Desperate to the Max (8 page)

A man shouted, “Shut up, ya lousy mutt.”

Max waited bug-eyed, the breath rasping in her throat, cursing Cameron with every swear word she knew. No way to tell how long she’d crouched there, could have been a minute, could have been an hour. Her muscles cramped and her toes went numb, but the dog eventually stopped barking. Thank God. She looked at the luminous dial of her watch. Eleven-forty.

“Up and at ’em, sweetheart.”

“You’re toast, Starr.”

“Naturally. You did have me cremated, after all.”

“I should have let the worms eat you.” She see-sawed her hands up the outside of the house until she stood with her back to the wall. The door was sealed shut with more yellow tape. She’d risked life, limb and liberty for nothing. “Why didn’t you float over and check that out before you had me scaling the bushes?”

“Not to worry. Plenty of windows and other doors.”

“What other door except the one right out in front?”

A gust of wind picked up, billowed across her face, neck and breasts before smacking against the back door. The house creaked, the frame shuddered, and the cat door squeaked in and out.

She stared. “No way. I can’t fit through that.”

“The hole was made for a large dog.”

“So now you’re comparing me to a canine. Thanks.”

“Look at it.”

She climbed the two steps, hunkered down in front of the door. It certainly was bigger than she’d first realized. In fact, it looked like it had been made for a mastodon. Some security. A pre-teen could fit through, burgle the house for drug money, and be out in no time flat.

What about an anorexic sister? The first noise Bethany had heard came from the kitchen. Could her sister Jada have ... not. The girl had a key. Why use the doggie door?

“So no one would see her?” Cameron answered her unspoken question.

“I think we’re stretching.”

“Then get a move on, okay.”

She eyed the door once more. “What if I get stuck?” she whispered.

“The dog’ll bite your ass.”

The hair at her nape rose. She wasn’t afraid of small places, but there was something vulnerable about having her ass stuck in the air as she crawled through.

“Get in there or we’ll miss the first call.”

“I have twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes to get caught standing out here. Now move.”

She didn’t like the urgency in his tone. Cameron might not be a fortune teller, but his powers of intuition were positively ghostly. She got down on her hands and knees and bumped her head lightly against the small door. It popped inward. Fetid air rushed out. She sat back, held her breath.

For a moment, she thought she heard the echo of a voice.
Max. Maaxx.

Her pulse raced. Oh God, please God, don’t make me go in there. Bad idea. Really bad idea.

“Go,” Cameron hissed behind her.

Even as she pushed the door all the way open, she wondered why the hell she always did what he told her. Inside, the house was pitch-black. After a few seconds, her eyes adjusted, and monsterish forms began to loom, than coalesce. The refrigerator. The stove. A butcher block table. The counters.

Her knees tingled against the cold concrete outside, and she shoved the rest of the way through without giving herself time to think. Until her hips got caught. Damn. She wiggled, then wriggled. Jees, maybe her hips weren’t as boyish as she thought. Then a chill rushed up from her exposed feet and legs. It was like having your arms sticking out of the covers on a cold, dark, scary night when you just
knew
something was hiding under the bed, breathing, waiting.

“Damn you, Cameron.”

“Think thin.” He sounded like an advertisement for Weight Watchers.

She pushed back and out. Her hips freed, and she tried once more, this time with her body turned at an angle. She slipped through like a greased pig.

Once on the other side, she stayed on her hands and knees until her heart stopped racing. Then she listened, picking up nothing but the rumblings of an old house. Sniffed the air. Sweet. Sickly. Her stomach rebelled, and it wasn’t the after effects of three jelly donuts. She opened her mouth, but that only allowed her to taste the odor as well.

For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to her that the essence of Bethany’s body would linger. Maybe she hadn’t thought of it because her subconscious didn’t believe she’d make it this far.

“Very analytical, darling. Now why don’t we move our little ass into the living room where Bethany’s favorite phone is?” She should have smacked him—metaphorically speaking—for his sarcasm. Instead all she thought of was the living room.

