Dead Ringers: Volumes 1-3

by Darlene Gardner

  If Roxy were in sight right now, I’d tackle her. Okay, maybe not. But I might manage to claw her eyes out. “When was this?”

  “The day Julian won that teddy bear. The big lady, she was spinning the color wheel.”

  My brother said he’d won three games in a row. I should have known few people win that many times straight at a carnival game without help. Roxy either told Julian which color squares to place his quarters on or she rigged the wheel.

  “What exactly did she say about swimming near the pier, Tommy?”

  “She said it was fun, that she swims there all the time. She told us the same thing Sunday right before Julian went in.”

  I don’t believe for a second that Roxy is dumb enough to swim there, yet she must be familiar enough with the currents to know she could pull Julian to safety. Because she’d set up the entire Roxy-to-the-rescue operation. I’m sure of it. I even know why: To ingratiate herself with my family. If the dinner invitation is any indication, it’s working.

  “Can I have one of those burlap things now?” Tommy asks.

  “Nope.” I pick up one end of the heavy chain we use to block the entrance to the stairs and secure it. “Ride’s closed.”

  “The carnival’s still open,” Tommy wails in protest. “You can’t do that.”

  “I just did.”

  I take off at a jog. I’ve got some pretty good ideas of where to look for Roxy, but before I run a dozen steps my cell phone rings. I slow down enough to check the display. Max. I click on the phone. “Yeah?”

  “Can you meet me in front of the pier? I need your help.”

  I knew it as soon as the phone rang. The police are on to him. I stop moving entirely and give the conversation my full attention. “I won’t be your alibi, if that’s the kind of help you need.”

  “Alibi for what?”

  “For what happened to Stuart Bigelow.”

  Silence. It lasts so long, I think he might have hung up. “I don’t need an alibi, Jade,” he says after long moments. “Now can you meet me or not?”

  “Why should I?”

  “It’s important. I’ll explain when you get here.”

  The line goes dead. Great. He hung up, expecting me to do as he says. I’m tempted to stand him up while I deal with Roxy. But now that I’ve had a chance to calm down, I realize I can confront Roxy later. The bigger mystery is waiting for me.

  Max stands at the entrance to the pier where I can’t miss him, not that I would. At his height and with those dark good looks, he stands out in a crowd. He waits, unsmiling, as I approach. Closer to the ocean, the wind is more of a factor. It whips at our clothes and hair and smells of salt and sea.

  “So I’m a murderer, huh?” Max speaks barely loud enough to be heard over the wind’s whistle, but I can pick out what sounds like hurt in his voice.

  I lift my chin. “I’m not ruling out anything.”

  He takes a step toward me. I hold my ground, staring up at him. It seems like I can feel the heat of his body, the warmth of his breath, but maybe that’s just the wind. “If I’m a murderer,” he whispers, his face close to mine, “why aren’t you afraid of me?”

  The feeling coursing through me isn’t fear. Otherwise, dealing with him would be easier.

  “And if I’m a murderer,” Max continues whispering, “why didn’t you stick around the motel this afternoon and rat me out to the cops?”

  I wouldn’t admit it didn’t occur to me that he could have murdered Bigelow even if a Nazi dentist had me strapped to a chair.

  “I’m not here to talk about me.” It’s impossible to stick my chin any higher in the air. “You promised to explain why you want help.”

  If he doesn’t need me to get his alibi straight, I don’t have a clue what he wants.

  He straightens until there’s enough distance between us that I can breathe without smelling his clean scent. “I found Leanne Livingston.”

  “Who?”

  “The Black Widow’s sister. She was staying with Constance at Ocean Breeze until recently.”

  “Was she missing?”

  “By choice,” Max says. “She cleared out of the mansion after her sister died, probably because of all the press.”

  “And you’ve been looking for her?” I know the answer. Max has been more obsessed with the Black Widow case than he is the mystery of his own disappearance.

