Desperate to the Max (7 page)

Two years later, she still hadn’t cried. What was there to cry about? Cameron had never actually left her. Except in corporeal form.

“Open it,” he urged.

Her hands shook. She set her purse and the bag of jelly donuts down. The package was wrapped in an old cut-up paper bag. Sutter was excessively frugal. Max’s fingers got down to the bubble wrap. She squeezed, soothed for a moment by the air-pop.

“Open it,” Cameron now commanded.

She pulled at the scotch tape, felt the ungiving bulk of metal encased inside. She’d opened the packet upside down. A silver picture frame. She held it that way, picture-side down, for long, long seconds, absolutely terrified to turn it over.

“How did she know where I lived?” Max had moved, left no forwarding address, though she had forgotten to tell the phone company not to give out the new number. Sutter had called every few weeks since. Max had never returned those calls.

“She’s psychic.”

“She sees ghosts, she doesn’t see addresses.”

“Look at the picture, Max.”

She slowly turned the frame in her hand, and looked at the slightly unfocused photo. A black cat with wide, yellow eyes. She almost lost it then. Louis. She’d adored Louis. After Cameron died, well, she couldn’t take care of a cat. Couldn’t feed him, couldn’t change his litter box, couldn’t pet him, hold him, or love him. She’d left him on Sutter’s front stoop with a note, like an abandoned baby.

“Why doesn’t Sutter give up?” Her words were a mere whisper.

“She’s an eternal optimist.”

“She’s delusional.”

“She wants you to come back.”

Max didn’t say she couldn’t. She didn’t say she wouldn’t. What she said was far more than she’d given Cameron on the subject in two years. “I’m not ready yet.”

Chapter Seven

Max gathered her purse, her sack of donuts, and the picture to her chest, then unlocked her front door. The steps above her looked too long and too steep, but she climbed them to her small second-story room. Her sanctuary.

Was that how Bethany had thought of her own home?

Buzzard the Cat slept on the bed right next to the half-open window through which he’d crawled. He wasn’t her cat, not like Louis had been hers. He was an emaciated stray with a penchant for dry and crumbly tuna fish. She hadn’t invited him in that day over a month ago; she’d simply been incapable of letting him starve. There was the fact, too, that with his black coat, despite its lank appearance, he’d reminded her of Louis, of a different life, a
life
with Cameron.

She and Cameron had finished each other’s sentences, laughed before they got to the punch line. They’d stayed up late, lying in bed, and planning their future. They’d told each other everything. He wanted a sailboat. She wanted to drive across Canada in a sports car. They loved the same funky futuristic art and the same sappy old black and white movies. She hated his Jazz. He hated her Country. He could drive her crazy with a look across a crowded room. She could make him forget his next sentence with a whisper. She missed seeing his face. She missed touching him.

“What about the fights?”

“What fights?”

Cameron snorted. “You only remember the good things.”

“It’s called viewing the world through rose-colored glasses, and I like it.” She did remember the fights, the nights he’d stormed out, and the nights he hadn’t come home.

“We fought the night I died. Do you remember that?”

“We fought about your cigarettes. If you hadn’t needed another pack, we never would have gone to that 7-11.”

“The fight ended with the cigarettes. That wasn’t how it started.”

For the life of her, she couldn’t remember how that particular conflict had started. She only remembered shoving the whole damn pack down the disposal and grinding them up. What had started the ill-fated argument which changed
everything
that came after?

Max faltered, but another bit of logic was born on her lips. “I thought you couldn’t remember anything before you died.” Unless, of course,
she
remembered an event first and reminded him.

“The answers hover on the edge of your consciousness, there for me to read like an open book.”

“Oh, you’re so mystical, Cameron,” she scoffed, fear adding a tinge of sarcasm to her voice.

“That fight was important, Max, but you always did forget the really important things.”

She shivered, reached for the thermostat, set Louis’ picture on the bedside table, then turned to close the window. With her back to his voice, she demanded, “Tell me why it’s important.” Besides the obvious, besides the irreversible devastating result.

“I can’t tell you. You have to figure that out for yourself.”

