Desperate to the Max (4 page)

She clenched her teeth. The backs of her eyes ached.

“You don’t have to feel guilty.”

She wasn’t guilty. She was ... afraid.

“Because he’s a cop, and you’re afraid he’ll get killed in the line of duty?”

Because she’d watched Cameron die. Because she’d lost him once and was terrified she was losing him again. Because losing him the first time had almost killed her.

“But it didn’t.”

No, it didn’t. His death had simply robbed her of the will to enjoy life. She’d sold their condo, their furniture, the motorcycle, and his car. She’d given away his clothes, his artwork, his books, her cat, quit her job, and left her friends.

“Witt makes you want to live again, doesn’t he?”

“He makes me want to have sex, nothing more. Maybe I should get the act over with.” She watched Witt through the windshield, the waning sunlight softening the edges of the scene in front of Bethany’s house. Witt was tall, big-shouldered, beefy-thighed, and excruciatingly blond. He was one of
them
. A cop. Walked the walk, talked the talk, and laughed with them despite the dead woman lying inside the house.

Yet she remembered the night he said his house was a refuge where he could close the door on all of them, on the things he saw every day, and on the things people did to other people. Inside his house he could be a different man.

“Fall in love with him, Max. You have my blessing.”

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t.”

She rolled her lips between her teeth and held them there for interminable seconds. “Are you getting ready to leave me, Cameron? Is that why you’re pushing me at him?”

The silence wrenched her heart in two.

She watched as Witt crossed the lawn, stepped over the low white fence, and chucked Mrs. Blue under the chin. With a hand on each shoulder, he leaned down to whisper something close to her ear, smiled when she laughed, then pushed her down the walk of the house Max had originally parked in front of.

She liked a man who was nice to old ladies.

He came to her car door, opening it. The close air rushed out into the late afternoon, taking a handful of her depression with it. Or maybe that was the Witt Effect, the scent of his aftershave, the dimple in his chin, and the touch of his eyes on her throat, moving down ...

“Done. For now. Ready for dinner with Mom?”

Not. No matter if she did have Cameron’s blessing. The idea was really too terrifying. She reached for the door handle, tried to pull it closed. He held it open.

“I’ll follow you over,” she offered. No, more like begged.

“Already here.”

“Huh?”

He looked to the blue lady as she disappeared through the front door. The corner of his mouth lifted. “Meet Mom.”

Chapter Four

“That’s a joke, right?”

Witt shook his head. “I never joke when it comes to Mom.”

Oh my God. Chills of mortification raced across her scalp. Witt’s mom had seen her talking to Cameron, seen her pointing a finger and arguing with ... a phantom. Damn, she wouldn’t think about that now. In fact, she’d forget about the episode entirely. She concentrated instead on the impossible. “Your mother lives next door to ... the murder victim?”

“Yep.”

“So you weren’t lying when you told the cops your mother lived in the area?”

“Nope.”

She stared at him. “You know this is way too much of a coincidence.”

“Yep,” again, without a nuance of movement or change of expression. Max couldn’t tell if he was terrified, satisfied, or just plain resigned.

“Will you quit saying yep and nope.” She put the flat of her hand against his chest and pushed. He didn’t move. She used more force, until she finally had room to get out. She climbed from the car, shimmied her skirt down, watched the way his eyes tracked the movement of her hips, and glared at him.

She was pissed. Pissed was good. Pissed was better than being depressed, and better than thinking about whether she’d wake up to find Cameron gone one of these mornings, gone for good. Pissed was also a damned sight better than the drooling lap puppy she’d been acting like over Witt for the past few days.

She stuck a finger in the center of Witt’s chest. “Why didn’t you tell me that when we first got here? Come to think of it, why the hell weren’t you running in to make sure your poor old, gray-haired mama was all right?”

“Called her on the way here.”

Damn his cell phone. Damn him for giving
her
a cell phone. She never would have called him if the phone hadn’t been in her glovebox. She hated phones. She hated voicemail, email, the Internet, and anything else that forced her to keep in touch with the outside world. She only kept an ancient message machine around for Sunny Wright’s sake. Unfortunately, money was a necessary evil once in a while, and Sunny’s temp agency kept her in cash.

