Never Buried: A Leigh Koslow Mystery (26 page)
Read Never Buried: A Leigh Koslow Mystery Online
Authors: Edie Claire
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Thrillers, #Koslow; Leigh (Fictitious Character), #Pittsburgh (Pa.), #Women Cat Owners, #Women Copy Writers, #Women Sleuths
Wedging her shoulders through the door, she was just able to reach it. Thinking that Paul Fischer must have been a small man even before he shrank, she pulled the bottom of the pile toward her. The stack promptly collapsed—with books toppling onto her arms and a cloud of ancient dust exploding upward.
She pulled her head out of the hole, coughing, and shook the dust out of her hair. One book had fallen near the door, and she snatched it up hastily. The fine, gray-brown powder on its cover matched nicely with her newly decorated forearms. She opened the cover.
It was a journal, dated
Spring, 1968
. She flipped through the pages quickly, seeing the same, stilted printing she remembered from the poem. It was Paul's. Paul Fischer's journal.
All anyone talks about anymore is the war. On the bus yesterday, I tried to tell a man about how writing was a dying art. He told me I was foolish to think about art when young men were dying everyday on foreign soil. I told him I'd almost died on foreign soil myself, at Normandy. He believed it, but it didn't matter. He said that all war was wrong. We stopped talking then. How can you talk with someone like that?
Leigh's brow furrowed. She agreed that writing was a dying art, but as far as she could tell, Paul had little to contribute to it. Unless, of course, being prolific counted for something. She read a few more snatches that complained about the war-obsessed society, then put the book down and dug deeper into the cavity.
The journals were out of order now, if in fact they had ever been in order. The books were all neatly dated on the front, either with ink or label tape, but she had to pull each out and dust it off before she could read the inscription. Not all the books were the same. Some spanned only a few months, others years. A few plain notebooks had been thrown in; several in pencil and barely legible. She feared at first that the notebooks were the older ones, but they were dated at random—perhaps Paul had used notebooks whenever his current journal ran out of space, and before he bought another. She could see now why
Summer, 1987
was downstairs in his bedroom. He had not yet started it when he died.
Leigh found a book dated 1943, and squealed with delight. How old would Paul have been then? Eighteen.
I'm happy about it—why shouldn't I be? Father says he's worried about what everyone will think, but I doubt he cares, really. He doesn't want me to leave him, I know that. I'm all he's got.
He told me maybe I should tell people another reason, like that I have flat feet. But I don't see why being underweight is any worse than walking like a camel. The Fischers have never been big men. If it saves my hide and keeps me whole, I've got no problem with it. Let the others get shot at. I'll hold down the fort on this side of the ocean. Somebody's got to. God knows we can't leave it all to the women.
Any simpatico Leigh had felt for Paul as a fellow writer dissolved. He had been self-absorbed and small-minded at eighteen, and hadn't changed by forty-three. She slammed the book closed. When had Norman married Anita? It didn't matter. What she needed were the journals from 1949. Where were they?
She put her head and shoulders back into the hole, then froze. Sounds filtered in the hole around her waist and echoed up to her ears. She pulled her head out and sat quietly. The squeaking wood couldn't lie. Someone was walking up the attic stairs.
Her breath seemed to catch in her throat. Who was it? She hadn't been afraid—not really—not since seeing Robbie's face. The lights were on. It was probably just the police.
But there were no sirens, no sounds from farther below. Just the steady creaking. Step. Step. Step. The person's progress was maddeningly slow. If it was the police, why weren't they calling out? Leigh took a quick glance around the attic. There was nowhere to hide, even if she had time. The hole in the wall taunted her. If only she didn't have such damn big hips!
Step. Step. Step. Leigh's heart beat violently against her ribcage. There was no point in thinking—she was going to meet this person, and she was going to do it with a dusty book or two and a lightweight flashlight. No way around it. She grabbed at the flashlight and switched it off, then flattened herself in the corner of the dormer.
Step. Step. Heels creaked as they swiveled on the landing. The attic door was open. A flashlight beam appeared and shone through the doorway to the opposite wall of the attic, making sweeping arcs. Someone called her name.
"Leigh?"
She swallowed as the figure stepped into the light of the lone bulb. It was the blue-eyed security guard.
"I'm over here," she said, exhaling. "I...um... I forgot some things."
The flashlight beam swung around and caught her in the midst of the pile of books. "You scared me," she chastised.
The guard smiled. "Sorry," he apologized in a soft baritone. "I would have guessed you didn't scare easy. Are you crazy, coming back here by yourself, at night?"
"Probably," Leigh answered honestly. "But I needed something." A thought struck her. "So what are you doing here? I thought Mr. March cancelled your contract."
"That's what we’re supposed to say," he said matter-of-factly. "Your brother-in-law's no idiot. He figured maybe somebody would try something else if the house was unguarded."
"And that's a good thing?" Leigh said sarcastically. Gil was on her bad side, and she wasn't inclined to give him the benefit of a doubt.
"If we catch him, it is." the guard said logically.
Leigh humphed. "Well, why don't you tell Mr. March his security has been breached?"
The guard smiled again. "I already did—when you came in the front. He told me to find out what you were doing and then shag you outta here."
Leigh's face burned. "Well you can tell him I said 'Go to hell,' and that's a direct quote."
The security guard leaned back against the door frame and grinned, clearly enjoying himself. "I think it’d be better if you told him that yourself. In the meantime, please get what you need and come on out. It really isn't safe."
