Deadly Gamble

by Linda Lael Miller

  I offered no comment.

  Greer untangled her arm from the strap of her purse, propped her elbows on the tabletop and rubbed her temples so hard her forehead squenched together from the sides. “It must have been terrible for you, finding your friend hurt and bleeding like that, especially after—after—”

  “Take a breath, Greer. It’s okay.”

  “And of course it will be wonderful to see Jolie again.” She stopped, bit her lip. “If she wants to see me, that is.”

  “Why wouldn’t she want to see you?”

  “You know how she feels about Alex, Mojo.”

  I nodded. “Yes,” I agreed. “But she’s not expecting to see Alex. Just you.”

  Greer squirmed a little. Dried her eyes with the back of one hand, smearing mascara across both cheekbones in the process.

  “Better check your makeup,” I said. Letting Greer go out like that would be an unforgivable sin, from her point of view, like allowing a friend to walk into a job interview with parsley in her teeth.

  She got out her gold compact, snapped it open, consulted the mirror and groaned. “I look awful. No wonder my husband is messing around with other women.”

  “If your husband is ‘messing around with other women,’ Greer, it’s because he’s a selfish asshole, not because your mascara is smudged.”

  “You don’t like him, either,” she said, like it was news. “Do you have any baby wipes?”

  After I’d made the leap over the gap where the segue should have been, I pushed back my chair. “Come on. We’ll see what’s in the medicine cabinet.”

  “You keep your makeup in the medicine cabinet?”

  I chuckled. “Yes, Greer. I own one tube of mascara, one bottle of foundation and one tube of lipstick. I can’t see investing in a train case.”

  “You should have a makeover,” Greer prattled, as she followed me through the living room to the bathroom. She didn’t know what to say to me anymore, it seemed, but I didn’t take offense. Most likely, she saw my entire life as a restoration project, and not without reason. Letting somebody slather high-priced goop on my face in some department store probably seemed like the second best place to start, the first being that whopping check she’d just written.

  As it happened, the only smeared-mascara solutions I had to offer were a new bar of soap and a jar of Vaseline. She chose the soap, and I left her to the repair job.

  Glancing out the kitchen window, I saw that the cop cars were gone, and Greer’s SUV sat alone in the parking lot, except for my Volvo.

  We met in the living room, which was the middle ground between the bathroom and kitchen.

  “Maybe you should spend the night,” I said.

  “I was thinking the same thing about you,” Greer replied. “Why don’t you pack a few things and come home with me?”

  I was touched that she’d ask. “I can’t leave Russell.”

  “Who’s Russell?”

  “The dog, Greer.” I cocked a thumb in his direction.

  “He stinks,” she said matter-of-factly, and without apparent rancor.

  There was no denying that Russell was aromatically challenged, and now that I thought about it, I recalled that Bert had warned me about the fart tendency when he asked me to look after Russell while he and Sheila went camping.

  I wondered why Sheila hadn’t called. I’d been taking surreptitious glances at the clock all evening, and anxiety thrummed in my nerve endings. I caught a flash of white out of the corner of one eye and realized, with rising spirits, that Chester was back.

  Greer didn’t notice, of course, but Russell waddled in from the kitchen, sniffing the air.

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” I told Greer, because I didn’t want her in the parking lot alone. I didn’t want myself in the parking lot alone, for that matter, but what was I going to do? If anything happened to my sister, I’d never forgive myself.

  “Nonsense,” she said. “Just stand on the landing and watch until I’m inside. As soon as I start the engine, the door will relock.”

  I accompanied her as far as the top of the stairs, stood guard while she descended, key fob in hand. Behind me, inside the apartment, I heard Russell growl tentatively.

  Greer got into her SUV, fired up the engine, flashed her lights and drove away.

  Russell gave another growl, and I turned and went inside, careful to turn the dead bolt and put on the chain. When I stepped into the living room, I was startled to see the basset hound and the cat sitting face-to-face in the middle of the floor, smelling each other’s noses.

