by Faver, JD
A tingle of fear kissed the back of Jon’s neck. “Of course I know Dean. He’s an old fraternity brother of mine. I hired him to cater the art show. Denny is his younger brother.”
“And this Denny, as you call him, was hired to provide a valet parking service tonight?”
“Yes, there wasn’t enough street parking available.” Jon shook his head. “Tell me what’s happened.”
“It appears that your friends carried out the burglaries while you entertained the victims. Your pal Dean called you the mastermind. He says you were the one who came up with the plan.”
Jon felt as though the building had fallen on him. “No, of course I didn’t,” he growled.
“How did they get the guest list?” Detective Obermann made cryptic notes on his pad and glanced knowingly at the other detective.
Jon struggled to understand. Nothing they were saying was making any sense. “I didn’t give it to him. Dean wanted a head count. I had my assistant pull up the guest list on her computer so she could give him the total. He needed a number so he could order the right amount of food.”
Obermann and Wise exchanged a knowing glance. Obermann chortled. “He wanted it so he could choose the most affluent homes to burgle.”
Jon stared at the man, open-mouthed. “I can’t believe this.” He ran the fingers of his free hand through his hair. “You’re telling me that Dean and his brother broke into the homes of some of the art patrons while they were at the show?”
Obermann gave a slight shake of his head, his eyes fastened on Jon as a bird of prey might examine the mouse held in the grip of his talons.
Wise leaned forward, his palms flat on the table. “You know there were no break-ins. Thanks to you, Dean’s brother, Dennis, received the keys right from the victims hands when he parked their cars.” Detective Wise stepped back, folding his arms across his chest.
Icy fingers of fear tickled down Jon’s spine, sending little spasms skittering into all his organs.
Detective Obermann’s dry voice cut into the silence, like a scalpel slicing through flesh. “When did you see Dean Alonso last?”
Jon moistened his suddenly dry lips. “When I last saw Dean, he was setting up the bar and buffet early in the evening, but I looked for him an hour later and couldn’t locate him.”
“Why did you think the artist’s name was Millie?” Wise asked. “If you were sponsoring her, why didn’t you know her name?”
“I don’t know.” Jon’s stomach roiled with anger and shame. He’d been such an idiot on so many levels.
Obermann’s expression was flat; unreadable. “So, you are denying any involvement with the crimes?”
“Of course, because I wasn’t involved.” Jon looked at his handcuffed wrist and then at the two detectives as the severity of the situation caved in on him. “I’d like to call my lawyer now.”
~*~
Max and her brother were questioned and released. They weren’t given any information as to why Jon was being held.
She felt robotic, like a metal shell with its intricate wiring ripped out. She shivered and Merrick wrapped his tuxedo jacket around her shoulders, but it failed to warm her. The chill was soul deep.
She stood beside Merrick, feeling strangely isolated, as though she was watching the events unfold from some distant planet. Yet, she was grateful for Merrick’s big, take charge presence. Without him, she might collapse into tears.
Merrick called a taxi to take them to his truck which was parked at Willa’s apartment building.
Max stumbled climbing up into the truck in her short, skimpy dress and stilettos. Merrick lifted her onto the passenger’s seat, a look of concern on his face. She managed a facial twitch that may have passed for a smile.
Merrick, ever the big brother, fastened the seat belt around her and closed the door with a solid thunk.
It started to rain as soon as they pulled out of the parking area. The windshield wipers beat a rhythmic tempo in counterpoint to the steady downpour.
Max leaned back into the seat and closed her eyes. As she felt her tension ebbing, she imagined herself melting into the leather. Erasing herself; evaporating; ceasing to be.
She opened her eyes, focused on the windshield wipers and the rain. The rhythmic sweep of the wiper blades was hypnotic, as they arced across the glass, clearing a runway for new raindrops to land and then clearing it again.
Merrick drove Max to her loft and held his jacket over her to protect her from the rain.
She tried to send him away but he followed her upstairs.
He turned on the overhead lights, illuminating the loft with an unkind glare.
Max took a few steps into her space, gazing around at the harshness of her quarters. The bare necessities of her existence had been sufficient up until now. Tonight, her environment seemed even less inviting than the prospect of a cell had been.
She cleared her throat. “I’m okay, Merrick,” she insisted. “Really.”
“Why don’t you get a few things together and come to my house for a couple of days. You can sleep in a real bed and eat regular meals.”
A sense of panic rose in her throat and tried to strangle her. “I have to talk to Jon. If I go with you he won’t know where I am.” She shrugged out of Merrick’s jacket and handed it back to him with an attempt at a smile.
“Do you want me to stay with you?” Merrick asked. “I can call Willa and let her know.”
Max gave him a hug. “No, you silly, over-protective big brother. Go home to Willa. She’s got to be worried about both of us.”
“Are you sure?”
