Witt snorted.
Ladybird cleared her throat. “Well, actually it was that Jada girl and Bethany. I never heard Virginia. But those two girls. You’d never know that Jada was almost thirty years old the way she acted.”
The waif was twenty-nine? Hard to believe.
“You see, Bethany was a bit ...” Ladybird paused, pursing her lips. “Well, she was a bit on the large side. And Jada is a bit on the small side.” Anorexic was a better description, but Max didn’t say that. “Jada rather thought her sister was a ...” She dropped her voice to a whisper, “Well, she called Bethany a disgusting pig.”
Pain sliced Max’s insides like a fine razor. She bore down on it as if it were a child in her womb kicking to get out. Bethany’s pain harbored there, nourished, expanded, and gained strength. The agony hadn’t come merely from the words, but the way Jada said them, the way she’d always said them since they were kids. And the snorting grunts that followed.
Witt leaned back in his chair, rested his cheek on his fist, and stared at her as if he understood. His words gave lie to the concern in his eyes. “The gist of these fights was about the woman’s weight?”
“They were bitter fights, Witt.”
He flicked a wrist. “Heard my share while I was doing the garden. But if you’re saying that’s a reason for murder ...”
Mrs. Long widened her eyes and shook her head. “There was a lot of anger.”
He shook his head slowly. “Too much Murder She Wrote,” he muttered.
His tone got Max’s back up. Or maybe what really pissed her off was that he’d ripped a hole through Bethany’s feelings as if they were nothing. “So I’m Columbo, and your mother’s Jessica Fletcher.”
Witt stared at her lazily. “Yep.”
“Maybe that’s why we’ll solve this murder while you cops are sit around on your a—”
“I wonder where Virginia is,” Ladybird cut Max off smoothly. “She didn’t come running when all the screaming started.”
“Visiting her invalid mother at a nursing home up in Sonoma,” Witt supplied, then added, “apparently.” Just like a cop, never taking anything for gospel.
“Poor woman,” Ladybird murmured deferentially. “I might not have liked her, but I do feel sorry for her.” She brightened as a new thought occurred to her. “Do you think the detectives will ask me questions, Witt?” Her eyes sparkled at the idea of a police interview.
“They’ll interview all the neighbors, maybe even tonight if you’re lucky.”
A timer dinged. Ladybird twittered, rose, disappeared once more through the kitchen door, and Max knew she had that deer-in-the-Mack-truck-headlights look on her own face.
“She likes you.”
The thought iced down her bones. “I’m not done fighting with you yet.”
“I am. Now about Mom, she hated my first wife—”
“What do you mean first? You haven’t got a second, which makes her just an ex.”
He sighed. “Ex. Happy now?”
Not happy. Petrified. Yes, ex was better. She did notice how smoothly he’d changed the subject and ended the little tiff. Now he was trying to make up for something. She wondered what. “How can you tell she likes me?”
“She brought out the TV trays with her favorite Disney characters.”
Max looked down at her tray and noticed the picture for the first time. Beauty. She craned to her right. The Teapot and Chip danced beneath Ladybird’s genteel glass of sherry. Witt’s sported The Beast.
“That fits.”
He took a lazy swallow of beer. “You trying to provoke me?”
“No.” Yes.
“You won’t like the way I retaliate.”
He’d probably drag her into his Dodge Ram and have his wicked way with her. The image sent ridiculous prickles of warmth to her extremities and her cheeks.
He gave her a half smile. “Oh yeah, you would like it, wouldn’t you?”
Way too much. “Dream on, Long.”
“Oh, I will, Max, I will.”
She had the sense that despite his muscle and bulk, he’d move faster than the eye could catch. He eyed her like a hungry wolf.
“Here we are, darlings.”
Thank goodness for Ladybird’s sense of timing. Food scents, like the clouds of Pigpen dust from a Peanuts cartoon, swirled around her as she carried an oversized cookie sheet with padded mittens.
Where was the turkey? The mashed potatoes and gravy? The broccoli with cheese sauce? The biscuits?
Why was her dinner in a cardboard dish?
“Now, Max, you wanted the turkey, Witt has the Salisbury steak, and that leaves me with the fried chicken.”
She balanced the aluminum on a mittened hand, while with the other pad, she plopped the individual dinners on the top of each TV tray.
Oh my God. TV dinners. Max’s stomach rebelled as she stared at the reconstituted turkey meat, the pasty potatoes, the wrinkled peas, and the ghastly red compote.
“Witt gets a Hungry Man. I got you the smaller portion because he’s told me what a dainty little thing you are.”
“Thank you, Mrs.—”
Mrs. Long glared.