Without waiting for permission, Max kissed her forehead and then her mouth. A light brush of the lips, a sampling of delights yet to come. A shiver of anticipation tickled Keely’s spine and she reached hungrily for Max, but he gently disengaged himself and stood up.
“Will you give me a ride to Feast of Italy? I’ve got to get some work done or Anna Marie will have me boiled in oil.”
Keely stifled the impulse to grab Max and pull him down beside her again. How could he arouse her so effortlessly and then walk away with that casual stride?
Prey to some very disquieting sensations, Keely also stood. “What are we going to do about Damien? We can’t let him get away with what he’s done!”
Max slipped his wallet into his back pocket. “We don’t have proof, Keely. No evidence that he killed Flo or has anything to do with the Sterling Ring. Today we got a rather vivid object lesson that poking around Franklin’s Prestige Limousines isn’t healthy. I have no desire to have my skull cracked with a tire iron.”
Grabbing her purse off the breakfast bar, Keely followed Max to the door. “Don’t run away from me. What about Jess and Mimi? What if that creep decides to extort money from me or your aunt? This isn’t over, Max. If we can get that tape back from Jackson, we might be able to put Damien out of circulation—”
“We’ve done all we can. Now it’s time to let the police handle things.” He opened the apartment door, evading her imploring gaze. “I’ll call Gifford and tell her what happened.”
“She won’t believe you. No one believes us! You saw how those cops treated us today. Damien’s in the clear—”
Max overrode her fervent protest. “I’m sure he blew town as soon as he realized we’d escaped. I’ll follow up with Gifford. I’d appreciate your giving me a ride to Feast of Italy, Keely. Guess I’m stuck driving the company van until my Bronco turns up.”
Sliding behind the wheel of her Mustang, Keely slammed the door. Max was as clear as glass. He wasn’t planning to bail out of the investigation, he just wanted to protect her. Which was ridiculous! He was the one who attracted trouble like a magnet did iron filings!
“I don’t see why you have to be the one to call Detective Gifford,” she grumbled as Max climbed into the passenger seat. “You’re the one who got pelted with cake. You’re the fellow who got into a brawl at the Brew & Cue and ended up as the stake in a vicious game of Ring Toss.”
“Since I was the victim of today’s assault, I’m the logical one to make a complaint,” Max pointed out. “Keely, I want you to drop this. Franklin’s not the man to mess around with. Poking around could be dangerous to the point of suicidal.”
Keely slammed the car into reverse. While Damien might lay low for a time, he would soon resurface. Inevitably, he would overstep in making someone an example.
Keely had recognized Damien’s voice as the one uttering the telephoned threats; today he’d told her flat out that he was her worst nightmare. The struggle between them had become personal. At some point, Keely knew she’d have to stand and fight.
She glanced over to find Max regarding her sternly. “Let Detective Gifford handle Damien Franklin, Keely. She’s a professional, way out of our league.”
Ida often quoted the Jewish proverb, “Truth is the safest lie.” Keely gave Max a reassuring smile. “Relax, I know my limitations. I’m a photographer, not a detective. I intend to concentrate my energy on the Fairmont wedding.”
What Keely didn’t say was that she’d just pledged herself to defeating Damien Franklin.
As Keely’s car pulled away from Feast of Italy, Max bolted for the office and the phone. He called the police station and made an appointment to see Gifford and Dawson.
After terminating the call, Max absentmindedly toyed with Anna Marie’s lucky silver pen. He couldn’t shake the feeling that disaster loomed on the near horizon. If he wasn’t successful in convincing Gifford of the urgency in stopping Damien, Anna Marie’s business could go up in smoke, literally.
He smiled grimly. Keely had seemed suspiciously agreeable about letting the police handle the investigation. He’d also sensed a change in her attitude, a softening. The terrifying incident at the limo yard had created a fragile harmony between them and Max was determined not to crush it.
