Deadly Deceptions (23 page)

“We need to stop at the apartment first,” I said, feeling woozy again.

“Why?”

“Because Dave is home alone.”

“Dave will be fine,” Tucker said. “I don't get why this Tiffany broad blames you for the accident.”

“It was traumatic,” I said. “She had breast implants and they popped.”

“She's crazy,” Tucker decided.

“Brilliant deduction,” I replied.

We reached his SUV, parked in the driveway next to my Volvo. Like the gate, the driver's door was open. Tucker had been in too big a hurry to shut either one.

“How did you bang up your head?”

“Tiffany was inside the guesthouse when I came home,” I said. I wasn't tracking very well, but I was determined to get the story out and make sense of the whole thing, no matter how many tries it took. “God knows what she was planning—probably she just wanted to scare me, but she must have panicked or something. She shoved past me and knocked me down, and I hit my head on the concrete edge around the flower bed.”

“Ouch,” Tucker said. He went to the passenger side and plunked me on the seat. I blushed, flashing briefly on another Tucker/SUV experience—one that had been a lot more fun. “You didn't recognize her at that point?”

I shook my head. “It happened too fast.”

“But you went after her.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Right.”

“I've got to know if Dave's all right. Tiffany might have gone there first.”

“Is there a
Damn Fool's Guide
to making enemies? You seem to have a real gift for pissing people off.”

It was time to change the subject. “Did you ever find my panties?” I asked.

Tucker's face was grim, but his mouth quirked up at one corner as he got behind the wheel and reached for the radio mic on the dashboard. He didn't bother to answer until he'd dispatched a deputy to the apartment to look in on Dave, adding, “The key's under the doormat” before replacing the receiver. Turning to me with a wry but worried look, he concluded, “You really shouldn't leave the key under the mat. It's the first place an intruder is going to look.”

“I only put it there until I could think of a better place,” I said, though I knew it was a lame excuse. Never hide a key under a mat, on top of a door frame, inside a mailbox, or in a plastic rock standing all by itself.
The Damn Fool's Guide to Home Security,
chapter one.

I rubbed my temples with the fingertips of both hands.

Tucker rolled his eyes. “Fasten your seat belt, Sherlock,” he told me, already backing out. “And no, I never found your panties. Of course, I didn't exactly look for them.”

I didn't answer.

“So where does the four-wheeler come in?” Tucker asked.

“I told you.”

“You were babbling. Tell me again.”

I sighed. Then I told him again.

Tucker was speeding, but I figured I must not be in grave danger of dying from my injuries, because he wasn't using the magnetic light he'd set on the roof of his SUV the night before.

I was having trouble keeping my thoughts in order, and dreading the hospital visit. With my cheapo insurance plan, I'd still be sitting in the E.R. waiting room when my hair started going gray.

Pretty soon the radio on the dashboard crackled. A Maricopa County sheriff's deputy reported that Dave was fine, and there were no signs of an intruder. The water dish had been empty, but he'd refilled it, and wiped up a puddle on the living-room floor.

Protect and serve.

Smiling a little, Tucker thanked the officer and overed and outed.

We arrived at a hospital in Scottsdale.

Tucker was right. It
does
make a difference when you're brought in by a cop. The medical personnel automatically assume you're a criminal and treat you accordingly.

But I was seen quickly after Tucker explained that I wasn't under arrest. I was poked, prodded, x-rayed and questioned. Antiseptic salve was applied to the cuts on my legs, no doubt sustained while Tiffany and I were rolling around on the prickly ground, and my good black jeans were a total loss.

I gulped down a couple of pain pills, signed the papers so my managed health care plan could be billed and Tucker took me back to the apartment in Cave Creek.

I was very glad to see Dave.

And I still had forty-five minutes before I was due at Beverly Pennington's.

I went into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror over the sink, combing my hair gingerly, working around the knot rising from the head bumps, and tried to cover the abrasions on the side of my face with makeup. All in all, I looked like Frankenstein's bride wearing a thick layer of concealer.

Sighing, I peeled out of the jeans and turtleneck and put the sundress back on. It didn't look right with my boots, so I switched to sandals.

When I came out into the living room again, Tucker was still there, talking on his cell phone.

He muttered a goodbye and clicked it shut.

Dave licked some of the salve off my left leg.

“Tiffany's spending a night in the hospital before they book her,” Tucker reported.

I nodded, feeling a little glum. I wasn't completely unsympathetic—Tiffany had been in love with Nick, and nobody knew better than I did how crazy that could make a person. “I guess I should have known something like this might happen,” I said, “after all those nasty e-mails.”

Tucker narrowed his eyes. “She's been threatening you all this time? And you didn't mention that to me? Or report it to the police?”

I sighed. “It was only a few snarly one-liners,” I said. “And you know the law, Tuck. The police couldn't really
do
anything until she made a move.”

“Why didn't you just block her messages?”

I smiled shakily. “They were pretty inventive,” I admitted. “I figured if I ever wanted to write a thriller, I'd have lots of terrible ways to kill off characters.”

Tucker rolled his eyes. “Well,” he said, “she'll probably be charged with assault, or even attempted murder. You
are
pressing charges, right?”

I nodded. “I'm sort of going to miss the e-mails.” I sighed.

Tucker waited a beat. A small muscle flexed in his cheek. “I don't suppose I could talk you into canceling your appointment with Beverly Pennington?”

