Never Buried: A Leigh Koslow Mystery (24 page)

"Then your Dad couldn't have known," Leigh said quickly, having no desire to slander the idol of the world's most honest person. "Neither of your parents knew. There must be some other explanation." She tried hard to think of one. "Maybe Robbie didn't kill Norman. Maybe it really was a suicide, and Paul blamed him unjustly."

Maura shook her head. "He'd have no reason to stay hidden once the death was actually declared suicide. Paul's official statement was that no one else was in the house that night—if he recanted his story, it wouldn't be worth crap. And even if Paul Fischer continued to threaten to 'expose' Robbie, he's been dead for a decade. Why be afraid now? If Robbie is back and trying to destroy evidence that he once committed murder, I have to believe it's because that evidence is damned good."

Leigh considered the argument. "But that evidence would have to say more than just 'Robbie Fischer did it.' No one knows who 'Robbie Fischer' is. If he's afraid, it must be because the evidence identifies him
now
."

Maura looked at Leigh with respect. "I agree. Robbie Fischer is back and worried about exposure at least, prosecution at worst. Of the people Robbie Fischer knew best as a child, none will talk about him." She took a deep breath. "Don't you see? It all points to the same thing. My mom knew something. Maybe she's on his side and maybe she's not. But somehow, she got herself into trouble."

Something Mary had said at the dinner rose up in Leigh's mind.
Time can change people. I wouldn't presume to predict Robbie's behavior now.
Wise words from a wise woman. Perhaps she did know more than they'd given her credit for.

Leigh sat, silent in thought, but Maura headed for the staircase. "I've got to get some sleep. You can have the daybed in the sewing room upstairs, or the couch if you like—it's probably more comfortable. You'll find sheets and blankets in the closet next to the bathroom. Anything else you need?"

Leigh shook her head absently, her gaze falling on a stack of old photo albums piled on one of the chair seats. "Wait," she called, "Would you mind if I looked through those albums, too? They're hers, right?"

Maura looked even more tired. "I thought I might find—well, something. I didn't. There is a picture of Robbie, if you want to look at it."

"Thanks," Leigh answered, her eyes lighting up. "And thanks for letting me stay here."

Never comfortable with gratitude, Maura simply nodded and kept climbing.

***

After unearthing a nearly full can of Cafe Vienna in the pantry, Leigh allowed herself the indulgence of settling down with a steaming mug and the dusty pile of albums. She loved old things. There was an aura about them that attracted her—they had experienced things she never would. Who had held them? Where had they been? What corner of the world, what moments in whose lives, had they witnessed?

None of the albums were dated on the outside. Leigh ignored the vinyl ones with the plastic-covered stick-on sheets, more interested in those that were leather bound and filled with brown paper. They weren't stacked in any discernible order, yet Mary was clearly a historian, of sorts. One album focused solely on Chief Polanski’s career, beginning with a photo of he and Mellman as teenagers graduating from the police academy, and ending with a carefully laminated obituary. Other albums were more general, full of yellowed newspaper clippings from weddings, funerals, births, and graduations.

Leigh opened each and flipped through quickly, trying to establish its time frame. She couldn't help learning quite a bit about Mary: she was fond of local theater, enjoyed regional history, and was proud as a peacock when Maura tried out for the seventh grade football team.

But where was the picture of Robbie? Leigh concentrated on the most decrepit of the books, and opened one to a black and white picture of a family in front of a new clapboard house. A girl of nine or ten, clearly Mary, smiled from ear to ear as she posed with a small spotted dog. A younger boy had turned his head the second the picture was taken. The couple looked young and full of life, and Leigh wondered if Maura had known her grandparents.

This album was mostly pictures—family, friends, the spotted dog. The photographs didn't seem to be in any particular order age-wise, as if they had been transferred from a pile without much sorting. Some showed Mary as a child, others, as a young woman. Never handsome, but always with an air of dignity, her strong spirit shone through in all. Leigh could see why someone like Maura's dad could fall for her. She was a rock, even then.