  It took a moment for the implications to register. After all, I’d had a long and difficult day.

  Russell could see Chester.

  I wasn’t hallucinating.

  I wasn’t losing it.

  Chester raised a paw and batted playfully at Russell’s long nose. Russell backed up a few inches, without lifting his butt off the floor.

  I did a little victory dance.

  I was sane!

  And the phone rang.

  I raced for the kitchen extension, my heart thudding. It was after midnight and, let’s face it, the good news ratio goes way down by then.

  I squinted at the caller ID panel; the reading was ‘no number available.’

  “This is Mojo.”

  Silence.

  Oh, God. It was my brother again. Or Heather.

  “I’m sorry to call so late,” Sheila apologized, sounding flustered and weary, both at once, “but you said—”

  I was relieved, then worried again. “How’s Bert?”

  Russell ambled in, with Chester traveling practically in lock-step beside him. They both sat down, like a pair of churchgoers wedged into a crowded pew, and watched me with consuming interest.

  Sheila began to cry.

  I closed my eyes, standing rigid in my bathrobe and bare feet, and waited for the ax to fall. Bert hadn’t made it. The knife had hit some vital organ. My palm sweated where I gripped the receiver. “Tell me, Sheila. Is Bert—?”

  “He’s been in surgery all this time,” Sheila wept.

  My knees almost gave out. “He’s alive?”

  “Yes!” Sheila wailed. “He’s in recovery now, and the doctor thinks he’ll be okay, but I can’t leave him and I don’t know when I can come and get Russell and the first thing he’s going to ask me about is that dog—”

  “Sheila,” I interrupted gently. “Don’t worry about Russell. I’ll take care of him as long as necessary.”

  Russell growled again, and when I glanced in his direction, I saw Nick standing in the doorway, one shoulder braced casually against the jamb. He gave a jaunty little salute.

  Russell crossed the room, sniffed at Nick’s pant leg and wagged his tail.

  “He can see you,” I mouthed.

  “I’d better go,” Sheila finished, and I realized she’d been talking right along. “I want to sit with Bert, be there when he wakes up. Thank you so much, Mojo. I don’t know how I will ever repay you.”

  “Thank you so much, Mojo,” Nick repeated. “I don’t know how I will ever repay you.”

  I made a face at him, said goodbye to Sheila and hung up.

  By then, he’d wandered over to the table, with no interference from Russell. Greer’s check lay faceup, and Nick whistled when he read the figure.

  “You probably saved Bert’s life,” I said. “So I forgive you for every lousy thing you’ve ever done to me.” I smiled and spread my hands. “Now, you can leave.”

  Nick eyed me skeptically. Shook his head.

  I sighed. “Listen. I am really tired and I want to go to bed, and I don’t need a ghost watching me sleep. So if you wouldn’t mind—”

  “I do mind. I heard what that cop told you. You shouldn’t be alone tonight. So Chester and I are going to burn a little extra ectoplasm and stick around till morning.”

  “You’re a ghost. What could you do if somebody broke in?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Nick said.

  I na
rrowed my eyes.

  “Mojo, go crash before you collapse.”

  “You’ve got to promise—swear—that you won’t climb into bed with me again. That really freaked me out.”

  “I promise,” he said, raising one hand and setting the other on an imaginary Bible.

  “Like your word means anything,” I challenged. But I was tired.

  Nick rolled his eyes. “You said it yourself—I saved your friend’s life. Now, you’re practically calling me a rapist.”

  “I did not call you a rapist.”

  “That’s about the only thing you haven’t called me.”

  “Go away. I forgive you. Now, zip on back to the train station and get your ticket punched.”

  “Not,” he said.

  I looked down at Russell. “If this man so much as moves toward my bedroom door, bite him.”

  Russell whimpered.

  “Well, then, at least bark!”

  Chester took another friendly swat at Russell’s nose.

  Russell walked over to Nick and licked his left shoe.

