Ride a Painted Pony (Superromance) (16 page)

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Authors: Carolyn McSparren

BOOK: Ride a Painted Pony (Superromance)
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“Ha!” Max said. “The woman hasn’t found out a damn thing worth knowing.” He stuck his nose in his drink. “Pay her off and send her packing. Let the police handle it.”
“I haven’t found proof that you or Dr. Chessman stole the animals, if that’s what you mean,” Taylor said. “Not yet.”
“Ah, pussy has claws.”
Nick opened his mouth, but Taylor raised a hand to stop him. She could fight her own battles. For a man whom Nick had characterized as a gentleman, Max was being insufferably rude. But only to her.
She glanced from Max to Nick. Maybe it was fear—simple, straightforward terror of being found out. Or was he jealous?
Had he caught on to the chemistry between her and Nick? They might deny it even to one another, but it was there, all right. Was it that obvious to everyone? Surely not.
She caught Veda’s eye. Oh, boy. Max wasn’t the only one who was picking up the vibes.
“Do you expect Josh or me to confess? Or do you plan to get out your little truncheon and beat it out of us?” Max asked.
“Stop it, Max,” Josh snapped.
“I keep my truncheon in my other bag,” Taylor said lightly. “All I’ve got with me is my little old blackjack. Will that do?”
Max slammed his drink against the table so hard that Taylor was afraid the glass would fracture. “I’m damned if I’m afraid of anything this smartass girl can throw at me.”
“Shut up, Max. Now. I mean it,” Nick snapped.
Max’s mouth dropped open. “You’ve never spoken to me like that.”
“You’ve never deserved it.” Nick leaned forward. “What you deserve is a broken jaw. You probably won’t remember any of this tomorrow morning, but that doesn’t excuse your actions tonight.”
Max struggled to his feet. He stood ramrod straight, every muscle taut. “I’m leaving.”
“The hell you are. Sit down, apologize to Taylor and the rest of us, and stop acting like a prize jackass before I forget
my
manners.”
Max hesitated.
“Do it,” Nick said. “Now.”
Max sat and stared at his knees morosely.
Josh paced in front of the fireplace. “It doesn’t matter whether she found out anything or not. This affair is still going to have serious repercussions for all of us, but for me most of all.” He turned to them. “I mean, who are you people, really? But I’m important in this city. It’s too late to pull out, but I wish to God I’d never gotten involved with the place.”
“Now who’s being snotty?” Max said, rousing himself with difficulty. “
Important
in this city?” He whined in perfect imitation of Josh. “You sound like Margery’s ventriloquist’s dummy. Rounders is the only remotely human thing in your life.” He dropped a piece of ice from his glass into his mouth and sucked on it noisily. “Except for bedding the coeds, of course.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Chessman bleated.
“Is it still two girls a semester? Or has your aging prostate cut you down to one?”
“This is ludicrous! Get out, damn you!”
“Is that why you stole the animals?” Max continued. He seemed to have reached that lucid stage often attained by drunks just before they pass out. “Did you need money to buy yourself the playmate of the month? Or possibly to buy
off
the playmate of the month.”
Josh gave a strangled cry and rushed at him. Veda stuck out her hand and caught him as he went by.
“Ignore him,” she said.
“You can’t ignore all those harassment charges, though, can you?” Max asked. “One more and I hear you can kiss that provost job good-bye. And kiss Margery good-bye if they hire someone else.”
Taylor reached across and laid her hand heavily on Nick’s arm as he began to stand. She shook her head. She wanted them to keep talking. Rico nodded at her in agreement.
“I never stole anything in my life,” Chessman snapped.
Max seemed suddenly gleeful. “I suppose you had to kill Clara to get her off your back. She probably just wanted a new car to replace the one she had to sell to pay for her miscarriage.”
The room went dead quiet.
Chessman gulped as though he’d forgotten how to breathe. Max lay back amongst the cushions and smiled into his drink.
“I knew about your affair, Josh. Of course I knew. But murder?” He shook his finger and clicked his tongue as though Chessman were a child misbehaving. “Surely there was a better way.”
“Oh, God!” Chessman sank into an overstuffed club chair and dropped his head into his hands. After a moment he looked up with hope shining in his red-rimmed eyes. “I didn’t kill Clara. I can prove it!” He stared around wildly. “I was working in my office. Margery called.”
“Margery might have mistaken the time. Not that she’d stick at lying to keep your chairmanship.”
“No, not alone. I had someone with me. A student.”
Max roared with laughter. “Josh, you dirty old man, you were having some poor coed on the couch in your office?” He wiped his eyes, then sobered. “That’s not much alibi. Poor little twit’s in love with you.”
“She hates my guts!” Chessman’s voice thrummed with hope. “She’s been threatening to go to the president about me if I don’t pay her off. She wouldn’t lie to save me from the fires of hell.”
“What’s her name?” Taylor asked.
Chessman turned to her as though he’d forgotten she was there. “I can’t have you talking to her. Margery might find out.”
“Then tell Sergeant Vollmer.”
Josh shook his head.
Taylor opened her hands to him. “Look, if Vollmer has one less suspect, he can concentrate on finding out who really did kill Clara Eberhardt. You’ll be off the hook, no suspicion, no harm to your reputation.”
“That makes sense,” Veda said. “You should call him, Josh.”
“Ah, little Miss Veda, the voice of reason,” Max said. “How about you for the role of first murderer?”
“What?” Veda stared at him.
“Come now. A nurse practitioner like you would know precisely the right place to jam that chisel into Clara’s neck for maximum bang for the buck.” Max gestured toward Veda. “Josh has plenty of money, Rico’s coining it, and God knows, Marcus Cato does. I have my pension and my investments. But who knows how much little Veda’s widow’s mite is?”
