Max, however, was oblivious to the approaching collision. He grabbed Keely’s wrist, forcing her to look at him. “Listen to me! The first moment I saw you, I knew I needed you in my life. I wanted to spend time with you, get to know you. But you keep chopping down every effort to build an emotional bridge between us. Your mother let you down, Keely. Eric let you down. How do you know that I’ll do the same?”
“Hey, Bud!” The man lurched to a stop beside their table, his head thrust forward as he surveyed Max with loathing. A meaty hand landed on Max’s arm.
“Excuse me.” Max removed the sausage thick fingers. “This is a private conversation.”
“This your wife?” The bullet head and red-rimmed gaze swung toward Keely. “Does she know about your bad habits, mister?”
“Bad habits?”
A snaky triumph slithered over the newcomer’s reddened features. “Maybe you should tell her, mister. Tell her you were flirting with my wife. Tell her how you danced real close.”
Max plucked off the hairy hand which had clamped back on his upper arm. “You just sat there while I did all that?”
“I wasn’t here, was I, mister? I was pulling a late shift at the plant. My friends told me what my old lady was up to in here last night, you and her rubbing ’gainst each other like animals in heat. Did you go home with her? I’ll kill you if I find out you’ve been in my house, in my bed—”
“I’d be a real cretin to confirm it then, wouldn’t I?” With a disgusted shake of his head, Max glanced over to where two equally burly gentlemen radiated beery satisfaction at having gotten their buddy fueled up for a brawl.
Keely felt like a spectator at a dog fight, where one dog was reluctant to fight and the other craved blood, but was unsure where to begin biting.
“There’s been a misunderstanding.” With insulting deliberation, Max removed the paw which had snagged his arm for the third time. “Listen carefully, sir. I did not flirt with your wife. I did not dance with your wife. In fact, I couldn’t identify the lady in question if she appeared in a line-up of one.”
A forceful snort sent beer fumes wafting across the table. “My buddies say different.”
Max raised a sardonic eyebrow. In the clipped tones of an aristocrat accosted by a peasant, he said, “Since this is my first visit to this particular establishment, I can assure you that whomever your wife danced with last night, it was not I.”
“Max, please don’t antagonize him!”
The man’s brow creased as his sodden brain replayed Max’s contemptuous speech in an attempt at comprehension. Awareness crashed over his heavy features and he growled.
Keely groaned and sat very still, keeping her expression neutral, hoping that someone—anyone—would intervene to stop this farce. The situation was patently ridiculous, but teetered on the edge of chaos. Any unexpected movement might tip the balance. Sensing the potential for violence, a crowd gathered around the booth and their hovering presence prodded the drunken intruder into action.
“I think you’ve got a smart mouth, mister. One that needs stopping up like a foul drain.” The hand moved again, this time fastening on Max’s throat.
Keely jumped up with an outraged cry, but as she did, she spotted a familiar face in the crowd of onlookers. Jackson! The ex-chauffeur’s gaze shifted until he met Keely’s. He began pushing through the mob in the opposite direction.
Keely glanced back in time to see Max’s fist connect with the red bull’s-eye of the drunk’s nose. The thickset man staggered backward with a grunt, arms windmilling, and crashed into a table which overturned, sending beer and glasses flying. A woman shrieked; the more sober bystanders ducked the shower of foam.
Since Max seemed to be holding his own, Keely started in pursuit of Jackson, but the entire room dissolved into a gigantic fist fight around her. She dodged flailing arms and stumbling bodies, trying to catch up to her quarry and escape the frenzy unscathed.
Stumbling over an overturned chair near the bar, she righted herself. Just ahead, Jackson glanced back as he neared the front door and she saw blood trickling from his lip. Some helpful soul had slowed him down with a punch to the mouth.
“Jackson!” she called. “Wait, I want to talk to you!”
He hesitated as Keely broke clear of the melee. Fists on hips, he rocked back on his heels, a crooked grin on his bruised mouth.
Keely sidled closer, keeping a cautious distance between them. Where was Max? She didn’t dare turn her back on Jackson to look for him. “I think you have something I want.”
