Deadly Gamble (12 page)

“Okay,” I said uncertainly.

Tucker was a man of his word. He hung up without even saying goodbye.

I stared at the phone.
If you see my face on the evening news, or on the front page, don't panic
. What the hell did
that
mean?

I dug out the charger and plugged the cell in to power up, then pushed a few buttons on the bedside console. The plasma TV came on, and I used the remote to scroll for the Phoenix stations.

Everybody Loves Raymond
was wrapping up the second or third rerun of the evening.

I waited it out, watched the news.

Nothing about Tucker's face or any other part of his anatomy.

I left the bedroom, double-checked the locks on both doors, and backtracked as far as the big tub in the master bath. I took a long soak, followed the trail of disparate thoughts that wandered through my head—Lillian and the Tarot cards she'd given me, which were still a puzzle, the Nick-and-Chester ghost team, Greer's odd behavior, Heather and the supermarket incident, Geoff turning up at the casino, Joseph, Uncle Senator and the little wife and, last but certainly not least, Tucker.

I was almost afraid to go to sleep.

Nevertheless, I got out of the tub eventually, drained it, dried off and put on my nightgown. It was wrinkled—nothing I sleep in gets ironed, and neither does most of what I
don't
sleep in—but comfortably soft, and definitely clean. I brushed my teeth, checked all the locks again and tumbled into bed.

The next thing I knew, sunlight was streaming into the room and I could hear a lawn crew outside, chattering in Spanish, with an accompaniment of lively Latin tunes.

No night visits from Nick.

No bad dreams.

I figured I was on a roll, and the rest of the day would go well.

Yeah, right.

I put on jeans and a T-shirt with no logo—for dressup—and walked almost all the way around the main house before I found the patio. My uncle was already there, reading a newspaper. A china coffee service graced the table, and there was no sign of Aunt Barbara.

Oh,
well.

“There you are.” Uncle Clive smiled. He seemed relieved, as though he'd been afraid I might have been misplaced, like a cufflink or a nine-iron.

“I hope I'm not late,” I said, stifling a yawn. I'd slept deeply, and my brain wasn't up to speed, or I would have asked about Barbara first. After the senator assured me that I was right on time, I corrected the oversight.

“She's a little fragile this morning,” Clive said fondly. “Dr. Blythe gave her a shot and ordered her to spend the day in bed.”

I wondered, a mite uncharitably, if Barbara would be an asset or a liability on the campaign trail. I'm not as bad as I sound. I just like to consider as many perspectives as possible.

“I hope she feels better soon,” I said, as my uncle drew back a chair at the patio table so I could sit.

The moment my butt connected with the cushion, a maid bustled through a pair of French doors, beaming and carrying a tray. Efficiently, she set places for both of us, with china I could practically see through, and sterling polished to such a high shine that a hiker lost in the desert could have used it to signal for help. Orange juice followed, and buttery croissants.

I figured that was it and waited for the signal to dig in, but Uncle Clive was perusing the newspaper again.

“Awful what happened to that Scottsdale narcotics detective,” he said. He shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder what this world is coming to.”

I sat up as straight as if my backbone had been electrified, tried to eyeball the front page.

Clive passed me the newspaper, and I almost dropped the orange juice I was holding in my other hand.

There was an old shot of Tucker in a patrol uniform. His hair was still short, his eyes innocent of the things he'd probably seen since the day he graduated from the academy. He was even smiling a little.

The headline would have stopped my heart if he hadn't called the night before, and given me that cryptic warning.

Family, Fellow Officers Mourn Fallen Comrade

I blinked.
Don't panic
, Tucker had said. I almost did, just the same; the thing looked so real. According to the article—which I skimmed three times because my brain kept balking at taking in more than a glaring phrase here and there—Detective Tucker Darroch, 32, had perished when his car exploded in the parking lot of a convenience store. Darroch was survived, the reporter went on, by his former wife, Allison Darroch, and seven-year-old twins, Danny and Daisy Darroch.

I felt sick, and I must have looked pretty bad, too, because Clive put a firm hand on my arm and spoke with concern. “Mary Jo? Was this someone you knew?”

If you see my face on the evening news…don't panic.

But this
wasn't
the evening news, it was the
Arizona Republic,
the biggest daily in the state. Did that mean…?

I shook myself inwardly.
No. It doesn't. Tucker mentioned the front page
.

But it was damn convincing.

Uncle Clive sent the maid back to the kitchen for water.

“Mary Jo?” he repeated.

I finally realized he was talking to me. “I've met him,” I said, because I knew Larimer wouldn't believe me if I denied it. People don't react the way I did to the death of a stranger, no matter how tragic.

I wondered if Allison and the kids were in on the secret, or if Daisy and Danny really believed their father had been killed.

“It's a shame,” Uncle Clive said.

I put the paper aside with a shaking hand. “Yes,” I agreed, hoping to God this was what Tucker had meant when we talked the night before. What if, by some horrible coincidence, he'd really died in that explosion?

I was saved from meaningful conversation when Uncle Clive's personal communication device began to beep. He picked it up off the table, used a stylus to bring up the menu.