Enough emotional sparks had been flying to set his apartment alight, but he’d held back. After boasting that he wasn’t looking for a one night stand, he could hardly seduce Keely on his couch. It had taken every ounce of will power he could summon to walk away from her, but Max was determined to play things cool until Anna Marie took up the reins of Feast of Italy. Then he would be free to convince Keely that their current partnership should be dissolved in favor of a more personal and permanent arrangement.
Chapter 25
“Extortion.” Gayla pronounced the word with deliberation and looked over at her partner. Brian Dawson gazed stolidly back. “You’ve given us food for thought, Mr. Summers. We’ll chew on this and get back to you.”
“In the meantime,” she gave Max’s battered face a pointed glance, “I suggest you keep yourself tucked away in that cozy kitchen of yours and avoid dark alleys.”
The two detectives watched Max stride away, stiff with outrage.
“I think you hurt his feelings,” Brian drawled.
“I meant to.” Gayla removed a bottle of carbonated water from the cooler she kept under her desk. “I don’t want him or the O’Brien woman doing any free-lancing. Can’t you see me trying to explain to Kowalski that I’ve added a chef and a photographer to the investigative team?”
Brian laughed, a gentle giant kind of ‘ho ho.’ “The air would be blue, along with his face. If profanity was a merit badge, Kowalski’d be an Eagle Scout. Say, what did you think of the yarn Summers told us about their visit to the limo yard?”
Gayla unscrewed the bottle cap and took a swig. “I think Ron Franklin’s been doing more than just advertising to keep ahead of the competition. Who does a son look up to and try to emulate, if not his successful father?”
“Franklin’s quite a wheel in this town.” Brian grinned to show the pun was intentional. “If we start sniffing around Prestige, we’ll have more than the mayor on our backs.”
“The mayor wants the world safe for weddings. A woman with influential friends is dead. The pressure on us’ll only increase until we close this case.” Gayla shrugged. “If Franklin’s son is running the Sterling Ring with a sideline in extortion, we’d better find out.”
“Do you still think Keely O’Brien is a killer?”
“She had motive and opportunity. I think Summers is protecting her. He never adequately explained how he got the goose egg on his forehead the night of the murder.”
“I can’t see Keely O’Brien killing anyone,” Brian muttered. “She’s not the type.”
“Anyone can kill. It just takes the right amount of pressure applied to a weak point and…snap!” Gayla demonstrated, using a pencil. “You heard the tape. ‘Someday, someone’s going to fight back.’ That’s what O’Brien said the day before the woman was murdered. I can’t help wondering if she fought back.”
“I’ve got a gut feeling we’re looking at “The Wrong Man,” with a woman playing Henry Fonda’s role.”
“You wouldn’t have so many gut feelings if your gut wasn’t so large.” Gayla tossed the broken pencil halves into the overflowing wastebasket, triggering a paper avalanche. “Now what Hitchcock scenario are we talking about? O’Brien as the innocent trapped by a web of circumstantial evidence?”
“Could be. She had an excellent reputation in the community until the first robbery.” Brian shifted his bulk and the chair squeaked in futile protest. “Why don’t we talk to her again, Gayla? Try to clear her off the suspect list. With a murder in her studio, she must be suffering and if she’s innocent…”
His partner shook her head. “We’ve got a dead woman, two robberies, one assault and some very powerful people will be yelling for our blood if we don’t make an arrest soon. At
this point, Keely O’Brien’s feelings are the least of my worries.”
Max was too busy to brood over his abrupt dismissal at the police station. As if a quarantine sign had been removed from the door of Feast of Italy, bookings poured in. For the rest of the week, he worked every evening until 7:30 then headed over to the Brew & Cue. Max also hired a local security firm to keep a twenty-four hour watch on Keely’s house. He intended to assume the job of protecting her himself the moment Anna Marie took charge of business.
Friday morning, Max nursed a sore head and totalled up the week’s reckoning. He’d played innumerable games of pool, lost over two hundred dollars in side bets, and suffered through so many jukebox renditions of “Achy Breaky Heart” that the twang of a guitar made him twitch.
