Deadly Gamble (18 page)

We communed for a while, the basset and me, and then I gave him a bath with paper towels and sink water. That done, I rounded up some extra blankets and made him a bed in the kitchen. Once Russell was settled, I stood on tiptoe to look out the window, peering down at the parking lot. There were still six squad cars, parked at urgent angles, and plenty of uniforms and suits moving in and out of the bar.

I saw Greer's car pull in, splashed in the glow of a streetlight, come to a sleek stop next to a policeman.

I could just imagine how she was charming his regulation socks off. If she was still tearful, he wouldn't have a chance against her.

Russell began to snore, and stunk up the place with another poot before I sneaked out and headed for the exit. I waited on the landing as the cop waved Greer in, following the car on foot.

She popped the trunk from inside, and Officer Friendly leaned into it, came up with a huge bag. She'd remembered the kibble, then.

Smiling, the cop carried the thing up the stairs, looking very young and very earnest, with Greer mincing along behind him in high heels, murmuring something appreciative and admiring.

The guy looked as though he'd just rescued a baby from a burning house.

Sucker,
I thought, but kindly.

I stepped back, so he could get by, and he lugged that bag all the way to the kitchen, after I pointed the way.

Russell opened his eyes, lying on his bed of blankets, but he didn't make a sound.

Greer thanked the policeman sweetly, and he returned to parking lot duty.

“Thanks,” I said to Greer, with some amazement, taking in the bag. It was gourmet stuff, with a snooty-looking poodle preening on the front—one hundred percent organic and human grade.

In other words, if money got tight, Russell and I could share rations.

Greer smiled, pleased by my obvious gratitude, but her eyes were puffy, and her nostrils seemed chapped. She stood there in my kitchen, looking like a butterfly with one bent wing.

“How much do I owe you?” I asked. My purse was sitting on the counter, and I reached for it.

“Don't be silly,” Greer scolded. “You can't begin to afford it.”

I grinned. This was the Greer I knew. Plus, she hadn't italicized anything.

Russell stretched, yawning, and got off the blanket pile to sniff at the kibble bag, then Greer's ankles.

“Sit down,” I told my sister, taking charge. “I'll make you some tea.”

Something shifted in Greer. She nodded in acquiescence, looking as delicate and uncertain as she'd sounded on the phone, and plunked herself into the nearest chair.

I put the kettle on to boil, scrounged up a couple of tea bags and dished up some fancy grub for Russell, setting a bowl of water down alongside it. All that time, Greer said nothing. She merely looked on, as if she'd never seen a dog crunching kibble before.

“Okay,” I said, when the tea was ready and I'd taken the chair across from Greer's. “What brings you to Bad-Ass Bert's in the middle of the night?”

Greer fidgeted, licked her lips and looked me straight in the eye.

I waited, uneasy again.

“I'll pay you ten thousand dollars,” my sister said, “if you can prove my husband is fooling around.”

I
blinked, peering at Greer. “Did you just say you were willing to pay me ten grand to prove the doc is cheating on you?”

Greer bit her lower lip and nodded.

“For that much money,” I said, still recovering, “I'd set him up myself.”

“I'm
hoping
he's
not
being unfaithful to our wedding vows,” Greer said tersely. “And my trust in you had
better
not be misplaced.”

There she went, italicizing again. “Right,” I said.

Russell farted, unabashed.

“
Good God!
” Greer bolted from her chair, cheeks bulging with a thwarted exhalation, and hoisted the kitchen window open. Cop voices murmured below, but I couldn't make out what they were saying.

“Why me?” I asked, of a largely disinterested universe.

Greer gave Russell an accusatory look and stayed close to the open window to let out her breath and suck in more air. “Why you?”

I brought her gently back to the point of her visit. “Yes. Why would you hire me to check up on Alex, instead of some big detective agency?”

“Don't you want the money?” Greer challenged.

Hell, yes, I wanted the money, and she damn well knew it. I just looked at her, hoping she hadn't changed her mind.

“You're a born snoop,” my sister said. “You've got a lot of free time, and I
trust
you would be discreet—
and
be completely fair to Alex in the process.”

“Any top-flight agency would be discreet,” I pointed out. “Plus, they would have experience and resources.”

Damn it.
Whose side was I on, anyway? I could do a lot with an influx of cash like that, and since Geoff had put me off the casinos for a while, this was the only chance I was likely to get.

