by Leslie Kelly
There never was for a man like that.
“Trouble’s capital accounts were bad enough. But he also went after the pension funds of all the town’s workers.”
Damn. Max hadn’t heard that part. Knowing Bennigan had been the chief around here for more than a decade, he felt a renewed respect for the man. Not everyone would have stuck it out.
“Plus,” the chief added, “the funds of everyone who worked for him at that clock factory.”
Sabrina’s brow furrowed in disgust. “I hate these clocks.”
“Join the club.” Glancing at his watch, Max noted the time. Ten ’til twelve—almost witching hour, when all of them squawked the longest. He’d managed to stay outside for most of the morning, tormented only by the crowing on the seven o’clock hour when he’d come inside for a cup of coffee and a quick shower.
He suddenly paused, something strange occurring to him.
The clocks…they’d been working this morning, ticking away, counting down the minutes until the next torture session began. But Grandfather hadn’t been here to wind them.
Max had already figured out that a few of the ones in the house were eight-day types that only needed setting once a week. But the others were only good for a day before the weights and chains had to be reset.
“Maybe there really are ghosts,” he murmured, though he knew the more logical answer was that Allie had done it. She’d been following Mortimer around all week, the two of them egging each other on in their silliness like a pair of seven-year-olds.
They liked each other. A lot. Which made Mortimer’s disappearance even harder to bear—all of them felt his absence. Not just Max.
Making a mental note to ask Allie about it later, he tuned back in to the conversation.
“So did someone push him down the stairs or something?” Sabrina was asking, the way someone might ask if it had rained the day before. He adored that bloodthirsty streak.
“Looked that way at first,” Bennigan said with a shrug. “His head was all squished in, which could have come from a trip down that high flight of stairs. But there was one thing that didn’t fit with that theory.”
Curious, Max put his drink on the table. “What?”
“The cuckoo bird sticking out of his eyeball.”
He was glad he’d put the drink down, because the words, despite the chief’s matter-of-fact delivery, were pretty damn unexpected. “Are you joking?”
“Uh-uh. Thing was stuck in there but good, beak-first. A wicked-looking one it was, and big—not one of the little tweeties from inside. This was carved into the wood of an oversized mahogany clock. Beak was a good three inches long, and an inch of it was sticking in old Wilhelm’s brain.”
“Eww,” Sabrina said, wrinkling her nose.
“Ayuh. Wasn’t a pretty sight.”
“I don’t suppose he could have stumbled against it on the way down?” Max asked. “There are clocks above every other step.”
“Nope. Everybody who set foot in this house knew that particular clock—it was his favorite. Used to hang right over that fancy gold-leaf table beside the front door.”
Max glanced over to the empty space above the table, grateful no one had thought to wipe the blood off the bird and put the thing back up.
“Somebody hoisted it off the wall and bashed Stuttgardt in the face with it, then musta taken it with him during his getaway. Only thing left was the bird in Willie’s eye and a few shards of wood on the floor.” Sipping his tea, Bennigan then added, “The blow woulda killed him anyway, you known, even without the birdie. Took a few minutes, though.”
“How do you know?”
“His secretary from the factory came by with some papers for him to sign and found him there, getting busy dyin’. He had time to say a few last words.”
“About who killed him?”
Appearing disgusted, Bennigan shook his head. “You’d think that, but no. Right up to the end the old miser was thinking only about the money. Saying it’d be found in time.” He glanced around the room. “Five years is a long time and a lotta folks have looked. Nobody’s ever found a nickel.”
Reaching for his hat, which he’d placed on top of the old-fashioned upright piano when he entered, he put it on, obviously preparing to get back to work. “So if the young lady saw someone lurking around, I’d expect it was somebody staring at the house fantasizing about finding the lost fortune.”
Max walked him to the door. “Thanks for the update.”
“We’ll keep on it. Your grandpa’ll be home by nightfall, Mr. Taylor, I feel it in my bones.”
