Never Con a Corgi (18 page)

"Don't be afraid, Chewbacca," Jared soothed, getting to his knees and attempting to coax the trembling corgi out into the open. "Nothing to be afraid of, Chewbacca."

Leigh grinned at Jared's use of the dog's "formal" name. Warren had originally named the puppy after a Star Wars character, of course, but they had all long since forgotten that. Except Jared. Jared never forgot anything.

"Oh," Frances exclaimed suddenly. "You mean Allison, of course. You should have called me. I could have taken her home."

Leigh's eyebrows rose. "Allison?"

Frances' attention diverted to Chewie, who had just crept out into full view. Leigh had hosed and dried off his underside just enough to preserve the floor of the van—but her efforts had barely made a dent in his impressive overall appearance.

"Merciful heavens!" Frances exclaimed, "Leigh Eleanor Koslow, what have you done to that dog?!"

Leigh steeled herself. It would never do for her to
ask
her mother to clean something for her. Such a request would be too far out of character to be believed. She looked from her mother to the dog, then back. She shrugged. "He was in the woods at Aunt Bess's. I guess he got a little muddy."

"A little muddy!"
Frances shrieked. "He's a nightmare! Just look at all those burrs in the poor dog's coat! And what is... oh, for pity's sake!
Feathers!"

Leigh struggled to keep her face impassive. "He's not
that
bad, Mom." She noted that Jared had surreptitiously crept away from the scene. Mentally challenged, indeed.

The glare Frances turned on her daughter could melt an iceberg. "This dog needs attention," she ordered. "And immediately!"

"I'll get to it," Leigh insisted, withering slightly, despite her resolve. "I just have two or three more stops to make this afternoon—"

"Then I'll do it myself!" Frances said sharply, removing the lead from Leigh's hand. "He can go home with me for the afternoon. That way I can make sure he's groomed
properly
. He'll have to ride there in a carrier, though. I just vacuumed the upholstery in the car this morning."

Jared, who had already begun sweeping the cat litter off the floor, laid his broom aside, magically produced a carrier from a shelf above the cages, and set it down on the floor beside Chewie.

"Thank you, Jared," Frances praised. But when her gaze returned to the floor, her jaws tightened. "I should sweep up that cat litter first, though."

"Oh, no, Mrs. Koslow!" Jared said quickly, snatching the broom to his chest as if it were his first born. "I can sweep up. I'm happy to sweep up. It's my job to sweep up, Mrs. Koslow!"

Frances's lips bent slowly into a smile. "Yes, you're right, Jared. It is your job, isn't it? And you do it very well. My mistake." She turned back to her daughter, and the smile disappeared. "I'll return the dog to you at the park tonight. Same time, same place?"

Leigh nodded. She squatted down to close the door of the carrier, which Chewie had crawled into immediately upon its appearance. He didn't like getting in a carrier at home, but once at the clinic, he would hide in anything. "Have fun, little guy," she whispered. "I owe you one."

Chapter 18

Courtney opened the door of Diana's apartment, took half a step out, and nearly collided with someone.

"Oh," she cried, stepping back inside. "Detective Peterson. I... didn't know you were coming."

Diana's heart skipped a beat. Her apartment was a popular destination today.

"No way you could have," Peterson replied pleasantly, leaning into the doorway. He spotted Diana and gave a nod. "Good afternoon, Ms. Saxton. Would you mind if we came in?"

We?
Diana thought to herself, even as she nodded in reply. Peterson stepped through the door, politely wiped his shoes on the welcome mat, and entered. Behind him, much to Diana's dismay, came the Amazonian police woman. The female detective never said much, but she made Diana nervous. Not many people did. It annoyed her.

"I hope you didn't rush down here because of my voice mail," Courtney twittered anxiously. "I'm perfectly fine, as you can see."

"Glad to hear it," Peterson responded. "But I dropped by because it just so happens I need to talk to both of you ladies."

Lovely.
Diana applied a fake smile. She had a sneaking suspicion that Peterson was a good deal more intelligent—and hence, more dangerous—than might be assumed from his slight, unimposing appearance. "Come have a seat," she offered, gesturing all three of her visitors to her small living area. She pulled up the zebra-striped desk chair for herself and joined them.