So if she hadn’t called Witt, she would have ... what? Gone inside the house on her own? Not on her life. Not after the way that structure called to her. She shuddered simply remembering the creepy sensation. “What about the first question?”

He almost smiled, then seemed to think better of the smirk when she narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. Deadpan again, he said, “Forgot what it was.”

So had she. “Ooh.” She almost stamped her foot like a child, caught herself in time. “Didn’t you even think about the coincidence here? I see a murder in a vision. You try to arrest me. I see another murder. Now your mother lives next door to a third victim. And what about the address? 452 Garden Street. Didn’t you even notice the significance of that address number before?”

“Never paid that much attention. You know your neighbor’s address?” He gave her that look, that male look that said go ahead, try to top that one.

Max didn’t try. “I don’t even know my neighbors, let alone their address.”

He smiled.

She socked him lightly in the arm for good measure.

“Calm down, sweetheart.”

One more stab of her finger in the air. “Don’t”—she took a deep breath—“and I mean
ever
, call me sweetheart.”

“How about honey?”

“That isn’t funny.”

“Dumpling?”

“Don’t try to make me laugh.” A smile twitched on her lips.

“Hot pants?”

She slugged him once more and turned back to the car so he wouldn’t see her smile. God, how was she supposed to keep the guy at arm’s length when he was constantly bowling her over with a new and ever more ... adorable side of himself?

Adorable. There it was again. She was sure that word came from Bethany Spring.
She’d
never use a word like that. She’d use irritating, smug, and supercilious, but never adorable.

Leaning down and across the seat, she grabbed her purse, then straightened to find Witt staring at her butt where her new skirt had pulled tight.

Smack. Her voluminous purse caught him across the biceps. Not hard, but enough to garner attention. A burst of inappropriate laughter sparked the air; from Officer Harmon, who stood at the edge of the walk, keeping back the swelled crowd of spectators who looked like they’d swarm over the lawn if they could. Max tipped her head in his direction. “You know him?”

Witt shrugged. “Know all the guys in town. Mom lives here.”

Ridiculously obvious. “And cops watch out for each other.”

“Yep.” He tipped his head to one side, crossed his big arms, and regarded her. “Afraid to meet Mom?”

“Not.” More words threatened to sputter out. She cut them off before they could scorch her lips and give him an inkling of the appalling truth. She was utterly terrified. Somewhere she heard Cameron snort and scented his sweet peppermint candy close by.

Witt’s mouth quirked. He extended a hand in the direction of the modest house with the immaculate lawn. “Shall we?”

She turned with a resignation befitting execution. “Sure.”

He walked ahead of her and held the short white gate open to usher her through. The lawn
was
immaculate, and green despite the end of summer heat. Too green, an oddly unreal shade of green. The path was flanked by neatly trimmed bushes and small colorful pansies dotting the earth between the shrubs. Something strange about those bushes, too. The leaves looked almost ... faded. Covered with dust? Maybe ... why, they weren’t even real. They were plastic, the flowers beneath made of the same thick material. The lawn was, by golly, Astro-turf.

“I thought you said your mom needed to have the gardener in before I could come over for dinner.”

“Did have him in.”

“But ... but ...” She stopped, spread her arms, and turned in a circle. “This is all fake.”

Witt smiled at her as if she were an idiot. “Needs washing once in a while. Mom likes the garden this way. Stuff doesn’t die in the summertime, and her water bill stays the same.”

“Why on earth would she pay a
gardener
to do that?”

“Doesn’t.” He put a hand to his chest. “I’m the gardener.”

She stared at him wide-eyed. “You wash the shrubs?”

“Leaf by leaf. Can’t use the hose, you know.”

Oh my God, he was insane. Or he loved his mother. She couldn’t decide which thought was more threatening.

“Stalling, Max?”

She narrowed her gaze on him. “Lead the way. I can’t wait.”

He did, putting his hand on her elbow with an electric shock, and pulling her to the front porch. Plastic begonias filled clay pots along the edge of the concrete. Only the earth they were planted in was real. At least, she assumed the dirt was authentic. They didn’t make fake dirt, did they? More than enough of the real stuff to go around.

