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

by Jasmine Haynes

  The words slapped her in the face as if the man had read her mind. Her cheeks flamed. Hal Gregory’s anger was there in the white line of his mouth, the tense muscles of his cheeks, the narrowing of his distant gray eyes.

  Before she could answer, he gave another non-apology. “There I go again. I’m no good with other people’s sympathy.”

  Despite the placating words, the guy was pissed as hell. Pissed enough to kill his wife?

  “I wasn’t good with other people, either.” She still wasn’t. “The offer stands if you need it.” She prayed he would because this disastrous interview hadn’t answered her main question: why hadn’t he reported his wife missing?

  “I’ll call you here if I do.”

  Max accepted, then pointed to a bushy spider plant, a multitude of babies hanging from its long fronds. “The plant was your wife’s, too.”

  He stepped toward the lateral file closest to the desk. “How did she grow it with no window?” he murmured, then shook his head, as if his wife, and not the plant, had been the mystery in his life.

  “Florescent lighting,” Max offered. “Plants love it.”

  He turned to her suddenly. “You keep it. I’d kill it.”

  Then he walked out.

  Max wondered what else he might have killed.

  * * * * *

  In less than a day and a half, Max knew everything there was to know about Hackett’s Appliance Parts from ten different points of view, thanks to the copy machine—the now dead copy machine. Not a person walked into her office for a copy who didn’t offer an opinion on who had killed Wendy Gregory. It was the husband, a lover, the boss, the janitor, even Marvin, the copy repairman. By ten o’clock, when the copy machine finally choked on a glob of toner, she hadn’t learned a thing that brought her closer to finding the murderer, but she did know Hackett’s grapevine inside and out.

  Peggy from Payables confirmed the whole office knew Wendy was having an affair with “somebody,” but no one knew who.

  Theresa from the front counter said Wendy carried her planner everywhere. Of course, that was after Max accidentally-on-purpose let it slip she’d found the appointment book in the desk.

  Archie from the warehouse thought Wendy acted strangely that last day. When Max pushed for more details, he’d shrugged.

  It was a start. Not perfect. But more than she knew when she’d walked in the door.

  But she wasn’t getting info without that copier, or rather, from the people who used it.

  Max resorted to asking the counter girl’s help.

  “The copier’s in your office. It’s your job to get it fixed.”

  Theresa was anything but sweet sixteen. She dressed like a harlot. Her butt cheeks hung out of her short red skirt, and her skimpy shirt bared half her midriff. A shocking shade of crimson that a hooker would die for resurfaced her full lips, and her stiletto heels topped Max’s by two inches. Being out-heeled by a leggy teenager was not something Max appreciated.

  Max’s smile was saccharine sweet. “Then I vote we move the copy machine out here so it’s everyone’s job.”

  The suggestion was a calculated risk. What she wanted was a repairman, now. What she had was teenage attitude that needed nipping in the bud.

  “No way will Remy let you put that copier in the bullpen.”

  The bullpen was the store’s main office. It housed Susie, the fifty-five-year-old Accounts Receivable clerk, Peggy, the Payables girl, four 800-line guys, and two part-time sales girls, of which Theresa was one. With phones ringing, and the warehouse guys slamming through the swing doors every five minutes, the noise level was deafening. Remy Hackett liked his customers to see activity. Max figured what they encountered was total chaos.

  And Theresa’s size-D breasts at the front counter. They were enough to make any self-respecting male come back for more. The Four Musketeers manning the 800-lines drooled.

  The calls went unanswered as Theresa wriggled her little butt for her audience and responded to Max with superior disdain. “Remy locked the copier up so none of these lame brains”—she hooked a thumb over her shoulder—“could use it for personal stuff without asking. Remy’s real generous, but he doesn’t like to be used.”

  Max wondered just how generous Remy was with Theresa. The girl had invoked his name at least six times in the course of the five-minute conversation. And Remy’s word was law.

  “Well, Theresa, since you don’t appear to be included in the same category as those other lame brains, I’ll put you in charge of getting it fixed.”

