Well, bollocks. She’d found no excuse to ask him to stay and cuddle her. Or do other nice things to her. And he’d seemed to be anxious to leave.
As she slid into sleep, Peta sighed. Her bed was lonely, in spite of Mr. Peebles’s presence.
She wanted Max.
*~*~*~*
In fact, he’d waited outside the door until he heard her breathing become deep and regular, and then taken himself and his painful stiffy off to his room. He wondered if anyone had died from URST and if so, what the coroner’s report listed as cause of death.
He might well be the first, since he was harder than iron, and had run out on Peta like a damn rabbit rather than the wolf whose name he bore. He sighed. There was nothing for it. He’d have to take care of matters himself.
Again.
He kept his shower quiet, a challenge in the little bathroom which seemed designed to be exactly two inches narrower than his elbows, but the warm water eased his muscles and his soapy hand reached for his cock. He shivered a little as his hand encircled his hard-on.
He wanted Peta with a craving he couldn’t recall feeling before. No two ways about it. And he just might be able to have her, too, since she’d developed a certain heated look in her eyes whenever he got near to her. A bead of precome emerged from the reddened and swollen head, and he closed his eyes, lost in his visions. Her ankle was healing nicely, and he knew of a few positions that wouldn’t put any pressure on it at all.
He’d take her in a chair perhaps. His hand moved at the thought and a bolt of electricity slid up his spine. Let her just slide down on him at her own speed as her knees rested either side of his thighs. He moved his fist faster, lost in his vision of their heated joining. A split-second vision of grey eyes blurring as she orgasmed on top of him was enough.
He came with a shudder and a muted, drawn-out groan. Shit. This was not good. Not good at all. It was no substitute for the real thing.
And he still wanted the real thing.
As he slipped beneath the covers, he grimaced. The bed was cold, that fickle cat had deserted him, and he had no excuse to prowl the halls tonight. He had to sleep in his own lonely bed.
And he hated it.
*~*~*~*
Max’s heart very nearly stopped on the following morning, as he marched down the hallway to check on Peta.
She wasn’t there.
With a fierce frown he ran down the stairs, two at a time, only to be brought up short by the sight of her sitting quite comfortably in her own kitchen with a mug of tea at her side.
“What the fuck?”
“Good morning, Max,” she answered. At least she had the courtesy to look tired too.
“What the hell are you doing down here? Why didn’t you wait for me? Or at least shout? You could have fallen or something—“ He realized he was babbling and shut his mouth with a snap.
“Oh, don’t be such a fusspot. I’m fine. Really. The ankle is heaps better this morning, and I managed perfectly well with the cane. Stop complaining.”
He clamped down on his temper and struggled to get his heart beating again. He busied himself with the coffeepot, since tea was the last thing he’d wanted this morning. Peta’s teapot sat proudly next to her, and sneered at him.
“I’ll grab the paper,” he said. Translation, I’ll spank you silly if you scare me like that again.
The fragrance of coffee was a soothing balm to his soul, and he tossed the newspaper in front of Peta, eager for that first cup.
A choking sound whirled him around, and he ignored the spilling coffee.
“Max—“ gasped Peta.
“What?”
“Look...look at this...”
He looked at the newspaper she was holding up. The banner headline said it all. “Murder in Mayfield” in bold capital letters. He shrugged. “It happens everywhere, babe. Sad, but true.”
“No, Max, you don’t understand. It was Sandra.” Peta’s horrified gray eyes met his, and he felt a chill run over his flesh.
“Sandra as in Sandra Dean? Our Sandra?”
She nodded. “Listen to this.” She looked at the paper. “The victim has been identified as Sandra Dean, aged twenty-eight, a recent newcomer to Mayfield and current employee of Mayfield Masterpieces.”
She glanced up. “Oooh, nasty way to get our name out there. Phoebe’ll be doubly upset, I’m sure.”
“Go on.” He sat across from her, frowning.
