Never Steal a Cockatiel (Leigh Koslow Mystery Series Book 9) (3 page)

Leigh felt another jolt of angst. Mason had clearly given his daughter the same itinerary he had given Leigh. Only Cara had believed it.

“That’s a pretty strange thing to leave out of a conversation, wouldn’t you say?” Cara continued, her blue-green eyes flashing. “I mean, I just talked to him on the phone three days ago!”

“Maybe he wanted to surprise everyone,” Leigh suggested lamely, feeling more and more uncomfortable. “Did the police say what happened at the apartment next door?”

Cara looked at her as though the question were irrelevant. “Somebody broke into it, I think. They wanted to know if my dad saw or heard anything, but if his flight left at six there’s no way. They said they were looking for people who’d been at the building between six and seven this morning.”

The bird squawked.

“The kids told me you were babysitting a cockatiel and a three-legged cat,” Cara remarked suspiciously. “They didn’t say that their grandfather had brought them.”

“He seemed to think it was best if the kids didn’t know,” Leigh answered carefully. “Although he didn’t say why.”

Cara’s eyes narrowed. “And did he say
which
neighbor they came from?”

Leigh’s gaze met her cousin’s. But before she could open her mouth to answer, the house landline rang. She threw a glance at her watch and struggled up. “That’s probably my dad. Mom’s surgery should have been over a while ago.”

Leigh moved to the kitchen counter, checked the caller ID, and picked up the phone. “Hey, Dad,” she greeted. “Everything go okay?”

Randall Koslow, VMD, cleared his throat. “Your mother’s surgery went perfectly. No problems.” He drew in a breath as if to say something else, then didn’t.

Leigh walked back into the living room. “So… are you ready for me to come over?”

Another pause ensued. “Well, er,” Randall began again. “The thing is, we had a bit of an accident on our way back into the house. Your mother’s not used to the walker yet, and she lost her balance on the top front step.”

Leigh’s breath caught. “Is she okay?”

“Yes,” Randall said, his voice oddly embarrassed. “Your mother’s fine, except for a few bruises. But it looks like… well, I might have broken my ankle.”

Oh, no.
“What do you mean ‘might have?’”

“Well, it’s sprained for sure,” he answered. “But Jim next door drove me up to urgent care, and they splinted it until I could get to the orthopod. So, for the moment I’m afraid I’m on crutches.”

Leigh sank slowly onto the back of the couch.

“I can still work,” Randall said quickly. “No reason I can’t sit on a stool and see patients. But I’m going to need a little extra help getting to the clinic and back. And your mother… well, I know we’d planned on my taking care of her in the evenings, but—”

“We’ll manage,” Leigh said quickly, even as her heart dropped into her shoes. She, Cara, and their Aunt Bess would have to alternate staying overnight, as well as handling the daytime shifts. If only her Aunt Lydie, who lived next door to her parents, were not out of town! But despite all their careful planning, Frances’s surgeon had rescheduled her procedure at the last minute, right on top of Lydie’s much-anticipated historical symposium in Hershey. They had all assured Lydie they could handle the situation without her, at least for the first week. But that was when they thought they only needed to cover the hours Randall was at work.

“It’ll be fine, Dad,” Leigh insisted, attempting a cheerful tone. “My work is mostly portable, and Cara and Aunt Bess will help out. No worries. Where are you now?”

“Home,” he answered. “But I was hoping to get to the clinic as soon as possible. My appointments start in a hour.”

Leigh assured her father that she was on her way, hung up the phone, and explained the situation to Cara.

“We’ll manage,” Cara echoed, forcing a tone of cheer only slightly more convincing than Leigh’s. “You go ahead. I’ll give Aunt Bess a call and we’ll pop over later and hash out the details.”

“Mom?” Allison’s small voice piped up from just behind Leigh’s elbow.

Leigh jumped. She really wished she could train herself not to be surprised every time her daughter crept up on her, considering how frequently it happened. She could only hope the regular exercise was strengthening her ankles.

“I can go to the clinic with Grandpa,” Allison suggested. “He’ll need somebody to stay in the room and hand him things. I wanted to go today anyway, to ask him about the bird.”