Bone weary, his head swollen enough to enter in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade as a balloon, Max slumped on a stool in Feast of Italy’s kitchen. By tonight he had to come up with a clever design for the Fairmont wedding marzipan presentation. The almonds had already been blanched, dried, and pounded into paste and mixed with powdered sugar and rose water flavoring. Now came the creative genius part.
Each sketch Max drew, however, reminded him of Keely. A line turned into the slant of her cheekbone, a curve became her generous mouth or the arch of her brow as she regarded him quizzically. He’d felt handicapped all week, as if he only had the use of one hand.
With a vigorous slash, Max crossed out his last doodle, meant to be a trumpet but instead resembling a woman’s shapely leg. Put some mind muscle into it! he urged himself. It’s brainstorm time. Create something romantic associated with Camelot…
For one crazy moment, Max toyed with the idea of molding a bust of JFK and then burst out laughing. He was going out of his mind and he laid the blame at Keely’s door.
Like an addict, he craved the fix of her smile, the intoxicating scent of her hair, the spirited tilt of her head. He ached to hold her in his arms and caress the softness of her body. The taste of her lips had spoiled Max’s appetite for other foods, leaving him a starving man.
He kept remembering Keely’s expression as she listened to her mother’s abusive rantings, the stricken look in her eyes when she related how her husband had failed her. What did a man who couldn’t hold onto a restaurant or a wife have to offer to a woman searching so desperately for wholeness?
Max regarded his canceled sketches with disgust as the first two members of his food prep crew breezed in.
“Hi, Max.” Karla grabbed a full length apron off the hook and dropped it over her head.
“Morning, boss man!” Steve slung a folded newspaper into Max’s lap.
He acknowledged their greetings, envying them their youth, the clean slates they had to offer a potential mate. If the past was indeed another country, Max reflected grimly, he was one of the poor schmoes searching for a border crossing.
Steve and Karla consulted the schedule for tomorrow’s wedding. Karla chose to hull strawberries while Steve shredded lettuce and spinach for May sallat, a salad of fresh greens which united the leafy vegetables with green herbs, fruits, and beans.
Steve’s expert fingers tore at the lettuce. “Did the greengage plums and limes come in yet?”
“Check the other refrigerator,” Max said absently. He’d scribbled the initials “K. O.” Kayoed. Keely had kayoed him with one look from those crème caramel eyes.
He gazed at the pad in front of him, aware he had several hundred tasks to accomplish prior to tomorrow’s changing of the guard, but unable to prod himself into action.
“I’m so happy for you and Anna Marie,” Karla remarked, her deft fingers sorting through the red berry jewels. “Knowing everything will soon be back to normal must be a relief.”
“Back to normal?” He looked at her dully.
She nodded, with a puzzled smile. Steve had also stopped working to stare at him.
Max didn’t have a clue to what she was talking about but he hazarded a guess. “Referring to Anna Marie’s return?”
Employing the patient voice of a mother toilet training a toddler, Karla said, “No, the robberies. You’re off the hook, at least according to what the O’Brien woman said in today’s paper.”
“I wonder what evidence the killer left behind,” Steve said thoughtfully as he began cutting broccoli into florets. “I’ll bet she had a hidden video camera in her studio and caught the murder on tape. Wouldn’t that be awesome! Hey, those tabloid TV shows would pay a fortune for footage of an actual murder.”
Max blinked. “What are you two babbling about?”
“It’s in the morning paper,” Steve said helpfully. “About Keely O’Brien being able to finger the killer—”
Max had already tuned him out. Unfolding the paper, he feverishly read the headline and opening paragraphs of the accompanying story. With a muffled exclamation, he sprang up and tore out of the kitchen, the paper still gripped in his hands.
Karla popped a strawberry into her mouth, chewing the fruit with relish. “Who set his tail feathers on fire?”
Steve stooped to pick up the sketch pad Max had knocked to the floor during his hasty exit. Studying the drawings, he shook his head. “My guess’d be woman trouble.”
Karla gave him a pert, berry-stained smile. “You men should thank God we’re never more trouble than we’re worth.”
“I’m going to count to three. Honey, and then I want you to look up at me and say “Cheese pizza, please!”