  So much for canine loyalty.

  “Good night, Mojo,” Nick said. He leaned to pat Russell on the head, then dropped into my chair at the computer. Tapped a few keys.

  I was intrigued—since when did ghosts use computers?—but too tired to investigate. I retreated as far as the bathroom, washed my face and brushed my teeth.

  A few minutes later, I tumbled into bed.

  I’d closed the door and considered putting a chair under the knob, since it didn’t lock, but I knew that wouldn’t stop Nick if he wanted to get in. As if to prove the point, Chester sprang through the wood and hopped onto the mattress to join me.

  A thump sounded from the other side, along with a dog whine.

  Poor Russell. He’d tried to follow Chester’s lead, with the inevitable result.

  I sighed, got out of bed and went to let Russell in. He made several pathetic attempts to jump onto the mattress, but his legs were too short.

  I gave him a hoist.

  “Too many frankfurters, buddy,” I told him, huffing a little from the exertion. “And there will be absolutely no farting.”

  Russell curled up on the pillow opposite mine, sighed as eloquently as I had and closed his eyes.

  I crawled back into bed. Turned onto my stomach.

  Chester planted himself in the middle of my back.

  I smiled. He weighed a ton, but it felt good, just knowing he was there.

  I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, it was morning.

  I smelled coffee brewing.

  Russell was snoring on the pillow, and Chester was gone.

  I used the bathroom, washed up, pulled on sweat pants and a tank top and headed for the kitchen.

  “Nick?” I called. I was about to thank him for making coffee and not jumping my bones during the night when my breath caught in my throat.

  Tucker turned from the counter, where he was opening a bakery box.

  There were deep shadows under his eyes. He hadn’t shaved, his clothes were rumpled and he needed a shower.

  I would have been glad to give him one personally.

  “Who the hell is Nick?” he demanded.

  CHAPTER

  11

  W ho was Nick?

  How was I supposed to explain that, to a cop, no less, without ending up under psychiatric evaluation?

  Before I could think of an answer, a horrible thought streaked through my sleep-befuddled mind like a comet trailing fire.

  “You’re not dead or anything, are you?”

  Tucker stared at me. “What kind of question is that? Do I look dead to you?”

  “If you are, just tell me, okay? Don’t beat around the bush, because my nerves can’t take it.”

  He laid both hands on my shoulders and pressed me into a chair. Leaned down to search my eyes. “Mojo, are you on something?”

  My heart beat a little faster. His fingers felt warm, even through the fabric of my bathrobe. His breath tingled against my lips. I reached up, laid my palm on his chest.

  A heartbeat.

  “You’re alive!”

  He reached back, awkwardly, groping for a chair. Dragged it close and sat down hard. “Moje,” he said, “I told you not to believe the news—”

  I planted a smacking kiss in the center of his forehead. Slipped my arms around his neck.

  He removed them. “Who’s Nick?”

  I bit my lip. My eyes burned. “You’re not going to believe a word I say.”

  “Try me,” he said.

  Might as well just spit it out, so he could have me committed and be done with it. “Nick’s my dead ex-husband.”

  “Do you want me to levitate something?” Nick asked, from just behind my right shoulder. “It might convince him.”

  I didn’t look back or answer. Nick could read my thoughts. All right, then, I’d give him the full benefit of my Anglo-Saxon vocabulary.

  Tucker plunged his fingers into my hair, dragged the sides of his thumbs lightly over my cheekbones. “Moje, what’s going on here?”

  I wished Nick would get out. Maybe Tucker and I could share a shower before he called for the wagon and had me hauled away.

  “My ex,” I repeated lamely. “He’s been haunting me.”

  Everything in Tucker’s face went absolutely still. “You were talking to a dead guy?”

  I nodded, patently miserable and wildly happy, at the same time, because Tucker hadn’t blown up in his car. He wasn’t on leave from the train station.

  “I told you, you wouldn’t believe it.”

