Dead to the Max (16 page)

He didn’t laugh. She was completely serious.

“No one at Hackett’s remembers calling your agency, Miss Starr. No one at your agency remembers
getting
a call.”

Jeez, he’d talked to Sunny, too. Hard to believe, but the man was investigating
her.

Though the screen door was between them, Witt took a step closer. Jaw unshaven, eyes weary, he hadn’t changed the teal shirt he’d worn yesterday. For some odd reason, she wanted to smooth the tired lines from his brow.

Get a grip, she told herself.

She could slam the door in his face, but he’d be back. He was a bulldog. Evasiveness had been Max’s best strategy throughout this whole Wendy affair. Except with Witt. He just didn’t let her get away with it.

Tell him the truth.
Cameron’s insistent whisper irritated her. “I haven’t got a clue what the truth is.”

“The truth is Wendy Gregory had a nylon cord wrapped around her neck so tight it cut her flesh. The truth is Lilah Bloom was stabbed in the throat, her air passage occluded by her own blood, resulting in suffocation. The truth is you’re too damn interested in both of them for mere coincidence.”

Max clutched at the base of her throat reflexively. For just a moment, she felt searing pain, couldn’t breath, and the detective’s features faded in front of her. “It was an orangewood stick,” she whispered.

Silence. Total. She couldn’t hear the trucks on the freeway or the crickets or the distant honk of horns. She couldn’t even hear Witt breathe.

But she wanted him to touch her. God, she really was crazy.

“And the blue stuff was disinfectant. It burned like hell before she died.”

His eyes were unreadable. “What size shoe do you wear, Max?”

“Huh?” With anyone else, she would have suspected it was a non-sequitor. But not Witt. His use of her first name trickled like acid down her spine.

“Better open that door and let me check your shoes, Max.”

She did, taking a step back, turned on her heel, wobbled, caught herself with a hand on the wall, then climbed the stairs.

Buzzard lay amid the tangled sheets of her unmade bed. Max pointed to her small closet. Witt opened the door, ignored the two pairs of high heels, and picked up her black suede half-boots.

“Size eight,” she supplied.

He turned them, ran a cursory finger along the tread. Her shoes appeared abnormally tiny in those big hands of his. Putting them down, he squatted to look at her white tennies, followed the same procedure. “Is this all?”

“Imelda Marcos I’m not.”

He didn’t laugh, didn’t ease her tension one bit. His body filled her small abode to capacity, causing near asphyxiation. He rose, peered into the bathroom, then crossed the room to pull up the bedspread hanging over the side and look beneath.

“I assure you, I only have four pairs.”

He stood with his hands at his waist, massive thighs spread. “Spartan,” was his only comment.

“Did I pass your test?”

“I have more questions before I decide.”

“Fire away.” She offered the detective the only chair available, the one at her small desk. He didn’t take it.

“Tell me how you know so much.”

She would have liked to take the chair herself. Instead she admitted, “I have dreams.”

He didn’t make it easy for her.

Max went ahead and signed her own death warrant. “I dreamed I found Wendy’s body. She wore a long black skirt and a silk blouse when she died.” She bit her lip. “And there was a piece of green paper on the floor by her hand.”

For a big man, he was awfully still, not even the tick of a muscle betrayed what he was thinking.

“It had a flight number on it. 452.”

“You killed her,” he murmured, almost in wonder. “Didn’t you?”

She should have been terrified, but with the strange excitement that suddenly gripped her, the accusation went right over her head. “Is it true? Was she wearing black and white? Was there a green note?”

As horrifying as the dreams had been, as tangible as Wendy felt inside her, she’d never quite believed this could all be real. She still wasn’t sure Cameron hadn’t given the dreams to her for his own abominable reasons.

Witt neither confirmed nor denied what she’d seen. He simply ignored the questions altogether. “What about Lilah?”

“I dreamed I
was
her. And
I
was murdered.”

“Who did it?”

She widened her eyes, mocking him. “I thought you said
I
did.”

“I asked you who did it?” His voice was harsh, the words grating.

“I couldn’t see. He was behind me.”

“He?”

She rubbed at her temples, squeezed her eyes shut a moment. “I’m not sure. I never saw him. And the voice could have been either gender. But aren’t killers”—she spread her arms, then let them flop down to her sides—“usually male?”

