Dead Ringers: Volumes 1-3

by Darlene Gardner

  “I don’t know.” Max nods at Adair’s house where she emerges from the front door dressed in gym shorts and a T-shirt too big for her. Her short, blond hair lies against her scalp, for once not gelled and sculpted into stylish tufts. “But maybe we’re about to find out.”

  Adair doesn’t drive to the carnival, like I expect her to. She heads straight to Hunter’s house, gets out of the car and marches up the sidewalk like she’s on a mission. Coming in the opposite direction is Porter McRoy, the shy boy who’s the object of Becky’s crush. Adair brushes by Porter, barely acknowledging him.

  “Wonder what Porter’s doing at Hunter’s house,” I say.

  “And what Becky’s doing with him.”

  “What? Becky’s here? Where?”

  Max indicates the beat-up blue Civic in the Prescott driveway. Sure enough, Becky’s in the passenger seat. Max parked his pickup a half-block down the street to lessen the possibility we’d be spotted. I don’t have to worry that Becky will see us. Her eyes are only for Porter. When he gets in the car, she leans toward him for a kiss. When did that happen? A few days ago, she could hardly get Porter to talk to her. Porter backs the Civic out of the driveway. I’m pretty sure the car has bucket seats, but Becky’s head is close to his.

  “How could you do this to me, Hunter?” Adair’s shrill voice penetrates the quiet of the neighborhood. While I was watching Becky and Porter, she reached the house. She stands outside the open front door, waving her arms. “I’ll never forgive you!”

  Hunter steps out of the house, both hands upraised. He’s obviously offering a rebuttal, but we can’t hear from this far away. Unlike Adair, he must not be yelling.

  “You think I believe that?” Adair shouts. “I’m not an idiot!”

  Hunter takes another step toward Adair. She rears back and shoves him with two hands. He stumbles backward, his back slamming against the edge of the door.

  “I won’t take the fall for this,” Adair says. “You better make it right. Or you’ll be sorry.”

  She stalks off as Hunter rights himself. He doesn’t attempt to stop her. Adair doesn’t turn around. She yanks open the car door, slams it and pulls away from the curb, tires screeching. After a moment, Max puts the pickup in gear and follows.

  “What do you think that was all about?” I ask Max as he tails her through the neighborhood. Adair drives too fast, barely slowing for stop signs. Max does a good job of keeping her car in sight while not going over the speed limit. “Do you think Hunter’s involved in this body-switching thing, too?”

  “That’s not Hunter’s style.” His reply is quick.

  “How do you know what Hunter’s style is?” I can’t shake the feeling that Max knows more about Hunter than he’s telling. “I thought you two were strangers.”

  “I know guys just like him. Hunter’s not that hard to figure out,” he says. “Did you see which way she went? Right or left?”

  “Left.” I abandon the conversation thread to help him tail Adair to a four-story chrome and glass office building on the edge of town. Adair is entering the glass double doors as we pull into the parking lot. Doubtless there’s an elevator in the lobby.

  “Maybe we can figure out which floor she went to.” I’m out of the pickup the moment he parks. When we get inside the building, however, none of the numbers above the elevator are illuminated. She must have taken the stairs.

  “Let’s see what kinds of businesses have offices here,” Max suggests.

  The directory on the wall lists a dentist, a general practitioner, an optometrist, a dermatologist, a Realtor and an insurance agent. There’s no way to tell which one Adair is visiting. Our only option is to wait.

  It’s too hot inside the truck. We find a spot in the shade under a tree behind the parked cars. We’ve got a sight line to the front door, but I’m pretty sure Adair won’t be able to spot us when she comes out of the building. The heat is stifling. After about thirty minutes, sweat trickles down the side of my face.

  “You look like you could use something cold to drink.” Max stands up and tosses me his car keys. “Just in case Adair goes on the move.”

  Since there’s a convenience store next door, Max won’t be long. I doubt I’ll have to drive off without him. I lean back against a tree, crossing my feet at the ankles, wondering how private eyes can do this kind of work for a living without falling asleep.

