Just her luck, Keely thought ruefully, to find a man who actually listened to the stupidity she babbled!
Max paused on the top step and turned to face her. Keely gave him a questioning look.
“I meant what I said at the pool hall. You’re a fever in my blood. When all this is over, I’ll prove it to you.”
“Max—”
“Let me stay, Keely. Let me help you. Don’t dissolve our partnership.” His face was shadowed, his eyes hooded by darkness. Moonlight silvered his dark hair.
Although the words were quietly spoken, he’d drawn a line in the sand. Keely felt a flare of irritation skip across her nerves. Was this an ultimatum? Step over that line and join him or he’d walk out?
A relationship with Max would burn like a comet—white hot, rocketing them into ecstasy. However, the laws of physics dictated that what goes up also comes down. Keely had learned the hard way that passion not fueled by love flames out just as quickly as it ignites.
She didn’t have a spare ounce of emotional energy to invest in a relationship; it wasn’t fair to take with no intention of giving. Looked at objectively, there was only one decision to make.
Keely’s voice was steady. “Good-bye, Max.”
Although he made no discernable movement, Keely sensed his withdrawal. “Is that all you have to say?”
She lifted her shoulders in a hopeless shrug. “You ask too much. I’m sorry, Max.”
He started to speak, stopped. Keely stood in the doorway, staring at her bare feet and listening to Max’s heels thud down the walkway until he reached the street.
The Bronco’s engine started with a muted roar. Keely wanted to retract her decision, but the shifting emotional sands had obliterated the line drawn earlier, leaving her with no choice. She closed the door slowly.
The click of the deadbolt should have also locked Max out, but images of the man paraded before her. Max in the police station, with his thumbs hooked in his pockets doing that ridiculous imitation of Gary Cooper. At the Postwaite reception, his hands deftly arranging the cheeses, his warm smile reaching through the camera lens.
The overpowering scent of cinnamon as the two of them stood inside the walk-in pantry at Feast of Italy, body heat overlapping body heat. The taste of Max’s lips and the hungry response of her own heart—
Keely realized she’d been frantically drawing her own lines in the sand since they’d met but Max had stepped over each one of them.
After setting the new alarm system, she trooped wearily upstairs, fragments of broken promises floating through her head. Her mother: “I swear I’ll never touch another drop, honey.” Eric: “I love you, Keely. We’ll be together forever.”
Keely stopped in the doorway and stared at her bed. She was drained, empty of emotion. No one, especially solid-to-the-core Max, could love a hollow woman.
She sighed. “Forever isn’t as long as it used to be.”
Chapter 21
Max was slow dancing with Keely in the private room of Max’s Bistro to “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” when the phone rang, shattering the intimacy and putting out the fire.
“Lo?” Max mumbled, eyes glued shut by sleep.
“MAX? ARE YOU STILL IN BED?”
“Anna Marie!” Max dropped the receiver. Snapping to an upright position, he groped frantically for the instrument in the sheets as her voice floated up.
“IS SOMEONE PAYING YOU BY THE HOUR TO SLEEP? WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE—A SALMON MARINATING IN DILL AND PEPPERCORNS?”
Max focused on the clock on the bedside table. “Anna Marie, it’s 6:30 on a Sunday morning! My day off.”
His aunt grudgingly lowered the volume by a decibel. “What about the Braithmore dinner? Isn’t that scheduled for tonight?”
Max considered, then dismissed, lying as an option. “The dinner was canceled. Or rather, Feast of Italy’s role in the festivities was canceled.”
“What in the name of Julia Child are you talking about?” The only time he’d heard Anna Marie talk so softly was the day she’d caught him and her thirteen year old son smoking in the garage. Justice had been swift, giving Max unique insight into the meaning of the phrase, “touched by the hand of God.” To this day, the faintest whiff of smoke and his ears rang reminiscently.
You’re a grown man, Max told himself sternly. At the moment you’re out of reach. The perfect time to break the news that Anna Marie might not have a business left.
“Due to the negative publicity, we’ve had some cancellations. It’s only natural, Anna Marie. As soon as the furor dies down, the phone will be ringing off the hook again.”