The place where Bethany had died. Where her body had lain half on, half off the stuffed sofa. Where her blood had congealed into the fabric.

Max. Maaxx.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

“The voice is only in your head, Max. She isn’t here.”

He was right. Bethany was no longer in the living room.

She was inside Max.

Max stood. The floor creaked beneath her feet as she walked. The house was old, perhaps from the forties. The scent of must and mildew permeated the walls. Old timbers groaned. Water rushed in the pipes, a toilet flushed or a tap ran in the other half of the duplex next door. It was a house that would never be quiet.

Through a swinging door, she moved from the kitchen into a small dining room. More freakish shapes turned into a seven-foot hutch filled with china against one wall and a sideboard along the other. The dark wooden table had four chairs. The extra leaf hadn’t been added. Moonlight streamed across the furniture through an archway leading to the living room.

Beyond the dining area lay the living room and the stairs leading to the second floor. In her dream last night, the drapes at the windows on both ends had been pulled, the room itself cozy and warm. The curtains at the front were now open, and the warmth had been leached from the entire house. Light from the window spread across half the room, leaving the other half in relative darkness. The half where Bethany Spring had died.

Max didn’t venture further into the front of the house for fear a neighbor might notice movement though the window. In the dim light, she could make out the phone on the edge of the coffee table, still within reach of Bethany’s hand. The cops must have put it back. A swatch of cloth had been cut from the couch, revealing stained white stuffing and black springs.

Bethany’s head would have lain right there.

The police had cut the fabric for samples. A piece of the carpet was also missing between the coffee table and the sofa. The rest of the room lay in total darkness. She didn’t want to see any more.

Max flexed her fingers inside the leather gloves, then glanced once more at her watch. Eleven-fifty. Time had never moved more slowly.

“Look around the place.”

“The police would have taken anything of interest.”

“Check in the sideboard drawer where she keeps the good silver.” Light from the window cut a path to that very piece of furniture.

“What’s there?”

“Something you’ll need.”

“How do you know?” she whispered.

“It’s a feeling, Max. Look. See what you find.” Cameron always said he didn’t know anything, or remember much about his life for that matter, but then he performed weird feats like this.

She backed up, suddenly afraid to turn her back on the living room. She pulled open the first and second drawers of the sideboard, but found nothing. The box of silver cutlery was in the bottom one. She opened the lid. Silver knives and forks lined up in neat rows against the velvet backing.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Take it out.”

She did, setting the box on the carpet. The bottom half was a drawer, this one stacked with spoons of varying sizes, soup, tea, and serving, and, oddly, several folded sheets of paper.

After putting the box back, she took the dog-eared pages to the front window. The lights appeared to be out next door, the house as dark as a tomb, much like Bethany’s. Keeping her body out of sight, Max held the pages up to the light of the moon.

Operator: Do you have a fantasy?

Client: Yes.

Operator: Do you want to tell me about it?

Client: Yes. First tell me what you’re wearing.

Operator: Black thong panties and a black lace bra.

Client: Does it open in the front?

Operator: Yes. Do you want me to take it off for you?

It was a script. For phone sex. She flipped through the pages. Different variations. Suggested fantasies. If he says this, operator says that to draw him out. It was a goddamned training manual for phone sex operators and their
clients
. She’d thought of those men as horny, depraved, sick, and disgusting, but never as
clients
.

“Why not try the word lonely?”

“Give me a break, they’re pathetic.”

“Since when did you become so judgmental, Max?”

“Since one of them killed Bethany.”

“You don’t know that yet. Open your mind. They’re human beings. You can’t find the wolf in sheep’s clothing unless you differentiate.”

“What am I supposed to do with this stuff?” She shook the papers. “Lay them on the table for the police to discover?”

“You’re going to need that script when you get your first call.”

“What?” she almost shrieked, then caught herself in time. “I have to say this?”

“You want to figure out who killed her, don’t you?”

She didn’t have to think about that very long. “If it’ll get her out of my head for good, yes.”

“Have some compassion. Think of it as laying her to rest.”

