Dead to the Max (Max Starr Series, Book 1, a paranormal romance/mystery)

by Jasmine Haynes

  “Remember all your logical deductions? Nickie’s name at 7:59 in her date book, same time as that Boise flight—”

  “It didn’t say a.m. or p.m. And there’s no proof.”

  “—and Paperboy got off the shuttle at the United terminal.”

  “Coincidental.” Not. And well she knew it. But that didn’t make Drake a murderer. “Stop badgering me, I’m trying to drive.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the detective about the personnel file?”

  “If he’s worth anything, he’s already checked the files.”

  “You’ve got to tell him everything you know, Max.”

  “You’re crazy, Cameron. I’ll be his prime suspect. He already asked why I’m so interested in Wendy and how I got the job. He even wants my fingerprints.”

  “He’s not going to arrest you. He’s hot for you.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “He is not hot for me.”

  “And you’re hot for him.”

  “I am not.” Yet her cheeks heated. Thank God she was sitting on them so no one could see.

  “I can smell your creamed panties, Max, all the way up here in heaven.”

  “You aren’t in heaven.”

  “Maybe he’s the one, Max,” he whispered like a mesmerist. “Maybe he’s worthy of you.”

  Oh God, Cameron was searching for his replacement. Not the detective, please. Whatever slight attraction she’d felt to his big hands had been an aberration. “He’s a cop. He’s investigating Wendy’s murder. That’s all he is.”

  “You liked him.”

  Dammit. She should have told Cameron he couldn’t hang in the office while Detective Long interviewed her. “I don’t even know him. And I’m not going to know him. He’s dangerous.”

  “But he makes you hot.”

  She gave up trying to hide it. Cameron wasn’t buying denial. “Sex isn’t everything.”

  “Didn’t you beg for it last night?”

  Yes, in the dark of the night, she’d needed, she’d wanted. “Will you please be quiet?” She wanted to jam her hands over her ears, but that wouldn’t keep him out of her head.

  “He’s not your enemy. Whoever killed Wendy is.”

  “Why are you picking a fight with me?”

  “Why are you protecting the woman’s lover?”

  “So that’s what this is all about. You think I’m hot for Wendy’s lover. I told you, it’s all her, not me.”

  She pulled into the drive, shut the engine off, slammed the car door, and stomped across the wood deck. Narrowly missing the gap between the rungs with her spiked heels, she lunged up the stairs to her studio apartment. She’d left the window open. The cat had already started its pathetic cry on the window sill.

  Cameron might be pissed at Wendy’s effect on her libido, but she was pissed that he was trying to shove another man into her life. Beneath the anger lay fear. Cameron wanted to leave her.

  “I don’t have any tuna,” she shouted at the little buzzard.

  “We’ve got some milk,” Cameron whispered close to her ear, his breath warm, almost comforting. She clung to her anger like a safety net.

  “I told you I won’t feed that cat again.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight with you, Maxi—”

  She whirled on the shimmering nothingness in her small room. “Next time you call me that, I’ll look for an exorcist.”

  “Come on, sweetheart, I said I was sorry.” She felt his warmth wrap around her, as if he had arms to hold her, lips to kiss her, and a body to love her with. “Mmm. You smell sweet, baby. Like gardenias. I love you in gardenias.”

  “Cut the crap. It won’t work. Besides, you just told me I smelled like something else entirely, and I don’t think you meant it as a compliment.”

  “Your sweet scent of arousal makes me hot.”

  “Stop it.” Max steeled herself against him, against the heat creeping through her loins. She crossed her arms over her chest, tapped her foot on the hardwood floor, and glared at him. Or at least at the corner of the room she thought he’d backed into. “You wanted me to use my intuition. So, I’m using it. Nicholas Drake didn’t kill her.”

  “Screw intuition. You wear your attraction like a badge.”

  “Remember Wendy? She feels it inside here.” She fisted her hand against her chest. “He had nothing to do with the murder. And she was the fricking murder victim. Maybe you should listen to her.”

