At the word “slicing,” Keely flinched and stepped back. Was it his imagination or had her face paled?
“What do you mean by that?” she demanded.
“Just some apparently ill-timed levity. No damage done—I’ve still got all my garlic scented fingers.”
“Max, we need to talk.”
Hearing an edge in her voice that hadn’t been there yesterday, Max made a production of rolling down his sleeves. “Now why does that statement sound so familiar?”
Keely stroked the petals of a drooping crimson flower thrust through her belt. “This is serious, Max.”
Charm wasn’t working, time to switch tactics. “I’ve only got to finish the dessert. Although it doesn’t appear the happy couple has an appetite for anything except each other.”
To Max’s surprise, Keely didn’t follow up on her demand for a heart-to-heart. Picking up a sprig of thyme which had fallen to the floor, she twirled the greenery between her thumb and index finger. “You’re doing both the cooking and the serving?”
Max couldn’t help comparing the memory of Flo’s studied attempts at arousal to Keely’s more natural movements. “Don’t tell the Seetons—who are paying a premium for my undivided attention—but I’m enjoying myself.”
Max began to clear the stove top. “They didn’t want a waiter, thought another person in the house might spoil the intimacy. I often performed both functions at Max’s Bistro. As a chef, preparing a perfect dish of Poule au Pot or Canard au Chou Croquant wasn’t enough. I enjoyed watching the patrons’ faces when they tasted my specialties.”
He sobered when he realized he’d lost his audience. “What’s on your mind, Keely?”
She touched the flower as if it were a talisman. “Last night I got a rather unpleasant phone call.”
As Keely related the brief conversation, Max’s fingers tightened on the handle of the skillet he was cleaning. When she finished, he said quietly, “Why didn’t you call me?”
She wiped off the countertop with a damp cloth, face averted. “I wanted to tell you in person.”
Not a satisfactory answer, but apparently it was all he was going to get. Keely seemed to expect he would grasp the subtle undertones of this conversation, but he remained clueless. This was a dance on a cliff’s edge in the dark, where a misstep could send them hurtling into the void of misunderstanding.
Max stacked a second clean skillet on top of the first. “This missing tape must be worth more than we suspected. No one would go to all this trouble just to embarrass the Postwaites.”
“Flo must be convinced there’s something on it she can’t afford to have anyone see.” Keely scrubbed harder.
Max was no expert on body language, but his companion’s jerky movements were eloquent of unbearable tension. “Am I to assume that the memory of last night’s call preyed on your mind until you realized you had to either tell me or go mad? Is that why you tracked me down, Keely?”
“Not exactly.” Her hand moved in smaller and smaller circles, her knuckles white above the blue cloth. “It wasn’t the first threat. I also had a little car trouble this afternoon.”
Max listened, aghast, as Keely described the notes she’d received and the incident in the parking lot, concluding, “If Flo meant the vandalism to intimidate me, she’s succeeded.”
She threw Max a challenging look which went right over his head. He understood that the vandalism was upsetting, but Keely seemed to expect more than sympathy from him.
Stalling for time, Max removed two tart shells and a bowl of chocolate mousse from the refrigerator. He said over his shoulder, “If Flo’s responsible for hiring the muscle, she’s definitely missing a few sections from a full Sunday edition.”
“Should I tell Detective Gifford everything?”
Keely sounded surprised. And very close. Max turned to find his companion at his elbow, her face flushed except for a colorless area around her compressed lips.
Max’s fingers felt sausage thick as he fumbled to remove the lid from the bowl. “We’re strictly amateur hour. Gifford’s got leverage—perhaps she can pry some answers out of the Poison Pen Publisher. It’s time for the professionals to take over.”
Food scents affected Max’s mood and the kitchen’s atmosphere was redolent with garlic, wine, and succulent meat juices. Keely raised his inner temperature by her very proximity. Being in such close quarters gave Max some very unbusinesslike urges.