Suddenly noticing a bright yellow bookmark sticking out from farther back, Leigh flipped ahead.
Well, duh
. On the left hand page was a large black and white photo of a school class, lined up in front of a brick building. Mary was in the back row, surrounded by boys. On the right hand page were three smaller pictures. One of Mary's father standing by a car, one with a corner ripped off—a teenaged girl riding a horse, and a tiny photograph of an adolescent Mary with a boy.

Leigh peered at it anxiously, then pulled it from its paper corners and looked at the back. "Robbie," it said simply, in pencil. She flipped it over again. Mary looked gangly and awkward, but certainly not shy. She had her arm draped clumsily around her beau, who was at least six inches shorter. His face was sweet and childlike, that of a boy just short of puberty. Soft-looking, wavy hair framed dimpled cheeks and kind eyes. "Geez, Mary," the expression said, "you're embarrassing me."

Leigh replaced the photo and shut the album with a smile, for once letting her gut instincts override logic. She would almost bet her life on it. That boy never killed anybody.

Chapter 21

According to the information desk at Magee, Cara March was no longer on the prenatal floor. She had been moved back into labor and delivery in the middle of the afternoon, and no incoming phone calls were allowed. Leigh's heart sank. She hung up Maura's phone and called home, praying that Randall would answer. She was lucky.

"Cara's contractions picked up again, so she's being treated with more of the magnesium sulfate," he answered calmly. "As I understand it, there still aren't any other signs of labor."

Leigh breathed a sigh of relief. "So she'll be down there through the night again, probably."

"Probably. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Maura had a scare, though." She told her father about the trip to Beaver, leaving out the gory details. Not that the description would bother him, but she didn't want to think about it. "I'm staying with Maura for now. Tomorrow I'll start apartment hunting. And tell Mom that I'm working on the job, too."

"Are you?"

"It's better you don't know that, Dad."

"Gotcha."

Leigh finished the call and started up the stairs. She had no idea what or where the sewing room was. She had had dinner with Maura and her parents a few times in the old days, but had only gone upstairs as far as the bathroom. Not that it mattered what the sewing room was like—even the basement was preferable to moving back in with her parents, or sleeping in a house known for mysterious deaths. Those two were a wash.

The narrow steps were covered with a worn green and gold shag carpet. Leigh smiled. Following fashion didn't appear to be a Polanski trait. The stairs opened up to a small foyer, where the carpet changed to burnt orange. A small bathroom and linen closet faced the top step, and a door off to the side, presumably the one to Maura's bedroom, was closed. A narrow hall led off toward the front of the house, with two open doors on one side and a heavier closed door, which appeared to connect the duplexes, on the other. Leigh walked past the first doorway and stopped, surprised.

Women's clothing was strung out over every surface—dresser top, bed, chairs, windowsill. The dresser drawers were open, with stray pieces of underwear hanging over the sides. She walked in for a closer look, wondering if this could be the sewing room, yet knowing that it wasn't. A brassiere dangled precariously from a drawerpull, and she lifted it and put it back in its place. 42A. This was Mary's room. So why the mess?

"Oh, dear. We really should have tidied up, shouldn't we? Mary doesn't need to come home to this!"

Leigh whirled to face a stooped elderly woman who leaned precariously on a wooden cane. "I'm sorry," the woman said pleasantly, "I didn't mean to scare you. You must be Maura's friend." She extended a wrinkled hand. "I'm Charlotte Pratt, from next door."

The kindly eyes dispelled Leigh's alarm, and she took the bony hand in hers. "Hello. I'm Leigh Koslow. You must be one of Maura's aunts?"

"Well, technically," Charlotte answered with a twinkle, "I'm her first cousin once removed. My mother and Chief Polanski's mother were sisters. But nobody bothers about such things anymore. 'Aunt' is fine."

