Never Con a Corgi (4 page)

As the road turned and crooked through the particularly thick woods obscuring the home of Bess's longtime neighbor Clem, Leigh's brow furrowed. The man had never caused her aunt any trouble, but his threats to Geralyn had been unsettling, to say the least. His house, which was set well off the road and back in the trees, was a rambling, ramshackle affair that had not seen a coat of paint since Leigh had been a size six. She caught only a glimpse of wheel-less vehicles, rusted oil drums, one brand-new pup tent, two wandering goats, and a hand-lettered sign reading "no trezpassing hear" before her attention was drawn back to the road, lest she wreck the van's suspension.

She would have to talk to her Aunt Bess about him.

One more bend in the road and she at last reached her Aunt's place, a well kept, white frame, one and a half story farmhouse. Though nowhere near as showy as the ex-Morrison's, the house's wide, inviting front porch, prominent chimney, and large windows made it by far the coziest dwelling in the neighborhood. Leigh parked, hopped out, and strode quickly to the front door, behind which she could already hear the yapping of Bess's primarily Pekingese, Chester.

"Come in, come in," Bess called gaily, swinging the door open wide as the geriatric pooch spilled out and hastened to sniff at Leigh's ankles, spinning like a top as he did so. "Calm down, Chester!" Bess corrected gently. "You know perfectly well it's only Miss Leigh." She turned to her niece. "He may not see too well anymore, but he certainly isn't deaf, is he? Still lets me know every time a car passes. Which is practically never, since the neighbors all did their deals with the devil. So, where are the kids?"

Leigh hesitated. Her Aunt Bess looked the same as she always looked, which was to say, ageless. The woman was in her late sixties, but you couldn't tell it by her choice in fashions. She had worn her hair in a modified beehive well into the twenty-first century, changing it only when—after a long-awaited vacation to London—she decided that she really must do a little neon pink highlighting. Since then, her hairstyle had changed almost weekly. Today, Leigh was being treated to an off-the-shoulder flip that could be right out of the sixties, if it weren't for the fact that Bess's dyed-brown hair was also sporting feather extensions. Never one to confine herself to the fashion of a single decade, Bess's outfit of the day consisted of a staunchly conservative-looking cotton wool cardigan matched with modern capris (both filled to capacity by their wearer's bounteous curves), and bare feet adorned with dark blue nail polish.

"They're still at the shelter," Leigh said hesitantly, entering. Why exactly had she thought it was a good idea to see Bess now, before she could say anything about the murder? She couldn't ask about Clem yet, either—she would have to stay off the topic of the development altogether. "I was waiting for them anyway, so I thought I'd just pop over," she explained truthfully. "What's this about a new toy?"

Bess gave a little hop on her feet and whirled back toward the big-screen television that graced the center of her living room. She grabbed a remote and moved to sit on the couch, an action which caused a mad scurrying of the three cats currently occupying that space. Bess had, at any given time, at least seven felines in residence. Ever since she had lost Punkster, the diabolical attack cat that had once inadvertently saved four people's lives (and who had remained ornery as sin throughout the entirety of his nineteen years), Bess was the shelter's most reliable sucker when it came to accepting hard-to-place cats.

"Sit here," the older woman ordered, waving to a spot already taken by a one-eyed ginger tom who showed no inclination to scurry anywhere. "Ralph!" she chastised. "Go eat something! There's plenty of kibble left in the kitchen. Shoo!"

The cat shot her a sulky look, but then stretched his legs, rose, and obediently plodded toward the kitchen.

"Sit!" Bess ordered again, patting the cushions. Leigh sat. "Now," Bess continued gleefully, "look at this!"

She pushed some buttons on the remote, and Leigh found herself looking at a dark background with a date and time stamp—and not much else.

"Wait for it," Bess urged. "The camera is motion-activated, so the DVR only kicks in when something is happening. Look!"

Leigh studied what appeared to be a night-vision video of a pile of wood. A blur that might have been an animal flashed briefly across one corner.

"Can you tell where it is?" Bess asked excitedly.

Leigh considered a moment. "Is it out back, the woodpile by your shed?"

Bess clapped her hands. "Right-O! I have two cameras, but this is the one that hit pay dirt. Keep watching!"