Concentrating on the image of a roll in a snow bank and not in the hay, Max spooned chilled mousse into tart shells in irregular dollops. Chocolate’s a well known aphrodisiac, he recalled. Add rich liqueur, heavy cream…
Keely continued to knead the dish cloth between her fingers. Looking into her haunted eyes, he glimpsed fear and pain.
“Mimi was terrified, Max. She told me not to come back. No one else I called had time to talk to me, either. I thought some of these people were my friends—”
Keely broke off and Max slam-dunked another spoonful of mousse. Creamy, sensuously rich—he hoped Amy and Snuggle Buns choked on the blasted stuff. Dropping the spoon into the sink, he stalked to the refrigerator and yanked out another container.
Keely had made her position in their temporary alliance unarguably clear but the vibrato of distress in her voice made Max want to break something, starting with the nose of the guy who’d carved up her tires. Some partner he’d turned out to be! Shaving chocolate into delicate scrolls while Keely was being terrorized.
“Flo will deny everything,” he said brusquely. His fingers felt oddly detached from his body as they continued to arrange dark chocolate curls on the pale surface of the filled tarts. Black on white. Evil despoiling good.
Studying the abstract pattern he’d created, Max had a revelation. “That’s why Flo wanted me out of her office when she made her offer for the tape—it’ll be her word against yours!”
Keely began to pace, the low heels of her sandals clicking on the blue and white painted tiles. “We’ve got to get our hands on the tape before she does.”
“Then we have to find Jackson,” Max countered. “Gifford and her resources can accomplish that easier than we can.” He stored the garnished desserts in the refrigerator as Keely made another restless circuit of the room. “There’s something else bothering you, Keely. Talk to me, partner.”
Outside, darkness had fallen. As Keely turned to face Max, the window behind her reflected a blurred image of the untidy kitchen, an uncanny, visual echo of his chaotic thoughts.
“I’d like you to explain something, Max, before I talk to Detective Gifford.”
Here it came, the other shoe was about to drop. Keely’s tone forewarned of bad news. Before Max’s eyes, she changed into the doctor informing him that his dad had inoperable lung cancer, the banker refusing his loan application for a new restaurant, Lisa telling him that she’d filed for divorce—
He blinked and the phantoms from his past vanished.
Keely’s hand clenched over the flower at her belt. “I recognized the man who slashed my tires, Max.”
“I’ve been here since 5:30 and before that I was at Feast of Italy assembling supplies for tonight’s meal. It wasn’t me.”
“I thought it only fair to warn you before I told Gifford.”
Max didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. “Told Gifford what?”
Keely opened her hand; petals drifted down from the denuded stem in a noiseless, crimson rain. “At the Postwaite reception, you reprimanded one of your staff for a crooked tie.”
Crooked tie. Max visualized Keely, graceful and chic in her black dress. They’d exchanged a few sentences, Max skillfully laying the groundwork for a late supper invitation. He’d asked Steve to fill in the rest of the cheese table. Crooked tie—
“Doug? He’s fairly new and if he keeps up the sloppy work, he won’t be around. But what does Doug have to do with—”
“He was the man with the cleaver.”
“Doug slashed your tires? You tell Gifford that, sh
e’s going to tie me to this mess so tight I’ll never get loose!”
Max clenched his fists, struggling with the impulse to slam them into the refrigerator. When Lisa and David stripped him of Max’s Bistro, he’d fought briefly before surrendering. Folded like a gambler who’d lost his nerve.
Never again. He wasn’t going to toss his cards on the table and slink away like a whipped dog. Max strode out of the kitchen.
The happy couple still held hands, the untouched food cooling on their plates. They looked up, startled, at Max’s unceremonious entrance. “Dessert’s in the refrigerator. I’ll be back later to pack up. Happy anniversary.”
When Max returned, he found Keely standing by the window. Her apprehensive gaze flew toward his face.
“If your car’s out of commission, how did you get here?”
She flinched at his harsh tone. “By cab. I’ve just called another one—”
“Cancel it. You’re coming with me.”
Keely retreated toward the stove, her gaze flickering over the skillets as if assessing their potential value as defensive weapons. “I’ll scream if you come any closer.”