She didn’t even try.

Buzzard mewled then, and Max was glad for something to do. She opened another can of tuna, put half on a chipped saucer, then sat on the bed to finish the rest herself. It needed salt and pepper. She didn’t care. The cat inhaled the fish like someone was going to snatch the food right out of its mouth.

She thought about Witt, marriage, and babies, about the future she’d planned with Cameron. “Did you want children?”

“It’s a little late to ask now.”

“I mean did it bother you that I couldn’t have children?”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“But did it
bother
you?” She waited, holding her breath.

“Yes.”

She put her hand to her chest for a long, silent moment, until the pain slid back into its hiding place. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

He sighed, peppermint swirling around her. He’d taken to sucking mints instead of smoking cigarettes. Of course, he had to die before he’d kicked the habit. Bitterness swelled inside her.

“We didn’t talk about babies. We didn’t talk about a lot of things, Max. You just don’t remember that.”

Another of those convenient lapses in her memory. She couldn’t remember how they knew she was the one who couldn’t have kids. Maybe she’d always known. Maybe she’d been born with a barren soul. She’d certainly managed to have a barren life except for those few short years with Cameron.

* * * * *

It was quarter to eleven, and Max lay wide-eyed in her single bed. Buzzard snuggled against her side. She was a morning person, early to bed, early to rise, her bedtime no later than nine, even when she had no temp job to go to in the morning. She hated to wake later than seven. It felt like the day was half over and wasted. She liked to lay in the dark and watch the sun come up, as if with the new day came new hope. If she was disappointed that this day ended the same as the last, there was always a chance the next one might be better.

A stereo played softly in someone else’s room, but that wasn’t what kept her up. The traffic on the nearby freeway had softened to a slow dribble. That hadn’t kept her awake either. Nor did the occasional passing car, or the screaming match next door that had just ended. Max could sleep through anything.

Anything except Bethany Spring. Bethany had been a night owl. She’d stayed in bed until one in the afternoon, heavy drapes pulled across the bedroom windows to keep out the bright light. She didn’t start to feel alive until her phone began to ring at midnight. Midnight, when Bethany Spring turned into Cinderella.

The Cinderella in the prurient fantasies of lonely, desperate, hungry, horny men.

Then again, Max’s insomnia could have been caused by the three jelly donuts she’d wolfed down. They writhed in her stomach like maggots. Bad thought, it almost made her barf. She needed to barf. She’d probably feel one hell of a lot better if she did. She could stick her fingers down her throat and get rid of the squiggling donut mass ...

Damn. Bethany again. She’d obviously been bulimic at one time or another.

“Right, and like you never were,” Cameron scoffed out of the darkness. Apparently ghosts didn’t need sleep.

“I was a teenager. All teenagers half-starve themselves and stick their fingers down their throats when they’ve eaten too much. I did not have an eating disorder, if that’s what you’re implying. Making yourself throw up is part of being a teenager.”

“Was it? Did all your friends do it?”

She didn’t recall having many friends. “Sure. We all did. I’m trying to get some sleep here, do you mind?”

Sleep wouldn’t come even without Cameron’s voice.

Max turned to look at the clock. Ten forty-six. About the time Bethany started thinking about running her bath, where she soaked in fragrant bubbles, then powdered, petted, and prepared herself. The time when Bethany blossomed.

What would her callers think when she didn’t answer at midnight? Would there be one of them who never called at all, one who knew she wouldn’t answer?

Max bolted up in bed, covers falling to her waist. Buzzard mewled and stared up at her, bleary eyed.

Jesus. Someone should be monitoring those calls. As of right now, the police most likely didn’t have one single clue as to Bethany’s nocturnal activities. They wouldn’t even think about the phone sex angle or that maybe one of her clients had broken into her home and whacked her. Witt certainly couldn’t tell them. By the time the cops hit on that slant, they would be too late to catch the killer. If indeed the killer had found Bethany through her sexual proclivities.

