Deadly Deceptions

Considering how little Greer had told me about herself in all the years I’d known her, this was a revelation. I shouldn’t have felt hurt because she’d obviously confided in Lillian, though probably not to any great extent and with a generous peppering of lies, but I did. Once, Greer and I had been close. Then I’d married Nick and she’d married Alex, and things had changed between us.

I had no clue why.

We’d both been playing parts, of course. And somewhere along the way we’d forgotten our lines.

“Who were you before you were Greer?” I persisted very quietly.

For a moment I actually thought she was going to tell me. Then she shook her head. “I know it sounds corny—like something from the late show—but that person doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Anything more from the blackmailer?” Talk about something from the late show. How often does a question like that come up in normal conversation?

Not that I’d know a normal conversation if I fell over it.

Greer bit her lower lip.

The timer on the microwave dinged.

I got up, pulled out the rubber lasagna and set it down in front of the woman I still thought of as my sister, for all the strange distance that stretched between us. I gave her some silverware and refilled her wineglass.

Tentatively she picked up a fork and jabbed it at the lasagna. I knew she was avoiding my eyes, and I was prepared to wait her out. I’ve got staying power—I once camped in front of a furniture store for three days to get the free couch they were offering as a prize at their grand opening. I was on the news twice, and Lillian, alarmed by the publicity, came and dragged me away fifteen minutes before I would have become the proud owner of an orange velour sectional, complete with built-in plastic cup holders.

Just one of the many reasons I have to be grateful to her.

“Greer?” I prompted.

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’ve heard from the blackmailers—plural.”

“When? What did he—they—say? Was it a letter, a phone call, an e-mail? Black-and-white eight-by-tens of you in some compromising position?”

Greer skewered me with a look. “This lasagna,” she said, “is worse than the wine.” But she kept eating. And she kept drinking, too, though I’d already lost interest in the vino. It did taste like vinegar.

“How am I supposed to help you if you won’t tell me what’s going on?”

“I didn’t hire you because I’m being blackmailed. I hired you to find out if Alex is cheating on me.”

“He is,” I said, silently saying goodbye to the five-thousand-dollar retainer she’d given me, not to mention the other five I would have gotten when I turned in a definitive report. Actually, I was in pretty good financial shape for the first time in my life, because my demon ex-mother-in-law, Margery DeLuca, had forked over the proceeds of a life insurance policy Nick had taken out, in a fit of fiscal responsibility, with me as beneficiary. Still, Greer’s payment represented my first earnings as a private investigator and for me that was meaningful.

Greer stiffened, peering at me over the lasagna and the cheap wine. “Do you have proof?”

“No,” I said.

“Then the case isn’t solved, is it? Maybe now that people aren’t trying to kill you, you can get back to work.” This was a reference to recent misadventures—so recent, in fact, that I still had little gummy bits of duct-tape residue on my wrists and ankles. I’d soaked and scoured, but they just kept appearing, as though they’d been hiding under my skin.

“Greer,” I said.

“What?” She sounded testy. Could have been the leather noodles and the rotgut, but I didn’t think so. Greer had been defensive, to say the least, since she’d stolen Alex Pennington from his first missus, closed down her hard-won interior design business and become the classic trophy wife.

“Talk to me. Who’s blackmailing you, and why? More important, have you changed your mind about telling the police?”

The last time we’d discussed the issue, Greer and Jolie and I, she’d refused to involve Scottsdale’s finest. Apparently whatever she’d done to get herself into this mess was bad enough that she was willing to risk her peace of mind, and maybe even her life, to keep it under wraps.

Suddenly Greer shivered, hugged herself. There was a distinct chill in the air, and I expected Gillian to appear, but she didn’t.

Inwardly, I sighed. If the child didn’t turn up soon, I was going to have to go out looking for her. Yes, she was a ghost—technically. But she was also a little kid, caught between two worlds, scared and alone. She’d witnessed her own funeral, too, and that must have been almost as traumatic as her murder.

“I did something terrible when I was young,” Greer said. “Someone knows.”

“What did you do, Greer?”

“I’m not going to tell you,” she said, pushing back her chair to stand. Turning to flee, she stumbled a little. “I can handle this on my own.”

I went after her. Caught hold of her good arm. “Greer,” I pleaded, “listen to me. Somebody tried to nab you—you’re obviously in real danger. What’s going to happen if Alex pulls the financial plug, and you can’t pay these people off any longer?”

She didn’t answer. Trembling, she shook her head, pulled free and fled.

Some P.I. I was. I had a real way with people.

Disconsolately, I finished Greer’s lasagna and what was left of the tamale pie. I’d barely touched my wine, so I poured it down the drain and went back to the bedroom to get dressed.

Five minutes later, sporting jeans, a tank top and a lightweight denim jacket, I fired up the Volvo and headed out to look for Gillian. It was after nine o’clock by then, and nearly dark.

I headed for the cemetery in north Scottsdale, where I knew Gillian had been buried. The place was fenced, but the gates stood open, so I drove in, considered the layout and parked. There were a few other people around—a couple of groundskeepers, a young man sitting cross-legged beside a tombstone and an old woman in a green polyester pantsuit and sensible shoes, arranging and rearranging flowers in an urn.

I didn’t have to ask directions. I spotted Gillian right away, standing next to a new grave mounded with raw dirt.

I got out of the car, shoved my hands into the hip pockets of my jeans and approached.

Gillian couldn’t have heard me, but she must have sensed that I was there, because she looked up and watched solemnly as I drew near.

I added another title to the growing list of Damn Fool’s Guides I needed to acquire—one on sign language. I thought of how I’d asked Gillian about her killer, and she’d answered. Maybe she could read my mind—she’d responded at the funeral, when I’d mentally asked her to come back to where I was sitting—but it was more likely that she’d simply read my lips.

Duh. Mojo Sheepshanks, supersleuth. Not much gets by me.

Aware that she didn’t want to be touched, and not too keen on being seen reaching out to empty air, should anyone happen to glance in our direction, I kept my hands in my pockets instead of cupping her face in them, as I wanted so much to do.

A single tear slid down her smudged cheek.

Because she’d lowered her head, maybe hoping to hide the fact that she was crying, I crouched on the other side of the mound so I could look up into her eyes. I steeled myself to see marks on her neck, left by the wire someone had used to strangle her, according to Tucker, but her flesh was unmarked.

“Hey,” I said gently.

“Hey,” Gillian mouthed silently.

It was a forlorn greeting, but at least she’d acknowledged my presence.