“I see.” Her words zipped through the line like bullets. “Just exactly how many is ‘some’?”
Visualizing the scheduling book with its multitude of crossed out lines, Max winced. “I can’t remember offhand. Why don’t I go over the book and call you with detailed information?”
Anna Marie called his bluff. “I know why my business is going to Hades in a hand basket, Max. It’s because you’re neglecting it for that O’Brien woman.”
Max regretted not having the foresight to bribe his uncle into keeping the newspapers from his volatile spouse. “I know things look bad for Keely at the moment, but I assure you she had nothing to do with the robberies or Flo Netherton’s murder.”
“Did she tell you that, Max?”
“Yes, and I believe her.” He remembered his dramatic exit last night and felt his ears redden. Who did he think he was, Clark Gable? Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a—
Anna Marie clucked her tongue. “She’s not for you, Max. You need a nice, cozy Italian girl, one who wants babies, not a career. This Keely is not the woman for you.”
Fine talk, coming from the queen of the catering world. If she’d trumpeted it, he could have rejected her words, but his aunt’s quiet conviction, added to Keely’s dry-eyed dismissal, undermined Max’s confidence.
Absentmindedly, he massaged the lump on his forehead, a painful reminder of the folly of overconfidence. Last night, he’d glimpsed the glint of humor in Keely’s eyes. Rooms were weirdly empty without her presence. Keely even danced through his dreams; his arms felt empty. Loneliness was a nagging ache under his breastbone.
Anna Marie sighed heavily. Adopting a funereal tone, she commanded, “Stay away from the O’Brien woman. You’ll drive your mother to an early grave.”
“You’ve got it backwards, Anna Marie. In this family, it’s always the women who drive the men to the cemetery and then afterwards feast on the funeral meats. Things will get back to normal—”
Anna Marie snorted. “YOU BET YOUR STUFFED PHEASANTS THEY WILL! I’M TAKING OVER AS OF SATURDAY NIGHT.”
“What!” Max sat up again. “But your ankle—”
“I’ll get around. I got a call from Hugo Fairmont last night. He doesn’t want you within ten miles of his daughter’s wedding, so I promised to handle the catering personally.”
“Anna Marie—”
“IF YOU PERSIST IN HOBNOBBING WITH A MURDEROUS REDHEAD, DON’T EXPECT ME TO BAKE YOU A TORTE WITH A FILE IN IT!”
Keely perched on the edge of the chair. Funny how the chairs in this place looked cozy but, like the sensitive princess tossing over the mattress-covered pea, she could never get comfortable. Smoothing her border print skirt, she wondered why she had dressed with such care. Putting her best foot, clad in a bright green pump, forward for disaster.
Lillian Dart, the counselor, swept in, with Moira in tow. “Sit down, Moira. Hello, Keely! You look so fresh and pretty!”
“Thank you.” Keely avoided her mother’s accusing gaze.
Moira wore a denim jumper, the patient’s uniform at Fair Oaks. But in what her daughter instantly recognized as a gesture of rebellion, she’d chosen to omit a blouse, allowing the pale, freckled area of her upper breasts to be exposed by the scoop neckline. Alcohol had faded the freshness of her skin tone, despoiled her once striking beauty. Moira’s neck was thin rather than slender, her high cheekbones mocked
by the ravages of deep scoured hollows underneath.
“We’ve got lots to cover in this session, so let’s start.” Lillian gave the older woman an encouraging smile. “Moira, last week Keely shared her feelings about your showing up drunk at all of the important events in her life. Now I want you to tell her why you felt it necessary to drink before attending her high school graduation and her wedding.”
Moira took her time in responding. The fingers of her right hand pinched an invisible cigarette; the other twitched in her lap. Her posture was that of a prisoner broken by inhumane treatment. Keely realized her mother had finally accepted that no amount of wheedling would grant her the freedom of the bottle.