  The double doors burst open, and Adair rushes out, her expression maniacal. I duck down and move farther out of her sight line. She still runs directly for me.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t see you, bitch?” She’s out of breath, and her chest heaves up and down. “Don’t you know about windows?”

  Too late I realize several of the upper-floor offices have windows facing the parking lot. Getting to my feet, I put the width of a car between us.

  “That’s right,” Adair all but shrieks. “You should be afraid of me.”

  She’s acting like a crazy person. Like somebody whose cover is being threatened after she paid a fortune to get away with murder. Could we really be on the right track?

  “Why are you so angry?” I ask, fishing for information. “What did I ever do to you?”

  “You’re following me!”

  Well, yeah, but I’m not about to admit that. “Why would I follow you?”

  “Because you’re a crazy bitch, and I’m gonna make you sorry you were ever born.” She darts around the car, her nails exposed like claws. I barely move away in time to avoid getting nails raked down my face.

  “Adair Marie Adams!” The voice is shrill and authoritative. It belongs to Mrs. Adams, Adair’s mother. She stalks across the parking lot, her lips set in a horizontal line. “Get away from Jade this instant!”

  Adair stops advancing on me and looks at her mother. “But, Mom. She—”

  “You heard me,” Mrs. Adams interrupts, pointing a finger at her daughter. She takes her car keys out of her purse and remotely unlocks a sleek silver sedan. “Wait in my car. I don’t want you driving when you’re like this.”

  “But—”

  “No more buts. Get in the car, Adair.”

  With a last, hate-filled glare at me, Adair obeys. Mrs. Adams crosses to where I lean against Max’s pickup for support. My stomach is turning somersaults.

  “Are you okay, Jade?” Her voice is gentle. “She didn’t hurt you, did she?”

  I’ve still got the faint bruise on my cheek from when Adair slapped me in the hospital, but that’s not what she means. “No, she didn’t hurt me. I’m fine.”

  Mrs. Adams sighs and runs a trembling hand over her face. “Allow me to apologize for my daughter. You must have noticed she hasn’t been herself lately.”

  Does Mrs. Adams know about the Ringers? Is she considering the possibility that Adair isn’t really Adair, too?

  “I have noticed,” I say carefully. “You’re not alone in this, Mrs. Adams. I’ll do what I can to help.”

  Mrs. Adams lays a hand on my arm. “You’re such a sweet girl, Jade. I was afraid Adair’s friends wouldn’t understand.”

  Could we be talking about the same thing? “Understand what?”

  “Her personality change and mood swings. I didn’t get it myself until today when we got the diagnosis. That’s why I met her here at the doctor’s office.”

  “What diagnosis?”

  “Adair won’t be happy with me for telling you, but you deserve to know why she’s been different,” Mrs. Adams says in a quiet voice. “She has hyperthyroidism.”

  “Say what?”

  “She has a severely overactive thyroid. I should have figured it out when she started losing weight, because thyroid disease runs in my family. But I didn’t think to get her tested until a few days ago. We only now got the results.”

  “You mean hyperthyroidism is the reason she’s acting so erratic?”

  “Definitely. The doctor said it explains the anxiety, the irritability, the restlessness.”

  The explanation seems too pat. “Y
eah, but could something like that really explain everything? Like the way she shouted at Hunter this morning?”

  Mrs. Adams brings her hands to her flushed cheeks. “Oh, dear. She said she wanted to give him a piece of her mind, but I hoped she wouldn’t act of it.”

  “A piece of her mind about what?”

  “She was upset that the police questioned her about Hunter’s poisoning. I tried to tell her it’s routine for them to talk to a victim’s friends, but she wouldn’t listen.” She pats my hand. “I’ve got to get to the drugstore to fill her prescription. Thank you for understanding and being such a good friend.”

  I wouldn’t go that far. Hyperthyroidism doesn’t explain why Adair went after the guy she knew I liked.

