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

by Jasmine Haynes

  “You missed my point—”

  “I’m not missing anything.”

  “Listen to me.”

  The sharpness of his tone was enough to stop her pacing. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “I’m listening.”

  “The dream wasn’t about what happened to her when she was a kid. It’s a clue as to why she was murdered.”

  “He did it.” The words and all her venom burst out. She wanted to hurt Bud Traynor, wanted to hurl accusations as angrily and easily as he’d done, wanted to take the nearest two-by-four and smash his nose with it.

  “That’s not what I’m saying—”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  He sighed, and a puff of air whispered across the shoots of Wendy’s now-thriving spider plant on top of the file cabinet. “You’re not ready to listen.”

  “Oh, don’t give me that psychological crap, Cameron.”

  A knock. The door opened before Max had time to answer.

  “I’m supposed to say come in before you open the door, Theresa.” She felt like snapping someone’s head off, and Theresa was as good as anyone.

  The girl’s lower lip jutted in a pout. “I thought you were on the phone and couldn’t hear me.”

  “Right,” Max muttered and turned to flip on her computer, punching so hard her expensive manicure chipped. Dammit, she had to get that stuff off before it became an obsession.

  “Carla Drake is here, and she wants to talk to the accountant. That’s you.”

  “Who the hell is Carla Drake?” Oh jeez. Nicholas Drake’s wife. Max actually felt a guilty spurt of adrenaline, and her face heated.

  “She’s the wife of one of the guys that used to work here.”

  Ex-wife, Max almost added. Why on earth was she feeling guilty anyway? She’d danced with the man, nothing more. “What does she want?”

  Theresa rolled her eyes. “How am I supposed to know?”

  “Has anyone ever told you that mastering courtesy and diplomacy is how you get places in this world?” Not to mention keeping friends.

  Theresa gave an exaggerated snap of her gum, left Max’s office door open, and wriggled her way back to the front counter. Like a snake.

  “I knew there was a reason I never had children,” Max muttered. “They grow up to be teenagers.”

  “You can go on back.” Theresa’s sugary voice floated through the open doorway.

  Carla Drake filled the space Theresa had just vacated.

  Max recognized her immediately. The woman had played a small almost-forgotten role in the first of Max’s “Wendy dreams.” The dream that had started it all.

  Nicholas Drake’s wife was tall and blonde, and at one time, she might have been quite pretty. Now her complexion was a mottled red, her hair a mass of frizzy, disorganized curls, and her body had never recovered from the birth of her last child.

  A little catty, Maxi? Cameron whispered snidely in her ear.

  Maybe so, but seeing Carla in her loose-fitting stretch pants, long T-shirt, and dirty, white tennies, Max wanted to dislike her.

  Couldn’t be jealousy talking, could it?

  Yes. Yes. Yes. Max wasn’t ashamed to admit it. After all, it was Wendy’s emotion, not her own. That made everything okay.

  Carla, however, looked a tad thinner than when she’d picked up the kids at the airport. Max had to wonder how much of the dream had simply been Wendy’s perceptions.

  Could Max be a victim of the dead woman’s fantasies?

  She shoved the thought and the emotions aside to invite Carla in.

  The woman waved a small piece of paper in the air and came fully into Max’s office, followed by the stench of three gallons of Joy. The wedding ring she hadn’t bothered to remove looked tight enough to cut off her circulation.

  Max took note of those unmarked fingers. Another suspect bites the dust.

  What if she’d only imagined that Wendy scratched her killer? What if it had only felt like a tremendous fight while, in reality, Wendy had been too weak at that point to cause any damage?

  Now you’re thinking, baby.

  Everybody became a suspect again.

  “I have Nick’s COBRA insurance check.” Out of breath, Carla’s words came out shrill, like high-frequency waves pitched to burst eardrums. “I drove down here instead of mailing it. The kids are in the car, and it’s really hot out there. Do I need a receipt?” The woman’s sentences bounced around as if she had trouble keeping thoughts straight in her head.

  “I’m afraid the check is late, Mrs. Drake.”

