"He's driving a green truck, not a squad car," Gretchen said. "Don't you think that's suspicious?"
"He's undercover." Lilly Beth frowned. "Although, you'd think he'd hide it better. If he shows up in the same truck every time, people are going to start noticing."
Gretchen felt cold. Every time? "How many times has he been here?"
"Three. I watch for him at the window because I want to support the police, and I tell him that every single time. I think he appreciates my efforts. Last time I took out some of my chocolate chip cookies. I had just baked them."
"What did he do? Did he knock on my door?"
"Lucky for you, you haven't been home even once, and I tell him that. I think he's going to arrest you if he can pin you down. What you did, I don't even want to know. The goings-on in this neighborhood are ruining the property values."
"What did he say?"
"Like I told you, he kept it to himself, as he should. Quiet man." Lilly Beth thought a second. "Humph… now that I think of it, he didn't say more than a word or two."
Lilly Beth wouldn't have given him a chance.
Gretchen was pretty sure that her busybody neighbor, in her own conniving way, had unknowingly saved her from the same fate as Brett and Ronny. Lilly Beth was like the neighborhood watchdog. She also had pit bull jaws. Once she latched on, there was no getting away.
With any luck, she'd driven him off for good.
"If you see his truck again," Gretchen said. "Stay away from him."
"Oh sure, like I'd listen to you. Whatever you did, you'll have to suffer the consequences."
Gretchen hurried back to her house.
It was time to call Detective Albright and fess up.
39
Gretchen called Bonnie Albright for Matt's private phone number. Belatedly, she remembered that Bonnie would be on her way to the Phoenician for the Boston Kewpie Club's bon voyage party. She thought about calling Nina's cell phone, but their repaired relationship was still delicate, and she wouldn't disrupt Nina's good time with Eric again unless she had to. She called the police dispatch nonemergency number and was told that Detective Albright was unavailable.
"I need his phone number," she said.
"I'm afraid I can't give that out."
"Can you get a message to him?" she asked.
"Certainly."
"I have important information involving a case he's working. He has to call me immediately."
"We'll see that he receives the message," the dispatcher said, dispassionately taking her cell phone number. Gretchen wondered if he really would be informed and, if so, when. She couldn't wait much longer.
She dressed in somber clothes-black pants and a beige top with decorative black buttons-and ran a brush through her hair. Brace yourself, she thought, this is only the beginning. Ronny Beam's funeral was also upcoming, and she knew the next few days would be as sorrowful as the last. Even though she hadn't known either of the victims well, Brett and Ronny meant more to her than mere statistics and canned obituaries in the Phoenix newspaper.
Nimrod and Wobbles followed her into the kitchen. As always, she was amazed that their internal clocks were so accurate, telling them exactly when dinner should be ready. She fed them and nibbled at leftovers in the refrigerator. The invitation hadn't mentioned food. She scooped up Nimrod, locked the door, and drove toward McDowell Road, scanning the traffic around her for signs of the green truck. She hadn't realized how many Arizonians drove pickup trucks until now. On this moonless Phoenix night, every truck seemed dark and potentially dangerous. The Sky Harbor Airport lights grew brighter as she continued. She wound her way to the far west side of the airport and began to check the street signs, searching for McDowell Road.
A plane came in directly overhead, wheels visible in preparation for landing, and it reminded Gretchen that the Boston Kewpie Club would be returning home in the morning. She hadn't spent much time at all with them. If not for the memorial service, she would be at the party at the Phoenician this minute, sipping expensive red wine and nibbling French cheeses.
Maybe she could swing by on her way home if it wasn't too late.
Right now, as she turned onto McDowell and realized how dark and desolate the area was, she longed for Aunt Nina and the spectacular lights of the elegant Phoenician Resort. What was she thinking to come over here by herself?
She flipped on an overhead light and checked the address on the invitation. The 1500 block.
"We just passed Fourteenth Street," she informed Nimrod. "So it has to be in the next block." The teacup poodle wagged his tail.
She crawled along McDowell looking for the address, then turned the car around and slowly edged back along the other side.
She stopped the Echo and looked at the address on the invitation again.
That was the house where the memorial service should be starting, a one-story with a swamp cooler on the roof. But something was wrong.
No lights illuminated the interior of the house, no cars were parked in front, no mourners congregated inside waiting to hear comforting words to ease their grief. The house was totally dark.
She looked at the invitation for the third time. It was the kind you could buy in any store that carried greeting cards. The details of the memorial service had been handwritten. She'd automatically assumed that Howie Howard had organized the event because the handwriting was distinctly male. No graceful loops or careful lettering to denote a feminine hand.
Gretchen double-checked to make sure the doors of the Echo were locked and pulled quickly away from the darkened house, circling the block one last time. The house with the swamp cooler on the roof remained dark. The more she thought about it, the more unlikely it became that the service would be here, next to the airport, and that no one else from the Phoenix Dollers Club had been invited. Absolutely no one that she knew would be in attendance.
Not only that, it had coincided with the Boston Kewpie members' farewell party, so she wouldn't have Nina or April or any of the other club members to attend with her. Convenient for someone who might want to get her alone. Hadn't she seen this exact scenario in enough thrillers? Hadn't she laughed cynically at the hapless victims and their incredible lack of forethought?
"Gee," she said, talking to Nimrod again. "Wouldn't you think we'd stay out of dark alleys when a killer is on the prowl?" His ears twitched as he listened. Gretchen drove toward the bright lights of the airport.
She asked herself again, Why?
That had been the three-letter word of the day, of the week.
Why, why, why had she received a bogus invitation?
Maybe because someone wanted to lure her away from her home by inviting her to an event she would feel compelled to attend. Gretchen Birch's whereabouts could be guaranteed for Monday night at eight o'clock. So much for varying her routine to throw off the bad guys.
Several blocks ahead, the street she was on would end abruptly, the overpass into the airport directly in front of her. Bright lights and safety. Looking into the sky, she could see planes lining up awaiting clearance to land. But the invitation had arrived several days ago. If this was premeditated, the sender knew even then what he wanted her to do and where he wanted her to be. He also could have known that the Boston visitors would be having a party and that her friends and family were not likely to attend the memorial service with her. They would opt for the opulence of the Phoenician over a service they hadn't been invited to.
Gretchen felt manipulated and angry with herself for blindly following the predictable path she'd been so artfully steered along. Was he at her house right now? Waiting for her?