  “Remy’ll blow a gasket. He’s real particular about how things are done around here. The copier was Wendy’s job. And he’d like go totally postal if anyone else did it for her.”

  “Postal?”

  Theresa rolled her eyes as if Max should be included with the other lame brains. “You know, like ballistic, pissed, whacked. In fact, they had this huge blow-out the day—” Theresa did have the grace to blush at that point. “On Monday.”

  Max raised her eyebrows. The day Wendy Gregory died. “Bit of an over-reaction, wouldn’t you say?”

  The sarcasm went right over Theresa’s highlighted airhead. “Wendy was bouncing off the walls, you know. I’d never seen her like that before. Sort of freaked us all out. Remy especially. She was usually the little brown mouse type. But wow, that day she was like a lioness.” Theresa seemed at last to have found something admirable in Wendy.

  “The copy machine?” Max prompted.

  “Remy found out she hadn’t called Marvin. So, he dragged her into his office, slammed the door, and yelled up the ying-yang.”

  Max wondered about Theresa’s level of exaggeration. “And then?”

  “She opened the door and walked out. Then Remy had me call Marvin, the copy guy.” Her heavily mascaraed eyes were wide as if nothing of the kind had ever happened in the history of mankind. “And now she’s dead. So...I won’t touch that machine.” She shrugged her shoulders and pointed through the open door of Max’s office. “Maintenance number’s on the inside door.”

  With that, she turned to wiggle her way past the salivating phone jerks to her spot at the front counter, leaving Max in a cloud of Poison perfume.

  Damn, bested by a sixteen-year-old nymphet getting high-school work credits for her part-time act.

  Max went back into her office, pulled the machine open, and wrote down the number on a lined yellow pad. She cajoled, pleaded, and begged. Marvin the copy machine repairman would arrive within the hour. His huffing and puffing said it was the best she’d get out of him. Max knew when to quit.

  Fifteen minutes later the great man himself walked in to use the damn copier. Remy’s mustache twitched. He turned on her with a smile, one she didn’t trust. “It doesn’t work.”

  Well, duh. Max kept the comment to herself. With everyone else, Max had their life story by the time they’d stacked their copies. Sometimes she trailed them out the door if she’d missed something. With Remy...she felt an immediate violation of her privacy. Why, the man didn’t even knock, just barged in because she had possession of his copy machine. How the hell had Wendy Gregory stood for it?

  Unlike Theresa, Wendy had not idolized him.

  The man wore a mask. He could charm the pants off you when he beamed and flay flesh from bone with the same mouth. Wendy had been privy to both sides. Max knew it for fact.

  Max typed one more number into her computer, using the moment to bury her irrational reaction to him. “I called the repairman.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  “When did he say he’d be here?”

  “Within an hour.”

  “He’s always late.” A vein bulged at Remy’s temple.

  “I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Meanwhile, no one can get their work done.”

  “You can use the fax. It has a copy function.”

  “Inkjet smears when it gets wet.”

  “We can recopy it on
ce the machine’s fixed.”

  “The efficiency of an office depends on its equipment.”

  “I’ll let you know the moment Marvin gets here.”

  “Call him back and tell him he’d better not be late.”

  “If he’s one second late, I’ll call his cell.”

  “I said now.”

  Rule number something-or-other. This was a test. Remy Hackett stood with his feet apart, hands on hips, shoulders back, and gut sucked in.

  Max thought of her reasons for taking this job. Step into Wendy Gregory’s life. Learn what made her tick. Catch her killer. Very simple goals.

  Problem was she wanted Remy squashed like a worm beneath her heel, wanted it bad.

  What would Wendy have done? Cameron’s voice was a breath of sanity in her ear.

  Max didn’t wonder. She simply picked up the phone, punched in Marvin-the-copy-guy’s cell number and left a message. Remy stood guard over the copier until Max’s phone rang back.

  “You rang, Ma’am?”

  “I want to confirm you’d be here no later than an hour.”

  “Forty-five minutes,” Remy interrupted, staring pointedly at his watch.