  “I couldn’t help it.” Carla’s lip quivered like a child’s.

  Max pulled a folder out of Wendy’s left drawer. Experiencing Wendy’s jealousy or not, Max herself wanted to irritate the blonde. If Carla got mad, she could reveal something that might prove helpful. “I’ve got a note here that we tried to give you a reminder call. Your phone was disconnected.”

  Her face, passably appealing despite the blotchiness, suddenly turned ugly, her tone whiny. “I’m going through a divorce, and I had to move in with my parents.”

  Get her address. We need it.

  Cameron was right on the mark. “We’ll need your new address and phone number to continue the insurance policy.”

  She handed Carla one of Wendy’s pink pens and a piece of paper.

  She got back a childish, almost illegible scrawl. Max’s heart pumped harder when she finally made it out. “Foster City.”

  Less than a handful of exits from the airport. Could the woman have enough strength to strangle someone? Maybe. If she was terrified someone was stealing her husband. Or pissed as hell. The whole thing about a woman scorned, ya know.

  “Yeah,” Carla said as she shoved the pink pen in her purse.

  Max wondered if she knew how apropos that “yeah” might really be. “We’ll be sure to call you when your check’s late again.” And it would be, Max was sure.

  Carla flapped a hand. “It’s only a day late.”

  “Try a month.” Remy appeared in the doorway, his voice harsh with just the right answer. He’d obviously taken stock of the conversation while standing outside the door.

  Carla squeaked like a mouse at the sound of his voice, her lips a round O, her brown eyes wide as she turned to stare at him. A moment later, they took on a decidedly stormy look. “You must be Remy Hackett.”

  Max took a seat for the confrontation.

  Remy’s upper lip twitched. “Mrs. Drake, I presume.” He sounded like a Victorian gentleman. “I recognize your voice from your phone calls.” His tone suggested how unpleasant they’d been. “I see you tried to get around me by going to Max first. I told you we’d have to cancel your insurance if you were late again. Did you call in the cancellation yesterday, Max?”

  He gave Max a look over Carla’s shoulder. Not just any look, a very meaningful one that said play along, follow his lead, don’t buck the system. It wasn’t exactly a lie, not the way Remy had phrased it.

  Nudge him, Max. Test him. See what he does.

  Cameron had plucked her thoughts out of the air. It was exactly what she intended to do. “Actually, Remy, I didn’t get a chance to call the insurance company. They’re back east, and it was after five their time when you told me to call.”

  He came forward, pushing Carla aside to get to Max. “Why didn’t you do it this morning?”

  He looked like a seething, growling Mr. Hyde taking over Dr. Jekyll. At any moment, she expected him to foam. She almost smiled. People gave away so much more when they were out of control.

  “If you recall, we were at Wendy’s funeral.”

  Remy’s teeth ground. “It’s an insurance company policy. Thirty-day-grace period starts at the beginning of the month, payment no later than August 31st.” He glanced down at his watch. “It’s now September 10th.”

  Carla didn’t say a word, seemingly quite content for Max to fight her battle. She was sure it was the woman’s usual style. “Actually, that’s not quite the way Wendy’
s notes read.” She was careful not to use the word lie. There was pushing, and then there was lighting a match next to a natural gas leak.

  “Wendy’s notes?”

  Max nodded, a curve to her lips. “She documented everything. Wendy was quite the little writer.”

  Wendy had obviously learned the hard way to cover her butt. Her notes recorded the fact that Remy handled the COBRA all wrong, that some of his practices might even be illegal. Besides, he couldn’t cancel the COBRA himself. She’d told him, but he hadn’t believed her or cared enough to call the insurance carrier himself. Remy’s law was the only law.

  Two steps from his elbow, Carla Drake beamed like a teenager pitting her parents against each other.

  Remy did not have a naturally florid complexion, but he sure as hell looked apoplectic now. Max was afraid he’d pop a blood vessel. His lips worked. No sound came out.

  She offered him a small out. “The COBRA conversation probably slipped your mind.”

  Don’t back down, Maxi. Keep on him. Cameron was so very good at egging her on.

