Arizona Heat

Jolie stared at me, her eyes going huge and round. She was beautiful, even clad in khaki shorts, a Phoenix PD T-shirt and hiking boots. Her long hair, done up in about a million skinny braids, was tied back with a twisted bandana. “Mojo Sheepshanks,” she said, “you didn’t tell him I told you about Alex?”

“He guessed,” I said.

“Right,” Jolie snapped, glaring.

“Not to worry,” I said, holding up two fingers pressed close together. “He and I are like that.”

Jolie swirled an index finger around one temple. “You and Tucker are like this. Both of you are crazy!”

“Tucker isn’t,” I said.

Jolie turned back to the soup, her spine rigid.

“You’re going to have to sit with Greer tonight,” I told her. “So I hope you don’t have any plans.”

Jolie didn’t look at me. “And where will you be?”

“I have some investigating to do.”

Jolie muttered something I didn’t quite catch, but I thought I heard the words real job in there somewhere.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I said. “And how hard can it be to hang out with Greer for a couple of hours?”

Jolie rounded her eyes at me.

Just then the front door crashed open, and Greer came in. She went immediately to the cupboards and started ripping through them, a one-armed marauder. She found a package of Oreos—Nick liked to smell them, and even though I seriously doubted he’d ever be back, I kept them around just in case—and started stuffing them into her mouth, two at a time.

I figured a size-twenty-two wardrobe might be one of the dark secrets hidden in my foster sister’s mysterious past.

“Alex is dead,” she said, spewing crumbs. “He’s dead!”

Jolie and I exchanged glances.

“Sit down, Greer,” I said as Jolie pulled back a chair and pushed her into it. Greer looked up at us, her mouth rimmed with cookie dust.

“What?” I threw in when nobody spoke, hoping it sounded as if the news had come as a shock.

“The bastard isn’t off boinking some floozy,” Greer informed us, wild-eyed. “He’s a cadaver!”

“Calm down,” I said, “and tell us what happened.”

Greer’s eyes filled with tears. She opened her mouth, shoved in three more Oreos and tried to talk around them. “I just got a call from the police,” she said, the words garbled. “Some hikers stumbled across Alex’s body in the desert this morning. He’d been shot.”

I tossed Jolie a See? She’s surprised kind of look.

Jolie took the soup off the burner and set the saucepan aside.

“What am I going to do?” Greer asked.

Jolie pulled up a third chair and sat down. “You can start by telling us whether or not you killed him,” she said.

Greer gasped, and then went into a choking fit. Obviously she still hadn’t swallowed all the Oreo residue.

I jumped up and pounded on her back, while Jolie got her some water.

“Killed him?” Greer gasped once she’d recovered the ability to breathe.

“The man was probably cheating on you,” Jolie said evenly after flinging a shut-up glance in my direction. “He’d moved out and you hired Sherlock here to get the proof. The police are going to want to know if you offed him, Greer, or paid somebody else to do it.”

Greer bolted for the bathroom.

Power vomiting ensued.

“Good work,” I told Jolie in a harsh whisper. “Why didn’t you just ask her how much she stood to inherit and when she plans to remarry?”

Jolie glowered me into silence.

We both got up and tracked Greer to the bathroom.

She was on her knees, with her head over the toilet bowl, dry heaving.

When she stopped, I soaked a washcloth in cool water and squatted to wipe off her face.

Jolie flushed the john and spritzed the air freshener.

“You can’t possibly think I would murder my own husband!” Greer sobbed as Jolie and I helped her to her feet. I looked at her cast, due to come off in a few weeks, and wished it had been on her right arm instead of her left. If it had been, she couldn’t have shot Alex.

“Look, Greer,” Jolie said fiercely, though she was stroking Greer’s back as she spoke, “the cops will give you a day or two to catch your breath, then they’re going to be in your face, wanting a lot of answers. Talk to us.”

“I didn’t kill Alex!”

We ushered her back to the living room and sat her down in a leather armchair, facing the empty fireplace.

“You can tell us if you did,” Jolie said. “We’ll help you.”

Greer shook her head. “It was probably that bitch Beverly,” she said. “I need wine.”

“No, you don’t,” Jolie argued quietly. “I know you’ve had a shock, and I’m sorry. But you can’t afford to crawl into a bottle and pretend none of this is happening, because it is. When did you see Alex last?”

Greer considered. “The day after Lillian’s funeral,” she replied. “He came by to pick up some of his things. He said he wasn’t really leaving—that we just needed some time apart to get perspective.”

Greer might have been getting perspective, I thought. Alex had probably been getting nooky instead.

“Where was he going?” I asked after a sour glance at Jolie, thinking hey, I’m the detective around here.

“He said he’d be staying at the Biltmore.”

That figured. The Biltmore is posh—nothing but the best for Alex Pennington, M.D., and the bimbo du jour.