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.
“Did you check?” Jolie pressed. “Call the hotel to find out if he was really there alone and not staying with a girlfriend?”
Greer’s right hand knotted into a white-knuckled fist. “No,” she said, gazing up at me. “I paid Mojo to do that kind of dirty work.”
“I was a little busy,” I pointed out.
“I want my retainer back,” Greer said.
“Fine,” I told her.
“Stop bickering,” Jolie said. “Both of you!”
Greer and I both subsided.
“A man is dead,” Jolie informed us. “Let’s stay on the subject.”
Greer let out a wail.
A man is dead, I thought with a mental snort. Gee, maybe I ought to offer Jolie a partnership in Sheepshanks, Sheepshanks and Sheepshanks. She had such a keen eye for detail.
But then, she’d expect a paycheck.
Back to sole proprietorship.
“I think Beverly killed him in a drunken rage,” Greer said with frightening clarity. “Alex just spent a fortune to send her to some fancy rehab center, but I’ll bet she was swilling gin on the plane back. Are there any more cookies?”
The whole conversation went like that. I wondered why anybody would want to be a cop—or a private investigator, for that matter. And I seriously considered applying for a blue greeter’s vest at Wal-Mart. The dead guy and I would probably get along fine.
AT SIX-FIFTEEN that evening I pulled into Helen Erland’s dirt driveway. She lived in a double-wide on one of those acre plots with “horse facilities,” meaning pipe fences, a rusted feeder and a beat-up tin roof the animals could stand under to get out of the merciless Arizona sun. When the place had been new, it was probably pretty remote; now it was surrounded by the ever-encroaching stucco houses people like Helen couldn’t afford.
There weren’t any horses.
Before I could knock, the inside door opened and Helen peered out at me through the screen. She was wearing baggy shorts and a short-sleeved plaid shirt, and her feet were bare, with blue foam cushions wedged between the toes. Not too grief stricken for a pedicure, then, I reflected, and instantly hated myself for thinking that way.
Lillian used to tell Greer, Jolie and me that you couldn’t help the thoughts that came into your head, but you didn’t have to let them stick around.
“Thanks for coming,” Helen said, stepping back so I could come inside.
Gillian was sitting in a little rocking chair over by the fake fireplace, the kind with light-up logs inside.
I didn’t acknowledge her, of course, until Helen turned away to clear some laundry off one end of the couch so I could sit down.
Gillian returned my thumbs-up signal—I guess it qualified as sign language—but she looked so sad and small sitting there.
I sized up the living room. Despite the laundry, it wasn’t messy. The carpet looked clean, and there was no dust on top of the TV, which was muted but on, or beer cans on the coffee table. An electric picture of Jesus and the apostles in a boat filled most of one wall, but the plug was pulled.
“That belonged to my mother,” Helen said fondly, having followed my gaze. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”
