Dead Ringers: Volumes 1-3

by Darlene Gardner

  “Get control of yourself, Jade! We’re in a hospital, for God’s sake.” It’s Max. The realization hits me like a blast of icy air. I stop resisting and twist around. His lips are tight, and his gaze is narrowed. Disappointment fairly drips off him.

  “She started it,” I mutter, as though that’s a valid excuse.

  Adair straightens from the wall, smoothing down her micro miniskirt and clinging top. She bares her straight white teeth. “This is your fault, you little psycho.”

  If Max didn’t still have hold of me, I’d go after her again, hospital or not.

  “Everythin’ all right out here?” The male half of the couple from the lounge steps into the hall. He’s prematurely gray and has an unhurried, easygoing way about him.

  The woman follows close behind. Her blond hair is pulled tightly back from a serious face. “Oh, my! Adair! What’s going on? Were you girls fighting?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Prescott, Mr. Prescott.” Adair transforms into the perfect teenage girl. I’m right about the couple. They’re Hunter’s uncle and his psychiatrist aunt. Adair points at me. “She—”

  “It was a misunderstanding,” Max interrupts. “Both Jade and Adair are upset about what happened to your nephew.”

  “We’re all upset,” Hunter’s aunt says. “But it sounded like more than that.”

  “Nope.” Max is completely in control, like he was when he traded information with the newspaper reporter. “Jade and I came by to see how Hunter’s doing. Is there any news?”

  Mr. Prescott nods down the hall. “News is comin’.”

  The doctor who entered Hunter’s hospital room approaches holding a clipboard. He’s maybe thirty years old with wire-rimmed glasses that make his eyes look owlish. “Mr. and Mrs. Prescott, good to see you again. I’ve got an update on your nephew.” His gaze takes in our large group. “Would you like to go into a private room to talk?”

  Mrs. Prescott gasps, and her hand covers her mouth. “Is the news that bad?”

  Her husband puts his arm around her and gathers her close.

  “On the contrary, it’s very good. But there are privacy laws.” The doctor pauses and looks pointedly at me, Max and Adair. “Is everybody here family?”

  Technically, Max and I are hospital crashers.

  “They’re not,” Adair announces, pointing at us, “but I’m Hunter’s girlfriend.”

  “Jade and I are leaving.” Max’s hand at the small of my back propels me forward. If I don’t move and keep on moving, I’ll fall.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Prescott,” Adair continues, “tell the doctor it’s okay to talk in front of me.”

  Max and I are too far from the group gathered in the hall to hear more of the conversation. Going back isn’t an option. I speed up so Max no longer touches me and reach the elevator before he does.

  “What are you doing here, Max?” I demand in a tight voice when he catches up.

  He presses the down button with a hard stab of his finger. “Saving you from getting thrown out of the hospital.”

  “I didn’t need your help.” The doors slide open to an empty car. I wait for Max to do the southern gentleman thing, the way he usually does, but he enters the car ahead of me. I follow and depress the button for the lobby. “I was doing fine on my own.”

  “You were about to start a fight.” His lips are as straight as the horizon at sunset.

  “Adair slapped me!”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Why do you think? She doesn’t want me visiting Hunter.”

  Max leans across me, his forearm brushing lightly against my breast. I jump back as he hits the stop button on the control panel. The elevator jars to a halt, throwing me against him. His hands encircle my upper arms. “I don’t want you visiting Hunter, either.’

  I wrench away from him and retreat until my back is against the elevator wall. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “Somebody needs to. You’re making stupid decisions.”

  “I am not!” For example, I’m not telling Max that Hunter was poisoned. Not until I’m absolutely sure Max isn’t to blame.

  “You’ve got an imprint of a hand on your face, Jade.” His words are clipped.

  “That’s what happens when a crazy girl slaps you.”

  He makes a derisive noise and shakes his head. “You didn’t pick a fight with Adair over Hunter Prescott?”

  “You sound jealous.”

  He steps toward me and places one hand to the right of my head and the other to the left, effectively boxing me in. His warm breath tickles my face. “Maybe I am jealous.”

