Desperate to the Max (5 page)

Seventy-eight. Max did a quick calc. That meant Ladybird Long had Witt when she was forty-two. A baby at forty-two would make anyone a little batty. If that baby were Witt? The conclusion went without saying. He certainly drove Max nuts.

Ladybird returned with a tray. Water, at least Max hoped so, a glass of dark amber liquid that might have been sherry, and a fizzling glass of beer.

Witt took the beer, downed a large swallow, then licked the foam from his upper lip. Max’s insides flip-flopped, and she gulped her water.

“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”

A few minutes? Ladybird couldn’t possibly be roasting turkey. A strange mixture of smells drifted in from the kitchen. For a moment she was sure it was beef, no fried chicken, no ... she had no idea, but her stomach rumbled once more.

“I know you must be hungry after your trying afternoon, Max.”

Trying afternoon was an understatement. So was hungry. She was starving, famished, ravenous, weak, dizzy, malnourished—

And possessed by a woman who thought twenty truffles in one night was skimping.

Chapter Five

Witt’s mother sat, smoothed her thrift-shop-new, flower-print dress down over her knees, then sipped delicately at her thimbleful of sherry. “Yes,” she went on as if there’d been no break in the conversation, “what happened to that dear girl was a terrible shock.”

Murder. Terra firma at last, something Max could talk about without sinking into quicksand. “Did you know Bethany well?”

“Goodness no. I saw her the day she moved in, about two years ago, after some sort of terrible family tragedy, and today, the day she moved out.” She widened her Witt-like eyes. “If you could call being rolled away on a gurney a form of moving out.” Not that Ladybird Long had actually seen that. The detectives were still taking pictures, making chalk marks, or whatever detectives did and would probably be doing well into the night before Bethany Spring’s body was removed.

“Did she work nights or something?” Max asked to draw Ladybird out, though reticence didn’t seem to be one of the woman’s problems. She certainly didn’t have Witt’s penchant for shortened speech.

“No, no, no, she never, absolutely never, left the house at all. She had her groceries delivered, her mail dropped through the slot in the door, a gardener to trim her hedges. She didn’t even come out to call the cat. There’s that hinged cat door in the back. Of course, she had that courier boy, too. I believe she ran a courier service for housebound people.”

“Appropriate under the circumstances,” Witt muttered.

Max was agog. “
Never
? How could someone
never
go out?” The idea was amazing, frightening, even a little inviting. Too inviting. Cameron did say she was well on her way to being a recluse.

Ladybird warmed to the topic. “I asked myself that, too. I thought people
died
if they didn’t get sunshine. In fact, I believe I heard that on Maury Povich the other day.”

Max almost clapped. She’d been right. Ladybird probably never missed a day of him.

She had better things to talk about than Ladybird’s TV habits. Bethany Spring had certainly died, but lack of UV rays hadn’t been the culprit. Someone else had helped her to her final end. Someone she knew? “Who was the woman that found her? I think she must have lived on the other side of the duplex.”

Witt sat back in his chair, resting his beer on the arm, his gaze flicking between his mother and Max. She couldn’t be sure whether approval or forbearance sat on his lips.

“The woman who found her? Oh yes, the sister. Let’s see, her name is ...”

“Jada,” Witt supplied.

“Yes, Jada. She’s not very talkative. I think she’s afraid of old people. You know, fear of death”—her hands fluttered in the air—“that kind of thing.”

Fear of death? The girl, or woman, was on the
verge
of death herself if she didn’t gain a few pounds—nix that, a
lot
of pounds. She could have been an extra in a holocaust documentary.

Max didn’t ask how Ladybird knew all this, if Jada wasn’t prone to lengthy conversations with elderly neighbors. “So the two sisters each had a side of the duplex?”

Ladybird shook her head, a quick burst of energy that must have jiggled her brains. “Jada lives with the mother. Let’s see, her name is ...”

“Virginia,” Witt again provided, moving nothing but his lips.

His mother beamed. “You’re so good with names, my little sweetie-boy.”

Sweetie-boy? Max stared. Witt’s face didn’t even change color. He turned slightly, enough to look at her, then blew her a kiss. She didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, run screaming from the house, or jump his bones the minute they were alone.

His mother didn’t notice. “Yes, Virginia is her name.” She wrinkled her nose as if she smelled bad fish. “Never liked that woman.”

“You never liked Jada either, that’s why you conveniently forget their names.”