  Mrs. Adams gives me a final smile and heads for her silver sedan. Adair sits in the passenger seat with her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes straight ahead. She looks a lot more like a rebellious teen than a conniving killer.

  Not even a minute after the sedan leaves the parking lot, Max returns carrying two cold drinks. He hands me one. “Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I pop the top on the soda can and take a cold sip for fortification. “We can cross Adair off our list of possible Ringers.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The small house on the western edge of the Wilmington suburbs looks abandoned. Its siding needs to be power washed, its shutters painted and its lawn mowed. Like the cabin in Wilder Woods, the house could easily be the setting for a horror movie.

  I grab Max’s arm, stopping him before he steps onto the cracked sidewalk. “Convince me why this is a good idea.”

  “I’ve been convincing you for the past hour.” That’s how long it took us to drive to Wilmington from Midway Beach after determining the Black Widow wasn’t hiding out in Adair’s body. “We need to find out if Stuart Bigelow’s widow knows anything.”

  The idea hasn’t caught on with me. The Wilmington News reporter died about twenty-four hours ago, not even long enough for his widow to get past the denial stage.

  “Are you sure this is the right address? It doesn’t look like anyone lives here.”

  “One way to find out.” Max takes a step toward the house, but I grab his arm again before he can take another.

  He turns back to me, appearing more puzzled than annoyed, the way he had in the car during the drive over. “What now?”

  I don’t suppose he wants to hear that if we get inside the house, I half-expect we’ll run into an axe-wielding psychopath or the ghost of a wife-killing samurai. We’ve got enough weird stuff to consider.

  “Do you really think Bigelow could be a Ringer?” I ask.

  “We went over this in the car,” he says, sounding a smidge less patient. “If the Black Widow isn’t really dead, maybe Bigelow’s alive too.”

  “Doesn’t it make more sense that someone killed him to get him to reveal his source?”

  “Yes.” Max came up with that theory after Bigelow wrote a story quoting an anonymous source who saw somebody moving the Black Widow’s body to the beach. “But we’re exploring all the options, remember? One is talking to Jennifer Bigelow.”

  I hold tight to his arm. “Even if Mrs. Bigelow is here, why would she talk to us?”

  He leans down and kisses me, just plants one on me in broad daylight, never mind that none of the friends we’re trying to fool are looking on. The kiss is slow and undemanding, coaxing a response from me. He hooks his hands at my waist. I lift mine to loop around his neck. Only then does he raise his head and step back. The sun’s rays behind him create a halo effect, but that doesn’t fool me. I drop my hands.

  “You did that to get me to let go of your arm,” I accuse.

  “He grins and strides toward the house before I can stop him. Damn.

  “Can I help you with something?” The woman coming around the side of the house through the ankle-deep grass carries an axe. I’m about to run for my life when it occurs to me that it’s an oddly shaped axe, probably because it’s actually a hoe.

  Max walks toward her, not the least bit afraid of the hoe. He turns on the full-wattage smile. “Are you Jennifer Bigelow?”

  “Who’s asking?” She’s a small, round woman in her forties who doesn’t look like a Jennifer. Her face is marred by acne scars. Her hair’s tied back in a bandana, and she’s dressed in ratty jeans and a dirt-streaked T-shirt.

  “I’m Max Harper, and this is my girlfriend Jade Greene.” His girlfriend? “You might recognize our names. We found the body.”

  The woman stiffens, her hands tightening on the hoe. It has a wooden handle and a silver, triangular head. “The police found my husband’s body.”

  “They did,” Max says, which is technically a lie since we were first on the scene, not that I’m about to point that out to scowling Jennifer Bigelow. “I meant Jade and I found Constance Hightower’s body. Your husband mentioned us in one of the stories he wrote about her.”

  “What are you doing here?” she demands. “As you can see, I’m busy.”

  “We can see that,” Max says. “Looks like you’re doing a little yard work.”

  “A little?” Her mouth flat lines. “Are you blind? This is a hell of a lot more than a little yard work. Stu was always telling me he’d get around to it. Took me till today to figure that was never gonna happen.”

