Deadly Deceptions by Linda Lael Miller Page A

to her?”
    â€œShe doesn’t speak, but she reads my lips sometimes. And she wrote ‘Mom’ in the dust on the dashboard of my car yesterday. That’s why I came into the store. Because she wanted to see you.”
    Helen’s legs buckled, and she dropped heavily to the floor, landing on her knees.
    I knew she hadn’t fainted, so I stayed where I was. Waited.
    It was an intensely private moment, to say the least, and I felt bad for being there to see it.
    Tears poured down her face. “My baby,” she whispered. “Oh, my baby.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    Helen looked up at the light-up picture. “Why?” she demanded. “Why is she just wandering around, lost? Why isn’t she in heaven?”
    I wasn’t sure if she was asking me or Jesus. Both of us, probably.
    I looked at the picture, too. The ball’s in Your court, Big Guy, I thought.
    â€œI don’t know for sure,” I answered when I could get the words past the lump in my throat, “but I think it has to do with finding her killer.” Justin’s mother, Mrs. Braydaven, crossed my mind. Helen Erland had just seen her only child buried. She wasn’t ready to hear that she’d need to let go of Gillian at some point.
    Helen turned again, studied me, still on her knees in the middle of the living room. She opened her mouth, but before she could say whatever she’d intended to, the front door opened and a slim teenage girl walked in without bothering to knock.
    Seeing Helen kneeling, her face wet with tears, the girl turned on me. “What did you say to her?”
    I remembered catching a glimpse of her at Gillian’s funeral. She’d been with the camerawoman.
    â€œIt’s all right, Chelsea,” Helen said, getting up. “This is Mojo Sheepshanks. She’s a private investigator. Mojo, this is Chelsea Grimes. She’s—she was Gillian’s babysitter.”
    Chelsea studied me suspiciously. She had short blond hair, blue eyes and wore a skimpy pink T-shirt—the kind that leaves most of the stomach showing—and low-cut jeans. A silver ring glinted from her belly button.
    On most people, the bare-belly look is unflattering. On Chelsea Grimes it definitely worked. She was probably only sixteen or seventeen, and she was clearly protective of Helen.
    â€œHelen’s been through a lot,” Chelsea said. “She doesn’t need somebody over here giving her a nervous breakdown.”
    I stood, still holding the photo albums.
    â€œChelsea, it’s okay,” Helen said.
    Chelsea followed me outside to my car. The way she picked her way over the gravel finally clued me in that she was barefoot. Since there wasn’t another vehicle in sight, I guessed she must live nearby, but it was possible someone had dropped her off.
    â€œLook,” Chelsea said, “the cops have been all over Helen since they found Gillian. Her husband is in jail. Cut her a break and don’t go asking her all kinds of questions, okay?”
    I was too tired and too despondent to smile. “How long were you Gillian’s babysitter, Chelsea?”
    â€œForever,” Chelsea said, cocking a thumb toward a cluster of spindly eucalyptus trees. I could see the outline of a small house beyond. “I live just over there, with my mom.”
    I nodded. Opened the passenger door of the Volvo and set the photo albums carefully on the seat. “Do you think Vince Erland killed Gillian?”
    Chelsea flushed. “The police already asked me that,” she said. “About a million times. And the answer is how should I know? I told them that. I told Tucker. Vince never put the moves on me, but he’s a sleazeball, so anything’s possible.”
    I told Tucker.
    â€œYou know Tucker Darroch?”
    â€œYes. I know Tuck—Mr. Darroch. I babysit Daisy and Danny sometimes.”
    Cave Creek is a small town. It wasn’t a surprise that Chelsea