  “Excuse me, Marvin, forty-five minutes from now.”

  “I told you one hour.” The phone crackled.

  “Just checking. Thank you, Marvin.” His cellular clipped off before she got the final word out. “He said he’ll be here.”

  “And thank you, Max.” Remy gave her that smile again, the one that said you’ll never get the better of me, baby. “See how well we do together when you follow instructions?”

  Her lip quivered with the effort it took not to snarl like a rabid dog. That, too, was how Wendy would have felt. Max knew it in her bones. Wendy had hated him.

  Remy Hackett got perverse pleasure from knowing it.

  He was the kind of man who’d enjoyed pushing buttons and watching people squirm. He’d have enjoyed beating Wendy down at every turn.

  Max would make sure he didn’t get another moment of satisfaction. “By the way, I’ll need extra time at lunch.” She gave him her own especially smug smile. “The detective has some more questions for me.”

  Remy’s eyebrows shot up. “For you? You didn’t know Wendy.”

  “I suppose he thinks I’ll be unbiased.”

  “You can do it after work.”

  “He might think we’re impeding his investigation.”

  Remy drummed his fingernails on the doorjamb, then narrowed his gaze. “Fine. You’ll stay late to make up the time.”

  “Yes, sir.” Asshole.

  With the doorway once again empty, phones rang in the bullpen and raunchy laughter drifted in through the warehouse doors. Max turned back to Wendy’s small, neat writing in the margin of the ledger she’d been studying.

  “Why did you stay and even give that dickhead the time of day?” Max whispered aloud. She could make lots of assumptions about Wendy’s feelings, but none of them answered that question.

  Chapter Six

  Max sat across from Detective Long at a plastic picnic table outside a noisy, crowded Kentucky Fried Chicken situated on Fast Food Row. Burger King, Taco Bell, Round Table, and KFC covered the four major food groups, American, Mexican, Italian, and Southern. Since restaurant row was less than half a mile from the police department, Max had insisted they walk. Her high-heeled feet ached, but she hadn’t wanted to be alone in a car with the man.

  He had a disconcerting effect on her, as if she’d danced with her best friend’s husband and felt a hard-on poking her hip. Did you or did you not mention it?

  Besides, the sun was bright, the day was warm, and she’d needed to get the stink of the police station out of her head. The odor reminded her of an old folks’ home.

  “I’m honored you invited me to lunch.” She also wanted to know exactly why the detective had done so.

  She’d been politely and apologetically fingerprinted in a small room off a noisy hallway in the beaten-down police building not far from the airport. The traffic had been horrendous for a non-commute hour, and if Remy was true to his word—she never doubted that he would be—she’d be working very late tonight.

  Knowing that, she’d accepted Long’s lunch offer. Not because she was charmed by that dimple either. She merely wanted whatever information she could wheedle out of him.

  “Sorry you don’t have time for more than fast food.”

  Detective Long had a cute, lopsided smile. It made him almost endearing, especially with that trickle of butter running down his chin which, at any moment, would land on the lapel of his rumpled suit. Max felt no compunction about letting it happen. Brown was not one of her favorite colors. Maybe he’d have to get a new one.

  “You know, Detective, you really ought to wear pink.”

  He looked at her dumbfounded, a faint flush rising in his cheeks. “Pink?”

  She waved a hand. “Well, not pink-pink. More like a rose. Dusty rose. For the shirt, I mean. And a blue suit to go with it. A pink-and-blue striped tie would do the trick, I think.” Something fluttered through her stomach at the thought of dressing him, or undressing him, as the case may be. “Of course, if that’s too much for you, teal would do nicely.”

  My, aren’t we color-conscious today? And all this from a woman who’s stuck in black and white. Cameron’s snide comment drifted through her mind.

  At least he hadn’t connected the color thing with Wendy.

  That was exactly my point, darling.

  Max ignored him, broke off the tip of a chicken wing, then chewed on the crunchy end. “I love fried chicken. Of course, I’ll be sick as a dog tomorrow, but it sure tastes good.”

