Desperate to the Max

by JB Skully

  "Who are you?"

  Yesterday's shock had worn off, and the bitter edge had resurfaced to pepper Jada's voice and the creases down the side of her mouth. How old had Ladybird said she was? Twenty-nine? Her face looked twice her age while her body resembled that of a twelve-year-old waif. Maybe it was the frown lines marring her forehead, the crow's feet at her eyes, and the lines around her mouth. Her collarbone sat in relief against her shoulders, mere flesh and nothing else connecting it to the rest of her body. She wore a baggy, long-sleeved, white shirt tied at the waist instead of tucked in, equally baggy jeans, and no shoes. Her toes were long and angular, bones with a little skin stuck to them.

  She looked worse than an Auschwitz survivor only because she'd put herself in this condition.

  Ladybird did not allow the younger woman's stare to intimidate her. Or perhaps she simply didn't notice it. “We've come to offer condolences to your mother. And you know perfectly well I live two doors down, Jada."

  "Oh yeah.” Jada's gum snapped, her jaw working it as if that would somehow assuage the need for real food. “Come in. Mother will be delighted, I'm sure.” The words sounded nice, but she rolled her eyes as she extended her hand in invitation. Well, there certainly weren't many signs of overwhelming grief there.

  Ladybird cocked a brow, lifted her lips slightly in triumph, and gave Max a twinkle-eyed look.

  "Who is it, Jada?” The voice was low, soft, in keeping with mourning status, but Max recognized it from her dream. Bethany's mother, Virginia.

  "It's Mrs. Long from next-door."

  Max stepped over the threshold behind Ladybird. The house was the mirror image of Bethany's, a small front hall, stairs to the right, coat closet on the left, and the living room straight ahead. Heavy gold velvet curtains closed against the afternoon sun, the room was lit by a single three-way lamp on its dimmest setting.

  "Oh, do come in, Ladybird. Thank you so much for coming.” Virginia, ensconced in a wingback chair, held her hand out like royalty. Max almost expected to see Ladybird curtsey before her.

  While Ladybird's hair shone with blue highlights, Virginia's was an unrelieved steel gray. She'd already donned a black knit mourning dress, with an onyx cameo at the throat and a white lace handkerchief tucked up her sleeve. She was a handsome woman simply because of her bearing, chin held high and slightly to the left, hand extended, impeccably dressed.

  Despite her outward calm, misery misted the woman's brown eyes, and Max knew somewhere in the faultless manner lurked the woman who had coaxed Bethany from the closet and made her favorite desserts.

  Ladybird, of course, did no such thing as curtsey. She wasn't anybody's lady-in-waiting. “We've brought you a lasagna, Virginia,” as said lasagna was passed from Virginia to Jada like a baby with a dirty diaper. “We know you can't even begin to think of cooking at a time like this. It's so awful. I can only imagine what you must be going through. What have the police told you? Anything?"

  What did friends, neighbors, family usually say when someone's loved one died violently? Max couldn't say from experience; she'd snubbed her friends, her coworkers, and her family was long gone. No one had gotten a chance to say a thing to her.

  Ladybird, she was sure, was atypical, nor did she allow Virginia to answer. “Please do meet my future daughter-in-law, Max Starr."

  Max, for her part, stared dumbfounded at the tiny woman's big words. An instant later, sanity kicked in. To get more information, best to let Virginia and her daughter think Max was the harmless fiance tagging along at this point. “Nice to meet you, ma'am. I'm very sorry about your daughter.” The words sounded trite, inhibited. Grieving made her uncomfortable. Max offered her hand anyway.

  Virginia Spring's grip was strong, warm, and dry. “Thank you, dear. I'm so glad to meet you.” Then her lipstick smile faltered. Something glittered at the corner of one eye. “I'm so glad to meet you? That sounds rather strange, doesn't it?” She put a dainty hand to her mouth. “I don't believe I'm supposed to say that."

  Strange? That in times of crisis people fell back on the instincts at their core? For Virginia, that seemed to be her innate politeness. Max didn't let go of the hand in hers, held the woman's troubled gaze. “You don't need to worry, Mrs. Spring, you say whatever you have to say and to hell with how it sounds. The rest of us will understand."

