Liar, Liar

by Lisa Jackson

  She stared at the information a second and wondered about the babies’ names. Ariel and Adam, both A’s. A twin thing. Did the girl have a middle name? And why Adam Brett . . . A. B. Storm.

  She spent the morning again talking to people who had known Upgarde, and everything Ugali had sent her was confirmed. The ex-husband, coworkers, a couple of “friends”—everyone agreed that Karen was troubled but had given no signs of intending to kill herself. The same went for her social media pages, which were rarely used or viewed and were mainly dominated by her musical interests, new albums from her favorite artists, a few fad diets, and some funny cat videos, though she owned no pets. She was a member of the Facebook page for the Didi Storm fan club, and as Settler scrolled through the posts, there was some mention of her imitating Didi during the leap. The posted comments ran the gamut from sad and kind to downright mean:

  RIP. Heart emoticon. Thirty-two likes.

  What a great tribute to dress as Didi for your last act. Bless you. Kiss-blowing emoticon. Fifty-six likes. Four dislikes.

  Who do you think you are, impersonating her? No emoticon but fifteen likes.

  Shame on you for trying to eclipse Didi and Marilyn. You were a loser in life, and you’re a loser in death. No emoticon. Twenty-seven likes.

  You’re ugly. You didn’t even look like her! Thumbs-down emoticon.

  And so on. Settler would have someone check out the people who made the comments, but it looked like the regular kind of stuff followers wrote.

  * * *

  Remmi slept fitfully, images of Ned and Trudie on the blood-soaked grass invading her waking thoughts and dominating her dreams. She’d fallen asleep after 3:00, and now, as she glanced at the clock, she groaned. Nine-thirty, well after her usual time to rise. With an effort, she rolled out of bed, walked into the living room wearing only her night shirt, and discovered Noah sitting on one end of the couch, laptop open on the coffee table, Romeo curled at his side.

  “Traitor,” she said around a yawn, but the sleeping cat didn’t so much as open an eye.

  “Mornin’, sunshine.” Noah glanced up and smiled, making her aware of her uncombed hair and state of undress.

  “Not so sunny,” she said, stretching and wondering why she wasn’t irritated to find him already up and at ’em “You’re up early.”

  “Years of training. Military,” he said, flashing her a smile.

  His hair was still damp. And his beard shadow was gone. He was even in what appeared to be clean jeans and a T-shirt covered with an unbuttoned flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up. Had he really showered, shaved, and dressed and she’d slept right through it?

  “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” he said.

  “So, make yourself at home, why don’t you?”

  “I have.” He grinned.

  “I see that. Great.”

  “It is great. You’re a lucky woman.”

  “Funny. I don’t feel so lucky.”

  “Then you need to change your attitude.” He glanced up at her, really looking at her for the first time that morning.

  “I’ll take that under consideration. Well, maybe.” For the first time, she noticed the steaming cup of coffee sitting on a side table. He’d made coffee? That definitely improved her mood.

  She made her way to the kitchen, found the carafe of coffee and poured herself a cup, and asked him, “What’re you doing?”

  “We’re out of cream.”

  We, she thought, rolling that over in her mind as she took a long swallow.

  As she started past the living room again, he said, “You asked what I was doing.”

  She paused. “And?”

  “Research. Looking over what Emma sent me.”

  “Who’s Emma?”

  “The techie who works for me. Emma Yardley. I told you about her.”

  “Just not her name,” she said as Romeo finally deigned to open his eyes and stretch, extending his paws so that his claws were momentarily visible. “Anything important?”

  “Don’t know. Possibly. Just going through it now.”

  She thought about taking a seat next to him and trying to decipher whatever he was studying so intently, but, remembering her state of dress, said, “Brief me in fifteen. I’m going to get dressed.”