Greer gave Russell another wary glance, then sat down, all very serious. “Alex belongs to every civic organization in Arizona,” she told me. “I'm afraid any agency I called would tip him off, as a professional courtesy—or just out of spite.”

“Okay,” I said uncertainly.

She opened her shoulder bag—one of those rhinestone-studded numbers with a real gold buckle—and took out a sheaf of papers and her checkbook.

“I don't have a private investigator's license, you know,” I felt compelled to say. I do have standards. And I wouldn't
really
have framed Alex as a cheater just to collect the ten grand.

Which is not to say I wouldn't be tempted. I just wouldn't actually do it.

Greer ignored my statement and handed me the papers. Turned out they were printouts from a computer-generated address book. “I've highlighted the suspicious names and numbers,” she said. While I studied them, she produced a fountain pen and opened her checkbook. “I think the one with the star beside it is with him at the medical conference, even as we speak. You'll need a good camera, and there are bound to be expenses, so I'm giving you a retainer.”

It required all the discipline I had not to lean across the table and get a look at the numbers on that check.

“Right,” I said. That was always safe with Greer. She liked to be right.

“What makes you so sure Alex is running around?”

“All the little signs are there.”

Yeah,
I thought,
probably the same stuff that made his first wife suspicious when the two of you were scorching the sheets
.

“Like what?” I asked reasonably.

“The usual. Suspicious phone calls. Having his mail forwarded to his office. Late hours, even for a doctor.” Something bruised flickered in Greer's eyes. “I'll die if she's pregnant.”

“Whoa,” I said. “Pregnant?”

“What better way to snag somebody else's husband?”

I didn't argue with that. If Alex was stepping out, the other woman was probably in her twenties, since Greer herself was only thirty-two. It was a common enough scenario with men in his age and income brackets, meaning fiftyish and rich, to trade in the used model for something sporty, long-legged and preferably blond. I see these victims of midlife crisis in public places all the time, sitting with some sharp number young enough to be their daughter. Kids, too, a lot of the time—and anybody but a skeptic would take them for grandchildren, given the age gap.

Do these guys actually believe it's their virility, not their wallets, that puts a sweet young thing on their arm?

They really should get a clue. It's the Beamer, stupid, and the bank account and the big house. It's
so
not the other thing.

And you're not fooling anybody.

Greer brought me back from my ramblings by ripping out the check, slapping it down on the tabletop and shoving it toward me.

Five thousand dollars.

My eyes must have bulged.

“Greer,” I said, “this is really a lot of money. I could—”

“I want you to have it,” Greer said.

I took the check. Logic demanded that I get on a plane, fly to wherever the medical conference was being held and peek at Alex and the chickie from behind a few potted palms, but I wasn't free to do that. Detective Crowley had told me not to leave town, and Jolie was arriving the next day for a visit.

I explained.

Greer was undaunted. “Do what you can,” she said. Then she stood to leave. Business completed. No comment on the events of the evening or Jolie's impending descent upon Cave Creek.

I studied her. “I'm grateful for the chance and for the check, Greer,” I said, “and I truly hope whatever I find out is good news to you. But are you really just going to waltz out of here without responding to any of the things I just told you?”

Greer looked confused for a moment, then horrified. She dropped back into her chair, and her eyes glistened with moisture. “You're right,” she said miserably. “When did I become so self-absorbed?”

I offered no comment.

Greer untangled her arm from the strap of her purse, propped her elbows on the tabletop and rubbed her temples so hard her forehead squenched together from the sides. “It must have been terrible for you, finding your friend hurt and bleeding like that, especially after—after—”

“Take a breath, Greer. It's okay.”

“And
of course
it will be wonderful to see Jolie again.” She stopped, bit her lip. “If she wants to see me, that is.”

“Why wouldn't she want to see you?”

“You know how she feels about Alex, Mojo.”

I nodded. “Yes,” I agreed. “But she's not expecting to see Alex. Just you.”

Greer squirmed a little. Dried her eyes with the back of one hand, smearing mascara across both cheekbones in the process.

“Better check your makeup,” I said. Letting Greer go out like that would be an unforgivable sin, from her point of view, like allowing a friend to walk into a job interview with parsley in her teeth.

She got out her gold compact, snapped it open, consulted the mirror and groaned. “I look awful. No wonder my husband is messing around with other women.”

“If your husband is ‘messing around with other women,' Greer, it's because he's a selfish asshole, not because your mascara is smudged.”

