It was one o’clock the next afternoon, somewhere mid-Peninsula between her house and Garden Street, when Max realized Witt had never asked about what she’d found in the Spring home nor had she even tried to tell him.
She thought about the fact that not telling Witt she’d failed last night fell in precisely with her plans for today. Of course, thinking about that forced her to think about everything else that had happened last night.
She hadn’t freaked, not really. If she’d hurt him, she hadn’t meant to. It was just that he’d started talking about babies and his wife and she couldn’t have kids—
“He never talked about his wife.”
She stopped herself and Cameron right there, her tone laced with desperation. “Don’t start with me.”
He didn’t. “Where are we going?”
She rolled her lips between her teeth and bit down, then let them out. “Ladybird’s.”
“Ladybird’s?” He said it with such sarcasm, she knew the jig was up.
“Bethany’s.”
She felt his sigh of exasperation flash through the interior of the car.
“All right. Virginia’s. By way of Bethany’s. By way of Ladybird’s backyard. Isn’t that what your little message through Horace was all about?”
He made a noise of assent.
“Why didn’t you just tell me I was supposed to break into Virginia’s to look for the rolling pin while they were at the funeral? You could have saved me the whole humiliating affair last night.”
“Would you believe me if I said we needed to do it that way?”
“I’d say you’re sadistic.”
“I’d say you’re at your best when you have to do things the hard way, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. She vaguely remembered Witt calling her that last night. She’d sort of waited for his call throughout the morning. It hadn’t come. Maybe she should have called him.
She took the exit without thinking, flew down the four lane road, made a right, and ended up at the corner of Garden Street. She didn’t take the turn, simply looked for Witt’s black Dodge. It wasn’t there. She turned at the next avenue, parked halfway down, the closest thing she could get to hiding out, and then she hoofed it back over to Ladybird’s.
The little woman answered on the first knock as if she’d been peeking through the curtains all afternoon simply waiting for Max to arrive.
“Oh my dear.” She punctuated with a delighted gasp. “Do come in.”
Max did, closing the door quickly behind her. “Has Witt been by to see you?”
Witt’s mother pursed her birdlike lips. “No. And he always stops by on Sundays.”
“Does he call first?”
She tipped her head, regarded Max quizzically. “Well, yes, he usually does.”
“Good. If he calls and says he’s coming over, you’re going to have to warn me.”
“Warn you?” Ladybird echoed, her eyes round.
“Do you have Virginia Spring’s phone number?”
“Yes, but—”
“That’s good, too. If Witt calls and says he’s coming over, I want you to call Virginia, let the phone ring twice, hang up, and repeat. Okay?”
“All right.” Her mouth gave way to a big O of surprise. “Why, you’re going to break into Virginia’s and look for that rolling pin while everyone’s at the funeral, aren’t you?”
The question didn’t even faze Max. She’d gotten used to Ladybird and her dead husband. “Isn’t that what Horace told you I was supposed to do?”
Ladybird grabbed her hand and pulled her through the maze of newspapers and magazines, some stacked waist high. Down the hall, into the kitchen, and out the back door. “You can climb the fence here. I won’t ask how you plan to do the rest because Witt might try to get the information out of me.”
“You’re right. Better you don’t know in case he tries torture.”
“I don’t want to jeopardize your mission.” She squeezed Max’s hand. “I’ll have a nice hot cup of tea and some sandwiches ready when you get back.”
*
Max squeezed through Bethany’s doggie door without the slightest tremor. The yellow tape was gone, but the house was still dark and fetid inside. She traced a killer’s steps through the quiet rooms.
She paused in the living room, listening, hearing Bethany’s last night alive on earth replaying in her head like an audio tape. Something in the kitchen, Kitty Kat, that’s what she’d thought at the time.
Max tuned in to the psychic emanations that lingered in the house. Bethany’s emotions lived on in the very walls of the place she hadn’t left in two years. Her pain, her anger, her joy, her obsession, her fear. And her death.
Suddenly Max knew. The killer could have come through the front door. Or she could have come through the garage.
She. Of course. Who else would have used a rolling pin? A woman. Who else would have come through the garage from the house next door? Jada. Or Virginia.