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Why should I go anywhere with you?”
Max folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t have the leisure to supply character witnesses, so I’m asking you to trust me, at least for a few hours. I smell a frame-up, but this time I’m not going to wait meekly until I’m nailed to the wall.”
Her anxious gaze raked his face. “Are you saying you had nothing to do with the phone call or the vandalism—”
“I’ll swear to it. Keely, give me a chance to clear myself. Come with me to talk to Doug. I’ll get answers from that slimy bastard if I have to use a garlic press on a sensitive part of his anatomy.”
Flo Netherton studied her companion’s broad shoulders as he walked ahead and tried to wipe the anger from her face. He couldn’t help being an utter Philistine, an absolute brute. It was the nature of the beast and, she acknowledged ruefully, the essence of his appeal. She froze in mid-step, shocked by this revelation. All these years and she was still punishing Daddy for interfering—He turned to look at her. “Let me get this straight. You don’t mind embarrassing these folks—robbing them, humiliating them, maybe knocking them ’round a bit, but I went too far?”
“Striking Mrs. Westhaven wasn’t part of the plan!” Still shaken by her flash of insight, Flo lowered her voice. Mustn’t let the neighbors hear. “She’s old, frail, she could have died!”
“She walked in on me.” His voice was little-boy sulky. “Shook her bony finger in my face. ‘What do you think you’re doing, young man?’ I didn’t hit her ’til she tried to grab my arm and then it was only a tap with that candlestick. Crushing her skull would have been as easy as cracking a walnut—”
“Never mind. You explained that,” Flo cut in hastily.
She watched him force the door. He wasn’t only an animal in bed, he was an animal, period. Complete with cunning, inexhaustible sex drive, and a complete lack of morals. Just the way she liked her men. Her nerve and intelligence matched up beautifully with brute strength and ruthlessness—
Erasing erotic memories of gymnastics performed on crimson silk sheets, Flo surveyed the room. “The videotape’s got to be here. I want the notes back, too. I’m sure she saved them.”
“What if the video isn’t here? How far do you want me to go in squeezing it out of the O’Brien woman?”
Keely O’Brien’s piquant face flashed into Flo’s mind. The woman kowtowed to the rich, recorded on film the tasteless spectacles of their ceremonies. Daughters married off with the blessing of the church, sold like cattle according to bank balances, breeding lines, and social registers. The process nauseated Flo, bringing back devastating memories. She had been a similar sacrifice on a golden altar.
“Can I have fun with her if she won’t cooperate?”
Flo said coldly, “I’ll leave that to your discretion.”
His gravelly chuckle caused her spine to tingle and she asked herself again, “What am I doing?” It was a far cry from tweaking pompous egos in print and despoiling a few pampered brides of their gifts to condoning the infliction of physical pain.
Time to crack the whip over her unruly beast man. “Babe, I want you to stop collecting dirty money.”
“What?” He looked incredulous, then angry. “You’re telling me to forfeit the cash? Let ’em off the hook?”
“I won’t be a part of a sordid criminal endeavor. This operation started out as a unique social protest—”
“Yeah.” He stared at her, eyes narrowed. A chill tickled the nape of her neck, feathered down her spine. “You think I’m a dumb wind-up toy—point me in one direction and I’ll keep trotting till I run down. No, Florrie, I’ve got ideas of my own. When you came up with this scheme, I saw a way to make easy money. A way to make the old man proud.”
Sensing her control over him had slipped, she allowed a scornful smile to caress her lips. “Ideas? You delicious gutter-boy, any ideas in your head are ones I put there. You need me, Hard Body. Without me, you’re nothing.”
“Nothing?” Reaching out to stroke her cheek, her companion smiled at her involuntary recoil. “You forget I’m a quick learner. And what a good teacher you are.”
Chapter 16
Long before they reached the address where Feast of Italy’s records showed Doug lived, Max had changed his mind about letting Keely accompany him. The building’s rundown condition provided the perfect excuse. Switching off the engine, he shifted to face her seated in the passenger seat.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for both of us to confront Doug. Keep the doors locked while I’m gone.”