"Why not?" Leigh insisted. "You're guarding it, aren't you?"
His grin increased. "I guess you've got me there." He looked at the pile of books scattered at her feet. "I'll give you a couple minutes to get those together, then you'll have to leave, I'm afraid. Do you want help?"
"No," Leigh answered quickly, "I just want one or two. Thanks."
The guard winked at her, and left. She got back down on her knees, which were more than a little shaky. Fear, anger, and lust in quick succession could certainly wreak havoc on one's nervous system.
Determined to bring all the books out into the light, she put her torso back into the hole and shoved them out one by one. The bottom of the door had been poorly sanded, and she cursed at the scratches criss-crossing her stomach. It was a good thing she preferred one-piece swimming suits.
Coughing and sniffling, she pulled the books away from the dusty hole and began rubbing off each one.
Fall, 1961
.
Spring/Summer, 1954
.
Spring, 1947
. Had Paul Fischer been a more interesting person, she might have liked to read them all. As it was, only one mattered.
And after she had cleaned and stacked about two thirds of the journals, she found it.
Summer, 1949
. The stilted letters jumped out of the dust, reverberating in her brain like winning lottery numbers. She opened the book gingerly and turned to the first page.
June 12, 1949
I think he regrets it now—like I knew he would. All day long she does nothing but snivel around, whining about how I need to get married and how I never help out around the house. Father doesn't put up with that nonsense, and he shouldn't. He needs me around, and he knows it.
They need me around in the office too, but Klausen doesn't see that. He has no idea what a mess things would be without me—
Leigh skipped ahead, having already read all the self-obsessed whining she cared to read. Unfortunately, the entries that described events were few and far between; most of the journal was more of the same. Paul clearly resented both Anita and Robbie, and fantasized about living alone with his father again. It was hard for Leigh to remember she was reading the words of a twenty-four-year-old man and not an adolescent.
July 18, 1949
It's laughable! Here Anita would love nothing better than to marry me off, while her own son has more of the opposite sex than he can handle. I saw her hanging all over him again today. Poor little guy hasn't got a clue what to do with her. But then again, who would? Such an ugly thing—gangly, with those big bug eyes. Downright sinister-looking, if you ask me. Pulling him around like he was a puppy dog. Gad! And people wonder why I'm not in a hurry to get married!
Leigh curled her lip in distaste. Sinister looking? Mary? Perhaps that was how Paul Fischer interpreted intelligence in a woman.
August 2, 1949
Father split Anita's lip open yesterday. She deserved it, of course, but it's hard on everybody when she looks so bad. I heard the neighbor woman hassling her about it outside. She should just stay in when she looks like that. At least with Robbie, he can say he was fighting with kids at school. I'm amazed bullies don't beat him up more often anyway. He's such a Momma's boy.
Rage bubbled up in Leigh, and she slammed the book shut. But it was a pointless rage. Paul Fischer was dead—long dead.
She heard the guard moving around downstairs, and the sounds comforted her. The house was seeming evil again, if only because Paul Fischer had lived in it.
She took a deep breath and reopened the book. She wasn't reading any more of his nonsense than was absolutely necessary, but she had come here for a reason, and she'd gone too far to quit now. She flipped page by page until she found what she wanted. The first entry after the fateful night.
August 14, 1949
Everything's changed now. But that's okay.
I'll write to you now, father.
I'm sorry. You're gone, and life will never be the same for me. But everything's going to be all right. In a way I know you're still here with me—in this house. My house now.
I'm so, so sorry. But I did all I could, you have to admit that.
I kept my cool; I used my brain. And all should be well from here on out. You'll keep your good name. I'll see to that.
It was bound to happen sooner or later—the whole thing. Anita just kept on making you angry. She wasn't what you thought when you married her—I understand that. She was a silly, spineless woman who didn't deserve a man like you. I don't blame you. But you could have gone to prison for it. I saved you from that, father.
I was clever. The police were completely convinced, and why shouldn't they be? I knew you were proud of me. Dirty laundry would have been better, but it didn't matter. No one listened to that blabbermouth idiot Adith anyway.
A chill crept down Leigh's spine. She had suspected that Norman killed Anita; they all had. But seeing it spelled out in Paul Fischer's cold phrases turned her stomach. She wanted to stop reading, to throw the book at the wall, but she couldn't. The information she had wanted for so long was right there in front of her, and it just kept coming.
If Robbie hadn't acted like such a child, it would have ended there. But no—he had to argue about it, to actually strike you! It was his own stupid fault for falling against the marble. He wasn't hit that hard. I've taken plenty worse.
But they were weak, both of them. You were blubbering then, father, and don't deny it! I was the one who came through for you—I was the one who didn't panic. I knew no one would miss Robbie. They would just think he ran away. Which he probably would have, if he'd had a chance.
Leigh heard footsteps on the attic stairs again, but they didn't concern her. The guard could cool his heels until she was done.
My plan was a good one, and it would have worked. It did work! I tied the block on good—he went straight to the bottom and he's not coming up. I rowed way far out, where it's deep. I've always wanted to live on the river!
The footsteps were more rapid this time, and heavy. Leigh continued to read.
How could I know that damn kid was spying on me? I was cleaning up your mess—I couldn't stay with you, too. It wasn't my fault. You know it wasn't! I did everything I could for you, father.