“Please go.” She gave him a little shove toward the door and when he’d gone, locked it behind him.
Max leaned against the cold metal door. Her loft seemed eerily empty with so many of her canvasses at the gallery.
She sank down on the futon and removed the high-heeled sandals, amazed that she’d been able to stay upright on them for so long. She had no more tears to shed. Curled up, she pulled the duvet around her, still wearing the red sequined dress.
Max lay awake for some time listening to the rain pelting the skylight. It echoed through the loft, making it sound as hollow as she felt.
~*~
By the time Merrick turned his truck into the gated community that he called home, the rain had stopped and the sky was a lighter shade of gray with the approach of dawn.
In spite of his concern for Max, he couldn’t help but think she would be better off without her designer boyfriend. The guy was a loose cannon.
He shook his head, remembering when he’d been attacked. Jon Donnell was not a rational man.
When he pulled into his driveway beside the Jetta, a feeling of warmth suffused him. An independent man, he’d always felt complete unto himself, but now he felt like he was missing something vital unless Willa was in close physical proximity to him.
When he opened the front door, he was surprised that Blondie didn’t greet him. Blondie always waited up for him.
The house was quiet. A single ray of golden sunshine slanted in through the undraped French doors and windows, the promise of a better day.
He opened the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of juice. He reflected on the previous nights events; glad the police realized that he and Max weren’t involved in whatever crime Jon had committed. He touched the bruised area high on his cheekbone, where Jon had landed one lucky punch.
Merrick grinned, thinking that Jon should be counting a few bruises of his own today
He set the empty glass in the sink and ran a stream of water into it. He stripped his loosened tie from around his neck and removed his jacket.
Opening the door to the Master Suite, he stood beside his bed where Willa and Blondie slept. He felt a tightness in his chest.
Willa’s clothing was draped across a chair and she was clad only in her panties and one of his favorite regatta tee shirts. A shaft of sunlight glinted in the aureole of red-blonde hair encircling her face on the pillow.
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A lump formed in Merrick’s throat as he gazed at her. His throat constricted and he swallowed convulsively. Great beauty always affected him in this way.
He stripped down to his shorts and slipped into bed between Willa and Blondie.
She stirred and opened her eyes. “Oh, Merrick,” she said, her voice thick with sleep. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
He pulled the cover up around both of them and nestled her in his arms. Merrick closed his eyes and sighed. Holding Willa felt like he’d finally come home.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
It was early afternoon when Willa knocked on Max’s door. Merrick had warned her that Max was pretty shaken up by the previous night’s misadventures.
Max opened the door, darkness circling her eyes, her cheeks pale and hollowed. She still wore the red dress, but she’d ditched the shoes.
“C’mon on in to hell,” Max invited. “No, I forgot. I’m in purgatory.”
Willa could feel anguish radiating from Max like heat from a furnace. She gazed around at the few remaining paintings leaning against the walls. “It looks so bare here in purgatory.” She took a quick tour of the loft. “I can’t believe you sold so many paintings. The last count was ten, not including the two you put on reserve.”
“That should make my agent happy,” Max said.
Willa gave her a long look. “I guess your dour mood means that you haven’t heard from Jon.”
“Nope.” Max shrugged. “I don’t know if he’s in jail or not. And I don’t know why he was arrested in the first place.”
“You poor kid.” Willa folded her into a hug.
Max clung to her for a moment and then pulled away. “I refuse to believe that Jon would do anything wrong.” She shook her head, as though her denial would make it true.
Willa reached for her cell. “Let me see if I can shed any light on the situation.” She made some phone calls and determined that Jon had been released, late morning, and that no charges had been filed.
“So, where is he?” Max wailed.
“He’s probably asleep, honey. They questioned him all night long.”
Max turned an anxious face to her. “I should let him sleep, right?”
Willa bit back the terse comment on the tip of her tongue. “Yeah, let him sleep. He’ll get in touch with you when he’s had a chance to regroup.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to me,” Max said. “Maybe he hates me.”
“It’s not reasonable that a man would love you one day and hate you the next.” Willa’s heart ached with empathy, but she didn’t think it wise to join Max on the pity potty. She rummaged through the stack of clean clothes on the army foot locker and selected a pair of jeans and tee shirt. “Get dressed. We’re going out.”
“If I’m not here when he comes...”
“He’s sleeping now,” Willa assured her. “I’m taking you to lunch because I know that you haven’t eaten a bite since last night.”
“I’m not hungry,” Max said.
“Yes you are,” Willa countered. “And if you’re not, you can keep me company while I eat.”
This brought a weak attempt at a laugh. “Isn’t my brother feeding you?” She was beginning to sound more like the old Max. She folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t tell me he’s been keeping you as a mere sex slave.”
Willa had to laugh at that. “Maybe he is, but I’m okay with it as long as he keeps me.”