  “Me and everybody else. The money was on her hometown in South Carolina, but she didn’t go back there.” He doesn’t give me a chance to ask how he knows that. “She stayed in Midway Beach.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I tracked down Leanne Livingston’s cell phone number and got her to agree to meet me. She’s waiting at the White Pelican.” He names the indoor/outdoor restaurant halfway down the pier. “If there’s a connection between us and her sister, Leanne might help us figure it out.”

  “You already know I don’t think there is a connection. So why call me? Why not talk to her by yourself?”

  “I started to.” Max pauses and bites his lower lip. “But she’s sitting at a table by herself. Crying.”

  “So?”

  “So that kind of stuff makes me uncomfortable.” He shuffles his feet. “I thought she’d be more likely to open up if I was with somebody female.”

  “Are you for real?”

  “Hey, I don’t have sisters.” He’d already told me he was an only child. “Are you in?”

  I hesitate, eager to go back to figuring out what Roxy is up to.

  “Please,” he adds.

  The wind blows away my sigh, but not my nod.

  The only woman sitting alone at the White Pelican wears a floppy hat and oversized sunglasses. Not the most popular look after the sun goes down. The band that plays every night at the restaurant must be on break, because a sappy old song drifts from the interior of the restaurant.

  “That’s her.” Max nods toward the table. “That’s Leanne Livingston.”

  The wind is blowing harder now, chasing most people inside so that only a few outdoor tables are occupied. The woman with the floppy hat focuses on her amber-colored drink. Whiskey, if I had to guess.

  “Leanne Livingston?” Max ventures when we’re standing beside her table. Her head snaps up. All I can see of her face is her mouth, nose, cheeks and chin. “I’m Max Harper, and this is Jade Greene.”

  “You’re the one who called.” The corners of her mouth turn down and tremble. “The one who said you found my sister’s body on the beach.”

  “That’s right. Mind if we join you?” Max doesn’t wait for her agreement, pulling out a chair for me and then settling beside me. “We’ve got some questions we’d like to ask you.”

  “I’m not supposed to talk to you,” Leanne mumbles. She wags a finger, her words slightly slurred. “Are you gonna tell Boris’s son and daughter where I am? Those horrible Hightowers are looking for me, you know.”

  “We don’t know Boris’s children,” Max says. “We won’t tell anybody anything.”

  “Still not supposed to talk to you,” she mutters, the slurring more pronounced. She leans forward suddenly, sticking out her neck like she’s trying to get a good look at us. “Is it dark out here? I can’t see real good.”

  “It might help to take off your sunglasses,” I suggest.

  Leanne reaches up, feeling her sunglasses like she’s a blind person. She whips them off, giving me my first good look at her beautiful face.

  If I was being choked to death, I’d have an easier time breathing. Because the woman’s high cheekbones and delicate features are unmistakable.

  It’s Constance Hightower.

  “I don’t understand.” I can hardly get the words out. “I thought you were dead.”

  She covers her pretty mouth with a hand and laughs until the tears spilling out of her eyes seem to have nothing to do with mirth. Max isn’t laughing, but he doesn’t stare at her like she’s risen from the dead, either.

  “I’m sorry.�
�� Max’s apology and guilty look make no sense. “I should have told you Leanne is Constance’s identical twin.”

  “You looked like you saw a ghost.” Leanne gulps and wipes at her tears. “But I understand. It’s not easy having this face. I can’t stand to look in a mirror.”

  Of course. She’d be reminded her sister was dead every time she saw her own image. It seems like I should say something to let her know I feel for her. “I’m sorry for your loss, Leanne.”

  She hiccups and blinks the moisture from her eyes. “Thank you.”

  “We won’t take up much of your time,” Max says. “We just have a few questions.”

  “Hey,” she says before Max can ask any of them, “do you know if there’s anything new with that reporter? Do the police know who killed him?”

  “I don’t think so,” Max says.

  “Because it wasn’t my sister.” Leanne wags her finger. “She doesn’t stab people with pens.”

  “Your sister’s dead,” Max says gently.

