night a murder was being committed. "For your information," Leigh said proudly, "I was here with Warren and the kids. And Detective Maura Polanski. And her husband, Lieutenant Gerald Frank of the Allegheny County Police Department."
A smile played on Frances's lips. Then, much to Leigh's horror, her eyes began to water. "Oh sweetheart," Frances said heavily. "That's wonderful. I've been so worried, you know."
"Yes, mom," she returned with a sigh. "I know."
Frances recovered quickly. "So," she announced with a little bounce on the couch, "now we need to establish Gil's alibi."
"Cara said he was walking in North Park."
"Exactly!" Frances agreed. "Which is why we need runners and dog walkers."
Leigh's brow furrowed.
"Consistency, dear. Always look for consistency. People with dogs tend to walk the same time, same route each day. Same with serious runners. The walkers, the children, the bikers"—she waved a dismissive hand—"they're all over the place. We need to find the regulars. And we need to find them tonight."
Leigh blinked. In no family crisis had her mother ever been short of her trademark overreactive, occasionally hysterical plans of action—most of which involved the entire extended Morton family and the expenditure of vast amounts of unwelcome and generally futile effort.
But this idea actually made sense.
Wow.
"So we'll go to the park tonight and ask people if any of them remember seeing Gil last night?"
Frances smiled smugly. "Precisely. If we're lucky, Gil will remember someone he saw, and we'll have a specific target. It was right around dusk, so most of the people still out were probably regulars. We'll meet at the boathouse at 8:15. Lydie will have his route and any leads ready."
"Sounds good," Leigh agreed.
"And, dear?"
"Yes?"
"I can see dust on those dining room curtains from here."
Chapter 7
Diana Saxton clicked her long, perfectly French-tipped nails on the smooth glass top of Brandon Lyle's designer desk. Her nose ran. Her mascara was streaked to her chin. She wanted to go crawl into a hole and die. She also wanted to smash something.
She was determined that she would do neither.
She would remain calm, no matter how incredibly tempting it might be to pick up the framed portrait of Brandon and his smiling bride and hurl it through the twelfth floor window and out into the traffic of Grant Street.
No matter if Courtney Lyle's odious words still rang in her ears like swirling acid. The woman was a viper. A leech. A devil.
I'm so sorry to be the one to break this to you, sweetie cakes, the witch had sniveled into her phone. But your sugar daddy's bit the dust. Gone. Cold. Dead. And you know what you are, you husband-stealing, gold-digging, silicone-implanted little wench? I'll tell you what you are. You're FIRED!!!
Diana withdrew another tissue from the box she'd been carrying around the eerily empty office for the last two hours. She blew.
"He never loved you, you know that?" she muttered, staring daggers at the airbrushed woman in the photograph. "It was me he wanted. He would have divorced you in a heartbeat if his finances hadn't—"
Her words choked on a sob. Close. She'd been so damned close.
And now she had nothing.
Again.
She couldn't stand it. Couldn’t bear for everything that had seemed so promising to go so suddenly, terribly wrong. But the blubbering and the sniveling had to stop, regardless. Her
situation was precarious; she needed to focus.
She would not be in Brandon's will, she knew that. And even if she was, he'd have nothing left. The business had bled him out like a stuck pig.
Her stomach gave a lurch.
She grabbed another tissue.
Brandon had been right; it was Gil's fault. His good buddy Gil, who had pretended to help him, then dumped him in his hour of need. Mr. Hollywood-Handsome Gil March had walked away from Brandon—with a fat consulting fee in his pocket—and never once looked back. He was a fraud. A hack. A self-righteous, ungrateful, overstuffed prig.
God, how she hated him.
For more reasons than one. But this time, he would not walk away unscathed.
She'd made sure of that.
A ding sounded from the outer office; the door was opening. Diana wiped hastily at her cheeks, tucked the tissue box back under her arm, and walked through the open doorway and back into the reception area.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice rough as gravel.