She turned back to the column. “Ms. Dean’s whereabouts on the night of the fifteenth are being traced, and authorities are seeking her ex-husband for questioning. She was brutally strangled...” Peta’s voice tailed off and she gazed at him. “Oh God,” she whispered.
He pulled the paper over and continued reading. “…Brutally strangled, sexually assaulted, and her body dumped in a corner of Meachem’s Field, where it was discovered yesterday by a citizen walking his dog. Lieutenant Frank Summers would give no further details of the crime, simply stating that the investigation was ongoing. When asked if residents of Mayfield should be concerned for their safety, he responded that all citizens should take normal precautions. He saw no immediate need for alarm within the community.”
He raised his head and whistled. “Poor Sandra.”
Peta’s eyes were filled with tears. “How could someone do such a thing? I scarcely knew her, but she seemed so nice.”
He quickly scanned the rest of the article, but other than a couple of repetitive quotes from Edward Sharp about the effectiveness of the Mayfield Police Department, and a request for information from anyone who might have seen something, there was little else in the way of details.
“Do you know Mike Dean?” His question snared her attention from her mug, and she raised troubled eyes to his.
“No. Can’t say as I do. I heard Sandra mention him once, briefly, and of course her divorced status was listed on her employment forms. Do you think it was him?”
“I haven’t a clue. But I’m sure the cops will go after him first. A crime like this – an ex-husband...it’s sort of logical.”
“I suppose,” she said sadly. “What an awful waste of a life, Max. She was so young.”
“I guess that explains all the activity at the P.D. yesterday, that big black van must have been the Forensics crew.”
Peta tilted her head. “Crime fan, are we?”
“Not really. Just fascinated by what will drive a human being towards that kind of violence. And of course I watch all those shows on TV.”
“Well, I think it’s terribly sad. Even though she’d only been here a couple of weeks, I feel rotten about it. I wonder if there’s family we should notify?”
He shook his head. “Let the authorities take care of it, Peta. It’s their job.”
“I’d still like to do something, though. Makes one feel very helpless in situations such as these, doesn’t it?”
He thought that one over. “Look, we’re bound to have Phoebe on our doorstep any minute. Perhaps you two could arrange a service for Sandra or something?”
Peta looked impressed. “Oh. What a brilliant idea. Of course. I doubt that there’s anyone else around to do it.” She grabbed for pencil and paper and started making what looked like lists.
He watched in fascination as she scribbled, crossed out and scribbled again. She’d actually gotten to number three when the doorbell rang.
“That has to be Phoebe,” sighed Max, getting up. “You got enough tea in that pot for her, or shall I make more coffee?”
Gnawing on the end of her pencil, she shook her head. “Better do coffee. Phoebe’s not convinced about tea yet. I’m working on her.”
Glad to see that Peta’s spirits were returning, he headed to the front hall to open the door.
It wasn’t Phoebe.
It was the police.
Chapter Eleven
“Hey, Peta. It’s the law, babe. You pay tax on all that tea of yours?”
She frowned at Max as he re-entered the kitchen, followed by Lieut
enant Summers. “Hello, Frank, nice to see you. Ignore this lout. He has a misplaced sense of humor.”
Frank Summers grinned. “No problem. We’ve heard it all before.”
“Coffee, Lieutenant? Sorry, no doughnuts this morning, but I can whip up some beans on toast if you want.”
Both Frank and Peta ignored him.
“How’s Linda and the baby?” Peta turned her back on Max along with Mr. Peebles, who was investigating the Lieutenant’s boots.
“Just fine, thanks. Little tyke is growing faster than weeds.” Frank cleared his throat. “Actually, Peta, I’m here on official business. And I’m glad I caught you, Mr. Wolfe. Seeing as you’re next on my list.”
“What list is that?” Peta’s question was full of curiosity. What on earth could the police want with her?
“We’re attempting to track Sandra Dean’s whereabouts on the night she was killed.”