“You’ve got something I want.” Jackson’s insolent gaze traveled up her short leather skirt and halted at the neckline of the scarlet blouse. “Maybe we could make a deal.”
“Maybe,” she said, her heart beating so loudly she was afraid he could hear the thump above the yells and the jukebox’s racket. Keely hated talking to men who never looked above her collar bone. “You stole something at the Postwaite reception.”
“The videotape? Yeah, that made interesting viewing. My new address will be on Easy Street—once I cash in.”
Jackson gave a sly shake of his head. “I’ll call you. We can do business, but it’ll have to be just you and me.”
He opened the door and darted out.
Keely yelped when a hand closed on her arm.
“Relax—it’s me.” Max was panting. He had a reddened spot on his jaw to match the bruise on his forehead.
“Jackson was here!” Keely told him excitedly. “He admitted taking the videotape—”
“Let’s make tracks.” Max towed Keely forward. “I heard the bartender calling the police.”
He shoved open the door, letting in the howl of approaching sirens. They fled, ducking around the corner as two police cars, lights flashing, drew up in front. With unspoken accord, Max and Keely dashed down the grimy alley corridor, putting as much distance between them and the forces of law and order as possible.
As she ran, Keely drew in gulping, shallow breaths. Her feet hurt—her scarlet pumps had been designed for looking good on the dance floor, not wind sprints. Beside her, Max loped along. He looked exhilarated, a lock of hair flopping over his eye. Bar brawls and quick getaways suited the guy.
Max peered into the depths of Keely’s refrigerator. “You must only use the ten items or less lane at the grocery store.”
“I’ve been too busy to go shopping.” Keely sank into a chair and propped her feet on the seat of another. “I wish I’d grabbed my cheeseburger before leaving.”
“I’d whip up something, but even a guy with my exceptional culinary gifts can’t do much with a jar of olives, wrinkled lettuce leaves, and a container of expired yogurt.” He slammed the door. “Woman, you have the palate of a garbage disposal.”
Keely eyed him sourly. “You seem quite chipper for a fellow who narrowly avoided arrest tonight.”
“We weren’t the ones breaking pool cues over other people’s heads,” Max pointed out as he prowled the room, opening and closing cupboard doors.
Keely yearned to remove her shoes, but feared her feet would be revealed as bloody stumps. “As abhorrent as the subject of dance is to me after tonight’s experiences, I have to ask. Were you really bumping and grinding with that man’s wife last night? I can’t quite picture you in the role of Patrick Swayze—”
“The lush was so loaded that if he walked out on the interstate, he would have been ticketed by the state police for exceeding the tonnage limit.” Max removed a box of cereal from the pantry and checked the freshness date. “Your kitchen needs some comfort food.”
Keely persisted. “So you didn’t check out the Brew and Cue last night on a solo trip?”
“No.” Max slammed the pantry door. “The three Sloshed-kateers mistook me for someone else.”
Keely knew they were avoiding the prickly subject of the investigative report. From her seat, she could see the flashing indicator on the answering machine, but she had no intention of reviewing her messages with Max present. Not when the caller could b
e Moira on a tirade.
Leaning forward, Keely removed a shoe and massaged her arch. “If you hadn’t scared him off, Jackson might have opened up.”
“Judging by his leer, your blouse was the only thing in danger of being opened.” Max was eating handfuls of Captain Crunch straight from the box. “Next time you’re at the store, pick up a box of Fruit Loops.”
“Fruit Loops?” Despite her exhaustion, Keely smiled. “The great gourmand, Max Summers, likes Fruit Loops?”
“That’s not something I tell my clients.” Max licked his fingertips with sensuous enjoyment. Remembering the taste of his lips on hers, Keely felt her inner pilot light ignite.
“What do we do next? Besides wait for Jackson to call.”
“Judging by his crack about Easy Street, the slime must have seen something pretty juicy on that tape.” Max drummed his fingers on the table. “Since you saw what the camera saw—”
“I saw a man turning away from a conversation with Flo!” Keely pointed the heel of the shoe she still held at Max. “A man I thought was you.”