  There was a moment of silence. Like prayers during church. The kind of silence in which the proverbial pin-drop could be heard.

  In the kitchen, silver clinked on china. The refrigerator door closed with a soft whoosh. Leather soles squeaked on linoleum.

  Max wondered who the third occupant of the house was. On the heels of the thought, the hair rose at her nape.

  Virginia clasped Max's hand in both of hers. The chill of the moment faded in the warmth of that grasp. How many times had Bethany felt the stroke of Virginia's hand, pushing back her hair, drying her tears? The sensation was almost tactile.

  "Thank you, my dear. I do mean that. I think you understand. Won't you sit?” She indicated the gold velveteen sofa beside her. “Ladybird, please. I can't believe I've kept you both standing."

  They both sat on the unyielding velvet couch the same color as the draperies, Ladybird's shoes dangling several inches off the floor. The furnishings were of the uncomfortable variety, delicate looking, murder on the buttocks. The spindly legs of the mahogany coffee table looked as if they'd snap like twigs.

  "Jada, be a dear, we'll need two more cups of tea.” Virginia turned back. “You will stay for tea, won't you?"

  "Of course,” Ladybird chirped abruptly, as if she thought Max might have other ideas.

  The kitchen door bounced open. “Here's your tea, Virginia.” A man spoke, advanced through the dining room past the oversized rosewood table and chairs. Max gathered a thousand impressions.

  Refined graying hair, yellow sweater over a white polo, khaki slacks, brown tasseled loafers, a cup balanced in his hand. Black eyes on her. Lips raised in the slightest of smiles. As if he'd listened at the door and known Max was in the room. As if he'd expected Max to be there. Maybe even willed her to come.

  A man. Not just any man.

  The man of her dreams.

  The man of her nightmares.

  The man she'd vowed to kill.

  Bud Traynor.

  Chapter Seventeen

  She wouldn't panic, she wouldn't scream, and she damn sure wouldn't kill him right here in front of all these witnesses.

  She'd wait ‘til later.

  Max met Traynor's gaze despite the quake in her limbs. He wasn't surprised to see her, that much she could tell. He smiled, in fact, with a Cheshire Cat grin, all teeth and lips.

  Virginia, holding her hand out for her tea, noticed nothing amiss. She smiled up at him with true gratefulness. “What would we do without you, Bud?"

  Ladybird trilled, a little sound of delight emanating from the base of her throat.

  Jada picked her way carefully around Traynor and across the dining room, presumably to store the lasagna in the freezer and to fetch those two additional cups of tea.

  Max simply wanted to blow up and take him out with her. Spontaneous combustion.

  Virginia did the introductions. “This is my neighbor, Ladybird Long and her son's fiancee...” Virginia turned, her lips a round O of hostess horror. “My goodness, I've forgotten your name. Dear, please forgive me."

  Max had her mouth open to answer. Nothing came out. It didn't need to.

  Bud stepped in. “Why, if it isn't Max Starr."

  Her first insane thought was to thank God because she wouldn't have to shake his hand for politeness sake.

  "You know each other.” A musical duet from Virginia and Ladybird.

  His lids closed slowly, then rose again. His smile turned lazy. “Max is the wonder who flushed out poor Wendy's murderer."

  Virginia gasped, put a hand to her throat, age spots dotting her skin. “My dear. I've heard the whole story. How can we ever thank you?"

  Ma
x smiled wanly. It was all she could manage. Yes, she'd uncovered Wendy's killer, but she hadn't made Traynor pay for his part in the whole affair.

  Bud raised his pants legs an inch at the knee and sat in the chair opposite Max. His dark gaze pinned her to the sofa. “Wasn't there that business with the hairdresser?"

  God, he was actually taunting her. Neener, neener, catch me if you can. Like child's play.

  "Hairdresser?” Virginia bleated.

  "Another murder, Virginia,” he answered, then turned his attention back to Max. “Perhaps Max will help us find out who killed Bethany. She's done so well in the past."