The older woman's warmth was contagious. Leigh dared say she would be less accommodating if she found a stranger snooping in her cousin-in-law's underwear. "Maura's asleep—she was kind enough to offer me the sewing room for a few days," she explained. "I guess I'm in the wrong place."

"I'm surprised you didn't run in terror," Charlotte giggled. "Clothes thrown everywhere, scary old hag sneaking up on you..."

Leigh began to protest, but Charlotte dismissed her sputtering with a wave of a hand. "Don't bother telling me I'm beautiful, Leigh Koslow. I'm old, but I'm not stupid." She laughed again. "I am sorry about the mess. When we realized Mary was gone, Maura asked Judith and me to see if we could figure out what she was wearing. We were frantic, and a bit reckless—obviously. I never even thought about cleaning up."

Leigh remembered the descriptions she had faxed.
Wearing white cotton blouse and blue jeans with flowers embroidered on the back pockets
. "I guess you figured it out," she commented.

"Yep," Charlotte answered proudly, beginning to fold and put away the clothes. "We've been living side by side for eleven years; I don't imagine she owns a stitch we wouldn't recognize. She makes almost everything herself, you know."

Leigh nodded. Having this friendly woman to chat with set her detective sensors on. She cleared a spot on the bed, sat on its edge, and began to help fold. "Where do you think Mary might be?" she asked tentatively.

"To be truthful,” Charlotte began easily, “I can't think of a thing that could have happened that makes any sense at all. The Alzheimer's is getting worse, no doubt. But Mary's never been continuously incapacitated." She looked at Leigh out of the corner of her eye. "I was a nurse, you know. I'm not just prattling."

"I didn't think you were," Leigh answered honestly.

Charlotte appraised her. "Good. Too many people nowadays think a woman over seventy shouldn't know any words with more than three syllables, much less have a valid medical opinion."

"They're incognizant."

Charlotte guffawed. "He-he! I like you, Leigh Koslow."

"Likewise," Leigh smiled. "You have a theory about Mary?"

A pause followed as Charlotte took a deep breath. "I'm afraid to say what I really think. At first, when she disappeared, I thought she'd just wandered. Judith drops off at seven and sleeps like the dead, but I'm a night owl—and a light sleeper to boot. I've heard Mary get up and leave the bedroom before. I still don't see how she could get out of the house completely without me hearing her, but I can't say its impossible. Especially if she was trying to be quiet."

"Would she do that if she were confused?" Leigh asked, confused herself.

"Unlikely," Charlotte answered knowingly. "When she's out of it, her wandering seems innocent enough. Like she's trying to get somewhere, not get away from something. But I couldn't swear she wouldn't sneak out for some other reason—while in perfectly sound mind. Maybe she got confused later..." she faltered. "I'm just guessing like the rest of them."

Folding the clothes gave Leigh a new idea. "She was wearing street clothes; but Maura thought she had gone to bed."

Charlotte touched a finger to her nose. "Right-O. Either she never went to bed, or she changed out of her nightgown sometime before the next morning. We found it on the chair, right there." She pointed down at the chair she had just cleared, then returned to sorting the clothes on the bed. Leigh was about to ask another question when Charlotte's expression transformed into a puzzled frown.

"What?" the older woman muttered, shuffling around to the closet. She opened the doors and examined the clothes she had put away a few moments before. Then she turned again, quick enough to set her off balance for a moment, and sorted through the garments left on the bed. "Did you put anything away in the drawers?" she asked.

Leigh shook her head. Charlotte drifted about the room twice more, looking in the closet, the drawers—she even had Leigh check under the bed. Finally she sank down on the chair, her curved spine pitching her head away from its padded back. "I'm not sure I believe this," she said dryly.

"What is it?" Leigh asked, sitting forward herself.

"The pink shirt with the embroidered roses," came the low response. "And the T-shirt with the hummingbirds, and two pairs of white pants. And I'm not certain, but probably some underwear."

"What about them?!"