She gulped. The horror of such a murder was still too new, almost too unreal for her to accept it. “How can we help?”
Frank referred to a small notebook. “Well, we know she was in the Red Barn Inn earlier that evening. And I noticed from your accident report that you were on your way home from there. So I figured I’d see if you remembered anything in particular about that night. Did you see Sandra at all?”
“You were there?” Max’s question slid into the silence that followed.
Peta continued her theme of ignoring Max. This was one area she so didn’t want to get into, given her reason for going there in the first place. Which was, of course, the man sitting next to her.
“I was only there for a few moments, Frank. I didn’t order a drink or anything. I may have said hello to a couple of folks, but I honestly can’t recall seeing Sandra. I’m sorry.”
Frank nodded. “Yeah, that pretty much bears out other witness statements.” He took a small photo from his pocket. “How about this guy? Did you see him there?”
Both Max and Peta leaned towards the black and white snapshot. A man stared back at them, expressionless, holding a board with numbers on it in front of his chest. It was the typical mug shot, so beloved of television newscasts and post office bulletin boards.
“I know him,” muttered Max.
“Yes, I do too,” added Peta. “He makes deliveries around town, doesn’t he?”
Frank nodded. “Yep. But did you see him at the Red Barn that night? Either of you?”
She sighed. “No. No, I can’t say that I did. But the place was crowded, as I recall.” And with one rather nubile woman who was clinging to Max in an extraordinarily affectionate way. Truth to tell, Peta couldn’t remember much else.
“This is Mike Dean, isn’t it?” asked Max.
Frank paused. “Well, yeah.”
“So he did time?” Max pursued his train of thought doggedly.
“Um, yeah.”
“For violent crimes?”
She wanted to kick him. He was starting to sound like every tv private detective. “Does that matter?”
“Well,” said Frank carefully. “We aren’t allowed to discuss past offenses publicly, of course, but I can assure you that there was no violence concerned. Just a simple business with some bank notes that weren’t—ahem—legal.”
“Counterfeiting, huh? Well, well.” Max stroked Mr. Peebles absently. Mr. Peebles tolerated it with his usual disdain.
“Did you find Mike yet?” She had to ask the question that was trembling on her tongue.
“No. We’re still looking. Which is why I’m here verifying information and the sheriff is checking into all his known hangouts.”
“Any evidence that leads you to think Mike might have done it?” Max barked out the question.
Frank frowned. “I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of an ongoing investigation.”
“Frank, we’re not the press. We’re friends of Sandra’s. Or would have been if she’d been here longer,” said Peta. Max was getting closer to being kicked every time he opened his mouth.
Frank sighed. “Sorry, yeah. But truthfully, we don’t have much to go on. We haven’t heard back from the State Forensics lab yet. There was nothing in the way of evidence around where the body was dumped thanks to the snow, which got pretty messed up, and nobody seems to have seen anything useful.” Frank turned his head.
“And that brings us to you, Mr. Wolfe. You were at the Red Barn that night as well, I understand. A Miss...” He checked his notebook again. “A Miss Tuesday March has verified that information.”
She stared steadily at Max. For once, his hazel eyes avoided hers, and he cleared his throat. “That’s correct, Lieutenant. For the record, we left at sometime after ten, I guess, and not long after that my ceiling caved in.”
Frank chuckled. “It’s okay, Mr. Wolfe. We’re not looking for an alibi here. Just your recollection of Mr. Dean’s presence.”
“To be honest, I don’t remember seeing him there, but as you said, the bar was very crowded.”
And doubtless Miss Tuesday March’s boobs were blocking your vision.
Frank sighed. “Well, thanks. It was worth a shot. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“Not at all, Frank. Anything we can do to help, you know that.” She staggered to her feet, and Max was immediately at her side with an arm around her, helping her pull away from the table.
Frank’s eyes narrowed slightly. “How’s the ankle? You were damn lucky, you know.”