In a whiskey rasp, Moira mumbled, “I had a couple of drinks for courage. My daughter’s always looked at me like I’m a bug on the wall.” A sneer contorted her mobile mouth. “It ain’t easy, growin’ up with a kid who looks down her nose at her mom—”
Keely felt her stomach cramp as the complaints continued. She could chime in at any point, recite the familiar litany like a memorized prayer.
Moira’s voice assumed the familiar whine of self-righteousness. “So what if I needed a bit of bottled confidence to face her snooty friends and their parents? People dressed up in expensive suits and dresses that cost more money than I’ve seen in my whole life. Ain’t been easy, you know, raising a girl without help from her father. Bastard ran out on me. I’ve done my best, but it’s never been enough for Keely—”
Keely closed her eyes, letting the waves of self-justification wash over her. Moira recycled the same excuses each session, pushing the blame onto Keely, Keely’s friends, Keely’s absent father, her own parents.
Lillian showed endless patience, asking questions, poking holes in Moira’s protective bubble of self-exoneration. But Keely’s mother simply wrapped the cloak of her bitterness around her even tighter and stared at her daughter with bright, angry eyes.
Keely was sick of the whole process. They’d been through this so many times, but the well of Moira’s resentment never ran dry. How much did Keely owe the woman who gave her life? Especially considering that she’d probably been conceived during a moment of drunken passion and not love.
Lillian was talking again. Moira picked fretfully at the arm of the chair with her fingers, avoiding the counselor’s gaze.
Keely gritted her teeth. She endured these sessions like chemotherapy treatments, voluntarily subjecting herself to poisons which left her ill and weak. Suffering this torture in the hopes of killing the cancer which was destroying an already dysfunctional relationship. But the disease seemed invincible and Keely could only sit here in this sun drenched room and wonder if personal joy was a myth, a false oasis.
Face it, she thought grimly. The only thing you’ve ever really taken pleasure in was your business, a business with a questionable future.
Her mother’s voice sliced through Keely’s moody reflections. “Maybe I drink because I’m lonely. Life’s not worth living without a little fun and a lot of love.”
A tingle of shock raced through Keely as she realized that that was exactly what Max had offered her. If he were here, he’d probably say she was trying to expiate the guilt for her existence, for being the reason her mother married a man who bailed out at the first excuse.
But Max wasn’t here, wouldn’t be again. Keely had made sure of that. She’d dismissed him before he could spin her any fragile promises or tell her more lies.
Keely debated unburdening her soul to Lillian. She ached to tell this sympathetic woman about her frenzied reaction to the flashback in Doug’s apartment, but she was afraid. In light of Flo’s violent death, an admission of such a loss of control could rebound to haunt her.
Moira abandoned picking at the chair arm to tug on a thread in the hem of the denim jumper. “If Keely had been a better daughter, if she’d have loved me like she should—”
A sorrowful expression crossed Lillian’s face. Keely followed the direction of the counselor’s gaze down to her own hands which were pleating the cotton material of her skirt.
Like mother, like daughter. Keely desperately missed the insulating filter of a camera lens.
Lillian continued to gaze at her and Keely understood she was expected to respond to Moira’s stream of self-justification.
Her first thought was to terminate the session, to get up and walk out. Moira wouldn’t listen. She was a woman roaring down a road that ended abruptly at a cliff’s edge, deaf to warning shouts as she careened past. Keely herself had screamed until she was hoarse and her mother had never listened.
But the question haunting Keely since the night of Flo’s death burst out. “Why didn’t you protect me from those drunken creeps you used to bring home from your pub crawling, Mom? I was just a little girl!”
Lillian nodded approval, switching her intent gaze to Moira’s liquor smudged features. Instead of answering, however, Keely’s mother burst into raucous sobs, her hands covering her face and her body rocking in distress.
“Well!” Lillian looked unaccountably cheerful. “I think you’re making progress.”
Keely gazed back at the counselor. It took a full minute for the realization to penetrate that the last remark had been addressed to her.
Chapter 22
Ida Burke, flamboyant in a pink pantsuit spattered with sequined roses, said firmly, “This is a business, Ma’am, not a museum of horrors. If you’d like to view the crime scene, you’ll have to make an appointment to have a portrait taken.”