  But if she pushed too hard, Remy could always cancel her contract, and solving Wendy’s murder required proximity to the major players. Besides, she’d done enough. Remy now realized Wendy had diligently noted the things he told her to do. If there was another lie, Max would catch him in it.

  And he knew it.

  She held out her hand. “You want me to take her check, Remy?”

  Finally, without turning around, he held out his hand, his acquiescence shocking Max. An explosion had seemed far more likely. Inevitable. “Give me the check, Mrs. Drake.”

  Laying it on his palm, Carla smiled slyly at Max. As if they were conspirators. Not in this life, lady.

  “If you’re one second late next month, your policy is history.” Remy spoke to the woman behind him, but his eyes never left Max’s face. He’d recovered his composure and was attempting intimidation. Fat chance.

  “Take care of it today.” He threw the check at her. Max let it fall to the carpet.

  Someone should have murdered him.

  The check landed face up. Finally, once the paper had settled, Max bent to get it. “Mrs. Drake, this check is dated August 31.” Prior to Wendy’s death. When Nicholas Drake was in Boise with his kids.

  “Nick backdated it. He always does things like that.”

  The answer was too quick, as if she’d expected the question. Or was used to shifting blame. Nick had given her the check before he left, told her to mail it, and she hadn’t. Max was sure.

  “Be careful, Mrs. Drake.” Remy’s hands fisted at his sides as he turned on the woman. “I don’t tolerate lies.”

  “And what makes you think I’m lying?” Something cracked in Carla Drake. Max wasn’t sure if it was the accusation, Remy’s threatening tone, or something sparking in her wayward brain, but Carla was suddenly on a spiteful roll. “You think I’m lying because my dear husband is so ethical, so morally upstanding that you can’t imagine he’d ever backdate a check?”

  “Mrs. Drake—”

  “But then you’re a man. And men always side with each other when it comes to their little flings, don’t they?”

  Remy sighed, a long-suffering sound. “Your cryptic remarks confound me.”

  He sounded like that Victorian gentleman again with his suddenly unnatural speech pattern. An obvious attempt at regaining the upper hand.

  Carla snarled. “I know you were all in on it.”

  He rolled his eyes. “What?”

  Remy’s indifference only made Carla angrier. “Covering up my husband’s affair with that whore bookkeeper of yours.”

  “Really, Mrs. Drake, don’t you think if I thought something like that was going on, I would have stopped it?” Remy didn’t sound particularly shocked by the news or the accusation.

  “You probably watched them.”

  “I resent that.”

  Despite his apparent affront, Max had the feeling Remy found the idea funny and enjoyed baiting the woman.

  Carla ignored him, almost talking to herself. “What did he see in her anyway? She was a drab little mouse.”

  Wendy had wondered the same thing about Nick’s wife. The woman’s words sounded suspiciously like something Theresa had said. Max jumped on it. “Did you know Wendy, Mrs. Drake?”

  Carla faltered then, but only for a moment. “I saw her. A wife has a right to find out what’s going on behind her back. And she deserved what she got.”

  “I wouldn’t let the police hear you say that.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll say it to them. It’s how I feel. The tramp deserved to die.”

  The woman’s sentiment shuddered through Max. As did the knowledge that Carla Drake had known the identity of her rival.

  She’d known the night unsuspecting Wendy sat thirty feet away from her in the airport terminal waiting for Nick to relinquish his kids to his wife.

  It gave her an excellent motive for murder.

  Chapter Fifteen

  With the door open, the hum of voices filled her small office. Max ignored them, writing down Carla Drake’s new address and phone on a piece of paper she then shoved into the front pocket of her purse.

  “She’s a real bitch, isn’t she?”

  Her head popped up. Theresa leaned against the doorjamb, her hip jutted out, her pleated skirt school-girl sexy. A soft whiff of her dimestore cologne drifted past Max’s nostrils.

  “I have no opinion on Carla Drake,” Max said, knowing the statement would evoke a litany of opinions from Theresa.

  “She’s a cow.”

  “It’s unpleasant to refer so disparagingly to someone’s weight, you know.”

