Evil to the Max (9 page)

“Divorced?”

“Yeah.”

“The old cop-wife I-can’t-stand-it-when-you-go-to-your-job thing?”

“No. The old I-can’t-stand-it-when-you-piss-on-the-toilet-rim thing.”

She stifled a laugh. Witt didn’t crack a smile. “Come on. Seriously, Witt.”

He shrugged. “She wanted things her way. I went along. Easier to compromise than fight.”

“But I thought cops loved to fight.”

“We aren’t called peace officers for nothing. We prefer compromise and diplomacy to knocking heads.” He pointed the index finger of the hand laying across his knee. “Still watching too much Cops on TV.”

“All right, so you went along. Then what happened?”

“She told me to sit down when I took a leak.”

Max laughed out loud this time. “You’re kidding, right?”

“There’s one God-given right a man has and that’s to take a leak standing up. I packed my bag and left that night.”

Hmm. Lots of pronouns and full sentences. A little tension showed around Witt’s edges. “She wasn’t going to change?” Max prompted, her head tipped, trying to see into his eyes. She wondered why his silly story made her heart contract.

He smiled then. Tired, weary, he shook his head. “No.”

“Tough break.” It was a guy kind of answer. Max didn’t know what else to say.

“I’ve never told another living soul why I left her.”

Max swallowed, her throat suddenly parched. “I really don’t think I can match that, Witt.”

“Tell me about the night your husband died.”

“I don’t even talk with
him
about that.” The words were out before she could think.

Witt either didn’t hear them or chose not to comment. “I’m sorry we never caught the perps.”

Suddenly Max’s body felt light, as if adrenaline had leached out of her veins, leaving only that oddly disconnected, other-worldly sensation. “It’s not like you had anything to do with the case.”

“Talking about it might be a good thing.”

The idea paralyzed every extremity except her tongue. “What’s there to talk about? You read the report when you investigated my non-existent involvement in Wendy Gregory’s death.” Oh yeah, he’d read it all, the 7-11, the three punks, Cameron on the floor amid bags of Cheetos, Ruffles, and Fritos.

“Yeah, Max, I read the report. Several times.”

She knew what he was thinking. The report didn’t cover what it felt like to watch her husband get shot. Beyond the cold facts, it didn’t cover what it felt like when those men had dragged her into their car, when they’d pulled her down onto the ground and tried to make her scream, then fallen on her like demon vampires because she didn’t beg for them to stop ... wouldn’t beg ...

It was suddenly hard to breathe. She stared out the windshield of the Dodge. A light flickered on and off in the second floor window of her rooming house. Cameron. Watching out for her. He was never far away. Well, almost never. She blinked, swallowed past the hard dry lump in her throat.

No, the report hadn’t covered everything.

And neither would she. Not now. Not with Witt. Maybe not ever.

“Don’t push me, Witt. I don’t want to have to hurt your feelings.”

“Around you, Max, a guy can’t allow himself to have feelings.”

* * * * *

“You should have given the guy a chance, Max.”

Cameron’s late night words echoed in Max’s ear. She’d fallen asleep with them, woken up with them, and had carried them with her to her new job at A Cut Above.

She banished them almost the minute she entered the doors of the salon. She did, after all, have only one current mission—to find Tiffany Lloyd’s killer. She certainly couldn’t do it while wondering whether she should dredge up her past for Witt’s perusal.

“Max, Max, I’m so glad you’re here.” Miles Lamont waved his hand at her from the black shroud concealing him neck to foot. Ariel Sanchez held a shaver to his pink scalp. The Three Stooges looked on
en masse
, their cheeks, spots of reddened anger, in no need of makeup.

Though his back was to Max, Miles watched her approach in the mirror. His flat black gaze scanned her from head to foot—or as low as the mirror would allow. Then he smiled. She didn’t know whether it was the stare or the smile that sent goosebumps shooting up her arms and made the short hairs at her nape stand on end.

The shop was devoid of customers. With the exception of Miles, whose attire she couldn’t see, the assemblage was dressed in black. Ariel wore a black blazer and gauzy black skirt that fell almost to her ankles. Larry, Curly, and Moe had decided on a black pant suit, a tailored feminine business suit, and a black dress, respectively. Their outfits were so understated, so lacking in flamboyance, that Max was sure she’d find the department store tags and bags still in the trash out back.