After the chief left, Max returned to the living room. His eyes shifted to the right—toward the crystal decanter. Then straight ahead. Toward Sabrina.
She stepped into his arms. Which was the moment he realized she could become more addicting than anything he’d consumed in his entire life.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THOUGH SABRINA TRIED to do what she could to comfort Max, she knew as the day wore on that he was ready to tear down the walls in pure frustration. Though just as concerned, she didn’t want to let on. So she did what she could to keep busy—manning the phones, putting out messages on the Internet to local news agencies. Anything she could think to do.
Absolutely the only good thing that all of today’s activities had done was to keep her thoughts from straying too long to what had happened yesterday in Max’s plane. Because going over all of that again in her mind—remembering the sheer intimacy, the physical pleasure—would have her all hot and hungry to do it some more.
He’d been amazing. The most incredible lover—like something out of a fantasy. Attentive and powerful, tender and all-consuming.
They’d gone on and on—longer than she’d ever realized a man could go. Pausing to strip off the last of his clothes, they’d climbed into the back of the plane, rolled around, changed positions. At one point when the windows were completely steamed with their exertions, they’d grabbed some bottled water out of Max’s bag. Guzzling some, they’d dribbled the rest on each other’s naked bodies, letting the liquid blend with the sheen of sweat on each of them.
When it had finally ended, they’d talked. Not about life-altering things—divorces, betrayals—but stupid stuff. Movies and politics and which fast-food restaurant had the best fries.
Then they’d started all over again. “Oh, yes,” she whispered with a deep sigh as she stood at the window of Mortimer’s office, staring out into the backyard.
“What was that sigh for?”
Turning, Sabrina spotted Max a few feet away. She hadn’t heard him come in. There was no point denying it, so she said, “Exactly what you think it was for. I was just…remembering.”
His lips quirked in a tiny smile—his first of the day. “Believe me, memories of that are all that’s kept me sane today.” Dropping one hand to her hip and sliding another into her hair to tug her close for a kiss, he whispered, “That, and the thought of how much I’m looking forward to doing it again when we find Grandpa.”
Rising to meet his mouth, she kissed him, a warm, sultry, lazy kiss of two people who were already lovers in every way possible. For a moment—a long one—that kiss was the only thing that existed. But it ended all too quickly, and he soon released her, the empty look returning to his eyes.
“Look,” she said, seeing the worry rapidly return to his face, “we’re not doing any good here. I’m tired of doing nothing.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Let’s at least go downtown and do some pavement pounding ourselves. Allie’s here—she can keep watch and call us if there’s any word.”
Appearing relieved to at last have something to do, he nodded his agreement. Grabbing his hand, she tugged him to the caddy and in a few minutes they were driving down Trouble’s main street. They parked behind Tootie’s Tavern, got out and walked from shop to shop, seeing the flyers regarding Mortimer’s disappearance already on display but asking about him nonetheless.
Their
efforts were fruitless. Though everyone—well, almost everyone—offered to help and expressed concern, nobody had a clue where the old man could be.
“Maybe it’s an alien abduction,” Tootie said late that afternoon as they stood at the lunch counter in the tavern, waiting for a couple of to-go soft drinks. “You know we had some of them crop circles a few years back, like in that Mel Gibson movie.”
“They weren’t crop circles,” a woman’s smooth, amused voice interjected.
Sabrina recognized her—the mayor, Ann something. The attractive middle-aged woman had just walked in the door, nicely dressed and calm. One of the few normal people she’d met here in Trouble.
“Tiny and Billy Walker were out there with their pickup trying to get themselves interviewed on the news.”
Max stared at Sabrina and she’d swear a twinkle of amusement appeared in his eyes.