Max didn’t like the way he said the skinny waif’s name, nor the easy familiarity or the remembered touch of his hand on the ratty girl’s arm. She didn’t like the idea that maybe he’d known her before today, maybe he talked with her over the fence as he washed his mother’s shrubs ...

She definitely didn’t like the way those wayward thoughts crept in as if they were her own. Which they weren’t. Jealous and possessive she was not. That was Bethany Spring’s MO.

Max’s stomach rumbled again. She covered the sound with a polite cough, hand over mouth.

Ladybird went on, a finger to her lips. “I wouldn’t say I didn’t like them. The constant arguing just frazzled my nerves.”

Witt’s ears perked up like a dog’s, but Max asked the question. “Who was arguing with whom, and what did they argue about?”

Ladybird raised a brow, and there was no mistaking whose mother she was. “Quite the little detective, aren’t you? Witt said you were always sticking your nose where—”

“Mother.”

Mrs. Long turned, chin in the air. “She has a perfect right to know what you say about her, DeWitt.”

Max glared. “Yes, Detective, I have a perfect right.”

The poor man rolled his eyes and sighed. “The arguments, Mom.”

“Well, I didn’t really listen—”

Witt snorted.

Ladybird cleared her throat. “Well, actually it was that Jada girl and Bethany. I never heard Virginia. But those two girls. You’d never know that Jada was almost thirty years old the way she acted.”

The waif was twenty-nine? Hard to believe.

“You see, Bethany was a bit ...” Ladybird paused, pursing her lips. “Well, she was a bit on the large side. And Jada is a bit on the small side.” Anorexic was a better description, but Max didn’t say that. “Jada rather thought her sister was a ...” She dropped her voice to a whisper, “Well, she called Bethany a disgusting pig.”

Pain sliced Max’s insides like a fine razor. She bore down on it as if it were a child in her womb kicking to get out. Bethany’s pain harbored there, nourished, expanded, and gained strength. The agony hadn’t come merely from the words, but the way Jada said them, the way she’d always said them since they were kids. And the snorting grunts that followed.

Witt leaned back in his chair, rested his cheek on his fist, and stared at her as if he understood. His words gave lie to the concern in his eyes. “The gist of these fights was about the woman’s weight?”

“They were bitter fights, Witt.”

He flicked a wrist. “Heard my share while I was doing the garden. But if you’re saying that’s a reason for murder ...”

Mrs. Long widened her eyes and shook her head. “There was a lot of anger.”

He shook his head slowly. “Too much
Murder She Wrote
,” he muttered.

His tone got Max’s back up. Or maybe what really pissed her off was that he’d ripped a hole through Bethany’s feelings as if they were nothing. “So I’m Columbo, and your mother’s Jessica Fletcher.”

Witt stared at her lazily. “Yep.”

“Maybe that’s why we’ll solve this murder while you cops are sit around on your a—”

“I wonder where Virginia is,” Ladybird cut Max off smoothly. “She didn’t come running when all the screaming started.”

“Visiting her invalid mother at a nursing home up in Sonoma,” Witt supplied, then added, “apparently.” Just like a cop, never taking anything for gospel.

“Poor woman,” Ladybird murmured deferentially. “I might not have liked her, but I do feel sorry for her.” She brightened as a new thought occurred to her. “Do you think the detectives will ask me questions, Witt?” Her eyes sparkled at the idea of a police interview.

“They’ll interview
all
the neighbors, maybe even tonight if you’re lucky.”

A timer dinged. Ladybird twittered, rose, disappeared once more through the kitchen door, and Max knew she had that deer-in-the-Mack-truck-headlights look on her own face.

“She likes you.”

The thought iced down her bones. “I’m not done fighting with you yet.”

“I am. Now about Mom, she hated my first wife—”

“What do you mean
first
? You haven’t got a second, which makes her just an ex.”

He sighed. “Ex. Happy now?”

Not happy. Petrified. Yes, ex was better. She did notice how smoothly he’d changed the subject and ended the little tiff. Now he was trying to make up for something. She wondered what. “How can you tell she likes me?”

“She brought out the TV trays with her favorite Disney characters.”

Max looked down at her tray and noticed the picture for the first time. Beauty. She craned to her right. The Teapot and Chip danced beneath Ladybird’s genteel glass of sherry. Witt’s sported The Beast.

“That fits.”