“I do know. And Max here is a big help. But it’s getting much better, thanks.” Peta grimaced. “It seems Sandra wasn’t so lucky.”
The lieutenant shook his head. “A horrible thing. Truly horrible. Makes one wonder what can drive someone to do that to another human being.”
Max made appropriately sympathetic noises, and slid his hand to her waist, encouraging her to lean on him.
She was being driven to commit some crime on Max’s person, and it would definitely be sexual in nature. She wasn’t sure if it was in violation of city ordinances, however. But murder certainly was. And if Max didn’t take his hands off her, Lieutenant Summers might have another killing on his hands.
The motive however, would be quite clear. URST.
*~*~*~*
After listening to the hundredth sigh from Peta, Max gave up and threw in the towel. They’d worked throughout the day, spared Phoebe’s presence by the disarray at the offices of Mayfield Masterpieces, where she was currently holding the fort with all the determination of a knight under siege.
Apparently she’d been fielding calls from the media, making sure that Mayfield Masterpieces was spelled correctly if she was quoted, and fending off questions about Sandra Dean from anyone who passed the building.
It was a dreadful situation, and Phoebe was responding like an old war-horse hearing the bugle sound the charge.
“Come on. “
“Come on where?” asked Peta, looking up from her keyboard.
“Out. We’re going out to grab some dinner. The snow’s cleared, the restaurants are open, and we need a change of scenery.”
“Oh.”
It wasn’t the raging enthusiasm he’d hoped for, but then again, he’d managed to avoid any discussion of Miss Tuesday March for the entire day, so he told himself to count his blessings and take Peta to dinner. Perhaps a nice solid plate of lasagna would mellow her out and ease her mind.
If not, he’d get her drunk. Anything to stop the worrying he could see was going on in her active brain.
In a surprisingly short time, they were pulling up to the crowded parking lot behind Cary’s Café.
“Oh lord, Max. Here?” Her lips tightened.
“Sorry, darlin’. It’s the best food around, the best plowed parking lot, and they serve liquor. Can’t be too choosy. Besides, I’m just not in the mood for a super-sized burger and fries tonight.”
He lifted her from the car and carried her to the front door, where an exiting customer held it open with a smile.
He noted that she was now slippin
g her arms quite comfortably around his neck every time he picked her up. Apparently, she was getting used to it. Good. So was he.
An attentive hostess seated them right away, thanks to Peta’s injury, and surrounded by the hubbub of the full restaurant, she finally smiled.
“It’s called ‘cabin fever’,” she said.
“What is?”
“This.” She nodded at the crowded room. “You can bank on it, after every snowstorm. A couple of days indoors and people fall over each other to get out and see four different walls.”
He chuckled, then jumped as a finger poked him in the back.
“Hey you two.” It was Phoebe. “Glad you decided to get out. Good for you. Max, have you met Struthers?”
Max stood and shook the older man’s hand. “Yes indeed. You introduced us a while ago. Good to see you. You leaving? Coming? You eaten yet?”
“We’re on our way out,” answered Struthers in his smooth voice. “Lovely meal, too.”
“Join us for a minute or two? I’m sure it’ll take a while to get our orders in,” suggested Peta.
Chairs were rearranged, and the table for two became a table for four in next to no time.
“So, what do you think?” Phoebe leaned towards her.
“You mean about Sandra?”
“Well, of course I mean about Sandra. It’s all anyone’s talking about tonight.”
Struthers stroked his chin. “Very, very sad. A real tragedy. Haven’t had anything like it around these parts in years.”
Max nodded. As the conversation turned to the ins and outs of the murder investigation, he looked at Phoebe’s companion.
Struthers must be in his late fifties, mused Max. Quiet, yet amusing, he could see how Phoebe was charmed by the man. His eyes laughed when he did, and he was very intelligent, knowing exactly when to shut up. Which was right about now, since Phoebe and Peta were talking intensely about Sandra and her killer.
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