The man and woman—at least, Diana thought it was a woman—surveyed her studiously. Cops, she decided immediately. Neither wore a uniform, of course, but the man had that quiet air of authority one usually associated with detectives, while the woman—good God, what a woman; she was huge!—looked like she could take down three drug dealers with one blow. They had come to tell her about Brandon. And to search his office for clues, no doubt.
With a discreet flash of their badges, the detectives solemnly introduced themselves.
"I already know about Brandon," Diana said simply, sniffling. "His wife called a couple hours ago." She moved to her own desk chair and dropped down with a plop. "I've been in a kind of daze, you know?"
The detectives nodded, then exchanged a glance and a gesture. The woman seemed to be in charge, but it was the man, a Detective Peterson, who did the talking. He began as expected with stiff condolences, then moved quickly to the heart of the matter.
"Could you tell me the last time you saw Brandon Lyle, Ms. Saxton?"
Diana sniffled, then reached for another tissue. She really should have planned these answers out already; the truth was hardly neat and tidy. On the other hand, when it came to her relationship with Brandon, why should she lie? To spare his poor, dear little wife the embarrassment?
She blew.
"I was with Brandon all weekend," she answered matter of factly, "at his apartment. The last time I saw him was yesterday morning. He went to work at the office but I didn't go with him. I had an... appointment in Harrisburg, and I didn't get back until late."
"What kind of appointment?" the detective asked. "And exactly when did you return to Pittsburgh?"
Diana sighed. "I had a summons to small claims court," she answered curtly, hoping to avoid further inquiry on that score. It was nobody's business, after all, whether she had or had not keyed the Ferrari of a certain liposuctioned, neurotoxin-injected high school classmate whose head had gotten far too big for her tiara. The point was, she could easily prove that she had spent most of the day a good four hours from Pittsburgh. "I didn't get back to town until around ten o'clock last night."
"And did you contact Brandon at any point?" the detective pressed.
"Yes," she answered. "I phoned him as soon as I got out of court—around five. He was upset, and I told him I was coming home and would meet him at his apartment."
The detective leaned in. "What was he upset about?"
Diana hesitated, but only slightly. "He had an important meeting scheduled last night, with the congregation of a church whose land he wanted to buy. He had hired a PR person to run the meeting, but she bailed on him at the last second. His management consultant, Gil March, was supposed to be there, but apparently Gil also refused to take an active role in the meeting. So Brandon got stuck running the thing himself." She paused. "Brandon felt like he'd been back-stabbed—especially since Gil was supposed to be a friend."
She looked up from her tissues long enough to see the detectives exchange a pointed glance. Excellent.
"Did you go to his apartment when you returned?" Detective Peterson probed.
Diana nodded. "I did, but he wasn't there. He wasn't answering his phone, either. I'd tried him several times since the meeting should have been over, but he never picked up. When he wasn't home, I got worried, and I drove to the church myself."
She allowed a suitable dramatic pause. Best not to appear too eager.
"And what did you find there?" the detective prompted.
"His car," she responded. "Empty. The church was all locked up, but he was nowhere in sight. And his car was the only one in the parking lot. I couldn't figure it out."
She sniffled again. This was the important part. "My first thought was that he had gone out with Gil March somewhere. I wondered if maybe they had gone out for a drink or something afterward. I... well, it seems silly now, since they weren't getting along very well. But I didn't know."
Both detectives were leaning forward now.
"So I called Gil on his cell, and he—"
Diana's voice caught, and she buried her face in another tissue. "To say that the man was no help would be an understatement. He practically screamed at me. Told me he didn't know where Brandon was, didn't care, and didn't want to hear from me ever again!"
The detectives were silent for a moment. "At what time did you make that call?" Peterson asked.
"I'm not sure," she answered honestly. "10:30, maybe? I can check it if you want."
"We'll do that in a minute, if you don't mind," the detective answered. "But first, can you tell us what you did next?"
Diana's eyes narrowed at the memory. "I went back to Brandon's apartment. I thought I would just wait for him there."