  “He believes you,” Nick supplied helpfully. Now, he was standing directly behind Tucker. “But he’s a logical kind of fella. Ask him about his cousin Jessica. She was hit by a car when she was four and he was seven, and he saw her every night for six months after it happened.”

  “Will you not help?”

  Tucker cupped my chin, turned my head so we were eye to eye again. From his perspective, I’d been talking to empty space, and I expected some comment on that. “When I was seven,” he said instead, “a bunch of us were playing baseball in a park. My cousin—” He stopped, and his jaw worked.

  I was too shaken to speak.

  “Her name was Jessica, and she was a tomboy. She wanted to get into the game, but she was only four and she wasn’t supposed to leave our grandparents’ yard. She ran into the street—”

  I closed my eyes, made myself open them again. Swallowed hard.

  “She called my name,” Tucker went on. “I turned around, and I was about to yell at her to go home. Instead, I was just in time to see an old pickup come around the corner on two wheels and—”

  I touched his hair.

  “Practically every night for the next six months, I woke up and found her standing at the foot of my bed.”

  “See?” Nick said. “What did I tell you?”

  Get out, I told him mentally, without looking away from Tucker’s face, or I’ll never forgive you. Not ever.

  “I thought I was dreaming,” Tucker finished hoarsely. “But I’ve always wondered, because she looked so real. I used to get up, turn on the light, go downstairs for a drink of water—whatever I could think of, and when I got back, she’d still be there.”

  “Did she ever speak to you?”

  Tucker shook his head. “She’d just watch me. After five minutes or so, she’d vanish. Then we moved—my dad got a job in Flagstaff—and I never saw her again.”

  “Know what?” I asked gently.

  “What?”

  “I believe you, Tucker.”

  “‘I believe you, Tucker,’” Nick mimicked.

  WILL you get out?

  “Thanks,” Tucker said gruffly, and rested his forehead against mine.

  “You just want to get him naked,” Nick accused.

  You’re damn right I do, I answered. Thanks for sticking around all night, and goodbye.

  Nick sighed. I felt him leave.

  “Wh
at you need,” I purred to Tucker, “is somebody to wash your back.”

  Tucker kissed the tip of my nose. Then he kissed my mouth.

  His tongue tasted of mint mouthwash.

  One thing about Tucker. Even when he was working undercover, he practiced good oral hygiene.

  The harsh buzzing of my ancient doorbell interrupted, chewing its way between us, pushing us apart.

  “You’d better get that,” Tucker said, sounding a little breathless. His lips were almost touching mine; I felt a subtle vibration coming from them.

  “If we ignore them,” I reasoned, “they’ll go away.”

  “Not if it’s the cops,” Tucker said.

  I sighed. Mental note: I am a person of interest in a felony assault.

  I hate it when that happens.

  The bell rasped through the air again, more insistent this time.

  Tucker grinned. “I’ll grab a shower. You deal with whoever’s out there.” He kissed me again, just before shoving off his chair and rising to his feet. He waggled his eyebrows at me. “Get rid of them.”

  I waited until he was behind the bathroom door before I answered the bell. I kept the chain on and peered around it.

  An acne victim of indeterminate gender stood on the landing, holding a striped box in both hands and looking irritated.

  “I didn’t order anything,” I said, none too patiently.

  “It’s your free Chinese dinner,” the delivery person insisted, sounding testy, and probably male. “We called and left a voice mail. You won it.”

  “I don’t want—”

  “It’s free,” he said.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I replied, “just leave it on the mat.”

  “People are starving in Africa, you know.”

  Ah, a philosopher. I have never understood that line of reasoning. How would my eating something help the hungry in other lands?

  “If you’re angling for a tip, you’re wasting your time,” I said. I have a rule. I don’t tip rude people, especially when they interfere with my love life.

  “Look, lady, it’s my job to deliver this chow mein or whatever it is. A quarter from you is not going to change my life. Just take the freakin’ box, will you?”