Frances began with a flourish, settling herself on the couch once more. "What we—" Her eyes narrowed. "These cushions could use a vacuuming, dear. And I daresay a little upholstery cleaner on these stains wouldn't hurt, either. Now, as I was saying, we'll need to plan what to do about this. Perhaps a family conference—"
"No!" Leigh interrupted, a bit more vehemently than intended.
Frances proffered the dreaded chin-down, eyebrows-up maneuver.
"I mean," Leigh backtracked, "it's too soon for that. Maura warned me not to go around telling anybody in the family what happened; she wanted to interview Bess and Gil first. That's why I couldn't say anything to Aunt Bess when I—"
"Well, the principals all know now," Frances interrupted. "Maura is interviewing Gil and his lawyer even as we speak."
"How did you—"
"Cara told her mother, of course. Your Aunt Lydie and I have already discussed this situation thoroughly. Clearly, what we need to do is—"
"Mom," Leigh interrupted again. "We don't need to do anything. I am not a suspect. Aunt Bess is not a suspect. It looks bad for Gil at the moment, but he does have an alibi—we just need to verify it."
"Aha!" Frances pointed a finger. "Yes, we do. Lydie and I already have a plan for that. We could use your cooperation. And as for your not being a suspect this time..." her eyes narrowed again. "What, dare I ask, is your alibi?"
Leigh bristled. Her mother wasn't actually accusing her of murder, merely of doing something stupid. Like being alone without proper documentation on the night a murder was being committed. "For your information," Leigh said proudly, "I was here with Warren and the kids. And Detective Maura Polanski. And her husband, Lieutenant Gerald Frank of the Allegheny County Police Department."
A smile played on Frances's lips. Then, much to Leigh's horror, her eyes began to water. "Oh sweetheart," Frances said heavily. "That's wonderful. I've been so worried, you know."
"Yes, mom," she returned with a sigh. "I know."
Frances recovered quickly. "So," she announced with a little bounce on the couch, "now we need to establish Gil's alibi."
"Cara said he was walking in North Park."
"Exactly!" Frances agreed. "Which is why we need runners and dog walkers."
Leigh's brow furrowed.
"Consistency, dear. Always look for consistency. People with dogs tend to walk the same time, same route each day. Same with serious runners. The walkers, the children, the bikers"—she waved a dismissive hand—"they're all over the place. We need to find the regulars. And we need to find them tonight."
Leigh blinked. In no family crisis had her mother ever been short of her trademark overreactive, occasionally hysterical plans of action—most of which involved the entire extended Morton family and the expenditure of vast amounts of unwelcome and generally futile effort.
But this idea actually made sense.
Wow.
"So we'll go to the park tonight and ask people if any of them remember seeing Gil last night?"
Frances smiled smugly. "Precisely. If we're lucky, Gil will remember someone he saw, and we'll have a specific target. It was right around dusk, so most of the people still out were probably regulars. We'll meet at the boathouse at 8:15. Lydie will have his route and any leads ready."
"Sounds good," Leigh agreed.
"And, dear?"
"Yes?"
"I can see dust on those dining room curtains from here."
Chapter 7
Diana Saxton clicked her long, perfectly French-tipped nails on the smooth glass top of Brandon Lyle's designer desk. Her nose ran. Her mascara was streaked to her chin. She wanted to go crawl into a hole and die. She also wanted to smash something.
She was determined that she would do neither.
She would remain calm, no matter how incredibly tempting it might be to pick up the framed portrait of Brandon and his smiling bride and hurl it through the twelfth floor window and out into the traffic of Grant Street.
No matter if Courtney Lyle's odious words still rang in her
"No!" Leigh interrupted, a bit more vehemently than intended.
Frances proffered the dreaded chin-down, eyebrows-up maneuver.
"I mean," Leigh backtracked, "it's too soon for that. Maura warned me not to go around telling anybody in the family what happened; she wanted to interview Bess and Gil first. That's why I couldn't say anything to Aunt Bess when I—"
"Well, the principals all know now," Frances interrupted. "Maura is interviewing Gil and his lawyer even as we speak."
"How did you—"
"Cara told her mother, of course. Your Aunt Lydie and I have already discussed this situation thoroughly. Clearly, what we need to do is—"
"Mom," Leigh interrupted again. "We don't need to do anything. I am not a suspect. Aunt Bess is not a suspect. It looks bad for Gil at the moment, but he does have an alibi—we just need to verify it."
"Aha!" Frances pointed a finger. "Yes, we do. Lydie and I already have a plan for that. We could use your cooperation. And as for your not being a suspect this time..." her eyes narrowed again. "What, dare I ask, is your alibi?"
Leigh bristled. Her mother wasn't actually accusing her of murder, merely of doing something stupid. Like being alone without proper documentation on the night a murder was being committed. "For your information," Leigh said proudly, "I was here with Warren and the kids. And Detective Maura Polanski. And her husband, Lieutenant Gerald Frank of the Allegheny County Police Department."
A smile played on Frances's lips. Then, much to Leigh's horror, her eyes began to water. "Oh sweetheart," Frances said heavily. "That's wonderful. I've been so worried, you know."
"Yes, mom," she returned with a sigh. "I know."
Frances recovered quickly. "So," she announced with a little bounce on the couch, "now we need to establish Gil's alibi."
"Cara said he was walking in North Park."
"Exactly!" Frances agreed. "Which is why we need runners and dog walkers."
Leigh's brow furrowed.
"Consistency, dear. Always look for consistency. People with dogs tend to walk the same time, same route each day. Same with serious runners. The walkers, the children, the bikers"—she waved a dismissive hand—"they're all over the place. We need to find the regulars. And we need to find them tonight."
Leigh blinked. In no family crisis had her mother ever been short of her trademark overreactive, occasionally hysterical plans of action—most of which involved the entire extended Morton family and the expenditure of vast amounts of unwelcome and generally futile effort.
But this idea actually made sense.
Wow.
"So we'll go to the park tonight and ask people if any of them remember seeing Gil last night?"
Frances smiled smugly. "Precisely. If we're lucky, Gil will remember someone he saw, and we'll have a specific target. It was right around dusk, so most of the people still out were probably regulars. We'll meet at the boathouse at 8:15. Lydie will have his route and any leads ready."
"Sounds good," Leigh agreed.
"And, dear?"
"Yes?"
"I can see dust on those dining room curtains from here."
Chapter 7
Diana Saxton clicked her long, perfectly French-tipped nails on the smooth glass top of Brandon Lyle's designer desk. Her nose ran. Her mascara was streaked to her chin. She wanted to go crawl into a hole and die. She also wanted to smash something.
She was determined that she would do neither.
She would remain calm, no matter how incredibly tempting it might be to pick up the framed portrait of Brandon and his smiling bride and hurl it through the twelfth floor window and out into the traffic of Grant Street.
No matter if Courtney Lyle's odious words still rang in her
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