God, how she ached for him.
The cat screeched, a hideous sound closer to that of a dying chicken than a hungry stray. Max puffed out a breath, then sucked it back in. Finally she pulled a saucer off the single shelf where she kept her one-place setting and put it on the sill. The cat didn’t wait for Max to fill the saucer before jumping to the ledge. It lapped at the stream straight from the milk carton.
“Poor buzzard,” Max murmured, the resemblance so close to her lost Louis, she itched to stroke him. She reached out a tentative hand.
“You’re going to fall in love with that animal.”
“This is the last time I’m feeding it.”
“No, it’s not.”
She rolled her lips between her teeth and held her breath, fingers only inches from the dull, matted fur.
“I trust him, Max.”
She jerked. “The cat?”
“The detective.”
“DeWitt Quentin Long?” Her voice rose to a squeak. Why bring him up again? She couldn’t follow Cameron’s thought patterns. “Why do you trust that guy, of all people?”
“It’s just a very strong feeling I have. He’s good for you.”
So, it was okay to be attracted to the detective, but not okay to have an attraction for Nicholas Drake. They weren’t even her own feelings anyway. Rising, she put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes in his general direction. “Please don’t tell me you’re match-making with Detective Long.”
“Merely using my intuition about him, darling.”
“Well, why don’t you just use that ghostly intuition to find Wendy’s killer? Maybe do a little eavesdropping, a little poking around in somebody else’s head.”
“You know I can’t do that, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, I know. You get so many feet away from me and lose your ethereal presence. You can only read my mind, invade my life, my house, my office, my car—”
“You sound bitter.”
She was. He’d been stolen from her with the twitch of a nervous finger on a trigger. She wasn’t bitter, however, that he’d stayed with her for two years. How much longer could she keep him? It didn’t bear questioning. “We were talking about Detective Long, and why you find him so utterly trustworthy.”
“He’s not stupid, Max. He checked that drawer. He knew the book wasn’t there yesterday.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not stupid, either, Cameron. I know someone planted it.” She tapped her fingers against her cheek. “Remy. He’s the only one who could have done it.”
“Or an ex-employee who still has a key?” Meaning Nick.
“You’re so transparent. No pun intended. Her killer could have stolen her keys from her purse. Remy let on she had a set.”
“We won’t know for sure who until we figure out why the book was tampered with.”
She shook her head lightly. “You know, something about that book bothers me. Maybe it was the fact that she used blue ballpoint for Nickie’s name. His name should have been written with something wild like cherry or fuchsia.”
“Maybe she was in a hurry, and blue was all she could find. One thing’s for sure. Wendy knew the person who killed her.”
“I never thought otherwise.” The hands around her throat had not been a stranger’s hands.
“Ask the detective if her keys were missing from her purse.”
“He’ll wonder why I’m so interested.”
“He knows you’re up to something anyway.”
Max snapped the milk carton closed and put it back in the fridge without answering.
“Tell him the truth, Max.”
“And what, exactly, is that?”
“Tell him you’re psychic. You and your powers will be irresistible.”
“Don’t play up to me. You’re still on my shit list. Oops.” She covered her mouth, muffling her next words. “Remy’s rule number whatever. I’ve gotta practice not swearing.”
“Come on, Max.
“What? My psychic abilities will bring the detective to his knees?”
“Yeah, baby, oh yeah.”
The impact of what she’d said suddenly hit her. The sexual impact. Dammit, that was not an image she should be having of the detective. She turned it back on Cameron. “Have you noticed how you always make what I say into something sexual?”
“Oh no, Max, you’re the one who does that all on your own.”
*
Max spent the rest of the evening calling the numbers she’d copied from Wendy Gregory’s appointment book. Disappointed, she hung up as soon as she got voicemail at each of the four numbers. Manicurist, hair stylist, psychiatrist, psychic reader. Instead of the big clue Max was sure she’d uncover, she learned Wendy Gregory was a high-maintenance woman. Somehow the image didn’t fit. Yet, facts were facts. Wendy was incredibly self-absorbed. Or searching for God-only-knew-what in the strangest places.