"As I mentioned in the voice mail," Courtney prattled, "I'm only here because I needed help clearing up some issues with Brandon's business. I've rehired Ms. Saxton temporarily until it's settled. Why are you here? Has something happened?"

The detectives didn't answer for a moment. Diana took a cleansing breath. She knew what they were up to. They were about to drop a bombshell, and they were watching for the women's reactions.

"Brandon Lyle's missing gun has been located," Peterson said evenly. "We don't have the ballistics report back yet, but the circumstances in which it has been found are quite curious." He turned to Diana. "Ms. Saxton, you mentioned to me yesterday that you were aware that Mr. Lyle possessed a permit to carry firearms, and that you had been in his presence when he had done so."

Diana shrugged. "I went to the shooting range with him a couple times. But it wasn't like he carried it every day. I told you that."

"Brandon never carried a gun just to carry it!" Courtney interjected, flustered. "He couldn't hit the side of a barn. Where did you find it?"

Detective Peterson's eyes remained disconcertingly on Diana. "At the Ironworks Health Club."

Easy, girl
.

Diana shrugged again. "That doesn't surprise me. Brandon was a slob; he left things everywhere."

Courtney sat up. "So Brandon
wasn't
killed with his own gun?"

Diana cast a quick glance at the female detective, and noticed that her eyes were trained on the widow. When Diana looked at Peterson, she found him staring straight back at her. No wonder there were two of them.

"You are a member of the Ironworks Health Club, are you not?" Peterson asked Diana, ignoring Courtney's question.

"I am," she answered calmly. "For the last year or so. I work out there a couple times a week."

"Do you know when Brandon Lyle had last been there?"

"I couldn't say. We hadn't gone together in a while."

"And when were you there last?"

"Yesterday."

"Did you by any chance see Mr. Gil March while you were there?"

"No."

Peterson was watching her intently. Diana didn't flinch.

At last, the detective turned to the widow Lyle. "Were you aware that your husband was a member at the Ironworks?"

"I knew he went to a gym somewhere," Courtney answered, sounding confused. "I didn't pay any attention to where. Why? What's the big deal? I don't know why he would take his handgun to the gym, but if he wasn't shot with it, what does it matter?"

Once again, Peterson ignored the question and turned back to Diana. "Ms. Saxton," he drilled, "have you been inside Mr. Lyle's apartment since you went to look for him the night of the murder?"

"Yes," she answered immediately. "I went back the next day, after I left the office. I had to pick up some of my things from the bedroom."

Diana sensed, rather than saw, Courtney bristle in the armchair to her left.
Miserable hypocrite
. Brandon's wife had been so incensed when she discovered their affair, Diana had actually believed she gave a damn. Turns out all Courtney was incensed about was the injustice of Brandon's being able to charge her with desertion even as he shacked up with an employee. Diana had no sympathy. Courtney should have had the sense to let Brandon cheat first. She would have had to wait what, a week?

"Brandon gave me my own key, you see," Diana finished smoothly.

A flicker of dislike crossed Peterson's pale eyes.

Oops. Too much?

"Detective Peterson," Courtney spat out impatiently, "Do you think Brandon was shot with his own gun or not?"

The detective paused a moment. "We don't know yet, Ms. Lyle," he answered calmly, still looking at Diana. "As I said, the ballistics report isn't back yet. What's curious is that the gun was found not with Mr. Lyle's things, but in a gym bag belonging to Mr. Gil March."

Ah,
Diana thought.
There it is.

"So what?" Courtney responded. "Maybe Brandon loaned it to him. They've been friends forever. What does it matter?"

Diana pretended distress. Her eyes widened; her shoulders drew together. "Oh, dear," she breathed.

"What?" Courtney repeated, glaring at her. "What's the big deal?"

Diana's eyes locked on Peterson's. "I knew there were some...
issues
between them. Brandon was so... agitated. But I really didn't think—"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous!" Courtney scolded, rising to face Diana. "Gil had nothing to do with it, and you know it."

Diana's cheeks flared. She straightened in her chair, meeting Courtney's glare with one of her own. "
Do
I?"

Courtney's face clouded with confusion. "You worked for him!"

