Lizzie
It was a crap shoot, but one of the two women might know something. Brenda Phillips or Georgina Crane. So maybe he’d turn to one of them for a new place to hide Isabella. Maybe both. But as she drove back, Lizzie internally debated who to talk to first? She focused on the next step so she wouldn’t have to think about her failure to rescue Isabella. Or think about the old man who’d died trying to protect them.
She’d always been good at that, at ignoring the emotional impact of a trauma. At least, she’d made herself good at that, ever since that first trauma, her father’s murder in front of her.
It usually worked.
“I’m voting for Brenda.” After all, they’d been trying to talk to Brenda Phillips for days about Tom Martin’s death. This would be a two-fer.
Murphy, balancing the now closed laptop on a knee, disagreed. “Georgina has been the one supplying him with money. She’d be the more likely candidate to offer a place to hide Isabella and her child. Brenda has political ambitions. No way she’d want to be involved in a shitstorm like this.”
“Still. There’s also the connection to Tom Martin.”
“Which case we working, Lizzie? Tom Martin’s dead and that’s not going to change. Isabella’s case should be the priority. Her life’s at risk now.”
“I know that.”
“And I know you know. So why Brenda?”
“What I saw on his computer. In his files. Petersen has a thing for her. And anyway, Georgina’s out. Considering that we fucked up last night.”
“We didn’t fuck up. At least I didn’t.”
“Okay, I fucked up.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a fuck-up. It wasn’t that bad an idea. We just got unlucky.”
“Which doesn’t change the fact that Petersen would know we’re looking at Georgina.”
“He probably knows that we’re looking at Brenda, too. So new idea. We split up. You talk to Brenda, and I’ll call Cleo and she’ll pick me up and we’ll go check out Georgina.”
Lizzie shot a quick sideways glance at Murphy and then turned her gaze back to the road. Now around noon, traffic even on a Saturday had picked up. They passed a large sign: In the Beginning God Created. Dial 123 for Jesus. Usually she ignored the religious billboards. Recently she’d noticed how many there were. And just outside “liberal” Austin. “No.”
“No?”
“No. Because Petersen just killed someone. We split up, and we’re more vulnerable. Cleo does what…?”
“Event planning.”
“Event planning. She’s not a cop or an ex-cop, is she?”
“Neither are you. Just saying.”
“I can handle myself.”
“So can Cleo. She’s not some helpless damsel.”
“I’m not suggesting that she is. Maybe I want you to back me up. In case Petersen does show.”
“Okay.” Murphy’s tone moderated. “So Brenda first, then Georgina.”
“Agreed.”
What struck Lizzie as she pulled up in front of the Phillips house was the ostentatiousness. The fountain in the middle of the circular drive. The marble facade. Marble columns. Statues of small nude angels.
They parked in front of one of the angels and got out of the car.
A Mercedes and beat-up Toyota were parked in front of the two garage doors. Lizzie walked over to the garage and peered inside. An antique powder blue Cadillac and a Jaguar sports car occupied the two interior spots.
“Don’t angels wear clothes?” Murphy was examining the angel statues.
“Maybe not when they’re babies. Do baby angels grow up?”
“Don’t ask me. My parents were Baptists. We never discussed baby angels. You?”
“We were Lutheran in Germany. Here too, I guess, but we didn’t discuss religion, and I didn’t go to Sunday School. Angels weren’t really a thing.”
“They’re kind of… cute.” Murphy rang the front doorbell with an immaculately painted fingernail. “Although I prefer unicorns.”
Lizzie wasn’t fond of either unicorns or angels, but if she had to choose, she’d go with the unicorns. “Me too. I guess.”
The woman who answered the door looked to be in her fifties, graying long hair pulled and up back into a bun. She wore a white apron that screamed servant or 1950s housewife, and green eyes peered brightly and intelligently at Lizzie.
She radiated motherly warmth. And something about her was familiar. Lizzie wasn’t sure where or when, but she was pretty sure she’d seen this woman before.
“Can I help you?”
“We’d like to speak to Mrs. Phillips, please.”
“And you are?”
“I’m Lizzie Vaughn and this is my associate, Murphy Green.” Lizzie fished in a pocket and retrieved a business card.
The woman glanced at it and handed it back. “Very exciting. I don’t believe I’ve ever met a private investigator before. Can I tell Mrs. Phillips what this is about?”
“I’m sorry but it’s confidential. And you are?”
“Mindy Black, the housekeeper. Let me ask if she’s available. You can wait inside.”
Lizzie and Murphy followed Mindy into the hall and waited while she disappeared into a living room.
“This place is something,” Murphy craned her neck to check out the dancing rainbow of colors from the chandelier. “And the white marble floor. Must be a bitch to keep clean.”
“It’s a little…” Lizzie searched for a word and chose “bright.” What she meant was showy.
“They’re rich.”
“Not all rich people have bad taste.”
“I am aware. By the way, speaking of rich people, I’ve been waiting for an invitation to your parents’—sorry—your stepfather’s house.”
Murphy’s sensitivity to the way Lizzie designated her stepfather deserved recognition.
It wasn’t all that interesting, but why not? “Okay, then. Next time I visit.”
“You’re on. Which will be when?”
“Oh—a while.”
Mindy the housekeeper who still looked familiar—where had Lizzie seen her—returned. “She can spare you ten minutes. Follow me please.”
They walked through a living room that was so white it reminded Lizzie of snow, to a large home office, with bookshelves and an ornately carved desk, where a woman who looked decidedly hung over was on her laptop.
“Would you like me to bring some refreshments for your guests, Mrs. Phillips?” Mindy asked.
Brenda focused bleary eyes on her housekeeper. “They won’t be staying long.” She turned to Lizzie. “What’s this about?”
“It’s about John Petersen. I believe you know him.” Lizzie said.
The housekeeper discreetly closed the door behind her as she left.