by JB Skully
"Is that why you didn't want to watch her being buried?"
"Pass me an egg, would you?"
Max opened the fridge, found the eggs in the door, and handed Virginia one. “You didn't answer."
Virginia cracked the egg in one clean, practiced break. “If you don't have the memories, you can't keep replaying them over and over in your head."
Max felt a bone-deep understanding. “What happened to your rolling pin?"
She neither flinched nor missed a beat in her measuring technique. “There was a crack in it. I had to throw it away. Bud promised to get me another one."
Had Jada cleaned it so thoroughly her mother never even suspected it had been used to kill her younger daughter?
The question was whether she could lead Virginia into facing the truth. “How do you think it got cracked?"
Virginia stilled with her fingertips on handle of the Pyrex measuring cup. Only a missed beat in the conversation, yet so telling. Then the woman went on as if nothing had happened, as if Max had never asked, skipping to other things for reasons only her mind could follow. “I'll miss Bethany's cat."
Kitty-Kat. “Did she run away?"
Virginia leaned down, opened a cupboard filled with pans and cookie sheets. “No. Jada and I couldn't take care of the cat. I had it put down on Thursday."
Max heard the news like a sucker punch to the belly.
Virginia straightened. Instead of the expected cookie sheet, she held her husband's suicide gun in her hand.
Way too late for Max, Virginia's mind was open, messy and truthful.
"It was you, not Jada."
"Bud said you'd figure that out, too. Why couldn't you leave us alone?"
Max stared down the barrel of the gun that had killed at least once, and asked, “Tell me why.” She had to hear the words, though in her heart, she'd already heard the answer the night Bethany died.
Virginia didn't have to be psychic to understand Max's demand. “She was doing evil things on the phone at night."
"You killed her because of the phone sex?"
"That afternoon, I took over her favorite truffles.” The truffles Bethany had savored only minutes before her death. “I thought we could talk, but she only got angry and said she wouldn't stop. She told me to get out and never come back. She said she was going to change the locks on all the doors and never give me a key."
In the end all Bethany had left was those truffles. She'd lost her mother, hated her sister, and been seduced by the voice of her godfather. Twenty truffles was all the comfort she could find.
Max looked from the gun, to the dining room door, to the back door. Virginia could shoot her in the back if she made a move in either direction.
With a single tear rolling down her cheek, the woman who had murdered her daughter went on as if Max had asked another question. “I stayed up late baking for her, another of her favorites, apple pie with a flaky butter pastry. I thought if I took it to her ... if we could talk ... but I ran out of sugar. I went over there to borrow some."
"You took your rolling pin?"
Virginia looked briefly at her grip on the gun. “It was just in my hands."
Had murder been in her subconscious all along? “Then what happened?” Max wanted answers. She also wanted to keep Virginia talking.
"I heard her with those men. It was horrible. The things she said. Then she started to moan. I couldn't stand it anymore. I knew she'd never listen to me. I had no choice. I waited until she hung up, and then I...” She paused, took a deep breath, her lips trembling. “Then I did it."
The phone rang. Virginia started. The noise stopped on the second ring. It began again. Once, twice. Then silence.
Witt was on his way.
He might be a little bit late.
With only words left as weapons, she glanced directly at the phone on the wall, then back to Virginia. “That was Ladybird calling. Her son's on the way. If you kill me, it's over for you. If you don't, you might be able to lie your way out of it."
"It's all over for me, anyway, Max.” Her eyes misted. “Bud told me that, too."
Then she raised the gun to her mouth and blew her brains out the back of her head.
* * * *
The front door crashed open. It could have been seconds after Virginia died. It could have been hours. It was certainly long enough for the woman's body to leak a stark pool of blood all over the white linoleum.
Max had yet to scream. In fact, she had yet to move. She barely turned her head to see Witt framed in the doorway. His gun was out. So was his alien cop look.
She wished he'd hold her. Knew he wouldn't. Not now. Maybe not ever again. She'd still received one blessing.
Thank you God so very much for proving Horace Long's prediction false. Witt had not had to kill Virginia to save Max. That was one less thing to have on her conscience.
"Do I need to check the rest of the house?"
More than a procedural question, it was an appeal to her psychic talents. Or maybe the guy trusted her. Nah, she doubted she could be that lucky. “No."
He holstered his gun beneath his jacket. The ice blue of his eyes didn't soften. Max was afraid his belief in her had come too late to mitigate the damage done between them the night before.
It certainly did nothing to explain away the body on the floor.
She kept her eyes on the body, as if it might move, might jump at her, zombie-like, a will beyond its own life.
Witt moved forward, blocking her view of Virginia. He ran his hands up her arms, her throat, his thumbs down between her breasts, then his fingers to span her waist. He could have been checking to see that she was all right. Or he could have been checking her for weapons, the touch was that impersonal. The tremor in his hands gave her hope.
"Did you do that?” he asked, stepping back, his gaze dropping to the floor and then to the gun which had fallen only inches from the curled fingers.