Honey, age six, clutched the braided white ropes supporting the swing in a death grip. Her face dissolved into a shy smile, however, when she spoke her line.
“Perfect!” Keely crouched to smooth the girl’s ruffled skirt. “Only a couple more and then your mom can take you out for some real pizza.”
She continued her monologue, soothing and coaxing. Honey was not a natural subject; her narrow face froze at the sight of the camera. Keely had to fight for each shot.
The rules of portraiture—don’t break the facial line with the nose, keep shadows from filling eye sockets, maintain a maximum lighting ratio of 1:3 from one side to the other—had become automatic, leaving Keely free to concentrate on the visual impact of each pose.
At last she straightened. “Oke doke, all finished!”
Honey hopped out of the swing, her dark hair bobbing to frame her face. She clapped her hands. “Yippee, pizza time!”
Keely snapped off a final shot, capturing the unfettered glee, and grinned in satisfaction. This last photograph, un-posed and impromptu, would probably be the best of the session.
The front door slammed. Keely heard Ida’s surprised protest. “You can’t go in there! She’s doing a portrait—”
The heavy curtain which Keely used to separate the studio from the reception area during sessions was yanked aside as Max Summers strode in.
“Are you out of your mind?” was his fond greeting.
Honey’s alarmed squeak immediately brought him up short. “Oh, you’ve got company.” Max grinned. “Hi, brown eyes.”
He crouched to the child’s level, turning on his considerable charm to coax a timid smile in response. “Look, sweetie, could you wait outside with Ida? I need to talk to Picture Lady.”
“We’re done.” Keely grabbed the little girl’s hand. “Let me turn Honey over to her mother before we discuss my sanity.”
Max eyed the swing when Keely returned. “Cute set-up.”
“Kids like it. They relax and I get good pictures.” Keely studied his fists. “Maybe you should sit down in it.”
“It’ll take more than a ride in a swing to make me feel better. I read your exclusive interview in the newspaper.”
She fiddled with the camera, which was set on a new tripod. She’d decided she didn’t want the old one back after the police were done with it. Removing the film kept her fingers busy and furnished a good excuse to avoid Max’s caustic stare.
Keely couldn’t shut out his sardonic voice, however. “I wonder what Gifford’s going to say ab
out your latest appearance in the headlines.”
Keely closed the camera with a sharp click. “Gifford and Dawson dropped by for a visit a couple hours ago.”
“You’re still free?” Max’s fingers bit into the braided ropes supporting the swing. “I’m surprised she didn’t slap you into protective custody.”
Keely slipped the exposed roll into a film canister and snapped the lid in place. “I told her that Damien’s intimidation tactics keep people from admitting they’re being squeezed for cash. The only way to nail him is by provoking him into doing something stupid.”
“Like coming after you.” Max snorted. “Did Gifford fall on your neck with tears of joy at your noble sacrifice?”
“She wasn’t thrilled, but she finally acknowledged Damien’s not the type to incriminate himself without a little encouragement. She also admitted she couldn’t guarantee my safety. Or provide twenty-four hour protection for any of the people Damien’s threatened.”
“By giving that idiotic interview, do you think you can flush him into the open?” Max flung his hands skyward, bumping the swing into motion. “Keely, pretending to possess a vital piece of evidence is the oldest trick in the book.”
She juggled the film canister from hand to hand. “It’s an old trick because it works. Hunters often stake out a goat to catch a tiger.”
“There’s a non sequitur if I ever heard one.” Max grabbed Keely’s hand, trapping the film canister in her fingers, forcing her to look at him. The bruises on his face had faded to a greenish yellow; his eyes were hot enough to melt butter and Keely’s spine.
Clearing her throat, she baahed softly. “I’ve volunteered to be the goat.”
Max released her, stooped in a violent motion, and snatched up the area rug covering the bloodstained section of the floor. “A woman died here, Keely. You could be next!”
“I can’t live in fear, Max. No one’s safe with that maniac free to terrorize. I had to take matters into my own hands. Damien’s not going to go meekly away and leave me alone—he tried to set me up for Flo’s murder!”
Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes Page 25