“Not unless you arrest me,” I replied.

“Don't tempt me,” Tucker retorted. “I could run you in for unlawful possession of a firearm, among other things.”

“It's not unlawful,” I pointed out. “Not for sure, anyway.”

Tucker grinned, folded his arms, in no apparent hurry to get back to making the highways and byways of Maricopa County safe for democracy. “How do you plan on getting to Mrs. Pennington's?” he asked, looking smug. “The Volvo is still at Greer's.”

“You probably think I should have remembered that,” I said, blushing a little, because I hadn't given the subject of transportation a single thought. I'd been busy being x-rayed, salved and peppered with cop questions from Tucker.

He chuckled, shook his head.

“I'll take a cab,” I said, inspired.

Tucker sighed. “Just call and postpone,” he said.

“You don't know Beverly Pennington,” I said. “That would be strike two with her, and I'm not getting a third swing.”

“You might need your purse,” Tucker suggested.

My purse was on the front seat of the Volvo, which, of course, was still parked in Greer's driveway. I was definitely batting a thousand.

“Help me out here,” I said. “I'm trying to get started as a detective.”

“So far, you're doing great,” he told me with a note of sarcasm. But then he relented. “Okay, I'll take you as far as Greer's so you can pick up your car and the purse.”

I smiled at him. “Thanks,” I said, heading for the door. Dave trotted along behind, and I didn't have the heart to make him stay home.

Tucker collected the spare key from under the mat before we went down the stairs, and handed it to me. “Find a better hiding place,” he said.

“Did I tell you I'm reopening Bad-Ass Bert's?” I asked, taking the key and, not having a pocket, putting it in my bra. “I'm calling it Mojo's, and I've already ordered the sign.”

“You're going to run a biker bar?”

“Yeah. I need the income.”

“You don't know anything about selling beer.”

“I don't know anything about being a detective, either, but that hasn't stopped me so far.”

Tucker laughed. “You've got me there,” he admitted.

He drove Dave and me to the Volvo, and waited until we were both inside. “Don't forget,” he called, in parting, through the open window of his SUV. “Dinner, my place, seven o'clock. Bring the dog.”

“Can I postpone?” I asked.

“No,” Tucker said, rolling his window up again before I could answer.

“He can be unreasonable,” I confided to Dave, who was sitting in the passenger seat with his butt on top of my purse, excited to be hitting the road.

Tucker followed us halfway to Scottsdale, then veered off with a jaunty little toot of his horn.

Dave and I headed for Beverly's condo, and this time there were no squad cars choking the main driveway into the complex, as there had been on my first visit. Right about then, I questioned the wisdom of letting the dog come along for the ride. It wasn't hot yet, but I hadn't brought him any water, and I didn't want to leave the windows rolled down too far in case somebody stole him—or my car.

Fortunately a security guard approached as soon as I'd parked. I wasn't sure he was alive, since his color was odd and his uniform looked like something out of the original
Dragnet,
but asking him straight out would be dicey, so I smiled.

“Nice dog,” the security guard said, smiling back.

“Would you mind keeping an eye on him for a little while?”

“I wouldn't mind at all” came the reply. “But if somebody tries to dognap him, I won't be able to do much about it. I've been dead since 1952.”

“I wondered,” I admitted, stealing a glance at my watch. Beverly Pennington was expecting me in five minutes. I'd have to make the interview concise. And I'd promised to stop by Scottsdale PD on my way home and sign a formal complaint against Tiffany Oberlin.

“Can I sit behind the wheel?” the dead guy asked hopefully. “That way, I could pretend I was driving. I wouldn't actually go anyplace, of course.”

“Okay by me,” I said, since Dave seemed to like him. I subscribe to the theory that animals are good judges of character.

I opened the Volvo door, and the security guard settled himself in the front seat, grinning from ear to ear, turning the steering wheel and making a
vroom-vroom
sound with his lips. He was sixty if he was a day, but he looked like a kid on a carnival ride, sitting there.

I headed for Beverly Pennington's front door. It was painted red, like every other door in the place, and had a big brass six on the front.

I pushed on the doorbell.

Mrs. Pennington opened it almost immediately, but I didn't recognize her right away. She'd lost weight since I'd seen her last—we'd had a brief encounter at a local mall more than a year before, while I was shopping with Greer—and let her hair return to its natural gray. She wore beige linen pants with a matching tunic and a chunky gold necklace—very tasteful of course.

It crossed my mind that aliens might have abducted the original Beverly and replaced her with a robot.

She took in the concealer job on my face, and I knew she was having second thoughts about letting me in. In the end, though, she relented.

“Mojo Sheepshanks,” I said, once inside the small entryway, putting out my hand.

Beverly Pennington ignored the gesture. “What happened to your head?” she asked, frowning.

“Small accident,” I answered. “No big deal.”

“Come in and sit down,” she said, leading the way into a tile-floored living room with an adobe fireplace and big suede-upholstered chairs and couches.

I sat in one of the chairs, wondering why her eyes weren't puffy from crying over her dead son. She'd said on the telephone that they didn't get along, but it still seemed weird.

Beverly arranged herself on the couch, leaned forward and picked up a little crystal bell off the coffee table. She gave it a jingle, and a Mexican maid appeared. Carlotta of the lobster salad, I assumed. I realized I was hungry, since I'd had nothing since the breakfast sandwich Tucker had brought me that morning at the apartment, but this wasn't a lunch date.