  “Okay,” he said, and if she’d expected at least some acknowledgment that he’d heard she was going to be naked, if only for a second, she was disappointed. He kept staring at the computer monitor and typing quickly, ignoring his barely touched coffee. Whatever he’d found, it certainly held his attention.

  She grabbed a pair of jeans and a sweater, bra, panties, and socks, then went into the bathroom, where she thought about locking the door, hesitated, then pressed the button and turned on the shower.

  Stripping out of the nightshirt, she felt a little strange. Noah Scott was in the next room, after all this time, seated on her couch, while she was stark naked and stepping under the steaming spray of the shower. She lathered herself, and in a ridiculous but quick feminine fantasy, she imagined him rushing into the room, the mist parting as he, naked, threw back the shower curtain and spent the next hour kissing her neck, soaping her breasts, splashing water over her nipples, and lifting her onto—

  She shut her brain down. “What’re you thinking?” she asked herself, turning the water several degrees cooler and rinsing off. He still was essentially a stranger to her.

  “Remember that,” she told herself as she toweled off and dressed. She swiped the condensation off the mirror and combed her hair into a ponytail. A touch of lip gloss, a little mascara, and done, in under fifteen minutes.

  She stepped out of the room and saw Ghost slithering down the stairs. “Curiosity kills cats like you,” she reminded him as his tail disappeared around the open landing.

  “What?” Noah asked.

  “Just talking to one of Greta’s ‘babies.’ Ghost isn’t very friendly.”

  “Gray cat?”

  “That would be the one.”

  “He seemed fine to me,” he said. “Hopped right up on the couch and started batting at my fingers as I typed.”

  “No way. You’re kidding.”

  “Yeah. I am,” he said with a laugh. “He came to the top of the stairs, took one look at me, and did a one-eighty.”

  She grinned back at him. “That sounds more like it. What’ve you got?”

  “Nothing yet, but Emma says she’s sending something important. We’ve been e-mailing.”

  “In that case, I’ll be right back.”

  She hurried down the back stairs, past the empty second floor, and into the kitchen, where she found Greta seated at the table finishing a crossword, the breakfast dishes stacked neatly in the sink. Dressed in a pink vest and white turtleneck, along with slacks and pearls that matched her earrings, she said, “Well, good morning!” and pushed her iPad aside. “That one,” she said, pointing to the screen where the puzzle was still visible, “was a doozy, let me tell you. A little trick to it today.” Then she added, “I’ve been hoping you were coming down this morning. Dear Lord, I saw on the news that Ned Crenshaw’s wife was murdered! And he’s injured?” She was shaking her head. “He was Didi’s first husband. Yes?”

  Of course, Greta remembered Ned’s name. She had that damned book memorized. No way was Remmi going to get out of confiding in the older woman, and she owed Greta the truth.

  “We found the bodies, called the police. Noah and I.”

  “Noah?”

  “Noah Scott.”

  “The boy . . . I mean, he was the one on a motorcycle that night in the desert. Right? Oh, my!” Her eyes were bright with excitement.

  “Yeah. He’s upstairs now.”

  “Is he? And, of course, he’s not a boy any longer.” Greta’s eyebrows shot over the rims of her glasses. “Are you going to bring him down and introduce him?”

  “Not now. Maybe later. We’ll see.”

  “But why is he here? I mean, did he just show up out of the blue? I thought he was
missing.”

  “He was.”

  “So . . . what’s going on?”

  Remmi didn’t have time for long explanations, so she filled the older woman in quickly, without too many details, sketching out what she’d done the day before, starting with discovering that Trudie Melborn was married to Ned, but also that she was the author of I’m Not Me. She explained about going to Sacramento with the intention of finding out more about the writing of the book and to learn if Trudie had contact with Didi or had any idea of what had happened to her and how she’d gleaned all the information she’d published about Didi’s life. She explained about finding both Ned and Trudie shot, Trudie dead, Ned ending up in a Sacramento hospital.