  “Connie wouldn’t kill herself.” Leanne’s voice is stronger and clearer now, almost as if she’s willing herself not to be drunk. Or maybe the monsoon-like wind is reviving her. “She always said she’d die before she went to jail, but she didn’t really mean it. The part about dying, I mean. Not the part about going to jail. I always knew Connie would find a way to beat the system. And she did.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say.

  “It’s a twin thing. A connection that can’t be broken.” She stares across the table at us, more lucid by the second. “I’d know if Connie was dead.”

  “But your sister is dead,” Max says again.

  Leanne shakes her head and lowers her voice. “I’ll tell you a secret if you promise not to repeat it.”

  We both nod our assent.

  “Connie’s alive,” Leanne says.

  Wow. This lady might have even more problems than my mom.

  “She’s not alive,” I say as gently as I can. “Your twin’s body was found on the beach. Missing a whole lot of blood.”

  Leanne shakes her head emphatically. “That wasn’t Connie. It only looked like Connie.”

  Because identical triplets happen all the time.

  “Then where is she?” Max goes along with the craziness.

  “I don’t know,” Leanne whispers back. “But yesterday, she called me. She said she couldn’t stand the thought of me crying over her and that we could be together when all the publicity died down. A little while ago, she called again. I told her I was meeting you, and she said not to tell you anything.” She covers her mouth. “Oops.”

  “It’s okay, Leanne,” Max says. “It’s not like we’re the police.”

  “That’s true.” Leanne sounds unsure of herself. She chews her lower lip.

  “Did your sister say where she was?” Max could have accepted that Leanne was done talking. He knows as well as I do the only place the Black Widow could be is the morgue.

  Leanne keeps gnawing on her lip. Her eyebrows scrunch together. I’m sure she’s about to refuse to answer, but then she nods.

  “Yes, she did.” Leanne speaks in a hushed whisper. “She said she was in somebody else’s body.”

  ###

  THE SPIDER

  Volume Three of the Dead Ringers serial

  www.darlenegardner.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  I’m really good at suspending disbelief while I’m watching a movie. Show me aliens erupting from stomach cavities or serial killers who only strike inside dreams, and I’m totally with you.

  In real life, I’m not so ready to swallow the split-pea soup when it’s likely to turn into projectile vomit.

  I can buy that somebody murdered the Black Widow, aka the greedy young woman who poisoned her rich old husband. The evidence supports it. Constance Hightower was found on the beach with her wrists gouged to the bone and no blood anywhere.

  But it’s pretty hard to wrap even my horror-movie-loving mind around the Black Widow getting in touch with her sister from beyond the grave. Not through a séance or a ghostly visit or anything semi-logical.

  Through a phone call.

  “Did you hear me?” Leanne Livingstone’s whispers compete with the wind that whistles through the outdoor patio of the White Pelican, the restaurant on the pier at Midway Beach, my North Carolina hometown. “Constance said she was in somebody else’s body. Said she was a dead ringer for her.”

  I catch Max’s eye and try to convey that losing her identical twin sister has made this woman looney tunes. Understandable. She probably had to identify Constance’s body. Imagine looking down at a corpse that looks exactly like you.

  That happened in one of the Halloween sequels. I confess I didn’t know Jamie Lee Curtis was dreaming, but, like I said, real life needs skeptics.

  Max puts his forearms on the table and leans closer to Leanne, his expression grave. “Did your sister say whose body she was in?”

  Seriously?

  Max Harper is supposed to be working with me to solve the mystery of what happened to us when we went missing. Both of us lost time, although bits and pieces are coming back. I figured he was open-minded when he didn’t balk at my memory of being tied to a chair while an evil clown injected me with something.

  But this Ringer thing is even crazier than that.

  Worse, Max’s fascination with the Black Widow is taking time away from our real problem. Yeah, we found Constance Hightower’s bloodless body on the beach. And, yes, we were also first and second on the scene after somebody stabbed the newspaper reporter covering the story in the jugular with a ballpoint pen.

  Finding out who murdered them, though, is a job for the cops.

