By the time I caught up with her, she was behind the locked door of the powder room off the kitchen, hurling.
I raised a fist to pound on the door, but lowered it to my side.
Greer wasn’t going to tell me about Shiloh, which meant I’d have to find out on my own, probably with her working against me the whole time.
I wanted to go straight out to the guesthouse, get my stuff, load it all into the Volvo and wheel it back to Bad-Ass Bert’s. Live in my own apartment again, where I belonged.
But I couldn’t abandon Greer. In a lot of ways she was as helpless as Gillian. I knew she was hedging, but the vomiting was for real. She could have faked the sounds, but the smell would be hard to duplicate. What if she was seriously ill? What if she needed an ambulance?
An ambulance.
Brilliance strikes at the most unexpected times.
“Greer,” I called forcefully, “if you don’t open this door, I’m going to call an ambulance. The paramedics will break it down.”
More spewing. Then “Go away!”
“I’ll do it, Greer.”
“No—” gag “—you won’t.”
“I’m heading to the phone right now—9-1-1. I am calling 911—”
“Stop!” The knob jiggled, and the door opened a little way.
Seeing Greer on her knees in front of the commode, looking wretched, I almost called my own bluff and summoned the medicos. She immediately started the barf-o-thon again, and I held her hair, washed her face when the spasms subsided, flushed and sprayed.
I’m a sympathy barfer. By the time I’d handled that situation, I was on the verge of retching myself.
“I have a migraine,” Greer moaned, and I believed her.
“I’m calling your doctor,” I said.
“No,” she protested. “I just need to take some medicine and lie down.”
I helped her upstairs to the sumptuous suite she’d once shared with Alex. Got her settled in the enormous round bed, brought her bottled water and her pills.
“Pull the drapes,” Greer groaned after gingerly swallowing a tablet and a sip of the water. “The light hurts my eyes.”
I complied. “I still think I should call your doctor—or take you to the emergency room.”
Greer shook her head. “Please, Mojo,” she whispered. “Just leave me alone. Let me sleep....”
Given her state of mind, and the trouble she was in, I was afraid to leave the migraine pills where she could get them. I dropped the small brown bottle into the pocket of my pantsuit jacket, took the phone receiver from the base on the bedside table and laid it near her hand. “I’ll be in the guesthouse,” I said quietly. “Call if you need anything.”
Greer merely nodded, her eyes already closed.
“I’ll look in on you in a little while.”
She nodded again.
I crept out, closing the bedroom door softly behind me.
Paused a moment or two in the hallway, grappling with my conscience. I wasn’t going to get a better chance to search the place for any clues to the Shiloh secret, but what if Greer needed me, called the guesthouse and got no answer? The mansion was seriously big; she’d have no way of knowing I was within shouting distance.
Provided she had the strength to shout, after all that throwing up.
I dashed out to my place, hoping there wouldn’t be any ghosts in residence—though I was getting a little concerned that Gillian hadn’t put in an appearance since she’d popped out of Helen’s double-wide the evening before.
One thing at a time, I told myself. The Damn Fool’s Guide to Maintaining Sanity. I toyed briefly with the idea of writing that one myself, despite a glaring lack of credentials.
The guesthouse was empty. Snatching up my phone, I hotfooted it back to Greer’s.
She and Alex shared a “study” on the ground floor of Casa Pennington—a swank layout with a pair of matched antique desks, probably looted from some hacienda in Mexico, leather chairs and a wall of oak filing cabinets.
There were twin computers, one on each desk, and I headed for Alex’s first, tapped in with the password he’d given me and found the file containing the bank account numbers we’d discussed. There were four of them, and I copied the numbers carefully onto a piece of monogrammed notepaper, folded it and tucked it into my pocket. I shifted to Greer’s computer with some reluctance—I figured there might be evidence against Jack Pennington on Alex’s hard drive, and I wanted to get to it before the police confiscated the whole works as part of their investigation. The trouble was, I didn’t know how much time I had before Greer miraculously recovered from her migraine and caught me snooping.
She’d stored her password, just as I’d hoped, and I went straight to her email, with only a mild pang of guilt, and scanned the senders’ names for potential blackmailers.
Jolie’s was there.
So was mine.
There were the usual generous offers from multi-level marketing companies and internet porn providers.
And that was it.
The phone rang. For a second I didn’t realize it wasn’t the one I’d stuck in my pocket out in the guesthouse, on top of Greer’s pill bottle. Nor was it the main line into the house, since it was muffled. No, the cheery little jingle came from the top drawer of the desk I was sitting at.
I opened it, found a cell phone—the throwaway variety, probably, though it had a camera function. I stared in disbelief at the little panel where the caller’s picture showed. Skull and crossbones.
I wasted another moment pondering that, then flipped the phone open and uttered an uncertain “Hello?”
Instant freeze from the other end. I mean, I actually felt it, like a shivery wind coming off an ice floe. It raised goose bumps on my forearms.
“Who is this?” someone demanded. The voice might have been altered, but I wasn’t sure of that. Could be the person smoked unfiltered cigarettes two at a time.
“Mojo Sheepshanks,” I said. “My sister is ill, so I’m answering her phones.”
