“I’ve got a great job for you, Max.” Sunny’s voice had been as bright as her name. “Consolidations.”
Max had rolled over, yawned. “I hate consolidations, Sunny.” After a ten-year career, she realized she hated accounting entirely. In fact, she had a growing fondness for murder investigations. Mmmm. Lucky Witt. Wouldn’t he be pleased to hear that?
“But honey, this is setting up the whole system, rolling the structures, you even get to choose the structure.” Sunny said it as if she’d offered a box of Godiva chocolates or sex with Russell Crowe as the Gladiator.
Max had pushed her face into the pillow to shut out the sun streaming in the window, then came up for a breather. “No can do this time, Sunny. Sorry.”
“Are you still in bed, Max?” There was something close to amazement in Sunny’s voice.
“Yep.”
“Are you sick? Should I call for an ambulance?” Sunny was completely serious.
No, she needed an exorcist; she’d been possessed by a night owl. She’d lain awake until sometime after three. The cat had woken her at five for a handful of crispies—he’d really become a little beggar—and as soon as she’d finally convinced Sunny she really did hate consolidations, she’d pulled the pillow over her head and gone back to sleep until nine. Unheard of.
Now, sitting in her car with the sun lulling her, the scent of freshly mowed grass tantalizing her nostrils, her lids unbearably heavy, she was almost asleep ...
Someone knocked on her passenger side window.
Max jerked, bit down on her tongue, and banged her elbow on the car door. Her heart racing a mile a minute, she looked over to see Ladybird Long waving exuberantly at her. The woman was short enough to accomplish it without bending over.
Busted.
Ladybird’s hair seemed to sparkle with blue diamonds. She wore another durable flowered dress, and the tops of her knee high stockings had slipped to mid-calf. Beside her sat a wheeled metal basket overflowing with bulging paper and plastic grocery bags. Her navy purse hung on her arm, and she’d buttoned the top button of her lightweight cardigan.
Max turned her key in the ignition and rolled down the passenger side window.
“Were you waiting for me?” Ladybird chirped.
It seemed rude to say anything besides, “Yes.”
“Oh my, Witt will be so pleased,” Ladybird murmured breathlessly. “Please come in for a cup of tea and a sandwich then. How long have you been waiting?”
Oh God, not more food. Max glanced at her watch, wondering exactly why Witt was going to be so pleased. “Only a few minutes.”
The woman bounced on her sensible walking shoes. “Oh my, oh my,” she breathed, as if her life were bereft of visitors besides her son. “Do you like cheese and tomato sandwiches? I’m sure that’s what Ladybird Johnson would have served if she had an English tea at the White House.” Max’s stomach alternately rumbled and revolted at the thought. Ladybird went on to describe more delicacies. “I have a can of salmon. We can have salmon and cucumber. I even have some of that nice thin-sliced bread in the freezer. It’ll only take a few minutes to thaw if we hold it between our hands. Oh my, oh my.”
Inside her, Bethany jumped up and down, mouth watering in anticipation. Max hoped her stomach didn’t explode.
No, you cannot have any truffles afterwards. She hoped Bethany heard.
Max rolled up both windows, grabbed her purse, climbed out, then locked the door behind her.
“Here, let me take that for you.” She took the handle of the grocery basket and, like a trapped rabbit, followed Ladybird down her front path and onto the porch.
Damn. What would Witt make of it? He’d think she was besotted and trying to win over his mother, that she wanted to wheedle all his secrets from Ladybird’s lips, that she— Not. He’d assume she was staking out Bethany’s house, was caught red-handed, and had successfully bluffed her way out—not that Ladybird needed any bluffing; she was extremely good at doing that all on her own. In less than two months, Witt had grown to know Max too well. He’d probably be pissed that she wasn’t trying to win over his mother.