“That doesn’t mean the aliens couldn’t be here now,” said Scoot, the waitress, siding with her boss. Shoving a tray full of dirty dishes laden with chicken bones and lettuce leaves through a window to the kitchen, she added, “But I bet it’s more likely that your grandpa ran across one of those wild motorcycle gangs who come through once in a while on their way to Pittsburgh.”
“Oh, I feel so much better,” Max said, his voice low, for Sabrina’s ears only.
“Not that they’d hurt him or anything!” Scoot said, looking suddenly embarrassed.
Sure. It was okay to speculate that the old man was having alien probes stuck into him, but black-leather-wearing thugs made her regret her big mouth.
“They’re not all psycho killers—they donate toys for kids every Christmas,” she mumbled, digging herself in deeper.
“Or,” said Ann, clearing her throat and glaring at Scoot, “maybe Mr. Potts suddenly remembered an out-of-town business meeting and forgot to let you know.” Patting his hand, she continued. “I’m sure he’s fine. Just know the whole town’s praying he’ll come home safe and sound real soon.”
“Thank you,” Max murmured, his eyes narrowing. “Though I’m not sure the whole town is thinking such kind thoughts.”
The mayor suddenly became all business. “Has someone given you problems?”
Sabrina followed Max’s stare and noticed the burly jackass who’d been so spiteful toward Mortimer last weekend. He was sitting in a booth near the door, wearing his postal uniform, devouring a sandwich as big as his head.
“No problems,” Max said softly, already walking toward the other man’s table. His steps were firm, deliberate. And even from across the room, Sabrina could see the way the obnoxious stranger’s face paled. Because while Max was a big guy, he usually gave off an air of casual grace and charm. Right now, anger rolled off him in great dripping waves.
Dropping some money on the counter and grabbing their drinks, Sabrina followed him. “Max, keep cool. Let’s go out and walk down the next block.”
“I’m quite cool, Sabrina.”
Yeah. That’s why the muscles in the back of his neck were all bunched up and his arms were as tense and straight as tree trunks. “Don’t do anything crazy.”
He finally looked at her, one brow shooting up in indignation. “Me? Do something crazy? You mean like ripping the man’s head off if I find out he had anything to do with my grandfather’s disappearance?”
The man in the booth obviously heard. He stood, mumbling, “Sorry about your grandfather. Me’n my wife are wishing him all the best.”
Max stepped into his path before he could leave. “You mean you’re not cursing him anymore for ruining your perfect utopia?”
Shaking his head quickly, the man said, “I feel bad about that. Didn’t mean it. I hear he’s done some real nice things for folks around here.”
He sounded sincere, Sabrina had to give him that. Max didn’t seem so sure.
“Mr. Taylor, we all know you’re upset,” a woman’s voice said.
The mayor again, she’d come over to diffuse the situation. She was pretty good at peacekeeper—probably had a lot of experience with it in this place.
“But really,” she said, “I don’t believe anyone here wishes your grandfather ill.” Casting a cold stare at the postman, she added, “Isn’t that right, Dean?”
“Right! It sure is. Nobody wanted that old man hurt.”
This came not from the postman but from the front of the restaurant. A skinny, nervous-looking man, probably sixty, with a little bit of hair and a whole lot of liver spots had just come in and was bobbing his head up and down. He didn’t move from the doorway, simply stared at everyone inside, Max and Sabrina in particular.
“Well, come on in, Tom, don’t stand there lettin’ the flies in and the air-conditioning out,” said Tootie. Even as she spoke she waddled over to shut the door herself.
After shoving it closed, she made her way back behind the counter, bumping into the man as she went by. He was light enough that the blow sent him staggering a little, right into Scoot, who was serving a platter of chicken wings to a couple of teenagers. Which just proved that chicken wings really were capable of flight, because they went everywhere, including all over Scoot, the man—Tom—and the mayor.
“I think now’s a good time to get out of here before the rest of this comedy of errors plays out and one of us ends up wearing a platter of spaghetti,” Max muttered.