  Obviously picking up on Max's tension, Ladybird's hand crept around hers, tiny fingers squeezing. Nice to know she wasn't completely alone in the lion's den.

  Virginia's lower lip quivered. She shook her head slowly. “I don't understand what's happening to us all."

  A shiver coursed from Max's scalp, through her torso, past her abdomen, and into her legs. She hadn't a clue what the man wanted from her, but he'd thrown down the gauntlet. She damn well wasn't going to let it lie forlorn at her feet. “Yes, Mr. Traynor, first your...” She glanced at Virginia, weighed her chances of alienation. “First your daughter, then your hairdresser, and now your...?"

  Her question rode the silence for the count of three. “Please, Max, you've shared the hospitality of my home.” He politely didn't mention that she'd broken into it. “We know each other too well for me to be Mr. Traynor.” A corner of his mouth crooked. “Bethany was my goddaughter."

  Max stifled a gasp. Connections. Coincidences. The number 452. It should have been 666 and branded into forehead of the man seated across from her. What the hell did it all mean, for Bethany? For Wendy? For Max herself?

  She'd come for information, but again, as always in their strange relationship, Traynor had the upper hand. The information she'd gathered only served up more questions. She had to evaluate her strategy, come up with a new game plan, and rethink her original conception of who killed Bethany Spring.

  Max stood, pulling Ladybird, whose tiny hand was still tucked in hers, with her. “We have to be going."

  "But your tea...” Virginia stopped abruptly, as if she hadn't meant the words to come out, her eyes a little wild, as if the thought of being alone with Bud and Jada and her grief was too much to handle. Then the look vanished beneath a veneer of civility. She extended her hand. Ladybird took it.

  "Thank you for coming.” Virginia's formal, stiff tone showed her true feelings were now completely buried.

  "If you need anything, don't hesitate,” Ladybird chattered. A sickly smile from Virginia was her reward.

  Traynor's eyes stabbed Max in the back as she walked to the front door. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jada bump the kitchen door with her hip, two cups in her hand. Her gaunt face registered nothing, and her eyes, deep in their sockets, were vacant.

  Max didn't question the situation she walked away from, didn't lament the opportune moment she'd thrown in the trash, nor berate herself for folding her hand at the slightest provocation. She wasn't weak, she was sensible.

  Wasn't she?

  The door closed behind her, and she could breathe again. She hadn't even realized she'd been holding her breath. The afternoon sun was bright, a car with a bad muffler rattled down the road, and in someone's backyard a child shrieked with laughter. Everything was normal outside the house.

  Ladybird tugged on her hand and started down the front steps. Max let herself be led down the path, through the gate and along the sidewalk.

  "Well,” Ladybird chirped, “I certainly didn't see abundant amounts of grief in there. Did you?"

  No, but on the face of it, that didn't always mean the obvious. “I didn't cry when my husband died."

  "Bet you didn't serve tea and crumpets, either."

  Max stared straight ahead and remembered another day. “The afternoon we buried my mother, my aunt made a bean and hamburger casserole. She was terrified she'd given everyone gas."

  "Did you get gas?"

  "I didn't eat."

  Silence. Max turned into the sun, eyes closed, blessed heat bathing her face. She needed heat.

  "What's wrong, Max?"

  She couldn't have said. She was other worldly, out-of-body, astrally projecting. She wanted to stand like this forever in the glow of sunlight. She should have been drawing conclusions or assessing what she'd learned. Seeing Traynor so unexpectedly had drained her for the moment. So had memories of Cameron and her mother. She needed to regenerate.

  "I need to call Witt.” There was something she wanted to ask him. The questions hovered at the edge of her consciousness. She'd know what it was when she heard his voice.

  "You can use my phone,” Ladybird offered.

  "I've got a phone in the car."

  "Are you sure you're all right?” Ladybird insisted. “Was it thinking about your husband? Or was it that man who upset you?"

  Max turned to look at the little woman beside her. They'd stopped at Ladybird's row of plastic bushes, the leaves speckled with dust. She had, of course, been patently obvious. Her fingers were still in Ladybird's dry, soft grip. Max squeezed. “I'm fine. Don't worry. I just have to ask Witt something."