  “Oh, my goodness!” Greta exclaimed, a hand to her throat, fingers twisting her pearls. “I just can’t believe this. You were probably in danger yourselves!”

  “I don’t think so,” Remmi said, stretching the truth a bit as she remembered Noah, stern-faced, eyes dark, holding his pistol, ready to shoot if he saw the killer, while the dog barked crazily in the dark night. Had they been in peril? Possibly. But there was just no reason to worry Greta. “Anyway, we got home late.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I mean it’s upsetting, and I wasn’t great last night, and it took hours explaining everything to the police, but I’m okay.” That was probably another bit of a lie, too, as the events of the night before were more than disturbing. Her own nightmares were proof enough, but again, why worry the older woman?

  “And poor Ned . . . will he make it?” Still grim-faced, Greta finally quit twisting her necklace.

  “I don’t know. I think it’s touch and go. I take heart in the fact that he’s tough, you know, a real cowboy, but he was shot and . . . well, I just don’t know.” She felt an overwhelming sadness at the thought and turned to the refrigerator. “I just came down to borrow some cream for coffee.”

  Greta made a shooing motion toward the refrigerator. “Anything you want, you know that.” She let out a breath as Remmi opened the fridge’s door and pulled out a small carton of half-and-half. “While you’ve been out chasing criminals, the most excitement around here is that the Christmas lights will finally be up today.” She motioned to the window, where a string of lights was swaying in a stiff breeze, yet to be hung. A ladder and a man’s torso and legs were visible as the worker attempted to secure the lights. “Nasty day for it, too,” Greta observed, “but I’ve been promised by the owner of the company that the lights will be tested tonight for the first time and should be spectacular even if it takes all day to string them.” She paused and gave her head another little shake. “But with what you’re telling me, it all seems so . . . small. So unimportant.” As if to add emphasis to her statement, the string of lights clattered against the window, and outside a man swore loudly.

  A whirring noise caught Remmi’s attention just as she heard footsteps ascending from the basement. Turtles trotted into the room and rubbed against Remmi’s legs. A few seconds later, Beverly appeared, her face flushed slightly, her short hair a red mop. Spying Remmi, she said, “Hola. Buenos dias!”

  “Good morning,” Remmi responded just as the whirring stopped and Beverly went back out to the hall.

  “What’s that?”

  “The dumbwaiter. Jade and Beverly cleaned it up and found out it was still operational.” She looked surprised herself. “Now they play with it, haul everything up and down with it. Beverly’s pretty proud of herself.”

  “I sure am!” Beverly yelled from the hallway. “And it’s not play. It’s a lot of work. Man, this thing was filthy!”

  “Hasn’t been used in about twenty years,” Greta whispered as the mottled cat hopped onto her lap and she automatically began stroking Turtles’s head.

  Beverly said, “I’m telling you, it’s going to make my job a lot easier. Unless you find a way to put in a stacked washer and dryer on the first floor. That would be the best.”

  Greta snorted. “I’m not giving up my powder room,” she insisted under her breath.

  Remmi headed for the back stairs, carrying the cream, passing Beverly, who had opened the dumbwaiter door and was pulling out a basket of clean dishtowels. “This is the best,” Beverly declared. “El majore. At least that’s how I think you say it.”

  “It is,” Greta called from the kitchen. “Buen trabajo. Good job.”

  On the third floor, Remmi found Noah still engrossed in his computer. “Anything yet?” she asked from the kitchen, where she reheated her coffee in the microwave and added some cream.

  “A couple of things.”

  “Tell me.” Cradling her cup, she took a seat next to him on the couch, in Romeo’s spot, from the looks of the long hair left behind. The cat had now somehow climbed to the top of the bookcase, where he surveyed the living room like an emperor.

  “Okay. I asked Emma to go back through old records and find out if anyone was reported missing in Las Vegas around the time of the explosion in the desert.”

  “Didn’t the police already do that?”

