Free Deadly Deceptions by Linda Lael Miller Page B

inside door opened and Helen peered out at me through the screen. She was wearing baggy shorts and a short-sleeved plaid shirt, and her feet were bare, with blue foam cushions wedged between the toes. Not too grief stricken for a pedicure, then, I reflected, and instantly hated myself for thinking that way.
    Lillian used to tell Greer, Jolie and me that you couldn’t help the thoughts that came into your head, but you didn’t have to let them stick around.
    â€œThanks for coming,” Helen said, stepping back so I could come inside.
    Gillian was sitting in a little rocking chair over by the fake fireplace, the kind with light-up logs inside.
    I didn’t acknowledge her, of course, until Helen turned away to clear some laundry off one end of the couch so I could sit down.
    Gillian returned my thumbs-up signal—I guess it qualified as sign language—but she looked so sad and small sitting there.
    I sized up the living room. Despite the laundry, it wasn’t messy. The carpet looked clean, and there was no dust on top of the TV, which was muted but on, or beer cans on the coffee table. An electric picture of Jesus and the apostles in a boat filled most of one wall, but the plug was pulled.
    â€œThat belonged to my mother,” Helen said fondly, having followed my gaze. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”
    Before, I’d just felt sorry for Helen Erland. Now I began to like her. But I wasn’t stupid enough to dis a picture of Jesus, even if it did light up.
    â€œMom treasured it,” Helen went on when I didn’t comment. “I keep it around because it reminds me of her.”
    I nodded. I barely remembered my own mother, since she’d died when I was small, but I’d just lost Lillian, and her ratty old chenille bathrobe was hanging in my closet at the apartment. I had her tarot cards, too.
    I understood about keeping things.
    â€œYou want a beer or a soda or something?” Helen asked. She was a little nervous. Putting me on the trail of Gillian’s killer had probably seemed like a good idea at the time. Now I figured she was having second thoughts.
    â€œDiet cola, if you have it,” I said.
    Helen got up and pigeon-toed it into the kitchen. Her toenails glowed neon-pink.
    Gillian and I exchanged looks again.
    I signaled for her to leave the room.
    She shook her head and sat tight in the little rocker.
    â€œTell me about your husband,” I said when Helen came back and handed me a cold can of soda. “I understand he was arrested for solicitation of a minor.”
    â€œThat was before I met him,” Helen said. “And he said she came on to him, that girl.”
    I decided I’d never get the straight story on that from Helen, and made a mental note to look elsewhere. Like straight into Vince Erland’s eyes, when and if I got to speak to him. I did say, “Men sometimes lie about things like that.”
    Helen flushed. “Vince didn’t do it,” she reiterated. “He didn’t proposition a teenage girl, and he sure as hell didn’t kill Gillian.”
    â€œLet’s go back even further,” I said moderately, popping the top on the diet cola. Gillian’s last name was Pellway, not Erland, so there must have been an ex-husband or a boyfriend in the picture. “You were married before, right?”
    Helen tested her toenails for dryness and pulled the blue foam cushions out. Set them carefully on the end table beside the old leather recliner and sat down. A dull flush rose under her ears. “Yes,” she said. “To Benny Pellway. He’s doing twenty to life in the state pen for armed robbery.”
    I didn’t need to take notes. The Damn Fool’s Guide to a Photographic Memory. “He’s Gillian’s biological father?” I asked.
    Helen lifted her ponytail off her neck and fixed it to the top of her head with a pink squeeze-clip. “Yes,” she said.
    â€œAre there