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“Is this Remmi Storm?” a gravelly male voice asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He sounded satisfied. The voice was starting to sound familiar, and it struck a chord, not a good one.
“Who is this?”
“Harold,” he said. “Remember me?”
Harold Rimes. Her mother’s boss. She tensed. “How did you get my number?”
“Like that’s hard.” He didn’t reply, and she wondered if he could be the person in the dark SUV she’d sensed was following her. “You got any idea where that mother of yours is?” he asked. “Didi?”
“Nope.”
She’d never liked Rimes, and the feeling hadn’t changed over the years. “She still owes me money. Over twenty grand, and I figure with interest it’s more than double that.”
“Why are you calling me now?”
“With all this stuff that’s going on? That book? I’m startin’ to see it everywhere, and now with the new publicity, y’know, with that woman killing herself all dressed up like Didi or Marilyn? There’s all kinds of chatting about it online, did ya know that? Somebody’s cashing in big time, and I bet it’s Didi.”
“So . . . you think my mother’s alive?” she asked.
“’Course she is!”
From the corner of her eye, Remmi saw Greta’s head snap up. “Have you heard from her?”
“No . . . but she’s too ornery to die . . .” When Remmi didn’t immediately reply, he added, “Isn’t she?”
“I don’t know,” Remmi admitted. “I haven’t seen or heard from her since she left Las Vegas.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You’re bullshittin’ me.”
“Have you seen her? Heard from her?” Remmi asked again.
He let out a derisive snort. “If I had, would I be wasting time with you? No, Remmi,” he said, and the way he said her name made her skin crawl. “But she wouldn’t be lookin’ me up, if ya know what I mean. Remember: twenty grand. But, believe you me, it would take more than a fireball in the frickin’ desert to kill that woman. She’s like a cat. Just one difference, though. Instead of nine lives, she has ninety-nine.”
“Look, if you have any information—”
“No, listen, if you have any. If you’re just shinin’ me on and you know where she is, tell her that I want my money back, and I’m going to come lookin’ for her.”
She expected him to threaten her as well, but he hung up then, and Remmi, more angry than scared, thrust the cell into her pocket.
“Who was that?” Greta asked.
“Didi’s old boss. A real bottom feeder. He wanted to know if I knew where she was or if I’d heard from her.”
“I gathered that much.”
Remmi told her about the rest of the conversation and how she felt about Harold Rimes.
“Do you think he’s dangerous?” Greta asked.
Remmi made a face. “I’ve always had the idea that he was more bark than bite, one of those guys who likes to throw his weight around and threaten but is really a coward inside.” She remembered the incident at his club when she’d been caught “borrowing” the Stephen King novel, and she felt that same old slimy feeling she had had when his gaze had traveled up and down her body. “He’s a pig, but I don’t think he would do anything.”