  She hadn’t eaten like this since...God, since she was a teenager, and then she’d ended up with her finger down her throat to get rid of the stuff.

  DeWitt Long didn’t say a word. And he was blushing. Could cops actually do that?

  Max figured she’d stunned him and decided to give the conversation a jump-start. “So, Detective, I’m sure you don’t have time for a social visit.” She tried keeping her voice low, but with the whoosh of the cars along the curbside and the chatter of a multitude of office workers out for their nooners, Long had to lean closer and hold his hand up to his ear. She restated for him. “I said, why don’t you come clean on why you really asked me here?”

  Gosh, he smelled good. Something musky and very male. Had he been wearing aftershave yesterday?

  “Ma’am, you’re a helluva lot more direct than most people.”

  “Well, Remy did tell me you’d try pumping me.”

  The detective choked.

  “For information, I mean.” Her explanation didn’t help. His face turned a dangerous beet red. She wondered if she should loosen his tie for him.

  God, he really was choking! On a chicken bone. The Heimlich maneuver wasn’t her forte. She clapped him on the back and felt better when his eyes started to water and his breathing returned to normal. For a moment, Max thought he might actually be stifling a laugh.

  He wiped at his eyes. “And what information exactly does he think I’ll pump out of you?”

  She licked her thumb and index finger and noted that he was noticing the action. “Probably that you think he killed Wendy Gregory.”

  A breeze ruffled his buzz cut like freshly mowed grass. “That what you think?”

  What she thought wasn’t the point. What Detective Long knew was. “Don’t you guys always look at the husband first, not the employer?”

  He shook his head. “Just who’s asking the questions here?”

  They both still wore their sunglasses against the bright noon sun. Max was glad. Sunglasses hid all manner of intent. They also hid little white lies. “You’re in charge, Detective.”

  Her stomach rolled ominously, but she wouldn’t waste the last bite before tossing the gnawed bone into the cardboard box. Across the street, the sun glinted off the windshield of a car and almost blinded her despite the dark of her shades. She blin
ked the spots away, and just as they cleared, she saw him in the window of Taco Bell.

  The image was indistinct, but she knew. The man from the airport—Nicholas Drake. Watching her. A light changed and another wave of cars blazed past. In the brief break, he’d disappeared into the body of the restaurant. She was sure it was him. Positively. Maybe.

  “What’s the matter? You’re pale. Like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  She reached for a wet wipe. “Trust me, the last thing on earth that would unnerve me is a ghost.” Max squeaked as her empty butter packet fell into her lap. “You’re damn lucky that didn’t leave a mark on my black pants. I just had them cleaned.”

  Cameron laughed from somewhere near the fully laden trash can.

  “Pardon?”

  “I was talking to myself, Detective.”

  “Sure you’re all right?”

  Get used to it, pal. She’s a weirdo. Even if she wants to jump your bones bad.

  Max pursed her lips and kept her more choice comebacks to herself. “Look how clumsy I am. I swear I don’t touch a thing, it just happens. Okay, Detective, what did you want to ask me?”

  “Need your help.”

  A gaggle of high school girls twittered by. Max waited until they were gone. “I gave you my prints and Wendy’s appointment book. What more do you want?”

  His lips curved ever so slightly, just at the corners, and she knew exactly what more he might want. Were detectives allowed to flirt like this? Except that it wasn’t flirting. It was...weird chemistry, or physics, same wavelength kind of stuff. Despite the heat of the sun, a shiver traveled her arms, and yes, there was that erotic bead of warmth between her legs.

  “I mean,” she amended, “how can I help your investigation, Detective?”

  He gave a white-toothed Dudley Do-Right smile that matched his Dudley Do-Right chin. The man was, however, anything but stupid and insipid. He knew he made her hot and uncomfortable, but at least he was gentlemanly enough not to mention it. “Advise me on everything. Every bit of gossip dropped around Hackett’s”

  “You know gossip is usually stretched to fit the imagination, if not an out-and-out lie.”