“I'd better take care of this,” he said, with a frown. He got up and hurried into the house.

For the second time since I'd arrived at Casa Larimer the night before, I found myself sitting alone at a table.

I knew better, I really did, but I got out my own cell phone and speed-dialed Tucker.

“Hello?” It was a woman's voice, and she sounded as if she'd been crying. Allison Darroch. “Hello?” she repeated. “Who is this?”

I hung up without answering.

Because I didn't know what to say.

Because I couldn't have spoken if I had.

“P
ITY YOU CAN'T
stay longer,” Joseph said, with merciless good humor, half an hour later, as he jingled my car keys under my nose. I'd packed my trash bag, after Uncle Clive came back to the patio long enough to tell me he'd been called into the Phoenix office on an emergency, scribbled a thank-you note on a piece of paper from the desk in the living room of the guest house and asked the maid to give it to Mrs. Larimer.

“If you're the senator's assistant and bodyguard,” I challenged, “how come you didn't leave with him?”

“I have things to do here,” he replied.

“Sucks to be you,” I said. I got into the Volvo, fired up the engine and got out of there.

I hoped I'd never have to go back.

I hoped Tucker wasn't dead.

Oh,
God,
how I hoped Tucker wasn't dead.

I wanted to go straight back to Cave Creek and try to find out for sure, but I knew it wasn't a good idea, and for once, I listened to my own advice.

It was too early to head for Jolie's. She'd be at work, and totally focused on whatever bone or tissue sample she was decoding. If I showed up, I'd either blow her concentration, which she would not appreciate, or be ignored, which
I
would not appreciate.

I set out for the cemetery outside of town, planning to grill Boomer about the murders, since he seemed to be an authority on the subject, but my car went into override again.

I soon found myself sitting, with the Volvo idling, in front of the house Lillian had lived in, back in the day.

I hadn't remembered the address. I'd simply driven to it on autopilot.

We'd lived across the street, Mom, Dad, Geoff and I. Just to look in that direction was one of the hardest things I'd ever done.

I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't a vacant lot with a weathered For Sale sign sticking up from the dry, yellow weeds.

In my mind's eye, I saw a double-wide mobile home.

I saw blood-spattered walls.

I saw the little vent holes inside the dryer.

I shuddered violently, and for a moment, I actually thought I'd have to shove open the car door and throw up in the gutter.

I drew deep breaths until the images receded, then popped the Volvo into gear and sped away.

I'd barely covered a block when my cell phone started its merry little song.

Tucker.

I scrabbled for it. Peered at the screen.

Tucker Darroch.

I jabbed at the talk button. “Hello?”

“Who is this?” demanded Allison. “You called earlier and, damn it,
I want to know who you are.
”

“J-Just a friend of Tucker's,” I said lamely.

“A friend,” she echoed, plainly suspicious.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered.

“Were you sleeping with him?”

I nearly took out a row of rural mailboxes, pulling off onto the side of the road, and I guess I took too long to answer, because Allison picked up the verbal ball and sprinted for the goal posts.

“Tucker's
children
and I are in mourning,” she said. “Kindly have the decency to leave us alone.”

It wasn't the best time to point out that she'd been the one to initiate this call, not me. Or to ask how she'd gotten hold of Tucker's personal cell phone.

“I wasn't—”

“You weren't
what?
Sleeping with my husband?”

I pressed the end button.

Then I laid my head on the steering wheel and did some more deep breathing. Just when I was starting to think I wouldn't faint, my cell made another noise.

Hope dies hard.

I checked it.

Text message.

I frowned, pressed the appropriate buttons to access it.

U-WLL-DY.

I squinted. “You—will—die,” I translated out loud.

Then I flung the phone down.

Allison Darroch, overreacting?

Or someone else?

I jumped out of the car, walked around it three times in my own personal version of a Chinese fire drill, and got back behind the wheel again. I'd had a purpose in mind—to release the sudden and terrible energy that surged through me—but it hadn't worked.

I picked up the phone again. Hit the button for Tucker's number.

“Hello?” Allison rasped.

“I know you've had a bad shock,” I told her evenly, “but sending me a threatening text message was over the line.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

The hell of it was, I believed her.

She clicked off before I could speak again.

I thumbed my way back to the text message. No name, no number.

Joseph?

Geoff?

Heather?

The list of people who wanted to harass me, if not kill me outright, was getting longer every day.

I shut the phone off, in desperate need of a technology break, and sat there at the side of the road until I thought I could drive without risking life and limb. Then I drove aimlessly for at least forty-five minutes, up and down the streets of Cactus Bend, trying to remember.

Trying
not
to remember.

Imagine my surprise when I pulled through the gate of the town cemetery.

I wondered if cars could be haunted, as well as apartments.

Mine seemed to need an exorcist.

I got out of it, the map Boomer had given me the day before clenched in one sweaty hand. I consulted the map, and started off on foot for my parents' graves.

My subconscious didn't kick in, as it had with Lillian's old house and the vacant lot across the street. I took at least three wrong turns before I finally found the plots I was looking for, on a little grassy knoll in the shade of a tall cottonwood tree.