youâre a private investigator now,â Mrs. Pennington #1 said with drunken dignity. I wondered if she was still under the influence of last nightâs cocktail hour, or if she subscribed to the hair-of-the-dog-that-bit-you theory and had started the day with a Bloody Mary.
I closed my eyes. Damn all that TV coverage, anyway. Why had I touted myself as a P.I. every time I got in front of a camera? Now people actually expected me to solve things. âHow did you get my number?â I asked.
âYouâre in the book.â
Right. And Iâd programmed my phone at the apartment to forward calls to Greerâs guesthouse. I needed more coffee.
âYes,â I said, scrambling for a little dignity of my own.
âIâd like to hire you.â
âThat would be a conflict of interest, Mrs. Pennington,â I said, intrigued in spite of myself. âAs you know, your ex-husband is currently married to my sister.â
âIâm aware of that,â she replied moderately. âBelieve me. This is a separate matter, and itâs delicate, which is why I would prefer not to discuss it over the telephone.â
It finally occurred to me that Mrs. Pennington-the-first might be one of Greerâs blackmailers. As I said, I hadnât had enough coffee.
While it seemed like a stretch, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and, besides, you can dig up dirt on just about anybody if you have the resources to hire enough muscle to do the shoveling.
Suffice it to say that an instinct kicked in. There was something important going on under the surface here, and I had to find out what it was.
âWhen did you want to meet?â I asked.
âNoon today,â Mrs. Pennington answered readily, reeling off a posh address not that far from Greerâs. âIâll have Carlotta serve her special lobster salad, so donât eat before you get here.â
I wasnât sure eating anything prepared under the grande dameâ s roof would be smart, but I liked lobster, and my budget didnât allow for much of it. I had my stash in the bank, thanks to Margery DeLuca, but I didnât plan on blowing it on seafood.
âNoon,â I repeated cautiously. Iâd scrawled the address on the front of a TV Guide.
âIâd rather you didnât tell your sister about this meeting, if you donât mind,â Mrs. Pennington went on. âAt least, not immediately.â
âI canât promise that, Mrs. Pennington,â I said, frowning. Elsewhere on the TV Guide cover someone had written, in lopsided, childish letters, âDOG.â
Gillian, of course.
She could write? Not much, probably, since she was only seven. Still, the word opened up a whole new realm of possibilities. Mentally I added an item to the shopping list in my head.
âCall me Beverly,â Mrs. Pennington said.
I wasnât planning an ongoing relationship with Beverly Pennington, but calling her by her first name would certainly be less awkward, given that on the rare occasions the words Mrs. Pennington came to my mind, it was always in reference to Greer.
âBeverly it is,â I agreed.
We said our goodbyes, and I hung up. After a glance at the clock I took a quick, cool shower, donned a blue-and-white-print sundress with spaghetti straps and a pair of sandals and subdued my hair with a pinch clip. Tufts stuck up on my crown, giving the do a decidedly un done look, but hey, it wasnât as if I was a TV reporter or anything. I was a detective, Tuckerâs snide remarks about my mail-order license aside.
I was sort of expecting Gillian to materialize in the front seat of the Volvo as I backed out of the driveway, but it didnât happen. I hoped she hadnât returned to the graveyard to hang out. I was no expert on ghost behaviorâmaybe sheâd gone home, the way Justin had, or to her school, or any one of a number of familiar placesâbut Iâd found her at
Charles Dickens, Matthew Pearl