“You don't like him, either,” she said, like it was news. “Do you have any baby wipes?”

After I'd made the leap over the gap where the segue should have been, I pushed back my chair. “Come on. We'll see what's in the medicine cabinet.”

“You keep your makeup in the medicine cabinet?”

I chuckled. “Yes, Greer. I own one tube of mascara, one bottle of foundation and one tube of lipstick. I can't see investing in a train case.”

“You should have a makeover,” Greer prattled, as she followed me through the living room to the bathroom. She didn't know what to say to me anymore, it seemed, but I didn't take offense. Most likely, she saw my entire life as a restoration project, and not without reason. Letting somebody slather high-priced goop on my face in some department store probably seemed like the second best place to start, the first being that whopping check she'd just written.

As it happened, the only smeared-mascara solutions I had to offer were a new bar of soap and a jar of Vaseline. She chose the soap, and I left her to the repair job.

Glancing out the kitchen window, I saw that the cop cars were gone, and Greer's SUV sat alone in the parking lot, except for my Volvo.

We met in the living room, which was the middle ground between the bathroom and kitchen.

“Maybe you should spend the night,” I said.

“I was thinking the same thing about you,” Greer replied. “Why don't you pack a few things and come home with me?”

I was touched that she'd ask. “I can't leave Russell.”

“Who's Russell?”

“The
dog,
Greer.” I cocked a thumb in his direction.

“He stinks,” she said matter-of-factly, and without apparent rancor.

There was no denying that Russell was aromatically challenged, and now that I thought about it, I recalled that Bert had warned me about the fart tendency when he asked me to look after Russell while he and Sheila went camping.

I wondered why Sheila hadn't called. I'd been taking surreptitious glances at the clock all evening, and anxiety thrummed in my nerve endings. I caught a flash of white out of the corner of one eye and realized, with rising spirits, that Chester was back.

Greer didn't notice, of course, but Russell waddled in from the kitchen, sniffing the air.

“I'll walk you to your car,” I told Greer, because I didn't want her in the parking lot alone. I didn't want myself in the parking lot alone, for that matter, but what was I going to do? If anything happened to my sister, I'd never forgive myself.

“Nonsense,” she said. “Just stand on the landing and watch until I'm inside. As soon as I start the engine, the door will relock.”

I accompanied her as far as the top of the stairs, stood guard while she descended, key fob in hand. Behind me, inside the apartment, I heard Russell growl tentatively.

Greer got into her SUV, fired up the engine, flashed her lights and drove away.

Russell gave another growl, and I turned and went inside, careful to turn the dead bolt and put on the chain. When I stepped into the living room, I was startled to see the basset hound and the cat sitting face-to-face in the middle of the floor, smelling each other's noses.

It took a moment for the implications to register. After all, I'd had a long and difficult day.

Russell could see Chester.

I wasn't hallucinating.

I wasn't losing it.

Chester raised a paw and batted playfully at Russell's long nose. Russell backed up a few inches, without lifting his butt off the floor.

I did a little victory dance.

I was sane!

And the phone rang.

I raced for the kitchen extension, my heart thudding. It was after midnight and, let's face it, the good news ratio goes way down by then.

I squinted at the caller ID panel; the reading was ‘no number available.'

“This is Mojo.”

Silence.

Oh, God. It was my brother again. Or Heather.

“I'm sorry to call so late,” Sheila apologized, sounding flustered and weary, both at once, “but you said—”

I was relieved, then worried again. “How's Bert?”

Russell ambled in, with Chester traveling practically in lock-step beside him. They both sat down, like a pair of churchgoers wedged into a crowded pew, and watched me with consuming interest.

Sheila began to cry.

I closed my eyes, standing rigid in my bathrobe and bare feet, and waited for the ax to fall. Bert hadn't made it. The knife had hit some vital organ. My palm sweated where I gripped the receiver. “Tell me, Sheila. Is Bert—?”

“He's been in surgery all this time,” Sheila wept.

My knees almost gave out. “He's alive?”

“Yes!” Sheila wailed. “He's in recovery now, and the doctor thinks he'll be okay, but I can't leave him and I don't know when I can come and get Russell and the first thing he's going to ask me about is that dog—”

“Sheila,” I interrupted gently. “Don't worry about Russell. I'll take care of him as long as necessary.”

Russell growled again, and when I glanced in his direction, I saw Nick standing in the doorway, one shoulder braced casually against the jamb. He gave a jaunty little salute.