Leigh nodded in agreement, but before she could speak, her cell phone rang. She crossed to the kitchen counter, looked at the screen, and swooped it up. “Hey! Cara’s been trying to—”

“I know,” Mason interrupted. “I just got off the phone with the Bellevue police. Listen, Leigh, don’t say anything else out loud, okay? You never know when Allison’s listening.”

Leigh stifled a snort. He was telling her?

“It’s really, really important you don’t tell anyone those animals came from Kyle’s place. Or even from me,” he said earnestly.

“Are you going to tell me what’s—”

“I have to shut off the phone again in a second,” he said quickly. “We’re taking off. I just wanted to warn you that Kyle has… well, some people after him, and I don’t want you guys getting dragged into his mess. There’s no reason you would, so long as no one but you and me knows where those animals came from.”

Leigh looked around to see three faces staring at her curiously. She had to be careful what she said. “Cara and Warren?”

“You mean— Oh, I guess so. But no one else, okay? Maybe I’m being too cautious, but if any of the kids—” He broke off again. Leigh could hear what sounded like a flight attendant over a loudspeaker. “I’ve got to shut down,” he finished. “No worries, okay? Ciao!”

“But what—” Leigh began. She was too late. The line was dead. She put the phone down.

Cara’s eyes held hers. “We’ll talk later.”

Leigh nodded, and her head began to spin. So, the mysterious Kyle had
people after him.
People who had, perchance, broken into his apartment this morning?

An unwelcome chill slid up Leigh’s spine.

It was going to be a very long day, indeed.

Chapter 3

“Er, Allison, could you—” Randall Koslow began, gesturing toward the exam room counter. His granddaughter was already on it. She had scooped up the toenail clippers and was holding them out to him as he started to speak. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he praised.

Leigh watched with an unsettled feeling as her father sat awkwardly on the clinic stool with his splinted foot sticking straight out beneath him. His stoic face bore no sign of self-pity, but she knew his ankle had to ache, and the lower-than-usual stool would do his back no favors, either. But she knew better than to try and talk him out of seeing his previously scheduled patients. The late start had already backed up his schedule, and the waiting room was full to bursting.

His longest employed and trustiest technician, Jeanine, stood on the other side of the exam table holding a geriatric cockapoo to her chest while extending its front paw for a nail trim.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” trilled the dog’s owner, a nervous-looking woman in her seventies who fidgeted beside the table, alternately checking the clasp on her purse and rerolling her dog’s leash.

“What’s that?” Randall asked, clipping the dog’s toenails with his usual quiet efficiency.

“I was wondering if there was some sort of tracker I could get for her,” the woman inquired, her face reddening as she spoke. “You know, like a microchip, where if she ran away, I could tell where she was?”

Randall looked at the woman curiously, and Leigh found herself doing the same. The dog in question was sixteen years old if she was a day, crippled with arthritis, and nearly blind. Her unused toenails had grown so long they were curled round nearly into circles.

“You think Peaches is planning to make a run for it?” Randall asked without sarcasm.

“Well,” the woman replied unsteadily, working the leash furiously in her hands. “You never know. I’d just hate to—” her voice choked a little. “Lose her. Is there such a thing I could get?”

Randall switched to the dog’s back feet. “A microchip won’t give you a pet’s location,” he explained in a rote manner. “It just gives identifying information that can be read by someone checking the animal with a scanner.”

Leigh’s eyebrows perked at his tone. The veterinarian was answering the bizarre question as if it were an issue that came up every day.

“To track a pet’s location, you’d need a GPS collar,” he continued. “They exist, but they’re bulky, and they only work in a limited range.”

The woman’s face fell. “But anyone could just take off a collar!”

“That’s true,” Randall confirmed without looking up. “Anything else you’re worried about with Peaches, besides those nails?”

“No,” the woman said shortly.

“She taking her medication okay?” the veterinarian questioned.

“Fine,” she replied, still agitated. “But I need refills.”

“No problem,” Randall responded. He finished up his examination and the technician led both the dog and its owner back out to the reception area.