She absolutely agreed. Noting that Max seemed to have dropped his belligerence toward the postman—who was watching, wide-eyed like everyone else—she edged closer to the door. Tom was babbling apologies all around.
“It’s all right, Mr. King,” said Scoot as she dabbed at her pink polyester uniform with a handful of paper napkins. “Accidents happen.”
The mayor didn’t look quite so forgiving. In fact, she was staring at Tom like he had two heads. “What did you do, Tom?” she asked, as if not quite believing there really were greasy red spots all over her pretty cream-colored slacks.
Sabrina didn’t wait to hear the man’s mumbled answer, though she hoped he’d work up the nerve to blame Tootie. But she didn’t want to get involved. She just focused on getting Max out of here—away from the curious townspeople and their ridiculous speculations about aliens and Hells Angels. And away from any possible confrontation with the guy in the postal cap.
Taking his arm, she led him outside. Once in the bright sunshine, she couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Remember how you said this town was certifiable?”
He nodded.
“You were right.”
Dropping an arm across her shoulders, he pulled her close as they walked down the sidewalk. “Still want to invest?”
She snorted.
“Guess that’s a no.” Squeezing her, he added, “I’m glad you’re sticking around, anyway. Today would have been a lot worse if you weren’t here.”
Which was about as close to a declaration of genuine feelings as Sabrina had ever expected to hear from him. Feelings for her, anyway. “I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else. I already love your grandfather.”
And his grandson?
Oh, no, please, no, a voice whispered in her head.
Oh, God, she hadn’t really lost her heart to Max already, had she? Yesterday was just supposed to have been about sex—about grabbing some great memories of a terrific guy before going back to her normal life.
Damn it, when had her emotions gotten tangled up in this?
“Wait, is that your car?” Max asked, looking up the block.
Sabrina immediately followed his glance, her heart rate kicking up a notch when she realized her expensive rental car was barreling up the street. “Allie,” she muttered.
As they both watched her sister swerve the car much too close to a delivery truck parked outside the pharmacy, Max asked, “Can she even drive?”
“Barely. I wish I’d never taught her.”
He laughed.
“You think I’m kidding? You should have seen me trying to get her ready to take her driving test when she came to Philadelphia to
start college.”
“Why’d she start driving so late?”
“We weren’t allowed to get our licenses back home,” she said, rising to her tiptoes to watch which way Allie turned on Roosevelt Avenue. “Wasn’t seemly for a female to drive.”
His jaw dropped. Sabrina would have been amused by his reaction if the truth weren’t quite so pathetic—especially since her mother and little sister and brother still lived in her narrow-minded grandfather’s house. She wasn’t sure which scared her worse—her baby sister being crushed by him, or her younger brother turning out like him.
“You really were serious about your family? Your parents, they…”
“My father died when I was twelve.”
He nodded slowly. “Mine when I was ten.”
“I know,” she admitted, having talked to Mortimer about his family in the past several days. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry for you, too. Your mother, did she…?”
“She took us back to her family home, the one her father had told her never to darken the door of again the day she married without his permission. Yours?”
He cleared his throat, glancing away. “She died eleven months after he did. Ovarian cancer.”
Her heart ached for him—for them. Mortimer hadn’t told her that—when the subject of his only child had come up, he’d gotten silent, misty-eyed, and had left the room.
“Something else we have in common, huh?” she murmured.
“I would’ve been happy stopping at our favorite ice cream.”
She laughed a little, though inside she felt like crying, too. For both of them. For the kids they’d been. For the lives they’d led. For the moments they’d each missed out on.
“I guess we should find out where your sister’s going before she wrecks your car,” he said.
“I’m more worried about her hurting herself or the baby. Sometimes she just acts like she has no common sense.”
Max put his hand on her elbow. “That’s why you take care of her, isn’t it. This thing with your grandfather—I don’t imagine they reacted well back home to Allie’s…situation.”