Dead Ringers: Volumes 1-3

by Darlene Gardner

  The reporter lets out a laugh. “Are you really holding information hostage?”

  “I really am. I’m sure you’re familiar with exchanging information.” Max sounds completely in command of the situation, like he knows exactly what can make a journalist salivate.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. Her sister was staying with Constance at the manse. She’s pretty shaken up. Said Constance went for a walk on the beach a couple days ago and never came back.”

  “Did Constance leave a suicide note?” Max asks.

  “Yeah. Said death trumped prison. It’s consistent with what the sister said about Constance showering four or five times a day to get rid of the stink of jail.”

  “Who benefits from her death?” Max sounds like he’s the reporter instead of Bigelow. “Her sister?”

  Bigelow scratches his chin. “Why do you want to know all this?”

  “We found her,” Max says. “We’re part of the story now.”

  Max’s answer should make sense but it rings false. I’m curious about the details, too, but not in the same intense way as Max.

  “Fair enough. Except I can’t answer your question. Constance wasn’t charged with her husband’s death until after she inherited. His children managed to freeze the assets but by then she could have stashed money anywhere. With her dead, it’ll probably take the courts years to sort things out.”

  “Because she was never convicted,” Max finishes.

  “Bingo. Your turn. What you got for me?”

  “A couple questions.”

  Bigelow’s eyebrows lift like the Golden Arches.

  “The police didn’t let you near the body, right?”

  “Right. They had the area partitioned off.”

  “So you didn’t ask why there wasn’t any blood on the scene?”

  Neither had I. And, unlike Bigelow, I’d been gaping down at the body.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” The reporter points a finger at Max and says, “Thanks a lot.”

  Bigelow hustles away, taking the steps to the police station two at a time. As soon as he’s gone, I circle around Max to stand in front of him. “Why didn’t you point out the no-blood thing to me last night?”

  “You had enough to deal with last night.”

  I don’t need him protecting me, but there are more pressing issues on my mind. “So you think someone killed the Black Widow and moved her body?”

  “Either that or she killed herself and someone moved the body.” He looks more serious than at any time since I’ve met him.

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “I’m sure they figured it out.” He starts walking down the sidewalk.

  I catch up to him and match my shorter strides to his longer ones. “How did you know to hold back information so that reporter would spill?”

  “Common sense.”

  It seems like there was more to it than that, like he had experience dealing with the media. “But why did you do it? Why did you want to know the details?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  His two-word answers aren’t doing the trick. Too many things about Max Harper aren’t adding up. The more time I spend around him, the more chance I have of deciphering the mystery. He takes the remote from the pocket of his khakis and unlocks the white pickup I’d seen in front of Adair’s cabin.

  I head for the passenger door, pull it open and hop in. The rifle I spotted through the window the other night is gone.

  His key is in his hand but not in the ignition. “I thought you were walking home.”

  I lift one of my feet and point to a flip-flop. “Wrong shoes. Besides, I’ve got a craving for good pizza.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mario’s Pizzeria has a prime location directly on the boardwalk. The interior, though, isn’t worth raving about. Only one table has an ocean view. The others are arranged in a single row that stretches about eight deep to the back of the store. Opposite the tables is the counter, behind which Shep Arnett, a rising senior at Midway Beach High who looks bored enough to fall asleep, flips pizza dough.

  “This pizza is awesome.” Max holds up a slice of half-eaten pie. He ordered it New York style, the correct way. “Asking you out to lunch, definitely the right move.”

  His blue eyes are sparkling, a vivid contrast to his black hair. I might have a good view after all, not that I’d admit that out loud.

  “You could have just asked where to go for good pizza.’

  “And miss out on your company? Where’s the fun in that?” He holds my gaze, the smile on his lips matching the one in his eyes. He always gives me his complete attention, like nobody else in the vicinity matters.

  “Are you trying to distract me?”

  “Now why would I do that?” Before I can answer, he indicates the uneaten slice of pizza on my plate. “Aren’t you gonna eat that?”

  He takes another bite of pizza and chews enthusiastically. The tangy scent of tomato sauce drifts up from my plate. My stomach growls.

  “You’re doing it again,” I accuse.

  He finishes chewing and swallows. “Doing what again?”

  “Distracting me.”

  “Because I like the way you look when you wear your hair down?” He reaches across the table with his left hand and slides a piece of my hair between his thumb and index finger. “It’s very pretty.”

  My hair isn’t even close to pretty. In some lights it looks red, and it’s so hard to keep out of my face that I usually wear it back. I lean back so his hand drops away. “You know I’m only here because I want to find out why you’re so interested in the Black Widow.”

  He frowns. “I thought it was because you were hot for me.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “Oh, you have a starring role.” He does this quivering thing with his eyebrows.

  I’m rolling my eyes when the door swings open and Hunter Prescott walks into the restaurant. “Oh, damn.”

  The teasing light goes out of Max’s eyes. “Something wrong?”

  “No, nothing.”

  The concern’s still there. “It must be something.”

  “Hunter Prescott just walked in.”

  Max is sitting with his back to the door. Ninety-nine people out of a hundred would turn around and take a look for themselves. Max keeps his attention riveted on me. “So?”