“Now you know it wasn’t.” Max appeared unruffled by her peevish tone. “For the sake of argument, let’s assume that the guy you saw with Flo is the goon who called you last night.”
Keely nodded. “No argument here. Flo’s desire to buy the tape indicates she didn’t want evidence of that meeting lying around. If the man who threatened me is the same guy she met in the hall, he’s camera shy, too.”
“Concentrate, Keely. Is it possible you interrupted some type of exchange?”
Keely kneaded her thigh and gave him a disbelieving look. “Exchange? You mean Flo handing over money, drugs—”
She broke off, eyes squeezed shut in concentration as she pictured again the scene in the hallway. The man’s hands had been shielded by his body as he turned away…
Keely gasped and sat bolt upright.
“What?” Max beckoned with both hands. “Spill it, O’Brien. I see the glitter of inspiration in your eyes.”
In her excitement, Keely sputtered the words. “Rose’s diamond necklace! I’ll bet Flo handed over the stolen necklace! That’s why the police didn’t find it on the premises.”
“Bingo!” Max crowed exultantly. “That would explain why she was so desperate to get her hands on the tape!”
“The man I saw was probably Flo’s connection to the Sterling Ring—and the muscle behind the extortion scheme!”
“Our prime suspect as Flo’s killer,” Max contributed. “No wonder he called you again yesterday.”
“Tonight’s the deadline he gave me.” Keely couldn’t suppress a shudder as she looked around the kitchen. Inside was cozy with warmth and light, but outside darkness pressed against the windows and shadows crept across the grass. “Even with a patrol car cruising the neighborhood, I’m considering checking into a hotel for the next couple nights.”
Max gestured toward the answering machine. “In that case, don’t you think you should check your messages?”
Keely could tell from Max’s expression that if she didn’t, he would. She removed her other pump before rising and limping on bare feet across the floor. Leaning against the counter, she hit the playback button.
A curt, unfamiliar voice announced, “You’re scheduled to photograph my daughter’s wedding next Saturday.”
Keely tried to visualize her decimated schedule. Saturday. Courtney Fairmont. With the cancellations, she’d assumed the family would have already engaged another photographer, neglecting to give her the courtesy of a telephone call. Most of her appointments this week had simply failed to show up.
“I told Courtney I wanted another photographer, but she insists on having you.” Hugo Fairmont sounded baffled.
Keely retrieved a visual image of the caller. Hugo Fairmont, a grizzled man who looked more like a bear emerging from a hibernation period than the president of a Fortune 500 company, was not in the habit of mincing words.
“I got Courtney to agree you wouldn’t photograph the rehearsal dinner, but you’re still on for the wedding. In this household,” another spark of baffled fury mixed with pride, “What Courtney wants, Courtney gets.”
Bless Courtney, Keely thought fervently. Bless her and all other spoiled society princesses.
Hugo wasn’t finished. “If anything goes wrong at my little girl’s wedding, I’m holding you personally responsible. Ask my business competitors—I always get satisfaction.”
The remainder of the messages were from importunate and frustrated members of the media. Keely and Max listened in silence until the last click on the tape.
“Those clowns have freedom of the press confused with the license to harass.” Max’s scowl had grown fiercer with each message. “Who’s this Fairmont character?”
“A man with a daughter Flo hated. No measly silver spoons for the Fairmonts. Courtney was born with an entire set of cutlery in her mouth, including a shrimp fork.” Keely hobbled back to her own seat. “Her unpretentious theme is Camelot.”
Max looked bemused. “Camelot? Feast of Italy’s catering that affair.” He frowned. “At least it’s still on the calendar. Anna Marie ordered me to keep the Fairmonts happy.”
“You can probably expect a call from Papa Bear wielding an iron paw in an iron glove.” Keely shed her leather jacket and ruefully inspected a stain on her silk blouse. Someone had splashed her with a drink during the fracas at the Brew & Cue. “You look beat,” Max said sympathetically. “Why don’t you throw some clothes and a toothbrush in a suitcase?”