He took a lazy swallow of beer. “You trying to provoke me?”

“No.” Yes.

“You won’t like the way I retaliate.”

He’d probably drag her into his Dodge Ram and have his wicked way with her. The image sent ridiculous prickles of warmth to her extremities and her cheeks.

He gave her a half smile. “Oh yeah, you
would
like it, wouldn’t you?”

Way too much. “Dream on, Long.”

“Oh, I will, Max, I will.”

She had the sense that despite his muscle and bulk, he’d move faster than the eye could catch. He eyed her like a hungry wolf.

“Here we are, darlings.”

Thank goodness for Ladybird’s sense of timing. Food scents, like the clouds of Pigpen dust from a Peanuts cartoon, swirled around her as she carried an oversized cookie sheet with padded mittens.

Where was the turkey? The mashed potatoes and gravy? The broccoli with cheese sauce? The biscuits?

Why was her dinner in a cardboard dish?

“Now, Max, you wanted the turkey, Witt has the Salisbury steak, and that leaves me with the fried chicken.”

She balanced the aluminum on a mittened hand, while with the other pad, she plopped the individual dinners on the top of each TV tray.

Oh my God. TV dinners. Max’s stomach rebelled as she stared at the reconstituted turkey meat, the pasty potatoes, the wrinkled peas, and the ghastly red compote.

“Witt gets a Hungry Man. I got you the smaller portion because he’s told me what a dainty little thing you are.”

“Thank you, Mrs.—”

Mrs. Long glared.

“—Ladybird.”

The little woman smiled as she tugged off the mittens, then leaned the cookie sheet against the side of her chair. She pulled a sheaf of green paper from her pocket.

“Here’s a napkin.” She handed out neatly folded cocktail napkins flocked with green and red mistletoe and “Merry Christmas 1991,” then she sat before her own tray. “Eat, eat,” she said with a fluttering of both hands. “Don’t be shy,” and picked up her fried chicken between index fingers and thumbs.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of Witt’s knife and fork and his muffled laughter.

Ooh, he would pay. Big time. Despite the fact that his mother was too damn sweet to be mad at.

Ladybird dabbed at her fingers. “So tell me, Max, was that your husband’s ghost you were talking to in the car?”

Chapter Six

Max’s fingers sent her water glass shooting across the TV tray. Witt choked on his forkful of chocolate brownie. Ladybird beamed at them both.

“Isn’t that what you were doing in the car? Talking to your husband’s ghost?”

Max looked from Witt to his mother and back to Witt. His ruddy complexion had turned a sickening shade of green. Afraid the brownie was lodged somewhere in his windpipe, she was about to rise and give him a well-deserved slap on the back, when he wheezed, swallowed, and managed a weak, “Behave yourself, Ladybird.”

“You told me not to ask her if she’s psychic, and I didn’t. I only asked about her husband, since you said he’d passed on.” She glanced quickly at Max. “You’re not offended, are you, my dear?” she asked, then went on without giving Max a chance to answer. “You see, I talk to my husband, Horace, all the time. So I know another person who talks to ghosts when I see one.”

“Mother,” Witt warned with a growl and a fearsome glare.

Max felt like a large turkey piece-part had gotten stuck somewhere on the way down her throat.

“DeWitt Quentin Long, talking with our loved ones who have passed on is not something to sneer at. Max is special.”

“Believe me, I know.” He didn’t sound particularly pleased about it.

Max’s eyes moved from one to the other like a ping-pong ball. So. His mother talked to a ghost. Now that was another pretty fact Witt had forgotten to mention. She turned to Ladybird who was fluffing her blue hair and looking expectant. “Yes, I was talking to Cameron. He’s been dead two years.”

Witt groaned.

“How did he die, my dear?” Ladybird’s gaze was kind, her smile gentle and beneficent.

“Robbery.” She couldn’t manage more than that one word.

“Did they catch the monster who did it?”

Max looked at Witt. She saw the pain there in his eyes, pain for the failure of his profession. She couldn’t do anything to ease it. “There were three of them, and no, they were never caught.”

She didn’t mention the other things those men had done. She only wondered if Witt had told his mother. God, the thought terrified her, as if he’d stripped her down and exposed her. He’d read the file, of course, he knew what they’d done to her after they’d killed Cameron, and though they’d never spoken of it, perhaps that also played a part in the stain of compassion and grief in his blue eyes. She prayed he’d kept that part from dear old Mom.