  “He seemed really dedicated to newspaper work.” Max is trying to be cool, but it’s clear to me he’s desperately searching for a conversation ice breaker.

  “I asked what you were doing here.” Jennifer Bigelow must think she can intimidate us with her bellow. That’s not happening. Roxy’s voice is much more thunderous.

  “We were in Wilmington anyway,” Max says. “It seemed a good opportunity to tell you how sorry we are.”

  That’s the cover story he came up with? Like it’s believable the two of us make condolence calls to strangers when someone we barely know dies?

  “Who told you where we live?” Mrs. Bigelow asks.

  “Stuart did.” Max reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card. “Your husband gave this to me when he interviewed us. It has your home address.”

  “Of all the stupid...” Jennifer catches herself before she finishes the thought. She clears her throat. “Where’s the food?”

  “What food?” Max asks.

  She thumps the head of the hoe on the ground. “Most people bring food when they drop by to say they’re sorry.”

  “We can get you a cheeseburger from McDonald’s,” Max offers.

  “Not fast food,” she retorts. “Comfort food that’ll last me the next couple days when I’m too broken up to cook.”

  She’s broken up? Whatever her mood, Max is getting nowhere tiptoeing around her. She seems like the kind of person who would appreciate the direct approach.

  “Do the police know what happened?” It’s the first thing I’ve said since we got here.

  “Somebody came into my husband’s hotel room and stabbed him with a ballpoint pen after they hit him upside the head,” she barks. “They don’t know if the blow killed him or the pen. But that hardly matters.”

  Mrs. Bigelow flicks away a strand of hair that has come loose from her bandana. Her upper arms are well-defined, like she’d bat cleanup if she played for a softball team.

  “I meant do the police have any suspects?” I refuse to back down, like I’m sure she wants us to.

  She peers hard at me. “Let me see your driver’s license.”

  “Why?”

  “Let me see it!” She turns to Max. “Yours, too.”

  No way am I giving in to this rude woman, new widow or not. “You don’t need—”

  “Sure, you can see our driver’s licenses,” Max interrupts, sending me a look that telegraphs he wants me to be quiet. I’m reminded that he’s good at extracting information. He gets his out his wallet, flips it open and extends it to Mrs. Bigelow. “Show her yours, Jade.”

  I do as he asks, keeping a tig
ht grip on the piece of plastic so she can’t snatch it from me. She examines both licenses, looking up to compare our faces to the photos. “Lucky for you that you are who you say you are.”

  “Who else would we be?” I ask.

  “She thought we might be undercover cops,” Max says. “Isn’t that right, Mrs. Bigelow?”

  She says nothing, but I can tell by her glare that Max got it right. We’re on the young side to be police, but it’s been the premise of about a dozen movies, many with actors no older than we are.

  “You’re a suspect, aren’t you?” Max asks.

  “Who do you think you are? Coming here and making insinuations like that?” Her eyes bug out almost like the ravenous insect-like beast’s in the movie with all the disemboweled victims. The volume of her voice approaches Roxy territory.

  “We didn’t mean anything by it,” Max begins. “We—”

  “Get off my property!” She picks up the hoe and lifts it over her head, taking a few menacing steps toward us. “And don’t come back here bothering me again.”

  Max seems like he’s about to say something else, but I grab his hand and pull him toward the pickup. He might not be able to tell when an angry woman is serious, but I can.

  Neither of us say anything until we’re a mile down the road, and I finally break the silence. “Well, what did you think?”

  “I think I’d want to switch bodies too if I was married to her,” Max says.

  “Bigelow might not have had the chance.”

  “You think Jennifer Bigelow killed her husband?”

  “I can see her getting mad enough to attack him, maybe because he was spending too much time away from his chores. She seemed angrier about doing yard work than losing her husband.”

  “We can’t rule her out,” Max says.

  “Since we’re operating on the theory that the Black Widow is still alive,” I say slowly, “we can’t rule out anything.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Few things would entice me to the carnival before my shift begins. A test run on the revamped wooden roller coaster is one of them.