Keely left her guest finishing off the box of dry cereal while she went upstairs to change into jeans and pack an overnight bag. Returning to the kitchen, she found Max scribbling on the pad of paper she used for grocery lists.
Leaning over his shoulder, Keely read aloud the items he’d jotted down. “Swithin Cream? May Sallat? Who are Swithin and May? Suspects in Flo’s murder?”
Max ripped the top sheet from the pad. “Food ignoramus! I’m just going over the menu for the Fairmont wedding.”
Keely felt buoyed by a surge of excitement. If she wasn’t arrested for murder and dear Courtney’s reception went off without a hitch, she still might have a business to salvage.
Keely dropped the overnight bag on a chair and regarded it thoughtfully. She was being pushed around again—and she didn’t like it.
Max got to his feet. “May I drop you at a hotel? Or would you rather I followed you downtown as a precaution?”
“Neither, thank you.” Keely squared her shoulders. “I’ve decided I’m not going to let a voice on the phone drive me out of my home.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Max grabbed her overnight bag off the chair. “You’re alone, vulnerable. What if this jerk carries out one of his favorite threats and sets fire to your studio?”
“Detective Gifford said the police would be keeping an eye on my house for a few nights. So far, nothing’s happened—”
“Nothing except a woman’s been murdered in your studio! Trust me, Keely, this is not a good idea. You’re either going to a hotel or back to my place.”
“Trust you?” Anger blossomed in her brain, a terrible red flower. She snatched the bag from Max, cradling it protectively against her chest. “I’m afraid I don’t trust you. Not without a background clearance from a detective in my hand!”
Max rolled his eyes heavenward. “Excuse me, but the bus seems to have missed my stop. One minute we’re working brilliantly as a team and the next you’re telling me you don’t trust me?”
The rational part of Keely’s brain rebuked her for overreacting, but Max’s casual assumption of control raised too many unpleasant specters from her past.
“I’m not helpless, nor am I especially vulnerable. I had deadbolt locks and an alarm system installed this morning. I have my phone speed dial set on 911.”
“Keely, I admire your guts, but not your judgment. Please, reconsider. Look, let me stay. Surely you’ve got a vacant guest room or a spare couch—”
“Yes?”
“You know who this is.”
Jackson! Keely stabbed the message record button. “Go on.”
“Any lawyer’ll tell you that possession is nine-tenths of the law, Sweet Cheeks.”
Keely tensed. She felt Max’s body respond, his fingers pressing into the flesh above her jeans. “I want my videotape.”
“I want to get rich. Since we both want something, we should be able to work out an agreement.”
Keely held the phone so Max could hear Jackson’s response. She gave in to the impulse to lean against him, drawing strength from the contact.
“Give me a reasonable figure and we might make a deal.”
Jackson laughed, an ugly sound. “I’ve got another customer and that’s gonna drive up the price considerably.”
Max whispered in her left ear, “Set up a meeting,” and Keely said quickly, “Let’s meet. Perhaps we can work something out.”
“I’ll call with a time and place. Or better yet, maybe I’ll just show up and surprise you.”
Jackson severed the connection and Keely put down the phone. She realized she was still pressed against Max’s lean frame. Head averted, she pushed past him, moving to the center of the room. Drawing a deep breath, she said, “Did you hear him say he’s got another customer? That means I’m off the hook.”
“How do you figure that?” Max followed her, pacing with deliberate steps. He stopped less than a foot away.
“Jackson must have recognized and contacted the man on the tape.” Keely gestured toward the phone. “By now, the firebug knows I don’t have the video. He won’t be bothering me tonight.”
“What if you’ve guessed wrong?”
Keely retreated, although Max had made no move to touch her. She felt torn between the need to assert her independence and the desire to lean against the wall of his strength again.
Max’s eyes were bleak. “I can’t force you to accept my help, Keely. If you change your mind about staying at my place or needing a lift to a hotel, call me.”
Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes Page 21