Arizona Heat

“I understand you’re a private investigator now,” Mrs. Pennington #1 said with drunken dignity. I wondered if she was still under the influence of last night’s cocktail hour, or if she subscribed to the hair-of-the-dog-that-bit-you theory and had started the day with a Bloody Mary.

I closed my eyes. Damn all that TV coverage, anyway. Why had I touted myself as a P.I. every time I got in front of a camera? Now people actually expected me to solve things. “How did you get my number?” I asked.

“You’re in the book.”

Right. And I’d programmed my phone at the apartment to forward calls to Greer’s guesthouse. I needed more coffee.

“Yes,” I said, scrambling for a little dignity of my own.

“I’d like to hire you.”

“That would be a conflict of interest, Mrs. Pennington,” I said, intrigued in spite of myself. “As you know, your ex-husband is currently married to my sister.”

“I’m aware of that,” she replied moderately. “Believe me. This is a separate matter, and it’s delicate, which is why I would prefer not to discuss it over the telephone.”

It finally occurred to me that Mrs. Pennington-the-first might be one of Greer’s blackmailers. As I said, I hadn’t had enough coffee.

While it seemed like a stretch, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and, besides, you can dig up dirt on just about anybody if you have the resources to hire enough muscle to do the shoveling.

Suffice it to say that an instinct kicked in. There was something important going on under the surface here, and I had to find out what it was.

“When did you want to meet?” I asked.

“Noon today,” Mrs. Pennington answered readily, reeling off a posh address not that far from Greer’s. “I’ll have Carlotta serve her special lobster salad, so don’t eat before you get here.”

I wasn’t sure eating anything prepared under the grande dame’s roof would be smart, but I liked lobster, and my budget didn’t allow for much of it. I had my stash in the bank, thanks to Margery DeLuca, but I didn’t plan on blowing it on seafood.

“Noon,” I repeated cautiously. I’d scrawled the address on the front of a TV Guide.

“I’d rather you didn’t tell your sister about this meeting, if you don’t mind,” Mrs. Pennington went on. “At least, not immediately.”

“I can’t promise that, Mrs. Pennington,” I said, frowning. Elsewhere on the TV Guide cover someone had written, in lopsided, childish letters, “DOG.”

Gillian, of course.

She could write? Not much, probably, since she was only seven. Still, the word opened up a whole new realm of possibilities. Mentally I added an item to the shopping list in my head.

“Call me Beverly,” Mrs. Pennington said.

I wasn’t planning an ongoing relationship with Beverly Pennington, but calling her by her first name would certainly be less awkward, given that on the rare occasions the words Mrs. Pennington came to my mind, it was always in reference to Greer.

“Beverly it is,” I agreed.

We said our goodbyes, and I hung up. After a glance at the clock I took a quick, cool shower, donned a blue-and-white-print sundress with spaghetti straps and a pair of sandals and subdued my hair with a pinch clip. Tufts stuck up on my crown, giving the do a decidedly undone look, but hey, it wasn’t as if I was a TV reporter or anything. I was a detective, Tucker’s snide remarks about my mail-order license aside.

I was sort of expecting Gillian to materialize in the front seat of the Volvo as I backed out of the driveway, but it didn’t happen. I hoped she hadn’t returned to the graveyard to hang out. I was no expert on ghost behavior—maybe she’d gone home, the way Justin had, or to her school, or any one of a number of familiar places—but I’d found her at the cemetery once before.

All those possibilities stuck in the bruised places in my heart like slowly turning screws.

I couldn’t go to the school, or to the Erland home—at least, not without an excuse, and I hadn’t thought of one yet. I’d take a spin through the cemetery, though, I decided, on my way to Walmart.

My cell phone jingled inside my purse as I was pulling onto the 101, heading south. I upended the bag and fumbled for the phone, afraid to take my eyes off the road. Arizona drivers, I’ve gotta tell ya, are stone-crazy. Maybe it’s the serotonin, from all that sunlight. Seasonal affective disorder in reverse. Maybe it’s the flat, straight roads. Whatever it is, most of them drive like maniacs, and last time I checked Phoenix was the number one city in the country for red-light fatalities.

“Hello?” I said, swerving to avoid a white Expedition crossing in front of me to make a last-moment exit. “Tucker?”

I hadn’t dared to glance at the caller ID panel before I answered; even a split second could have meant months in traction, and I don’t have that kind of spare time.

“Sorry,” Jolie said. “It’s only your sister. You know, the black one?”

I was glad to hear her voice. “Yeah,” I replied, grinning. “I remember. What’s up?”

“I’m on the job,” Jolie answered, and from the change in her tone I figured she must have cupped the phone with one hand, hoping her voice wouldn’t carry. For Jolie, “on the job” probably meant she was standing over a body. “Moje, this is bad.”

“What?” I asked, navigating the road leading to the cemetery. If I wasn’t careful, I’d end up checking in for good, and the adrenaline rush brought on by Jolie’s words wasn’t helping.

“I can’t talk long,” Jolie said, hush-hush. “The short version is I’m standing in the desert about twenty yards from a corpse, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s Alex Pennington’s.”

The Volvo’s tires squealed as I wrenched the car off the road, came to a stop in a restaurant parking lot. I was shaking. “No!”

“Yes,” Jolie replied with a sigh. “The uniforms are here, and homicide is on its way. But it’s Alex, all right. I’d know that asshole anywhere.”

“Who found him? How was he killed?”

“Gotta go,” Jolie chimed, and hung up.

Something Greer had said the night before stung my brain. For all I know, he’s lying dead in the desert somewhere.

“Shit,” I said to my empty car.

She couldn’t have done it. She couldn’t have killed Alex. The Greer I knew, while self-absorbed and famously high maintenance, simply wasn’t capable of that.

I shook off the agitation and switched the dial to damage control.

How was I going to break news like this to Greer? Even though she’d hired me to get the goods on Pennington, I knew she loved the guy, even hoped to have a family with him, which was why I didn’t seriously entertain the notion that she might have killed him. I also knew she was still hoping he’d come out pure on the other end of my investigation. Instead, he’d come out dead.

A new and even more alarming thought elbowed its way to the forefront of my mind. What if he haunted me?

Goose bumps sprouted on my forearms, and even though it was a hundred degrees outside, I felt as though I’d just stepped into a meat locker.

I did some deep breathing—Damn Fool’s Guide to Relieving Stress—and waited until the shaking subsided.

What to do?

Motor back to Greer’s and wait, pretending I didn’t know Alex was a goner, until the police called or dropped by to tell her what had happened?

For one thing, I couldn’t pretend that well. For another, Greer probably wasn’t home. Even though she had a cast on her left arm, she attended her yoga class faithfully every morning, had lunch out and then went shopping.

When I was steady enough, I drove back out onto the street and went on to the cemetery. I could call Greer on her cell phone, but what would I say? A body’s been found in the desert and Jolie is ninety-nine percent sure it’s Alex?