“The dream wasn’t about what happened to her when she was a kid. It’s a clue as to why she was murdered.”
“He did it.” The words and all her venom burst out. She wanted to hurt Bud Traynor, wanted to hurl accusations as angrily and easily as he’d done, wanted to take the nearest two-by-four and smash his nose with it.
“That’s not what I’m saying—”
“Then what are you saying?”
He sighed, and a puff of air whispered across the shoots of Wendy’s now-thriving spider plant on top of the file cabinet. “You’re not ready to listen.”
“Oh, don’t give me that psychological crap, Cameron.”
A knock. The door opened before Max had time to answer.
“I’m supposed to say come in before you open the door, Theresa.” She felt like snapping someone’s head off, and Theresa was as good as anyone.
The girl’s lower lip jutted in a pout. “I thought you were on the phone and couldn’t hear me.”
“Right,” Max muttered and turned to flip on her computer, punching so hard her expensive manicure chipped. Dammit, she had to get that stuff off before it became an obsession.
“Carla Drake is here, and she wants to talk to the accountant. That’s you.”
“Who the hell is Carla Drake?” Oh jeez. Nicholas Drake’s wife. Max actually felt a guilty spurt of adrenaline, and her face heated.
“She’s the wife of one of the guys that used to work here.”
Ex-wife, Max almost added. Why on earth was she feeling guilty anyway? She’d danced with the man, nothing more. “What does she want?”
Theresa rolled her eyes. “How am I supposed to know?”
“Has anyone ever told you that mastering courtesy and diplomacy is how you get places in this world?” Not to mention keeping friends.
Theresa gave an exaggerated snap of her gum, left Max’s office door open, and wriggled her way back to the front counter. Like a snake.
“I knew there was a reason I never had children,” Max muttered. “They grow up to be teenagers.”
“You can go on back.” Theresa’s sugary voice floated through the open doorway.
Carla Drake filled the space Theresa had just vacated.
Max recognized her immediately. The woman had played a small almost-forgotten role in the first of Max’s “Wendy dreams.” The dream that had started it all.
Nicholas Drake’s wife was tall and blonde, and at one time, she might have been quite pretty. Now her complexion was a mottled red, her hair a mass of frizzy, disorganized curls, and her body had never recovered from the birth of her last child.
A little catty, Maxi? Cameron whispered snidely in her ear.
Maybe so, but seeing Carla in her loose-fitting stretch pants, long T-shirt, and dirty, white tennies, Max wanted to dislike her.
Couldn’t be jealousy talking, could it?
Yes. Yes. Yes. Max wasn’t ashamed to admit it. After all, it was Wendy’s emotion, not her own. That made everything okay.
Carla, however, looked a tad thinner than when she’d picked up the kids at the airport. Max had to wonder how much of the dream had simply been Wendy’s perceptions.
Could Max be a victim of the dead woman’s fantasies?
She shoved the thought and the emotions aside to invite Carla in.
The woman waved a small piece of paper in the air and came fully into Max’s office, followed by the stench of three gallons of Joy. The wedding ring she hadn’t bothered to remove looked tight enough to cut off her circulation.
Max took note of those unmarked fingers. Another suspect bites the dust.
What if she’d only imagined that Wendy scratched her killer? What if it had only felt like a tremendous fight while, in reality, Wendy had been too weak at that point to cause any damage?
Now you’re thinking, baby.
Everybody became a suspect again.
“I have Nick’s COBRA insurance check.” Out of breath, Carla’s words came out shrill, like high-frequency waves pitched to burst eardrums. “I drove down here instead of mailing it. The kids are in the car, and it’s really hot out there. Do I need a receipt?” The woman’s sentences bounced around as if she had trouble keeping thoughts straight in her head.
“I’m afraid the check is late, Mrs. Drake.”
“I couldn’t help it.” Carla’s lip quivered like a child’s.
Max pulled a folder out of Wendy’s left drawer. Experiencing Wendy’s jealousy or not, Max herself wanted to irritate the blonde. If Carla got mad, she could reveal something that might prove helpful. “I’ve got a note here that we tried to give you a reminder call. Your phone was disconnected.”
Her face, passably appealing despite the blotchiness, suddenly turned ugly, her tone whiny. “I’m going through a divorce, and I had to move in with my parents.”
Get her address. We need it.
Cameron was right on the mark. “We’ll need your new address and phone number to continue the insurance policy.”
She handed Carla one of Wendy’s pink pens and a piece of paper.