Evil to the Max (10 page)

“They don’t.”

“Why do you think she got a foothold inside your beautiful, chaotic mind?”

“Because I’m possessed.”

“Because you’re so much alike.”

“We’re not,” she shouted, catching herself a second before her fist pounded the glass countertop.

“Sex is power. You’ve admitted that’s what you feel. Tiffany was all about sexual power. That’s the ‘something, something’ you couldn’t pinpoint a few minutes ago. That’s why she died.”

She took offense that he voiced it, resented that he was right and that he knew her fears better than she did. “I don’t like feeling her inside me, Cameron. It’s different than last time, with Wendy.”

His lectures and his pushiness often annoyed her, but there were also times she was glad Cameron could read her mind. It saved on having to explain how she zipped from one thought to another. Cameron just understood.

“Stepping into Wendy Gregory’s shoes worked for finding her killer, but it almost got you killed,” Cameron said.

She flapped a hand. “That’s history. I’m talking methodology here. I empathized with Wendy. Tiffany’s different.” Max grabbed the front of her shirt. “She’s in me. But we’re not bonding.”

“Run with her, you’ll find the reason she chose you to help her.”

“I don’t
want
to work with her. She wants to control, to take over. I can feel it.”

“And you need to be in control.”

“Yeah, I do.” She paused. “And I’m stronger. I’ll win.” Brave words, she wasn’t as confident as she sounded.

“Maybe that’s what you need to learn, Max.”

“How to win?”

“No, sweetheart. You need to learn that you don’t have to be in control to win. Right now you don’t even know there’s a difference.”

“You’re harping.” And pissing her off because she was once again afraid he might be right.

“I hate it when I harp.” Cameron knew exactly when to stop pushing, though he’d never been able to do it when he was alive. “Why don’t we look in the big guy’s office?”

“Now? I have to catch any customers coming in that didn’t get a call.”

A sudden gust rustled the pages of the appointment book. “Look. They got hold of everyone this hour.”

“I don’t have a key.”

“Why are you fighting this? Wasn’t that the idea when you turned down a jaunt to her funeral?”

She didn’t know what bugged her. She was suddenly tired. She was on Tiffany overload. She wanted out. There were a hundred reasons.

“And the biggest one is DeWitt Quentin Long, isn’t it?”

She gritted her teeth. “We already went over this.”

He dropped a tone, his voice soothing inside her head. “Let’s not fight, my love. Let’s find answers. Solve this so you can get rid of Tiffany—and concentrate on Witt.”

The cash drawer went ka-ching and popped open, hitting her lightly on the hipbone. “How’d you
do
that?”

“I do have more capabilities than merely breaking a few mugs at appropriate times, you know.”

She picked the key ring from the penny bin and jingled it. “Isn’t this breaking and entering?”

Cameron brushed aside her twinge of guilt with a waft of peppermint in the air. “You have the key. Miles left you in charge.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Anything. Everything. Jake Lloyd’s address, since you won’t go look for him at the funeral.”

Ahh, now she understood the plan Cameron had in mind. Sort of. “Why would his address be in Miles’s office? He never worked here.” She stared at the key ring. It brought up thoughts of Snake the wino and his locker key.

“I’ll bet Tiffany had Jake listed as next of kin.”

“They’re divorced.”

“Divorce didn’t matter much to them, now did it? After all, she banged him in the bathroom at the Round Up.”

She closed her fist around the bunch of keys. “If we get caught, you’re dead meat, Cameron.”

“Actually, I’m dust.”

Ignoring him, she punctuated her statement with the slam of the cash drawer, rounded the end of the counter, and headed back past the restroom towards the office in the rear.

Before she reached her goal, Max stopped in the center of the hall. Voices surrounded her—hushed echoes of past conversations, a decibel below her ability to make out the words.

“What’s that?” she whispered.

Cameron merely hummed the theme from Twilight Zone.

The louvered closet on the left contained cover-ups, a broom, cleaning supplies, and a carpet sweep, though God knew why since the floor was linoleum. The voices didn’t come from there. The laundry room was on the right. The door stood open. She moved into the doorway, one hand on the jamb. No one was there, either, but the buzz of voices continued. Or, was that the purring of the dryer? She entered and placed her hand on the metal surface.

“What do you feel?” Cameron asked from near her shoulder.

“It’s warm.”