He gave her a penetrating stare that made her squirm. “No, they aren’t. Tell me the rest.”

She swallowed. “He held my arms back so I couldn’t pull the stick out. I couldn’t breath. I kicked, thrashed around, knocked everything over. But he wouldn’t let go. Then...I died.” Her description didn’t come close to the horror of it.

Witt sat on her hard desk chair. Rather he plunked down on it as if his legs suddenly gave out. “Are you saying you’re psychic?”

She didn’t hesitate for a moment. “Of course not.”

“If you are, then who did it?”

“I said I’m not psychic.”

He scrubbed a big paw down his face, then stared at her. Hard. “Max, if you don’t have an alibi for last night, I suggest you manufacture one ASAP.”

Was he trying to protect her now? “Are you going to arrest me?”

He stared at her, said nothing.

Max shivered. “But I have the wrong shoe size, and the tread doesn’t match.”

He didn’t confirm it. One blond eyebrow rose. He stood. “Give me your hand, Max.”

“You want me to just rip it off and give you the bloody stump?”

He didn’t laugh. She wished she could.

“Your hand.”

She held it out. “Haven’t you had enough hand holding, Detective?”

Grabbing her left wrist, he placed his right hand against hers. His hands were warm; he probably always had hot hands. Hers were frozen. When he touched her, her thoughts froze, too. The tips of her new Cajun Spice nails didn’t reach the ends of his fingers. Damn, she should have used that nail polisher remover last night. She watched his face as he mentally measured, sure he didn’t feel the electric current arc between their fingertips.

“Too big, too small?” she prodded.

He stared intently one moment longer. “If you aren’t a killer, Max, then you’re sure as hell going to be the next victim.”

Chapter Thirteen

It had taken Max less than twenty minutes to decide the detective was full of crap. Witt was far more of a threat to Wendy’s killer than she was. He’d simply tried to throw her off balance by appearing to trust her one minute, suspect her the next, then finally claim she was in danger. All that weird tension he generated between them by touching her hands was just another of his tricks.

The man had a hidden agenda, and Wendy’s murder had become a Pandora’s Box. Witt seemed to think she had some sort of key to the whole thing when, in actual fact, she didn’t know where the hell she was leading him. Talk about the blind leading the blind.

Wendy Gregory’s funeral was at ten o’clock on Wednesday, thirty-six hours after Lilah Bloom’s death. Max wore another of her black suits, good for just about any occasion. Attendance was piss poor, the accommodations even worse.

The cemetery Hal Gregory had chosen for Wendy’s interment sported a sign declaring the
Everlasting Home of God’s Beloved Sons and Daughters
to be an historical landmark and the oldest Protestant graveyard in California. Max thought it was the eeriest, dampest, ugliest plot of land she’d ever seen. Huge oaks and evergreens towered over tumbled headstones, slippery moss covered brick walkways, and a small stream bisected the center. In the rainy season, the waterway probably became a relentless torrent that eroded words from ground-level markers, stole the last testaments of loved ones, and buried the stone beneath layers of moldering leaves and bottom sludge.

This was the place to which Hal Gregory banished his late wife? He must have hated her with all the passion he’d never found in loving her.

Jeez, funerals were a bad scene. It made her remember her mother’s funeral. It made her remember about the years after her mother died.

“Max.”

Obviously accusing her of murder had moved Witt beyond the Miss—or Mrs.—stage. He stood just behind and a tad to the right, close enough for her to feel his disconcerting male heat. He’d made no approaching sounds, simply appeared like a graveyard ghoul. And she was kinda glad since it abruptly cut off her trip down a not-so-pleasant memory lane.

“Fancy meeting you here.” He was tall and had to bend at the waist to get his lips next to her ear. His breath warmed her temple and other regions to the south. Then again, she was so cold in the absence of any sun penetrating the dank foliage that anything with a little life in it would seem warm. Even Detective Long.

“Got an alibi, yet?” he asked.

“My shoe size hasn’t changed, and my hands look exactly the same. I figured I didn’t need one.”

“Evidence can be misleading. So what about that alibi?”

“Nothing. Unless you want to question a cat or a ghost?”

