Damn, she knew that voice. Max stared at Detective Witt’s button-down shirt. “You’re wearing teal.”
“Yeah, well, plain brown had me stuck in a rut.” He tugged her purse back up her arm to her shoulder. His hand remained there. Her flesh tingled even more than they had with the nail products.
“Wendy loved teal,” she blurted.
“How do you know?”
She looked up into blue eyes way too penetrating. He hadn’t let go of her shoulder. “It was in her planner. She used that color a lot.”
“You might try a little teal yourself.” He fingered the lapel of her black, utilitarian jacket, the back of his hand narrowly missing the upper swell of her breast, then took a step back. Detective DeWitt Quentin Long up close and smelling too good to be true was heady. A pace back, dressed in a black suit, teal shirt, and striped tie, the man was downright devastating.
She had trouble catching her breath.
“See you managed to find our witness.”
“Witness?” Max wondered if her brains had suddenly dribbled out her ears. She should have had an explanation prepared for just this eventuality. On second thought, a good answer should have popped into her head. She was sure, if not for his disturbing proximity, one would have.
Witt picked up her hand in his big paw. “Nice manicure. What’d you two talk about?”
Her fingers were on fire where he held them captive. Truth seemed to be the only way out of a sticky situation. “I asked her if she knew who killed Wendy.”
A ghost of a smile touched Witt’s lips. “And did Lilah have an opinion?”
“I think she’d put her money on Wendy’s husband.”
Witt picked up her other hand. His skin was warm. He made her whole body warm. With his palms up, laying hers over his, he examined her fingers. “Nice color. Cajun Spice.”
“How do you know?”
“Lilah was very particular about the difference between it and Bali Blush.” She suspected he was laughing. Then he looked straight in her eyes. “It looks good on you. I like it.”
She gulped and ignored the shiver that threatened to course down her arms to the places he touched her. “Wendy never wore Cajun Spice until that last night.”
“Didn’t wear navy mascara, either.”
“I think Lilah believes Hal killed Wendy because she had an affair.”
“Or Lilah wants you and me to believe that.”
“Hmm. That’s one conclusion.” She pulled her lip between her teeth, considered it. While another small part of her brain asked why the hell she stood on the sidewalk outside the bank letting the detective hold her hands.
And why did it make her sort of gushy inside?
“Any other conclusions?” he prompted.
“That Hal Gregory was a very controlling man, and when he found out he could no longer control his wife, he offed her.”
He tugged on her hands to get her to look up. “Good cops are always suspicious,” he said. “If the husband is broken up, we ask if it’s an act. If he’s stoic, we ask what he’s hiding. If he wants her car back—which, incidentally, is considered the crime scene—we ask why he wants it so badly. If he never asks about it, we wanna know what’s wrong with him since it’s a new model. If the manicurist says the victim never wore Cajun Spice, we ask why she wants us to know that.” He paused. It was the longest speech with the most full sentences Max had ever heard him make. “And if someone keeps turning up to question the witnesses, we ask why she’s so interested in the death of a woman she supposedly never knew.”
Whammo. He’d aimed right below the belt and pulled the trigger. It almost sounded as if he suspected her. Ridiculous. He couldn’t suspect her. Could he? Max did the only thing she could. She looked at the man, ignored the question in his soliloquy, and asked, “So did Hal ask for the car or didn’t he?”
She already knew the answer, but waited for Witt’s reaction.
He hesitated, and she was sure there was a glint of something, maybe even admiration, in his eyes. “Confidential information, my dear Miss Starr.”
“It’s Mrs. You’ve crushed my manicure. And why are you holding my hands?”
“Evidence.”
“Cajun Spice?” Weirder and weirder.
“The fact that you scoped out Lilah Bloom.” He let her fingers slip through his. Her hands suddenly felt cold. She hoped the polish hadn’t smeared.
“You did ask me to help you, Detective.”
“At Hackett’s. Not sitting in Lilah Bloom’s window like a flashing red light.”
Max almost laughed, then sobered. She wasn’t sure he was joking. She wasn’t sure Detective Witt knew how to joke.
“You followed me here.” It didn’t take a psychic to figure that out.
He nodded.
“Well, I’ll help you anyway.”
“Help by doing what I ask you to do, not what you decide you wanna do.”