The second caller was Jolie. “You’ve got some fancy explaining to do, girl. Walking out on me like that. I’d better hear from you pronto. Like, I mean, tonight.”

I let out a long sigh. I was in for it with Jolie, and my account of finding Bert under a pool table, stabbed in the chest, probably wouldn’t prompt any sympathy. At least, none for me. Bert would get all of it.

The droning voice was distorted, probably by one of those spy devices they sell on the Internet, and it jolted me out of my reflections about talking to Greer and Jolie. “Did you get my text message? I meant what I said. You will die.” Pause. “The question is, when? And how badly will it hurt?”

I dropped into a chair at the kitchen table, staring at Andy Crowley’s cop card. I was ninety percent certain the call came from Geoff, and I knew I needed to report it, since I had a strong desire to stay alive. That was reason one. Reason two: there might be a connection, however remote the chances seemed, between the phone threat and what had happened to Bert. The information could help the police identify and find his attackers.

I was so stunned that the fourth message ended without my hearing a word. I had to suffer through the whole sequence again, because I couldn’t take the chance that someone at Sunset Villa had called with urgent news about Lillian.

It turned out to be from a food-delivery service; a perky unisex voice promised a free Chinese dinner if I called before Monday.

I was on the national no-call list, supposedly off-limits to telemarketers. Fat lot of good it did me.

Disgusted, I punched in Greer’s number. Triage, Mojo style. Jolie was pissed, but something big had to be up with Greer. I’d heard tears in her voice, and since I’d seen her cry exactly once since I’d known her—when we met at the hospital after Lillian had her stroke—I switched her to priority one.

She answered on the second ring, with a breathless, “Hello?”

“It’s Mojo,” I said.

Greer sniffled. “About time.”

I closed my eyes. Waited.

Russell had finished his stew. He snuggled against the side of my chair, laid his muzzle on my right thigh and passed gas.

“Are you there?” Greer demanded testily.

I didn’t want to breathe. I jumped up, found some matches in a drawer, and struck one.

“I’m here,” I sputtered.

“I need your help.”

I leaned down to pat Russell’s head, so he’d know I wasn’t holding the toxic fumes against him. His expression was sadly adoring.

“No more stew for you,” I said.

“I beg your pardon?” Greer put in.

“Talking to the dog,” I explained. “Why do you need my help, Greer?”

“I can’t talk about it over the telephone!”