Deadly Gamble by Linda Lael Miller Page B

beautiful woman seated in a wheelchair.
    â€œYou came,” he said fondly.
    I smiled, though my stomach was quivering. I hadn’t even stepped into the house yet, and already I felt like an impostor, up to no good. God, why hadn’t I bought a suitcase, or better yet, borrowed one of Greer’s gold Halliburtons?
    â€œSorry I’m late,” I said. “Traffic.”
    â€œCome in,” my uncle commanded good-naturedly. “We’ve been waiting for you.” He turned, looked down at the aging goddess in the wheelchair. Blond hair perfectly coiffed. Makeup artful. Pearls at the neckline of her black St. John suit. “Barbara, look who’s here. It’s Mary Jo.”
    I didn’t correct him. In a place like that, “Mary Jo” sounded a lot better than “Mojo.” I met Barbara’s blue eyes, nodded and waited. She went over me like a CAT scan, but I supposed it was natural, after all that had happened.
    â€œWelcome home, Mary Jo,” she finally said. I don’t think I imagined the faint note of reserve in her voice.
    The Larimer mansion was about as likely to be my home as the White House, but I figured it would have been rude to say so. The woman had problems enough, stuck in that wheelchair, without some long-lost relative giving her backtalk in her own foyer.
    â€œThank you,” I said. The author of the Damn Fool’s Guide to Proper Etiquette would have been proud.
    A young man in jeans and a green polo shirt appeared from the periphery of my vision. I figured him for the senator’s bodyguard, or maybe a traveling massage therapist. He didn’t look like any butler I’d ever seen.
    Not that I’d ever actually seen one, except in the movies.
    â€œJoseph will move your car, if that’s all right,” Clive said diplomatically.
    Right. No good having my battered Volvo hunkered in the middle of the drive when the next limo rolled in. Besides, the neighbors might see it, and by now, they probably had their binoculars out. I handed over the keys.
    Joseph looked me over like he thought Clive and Barbara ought to check my pockets before I left, but he had the good grace not to say anything.
    Barbara wheeled into a cavernous parlor, to the right of the entryway, and since Clive followed, so did I. My mind was on Joseph, however. He was about to get an eyeful of my luggage, and I wouldn’t put it past him to go through my glove box, either.
    Cocktails were served by a maid in an honest-to-God uniform, complete with ruffled apron and one of those little white hats. They must have paid her extra to wear it.
    After the elegant and costly booze, there were little quiches and things wrapped in bacon, and after that, an eight-course dinner.
    I kept waiting for the probing questions, but it seemed none were forthcoming. The Larimers talked about their wonderful children—a doctor, a lawyer and a couple of Indian chiefs.
    â€œMary Jo is in the medical field,” Clive told Barbara, at one point. The way he made it sound, I was doing neurosurgery at Johns Hopkins instead of punching in Medicare codes.
    â€œIsn’t that nice?” Barbara said sunnily, but every once in a while, I caught her looking at me the same way Joseph had.
    When dessert was served, Mrs. Larimer announced that she was feeling a little ill.
    Clive excused himself, as well as his wife, and wheeled Barbara out of the dining room. I sat there, staring down at my Bananas Whatever, and wondered whether I was expected to wait until Clive came back to get lost or just go ahead and make myself scarce right away.
    I heard a whirring sound in the near distance and decided it was an elevator.
    I was about to get out of my chair and go looking for the guesthouse—or just hightail it for Jolie’s place in Tucson—when Joseph came through the door that probably led to the kitchen.
    He fixed me with a glare and snapped, “Who are you and what the hell are you