Never Con a Corgi (7 page)

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 contacted 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."

She sat back with a sigh and let the implications drift.

The detective, sadly, missed the point once more. "Did Mr. Lyle ever give you any reason to suspect that he might have borrowed money from, shall we say, not completely legitimate sources?"

Diana's eyes widened. She hadn't thought of that. But of course she wouldn't; it was absurd. Brandon was far too much of a wuss to stoop to using a loan shark. Not when he could accomplish the same thing with a little blackmail between friends.

"No," she responded tentatively. "He never said anything like that to me."

Clearly, more bait was needed.

"The last thing he said," she continued slowly, "was that he was counting on Gil March to come through for him—one way or the other."

The detective's eyebrows rose.

Finally!

"And what do you think he meant by that?"

Diana squirmed in her seat. "I can't say for sure. I really don't know what was going on between the two of them. Not on a personal level, anyway. But I was pretty sure there was something, other than the business deal on the table. And I probably wouldn't have picked up on that, except..."

Silence hung in the air.

"Except," she continued without prompting, "that I happen to know both men very well, you see."

Suspect number two: CHECK.

"Gil March was my previous 'employer.'"

Chapter 8

"So," Gil said casually, his easy tone showing no hint of the anxiety Leigh knew to be brewing behind his shrewd hazel eyes. "What did you kids do today?"

His son Mathias paused in mid chew, a piece of macaroni escaping from his lips as he spouted excitedly. "We made twenty dollars!"

"We made $14.65," Leigh's daughter Allison corrected. "After expenses."

"How did you do that?" Warren asked, serving himself a generous second helping of casserole.

Leigh surveyed what was left of the meal a bit nervously. If Gil hadn't been picking at his plate like a gnat, the food would probably have run out already. But they would be okay. She should have realized she was due for a grocery run when she invited her cousin's brood over, but kitchen inventory was the last thing on her mind. Cara had been at her wit's end all afternoon, worrying about Gil on a day when she had unfortunately scheduled another of her Green Mommas shopping parties—an extravaganza of similarly-minded earth mothers who gathered to coo over the latest in compostable diapers while sipping carrot juice and nibbling on kale chips. Leigh had always avoided such events like the plague, which was easy to do when a babysitter was needed. This afternoon, however, she had almost gotten herself fired. Inviting her cousin's family to dinner seemed the least she could do.

Cara's cheeks flared with red. "Go ahead, Mathias," she said sharply. "Tell your father your brilliant idea."

Cara's daughter Melanie, who had been affectionately called Lenna ever since her older brother had trouble pronouncing his baby sister's name, sank miserably into her chair. Leigh could understand the sentiment. Cara was almost never this testy.

A sympathetic Ethan, sitting next to Lenna, elbowed his cousin playfully and smiled at her.

"Well," Mathias began tentatively, his tone no longer cocky. "We thought it might be fun to do a lemonade stand."

"Sounds like an enterprising idea," Warren said cheerfully, in an obvious effort to break the tension. Gil was covering his own anxiety well enough, but Cara looked ready to burst.

"We thought so," Mathias agreed, looking grateful for his uncle's support. "Aunt Leigh told us it was okay."

Gee thanks, kid.

Leigh met Cara's glare with a self-conscious smile. "That's true, I did. We had the necessary supplies, and it sounded harmless enough. I thought they were going to set it up out by the road."

Gil looked from his son to his wife, clearly baffled. "So what was the problem?"

"The
problem
," Cara fumed, "was that they set up the lemonade stand at the beginning of our own front walk!"

The men shot confused glances at one another.

Cara groaned. "Just as all the guests were arriving for my Green Mommas party!"

The children remained silent, staring hopefully at their fathers. Both men's faces strained as they tried hard not to smile.

"I guess that's what you'd call a captive audience," Gil said finally, losing his battle with the slightest of grins.

"That's what we thought!" Mathias agreed, his face beaming.

"It wouldn't make sense to set it up along the road, Mom," Allison piped up in her calm, quiet voice. "The cars drive by too fast, and there's nowhere to pull off. A business has to go where the customers are."

Now Leigh fought a smile.

"We didn't force anybody to buy anything," Mathias defended.

Cara sucked in a breath. "Yes, you did! The women knew who you were; it would have been rude for them not to buy anything!"

The children looked at each other blankly.

Lenna's rosebud mouth trembled as she spoke. "But, Mom... Matt said we were making the price a real bargain."

"I had free drinks inside!" Cara railed.

Lenna sank back down in her chair again.

"Cara," Gil said gently, "I'm sure the women didn't mind supporting a good cause."

"That's just it!" his wife continued, unappeased.
"The cause!"

"I told you that would be a problem," Allison said accusingly, looking at Mathias.

"What?" the boy asked innocently.

"You know what!" Cara snapped. "Cheap instant lemonade mix, with artificial flavoring
and
coloring?"

Now it was Leigh's turn to sink in her chair.

"It was good!" Mathias defended.

"Those women came to our house specifically looking for healthy, organic, earth-friendly foods and household products," Cara continued, sounding like a television commercial.
"You sold them Styrofoam cups!!!"