"No.” She didn't even feel offended that he had to ask. She couldn't say she felt much of anything.
"Did she confess to killing her daughter before she shot herself?"
"Yes."
"Do you have a legitimate reason for being here?” His gaze raked her. “This better be more than a one-word answer."
Funny, coming from him, the king of lean and mean. She almost laughed, but feared she'd never stop. “She wanted me to sit with her until the others got back from the funeral.” The first of many lies she'd have to tell. She couldn't involve Witt in any cover-up.
"Will Bud Traynor and the girl back you up on that?"
"Yes,” she hesitated, “they will.” Couldn't risk another one word answer, especially in the midst of the second lie.
If it was a lie.
If Bud Traynor hadn't manipulated the whole scenario himself.
The smell rose from the floor, coppery blood and worse. Virginia's bowels had let loose. The final indignity. Max almost felt sorry for her. In the end, twenty truffles were all Bethany had left, but they were all Virginia had ever had to give. “Do you think we could go outside?"
He led the way out. “Don't touch anything you haven't already. Mom called the cops. They should have been here by now."
Outside, her legs refused to hold her. She collapsed on the small stone step. “I thought you always call Ladybird before you come over."
He looked at her, but didn't answer. He'd come like the cavalry knowing she was up to something, and they both knew he knew the truth about what had happened during the afternoon. Virginia Spring had never extended an invitation.
She looked up from her perch on the stoop. “Will they arrest me?"
He took a deep breath. “No. As long as your prints are nowhere near that gun and her hand shows the powder burns."
Would that count for enough if Bud Traynor decided to feed her to the wolves?
"Did you find the rolling pin?” he asked.
She made one last effort to save his neck while sticking as close to the truth as possible. “She
wanted me to help her bake cookies while we waited. I never got a chance to look."
"Doesn't matter. If it's there, the boys will find it."
They might, unless Virginia had told the truth about throwing it away.
Sirens broke the silence. The first rubbernecks opened their doors a crack. She and Witt didn't have much time.
"Tell ‘em you heard the shot and came running, okay?"
"That's what I did do, Max."
"I can take care of the rest."
"By yourself, like you always have?"
"I'm just saying don't get yourself in trouble because of me."
He sighed. “Jesus, Max. I'm already in trouble. Big fucking trouble. Up to my eyeballs in it. Don't you know that?"
What kind of trouble, she wanted to ask. Internal affairs trouble? Job trouble? Personal trouble? She wanted to ask. She really did. She chickened out at the last minute.
"I thought you were going to call me.” He looked down at his feet, then gave a small snort of pained laughter. “No, I didn't. I knew that last night."
She should have said she was sorry she'd hurt him, that her reaction wasn't about him or what he'd done to help some young mixed-up kid. She should have asked him for another chance. Her nose tingled with unshed tears. “I'm never gonna call, Long."
"I'm beginning to understand that."
She curled her fingers and dug her nails into her palms, using the physical pain to avoid the emotional. “I would if I could,” she whispered.
She heard his deep breath. “I know you're afraid..."
"I'm not afrai...” She stopped. He waited. “Yes. I'm scared. About what's happening between us.” She wanted to make sure he knew she didn't fear Virginia or Bud or the ghost invaders. It was him. It was her. It was them together that terrified her.
Silence. A long one. Her eyes stung waiting for him to say something.
"Look at me."
She did. The understanding she wanted was in those deep blue eyes, but he didn't move to touch her.
"I'll always forgive you, Max. And I'll always have feelings for you. But I won't always stay and take the crap you feed me. Can't do that and keep my self-respect, too."
God, the words were so close to the things Cameron used to say to her, even the things he'd said to her after Witt had left last night.
She waited for the right comeback to pop into her head. It didn't. Instead she admitted where she'd gone wrong on the cold tile of her bathroom floor. “I should have told you it wasn't your fault about the girl.” Her throat closed. She forced herself past it. “About the abortion she had."
His expression didn't change, but his body tensed. “Touch me when you say that."
It was a test. She'd failed last night. If she failed again? The first kiss she gave him of her own free will would be a kiss good-bye. Even more, she wanted, needed to do it for him. She couldn't let him think she believed him less of a man or less of a human being for what he thought he'd done.
She rose on shaky legs and took the necessary steps to reach him. His eyes were unreadable. His face when she put her hand to it was rock hard. She cupped his cheek in her palm.
"What happened to that baby wasn't your fault."
He put his hand over hers, calluses rough against her skin.
"I know that, Witt. I know you'd never hurt an innocent. I know you're a good man."
For one fleeting second she saw the pain and guilt he'd carried all these years. Saw it, understood it, and knew exactly how much it had cost him to tell her his greatest failure.
She wasn't sure she could ever pay that same price.
Witt turned and put his lips to the center of her palm in a lingering communion that seemed so much deeper than the mere touch of flesh to flesh. She didn't say anything, had no words for the emotion. She simply soaked him in.
Sirens wailed. Suddenly the street was raging with noise and people and bright, flashing lights, and the moment vanished.
