Deadly Deceptions (4 page)

“Talk to me. Who's blackmailing you, and why? More important, have you changed your mind about telling the police?”

The last time we'd discussed the issue, Greer and Jolie and I, she'd refused to involve Scottsdale's finest. Apparently whatever she'd done to get herself into this mess was bad enough that she was willing to risk her peace of mind, and maybe even her life, to keep it under wraps.

Suddenly Greer shivered, hugged herself. There
was
a distinct chill in the air, and I expected Gillian to appear, but she didn't.

Inwardly, I sighed. If the child didn't turn up soon, I was going to have to go out looking for her. Yes, she was a ghost—technically. But she was also a little kid, caught between two worlds, scared and alone. She'd witnessed her own funeral, too, and that must have been almost as traumatic as her murder.

“I did something terrible when I was young,” Greer said. “Someone knows.”

“What did you do, Greer?”

“I'm not going to tell you,” she said, pushing back her chair to stand. Turning to flee, she stumbled a little. “I can handle this on my own.”

I went after her. Caught hold of her good arm. “Greer,” I pleaded, “listen to me. Somebody tried to nab you—you're obviously in real danger. What's going to happen if Alex pulls the financial plug, and you can't pay these people off any longer?”

She didn't answer. Trembling, she shook her head, pulled free and fled.

Some P.I.
I
was. I had a real way with people.

Disconsolately, I finished Greer's lasagna and what was left of the tamale pie. I'd barely touched my wine, so I poured it down the drain and went back to the bedroom to get dressed.

Five minutes later, sporting jeans, a tank top and a lightweight denim jacket, I fired up the Volvo and headed out to look for Gillian. It was after nine o'clock by then, and nearly dark.

I headed for the cemetery in north Scottsdale, where I knew Gillian had been buried. The place was fenced, but the gates stood open, so I drove in, considered the layout and parked. There were a few other people around—a couple of groundskeepers, a young man sitting cross-legged beside a tombstone and an old woman in a green polyester pantsuit and sensible shoes, arranging and rearranging flowers in an urn.

I didn't have to ask directions. I spotted Gillian right away, standing next to a new grave mounded with raw dirt.

I got out of the car, shoved my hands into the hip pockets of my jeans and approached.

Gillian couldn't have heard me, but she must have sensed that I was there, because she looked up and watched solemnly as I drew near.

I added another title to the growing list of
Damn Fool's Guide
s I needed to acquire—one on sign language. I thought of how I'd asked Gillian about her killer, and she'd answered. Maybe she could read my mind—she'd responded at the funeral, when I'd mentally asked her to come back to where I was sitting—but it was more likely that she'd simply read my lips.

Duh. Mojo Sheepshanks, supersleuth. Not much gets by me.

Aware that she didn't want to be touched, and not too keen on being seen reaching out to empty air, should anyone happen to glance in our direction, I kept my hands in my pockets instead of cupping her face in them, as I wanted so much to do.

A single tear slid down her smudged cheek.

Because she'd lowered her head, maybe hoping to hide the fact that she was crying, I crouched on the other side of the mound so I could look up into her eyes. I steeled myself to see marks on her neck, left by the wire someone had used to strangle her, according to Tucker, but her flesh was unmarked.

“Hey,” I said gently.

“Hey,” Gillian mouthed silently.

It was a forlorn greeting, but at least she'd acknowledged my presence.

“Time to go home,” I told her, forming the words very slowly and carefully. “You can stay at my place.”

She stared at me, looking almost defiant. Her little hands were clenched into fists, and her stance told me she wasn't going anywhere, and I couldn't make her. True enough. She'd simply vanish if I made any sudden moves.

How do you bribe a ghost-child? Do you offer to buzz through the drive-in at McDonald's for a happy meal?

“You could watch TV,” I said, after searching my brain for any scrap of kid lore. “I have a big one that comes down out of the ceiling when you push a button.”

She signed something, but I didn't know what it was.

“She wants you to buy her a dog,” a voice said.

I almost fell over, I was so jolted. I got to my feet and turned to see the young guy I'd glimpsed earlier, meditating beside a grave.

Duh, again. He was dead. The old lady with the flowers probably was, too. I made a mental note to pay more attention to my surroundings and not assume everybody I saw was alive.

He smiled.

I hoped he wasn't planning to follow me home. I had my hands full with one ghost—I didn't need two.

I swallowed. Stood up straight. “You're—”

“Dead,” he said cheerfully.

“And you understand sign language.”

He nodded. “I took a couple of special classes at the community college,” he said. “I needed a service project to make Eagle Scout.” He signed something to Gillian, and she eagerly signed back.

“Ask if she knows who killed her,” I said.

“Whoa,” he said, round eyed.

“Just do it, okay? It's important.”

“I don't think we covered that in class,” the boy replied. “But I'll try.”

His hands moved.

Gillian's hands moved.

“She doesn't know,” he said. “It happened really fast.”

“Damn,” I muttered. Then I took a closer look at him. He was wearing jeans and a red T-shirt, and he was even younger than I'd first thought. He probably hadn't even made it through high school before he passed away. “What's your name and when did you die?” I asked.

“I'm not sure when I croaked,” he said. “I only figured it out the other day. Up till then, I just thought I was having a bad dream.”

I threw back my head, looked up at heaven. Why did God just allow these people to wander around, not knowing they were dead? Wasn't there some kind of intake system? Where were the angels? Where were the loving relatives, come to lead the newly deceased into the Light?