  So now that Hunter’s without a girlfriend, I don’t want him to think I have a boyfriend.

  “Oh, I get it,” Max says, although I don’t know how he could possibly get anything at all from my silence. “This Hunter guy’s my competition.”

  He finally turns to take a look at Hunter, and I hear his breath catch. For once, it’s not me claiming his rapt attention. “What did you say Hunter’s last name is?”

  “Prescott. Why? Do you know him?”

  He turns back to me, his expression blank. “Never seen him before.”

  Over Max’s shoulder, Hunter spots me and lifts a hand. He looks perfect, as usual. Lean and muscular with dark sunglasses tucked into the neckline of a sleeveless T-shirt that calls attention to the muscular definition in his arms. I wave back and think that’ll be the end of it.

  “Hey, Jade,” he calls, arrowing straight for us. My heartbeat gets faster with every step nearer he takes. “I heard you found the Black Widow dead on the beach.”

  That explains what he’s doing at the table.

  “We both found her.” Max’s hand is wrapped around his Coke. He doesn’t offer to shake Hunter’s hand. “I’m Max Harper.”

  “Oh, yeah. I heard about you. The new guy at the carnival.” Hunter points to his chest. “Hunter Prescott. I work at the arcade.”

  “Join us,” Max offers.

  My mouth actually drops open.

  “Sure.” Hunter indicates the counter where you can buy pizza by the slice. “Let me order something from Shep first. Then I want to hear all about the Widow.”

  Max leans back in his seat, hyperfocused on me once again. “You’re surprised I invited
the competition to eat with us. I can see it all over your face.”

  I can’t speak until I clear the disbelief from my throat. “You’re not competing with Hunter. If you were, you’d so lose.”

  “Ouch.” He covers his heart. “And here I thought I was winning points for believing you weren’t on that ski trip with Roxy.”

  It’s as though he knows Hunter lost interest in me when I had my crisis. Either somebody’s feeding Max information about me or he’s a mind reader. With all the other weird shit going on, I can’t discount anything.

  “You’d win more points if you level with me,” I say.

  Hunter’s return interrupts whatever Max might have said. Two giant pizza slices with pepperoni almost slide off Hunter’s plate as he sits down next to me. His arm brushes mine, and I barely resist leaning into the contact.

  “What’s the deal?” Hunter asks. “How’d you happen to find the Widow?”

  “Jade and I wanted to be alone so we left the party to take a walk on the beach,” Max says, which is totally misleading.

  Hunter looks back and forth between Max and me as though he expects our mouths to meet over the table for an open-mouthed kiss.

  “Then we found the corpse,” Max continues. “Not a lot to the story.”

  If, that is, you leave out Max’s contention that Constance Hightower’s body was moved after she died.

  “I heard she killed herself,” Hunter says.

  “That would explain why she wasn’t moving,” Max says.

  “What did she look like?” The way Hunter chomps down on his pizza reminds me of the kids who stuff their faces with popcorn at the movie theater while they wait to be entertained.

  “She looked...” Max pauses and leans forward, giving his next word more weight. “...dead.”

  Hunter doesn’t smile. “You’re a smart-ass, aren’t you?”

  “You been checking out my ass?” Max asks. “With Jade sitting right here?”

  The testosterone is so thick in the air it might soon have a sharper scent than the tomato-rich pizza. Considering these two just met, I’m not sure what’s going on. What we need is a neutral subject.

  “Max came to Midway Beach to work at the carnival.” That sounds non-inflammatory enough. “He’s from upstate.”

  “How long have you lived here, Hunter?” Max asks.

  Hunter takes his time chewing before he answers. “A couple years.”

  “Did you move here with your folks?”

  “I’m staying with my aunt and uncle until August.” That must be when he’ll leave for New York City and drama school, possibly for good. My heart contracts. The silence stretches for a moment before Hunter adds, “Martha and George Prescott.”

  “Is George your dad’s brother?”

  “No. Martha’s my mom’s sister.”

  “Really?” Max sounds like that’s the most interesting thing he’s heard all day. “You go by your uncle’s last name?”

  Hunter picks up his bottled water and drains half of it. “It’s a coincidence. Both sisters married guys named Prescott.”

  Max leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Interesting.”

  It takes Hunter about two more minutes to scarf down his pizza while I ramble on about nothing in particular. Neither Max nor Hunter does more than grunt a time or two in bare acknowledgement of my blather.

  As soon as Hunter’s finished eating, he leaps to his feet. “See you around, Jade.”

  Hunter doesn’t say a word to Max.

  “What was that all about?” I ask the instant Hunter’s gone. “What was the deal with those questions about his last name?”

  “They were just questions.”

  No matter how many different ways I ask, Max won’t elaborate. By the time he drives me home, I’ve stopped trying. We cover the distance in silence with the wind blowing through the open windows of his truck. He pulls into the driveway. I yank open the door, get out and slam it behind me.

  “Hey, Jade.” His voice stops me before I reach the sidewalk, but I don’t turn. “Hunter Prescott is trouble.”