For now.
Chapter Thirty-Six
For the full twenty-four hours after Virginia Spring had taken her own life, Max thought long and hard about what to give Sutter Cahill. She'd thought about it while she gave McKaverty and Schulz her statement. She'd thought about it as she answered their million-and-one questions satisfactorily—she hoped. She thought about it as she washed the smell of death out of her hair. Like Witt, she couldn't seem to wash it out of her nose.
The scent lingered like a memory long after you'd rubbed your skin raw getting rid of it.
Max couldn't pinpoint the exact reason why she wanted to reach out to Sutter, finally, after the two years since Cameron's death. She only knew it felt like the right time.
Cameron had suggested a phone call. Max wasn't ready for that. Instead, after much musing, she'd wrapped up the ceramic cat bowl she should have left with Sutter the day she'd dropped Louis on her best friend's front stoop.
Sutter would know what it meant. Maybe she'd give Max a few days respite before calling back. A few days to contemplate picking up the phone when the message started and she knew who it was.
Two days after Virginia Spring blew her brains out, Max sat on Sutter's street, half a block down from her friend's little house. She'd watched Sutter drive away ten minutes ago, but she was still thinking about getting out of the car to put the small package in her ex-best friend's mailbox.
Contacting Sutter had a ring of finality to it. The end, not the beginning, of ... something.
Like the gunshot that ended Virginia's life two days ago.
Like McKaverty's ominous last words late on the evening of her suicide. “We'll be calling you, Ms. Starr. Don't leave town.” Like a line out of a bad movie, Max wasn't sure she'd imagined the threatening tone.
The sun was bright on the hood of the car, though the air outside was chilly. October was almost over. Tomorrow was the anniversary of Cameron's death. She figured if she spent it in bed, perhaps the day would pass unnoticed. In three more days, on Halloween, she'd turn thirty-three. She might stay in bed for that, too.
A car pulled in across the street, a bright shaft of sunlight piercing her eyes until the car inched forward to a slightly different angle.
A white Cadillac. Like Traynor's.
The interior of her car turned icebox cold. Goosebumps roughened her skin. She reached for her purse where she kept Witt's cell phone—she no longer left it in the glove box.
She punched in a number she shouldn't have known.
The man in the white Cadillac reached down to the seat beside him. “Hello, Max."
She couldn't see his face clearly through the tinted glass, but she heard the smile and cunning in his voice. She thought of the old cliche, something about the blood running cold. His voice, Achilles voice, made her blood icy. She wondered how it could possibly have taken her that long to put the two voices together. She should have known it with that very first dream. But then Bud Traynor had always skewed her psychic talents.
"Why are you following me?” She thanked God her voice didn't crack.
"I wanted to make sure you were all right after your little run-in with poor Virginia."
Poor Virginia. “Did you tell her to kill herself? That it was her only way out?"
"I didn't have to tell her that, my dear. She already knew it."
He had all the right words, but she wasn't beaten yet. “Is that what you did to Walter, convince him he had no other choice?"
"Walter knew his daughter was going to win the suit, and that on the heels of that loss, the District Attorney's office was going to investigate him for embezzlement of client funds. I would have been forced to cooperate with them."
The District Attorney would investigate. She wondered if Cameron would have handled the case. She wished to hell Cameron remembered.
Failing to find the words to vanquish Traynor, she attempted only to cut him down to size. “How many people have you killed, Bud?"
He chuckled. “You never disappoint me, Max. I like a woman
who fights to the bitter end.” He fell silent. She thought she saw him stroke his chin. “I covered for you, Max, and told the police Virginia had asked you to stay with her during the funeral."
A series of chills raced down her arms.
"I think that means you owe me."
The blood roared in her ears. “I don't owe you anything."
"I can always change my story."
"Then they'll start investigating you."
"I will have you, one day. I don't care if it has to be drug-induced. I'm not particular."
"You'll never get that close to me."
She felt his gaze spear her across the street. He went on as if she hadn't spoken. “I want to see your face when you wake up in my bed and realize I've just fucked the hell out of you."
"I'd kill myself before I'd let that happen."
"I think I'll tape it so we can watch it together. Does that scare you, Max?"
"I think you're pathetic, praying on little girls and confused women.” His words did something to her, made her think of the times she'd done desperate things, made desperate choices. Like Bethany. Like all the women who had died and climbed inside Max's body, forcing her to find their killers.
Every one had led straight to Bud Traynor. Their Pied Piper. Her nemesis.
Even with the list of his crimes running through her head, there was one more thing Max had to know. “Why'd you call Bethany and pretend to love her?"
"I called Helen, and maybe neither of us was pretending."
"Don't give me that line of bullshit. Somehow you found out what she was doing, and you called her to torment her."
"I told her what she wanted to hear. I told her that I loved her."
"You set her up. You started pushing to meet her. You wanted to terrify her."
"I told her she was beautiful. No one else could tell her that."
"You tell me everything else you do blow-by-blow. Why won't you tell why you did that to Bethany?"