Keely glanced at the trash littering the sidewalk. “I’m coming in with you.”
“Keely—”
She faced him, her eyes dark and unreadable in the dimness of the interior. “You were so hot to prove your innocence, Max. What changed your mind?”
She lifted her hand to forestall his reply. “Do you want to talk to Doug alone to get your stories straight?”
“You have nothing to fear from me,” Max began, but she shook her head.
“The other possibility is you’ve made an arbitrary decision that it’s too dangerous for me. After six hours on my feet, I can outlast any bride on the dance floor with the handicap of a camera in my hands. I’m fully aware saving Key Shot may involve some physical risk.”
“When we looked up the address, I had no way of knowing this place was a hatching ground for drug dealers.” Max gestured toward the decaying building. “If Doug carved up your tires, he was probably high on something and I don’t want you caught in the line of fire—”
“Doug had a chance to hurt me in the parking lot and he ran. I’m not afraid of Doug.”
Max had no trouble recognizing mule-headedness. He’d grown up surrounded by stubborn women. Knowing his cause was hopeless, he made a final effort. “Doug may be a weasel and a coward, but even weasels bite when they’re cornered.”
“I’m coming in with you.”
Shrugging, he opened the driver’s side door and climbed out. Keely met him in front of the van, her hands thrust into the pockets of her slacks and her mouth set in a determined line.
Max held out the van keys and his cell phone. “Suit yourself. But if things get rough, I want you to make a run for it and call the police.”
Their gazes locked. A breeze had sprung up; Keely’s hair rippled like wind-stirred water. Brushing it back, she smiled again, this time without the edge, and accepted the keys and phone. “Sounds like a plan.”
After a glance at the lobby, Max chose the stairs over the ancient elevator whose old-fashioned grill looked like a prison cell. According to the information on Doug’s application, he lived on the third floor of this pleasure palace. The stairway stank of urine, alcohol, and mildew, its treads littered with cigarette butts that had had the life stomped out of them.
/> Keely didn’t belong here. She appeared composed and elegant in her apricot blouse and coffee colored slacks. Only the disorder of reddish hair tumbled across her brow and the pinched look around her mouth betrayed her inner tension.
Outside the door of 303, Max paused. “Last chance,” he said softly. “Say the word and I’ll take you home.”
Keely tucked her hair behind her ears in a nervous gesture; tiny gold bell earrings gleamed in the dim light illuminating the narrow hallway.
She pitched her voice low, to match his. “Max, for the past week I’ve been pushed around. Pushed to my limit. I hate feeling helpless and scared. If confronting Doug is what it takes to get my courage back—to get my life back—”
She broke off and rapped on the door.
It was yanked open almost immediately and a scowling face appeared. “Beat it! I ain’t in the mood to cruise tonight!”
Stepping back involuntarily, Keely realized by the look on Doug’s face that his employer was the last person he expected to see. “What are you doing here?”
Without answering, Max shouldered his way inside. “Where’s the cleaver?”
“What are you talking about?” Doug’s gaze slid away from Max, only to meet Keely’s stare. He swore, a trace of a drawl creeping in. “Treed like a lame possum! You recognized me.”
“I’m looking for the cleaver that’s missing from the racks at Feast of Italy, Doug. Where is it?”
“The one you used to slash my tires.” Keely followed Max inside and closed the door. An unexpected wave of nausea rose in her throat; she choked it down. “Who hired you to trash my car?”
She could almost see the wheels turn in Doug’s head as he divided his wary gaze between his uninvited guests. In his right hand, the waiter carried a gym bag. He was clad in the same dingy sweatshirt and faded jeans he’d worn earlier.
Keely’s head throbbed. She braced her feet as her head spun and her limbs trembled.
It was the smell, she realized, that was making her feel ill. Familiar sour odors of unwashed laundry mingled with overripe garbage, stale beer, and long dead dreams. Cigarette smoke layered over musty, peeling wallpaper. Scents of a joyless life endured.
Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes Page 14