As Leigh stared at the pile of wood, the animal, now clearly identifiable as a black and white tomcat, jumped up and perched itself at an awkward angle, its attention keenly focused at a particular point on the ground. After several seconds of intent tail flicking, the cat launched himself onto what Leigh could only guess was an emerging field mouse, catching it neatly between his paws.

Bess squealed with delight. "It's just like
National Geographic!
Isn't that amazing? And it's real! Talk about ideas to raise money for the shelter! Well, what do you think?"

Leigh blinked. "Raise money?"

Bess paused the video just as the cat lifted a paw and the mouse made a break for it. "Of course! You know how fascinated people are with feral cats. My Ferdinand could be a rock star! He could have his own website. I could get more cameras, film the females, too. Fans would tune in to watch, and of course, they could donate to the shelter through the site. Brilliant, eh?"

Leigh's eyebrows rose. She was no stranger to the tale of Ferdinand, a tough and scrappy tom who had been wandering the woods for years now, resistant to all manner of tricks and traps, until her Aunt Bess had finally cajoled him into a carrier just this past winter. At one point, the woods behind the shelter had been crawling with feral cats and kittens, and although Bess and the staff had managed to reduce the population significantly through live trapping and adoption, there was a core of particularly wily felines they could never manage to capture. When Bess at last caught Ferdinand, the patriarch of the colony, Leigh's father had decided to try a different form of birth control: instead of neutering the tom, he had given Ferdinand a vasectomy. The cat was released back to his colony, vaccinated and otherwise healthy, but the usual crop of spring and summer kittens never came. The scrappy tom was still king of the woods... and evidently, sole master of his harem.

But an internet sensation?

"Maybe," Leigh offered. "You really think people would tune in just to see things cats do every day?"

Bess's forehead creased. "You think people with indoor cats see
this
everyday?"

She pressed the play button, and Leigh watched as the cat recaptured the mouse, let it squiggle out between his paws again, then pounced upon it once more.

"I would rate it PG," Bess said thoughtfully, as the cat tired of the game and stopped the mouse's antics once and for all. "But it's highly educational. Not to mention good publicity for your father's methods of handling feral cats. Just think, if we could actually catch them breeding—"

Leigh ceased listening. Something in the video had caught her attention, and it wasn't the animals. "Aunt Bess," she interrupted. "Can you replay that? Just the last few seconds?"

Bess complied, and Leigh leaned in closer, her heart beating rapidly. It was faint, but there was light shining in the woods in the background. Just a tiny beam flickering, then it was gone. Then another. Almost like fireflies... but not.

"Aunt Bess," Leigh said uneasily. "Did you notice those lights?"

Bess leaned in beside her. "Oh... that. Looks like flashlights in the woods. Kids getting ready for their fireworks, probably. They were at it last weekend, too."

"Fireworks?" Leigh asked, perking up. "Where?"

Bess shrugged. "Depends. Sometimes in the parking lot behind the church. Sometimes at the pond. That pond's always been a popular hangout, you know. Drinking, smoking, whatever."

"Did you call the police?"

Bess's eyebrows rose. "Why would I do that?"

"Well, I mean...” Leigh stammered, “if they were trespassing... they could start a fire."

Bess chuckled ruefully. "If anyone sets my woods on fire, they'll have me to contend with. As for the rest, they're just teenagers, for heaven's sake! Where are they supposed to drink and smoke? The mall? I certainly spent some quality time in the great outdoors in my—"

"Aunt Bess!" Leigh interrupted, looking over her shoulder reflexively to make sure no impressionable ears were listening. The exploits of Bess's youth had made great entertainment when she and Cara were kids, but she would prefer to keep the youngest generation unaware of them.

Bess looked at her and sighed. "Ah, poor kiddo. I didn't think it would happen. Not even after the twins were born. But it is. You're turning into your—"

"I am not!" Leigh snapped.

"Are too," Bess said smugly.

Leigh groaned. "Can we just watch this part of the tape again?"

Bess pursed her lips and rewound. As they watched the faint, dancing light appear again, Leigh decided she agreed with her aunt. It looked like a distant flashlight.

But whose? The time stamp on the DVR had said 9:24 PM. The meeting at the church had been over long before then.

"Did you hear anything?" Leigh asked. "I mean, when this was happening?"