Veda set her drink down. “Probably more than yours, Max.” She looked at him as though he were a total stranger. “I’ve been making excuses for you ever since the first day I met you. You’re a real jerk, Max, you know that?”
Max laughed. “Oh, I can’t bear it! A jerk!”
“Yes, Max, a jerk. And after watching your little exhibition tonight, I’ve finally figured out that you have about as much real sex appeal as an aardvark with a bad case of herpes.” She stood. “I’m damn hungry. I’m going home.”
The conference broke up.
Nick half carried Max—who had passed into maudlin semiconsciousness—to his truck. “I’ll drive him home and put him to bed,” he told Taylor.
As she said good-bye to Josh, she whispered, “Can I see you in your office tomorrow about ten?”
He shrank from her and stammered, “I don’t want to talk to you.”
Taylor smiled ingratiatingly. “If you talk to me, I can smooth your way with Detective Vollmer.”
“I can give you five minutes before my ten o’clock class. You know where my office is?”
“I’ll find it.”
Rico waited for her outside the front door. He’d been so quiet she’d almost forgotten he was there.
He slipped his arm through hers. “Thank God, Max wound down before he got to me and Marcus. How about lunch tomorrow? I’m not in court. ”
Taylor glanced at Nick, who was wrestling Max’s car keys out of his hand. “I’ll call you.”
Nick dropped Max’s keys into his pocket and walked him down the steps toward the Rounders truck. Over his shoulder he said to Taylor, “Can you take Veda home? She came with Max.”
“We’re not supposed to separate after dark, remember?”
“I’ll be careful if you will. Wait for me at Veda’s.”
“Then can we please get something to eat?”
Nick grinned. “Promise.”
Rico climbed into his Mercedes and drove away.
Max stumbled against the hood of Nick’s truck. Nick caught him and steered him around the door and into the front seat.
Veda stood watching until they drove away, then climbed in beside Taylor. They drove off behind Nick.
Taylor’s Glock lay on the seat between them. Veda poked it with a small index finger. “Some gun.”
“Does it bother you?” Taylor opened the center console and slid the gun inside.
“Lord, no. I’m good with guns.”
Taylor checked her rearview mirror. No Toyota trucks behind her. With luck, Eugene was home nursing his injuries. Taylor realized she was so tired and hungry that her eyes were starting to cross. “Does Max get like that often?” she asked.
“I’ve never seen it quite that bad before, but then I’ve never seen Max under pressure.”
“Murder creates pressure.”
Veda shook her head. “I don’t think Max is a killer. But something has frightened him badly.” They drove silently for a while, then Veda said brightly, “I’m bored to death with Max. Tell me about being a detective. Turn right here.”
“It’s an ordinary job. All those tough-talking female P.I.s in the books get into more trouble in a day than I’m likely to get into in ten years.” Taylor laughed. “Mel says the main thing the fictional P.I.s have to be is fast-healers. They get beat up, break ribs, and five pages later they’re making love.”
Veda laughed. “As a nurse I can assure you nobody with broken ribs is interested in making love.”
“I break the occasional fingernail, period. Even surveillance cases are just plain boring. You can’t run the heater in the winter or the air conditioner in the summer because you’ll mess up the car. So you freeze or bake, and try to stay awake with regular jolts of caffeine.”
“Doesn’t sound very glamorous.”
“It isn’t. Or dangerous, as I keep assuring my mother.”
“But Clara Eberhardt got murdered,” Veda reminded her.
Taylor sighed. “True. This is my first murder. And I’m not really in the line of fire.” Her hands tightened on the wheel as the memory of Eugene’s hands swept over her.
“You can park here under the light,” Veda said. Taylor watched to see whether she’d been followed. Apparently not. She took a deep breath and followed Veda into her townhouse.
“I’ll bet you could use some nibblies while you’re waiting,” Veda said. “I make a hell of a cheese straw.”
This small house had all the grace and charm that the Chessmans’s lacked. A cockatoo in a bamboo cage squawked and raised his crest the moment the door opened. Veda opened the kitchen door and a big ginger cat stalked out. “This is Denzel,” she said.
Taylor scratched his ears.
“I moved here after my husband, Bill, died,” Veda said. “My son wanted me to come live with them, but I’m happy here. I know this place is cluttered, but I can’t get rid of all my memories. I am desperate for more space, not fewer memories. I like living in the Garden District, but so far I haven’t been able to find a place I can afford to buy.”
Taylor picked up a photo in a silver frame. A much younger Veda hung on the arm of a cheerful mustached man.
Veda handed Taylor a glass of iced tea and set a plate of cheese straws on the coffee table. “That’s my Bill. We had a heck of a marriage.”
“Are you retired?”
“No. Why?”
“You have so much free time,” Taylor said.
“Bill left some money, and I do private-duty nursing whenever I want to do something special, like travel to Michigan to see my grandsons. Yech! I hate snow.”
“You’re awfully young to be widowed,” Taylor said. “Have you ever thought of marrying again?”
“I could ask you the same. You’re widowed and considerably younger than I am.”
“The few men I meet come equipped with ex-wives, delinquent stepchildren, alimony, child support, and all the psychological problems that made the ex divorce them in the first place.”
“Nick doesn’t have an ex,” Veda said.
“Why not? At his age, most men have been married at least once.”
“He’s had two live-ins since I started working at Rounders, but they left because he spent too much time with the carvers. He can’t—what’s the word I’m looking for?—invest himself in any woman the way he does with us.”
“Why?”
Veda raised her hands. “I’m no psychologist, but his mother deserted him and his grandmother died on him very suddenly. There never was anyone else.”
“I thought his mother died.”
Veda shook her head. “Nope. Just vanished. You like him, don’t you?”

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