  “Yeah, to try and ID the guy in the Mustang, and they came up empty.”

  “And you found someone?” She couldn’t believe it. Was it possible that the man might finally be identified?

  “I expanded the search a little, that’s all.”

  “More than the cops did?” She found that hard to believe.

  “Right.”

  “And?”

  “Some possibilities. She’s still looking to see if any of them were later located,” he said, “but she found out something else. Something a little more interesting.”

  “What?”

  “Phone records. For Gertrude Crenshaw.”

  Trudie. Remmi felt a little tremor of trepidation. Something in his tone was worrying.

  “Take a look. These numbers, all the same?” He was pointing at the screen to a list of incoming calls from different phone numbers and was picking out many that were the same. “Emma tried to track down who owns this number, but she couldn’t. It seems to be for a disposable phone, you know, one of those prepaid and untraceable burners.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, here’s a cluster of them.” He scrolled back through the digital pages. “They all happened about a year, a year and a half ago.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’m guessing that was the time Trudie was doing research on the book. These calls are to numbers around Las Vegas. This one, closer to us, belongs to Harold Rimes, and this one,” he pointed to another, “belongs to Leo Kasparian. Looks like she was getting stories and checking facts for putting the book together. She calls them, and then they call back, or she re-calls them. You can tell by the duration of the calls.”

  “I get it.”

  “So. Here’s one.” He pointed to another number. “And the call lasts less than half a minute. Like a pocket dial. Wrong number.”

  “So?”

  “So, almost immediately, that number is called again, only this time from this same burner number. See?”

  She compared the numbers. “Yes.”

  “What if whoever made the first call goofed. Called on his mobile phone, then, realizing his mistake, hung up and phoned back on the burner, to make himself anonymous.”

  “Or it really was a pocket dial.”

  “Could be. Or a mistake, and the burner call is a coincidence.”

  “Or it’s just as you say . . . Who does that number belong to?”

  “Jensen Gibbs.”

  “Jensen?” she repeated, feeling a distinct shock. Her cousin’s surly image swam to view in her mind. “But what would he have to do with Trudie and the book? He wouldn’t know anything about Didi.”

  “Maybe not, but he still lives with your aunt and uncle. I checked. Works for a towing company. A driver. He could have been calling Trudie, I suppose, but what if he was, say, charging his phone, left it on the kitchen counter or somewhere easily accessible, and then someone—your aunt, maybe, as
she’s the one with background information on your mother—what if she picked up the wrong phone by accident and, realizing her mistake, cut the call short to talk on the untraceable phone?” He scrolled through the numbers once more as Remmi’s mind raced through scenarios. “And here’s the kicker,” he added. “There’s not a single call listed between Trudie and Vera. I double-checked. And Emma has Vera’s phone number. Don’t you think that, in researching the book, Trudie would want information from Didi’s sister, the one person who knew her growing up?”

  Remmi put down her coffee cup. “Absolutely, she would. And Vera would be more than interested in talking to her. She hated Didi.”

  “So, maybe she’d enjoy making a buck off her? There are a few calls on Trudie’s phone to Anderstown, Missouri, but they were short, to different people. Nothing that stands out. It’s possible also Trudie got her information from Billy, Didi’s brother.”

  “I don’t even know where he is. I don’t remember ever meeting him.”

  Noah looked at her directly. “One more piece of information. The Gibbses’ house is pretty full. Not only do your aunt and uncle live there, but also their oldest son, Jensen, and good old Uncle Billy.”

  “Uncle Billy? Truly?” She was stunned. “Are they all in it up to their necks?”

  “There’s something there. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Then, let’s go,” she said, shooting to her feet, her mind spinning ahead.

  “Wait a minute.” He grabbed her wrist, and she spun back to face him. His fingers tight around her forearm, he said, “Slow down. Trudie was murdered last night, remember? And Crenshaw might not make it. Someone involved is a killer.”