Evil to the Max (7 page)

Larry, Curly, and Moe, consecutively. Curly wore her blue-black hair scraped back across her scalp and fashioned into an austere bun that must have made her head ache. Larry had a perm so tightly wound that her locks seemed to pop like metal springs. And Moe, the leader of the pack, wasn’t above figuratively poking out a few eyes.

How had Tiffany survived amongst them?

Then again, if Tiffany’s professional confidence was anything like her sexual assurance, she’d have made Hamburger Helper out of Larry, Curly, and Moe.

Max’s basic problem all morning had been that the job distracted her from the business of learning more about Tiffany. The outlook wasn’t improving. Miles Lamont was conspicuously absent. The cops had been to the salon the day before, but today there hadn’t been a single mention of Tiffany Lloyd’s demise. Which was odd. Under normal circumstances—not that one could call murder normal—the place should have buzzed with equal parts disbelief, horror, and speculation.

The staff of A Cut Above, however, remained mum on the subject. Completely. And these girls did not strike her as being adverse to juicy gossip. So why wasn’t Tiffany’s name running rampant through the ranks?

She’d struck out, too, on sighting the car that had been used to transport Tiffany’s body. Max had watched as each girl played musical parking spots out on the street to avoid getting a ticket. Nothing any of them drove bore a resemblance to the vehicle she’d seen, as the wino, in her dream.

No Miles. No car. No gossip. Damn.

Muttering to herself, Max punched a series of alphanumerics into the keyboard, and the terminal went into meltdown.

“Having problems with the computer again?”

Ariel Sanchez was the only one in the shop who had offered assistance, or even a smile, since Max had started work three hours ago. Ariel’s character as well as the side of the shop she worked on segregated her from the Stooges.

“I’m still figuring out its temperamental undertones.” It was one of those inventory-control-slash-billing programs, and Max had never known a computer system yet to get the best of her.

Ariel leaned over the counter to look at the chart Max keyed in. Max had liked her immediately. She was a sweet blonde with Alice-in-Wonderland curls that belied the heritage of her last name. Ariel did not, however, wear a wedding band to explain the name discrepancy. Her complexion was all-American girl-next door, as were her white teeth and shy, easy smile. Her long, broomstick skirt peaked out beneath the black cover-up she wore. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled back with a blue scrunchy, and her feet looked comfortable in open-toed flats.

After three hours on her feet, Max wished for anything but her favorite black heels.

“She’s mixed up the codes.” Ariel pointed. “See here, this is a code for the dye lot, and this is the code for the highlight itself. She had them backwards, and the computer’s freaking out.”

So was Max. It crossed her mind that Moe had done it on purpose.

Ariel rounded the end of the waist-high counter, punched a few keys, and hit the escape button. The screen cleared, and the frantic beeping subsided.

Max smiled. “Thanks a bunch.”

Waving a hand in Moe’s direction, Ariel grimaced. “And don’t mind them. They go a little wild when Miles isn’t around.”

“And where
is
Miles?” Max had expected the answer to come up in conversation some time during the morning. She’d been wrong. It now required the direct approach.

“Beauty college.”

“My God, he owns his own shop, and he’s still going to beauty school?”

“They’re interviewing new stylists.” Her voice dipped on the last, and she glanced over her shoulder at the three girls on the other side of the room.

“Boy, that’s quick,” Max shot back.

“Pippa says we’ll lose clients if we don’t find someone ASAP.”

“Pippa?”

“Pippa Louise Lamont. Miles’s wife. Pippa has the business sense, and Miles has the people sense.”

And Miles liked women especially, as evidenced by his shop harem. Max wondered how Pippa felt about that. As soon as the infamous couple arrived, Max was sure she’d find out.

“Why a beauty college? I’d think Miles would want someone with experience.” Considering that he’d asked her for five years of work history on only a receptionist’s position.

Ariel made a face. “He likes to mold his girls. We all started with him.”

“Amazing.” Max took the conversation one step further. “What happens if anyone ever wants to leave?”

“None of us has ever left.”

Except Tiffany. And she’d been murdered.

Ariel clamped her lips shut as if the very same thought had occurred to her.