Leigh frowned as she watched them leave, and she noticed that Allison was doing the same. Mother and daughter exchanged a knowing look. Randall Koslow’s skills of observation might be second to none with regard to the appearance and behavior of his animal patients, but when it came to reading people, the poor man was oblivious.

“Dad,” Leigh asked tentatively, “That woman seemed a little uptight. Why do you think she was asking about GPS?”

He shrugged. “I’ve had a bunch of people asking about that lately. Must be a new ad running somewhere, trying to scare people into thinking every pet needs a tracking collar. It’s not a bad idea — it could help with the chronic runaways — but somebody needs to make the devices smaller and improve the battery life first.”

The technician returned, this time leading a black lab mix with a limp, and Leigh moved toward the exit. Clearly, her father could manage with his splint; her continued presence in the already crowded exam room was not required. She dispensed a few final instructions for Allison, then slipped out the back way.

Emerging into the clinic’s tiny parking lot, she smiled absently at two clients engaged in conversation near their cars. She stepped around them and into the street.

“Has anyone told the police?” a hushed voice hissed.

“I don’t know what you’d tell them!” another replied.

Leigh’s steps slowed. She fished around in her pocket for an imaginary piece of trash, then changed course and headed toward the dumpster.

“Well, somebody ought to say something!” the first voice demanded, no longer whispering.

“I’d be too scared!” the second insisted. “You don’t want to be next, do you?”

Leigh lingered at the dumpster as long as she dared, but as the women moved away toward the clinic’s front door, their voices became inaudible. What she did overhear disturbed her, even as she told herself that whatever the police
should
be told didn’t necessarily have anything to do with her father’s clinic. Avalon was a small borough; many of his clients were already neighbors or friends. For all Leigh knew, the women could have been talking about missing change at a bake sale.

Reminding herself that she had trouble enough at the moment without borrowing more, Leigh hopped into her van and headed back to her parents’ house in West View. Another neighbor had offered to be “on call” while Leigh took her father to work, but she knew that her mother would be anxious for her return. One could only impose on one’s neighbors so much, Frances would say. Conscription of family was another matter.

Leigh parked on the street outside the two-story brick row house in which she had grown up. The neighborhood had changed little since her girlhood, except for the trees. One of the old maples lining her block had toppled in a storm, and three others had been taken out by the city when their roots buckled the sidewalks. New trees had been planted, but it would be a long time before the street was as shady as she remembered.

She inhaled deeply before opening the front door. Frances had still been in panic mode when Leigh had arrived to fetch her injured father, but by now Frances was likely to have moved into Disaster Response Stage Two: The Action Plan. And as fearsome as Frances’s panicked tirades could be, her steeliness in the action stage could be even scarier.

“Leigh, dear, there you are,” a determined voice announced before the door had closed.
“Come sit.”

Leigh turned to the living room. Her mother was sitting sideways on her 1970s-era floral-upholstered sofa, which had been carefully pre-covered with protective sheets for the occasion. Frances had both feet straight ahead of her, propped up on plastic-covered pillows and encased in wrappings and bags of ice. She sat bolt upright.

“Um…” Leigh stammered, moving closer. “Are you sure you’re comfortable like that?”

“Perfectly,” Frances replied, patting the wingback chair next to her. “Sit.”

Leigh sat.

“What in heaven’s name did you do to your face?” Frances asked accusingly.

“I made a cat scratch me. In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea.”

Frances frowned with disapproval, then threw out her chest and folded her hands neatly in her lap. “I have made a decision,” she announced.

Leigh tensed. “About what, exactly?”

“About your father’s disability, of course. He’ll need to reduce his appointment schedule significantly, but he needn’t be idle. The current situation will afford the perfect opportunity for him to catch up on that paperwork he is perpetually avoiding, because for the next several weeks
I
will be available to help him!”

Leigh faked a look of enthusiasm. She could not pretend the work didn’t need doing. Her father was an excellent clinician, but a notoriously horrible administrator. The clinic’s profits had always ebbed and flowed predictably, based not on the local economy but on whether or not competent office help was employed. Randall’s last business manager had gotten married and moved to New Brighton six months ago, and Leigh had not seen the top of her father’s desk since. The last time she’d peeked in his basement office, she could not even see the floor.