Diana wished she could look embarrassed. But it wasn't possible. "Yes," she said firmly. "I worked for him." She cleared her throat. "Among other things."

Brandon Lyle's widow did a double take. For a moment, she just stood there staring, her rosy-lipped mouth hanging open dumbly.

Diana wondered if she had made a tactical error.

"Are you saying," Detective Peterson asked mildly, "That you also had an intimate relationship with Mr. March?"

Diana's gaze stayed on the detective, but she could feel the heat of Courtney's stare like a brush burn. "I am," she confirmed. "But only briefly, while I was still working for him. I broke off the relationship about six months ago, and he fired me."

Courtney made a sort of strangled noise. Evidently, she had started to speak, but then thought better of it.
Perfect.

"Brandon didn't know, of course," Diana continued. "And Gil didn't know about Brandon. I figured it was better that way. I would hate for myself to be... well, a source of tension between them. They had enough issues as it was."

Detective Peterson sat up straight. "Are you saying that, to your knowledge, neither of the men was aware of your relationship with the other? At least not as of the morning you left Brandon to go to Harrisburg?"

Fished in!

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Diane proffered. "I should think I would know if they did. That could be quite..." she let her voice trail off. She projected a look of profound disturbance.

The room went quiet. Detective Peterson sat back on the couch. He tapped his pen on his notebook thoughtfully. The female detective said nothing.

"Ms. Lyle," he said finally, turning to Courtney, "were you aware of any recent hostilities between your husband and Mr. March?"

Diana looked over to see Brandon's wife tensing with discomfort. Courtney's eyes darted toward her, but Diana turned away.
Don't look at me, idiot!

"I don't know!" Courtney spat out. "It's not like Brandon and I talked about this stuff! They've known each other since college, and Gil was trying to help him with the business. I've heard Brandon complain that he wasn't helping enough, but that's Brandon for you—he wasn't what you'd call the 'grateful' type."

Her voice rose. "This is all just stupid, anyway! Why can't you people find out who shot my husband and let me know? Is that so much to ask?!"

The idiocy of her question hung in the air a moment. Then Courtney snatched up her bag and made for the door. "If there's nothing else," she snapped, "I'll be going now."

"Ms. Lyle," Detective Peterson called after her, without rising.

"Yes?" she said impatiently.

"I have to ask that you not leave the county. At least not for the next few days. We may need to question you again."

Courtney's lower jaw trembled. Her eyes flashed with a combination of what Diana interpreted to be annoyance, outrage... and fear.

"Freakin'
fabulous!!!"
the widow shouted. And on that note, she left.

Diana startled at the violent slamming of her door. She turned her attention back to the detectives.

"Is there anything else?" she asked politely.

"Not at the moment," Peterson responded. "But the same request applies to you. We need you to stay in town and be available for questioning."

"I can do that," Diana agreed, trying not to look as smug as she was feeling. She had a right to be proud. She had an iron-clad alibi. She had the upper hand on wifey-poo. And the world's most sanctimonious prig was being roasted over an open fire. Slowly.

Delightful.

She felt another gaze upon her, and turned to look at the female detective. The policewoman's body language was impassive. Her stare was blank. But for one brief moment, at the corners of her mouth, Diana could swear she saw the hint of a rather malicious-looking smile.

A shiver slid down her spine.

She was sure she had only imagined it.

***

The Koslow Animal Hospital wasn't horribly busy. Leigh found her father in the treatment room, bending over a patient. She was surprised to see that the helper holding the patient was her own ten-year-old daughter.

"Allison?" she exclaimed, "what are you doing here?" Frances' earlier statement came back to her, making sense now.

Two heads of dark hair lifted up to look at her. Two pairs of glasses were adjusted with quick wrinkles of the nose.

Birds of a feather.

Leigh grinned. Randall Koslow was graying a bit around the temples, but only a bit. The veterinarian was pushing seventy, but evidently hadn't gotten the memo. He worked as much as he ever worked and refused even to talk about retirement. Steady, plodding, and unflappable, Randall had always been Leigh's rock. Why on earth he had married a woman like Frances was a mystery on par with Stonehenge, but for the sake of Leigh's own existence, she was very glad that he had.