  "Did you two fight last night?"

  Before or after he almost throttled her for sneaking into Bethany's house?

  Ladybird didn't let her answer. “I'm sorry. That's none of my business. I know I was a pushy old broad last night, but you can tell me to butt out any time."

  Max smiled. “I wouldn't dream of it.” Ladybird wouldn't have done it anyway. Max was beginning to feel she could say almost anything she wanted where Ladybird was concerned, and no offense would be taken.

  Max pulled her keys from her pocket, turned her back on Witt's mother, and unlocked her car door. When she looked up again, she was alone on the street.

  Witt's cell phone was still in the glove box. Wondering how much longer she had on the battery before it died, she punched in his cell number.

  When had she memorized the number?

  The thought occurred, not for the first time, that she was in way over her head.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Witt answered with a crisp, “Long."

  Succinct. Nothing extra. Like the man himself.

  Something warm washed over Max, something like comfort, something like the soothing blue of Witt's eyes. “It's me."

  "Me who?” Laughter laced his voice.

  That, too, warmed her. The panic at seeing Bud Traynor up close and personal receded. She closed her eyes against the sight of his car at the curb. When she opened them again, the white Cadillac didn't bother her as much. “It's Max."

  "Calling because you missed me?"

  Witt had lowered his voice. Either he wasn't alone or he was ratcheting up the level of intimacy. She liked the sound of his voice in her ear, it turned her mushy inside. Almost as mushy as last night's kiss. Of course, the sensation could have been the aftereffect of an adrenaline rush.

  Question. She had a question. What was it? “No, I did not miss you. I called because...” stretching, thinking, ah...

  "Suppose you wanna know if I set up the phone line yet,” he helped her out.

  Something flickered at Ladybird's front window, then was gone. “Phone line?"

  "Prefer to call it your sex line?"

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Oh, that."

  "Yeah, oh that.” There was something in his voice. Anger? Excitement? Jealousy?

  "Sooo...” she prompted. “How's it going to work?"

  "Simple. You talk dirty.” A brief silence to let his words sink in. “You're good at that, aren't you?"

  She rolled her eyes despite the fact that he couldn't see. Definitely a bright spot of anger there in his voice. “I know what I'm supposed to do. I meant what are the mechanics? Do I have to go to the police station to do this or what?"

  "You'll be at home. They,” presumably McKaverty and Schulz, “switched the servi
ce to your number. Bethany was on from midnight to two a.m. You got her shift. Starting tonight. Answer the phone. Talk. They'll do the rest."

  "Are they going to tap the phone?"

  "Worried they're going to catch you making your own kinky phone calls?"

  She huffed. “Are you baiting me, Long?"

  "I'd say you've already baited yourself, sweetheart.” An endearment? Not.

  She decided to placate him. She'd get all the answers she needed later. When he wasn't quite so ... touchy.

  "Okay. So I answer the phone. I keep the ... um ... clients talking. They...” again, the ubiquitous McKaverty and Schulz,

  "...will take care of the rest. Do you want me to signal if I recognize the voice?"

  "Signal?"

  "Yeah, use a code word or something. Like..."

  "Don't play James Bond, Max. Ya don't need a code word since I didn't tell them you'd been eavesdropping on Bethany Spring's last night on earth."

  Party pooper. She hated not being able to see his face. She couldn't really judge his tone. She changed the subject to avoid an argument. “So, how did you lead them into the phone sex thing? Did you use the headset like I told you?"

  He snorted. “They figured it out without you, Max. Case is almost twenty-four hours old. She had records, and she wasn't trying to hide what she was doing in her spare time."

  Hmmm. “Did you tell them we wanted to help?"

  "Told them you were possessed by the dead woman's ghost, and you had to solve her murder to exorcise her."

  Holy shit. She hadn't told him that. Had she? “Yeah, right."

  "Don't like that one? Fine. Told ‘em you're sexually insatiable, I can't satisfy you, and this is your way of getting even."