  As Max well knew, weight was not what Theresa meant at all. “She used to call him at least ten times a day. It drove us nuts. Remy finally told us to say Nick wasn’t available until break time.”

  “Don’t you have customers at the counter, Theresa?” Max commented sternly. A lack of interest was the best way to keep the teenager going, to up the number of juicy items revealed.

  As if Max had just begged her to tell all, Theresa took three steps into the office and leaned against the copy machine. She loved to lean against things; the table, the counter, the back of a chair, knowing it set her long legs off to best advantage.

  Jail-bait.

  Max looked at her. “Are you sure you’re only sixteen, Theresa?”

  No one would ever mistake her for innocent. She’d probably done more sexual things than Max could imagine.

  Theresa looked over her shoulder, shook her hair out with a careless flip, then turned back, smiling. She knew exactly what Max was thinking and damn if the little...woman didn’t seem proud of it. “Almost seventeen. I’ll graduate at the end of winter semester with my job credits. Now, don’t you want to hear about Nick and Wendy and Carla?”

  The lunch rush was long over, the girl was bored and more than willing to tell every spicy detail.

  “I don’t like gossip.” It was all Max could do to pretend disinterest.

  Another step. Theresa leaned against the filing cabinet, no longer fully visible through the doorway. Except probably one butt cheek, exposed due the angle of her body and the brevity of her skirt. “This isn’t gossip. It’s about a murder.”

  “Then you should tell Detective Long.”

  “Oh, but I did.”

  Max’s heart did a double back-flip. “When?”

  “The first day he came here, the day after Wendy was found.”

  Damn Witt. He’d known about Nick all along.

  Well, of course, he has, Max. Isn’t that why Nickie’s been hiding out? Cameron piped up out of nowhere.

  “Oh, shut up.”

  Theresa sniffed. “I was just being friendly.”

  Oops, almost lost her. “Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, kid.”

  “I’m not a kid.”

  “Sorry, my mistake.” Max opened the bottom drawer of her desk and put her feet on the rim. “All right, talk.
I know you won’t leave until I listen.”

  “You don’t fool me. You want to listen.”

  Max looked heavenward. “Oh, the arrogance of youth.”

  “I’m not the stupid one.”

  “Just who are you referring to as stupid? You certainly couldn’t mean me.” Max put a hand to her chest with an incredulous rise to her eyebrows. “And I didn’t get the impression Carla Drake was stupid.” More like viciously jealous.

  “I was talking about Wendy.”

  “Wendy?” Ah, the interesting part.

  “Yeah, Wendy. The paragon of virtue. She and Nick used to get here at five in the morning to screw their brains out before everyone else got to work.”

  Max’s feet flopped to the floor, landing hard on the heels of her shoes. “Sure beats Wheaties for breakfast.” Her mind raced. Remy had commented on how dedicated Wendy had been, sometimes getting in as early as five in the morning. “So I suppose you want to tell me how you knew about it?”

  “Some of the warehouse guys. Just because they don’t speak good English doesn’t mean they can’t see.”

  “I find this pretty hard to believe, Theresa.” God, but she didn’t. A flash of Wendy’s desperation and despair washed over her, stole her breath.

  “Everybody knew about it.”

  Everybody didn’t know that Wendy had been slowly dying, and that Nick had seemed like her only way out. Max took a gulp of air, concentrated on Theresa’s avid features. “I doubt that. Remy would have fired them if he had.”

  He’d said so, too. Or had he merely turned it into a question, thereby avoiding the lie?

  “Oh, you’d be surprised. I think Remy sort of liked the fact that Nick put one over on Carla.”

  “You’re making this up, Theresa.” Yet that was exactly the same accusation Carla had hurled at Remy not fifteen minutes ago.

  Apparently the rule Remy missed was the one about the warehouse manager not screwing the office help.

  He’d sure as hell have made Wendy pay for keeping the secret. The question was how high the price?

  Why hadn’t Wendy left? Quit her job? Run away from her husband?

  Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

  A fist seemed to wrench her lungs. Cameron was right. Wendy had been paralyzed by the men in her life.