“But do I have to say
this
?” She waved a hand across the paper, and, with a sinking feeling, knew the answer was yes.

The phone rang.

Chapter Nine

“Hello?” Shit, that wasn’t what she was supposed to say. Something more erotic, seductive, even downright dirty. She was failing Phone Sex 101 miserably.

“Helen?”

Helen? Yes, that was the name Bethany had used. Did she sound like her? Could she fake it? “Yes.” Max’s voice cracked. She shouldn’t have been nervous. She’d talked pretty darn sexy with men before, though not on the phone. Her jumpy nerves had more to do with the fact that a lot was riding on identifying Bethany’s killer. Yeah, like getting the woman’s spirit the hell out of Max’s body.

She’d answered in the kitchen, then pulled the cord out through the swinging door to plop down in a patch of moonlight so she could read. Only she’d dropped the first page. Her hands shook, and her palms were sweating inside the leather gloves. She daren’t take them off. Couldn’t risk leaving fingerprints.

She cleared her throat. “Do you have a fantasy?”

“You know my fantasy.”

She did? She was so damn nervous, she couldn’t concentrate on the voice. Was it the same as the one last night, Bethany’s last caller? Was it this low, this deep?

Well, honesty was the best policy. Sometimes. She plowed ahead. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.” She licked her dry lips. “Give me a hint.” Hmm. There. That was better. A tad seductive, the tiniest bit like Bethany’s voice.

Bethany. The dead woman stretched inside her and purred, as if she’d just woken from a luxurious nap. Oh God. Trouble.

The man started to talk. Max hung on every word. “I’m Mr. Mustard in the library with the candlestick. And you’re Miss Scarlett, and you’ve been very bad.”

Mr. Mustard? Miss Scarlett? S&M? “I need another clue.”

He chuckled. Good humored. She’d be willing to bet he wasn’t her suspect. “Clever girl. Now what about that candlestick? What are we going to do with that, Miss Scarlett?”

Oh my God. She wanted to laugh. “I like the candle better.”

“Oh yeah.” She could have sworn she heard him moan softly. “I think that candle would fit right up your sweet, pink cu—”

“You want to go straight there?” she cut him off, her cheeks flaming in the dark. Inside, Bethany preened and laughed, loving the game. Oh God, Max knew she was in way over her head. “What about a little foreplay?”

“Foreplay?” He sounded confused, the breathlessness gone.

“Yeah, a little kissing, a little touching.” This was mortifying.

He groaned again. “Oh yeah, Miss Scarlett. Tongue me. Put your mouth all the way down on my co—”

“I was thinking more in lines of starting with your mouth.”

“
My
mouth?”

“Yeah. You don’t want to rush a girl, you know.”

Silence for a full five seconds. “You trying to stretch out my time?”

She twirled the phone cord around her finger. “No, just your pleasure.”

“Lady, you’re weird. I want my money back. Who do I call?”

“Well.” She made a little displeased noise. “I don’t know.”

He slammed his receiver down in her ear. “So much for his sense of humor.”

Cameron chuckled in the corner. “I don’t think that’s the way to draw them out, Max.”

“It wasn’t him. I knew three seconds into it.” She jumped to her feet, snapped open the kitchen door, hung up the phone.

“I can’t believe you’re embarrassed. You, of all people.”

She rounded on his slight ethereal glow in the dark. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m talking about your parade of one-night stands. How can you be shy after those?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t do that anymore. I only did because—” She stopped.

“Go on, Max. Tell me. You only slept with those strangers to fill the void in your life after I died.”

She swallowed. He’d pricked her conscience and stabbed straight into the microcosm of grief that still festered inside her.

“So you wouldn’t feel alone and powerless,” he went on.

“So I wouldn’t have to subsist on fantasies the way these pathetic men on the other end of that line do.”

“You were never alone,” he whispered as if she’d hadn’t spoken.

He was a ghost. He could be a figment of her imagination. He could be a manifestation of her psychosis. And he could only love her in her fantasies, no matter how real they seemed.