  “I don’t know whose body,” Leanne the Looney Tunes says. “I asked but she said it was better I didn’t know too much.”

  Time to inject some sanity into the conversation, ironic coming from a girl who everybody in town thinks is nuts. “You mean the prank caller pretending to be your dead sister didn’t say?”

  Leanne takes another swallow of her drink as ice cubes rattle. She almost misses the table when she sets the glass back down. “Your girlfriend doesn’t believe me,” she tells Max.

  I raise my hand. “Hello. Sitting right here.”

  I’m about to let Leanne know Max isn’t my boyfriend when I remember we’re pretending to be into each other. Our joint investigation is on the down low. We can’t let the bad guys know we’re teaming up and comparing notes.

  “I believe you, Leanne,” Max says. If I wasn’t suspicious of everything he said, I’d think he’s sincere. “If you give me your cell, we can figure out what number she called from and get it traced.”

  “Bomb!” someone screams from inside the restaurant.

  Huh? Looney Livingstone isn’t the only one making no sense.

  The people chased inside the restaurant by the wind start pouring out of the plastic-covered doors, bumping into each other in their haste.

  Max cranes his neck toward the commotion. “Did I really just hear that?”

  “Run!” It’s one half of the pair of former cheerleaders that in high school we called the Drama Queens Twins—DQ Twins, for short. Her name’s either Ashley or Heather. She’s wearing the skimpy black shorts and tight red top identifying her as a White Pelican waitress. Ashley/Heather rushes by, shrieking to the customers on the patio, “There’s a bomb on the pier. It’s gonna blow!”

  A loud crack splits the air. My heart jumps. I brace myself, expecting the pier to splinter beneath my feet and debris to rain down on our heads.

  Leanne Livingston screams.

  The three of us at our table leap to our feet. The pier’s jammed with people, as it is every night during tourist season. Hundreds gather farther down the pier to listen to whatever C-list singer got booked for the night. All of those people stream toward us.

  Leanne joins the stampede, moving fast enough to make me think I could be wrong about her being drunk.

  People shout a
nd scream. The only word I can make out is Bomb! The pier isn’t wide enough to accommodate the thick crowd. Stragglers knock over tables and chairs on the outdoor patio as they run by. God forbid anybody should fall. The question of whether it’s better to be trampled to death or blown to bits sends me into paralysis.

  Max grabs my hand, his eyes steady on mine. “Let’s get out of here.”

  A fresh boom drowns out his last few words. The pier seems to shake beneath my feet. My heart pounds so hard the beats echo in my ears. I hold tight to his hand as we move toward the people streaming by in a panic while hard truths slam into my brain.

  Max and I will never piece together the rest of our memories. We’ll never know why we were each taken separately to the same field and tied to a chair. We’ll never share another kiss.

  Because we’re going to die.

  Right here.

  Right now.

  Except we’re both still in one piece and so is the pier. But how can that be?

  “Wait!” Max stops beside a fallen table a few feet from the mass of running humanity. He pulls me close and bends down until his mouth is near my ear. “That wasn’t a bomb. Those were firecrackers. You know, the ones that make a single loud bang.”

  Firecrackers are illegal in North Carolina, but that doesn’t mean much. Lots of beachgoers are ignorant of the law. Others don’t care. Growing up in Midway Beach, I’ve seen and heard just about every kind of firework there is. Max is right. Those two blasts sounded like they came from a cherry bomb or an M-80.

  “Come on.” Max tugs on my hand and reverses direction, away from the crowd and back to where we were sitting with Leanne Livingstone. The table we vacated is nearest to the edge of the pier, overlooking the beach.

  “Look!” Max points below to three boys emerging from under the pier and running through wisps of smoke down the beach. “They must be the ones who set them off.”

  The boys couldn’t have been on the pier when the stampede started. They have too much of a head start.

  Their backs are to us and they’re getting farther away by the second. One of the boys is considerably taller than the other. The loping way he runs seems familiar. But when would I have seen a tall boy run? And then I’ve got it. The tall boy plays for the high school basketball team. His nickname is even Loper.