“Guess I’ll ignore that since there’s no time to figure out what the hell you mean. And don’t think I don’t realize you do that on purpose.”

“I’m working on the alibi, okay.” Things couldn’t be too bad; he hadn’t advised her to get a lawyer or psychiatrist...yet. “Would you please shut up? The minister’s started his eulogy.”

Witt didn’t shut up, he whispered once more against her hair. “Care to give me a reason for being here? Can’t say you really knew her well.”

“I was invited.”

He made a throaty noise, one of suspicion, sarcasm, and ridicule, but it still made her tremble just to hear it.

“The bereaved husband?” he murmured.

“Exactly.”

“First her job, then her husband?”

“First her job, then her murderer. And don’t think
I
don’t realize you’re baiting me, Detective.”

Witt snorted softly. He was getting to her, no doubt about it; all those noises he made, reaching inside to touch her.

Through a space between Theresa’s and Remy’s heads two paces in front of her, Max stared across Wendy’s open grave directly into Hal’s disapproving gaze. She was glad the spot she’d chosen was slightly apart from the rest of the group, so that Witt’s words couldn’t be overheard. Hal stood with hands folded across his groin, pale skin totally devoid of color against his black suit. To his left, stood a shorter, powerfully built, gray-haired man. Wendy’s father. An easy deduction since he stared over the pit they would bury his daughter in. Though he might also have been staring at Theresa’s indecently short, black pleated skirt. Max could feel not an ounce of emotion emanating from the man. His hands, like Hal’s, were folded, left over right.

They bore no scratches. Another strike out.

“You do work fast, Max.”

She glanced sharply at Witt, for any sign of sexual innuendo. It was definitely there in his bright blue eyes. The jerk was laughing at her.

“Why, Detective, you’re almost jovial. I’d say you’ve certainly recovered from looking at Lilah Bloom’s body.”

“Bodies are my business.”

“God, that’s a great slogan. Use it on your business card.”

His only response was a chuckle, no doubt a rare sound for the detective. Darn, there was that disgusting little tingle again.

He seemed to have gotten over her little “psychic blast” concerning Lilah’s death; he didn’t so much as mention it. “How’d you explain to Remy that you wanted to attend the funeral of a woman you didn’t even know?”

“I told him it was simple respect, since I’d taken her job.”

“Lame.”

“His curiosity is what keeps him off balance around me.” She snapped her head to the right, looked at the detective. “Just like you.”

“Worked the balance beam in college. Didn’t fall once.”

“There’s always a first time, especially when you’re cocky.”

He smiled slightly, shook his head. “Why are you really here? I’ll keep asking until you give me an answer I believe.”

Ah, time again for the truth. It was the only thing that seemed to throw
him
off balance. She turned her head slightly and murmured out of the side of her mouth. “Sympathy. Enough of it, and Hal will either try to use me, be afraid of me, or trust me.”

“Or kill you.”

His eyes darkened, his voice held menace. She was glad he was on her side—he was, right?—but that look was a little too damn proprietary.

“You can’t scare me with that danger stuff. With you dogging my steps, the murderer couldn’t get close enough to pull it off.”

“You hope.” He was silent a moment.

She thought she was off the hook with all his questions. “All right, Detective. So you think he’s the one—”

“Haven’t set my sights on anyone in particular.”

“Not even after all those interrogations you’ve conducted?”

“Interviews.”

“Semantics. But it’s still pretty damn coincidental that Lilah accuses Hal, then gets an orangewood stick in her throat.”

“We’ve already established
your
prime suspect,” Witt insisted. “Who else could have done it? Got any ‘vibes’ about anyone in particular?”

Vibes. Hmm. So he hadn’t quite gotten over her Lilah dream and couldn’t resist the jab. Max surveyed the black-shrouded assemblage. Damn poor attendance. Wendy’s mourners numbered less than ten, including Witt and herself. A beanpole of a man—obviously a Gregory relative—stood to Hal’s right, the short, plump woman next to him most likely his wife. Add to that Remy, Theresa, and the father, it was pathetic. Wendy Gregory had died without friends. Max wondered if Lilah would have attended.

Witt waited for an answer. “Wendy hated Remy,” Max mused. “I’m not sure the feeling was mutual. Unless she crossed him.”