Keely rolled her eyes and grimaced. Ida, however, kept her composure, pen hovering over the open appointment book.
Hanging up the receiver, she said with relish, “Another appointment for a sitting. Fortunately for the checking account, we’ve got a town full of ghouls.”
The phone, stubbornly silent last week, had rung continually all morning. While people wouldn’t patronize a thief, they had no qualms about paying a murder suspect to take their photograph. The only bright spot to this Monday morning was that so far no one had asked Keely for her autograph.
No-shows were a thing of the past. Several casual dropins, two cancellations miraculously reversed and Ida had turned away a reporter and his camera operator shadow. Keely’s final session this morning had involved a freckled boy in a Cubs cap who had discovered the secret of perpetual motion.
Keely had just ushered the boy, hopping on one foot, and his pudgy mother to the door. The woman voiced her displeasure in not glimpsing any traces of the murder in the studio, even asking if she could move the rug covering the blood stains.
Ida chuckled. “Seems like folks have swallowed their fear and are now chewing on a good mouthful of curiosity.”
“I hope they choke on it, Ida. If I could scrape up the extra funds to rent a studio, I wouldn’t be here now.”
“Don’t blame you, love. Anybody’d be jittery, working in a place where murder most foul’s been committed—”
“Ida, you’re not helping.” Keely touched the sword-shaped leaf of a lavender bearded iris in a tall purple vase and wondered if Feast of Italy was experiencing an equal resurgence of business. “These are lovely, but I’ve forgotten what irises signify.”
“Faith.” Ida chuckled, a rich mellow sound. “I wanted to bring in a bouquet of Queen Anne’s Lace, but it’s too early in the season. You know, honey, there’s something different about you today. I just can’t put my finger on it.”
Keely was startled by the other woman’s perception. Despite her distaste for working where Flo had died, she felt more relaxed than she had in weeks. Perhaps the abrasion of old wounds during yesterday’s therapy session had been a medical necessity, enabling the healing process to begin.
Keely checked her watch. “I’ve got two hours before my next appointment. I’m going to grab lunch and run some errands. Can you hold down the fort?”
“Of course, dear.” Ida twisted the channel set ruby ring on her right hand. “Did you see Mr. Summers this weekend?”
Keely smoothed the collar of her embroidered polo top, refusing to commit herself.
“I bet he’s a fellow who knows how to show a lady a good time.” Ida sighed. “Everything would be strictly first class with that guy. Romantic dining, roses, champagne—”
The memory of greasy cheeseburgers at the Brew & Cue and Max devouring handfuls of Captain Crunch brought the first smile of the day to Keely’s mouth. Fortunately, the impudent chirp of the phone saved her from answering and she left Ida coping with another potential client/sightseer.
Keely drove the loaner car to the garage where she picked up her repainted car which now rode on four brand new tires. Next, she stopped in to see attorney Daniel Mount. He’d been highly recommended and Keely felt comfortable with his avuncular manner, keen gaze, and confident demeanor. After a short conference, Daniel patted Keely’s shoulder and told her to give him a call if she heard from Gifford again or even if she just wanted to talk.
The time for talk was over, Keely decided on her way out to the car. During a sleepless night, she’d worked out a plan. She wasn’t going to wait for Jackson to pop up like a devilish jack-in-the-box or for Gifford to locate him. Keely was convinced the missing videotape was vital evidence in murder. Only by clearing herself, could she get back to business.
The first step in retrieving the tape was finding Jackson, and Keely had an idea where he might be. Franklin Premier Limousines was known for its corporate and specialty services, with ads boasting each limousine came equipped with a color television, CD stereo, bar, intercom, and cellular phone.
Included in the much publicized fleet was a claret colored Rolls Royce with dove gray interior, classic cars, executive motor coaches, and the standard stretch limos. Its chauffeurs dressed in crisp olive green and stiff brimmed hats. Ron Franklin had a reputation for rewarding his drivers for their rigid postures and smoothly deferential manners.
Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes Page 22