There could be only one reason for this scene. Tiffany’s funeral. The police must have accomplished their autopsy and tests quite quickly.

“Max.” A hint of irritation bled through the wave of Miles’s hand. “I hate to ask it.” Max was sure he wasn’t. “I assume you’ve heard about our unfortunate Tiffany.”

“Unfortunate Tiffany?” It sounded like a perfume or a shade of lipstick.

The Three Stooges tittered, then were quickly silenced with a molten look from Miles, issued via the mirror.

“She was murdered on Saturday.” As soon as the words left her lips, Ariel turned on the hair dryer to blow away the residual shavings from Lamont’s pudgy pink neck. “Tiffany” was stenciled in navy blue lettering along the nozzle. Jeez, they were using Tiffany’s station, Tiffany’s hair dryer, and Tiffany’s clippers. All to get ready for Tiffany’s funeral. It was bizarre. Or was it poetic justice?

Ariel snapped the dryer off, dropped it back into its metal holder, then pulled the drape from Miles with a flourish. Miles stood, did the male equivalent of preening, which was to turn his head right, left, dip his chin, raise it, then lean forward to make sure his nostril hairs didn’t poke out.

“Thank you, dear.” He patted Ariel on the arm, allowed his hand to settle for an interminable three seconds. The blonde with the Alice-in-Wonderland curls smiled, but she didn’t look down at those pudgy fingers against the sleeve of her black blazer.

The lingering touch made Max squirm.

Miles straightened, tugged up the high collar of his black tunic—Ariel must have flattened it for the spruce-up—and turned to Max. “Our dear Tiffany’s funeral is today.” Saint Tiffany. The man loved women to distraction. Or he had something to hide and was making up for it with flowery rhetoric.

“You’re free to come with us. You’ve certainly dressed appropriately.” His gaze swept her black attire and high-heeled shoes. “But since you never met Tiffany, I thought you’d be more comfortable minding the shop. The girls couldn’t get in touch with every client to notify them.”

Gee, what a decision. Go to a funeral, or stay at the salon and search the office. Hmm. “Of course I’ll stay here and reschedule anyone who shows up.”

Which is exactly what Miles Lamont had expected and wanted despite his polite offer. Though he could have no idea of the consequences if he was Tiffany’s killer and prone to leave clues and evidence hidden in his drawers; desk drawers, that is. That was the thing about being a psychic detective—gosh, that had a nice ring to it—people had no idea Max was more than a receptionist.

“Thank you so much, Max. We’ll be back after lunch.” Miles flicked his eyes from her lips to her hair, then held her gaze. The sensation was almost physical, hypnotic. “The afternoon will be busy, but I promise we’ll give you that new style tomorrow.”

She’d forgotten. And she wasn’t sure she wanted his hands in her hair. There was something about Miles Lamont. Something just a little off, something squirrelly. But did it have anything to do with murder?

What Max needed was a psychic vision to move this case forward. Ghostly laughter pealed from the high ceilings.

What the hell was Cameron laughing at now?

Miles reached for his charcoal gray hat. Max wondered why he’d bothered with the haircut. “Come along, girls.”

Not ladies. Girls. As though they were his charges. His chattel. Larry, Curly, and Moe preceded him through the front door of the shop and down the front walk. Ariel pulled up the rear. Miles opened the back door of his older but pristine black Lincoln Continental. The Three Stooges climbed in daintily, butt first, knees together, shoes last. Miles then dangled the car keys in front of Ariel’s face. She hesitated a moment, took them, and rounded the hood.

Max would have given anything for a close-up of Ariel’s face during that exchange. She watched the crew of A Cut Above drive away in Miles’s car.

Exactly what kind of car had her wino seen in the alley that night? Big. Dark. Beyond that, impressions were fuzzy.

But it could have been a Lincoln like the one Miles Lamont owned.

Chapter Nine

Max closed the front door, but didn’t lock it.

Ariel had left a cover-up draped over Tiffany’s chair. Specks of gray-black dust dotted the counter where no one had bothered to clean up before leaving. A pair of scissors lay open next to abandoned clippers.