  My heart beats way too fast. Not a-monster’s-about-to-slash-the-heroine-to-death fast. He’s-about-to-kiss-me fast.

  “Suppose you tell me what Hunter’s got that I don’t.” His blue eyes bore into mine. I can’t look anywhere but at him. Heat radiates through me.

  “He has...” I struggle to come up with something, anything. “Manners. He’d never back me up against a wall.”

  “You have no idea what that guy’s capable of.”

  I raise my chin. If only it wasn’t quivering. “I could say the same thing about you.”

  “There’s a difference.” He closes the gap even farther until our bodies touch. Lowering his head, he brushes his lips over mine before he straightens inch by inch, keeping his eyes glued to mine. “You can trust me.”

  One of his hands lifts from the elevator wall to brush a piece of hair from my face. I should slide sideways to get away from him, but it’s like the floor of the elevator is coated with super glue. My voice, I can unstick. “Trust you? I don’t even know what you’re doing here. For all I know, you came with Adair.”

  “Now who’s jealous?” he asks softly.

  If I am jealous, it’s only because Adair keeps one-upping me. Not because I hate, hate, hate the thought of Max with Adair. “Did you come with Adair?” I demand.

  He laughs shortly and straightens, breaking his invisible hold on me. He steps past me to the control panel and puts the elevator car in motion before he answers, “Nope. I followed you.”

  “What?”

  “I went over to your house this morning and saw you getting into Becky’s car.” He says this matter of factly, like stalking doesn’t start ninety percent of slasher flicks. “So I followed you.”

  The elevator reaches the lobby floor and thuds to a stop. A man and a woman with two young boys are waiting to get on. The youngest is about five years old with a buzz cut. He starts to step inside before we can disembark.

  “Mind your manners, son,” the woman calls, gently pulling him back.

  This time, Max lets me precede him. I wait until we’re out of the elevator and the family is gone before I say, “I am not on board with you following me.”

  Max strides through the hospital. I have to take two steps to his every one to keep up. When we’re side by side, he asks, “Aren’t you curious why I came over to your house this morning?”

  I’d say no, but that would be out of spite. We’re supposed to be figuring out the bad thing that’s happening in Midway Beach and coming up with a way to stop it. “Why?”

  We’re passing through the main lobby. He pauses and picks up a newspaper from an empty chair. The masthead identifies it as the Wilmington News. He flips it over to the bottom of the section front and hands it to me.

  Black Widow mystery deepens, the headline reads.

  “I was coming to tell you about Stuart Bigelow’s story,” Max explains. “He quotes a source who saw somebody dump Constance Hightower’s body on the beach.”

  Max is a lot more interested in the story than I am. So is everybody else in town. I’m curious, but with all the drama in my own life the mystery of the Black Widow takes a back seat. A girl can only focus on one bad thing at a time. “Who’s the source?”

  “Read the story.” He walks away as I’m staring down at the newspaper, calling over his shoulder. “And put some ice on that cheek. Or it’s gonna bruise.”

&nb
sp; CHAPTER FOUR

  The waiting room at the dentist’s office is quiet even with the TV on. A perky talk show host flaps her lips and waves her hands in high definition, but no sound escapes.

  The only person present, a girl with a chrysanthemum in her long black hair, is more interested in her magazine. Odd. Not because the girl is Maia, but because the magazine is National Geographic and not the Globe or the National Examiner. But that’s unfair. Maia’s a gossip. She’s not stupid.

  Maia’s so engrossed in the article, she marks her place with a forefinger before looking up to check who’s come into the room.

  “Girl,” she says, gazing up at me over the pages of the magazine, “where the hell have you been?”

  Becky must have called Maia for a ride when I failed to return the Honda Fit. I sink into the seat beside her. “How mad is she?”

  “Forget about that.” Maia smells like lavender. I was with her at the mall when she bought the lotion and after-shower spray at the bath and body store. She bought chrysanthemum pins during the same trip to alternate with the real flowers she almost always wears in her hair. She shuts her magazine and puts it down on a side table. “Tell me about this.”

