Arizona Heat. Linda Miller Lael

      A little background on Greer. For one thing, she wasn’t Greer Pennington any more than I was Mary Josephine Mayhugh. My abductor/mother, Lillian, had rescued her from a bus station in Boise when she was thirteen—more like sixteen, though she never admitted it—and unofficially adopted the runaway into our unconventional little family. I’d never known what or whom she’d run away from, but Lillian probably had. She’d have sent Greer back to her folks right away if home had been a good place to be.

      Recently Greer had admitted she was being blackmailed, at least to Jolie and me, and she’d hired me to find out if her doctor husband was cheating on her. I’d followed up on a few leads, but with all that had been going on, I definitely hadn’t earned my retainer.

      I suspected, of course, that the broken-arm attack was connected to the blackmail, but I couldn’t prove it.

      I opened the freezer box, popped the contents into the microwave and pushed the appropriate buttons. While Greer’s supper nuked, I drew back another chair and sat down across from her.

      Her eyes swam with tears as she gazed into her wineglass.

      “Sooner or later,” I said as gently as I could, given that my nerves were still quivering from the jolt she’d given me by gripping my big toe while I was sound asleep, “you’re going to have to tell me the truth about who you are, Greer.”

      She gave an odd little giggle, followed by a hiccup. “Greer,” she repeated. “Do you know where I got that name? Off a late-night movie on TV, starring Greer Garson. It was called Julia Misbehaves, and I almost went with ‘Julia,’ but ‘Greer’ had more pizzazz. I wanted to use Garson, too, but Lillian said that probably wouldn’t fly. So I settled for Greer Stewart.”

      Considering how little Greer had told me about herself in all the years I’d known her, this was a revelation. I shouldn’t have felt hurt because she’d obviously confided in Lillian, though probably not to any great extent and with a generous peppering of lies, but I did. Once, Greer and I had been close. Then I’d married Nick and she’d married Alex, and things had changed between us.

      I had no clue why.

      We’d both been playing parts, of course. And somewhere along the way we’d forgotten our lines.

      “Who were you before you were Greer?” I persisted very quietly.

      For a moment I actually thought she was going to tell me. Then she shook her head. “I know it sounds corny—like something from the late show—but that person doesn’t exist anymore.”

      “Anything more from the blackmailer?” Talk about something from the late show. How often does a question like that come up in normal conversation?

      Not that I’d know a normal conversation if I fell over it.

      Greer bit her lower lip.

      The timer on the microwave dinged.

      I got up, pulled out the rubber lasagna and set it down in front of the woman I still thought of as my sister, for all the strange distance that stretched between us. I gave her some silverware and refilled her wineglass.

      Tentatively she picked up a fork and jabbed it at the lasagna. I knew she was avoiding my eyes, and I was prepared to wait her out. I’ve got staying power—I once camped in front of a furniture store for three days to get the free couch they were offering as a prize at their grand opening. I was on the news twice, and Lillian, alarmed by the publicity, came and dragged me away fifteen minutes before I would have become the proud owner of an orange velour sectional, complete with built-in plastic cup holders.

      Just one of the many reasons I have to be grateful to her.

      “Greer?” I prompted.

      “Yes,” she said.

      “Yes, what?”

      “Yes, I’ve heard from the blackmailers—plural.”

      “When? What did he—they—say? Was it a letter, a phone call, an email? Black-and-white eight-by-tens of you in some compromising position?”

      Greer skewered me with a look. “This lasagna,” she said, “is worse than the wine.” But she kept eating. And she kept drinking, too, though I’d already lost interest in the vino. It did taste like vinegar.

      “How am I supposed to help you if you won’t tell me what’s going on?”

      “I didn’t hire you because I’m being blackmailed. I hired you to find out if Alex is cheating on me.”

      “He is,” I said, silently saying goodbye to the five-thousand-dollar retainer she’d given me, not to mention the other five I would have gotten when I turned in a definitive report. Actually, I was in pretty good financial shape for the first time in my life, because my demon ex-mother-in-law, Margery DeLuca, had forked over the proceeds of a life insurance policy Nick had taken out, in a fit of fiscal responsibility, with me as beneficiary. Still, Greer’s payment represented my first earnings as a private investigator and for me that was meaningful.

      Greer stiffened, peering at me over the lasagna and the cheap wine. “Do you have proof?”

      “No,” I said.

      “Then the case isn’t solved, is it? Maybe now that people aren’t trying to kill you, you can get back to work.” This was a reference to recent misadventures—so recent, in fact, that I still had little gummy bits of duct-tape residue on my wrists and ankles. I’d soaked and scoured, but they just kept appearing, as though they’d been hiding under my skin.

      “Greer,” I said.

      “What?” She sounded testy. Could have been the leather noodles and the rotgut, but I didn’t think so. Greer had been defensive, to say the least, since she’d stolen Alex Pennington from his first missus, closed down her hard-won interior design business and become the classic trophy wife.

      “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,