She watched the approach of a middle-aged, impeccably dressed woman with stylish, silvery hair. “Here’s my next client. Gotta get back to work.” Ariel spoke quickly, her tone tinged with what seemed like relief.

That seemed to be as much gossip, if it could be called that, as Max was going to get for one day. “Thanks for the help. I can see why your last receptionist quit.”

“Nadine?”

“Was that her name?” Max, having looked through the mail and every other written piece of evidence she could get her hands on, already knew the previous receptionist’s name had been Nadine Johnson. No sense, though, in telegraphing to Ariel that she’d been snooping.

Ariel touched the beads she wore at her throat, twirling them around her fingers nervously. “You better not mention Nadine, okay?”

“Why not?” And to whom, Max wondered.

“Take my word for it, Miles wouldn’t like it. So don’t ask about Nadine, and for God’s sake, don’t mention Tiffany, either.”

Hmm, interesting. Very interesting. Max decided she’d ask the head honcho the first opportunity she got.

* * * * *

The opportunity did not present itself that day. Neither Miles Lamont nor his supposedly demanding wife Pippa Louise arrived at the salon.

Max couldn’t ask any burning questions of Miles, nor did she get her promised haircut.

She was too damn tired to care.

At a little before seven that night, Max lay spread-eagled across her twin-size bed. Buzzard had curled into ball in the area beneath her armpit. Her discarded shoes lay on the fifth and the eighth step of the staircase that led up from the outside door of her second-floor studio. Her jacket never made it to the back of the chair, falling instead in a heap two feet short of its mark. Her tie had slithered from the closet doorknob into a crumpled ball on the floor.

Max’s feet throbbed. Her head pulsed in time with the rap beat from her neighbor’s open window. Her stomach growled in rebellion against the smell of curry something-or-other drifting in on the breeze.

Not that curry was bad, it was just strong. Max’s stomach, after the anorexic abuse it had suffered in her teens, was not courageous under stress. Besides, the steak she’d eaten in Witt’s company last night still seemed to wriggle inside her.

“You’re too skinny, my love.” Cameron liked to punctuate a criticism with an endearment.

If she wasn’t on the ball, sometimes he got away with it. But not tonight. Despite her exhaustion, Max was definitely up for some verbal sparring. She didn’t even bother to open her eyes. “Shut up.”

“Ah, you’re in a good mood.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I just have a couple of questions.”

“Funny, you don’t look like my shrink.”

He laughed easily. “I’m all the shrink you need. When I’m done with you, you’ll be healthier than Freud himself.”

“That’s not saying much. Now leave me alone. I’m going to sleep.”

“Like I was saying, I have a question. Tell me, why you didn’t ask Ariel where she got the name Sanchez?”

She made a face, but kept her eyes closed. “Why on earth would I ask that?”

“You wondered about it. Maybe you should ask her.”

“It isn’t any of my business.”

“It is when you’re trying to find a killer.”

Her lids snapped open. “You’re not saying that
Ariel
—”

“I’m saying you have to find an answer to every question you have. Somewhere in there are the clues you’re looking for.”

She rolled over and pulled the spread across her head. Accusing a sweet, helpful blonde wasn’t something she was itching to do. “I’m going to sleep now,” she singsonged.

“What about the appointments?”

God, he was persistent. Had she hated that personality quirk this much when he was alive? “What appointments?”

“Tiffany’s. She had clients, sweetheart. Did you think to ask what happened to them?”

“They rescheduled them with the other stylists.”

“Hmm, what day is it? Wednesday?” She could almost see him looking at his digital watch. “Wednesday. Tiffany’s body was discovered on Monday. My, wasn’t that quick?”

She pushed the bedspread aside. “Six people making calls. Two days. Doesn’t seem that quick with all those bodies on it.”

“But the scheduling, Max. Think about the nightmare of making sure you didn’t mix anyone up. Must have taken hours just to figure out who to put when with whom.”

He was right. The seemingly enormous task had almost been complete when she’d started work this morning. Max only had to make a few calls; there were still some clients they hadn’t been able to contact. But the number wasn’t large. “Are you saying—”

“That someone started work on the schedule change long before Monday rolled around.”

“Which means—”

“Someone at A Cut Above knew she wasn’t coming back before her body was found.”

“Would you please stop interrupting me.” She sat up, ready to do real battle with him, just as a knock sounded on the door.