  “Why so willing to use your psychic gift now, sweetheart? You’ve fought me every step of the way so far.”

  “Why is it so important that I accept this bizarre psychic gift anyway? Is it your pathway to heaven? Is it your good deed that’ll get you through the pearly gates?” A headache sliced through her temples.

  “Is that what you’re afraid of? That I’ll leave you once you find your own power?”

  Yes, yes, yes! Of course, he had to already know that, but she still didn’t want her fears out in the bright light of his scrutiny. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I won’t leave you the day you admit the truth to yourself.” He was at her back, surrounding her, as if he covered her with his hard, protective body. “I won’t leave you just because you accept the gifts God gave you.”

  She stepped away from his warmth, away from the weakness stealing into her bones. “You already left me, two years ago. For a goddamn pack of cigarettes.”

  His breath caressed her nape. “You want me to quit smoking?”

  She should have pointed out that he’d just done the typical male shuffle to get out of answering the real question. She could have pointed out that ghosts can’t smoke. She could have pointed out that he was already dead. Instead, she whispered, “Yes.”

  The ever-present aroma of fresh cigarette smoke disappeared as if she’d snapped her fingers. The air pulsed with peppermint, a sharp, sweet, clean smell. Cameron had always chewed peppermints when he was somewhere he couldn’t smoke.

  “I think I’m going crazy.”

  “I love you, Max.”

  God, how she ached for him.

  The cat screeched, a hideous sound closer to that of a dying chicken than a hungry stray. Max puffed out a breath, then sucked it back in. Finally she pulled a saucer off the single shelf where she kept her one-place setting and put it on the sill. The cat didn’t wait for Max to fill the saucer before jumping to the ledge. It lapped at the stream straight from the milk carton.

  “Poor buzzard,” Max murmured, the resemblance so close to her lost Louis, she itched to stroke him. She reached out a tentative hand.

  “You’re going to fall in love with that animal.”

  “This is the last time I’m feeding it.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  She rolled her lips between her teeth and held her breath, fingers only inches from the dull, matted fur.

  “I trust him, Max.”

  She jerked. “The cat?”

  “The detective.”

  “DeWitt Quentin Long?” Her voice rose to a squeak. Why bring him up again? She couldn’t follow Cameron’s thought patterns. “Why do you trust that guy, of all people?”

  “It’s just a very strong feeling I have. He’s good for you.”

  So, it was okay to be attracted to the detective, but not okay to have an attraction for Nicholas Drake. They weren’t even her own feelings anyway. Rising, she put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes in his general direction. “Please don’t tell me you’re match-making with Detective Long.”

  “Merely using my intuition about him, darling.”

  “Well, why don’t you just use that ghostly intuition to find Wendy’s killer? Maybe do a little eavesdropping, a little poking around in somebody else’s head.”

  “You know I can’t do that, sweetheart.”

  “Yeah, I know. You get so many feet away from me and lose your ethereal presence. You can only read my mind, invade my life, my house, my office, my car—”

  “You sound bitter.”

  She
was. He’d been stolen from her with the twitch of a nervous finger on a trigger. She wasn’t bitter, however, that he’d stayed with her for two years. How much longer could she keep him? It didn’t bear questioning. “We were talking about Detective Long, and why you find him so utterly trustworthy.”

  “He’s not stupid, Max. He checked that drawer. He knew the book wasn’t there yesterday.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m not stupid, either, Cameron. I know someone planted it.” She tapped her fingers against her cheek. “Remy. He’s the only one who could have done it.”

  “Or an ex-employee who still has a key?” Meaning Nick.

  “You’re so transparent. No pun intended. Her killer could have stolen her keys from her purse. Remy let on she had a set.”

  “We won’t know for sure who until we figure out why the book was tampered with.”

  She shook her head lightly. “You know, something about that book bothers me. Maybe it was the fact that she used blue ballpoint for Nickie’s name. His name should have been written with something wild like cherry or fuchsia.”