“I meant psychically,” he muttered in a dry tone.

“Nothing.” She pulled her hand away quickly. The heat she’d felt had not come from the machine’s operation. “I better check the office before someone comes.”

“You’re running away, Max.”

“I’m doing what you wanted, searching for clues.” She closed the laundry room door and moved farther down the hall to Miles’s office. Once there, she found the door had two locks, one of them a deadbolt. Definite overkill. The corresponding keys were on the ring, and she unlocked both to open the door. The office was huge.

And by no means chintzy. The desk was a rich mahogany, its top covered in expensive leather. Her heels sank into plush forest green carpet. So that’s what the carpet sweep in the laundry room was for. The four-drawer file cabinet matched the mahogany desk. A credenza completed the set and held a state-of-the-art computer, seventeen-inch monitor, and laser printer.

Miles Lamont had the best of everything, a cut above the rest of the shop, pun intended.

It was also neat. Excessively neat. Miles Lamont, though fastidious about his haircuts, had not appeared to be this compulsive. Tape dispenser, stapler, calendar, pencil holder, all lined up in a nice row along the desk. The spotless blotter sat precisely an inch from the edge, three file folders stacked neatly beside it. A plastic protector covered the computer keyboard, a can of spray cleaner sat next to the monitor, and a marble-framed picture of Miles and a flame-haired woman perched by the side of the monitor.

It had to be Pippa Louise Lamont. Her hair was tucked beneath a classy, small-brimmed hat, red tendrils artfully escaping. She stood, Miles sat, her arm draped casually across his shoulders.

Her smile, a smug curve of glossy lips and artificially-enhanced white teeth, bothered Max. Something ... something ... “Damn it, why can’t I zero in on the feelings about these people?”

“Run with it, not against it, like you should have in the laundry room.”

“I don’t know what ‘running with it’ means.”

“You will. Why don’t you check the file cabinet?”

It was locked. The key was on the ring. Why did Miles have so many locks if he was going to leave the keys in the cash drawer where any burglar could figure out what they belonged to?

Max unlocked the drawers, then pulled them out one after the other, flipping through a few of the folders. “Nothing unusual here. Just bank records, canceled checks, invoices, paid and unpaid. A locked box marked Petty Cash.”

“What were you expecting? Incriminating letters? A taped confession? Body parts?”

“You’re a ghoul.”

“A ghoul is defined as a demon who feeds on the flesh of human beings. I hardly think I’d pass for a ghoul.” Then he sighed, a peppermint-scented waft of air across her cheeks. “Unless of course we’re talking about you. Hmm, I always did love dining out on you, sweetheart.”

“Pig.” Her knees went weak with that kind of talk. She lost her concentration, remembered last night. “Stop it. We’re doing serious work here.” Max reopened the top drawer and looked through the employee folders, though technically none of the stylists were considered employees. They rented their space. Tiffany’s was fourth. She pulled it out and flipped it open.

“Was I right or was I right?” Cameron murmured in her ear.

“You were half-right. Jake’s been scratched off.” She sucked in a breath. “And Nadine Johnson’s been added.”

“Nadine Johnson, the receptionist?”

“Yep.” Max’s fingers started to tingle. They were on to something big. “Nadine is Tiffany’s sister.” Which was probably the reason Ariel had told her not to mention Nadine in front of Miles. Bad associations for him. “And it seems Tiffany moved in with her.”

Cameron made a sound almost like the smacking of lips. “Write down their addresses, Max my dear, you’ve got a lot of work to do tonight.”

“Why bother with her old one? I seriously doubt Jake Lloyd would still be living there.” She reached to the desk for a pen and scratch paper, wrote both down quickly, then tore off the note and stuck it in her pocket.

“We’ll know when you get there, won’t we?”

She put the folder back, locked the cabinet, then sat down at the desk to fiddle with the keys. Ah, the center drawer opened on the third try. Her lips flattened into a thin line. “Nothing here.”

Office supplies. Stationary with the salon’s logo on it. Rubber stamps. Correction tape to cover up mistakes. Now there was an interesting parallel. Was Tiffany a mistake someone wanted to cover up?

“What the hell are you doing in my office?”

Max shrieked, jumped, and whacked her knee on the underside of the drawer.

She had a quasi-heart attack when she recognized Pippa Louise Lamont in the doorway.