Witt didn’t knock. He merely opened the door and pushed her inside as if he were afraid she’d bolt without his assistance. “All done next door,” he called out.

“Mom” entered the front hallway from what Max could only presume was the kitchen.

“I’ve just put dinner in the oven,” said the blue lady, with a smile that bore a hint of Witt.

Max’s stomach growled with embarrassing vigor. Mrs. Long had only just put the turkey in? God. Max was sure she’d shrivel away to nothing by the time the bird was done.

Dammit, another Bethany thought creeping in.

The woman came forward, grabbed Max’s hand, and held it in her bird-like grasp before Witt could even introduce them. “Max, it’s so good to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you. Tell me, do you prefer a white wedding?”

Max’s short dark hair stood on end like a scarecrow’s—and if it wasn’t, it should have—as her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth.

“Don’t scare the crap out of her, Mother,” Witt warned, but she could see the dastardly spark of a twinkle in his blue eyes.

An identical twinkle glittered in his mom’s Witt-blue eyes as she said, “I’m pulling your leg, my dear, and don’t use the word crap, DeWitt.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Still holding on to Max’s hand, she led the way into the cramped living room. Max felt her mouth drop open. She snapped it shut immediately.

The room wasn’t terribly small, but piles of newspapers, magazines, and grocery store circulars covered every available inch of floor space, tabletop, and fireplace stone. Even the top of the TV hadn’t escaped use. Three metal TV trays sat in front of three over-stuffed, wooden-armed chairs, the upholstery of which had seen its best days in the sixties. Lamps adorned with homemade, shellacked shades cast strange shadows across the newsprint on the tables beneath them.

“You sit here, Max.” Mrs. Long led her through a weaving path amid the piles of printed material. “Between Witt and I.”

Max slipped between the TV tray and chair, and plunked down rather than sat, the cushions of the chair sucking her in.

“Now, what can I get you to drink? I have wine, sherry, soda pop, juice or water.” She was a tiny woman, only a few inches taller than a seated Max, and so unlike Witt in the height respect, it was almost laughable.

“Water, thank you, Mrs. Long,” seemed safest under the circumstances. Her voice cracked on “thank,” and Max realized she hadn’t said a word since she’d entered the house.

“Oh, please, such formality. Call me Ladybird.”

“Ladybird?” she squeaked.

“Oh my, yes. My mother christened me Ethel, and I’ve always hated the name. I much prefer Ladybird, like Ladybird Johnson. She was such a regal woman”—she wrinkled her lips—“far more so than that Kennedy woman, don’t you think?”

“Well, yes,” said Max, who hadn’t been born when the Kennedys were in office and couldn’t, even for a million bucks, remember ever seeing a picture of Ladybird Johnson.

She looked at Witt. The bastard was laughing. Sort of. Though his lips were straight, the cleft in his chin stood out prominently, and she was sure his eyes watered with mirth.

He’d pay for not warning her about his mother. Pay big time.

Ladybird Long skittered off to the kitchen, and her oversized son dropped into the chair next to Max, setting the tray in front of him to wobbling.

“I thought you said she needed to clean the house,” she said barely above a whisper.

“She did,” Witt whispered back. “Piles are straight, and your chair’s cleared off.”

The many heaps of papers were actually quite symmetrical, the edges methodically meeting at the bottom left corners. Witt leaned over to turn on the lamp next to him, and Max suddenly saw that the lampshades were made from hundreds of shellacked address labels. Mr. and Mrs. Horace Long. Mrs. Ethel Long. Mrs. Ladybird Long. The Long Residence. Occupant. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. In each newspaper or magazine in the room, a hole had been cut where the address label should have been.

“It’s a fire hazard.”

Witt raised a blond brow. “I don’t let her light a fire or keep any of this stuff in her room or block the hall. Also bought the best smoke detector I could find. What more do you want?”

Max rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. “Has she got Alzheimer’s?”

He shook his head. “She’s seventy-eight and finds the idea of
her
address in the hands of the garbage man a terrifying prospect.”