25
Before we left, I called George Peavey’s phone. I didn’t want to drive all the way to Mesa only to discover he was spending his Saturday elsewhere. At the same time, I didn’t want to risk spooking him.
“This George Peavey?” I asked when he answered.
“It is. To whom am I speaking?”
“Oh, hi, I’m Liz Windsor. I live a couple streets over from you,” I said in an overfriendly voice. “For some reason the post office delivered a box addressed to you.”
“Again? They’re always misdelivering my packages. Probably a book I ordered.”
I decided to play along. “Yeah, judging from the size, that’d be my guess. You gonna be home for the next hour or so? I gotta dry my hair, and then I can drop it by.”
“Yeah, I’ll be around.”
“Great. Toodles!”
“Liz Windsor?” Conor guffawed. “So now you’re the b*