“But my name is Justin Braydaven,” Justin went on. “I probably wouldn't be able to tell you that much if I hadn't read it off my headstone.” He shook his head. “I've really been spaced lately.”

“You didn't remember your name—but you can still communicate in sign language?”

Justin shrugged. “Maybe it's like riding a bike,” he said. “You never forget how to do it, even when you're—” he stopped, swallowed “—dead.”

I felt sorry for him, for obvious reasons. There was so much he was never going to experience. “I guess your date of death is probably on that headstone, too. Under your name.”

“I was so glad to know who I was, I forgot to look for that.”

“Justin, do you see a big light? If you do, you should go into it.”

“No big lights,” Justin said, sounding good-naturedly resigned.

Gillian began to sign again.

“She's back to the dog,” Justin told me. “It's a big thing to her. Maybe there's one at the pound.”

I thought about Vince Erland, promising his stepdaughter a pet and then reneging. It would be easy to judge him for that, but the fact is, dogs and cats need a lot of things—shots, food, spaying or neutering, sometimes ongoing veterinary care. Those things aren't cheap.

The three of us started walking down a paved, sloping drive, in the general direction of my car. I was musing, Justin and Gillian were signing.

“Hey, lady!” one of the groundskeepers called to me, loading tools into the back of a battered pickup truck. “We're closing up for the night!”

I nodded. “On my way,” I called back.

We passed the old lady, fussing happily with her bouquet. She didn't seem to notice us.

“She's been in a good mood since the flowers came,” Justin informed me.

I drew up at the headstone where I'd first seen him, peered at the lettering.

He'd been dead for six years.

Where had he been all that time?

“Can I drop you off somewhere?” I asked, because I couldn't just leave him there.

After giving the matter some serious thought, Justin came up with an address, and we all piled into the Volvo—Justin, Gillian and me. I recall a few curious glances from the groundskeepers when I opened the passenger door, flipped the seat forward so Gillian could climb in back and waited until Justin was settled up front.

I smiled and waved to the spectators.

The smile faded as I drove out of the cemetery, though.

I was busy trying to solve the great cosmic mysteries—life, death, the time-space continuum.

No
Damn Fool's Guide
on that.

As it turned out, Justin lived—or
had
lived—in a modest, one-story rancher in one of the city's many housing developments. I swear, every time I leave town, another one springs up. There were lights in the windows of the stucco house with the requisite red tile roof, though the shades were drawn, and an old collie lay curled up on the small concrete porch.

When we came to a stop at the curb, the dog got up and gave a halfhearted woof.

“Justin?” I said.

“Yeah?”

“This is your folks' place, right?”

“It's home,” he answered affably. Instead of opening the car door and getting out, he'd simply teleported himself to the sidewalk, leaning to speak to me through the open window on my side. The collie tottered slowly down the front steps. Its coat was thinning, and I saw lots of gray in it. “My mom lives here. My dad left a long time ago.”

Hope stirred. If his dad was dead, he might come looking for Justin, show him the way to the other side. He was sure taking his sweet time doing it, though.

“Your dad passed away?”

Justin shook his head. “No. He just decided he didn't want to support a family.”

My spirits, already low, plummeted. I blinked a couple of times.

“Your mom…” I paused, swallowed, wanting to cry. Was the kid expecting a welcome-home party? “She probably won't be able to see you, Justin.”

Justin nodded. “I know,” he said. “I just want to be where she is. See my old room and stuff. I couldn't figure out how to get back here, that's all.”

The dog was near now, and it made a little whimpering sound that must have been recognition, then toddled over to nuzzle the back of Justin's hand.

“Hey,” he said. “Pepper can see me.”

“Not uncommon,” I told him, drawing on my enormous store of knowledge about the ins and outs of the afterlife. “Animals have special sensitivities.” I paused, gulped. “You'll be okay, then?”

Justin grinned, and I had a sudden, piercing awareness of just how much his mother probably missed him. If I'd had the guts, I'd have knocked on her front door and told her straight out that her son was still around. That he still cared, still wanted to be close to her.

But I didn't.

“What's your name?” Justin asked after leaning down to pet the dog. “In case I need to contact you, or something?”

“Mojo Sheepshanks,” I said after briefly considering, I'm ashamed to admit, making up an alias.

“No shit?” he marveled. He stooped again, signed what was most likely a goodbye to Gillian and turned to walk away.

I sat at the curb watching as he and the dog, Pepper, headed for the house.

The front door opened, and a woman appeared on the threshold. I couldn't make out her features, but her voice was nice.

“There you are, Pepper,” she called. “Come on inside now. Time for supper.”

She obviously didn't see Justin, but he slipped past her, with Pepper, before she shut the door.

A lump formed in my throat.

The living-room drapes parted, and Justin's mother looked out at me.

Strange car in the neighborhood.

Not a good thing.

I shoved the car into gear and drove away.

Gillian, meanwhile, had moved to the front seat.

“I'm sorry, but I'm not getting a dog,” I told her in a rush of words, careful to turn my face in her direction. “I live in my sister's guesthouse. She'd have a fit.”

In that moment I was filled with a sudden and fierce yearning for my apartment. All right, I'd almost been murdered there. But it was
my
place, just the same. I could have a dog if I wanted. I could eat tamale pie for three days without feeling guilty—though stealing it would be trickier.