Max twirled the chair slowly and sat down. Without being pumped up—so to speak—she could see herself in the mirror only from the neck up, as though she’d been decapitated. Talking heads. She swallowed. The mirror itself, a large oval, was surrounded by six bright ceramic masks. Magenta. Teal. Purple. Bronze. Feathers, lace, and ribbons. Smooth porcelain skin. Red-painted lips.

And empty holes where the eyes should have been.

A chill raced up her spine to her scalp.

Tiffany had loved those masks. She’d worn a mask for most of her life. Her eyes had been empty, too.

Sitting in the chair, Max didn’t touch a thing, not the masks, not the bottles nor the cans of goop, not the curling iron nor the shears. Not even the small, gray Beanie Baby mouse sitting on the edge of the shelf. Nothing.

She should touch something. She might get
vibes
. Psychic emanations.

But Max couldn’t even reach out. Maybe this job wasn’t such a hot idea. Filling a dead woman’s shoes had worked before; she’d just assumed it would again.

But Tiffany frightened her. Tiffany was strong. Tiffany was sexual. Tiffany was ...

Something ... something. Max couldn’t put her finger on it. But it had very much to do with her death. The psychic powers Cameron had struggled so diligently for Max to accept seemed to have deserted her.

“They haven’t deserted you. You’re just afraid to use them.” Cameron’s voice echoed in the now empty shop.

“Isn’t that what I just thought?”

“You said you were afraid of Tiffany.”

“Same diff.” She looked in the mirror as if she could see him, but there was only her disembodied head.

“Not the same at all, Maxi—”

“I swear, if you start calling me that again, I’ll—” She shook her fist at him. She hated that pet name.

“Tell me why she frightens you.”

Max swallowed. “She ... ” She stopped. “She’s way too attracted to Witt.”

“You mean
you’re
attracted to him.”

She hastily answered, “That’s not it at all. I’ve decided I’m going cold turkey on men. No one-night stands. No casual sexual relationships. And she’s putting a stick in my spokes with all her catting around.”

Cameron laughed. The sound boomed around the room, roared through her ears so hard that she thought the drums would burst.

“Just when I think there’s hope for you, my darling, you start lying again.”

“That’s no lie.”

“You don’t like that she’s taken control. You don’t like that she’s made you acknowledge the things you both feel.”

She jumped to her feet, rounded on him, ready to do battle—with him, with Tiffany, with all the ghosts trying to take a bite out of her ass. “I don’t want to touch her things. I don’t want to live her life. I don’t want to feel her emotions. I don’t want her inside me.”

“It’s too late for that. She’s already there. The only way you’ll get rid of her is by finding her killer.”

“Then that’s just what I’ll do.” As soon as she’d done that, she stand under a hot shower and scrub her skin until Tiffany’s dirt washed off.

She stalked behind the counter and scanned the list of clients. A new date, time, and stylist’s initials were written by those clients of Tiffany’s who’d been rescheduled.

“All the answers are there, Max. You just haven’t listened to yourself. You never did have a quiet mind.”

Quiet minds allowed for too much introspection. “Fine. I’ll listen tonight.” Like hell, she would. Tiffany wasn’t going to get a foothold in her psyche.

“What does the book say?”

“What?” Damn, he switched topics so fast she couldn’t even follow.

“Remember, the appointment rescheduling?”

God, yes. He was referring to yesterday’s speculation that Tiffany’s appointments had been reassigned much more quickly than possible. “What about it?”

“How many are left?”

She ran a finger down the list. “One for today.” She flipped a page over. “Friday’s are okay.” Another page. “Saturday, one.” A few more pages. The list of clients not yet rescheduled was relatively small.

“Way too small,” Cameron pushed.

He had a good point. But it still didn’t prove anything. Right now, it was little more than suspicious.

“Why didn’t you go to the funeral with them?” Cameron asked, again changing subjects abruptly.

Attending Tiffany’s funeral was the last thing she wanted. Funerals were depressing. She’d done one the week before. It was more than enough for a lifetime. “I want to search the place while they’re gone.”

“You’re afraid.”

She rolled her eyes, flipped absently through the pages of the appointment book, and pretended that her pulse hadn’t jerked just a little. “Of what?”

“You don’t want to feel sorry for her. You want to keep on hating her, so you can continue denying that all the powerful, sexual, and overwhelming feelings rushing around in you actually belong to
you
.”