Deadly Deceptions. Linda Lael Miller

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      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?

      What if it wasn’t Alex? Okay, it was almost a sure thing, but there was that one-percent factor.

      I bit my lip. Drove through the cemetery gates.

      The old lady was there, still fiddling with her flowers.

      But there was no sign of Gillian.

      Half-relieved, I turned around and fixed my internal GPS on Wal-Mart.

      Cell phones were a no-no in yoga class, which meant I wouldn’t be able to get through to Greer anyway, and I still didn’t know what I’d say if I did.

      The parking lot at Wally World was crowded.

      I wedged the Volvo in between a tangle of shopping carts and an old car with a Confederate-flag sunscreen, and sprinted for the entrance. I was in no particular hurry, though, since I had almost two hours before my lunch date with Beverly Pennington, and I was probably going to break that, anyway.

      After all, she’d been married to Alex, and they had several grown children. However acrimonious the divorce had been, she was in for a shock. I didn’t want to be there when she got the news.

      I took a cart, wheeled into the store. Two old guys in blue vests welcomed me to Wal-Mart. One of them was dead, but he seemed happy enough.

      I guess there are worse ways to spend eternity.

      I headed for the children’s section, picked out two pairs of jean shorts and two T-shirts that looked as though they’d fit Gillian, along with some tiny white sneakers. Then it was on to the toy department, where I chose a blackboard and a box of colored chalk.

      The whole thing took under fifteen minutes, which left me with a serious gap in my schedule. I paid and left the store with my purchases.

      Gillian was sitting in the front seat of my car when I got back.

      “Look,” I said, holding up a blue plastic bag. “I bought you a change of clothes.”

      She gave me a piteous glance, turned in the seat and wrote “MOM” in the dust on my dashboard with the tip of one finger.

      I got the blackboard out of its cardboard box and handed it to Gillian, along with the chalk.

      She blinked, looked at me curiously, then extracted a pink stick of chalk from the box and wrote “MOM” again.

      I sighed, got into the car and fastened my seat belt. Started the engine. Alarming thought number seventy-two struck in the next instant. I took Gillian’s chin in my hand, turned her to face me.

      “Was your mom the one?” I asked slowly. “The one who hurt you, I mean?”

      Gillian’s eyes widened, and she shook her head.

      “Do you know where she is now?”

      She rubbed out “MOM” and replaced it with “WURK.”

      Work? Helen Erland was at work, the day after her child’s funeral, selling cigarettes and auto air fresheners and propane tanks for people’s barbecue grills? “Why didn’t you just pop in on her, the way you do with me?”

      Gillian’s chest moved with a silent sigh.

      “Okay,” I said. “I’ll take you there. But she still won’t be able to see you, Gillian. Are you sure you want to do this?”

      Gillian nodded. Erased “WURK” and wrote “DOG.”

      “No dog,” I said without conviction.

      Gillian underlined the word with a slashing motion of her hand and looked stubborn.

      “We’ll see,” I told her.

      We headed for Cave Creek, and sure enough, her mother was behind the counter at the convenience store, wearing a pink cotton smock with a company logo on the pocket. She looked wrecked—her eyes were puffy and swollen from crying, and she hadn’t bothered with the usual heavy makeup. She seemed younger without it. Her hair, blond like Gillian’s, was pulled back into a ponytail, and even though she was pale, there was a tragic prettiness about her.

      I bought a forty-four-ounce diet cola, feeling nervous, while Gillian stared at her mother with a longing that made me ache at a cellular level.

      “You were at Gillian’s funeral,” Helen said, blinking as though she was just coming out of a stupor. “I saw you.”

      I nodded. Put out my free hand. “Mojo Sheepshanks,” I said. “I come into the store sometimes. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Erland—about Gillian.”

      She blinked. Retreated into herself a little. I’d seen the expression before; any moment now, the blinds would be pulled and the lights would go out. “You’re the one who was on TV.”

      “Yes,” I answered.

      “You’re a detective,” she mused.

      “A private investigator,” I clarified.

      She leaned partway across the counter and spoke in a low voice. “My husband did not kill our daughter,” she said. “Vince would never have hurt Gillian.”

      I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything.

      Fresh tears sprang to Helen Erland’s eyes. “The police think Vince is guilty,” she whispered desperately. “They’re not even looking for the real murderer!”

      I thought of Tucker. Whatever our differences, I knew he was a good cop. He’d be looking for the killer, all right. I let the remark pass, since I wasn’t there to argue. “I know you must have been asked this question over and over again, until you wanted to scream,” I said gently. “But do you have any idea who might have done such a thing? Besides your husband, I mean.”

      She sniffled, snatched a handful of tissues from a box behind the counter and swabbed her face. Her skin looked raw, as though she’d tried to scrub it away. “It must have been a drifter, someone like that,” she said. “Nobody who knew Gillian would want to hurt her.” There was a short pause. “She was such a brave little thing. She couldn’t hear, you know, or speak, except in sign language. But she did everything the other kids did—even ballet. She told me she could feel the music, coming up through the СКАЧАТЬ