“Who is it?”

“Witt,” she whispered.

“How did you know?”

“Educated guess.”

“Liar.”

“Are you testing my psychic abilities, Cameron?”

“You better answer the door, sweetheart.” And he was gone, leaving only a whiff of peppermint behind.

He
had
been testing her, poking her, prodding her like a guinea pig. But hell, he was right about the timing of those appointment reschedules. She’d start checking tomorrow to see if she could find proof of his theory.

Another knock. She rose, left her jacket and tie on the floor. On the stairs, she picked up her shoes, tossed them back up into the room, then went down to open the door for Witt.

“Thought I was going to have to break the door down.”

“Worried, detective?”

Ignoring the sarcasm, he smiled and reached out to stroke a finger down her cheek. “Pillow marks. Been sleeping?”

Max shivered and wondered how the hell he had this effect on her. It didn’t make sense. Unless she added Tiffany Lloyd into the equation and Tiffany’s attraction to anything male. Oh yeah,
then
it made perfect sense.

Witt wore a striped green-and-blue, button-down shirt, black jeans, and had a newspaper beneath his arm. “Gonna invite me in, Max?” He used his bedroom voice, all low and vibratory.

The heat started in her lower extremities and rose. Luckily, it stopped short of her throat. Letting him see the Tiffany effect was out of the question. He’d never understand that it didn’t have anything to do with him. Or with her. He’d probably think it was because he looked so damn good in jeans.

Max opened the door, motioned him up the stairs, and changed the subject to something less evocative. “What’s the newspaper for? Swatting flies?”

He slapped the rolled paper against his thigh as she followed behind him. Jeez, the man had a nice butt, firm-looking, the perfect size for a good squeeze with both hands.

Damn, the murdered Tiffany’s sexual shtick had really gotten to her. And it wasn’t fair.

“Just an article I thought you’d be interested in.” Witt handed it to her, watching as she unfolded it.

It wasn’t the front page. He’d opened to the “Living” section, and the first thing—the
only
thing—Max saw was Bud Traynor’s smiling face. His teeth filled the image. He had a thousand-watt smile.

Max knew the evil that lay beneath it.

She sat down on the bed, one leg curved beneath her, the other touching the floor, and spread the paper out in front of her.

Using peripheral vision, she watched Witt pick up her jacket, shake it out, and hang it over the back of the chair before he sat.

A chill ran straight down the center of her back as she turned to the article Witt had brought her. “Saturday night gala benefiting Big Brother, Big Sisters of the Peninsula,” Max read aloud. She laughed, choked it off. Her throat burned.

Bud Traynor was the magnanimous host for this gala. Bud Traynor. Father of Wendy Gregory, last week’s murder victim. Father and so much worse. The epitome of evil in Max’s mind.

Witt leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, laced his fingers, and watched Max as she read.

“Traynor, a long-time supporter of the organization, a big brother himself for several years back in the eighties”—the very idea made Max tremble—“is pleased to sponsor the hundred-dollar-a-plate festivities which will take place Friday at the San Jose Fairmont. Dinner, dancing, a game room, and all proceeds will go to the charity. Tickets are still available.”

Max chewed on the inside of her cheek, lifting her eyes to meet Witt’s. “Why did you bring me this?”

“Thought you might want to attend.” His blue eyes penetrated. It didn’t take a psychic to know he was getting ready for the body blow.

“Don’t play games with me. Why did you want me to see it?”

He nodded, an almost imperceptible movement. “All right. No games. You must have asked me ten times if Traynor had been implicated in any way in the death of his daughter.”

“Yeah. What’s your point?”

“My point is your insistence. What gives, Max? What’s your interest in Traynor?”

Her interest? Justice. Fair play. Comeuppance. Bud Traynor had driven his daughter into a situation which eventually led to her murder. That made Bud morally responsible for Wendy’s death. Max wanted Traynor to pay.

Max wanted him to die and die badly.

These were things she could neither reveal to Witt nor hope to make him understand. She didn’t even try, going for a vague reasoning that sounded too emotional and lacking in evidence even to her own ears. “I don’t like him. He makes my hackles rise. I don’t believe he loved Wendy or that he cared when she died. That’s my interest. A man like that should never have children.”