  She taps the side of my face with her index finger. My cheek stings where she touches.

  “Oh, this.” I lay my hand over the mark, trying for out of sight, out of mind. “This is nothing.”

  “It looks like you got bitch-slapped.”

  “Who would do that?”

  “Let’s see.” Maia taps the side of her mouth with a finger. Star decals decorate her nails. “My guess is you were at the hospital. Am I right?”

  “Right.” Maybe I can get her off topic. “Hunter’s going to be fine. Good news, right?”

  She gives me a close-lipped smile and nods. “It’s wonderful. But then Hunter’s like a lizard. Pull off his leg, and he’ll grow another one.”

  It sounds like something Max might say about Hunter. Unlike what I suspect of Max, though, Maia doesn’t have a secret history with Hunter. They went out. She dumped him. End of story.

  “Did the doctors figure out what was wrong with him?” Maia asks.

  Sooner or later, Maia will find out Hunter was poisoned. I won’t tell her. Not when the cops could be holding back the information from the general public. A disadvantage to eavesdropping is you never know what’s supposed to be a secret.

  “I don’t know,” I lie.

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  “Why wouldn’t I tell you?”

  “You haven’t told me Adair slapped you.”

  “How do you know it was Adair?”

  “Process of elimination. I crossed off Hunter’s nurses and doctors. Jealous girlfriend seemed a better bet. Adair was at the hospital, right?”

  No use continuing to deny it. “Right. But Adair is Hunter’s ex-girlfriend.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “You’re the one who told me they were taking a break.”

  “Guess Adair decided break time’s over.” Maia tilts her head to the side. “Did you at least get in a slap or two? Maybe some hair pulling?”

  “Someone held me back.” Not for anything will I tell her it was Max. “Hospitals aren’t big on fights.”

  “Too bad. She probably had it coming.” Maia stands up, slinging her hobo-style bag across her body. “I’ve got to get going.”

  From experience, I know the damage has already been done. By this time tomorrow, everybody on the strip will know Adair and I got into a cat fight over Hunter. Swell.

  Before Maia can leave, a plump, gray-haired woman comes out from behind the reception desk and points a remote at the TV. The volume steadily increases while Constance Hightower’s beautiful face fills the screen. She looks a lot better than she did a few nights ago on the beach.

  “... special report,” a voice says. “The Wilmington News is reporting that Constance Hightower, who was found dead on Midway Beach two nights ago in an apparent suicide, may have been murdered.”

  I already know this from reading the newspaper story, but the receptionist gasps. “Lord, have mercy!” she says, drowning out the voiceover.

  “Shhh.” Maia steps past the receptionist closer to the TV. Yep. Everybody in town is more interested in the infamous Black Widow than I am.

  “...story in today’s edition claims Hightower’s body was moved after she died. Police declined comment about the lack of blood at the scene, but the newspaper quotes an anonymous source who saw somebody carrying what appeared to be a body.”

  Maia whirls away from the TV, pinning me with her gaze. “Are you the source?”

  “Me? No. Why would you think that?”

  She gets up close and personal. “You found the body, didn’t you?”

  “You’re the one who found the body?” The receptionist joins the conversation, her eyes going round.

  The conversation drowns out the voiceover on TV. The picture switches to a video of Constance at the beauty pageant she won. She’s dressed in a slinky gold evening gown and holding the hand of another impossibly gorgeous young woman. The emcee opens the envelope and announces the winner. Constance beams, drops the other woman’s hand like she’s the bearer of an alien plague and steps forward to accept her crown.

  “If somebody dumped the body,” I say, “they did it before we got there.”

  “Is that the truth?” Maia demands. “Or is this something else you’ll only tell Becky?”

  “It’s the truth. I swear it.”

  It’s not the first time I’ve sworn to Maia that I wasn’t lying. When Maia gets a lead on a piece of gossip, she’s relentless. Sort of like the bad guys in horror movies who resurrect in time for sequels. Well, not really. But it’s the same idea.