“She gave you this phone?”
Man? Woman? Creature from the Black Lagoon? I couldn’t tell from the rough, raspy voice. I tensed, and the skull and crossbones in the picture panel suddenly seemed a lot more than tasteless. It was full-on sinister.
“Not really,” I said, trying to sound sweetly stupid, and therefore harmless. “It rang and I tracked the sound to her desk drawer.” I paused, frowned. “Who’s calling, please?”
“Stupid bitch,” the caller said, though whether he/she/it was addressing me or a companion was anybody’s guess.
“I beg your pardon?” I said, not so sweetly.
“Tell Molly she’s a dead woman.”
Molly? Who the hell was Molly?
Before I could ask, the caller hung up.
I immediately hit star sixty-nine. Blocked, of course.
I stared at the phone, the innocuous emails on Greer’s computer screen forgotten. Checked for stored numbers.
Nothing.
Pushed Redial.
Nothing again.
Pulled the battery, found the serial number on the little label behind it. I practically needed a microscope, even with my twenty-twenty vision, but I finally figured it out and copied the digits onto a piece of notepaper. I had no idea, at that point, what value the information might have. It just seemed, frankly, like something a smart detective would do.
I had, alas, more questions than answers. I scrolled through the photo files, but found zip.
Frowning, I sat back in the cushy office chair, staring at the phone in my hand. The caller had threatened Greer’s life, and I had a sick feeling that he/she/it meant every word. Had I just spoken to her blackmailer, or Jack Pennington, disguising his voice? Or did Greer have other enemies I knew nothi
ng about?
What was with the skull and crossbones?
I had learned one thing, though.
Greer’s name had once been Molly.
Chapter Eight
I PUT THE DISPOSABLE cell phone back into the drawer, but it preyed on my mind as I signed out of Greer’s email to run a search for Shiloh, Montana. She had a regular cell, a sleek, high-tech prototype, not yet available to the scruffy masses, that did everything from reminding her of appointments to downloading first-run movies. Why would she own a cheap alternative, probably purchased online or in some discount store?
I wanted to shake her awake and ask her about the phone and about her past life as Molly, but what good would that do? She’d only stonewall me, as she’d been doing ever since I arrived.
I thought about calling Tucker for some input, but discarded the idea almost immediately. He had, as he liked to remind me, A Job, and no part of it involved helping me with cases, especially during working hours.
For a homicide cop, that’s 24/7, but he was planning on knocking on my door when he got off work, and I was planning on letting him in. I’d show him the cell phone then, give him the bank account numbers Alex had steered me to and tell him what Alex had said about the blackmail situation. I might or might not tell him about the Molly angle—I hadn’t decided yet.
Meanwhile, I’d bide my time.
There were a surprising number of web links for Shiloh, Montana. I started with the chamber of commerce, mostly because it was first on the list, but also because I didn’t have a map handy and I wanted to pinpoint the place.
It was in the western part of the state, population “3000 and Growing,” nestled on the “gloriously timbered shores of spectacular Flathead Lake,” and offering “incomparable” opportunities for fishing, hunting, boating, swimming, et cetera. There was the requisite Native American casino—a point in the town’s favor, from my perspective, since I’ve rarely encountered a slot machine I can’t loot—along with grocery stores, bars, restaurants and a couple of “family motels,” meaning, I supposed, no vibrating beds, dirty movies and hourly rates.
I printed the chamber material and went back to the Google list.
Next I found the web page for the Shiloh Bugle.
Cute, I thought. A major battle in the Civil War had been fought at Shiloh, Tennessee, and the “bugle” part was probably a reference to that, meant to conjure images of the cavalry riding over the hill at top gallop. Never mind the topographical distance between Flathead Lake and the Union-Confederacy action—I guess even towns can be wannabes.
I scanned the articles in the archives.
As far as I could tell, no one had ever been murdered in Shiloh. There had been no kidnappings, no heists at the Farmer’s and Cattleman’s Bank, the only institution of its type in the town. Zip. The biggest news in a decade, apparently, was Miss Rainbow Trout of 2003 having to step down before her year was up because of “family responsibilities.” As in, I thought cynically, she’d probably started one, necessitating a hasty wedding.
Glumly I logged off the Bugle site. I was going to have to start from scratch and go to Shiloh in person if I wanted to find out who was blackmailing Greer—and I had to know. Surely I could pick up some kind of thread there, and follow it to the truth.
I opened the desk drawer and peeked in at the cell phone again, frowning.
It hadn’t moved.
The phone in my pocket rang.
Phones are handy. No doubt about it. But they always ring when I’m busy doing something else.
Expecting an upstairs-downstairs call from Greer, I didn’t stop to check the caller ID panel. I just thumbed it and said a quiet—make that resigned—hello.
“We had an appointment,” Beverly Pennington said tersely. “Carlotta made lobster salad, and you didn’t show up. You didn’t even call. Am I supposed to be impressed by that, Ms. Sheepshanks?”
Bitch, I thought. There were a lot of people I would have liked to impress, but she wasn’t one of them.