Bess considered, then shook her head. "I don't really remember. The kids themselves aren't usually loud, but I have been hearing a lot of fireworks lately—always do around the Fourth. I might have heard a crack or two last night, but I'm not sure. I was on the phone quite a bit, you know, debriefing from the meeting. Wait—there's one. You can just see the light from it. Look."

Bess rewound the video a bit, then hit play. Leigh leaned forward again and stared at the screen, breath held, as a quick flash—distinct from the bobbing light—lit up the woods behind the woodpile. In the same instant, Ferdinand—who had considerately turned his backside to the camera while devouring his prey—visibly startled.

"Definitely some kind of firework," Bess confirmed. "Probably a bottle rocket. You could tell he heard it, couldn't you? I really should spring for audio, once we get the show going."

Leigh's stomach churned. Maybe there had been some teenagers messing around in the woods last evening; maybe the flash in the distance had come from a bottle rocket. Maybe Brandon Lyle hadn't been in those woods until much later, and she was overreacting to what was probably a coincidence.

Or maybe she had just seen the flash of a gunshot.

And her Aunt Bess had inadvertently time-stamped a murder.

Chapter 5

Leigh pulled her van into the private drive shared between her house and her cousin Cara's farm. She drew in a sharp breath. Maura's car was ahead on the same lane, coming toward her.

Leigh pulled off into her own driveway. She considered rolling down her window, but refrained. What could she say anyway, with the kids in the back? Maura pulled up level and offered a wave; a man Leigh didn't recognize sat in the detective's passenger seat.

Leigh waved back without enthusiasm.

"Was that Aunt Mo?" Allison asked immediately. "Who was with her? And why was she at Aunt Cara's?"

Leigh bit her lip. It never failed. Whenever she or Warren made a concerted effort to hide some age-inappropriate issue from the children, Allison was on it like sonar. Having the uncanny ability to detect information she had no business knowing in the first place was, Leigh noted ruefully, just about the only trait the child did
not
share with her socially oblivious grandfather.

Ethan's attention remained on his handheld game.

"She told me she had to see Cara this morning about something," Leigh answered, keeping her voice matter-of-fact. "I don't know who the man was. Probably another detective."

She pulled the van into the garage, and she, two kids, and one dog piled out. Within seconds, the children had multiplied to four.

"We've been waiting for you!" came a sing-song female voice.

"Hope you're hungry!" came a young tenor. "We made a power lunch. You've got to come see it!"

"Mom let us cook whatever we wanted, and she said you could come!"

"Can we, Mom?" a smiling Ethan and Allison asked in unison.

Leigh looked from her own offspring to those of her cousin: the cherubic, sensitive ten-year-old Melanie and the commanding, confident twelve-year-old Mathias. "The Pack," as the foursome were affectionately called, had been inseparable ever since she and Warren had decided to buy the house next to Cara and Gil's six acre farm five years ago. It hadn't exactly been their dream house, but the appeal of having readymade access to both playmates and babysitters had been too enticing to pass up.

"Are your sure it's okay with your mom?" Leigh asked, noticing as she did so that Cara herself was approaching up the driveway.

"Of course!" Mathias insisted. "It was her idea in the first place!"

Leigh looked over her young "nephew's" shoulder to survey her cousin, whose pale face and artificial smile did not bode well for the outcome of Maura's interview. Most likely, Cara had released the children in her kitchen along with the ordinarily forbidden stores of tortilla chips, cheese dip, pepperoni, and frozen nuggets in order to keep them out of earshot of the detectives' questions.

It looked like it had worked.

"Sure, then," Leigh answered. "You guys run along and eat. But
don't
forget to help clean up the mess afterwards—"

The children were already gone.

Leigh stood silently as her cousin approached. No sooner had the throng of children run past her than Cara's fake smile morphed into an anxious grimace. "I
cannot
believe this," she proclaimed, patches of red now inflaming the cheeks of her ordinarily peaches-and-cream complexion. "I just can't. It's so unfair!"

Leigh reserved comment. She could interpret the statement as sympathy for Brandon Lyle, but she knew better. Although her cousin was a kind, tolerant, and good-hearted soul who wouldn't ordinarily squash a fruit fly, when anyone or anything threatened one of her brood, the woman was downright scary.