I nodded. “Yes,” I agreed. “But she’s not expecting to see Alex. Just you.”

Greer squirmed a little. Dried her eyes with the back of one hand, smearing mascara across both cheekbones in the process.

“Better check your makeup,” I said. Letting Greer go out like that would be an unforgivable sin, from her point of view, like allowing a friend to walk into a job interview with parsley in her teeth.

She got out her gold compact, snapped it open, consulted the mirror and groaned. “I look awful. No wonder my husband is messing around with other women.”

“If your husband is ‘messing around with other women,’ Greer, it’s because he’s a selfish asshole, not because your mascara is smudged.”

“You don’t like him, either,” she said, like it was news. “Do you have any baby wipes?”

After I’d made the leap over the gap where the segue should have been, I pushed back my chair. “Come on. We’ll see what’s in the medicine cabinet.”

“You keep your makeup in the medicine cabinet?”

I chuckled. “Yes, Greer. I own one tube of mascara, one bottle of foundation and one tube of lipstick. I can’t see investing in a train case.”

“You should have a makeover,” Greer prattled, as she followed me through the living room to the bathroom. She didn’t know what to say to me anymore, it seemed, but I didn’t take offense. Most likely, she saw my entire life as a restoration project, and not without reason. Letting somebody slather high-priced goop on my face in some department store probably seemed like the second best place to start, the first being that whopping check she’d just written.

As it happened, the only smeared-mascara solutions I had to offer were a new bar of soap and a jar of Vaseline. She chose the soap, and I left her to the repair job.

Glancing out the kitchen window, I saw that the cop cars were gone, and Greer’s SUV sat alone in the parking lot, except for my Volvo.

We met in the living room, which was the middle ground between the bathroom and kitchen.

“Maybe you should spend the night,” I said.

“I was thinking the same thing about you,” Greer replied. “Why don’t you pack a few things and come home with me?”

I was touched that she’d ask. “I can’t leave Russell.”

“Who’s Russell?”

“The dog, Greer.” I cocked a thumb in his direction.

“He stinks,” she said matter-of-factly, and without apparent rancor.

There was no denying that Russell was aromatically challenged, and now that I thought about it, I recalled that Bert had warned me about the fart tendency when he asked me to look after Russell while he and Sheila went camping.