“I figured you were busy, what with the police being there to tell you your ex-husband had been murdered,” I said in a crisp professional tone. “Under the circumstances, calling you seemed like an unnecessary intrusion.”
Beverly was quiet. I wondered if she was crying. If she’d still loved Alex Pennington, hoped he might have overlooked the small problem of all-out alcoholism and come back to her one day.
I softened a little. Waited silently for her to recover. Her turn to talk, not mine.
“The bastard would have left me penniless,” she said presently, and with venom, “if I hadn’t had the good sense to pay up the life insurance policies out of my divorce settlement.”
So much for treading lightly around the delicate subject of mourning the father of her children. I considered warning her that her son Jack might be about to erase her from the planet to collect a few bucks, but that would have been defamation—if not definition—of character. In any case, Alex had been wrong about the financial situation wife #1 would be in following his sudden and tragic demise. I hoped he’d been wrong about some other things, too—like Greer being a sociopath.
Greer talks a good game, I heard him say, but if it’s her or you, she’ll throw you to the wolves.
Jack was the dangerous one, I reminded myself.
“Be careful, Mrs. Pennington,” I said—carefully.
I didn’t need to see her face to know she was frowning. I heard it in her voice.
“Of what?” she asked, nonplussed.
Of your son. “Just be careful.”
Another thoughtful and clearly unfriendly pause. Then, “I would still like to discuss hiring you to do some...work for me. When can we meet?”
“I’m tied up today,” I answered moderately, unsettled and at the same time curious as hell. What could this woman possibly want from me, besides a means of sticking it to Greer somehow? There were plenty of established P.I.’s listed in the Yellow Pages. Why call me? “How about tomorrow afternoon?”
“Two o’clock,” Beverly said. “You have the address?”
I confirmed that I did, and we hung up.
I jammed the phone back into my jacket pocket.
The trouble with being a detective is that you always have to be thinking about what to do next.
A noise in the entryway, just outside the study, sparked a fizzy little burst of alarm in the pit of my stomach.
It was probably Greer, feeling better and wanting something to eat, or some company.
Tell Molly she’s a dead woman.
Or it could be whoever had called on the throwaway cell phone, expecting to get Greer.
I stiffened in my chair. Listened.
Carmen, Greer’s housekeeper, appeared in the archway, smiling.
“Hello, Mojo,” she said, her speech heavily accented in a Spanish direction. “Where is Mrs. Pennington, please?”
Hallelujah, I thought. With Carmen to look after Greer, I could hit the street, get some gumshoeing done. “Upstairs,” I said. “She has a migraine.” I remembered that Greer had said her housekeeper was on vacation. “I thought you were out of town.”
“My husband, he call me in San Miguel,” Carmen said, no longer smiling. Her dark eyes glistened with emotion. “He say Dr. Alex is killed. I hurry back for Mrs. Pennington.” The housekeeper was a small, compact woman, her black hair tidily braided and wound into a knot at the back of her head. She’d been working for Greer and Alex for about a year, by my best estimate, and though she’d served me a number of meals and appeared at my elbow a thousand times with a pitcher of iced tea while Greer and I dished on the patio, I didn’t know her well. Now I studied her carefully. She wore a pink polyester uniform and sensible shoes and carried a purse the size of a duffel bag.
“Mrs. Pennington is si
ck?” she asked, plainly worried.
I wondered how badly she needed this job, and how long it would be before Greer couldn’t pay her salary any longer.
“She’s been throwing up a lot,” I said. “Is that new?”
Carmen blinked. “She was fine when I leave for San Miguel.” There was a defensive note in the woman’s voice; clearly, she wouldn’t have gone on vacation if Greer had been ill when she left. “Upset because the doctor, he move out of the house. But only that.”
More wondering on my part. Did Carmen know Greer was being blackmailed? And if so, could she be persuaded to share the details?
I fished. “There wasn’t any other sort of—problem?”
Carmen set the mongo purse on top of one of the oak filing cabinets against the far wall of the study. “What do you mean?”
Was she stalling, hedging—the way Greer had done every time I tried to get the skinny on the blackmail? Or was she sincerely confused? I couldn’t tell.
I took the skull-and-crossbones cell phone out of the desk drawer and rose to cross the room, holding it out to her, balanced on one palm.
“Have you ever seen this before?”
Carmen peered at the instrument, as if reluctant to touch it, and crossed herself hastily when she spotted the pirate sign in the photo panel. She shook her head. Up close, I could see wariness in her eyes. My internal lie-o-meter lit up.
“It’s disposable,” I said, playing it by ear. “The kind of phone drug dealers like, because the calls are hard, if not impossible, to trace.”
Carmen gasped. “Drug dealers?”
“Criminals of all kinds,” I said wisely, though I didn’t really know what I was talking about. Nothing new there, either. You have to wing it a lot in my line of work. “Kidnappers.” I paused for dramatic effect, then leaned in a little and whispered, “Blackmailers.”
Carmen crossed herself again. Her eyes went wide and she leaned back. She looked over her shoulder, then confided, with a nod at the cell, “Phone come in mail one day last month. Mrs. Pennington, she very frightened when she see it. Go off by herself.”
“But she didn’t mention who might have sent it?”
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