“What are you thinking, Max?” Cameron’s eyes glowed in the corner of the room like a fire-breathing dragon. The excitement was unmistakable, vibrating in his voice the way the arrival of a new case in the D.A.’s office had kept him up all night when he was alive.

“I’m thinking of going for a drive,” she whispered.

“You’re going to break the seal on Bethany’s front door.”

“Back door. I don’t want to be seen.”

“And then?”

“Then I’m thinking that I’d recognize his voice—”

“Achilles?”

“Of course. If he calls tonight, that’s a good indication he wasn’t the one who killed her.” She spread her hands and shrugged. “Otherwise, why call, right?”

“If he doesn’t call?”

“Then he’s my number one suspect.”

Chapter Eight

Max climbed from bed, dragged on an old pair of black jeans, a maroon, paint-covered sweatshirt she wore for cleaning, and her black suede boots. She loved suede whether the heels were four inches or flat. These were flat, which made running easier.

Half an hour later, Max cruised Garden Street. The lights were out in Ladybird’s house except for one on the front porch. Witt’s department-issue sedan was gone, the street empty and quiet, fall leaves whirling across the macadam in front of her car. She rolled down her window and listened to the night. San Carlos was a small, tightly packed suburb, allowing the distant sound of cars to drift in from the El Camino.

Lights blazed in every window on the opposite side of Bethany Spring’s duplex, the side occupied by her mother and sister. A gray Camry station wagon had joined the Civic in the driveway.

Damn, damn, and triple damn. “I might be able to sneak into the house, but I sure don’t like the new odds with everyone awake next door.” Eleven-thirty. People would only have just settled down after the eleven o’clock news.

“I doubt they’ve even been thinking about watching the news,” Cameron scoffed.

“It’s still risky.”

“Chicken.”

She glanced in the rearview mirror and narrowed her eyes as if she could see Cameron somewhere in the reflection. “Why don’t
you
see if she gets any calls? They’re always saying ghosts can use the telephone.”

“I’d hate to take away all your fun. I know how you love doing a little B&E.”

He was referring to her late-night sojourn through a murder suspect’s house less than two weeks ago. Bad experience, that. She didn’t want a repeat.

Max circled the block twice. Nothing had changed.

“This is a really dumb idea.” Witt would pitch a fit if he knew she’d even contemplated slipping into Bethany’s house.

“Park the car one street over,” Cameron ordered.

“You’re crazy.” But she did as she was told. After pulling the key out of the ignition, she reached into the glove compartment for her black leather gloves, tugged them on, then got out of the car. The breeze held the scent of rain. Walking to the end of the block, she headed back toward the duplex on the corner. Halfway down, she stopped at the back of the property line. The bushes were tall, but behind them was only the short, white picket fence, a duplicate of the one in front.

“You can go through the neighbor’s yard.”

She pushed aside the hedge, peered through. A swing set, a tipped-over tricycle, and no lights on. A car backfired in the distance, the sound like a gunshot. Max jumped, her heart pounding out of her chest as Cameron’s frenzied “hurry” rang in her ear.

She scrambled through the bushes, stooped over, and ran for the opposite end of the yard. The moon was bright, spotlighting her against the gray-green expanse of lawn. It seemed like miles before she finally threw herself back into the shelter of the hedgerow. Small, sharp branches stung her cheeks and forehead like needles. She hadn’t taken a breath in over a minute, and now she gasped for air.

“If you weren’t dead already,” she whispered between breaths, “I’d have to kill you for getting me into this.”

“You wanted to do it, sweetheart, but you needed me to give you the okay.”

“I notice you didn’t tell me to bring Witt this time.”

“Don’t worry. You won’t be able to keep this to yourself.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. Am I going to get caught?”

“I’m a ghost, not a fortune teller. I have no idea. But if you don’t get your sweet little ass moving, and out of this guy’s yard, you might get a bite taken out of it.”

It was then she heard the low growl. Oh shit. Where the hell had the dog come from? She clambered kitty-corner over the fence, flopped into Bethany’s backyard, then scrabbled to her feet and sprinted over to the back porch where she hunched next to the stoop. The barking started, though she could barely hear it over the roaring in her ears.