  I whirl to find him leaning partially out the window. “How would you know? Do you have some sort of secret history with him?”

  The problem with that theory is Hunter showed no sign of a previous acquaintance with Max. Then again, Hunter is a skilled actor.

  “I know lots of guys like him,” Max says through the open window. “Do yourself a favor and stay away from him, okay?”

  I let out a surprised laugh. “I’m supposed to listen to you?”

  “Yeah, you are.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He puts the car in reverse before he calls out an answer. “Because I might be the only one in town who doesn’t think you’re crazy.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When I was a kid, the Midway Beach carnival seemed like it stretched for miles. Everything was magnified. The loud music. The crowds. The wooden posts with the height limit for the rides set at what seemed like impossibly tall levels.

  In reality, a full-sized person can walk from one end of the carnival to the other in about five minutes, less when it’s not as crowded as it is tonight.

  So how come I still can’t find Max Harper? Since he drove away from my house this afternoon after his cryptic comment, one question’s been flashing in my brain like a neon light.

  Why does he believe I’m not crazy?

  It couldn’t have been anything my mom told him. She’s leaning toward sending me to a psychiatrist. Pretty wild considering she’s the one with a suicide attempt in her past, although I haven’t had a chance to ask her about that yet.

  I’m spending my second break of the night the same way I did my first, going from ride to ride searching for Max. Still no luck. It’s not like I can ask one of my gossipy co-workers where he is, either. The Black Widow talk is dying down but will get a new injection tomorrow when Stuart Bigelow publishes his newspaper story about the body being moved. In the meantime, I don’t want to get anybody wondering whether Max and I have the hots for each other.

  “Jade!” Roxy Cooper’s voice booms above the carnival noise. She’s beside the balloon dart game, gesturing for me to join her. She could tell me where Max is, but I can’t risk her figuring out I’m suspicious of him. Not when I’m still trying to work out what role she had in my disappearance.

  The closer I get to her, the more she towers over me. Roxy is one large woman. If she’d snuck up behind me and hit me over the head the night I disappeared, she could have picked me up and carted me off like a really big bag of potatoes.

  Comforting thought.

  “I’m on break,” I tell her. “I’m not slacking off.”

  “I know that!” She beams the smile that’s never seemed genuine. “You’re one of my best employees.”

  Yeah, right. Roxy’s emphasis this year is putting on a happy face for the customers. She’s ripped into just about everybody for not smiling enough except melancholy me. The grin on the girl running the balloon toss game looks pained. Not surprising. The darts are dull, the balloons are underinflated and the customers get angry when they don’t win a cheap stuffed animal.

  “That must have been tough last night, coming across that body like you did.” She waits as though she expects me to confide in her, seeing as we’re such good friends and all.

  “Yeah, it was. Can I go now?”

  “That’s not why I called you over here.” Her smile doesn’t waver. “Did you lose a copy of I Am Legend?”

  It’s my favorite book in the world with an ending way cooler than in the Will Smith movie. For Christmas last year, Aunt Carol gave me a paperback copy autographed by Richard Matheson. The cover’s torn and the pages are dogeared, cutting down on the book’s value, but I treasured it.

  Until I lost it.

  “Is it a paperback? Kind of beat-up?” I almost trip over my words in my eagerness to get my questions answered.

  “That’s the book.”

  Joy
bubbles in my chest. I’d spent untold hours looking for the book, trying to remember where I left it. “Where did you find it?”

  “Under the passenger seat of my car. You must have had it with you when we took the ski trip.”

  Impossible. Not only have I never been skiing with Roxy, I’ve never been inside her car. But if the book had been in my backpack the night I’d vanished, that would explain how Roxy had come up with it. Wouldn’t it?

  “Still don’t remember the ski trip?” Roxy’s eyebrows pull downward. “I hoped things were getting clearer.”

  “Oh, they are.” It’s time to make her squirm. “Every day I get closer to putting the pieces together.”

  Roxy doesn’t even blink. “Good to hear. Your book’s on my desk in the trailer. Stop by for it any time.”

  “Why won’t these balloons pop?” A sunburned tourist in Bermuda shorts bellows at the still-smiling girl operating the balloon dart game. “Is the game fixed?”

  “I better handle this.” Roxy turns away from me and takes one giant stride in the direction of the tourist. He backs up two steps. “Of course the game’s not fixed,” she tells him.

  All the games are fixed. Carnival games are designed to separate the gullible from their money.

  One of these days, the lies will catch up with Roxy and I plan to be there when they do.

  The scent of hot dogs and French fries carries on the ocean breeze, and my stomach noisily lets me know it’s past dinner. So much for looking for Max. My break’s almost over. If I don’t get something to eat now, I’ll go hungry for the rest of the night.

  The nearest concession stand is in the shadow of the Hurricane, the roller coaster undergoing renovations. Painted a bright yellow, the concession stand is a junk food addict’s dream. Besides dogs and fries, unhealthy eaters can buy pizza, ice cream, popcorn, snow cones, cotton candy and a bunch of other empty calories. The food booth is also the only one large enough to be staffed by two employees. One is Adair. The other is Max.

  Max, who was hired to be on rides. What’s up with that?