  “Maybe she was in a hurry, and blue was all she could find. One thing’s for sure. Wendy knew the person who killed her.”

  “I never thought otherwise.” The hands around her throat had not been a stranger’s hands.

  “Ask the detective if her keys were missing from her purse.”

  “He’ll wonder why I’m so interested.”

  “He knows you’re up to something anyway.”

  Max snapped the milk carton closed and put it back in the fridge without answering.

  “Tell him the truth, Max.”

  “And what, exactly, is that?”

  “Tell him you’re psychic. You and your powers will be irresistible.”

  “Don’t play up to me. You’re still on my shit list. Oops.” She covered her mouth, muffling her next words. “Remy’s rule number whatever. I’ve gotta practice not swearing.”

  “Come on, Max.

  “What? My psychic abilities will bring the detective to his knees?”

  “Yeah, baby, oh yeah.”

  The impact of what she’d said suddenly hit her. The sexual impact. Dammit, that was not an image she should be having of the detective. She turned it back on Cameron. “Have you noticed how you always make what I say into something sexual?”

  “Oh no, Max, you’re the one who does that all on your own.”

  * * * * *

  Max spent the rest of the evening calling the numbers she’d copied from Wendy Gregory’s appointment book. Disappointed, she hung up as soon as she got voicemail at each of the four numbers. Manicurist, hair stylist, psychiatrist, psychic reader. Instead of the big clue Max was sure she’d uncover, she learned Wendy Gregory was a high-maintenance woman. Somehow the image didn’t fit. Yet, facts were facts. Wendy was incredibly self-absorbed. Or searching for God-only-knew-what in the strangest places.

  It was Max’s job to discover if that search somehow got Wendy killed.

  She called United Airlines next. They had not had a flight back to Boise yesterday around the time Nicholas Drake was at the airport. It only confirmed that remembered fragment of the Wendy vision. Her lover had taken his kids to Boise for a visit, that was all.

  So where had he been running to when she saw him at the airport? Or what had he been running from?

  Once her head hit the pillow for the night, Max’s scheming brain wouldn’t shut down. She couldn’t fall asleep. Instead, she’d planned her frontal assault on Detective Long.

  She used her lack of sleep as an excuse for why she was so ill-prepared to find Hal Gregory sitting in her chair when she entered her office the next morning.

  Of course, she shouldn’t have known it was him.

  She told herself the only reason she did was because he had the box of his wife’s personal effects on his lap. Yeah right. She got the same queer little quiver in her belly that she’d felt upon first meeting Remy. Wendy hadn’t been any more enamored of her husband than she was of her boss. No wonder she’d had an affair.

  He held a ceramic coffee cup in his hand, logo side facing him. The words ‘No Fear’ stared up at him. Wendy’s motto, one she’d striven for, but never reached. The cup had been a reminder, a positive reinforcement, but more often an accusation.

  This time, Max didn’t wonder how she knew.

  Hal Gregory didn’t notice her in the doorway. Max could barely breath. The air pulsated with Cameron’s peppermints, her own perspiration, and Hal Gregory’s misery.

  His legs were far too long for the height of her chair, the box bunched up against his chest. A skinny man with a hawkish nose and angular face. His hair, a light brown, was fine against his scalp. He looked to be in his early forties, a good fifteen or so years older than Wendy had been. Max couldn’t imagine Wendy, a woman of so many colors, with this pale shadow of a man.

  In the next moment, Hal Gregory smashed his wife’s mug against the wood veneer of the desk, shattering the ceramic into a million irretrievable pieces.

  Chapter Five

  Max shrieked.

  Hal Gregory’s gray eyes widened. The box slid slowly down his knees to the floor, somehow managed to land flat, its contents intact. Hal then rose to his full height.

  Jeez, the guy was tall. A beanpole, with long, thin arms in a short-sleeved shirt. His bony hands ended in skeletal fingers, a gold wedding band on his left.

  Max didn’t trust a man with long, skinny fingers. Unless he composed music or painted. She certainly couldn’t picture Hal Gregory making anything beautiful or colorful.