  “I’ve gotta go,” Maia repeats. She hurries away like I’ve seen her do a hundred other times when she has news to spread. If I’m lucky, she’ll be so busy talking about the Black Widow she’ll forget Adair slapped me.

  Except I’m never that lucky.

  The receptionist turns the volume of the TV all the way down before addressing me. “Who do you think killed Constance?”

  It’s a stretch to believe that one of Boris’s children slit the Black Widow’s wrists, waited for her to bleed out and then dumped her on the beach. “I don’t know. Hannibal Lecter?”

  “I don’t know Hannibal Lecter.”

  Seriously? People like her take all the fun out of sarcasm.

  While I wait for Becky, I turn my attention to my own problems. It had taken me a long time last night to fall asleep after talking to my mom. Weird stuff has happened to both of us, forcing me to consider whether I’m letting paranoia overtake me like she did. But, no. If I was never missing, like Roxy claims, then how to explain Max? Like me, Max can’t account for the hours he was gone. If, that is, he’s telling the truth.

  Before I can reach any conclusions, Becky comes into the waiting room. I stand up, ready to grovel. She rushes toward me and throws her arms around me in a tight hug.

  “Wait a minute,” I say while she’s squeezing. “You’re not mad?”

  “I was too worried to be mad.” She draws back. “Why didn’t you call me back this morning?”

  “I texted.”

  “Then you do know you sent the text?” She peers up at me with anxious eyes. One side of her face sags from Novocain. “It’s not like before with, um, well, you know.”

  Yeah, I do. But I haven’t been able to prove yet that Roxy—or perhaps the evil clown—used my phone to text Becky when I’d lost those forty-eight hours. Because, damn it, that did happen. Unlike my mom, I can recognize the truth.

  “I know I sent the text this morning,” I say.

  Becky draws back and punches me in the arm.

  “Hey, what was that for?” I ask, rubbing the spot.

  “For letting me worry.”

  “Nothing to worry about.”

  “Then why is your face bruised?”

  Oops. I should h
ave taken Max’s suggestion about the ice. The Hannibal Lecter-challenged receptionist is openly listening. I grab Becky’s arm and usher her toward the exit. “Let’s get out of here.”

  When we’re outside, Becky plants her feet and crosses her arms over her chest. “Spill.”

  I did promise her last night when I talked her into letting me borrow her car that I’d tell all, even about Max.

  “This might take a while.” I point to an empty playground across the street. “Some swings over there are calling our names.”

  When we’re sitting side by side and I’ve sworn her to secrecy, I start talking. I’m not sure why, but I don’t start with what I learned during my visit to Max’s duplex. Instead I tell Becky about visiting the hospital. About Adair walloping me. About Max stepping in. Even about overhearing Hunter had been poisoned.

  “Oh, my God. Poisoned?” She’s a gasper, the same as the dentist office receptionist. “Are you sure you heard that right?”

  “Positive.”

  “But who poisons somebody?” She scrunches up her nose. Not a good look with her lopsided mouth. “Besides the Black Widow. And she kind of had reason, with Boris cheating and all. But, I mean, this isn’t Arsenic and Old Ladies.”

  “Arsenic and Old Lace,” When I was on my old movie kick, I’d made Becky sit through about a dozen of them. That one’s about a pair of insane maiden aunts who cheerfully off old men with poisonous elderberry wine. “And I can think of somebody who’d poison Hunter.”

  “Who?”

  Something stops me from sharing my suspicion of Max. “Adair was working the concession stand last night when Hunter stopped by.”

  “Adair? That’s completely nuts.” The Novocain is affecting her speech, making it slow and slurred, sort of the way my Mom sounds sometimes. “You can’t suspect somebody of attempted murder because you’re jealous.”

  “I am not jealous!”

  “She’s skinny, six feet tall and Hunter’s into her.”

  “Okay, you’ve got a point.”

  “I’ve got another one.” She pushes off the ground with one of her feet. The swing barely moves. Becky’s tiny, but these swings are made for kids. My butt’s starting to hurt from being squeezed by the chains holding them up. “Max is into you. That should make you forget all about Hunter.”