Deadly Deceptions by Linda Lael Miller Page A

was pulled back into a ponytail, and even though she was pale, there was a tragic prettiness about her.
    I bought a forty-four-ounce diet cola, feeling nervous, while Gillian stared at her mother with a longing that made me ache at a cellular level.
    â€œYou were at Gillian’s funeral,” Helen said, blinking as though she was just coming out of a stupor. “I saw you.”
    I nodded. Put out my free hand. “Mojo Sheepshanks,” I said. “I come into the store sometimes. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Erland—about Gillian.”
    She blinked. Retreated into herself a little. I’d seen the expression before; any moment now, the blinds would be pulled and the lights would go out. “You’re the one who was on TV.”
    â€œYes,” I answered.
    â€œYou’re a detective,” she mused.
    â€œA private investigator,” I clarified.
    She leaned partway across the counter and spoke in a low voice. “My husband did not kill our daughter,” she said. “Vince would never have hurt Gillian.”
    I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything.
    Fresh tears sprang to Helen Erland’s eyes. “The police think Vince is guilty,” she whispered desperately. “They’re not even looking for the real murderer!”
    I thought of Tucker. Whatever our differences, I knew he was a good cop. He’d be looking for the killer, all right. I let the remark pass, since I wasn’t there to argue. “I know you must have been asked this question over and over again, until you wanted to scream,” I said gently. “But do you have any idea who might have done such a thing? Besides your husband, I mean.”
    She sniffled, snatched a handful of tissues from a box behind the counter and swabbed her face. Her skin looked raw, as though she’d tried to scrub it away. “It must have been a drifter, someone like that,” she said. “Nobody who knew Gillian would want to hurt her.” There was a short pause. “She was such a brave little thing. She couldn’t hear, you know, or speak, except in sign language. But she did everything the other kids did—even ballet. She told me she could feel the music, coming up through the floor.”
    I swallowed. I could have used a handful of tissues myself just about then.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” I said again.
    â€œEverybody’s ‘sorry,’” Helen Erland replied, almost scoffing. “That won’t bring her back.”
    I nodded, looked away, blinked rapidly until my vision cleared. “I wish there was some way I could help,” I said, thinking aloud.
    â€œI work in a cash-and-dash,” Mrs. Erland said, peering at me from beneath an overhead cigarette rack on my side of the counter. “I can’t pay you much, but if you want to help—if you weren’t just saying that—there is something you can do. You can find out who killed my baby girl.”
    I felt Gillian’s hand creep into mine, and gave it a subtle squeeze.
    I remembered Tucker’s warning the day before, in my apartment. I mean it, Mojo. Stay out of this case.
    â€œThis is a matter for the police, Mrs. Erland,” I said. “Not a private detective.”
    â€œThe police, ” Helen mocked. “They think they’ve got the killer. They’re just going to pretend to investigate until all the media hype dies down. Then Vince will spend the rest of his life in prison—if he isn’t executed—and whoever did this will go free.”
    I wondered how much of the conversation Gillian was taking in. She couldn’t hear, and being dead hadn’t changed that, but she’d probably learned to read her mother’s every expression, not just her lips.
    Her fingers tightened around mine.
    â€œI’ll look into it,” I heard myself say. It wasn’t the fee that prompted this decision—there wouldn’t be one. And