  “I’m sorry I startled you.” Max smiled. Death made the need for polite, unnecessary introductions irrelevant. “I’ll get something to clean up that mug.”

  Yesterday, she’d noted a brush and pan in the bathroom. She was back in two seconds flat, afraid he’d leave before she could ask him why he hadn’t reported his wife missing. She’d have to work up to it. Hitting him straight off with the question wasn’t an option if she didn’t want to blow her cover.

  “I don’t know what came over me.” Voice grave and grating on her ears, Hal smoothed shards from the desk into his cupped hand.

  “You’re upset. It’s understandable. Don’t cut yourself.”

  She used the excuse to study his hands more closely. If Wendy had scratched him, it didn’t show.

  “That’s generous, but you can’t begin to understand what I’m going through.” He dusted his hands over the waste basket and began scooping at the other end of Max’s desk.

  Down on her haunches, brush and pan in hand, she stared up at him. “My husband was shot in a robbery. I know how you feel.”

  She never told people about Cameron. Still, the circumstances were extraordinary. If she wanted something from Hal Gregory, she’d only get it if she put something on the line.

  He drew back, his lips compressed. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  In a different situation, she’d have labeled him a dickhead. His wife, however, had just been murdered. If he wasn’t guilty of the crime himself, then he deserved to blow off a little steam.

  “I’m not mouthing platitudes.” She spoke with her head down, pretending concentration on the mess he’d made. The harder she brushed, the deeper the shards ground into the carpet.

  She heard him sigh, looked up to find he’d closed his eyes, leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms over his chest. The action wrinkled his blue-and-white striped shirt.

  After a deep breath, he said, “Sorry, but I’m sick to death of all the pity.”

  Max suspected the largest dose was self-inflicted.

  As an apology, it sucked. But Max accepted it as a truce. Her knees creaked as she stood. “I’m sure it isn’t easy.”

  Eyes open again, he pulled away from the wall, rested his hands on the back of her chair. “Hackett let me in.”

  She hadn’t asked and didn’t know why Gregory needed to explain, but took it as a sign he’d eventually s
pill his guts.

  “I’ve gone through all the drawers,” she said. “I think what’s in the box is everything.”

  She dumped the contents of the dustpan in the trash and came within a foot of the man. He smelled, not badly, just a hint of sweat as if he’d spent a restless night, then skipped his morning shower.

  He stepped back. “Sorry about the way I sounded. I’m preoccupied. I hope you’ll forgive me.” He nodded toward the ceramic dust still coating her desk.

  “It wasn’t my mug, Mr. Gregory.”

  He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. The shadow cast by the overhead light gave the contours of his esophagus a lizard-like quality. The man radiated bad vibes.

  She touched his arm and reeled him back in. She wasn’t done with him yet. “You must have been terribly shocked the night she didn’t come home.”

  He looked down at her plain, short nails. “There was nothing my wife could do that would shock me, Mrs. Starr.”

  So, Hackett had imparted her name.

  God, what she would have given to be a fly on the wall during the conversation between the two men. It might have been tug-of-war, stiff politeness, or down-and-dirty knuckle grinding. The suspense was killing her.

  Max wanted to push, wanted to know if Wendy had finally done something that shocked her husband. Maybe there was a motive for murder there. The lack of scratch marks on his hands didn’t deter her, but she didn’t know which questions would bring him around, which ones would turn him against her.

  Time slipped away. He stepped around her to pick up the box of his wife’s belongings.

  “After my husband died, I couldn’t talk to friends. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to strangers.” She knew Cameron would forgive her that lie. The truth was she hadn’t talked to anyone except him. Sutter Cahill might have understood, but Max hadn’t called her. “I’d like to invite you out for a drink.”

  In mid-bend, Hal stopped, then straightened. A hand to his mouth, his jaw working back and forth as if grinding his teeth, he regarded her with an unreadable expression.

  Unreadable, that was, until he spoke. “So tell me, how does it feel stepping into my dead wife’s shoes?”