Tucker looked conflicted. He probably knew a lot more about the case than he would admit, and he was deciding how much to tell me. “Partly,” he said. “They’re concerned for his safety, too. When it comes out that he was with Gillian just before she died, especially with his background, a lot of people aren’t going to presume he’s innocent until he’s proven guilty. I don’t need to tell you that emotions run high in situations like this. Some of the vigilante types might not be able to resist the temptation to take the law into their own hands.”
I was still thinking about Gillian. She was a deaf-mute; she couldn’t have cried out for help when she realized she was in trouble. Still, small as she was, she was determined, too. I believed she would have put up a struggle, however futile.
My heart ached, imagining that.
“Where was Mrs. Erland during all this?”
“Working,” Tucker said with a shake of his head.
“No one saw anything? There must have been other shoppers in the store—clerks, passersby on the road…”
Tucker didn’t answer.
“You’re a DEA agent,” I prodded. “How come you know so much about this investigation? Surely it isn’t under federal jurisdiction.”
“I resigned,” he answered. “I’m with the sheriff’s department now—homicide division.”
“And right off the bat you were assigned to this particular case? Isn’t that a conflict of interest, considering that Gillian and Daisy were friends?”
“Cave Creek is a small town,” he reasoned quietly. “Helen Erland grew up here. Anybody who caught the case would have at least a passing acquaintance with the family.”
I got up, because the coffee had finally stopped brewing, and poured a cup for Tucker and one for myself.
“I could help, Tucker,” I said. “With the investigation.”
Tucker’s jawline immediately tightened. “No way,” he replied tersely. “This is serious police work, Mojo. There’s no place in a murder investigation for an amateur with a mail-order P.I. license and a stack of Damn Fool’s Guides on procedure.”
“Gillian came to me,” I pointed out, generously letting the gibe about my credentials pass. “There must be a reason.”
Tucker, about to take a sip of his coffee, set the cup down with a thunk. A muscle bunched in his cheek. “I mean it, Mojo,” he warned. “Stay out of this case.”
“Too late,” I answered. “I’m already in.”
“How do you figure that?”
“You’re the one with the badge,” I admitted, “but I’m the one being haunted by a seven-year-old in a ballerina costume. I think Gillian’s trying to help me figure out who killed her, and I wouldn’t turn my back on her even if I could.”
“Can’t you just tell her to go into the Light, or something? Like that woman on TV?”
I sighed. “I wish it were that easy. Do you think I like having a little girl’s ghost pop up every time I turn around? Gillian’s not going anywhere, including into the Light, until she’s ready.”
Tucker paled under his biker’s tan. Rubbed his palms together and stared as though he could see through my kitchen floor and into the closed bar beneath it.
“It’s okay,” I said.
I wanted to reach out, touch his cheek or his shoulder, but I didn’t dare, because I knew where it would lead. We both needed comfort, and I was pretty sure any physical contact between us would be supercharged by grief and frustration. As much as I would have liked to lose myself in Tucker’s lovemaking for a little while, if I did, I wouldn’t be able to stand it when he went back to Allison.
“What’s okay?” he rasped, understandably convinced that nothing ever could be “okay,” in a world where children are murdered.
“Being relieved that this didn’t happen to Daisy or Danny. It’s a normal human reaction—and it doesn’t mean you don’t care about Gillian.”
He glared at me. “Where did that come from? The Damn Fool’s Guide to Bullshit Psychology?”
I sighed. “Go home, Tucker.”
He did. He got up out of his chair and walked out, without another word or even a backward glance.
I should have been relieved, but I wasn’t.
CHAPTER TWO
EVEN BEFORE Tucker’s arrival I hadn’t wanted to be alone in the apartment. After he was gone, the place seemed to yawn like some dark, uncharted cavern.
I emptied our cups, poured out the fresh coffee and shut off the machine. Then I snatched up my key ring, grabbed a couple of Damn Fool’s Guides off the bookshelves in my living room and boogied for the car.
When I arrived at Greer’s fifteen minutes later, I parked in her brick driveway and, once I’d punched in the combination on the keypad by the back gate, skirted the main house. I simply wasn’t up to seeing my sister just then.
The pool looked inviting as I passed, but the sun was still blazing, even though it was definitely headed west. Later, I promised myself.
The guesthouse, euphemistically called a “casita,” was a three-bedroom, one-story territorial with all the conveniences—including a plasma TV that could be lowered out of the ceiling, a sunken bathtub with jets and a wet bar.
It was also blessedly cool.
I tossed my keys, purse and the stack of Damn Fool’s Guides onto the granite-topped counter separating the kitchen and combination living and dining room, and kicked off my high heels. Like the dress, they were Greer’s, and they pinched my toes.
“Gillian?” I called.
Nothing.
I think I can be forgiven for being a little relieved that she wasn’t around. And of course I knew she’d be back.
I proceeded to the master bath, stripped off the dress, chucked the ruined panty hose, started a lukewarm shower going and stepped naked under the spray. After I’d scrubbed and shampooed, I felt a little better. Wrapped in a towel, I padded back into the bedroom, lay down in the middle of the bed and allowed myself to air-dry.
I must have fallen asleep right away.
When I stirred to semiconsciousness, the room was nearly dark and my right big toe was clamped between two strong, cold fingers.
I choked out a strangled little shriek, wrenched free and shinnied to a sitting position with my back against the intricately carved headboard of the bed. Peering at the shadowy, adult-sized form—this was definitely not Gillian—I scrambled to cover myself with the towel.
“Alex?” I gasped, groping for the lamp on the bedside table. Nick?
I’d been meaning to shop for a gun—Jolie had promised to teach me how to shoot it—but there hadn’t been time. Now I wished I’d bought one.
I flipped the switch, and light spilled into the room.
Greer was standing at the foot of my bed, wearing an oversize terry-cloth bathrobe, her cast bulging beneath one side. “You were expecting my husband?” my sister asked archly, raising one eyebrow.
I swore colorfully, finishing with a more moderate “Damn it, Greer, you scared me half to death!”
“I knocked,” Greer said. “You didn’t answer the door, so I came in. I do own the place, you know.”
“As if you’d ever let me forget it,” I snapped, getting off the bed in my towel toga and stomping into the bathroom to snatch my robe