Chapter Ten

Yeah, Cameron, what am I doing in her office?

Silence in her head. Cameron had deserted her. Dirty, rotten ...

She’d handle it on her own. Been there, done that ... had the T-shirt to prove it.

Max cleared her throat, stood, smoothed her hands down her slacks, then launched a verbal barrage at Pippa Lamont. “Sorry, I thought it was Miles’s office. Ariel said the credit card slips were in the top desk drawer here. You see, the machine freaked out yesterday, and we had to use the hand slips, and of course, we ran out, so when they all left, I came in here to get them so everything would be ready when they get back this afternoon ... uh, in case the machine goes on the fritz again ...” Max stopped long enough to take a breath, “... and I’m Max Starr, by the way, the new receptionist. Everyone’s at Tiffany’s funeral.” She gave Pippa the once-over as if to ask why
she
wasn’t there and took the chance for another quick breath. “And you must be Pippa Lamont. Here’s your picture, and it looks just like you. I’m not sure when everyone will be back, but I’m minding the store, and do you know where the extra credit card slips are?”

Ah, finally, a deep breath. Oxygen was like a drug.

Pippa Louise Lamont stared as if she’d just been run down by a herd of stampeding elephants. And she did not seem like the type who was used to being trampled.

Damn, that was the best blonde moment Max had ever had. She considered bleaching her dark hair, except that eventually the roots would grow out.

And now you gotta keep the patter up, sweetheart
.

Ah, Cameron. He hadn’t blown off into the nether regions after all.

Max smiled, held out her hand. “Nice to meetcha.”

Pippa jerked, then automatically shook Max’s hand. Her green eyes started to lose the squirrel-in-the-road look, and she shifted the leather briefcase from her left hand to her right. “What did you say your name was?”

“Max Starr.”

Her gaze narrowed. “My husband didn’t mention you.”

“He probably hadn’t gotten around to it. Yesterday was my first day. Here, do you want your seat?” Max moved out from behind the desk.

Pippa was dressed in a navy blue polka dot sheath fastened with a wide, white belt. A navy lace veil framed the hat she wore over her titian hair and hung to the level of her dark red lips. She looked like a femme fatale from one of those forties’
noire
films.

Pippa exhaled, then set her briefcase on the edge of the desk. Tension eased from her shoulders as she folded her hands over the case’s handle. “The credit slips are under the register in a box.”

Max gasped, threw her hands in the air, then smiled. “No way. We looked everywhere out there. I might have missed them, but not Ariel. But then she was busy with a customer and trying to direct me ...”

“They’re under the register,” Pippa said through gritted teeth. Beneath the veil, two red spots appeared on her cheeks.

“Well, thanks.” Max edged toward the door. “If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate. I’m good with filing and all that.”

The woman waved an imperious hand. “No.”

“Okay, well ...” Almost gone, home free, yet Max couldn’t resist one more inane parting comment. “I can’t type worth a hill of beans, but I’m a whiz at ...”

“I said I’m fine.” Pippa’s teeth ground together that time.

It was a good thing Pippa had cut her off, because Max wasn’t sure she could have found one more thing she was a whiz at. Gosh, playing a gabby ditz was right up her alley. She’d gotten herself out of that jam in ten seconds flat. And without one lie.

“Give me the keys.” Pippa held out her hand, long pale fingers, the nails painted a blood red to match her lips. “They aren’t to be left out for just anyone to use.”

“Sure thing.”

Hmm. Was that a jab meant for the husband, the receptionist, or the blonde stylist? And what the hell was so important in
Pippa’s
office anyway? Max had found nothing that warranted two locks, let alone a deadbolt.

She smiled, handed the ring over, then stuck a hand in her pocket where her fingers closed over the piece of paper on which she’d written the addresses.

She backed out the door, then turned and ran smack dab into a human brick wall.

“Hmmph.” She bounced, but managed to catch herself without toppling over on her high heels.

The guy was a giant. Over six and a half feet. Prominent cheekbones, his features a mass of angles and fissures that came straight out of a monster movie. Khaki pants encased his tree-trunk size thighs, a blue work shirt displayed his thick muscles, and his white-toothed smile stretched as wide as the Grand Canyon. It was oddly incongruous in that face, as were his eyes, the brightest blue, innocent, trusting, and naïve, like a child’s, despite the fact that he appeared to be somewhere in his mid-thirties.