She stopped at a news stand and picked up the New York Times as well as the Houston Chronicle before driving Max to a nearby IHOP. They commandeered a semi-circular booth and spread out the papers.
Willa ordered a three-egg omelet for each of them, thinking that Max needed protein.
Max took one newspaper while Willa opened the other.
“Look! Here we are.” Max held up the Arts and Entertainment section, grinning in spite of her anxious state. “They did a whole page on the show.”
Willa slid closer and read over her shoulder. “The critic loved you. He talks about your modest charm offsetting your immense talent. This guy really gets you. He was crazy about your use of color and...”
“Look how happy Jon looks in this picture.” Max touched his face in the photo. Her eyes filled with tears.
Willa sighed and pressed her lips into a determined line. “We made the society pages as well.” She spread the section she was looking at over the one in Max’s hands.
A smiling Merrick stood in front of the large slashed painting, embracing Max and Willa, one on each side. The caption read, Artist Max Foster with her brother, Architect Merrick Foster and his fiancée Willa Beth Shaw, the artist’s agent.
“Oh,” Willa said. “Merrick is going to faint. I didn’t tell the critic I was engaged to him.”
“I’m sure he’ll take it in stride,” Max said. “I wish I knew what Jon was doing.” Her voice sounded wistful.
Their omelets arrived and Willa carefully folded the newspaper, setting aside the portions she planned to save. “Let’s enjoy our food and then check the New York Times.”
Although Max had claimed not to be hungry, she tucked into the omelet and cleaned her plate.
Willa smiled. Last night had been a nightmare. Max was coming around, at least until she connected with Jon Donnell. Willa hoped he was in a forgiving frame of mind whenever he decided to surface.
In the car, Max turned to Willa.
“Would you call Jon? You could just be checking to see if he’s alright.”
“I can do that for you.” Willa used her cell phone to dial his number. The phone rang several times and Jon’s voice mail message picked up.
“Jon, it’s Willa. I’m concerned about you. Please call me back.” She flipped the phone closed. “Not answering or not there.”
“Maybe he’s still sleeping.” Max looked at her hopefully.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Willa said. “He must be exhausted.”
~*~
Jon heard the phone ring but didn’t get up.
He’d been asleep since he returned to his flat, falling face down and fully clothed across his bed.
When he opened his eyes, the pain was still there. He felt an aching emptiness since Max Foster revealed her lies. Why would she lead him to believe she wasn’t the artist? Why was she playing him?
He turned over, stretching his arm out to the spot where she’d lain with him on Friday night.
She said that she loved me.
It had to have been about the one-man show. Maybe she thought he wouldn’t have promoted her work unless she slept with him. But, no, she pretended her brother was Max Foster. They were all in on it together; Max, her brother, her agent. They were all probably laughing at him for being such a gullible fool.
And then there were Dean and Denny Alonso. They’d gotten to him big time. Jon had even arranged for the use of the Claremont truck to assist in the burglaries.
A low growl crawled up from his chest, sounding more like some anguished animal than a mere man in pain.
Jon struggled to his feet, feeling disoriented and sluggish. Stripping off the rest of his clothing, he took a long shower before daring to face himself in the mirror.
He had a split lip and a sore jaw courtesy of Merrick Foster. His front teeth seemed to be a little loose. Pretty boy packs a punch!
He needed a shave, but he ignored the dark scruffy shadow.
Jon spied Max’s toothbrush, residing alongside his in the ceramic container and recalled her bringing it here. He reached out and stroked the handle with his finger. Who are you, baby? Who are you really?
He sighed, jerking himself upright. He squinted at his rough image in the mirror.
Not going to sit around here like a complete fool feeling sorry for myself.
He got dressed and threw some clothes into a bag. He tossed the bag in the trunk of his T-bird. He’d grabbed the Sunday paper outside his door as he departed and dumped it onto the floorboard. He wanted to put as much space as possible between
himself and Houston and all the people who were laughing at him.
~*~
Max paced around and tried to clean up a little after Willa dropped her off at the loft. She swept the floors and arranged her painting supplies, noting that she was almost out of the gel medium she favored.
Perhaps, if she could reclaim some kind of order into her environment, she might be able to resolve the chaos in the rest of her life.
Max lifted a fresh canvas onto her easel, but had no desire to lift a paintbrush. Inspiration, her constant muse, who’d kept her head filled with clamorous colors and sensual designs; who’d crammed more images into her brain than she could paint in a lifetime; Inspiration had deserted her.
She turned the rest of her canvasses face out and evaluated them. Most were pretty good, even by her own tough standards.
She took out the clipping of Jon standing beside her. They both looked so happy. Jon was smiling and he had his arm around her. Max kissed her finger and placed it on Jon’s face as a lone tear streaked down her cheek.