"But he never came home?"
Her head shook. "I never got in. I recognized his wife's car in the parking lot, and I left. I went back to my own apartment, sent Brandon about four texts, and then finally fell asleep. This morning I came in to an empty office. Courtney called here and told me that Brandon was dead. And then you arrived. End of story."
More or less.
"Are you certain that it was Courtney Lyle's car you saw in the parking lot?" the female detective asked. Her voice was civil, but commanding. Diana made a mental note not to get on the woman's bad side.
"Absolutely. She drives a bright yellow Porsche Boxster with the license plate 1BANANA."
The detectives exchanged a hard glance. "And you weren't expecting her to be there?" Peterson asked.
Diana snorted. "She has an apartment of her own in Chicago and breezes in whenever she feels like it. But I would say no—Brandon wasn't expecting her. If he was, he would have warned me not to come."
She looked up from her tissue and straightened, her voice level. "Courtney said he was shot. I don't suppose you know by whom."
The detectives let a beat pass. "That's what we're trying to figure out, ma'am," Peterson said glibly.
"Well," Diana remarked, "I certainly hope you do."
"You've worked for Mr. Lyle as an administrative assistant for the last six months, is that correct?" Peterson continued.
"That's right," she answered.
"And you seem to be admitting that you also had a romantic relationship with Mr. Lyle, is that correct?"
Diana restrained a smile. Smiles were not appropriate here. "We were intimate, yes. He and his wife led separate lives."
"And she knew about his relationship with you?"
"Oh, yes. We had... run into each other before."
Do NOT smile!
"Yet you said he would have warned you if he had known his wife was coming home last night, so she must not have been entirely approving of the relationship."
Diana hid her face in the tissue and sputtered. She hoped it sounded like a cough. "I wouldn't say that his wife approved, no," she said carefully. "But our relationship was no secret."
Suspect number one: CHECK.
"Did Ms. Lyle say anything else when she cont
acted you this morning?"
"Yes," Diana answered, visualizing nails pounding into a coffin. "She fired me."
She gestured to the banker's box that sat open on her desk, already packed half full with personal items.
Beautiful.
"Please think carefully, Ms. Saxton," the detective pressed. "Did Mr. Lyle's wife say or ask anything that would lead you to believe she suspected anyone in particular of harming him?"
Diana thought a moment. She decided it would be best to play it safe. "No," she answered. "I asked what happened to him, and all she said was, 'someone shot the bastard.'"
Take that, wifey-poo.
"I see. We also do need to ask, Ms. Saxton... do you personally know of anyone who may have wanted to harm Mr. Lyle?"
Diana drew in a breath. She had to be careful. Overeagerness would hardly do. She started to speak and let her voice catch appropriately. "Until this morning, I would have said no. But obviously, I would have been wrong." She met the detective's eyes. Peterson's, not the he-woman's. Hers were far too probing. "You have to understand, Brandon was a businessman. He was high spirited and ambitious, and I won't lie to you—he could be very temperamental. I'm sure he made his share of enemies in the business world. But I can't imagine a business grudge going this far. I just keep thinking that it had to be... well... more personal."
Like an old friendship betrayed, perhaps?
"Did Mr. Lyle ever mention being afraid of anyone?"
Diana's lips twisted. The detective was not taking the bait. "Brandon wasn't the type to be afraid of anyone," she found herself defending. "I'm sure he was caught totally off guard."
Watch it.
"I mean," she backpedaled, "he never gave me any indication that he felt threatened by any of his business associates. It was all just business, even if it did get heated at times. Except..."
She waited.
"Ms. Saxton?" the detective prompted.
"It's just that Brandon had become a lot more agitated recently, and I felt there was something he was hiding from me. I knew he was concerned over the financing for the Nicholson project, that much was obvious, but I wasn't privy to the details—he had an accountant for that, and Gil March, of course. But closing this particular deal with the church seemed so hugely important to him... I've never seen him get quite so... well... emotionally wound up."
