“I’m saying you have to find an answer to every question you have. Somewhere in there are the clues you’re looking for.”
She rolled over and pulled the spread across her head. Accusing a sweet, helpful blonde wasn’t something she was itching to do. “I’m going to sleep now,” she singsonged.
“What about the appointments?”
God, he was persistent. Had she hated that personality quirk this much when he was alive? “What appointments?”
“Tiffany’s. She had clients, sweetheart. Did you think to ask what happened to them?”
“They rescheduled them with the other stylists.”
“Hmm, what day is it? Wednesday?” She could almost see him looking at his digital watch. “Wednesday. Tiffany’s body was discovered on Monday. My, wasn’t that quick?”
She pushed the bedspread aside. “Six people making calls. Two days. Doesn’t seem that quick with all those bodies on it.”
“But the scheduling, Max. Think about the nightmare of making sure you didn’t mix anyone up. Must have taken hours just to figure out who to put when with whom.”
He was right. The seemingly enormous task had almost been complete when she’d started work this morning. Max only had to make a few calls; there were still some clients they hadn’t been able to contact. But the number wasn’t large. “Are you saying—”
“That someone started work on the schedule change long before Monday rolled around.”
“Which means—”
“Someone at A Cut Above knew she wasn’t coming back before her body was found.”
“Would you please stop interrupting me.” She sat up, ready to do real battle with him, just as a knock sounded on the door.
“Who is it?”
“Witt,” she whispered.
“How did you know?”
“Educated guess.”
“Liar.”
“Are you testing my psychic abilities, Cameron?”
“You better answer the door, sweetheart.” And he was gone, leaving only a whiff of peppermint behind.
He had been testing her, poking her, prodding her like a guinea pig. But hell, he was right about the timing of those appointment reschedules. She’d start checking tomorrow to see if she could find proof of his theory.
Another knock. She rose, left her jacket and tie on the floor. On the stairs, she picked up her shoes, tossed them back up into the room, then went down to open the door for Witt.
“Thought I was going to have to break the door down.”
“Worried, detective?”
Ignoring the sarcasm, he smiled and reached out to stroke a finger down her cheek. “Pillow marks. Been sleeping?”
Max shivered and wondered how the hell he had this effect on her. It didn’t make sense. Unless she added Tiffany Lloyd into the equation and Tiffany’s attraction to anything male. Oh yeah, then it made perfect sense.
Witt wore a striped green-and-blue, button-down shirt, black jeans, and had a newspaper beneath his arm. “Gonna invite me in, Max?” He used his bedroom voice, all low and vibratory.
The heat started in her lower extremities and rose. Luckily, it stopped short of her throat. Letting him see the Tiffany effect was out of the question. He’d never understand that it didn’t have anything to do with him. Or with her. He’d probably think it was because he looked so damn good in jeans.
Max opened the door, motioned him up the stairs, and changed the subject to something less evocative. “What’s the newspaper for? Swatting flies?”
He slapped the rolled paper against his thigh as she followed behind him. Jeez, the man had a nice butt, firm-looking, the perfect size for a good squeeze with both hands.
Damn, the murdered Tiffany’s sexual shtick had really gotten to her. And it wasn’t fair.
“Just an article I thought you’d be interested in.” Witt handed it to her, watching as she unfolded it.
It wasn’t the front page. He’d opened to the “Living” section, and the first thing—the only thing—Max saw was Bud Traynor’s smiling face. His teeth filled the image. He had a thousand-watt smile.
Max knew the evil that lay beneath it.
She sat down on the bed, one leg curved beneath her, the other touching the floor, and spread the paper out in front of her.
Using peripheral vision, she watched Witt pick up her jacket, shake it out, and hang it over the back of the chair before he sat.
A chill ran straight down the center of her back as she turned to the article Witt had brought her. “Saturday night gala benefiting Big Brother, Big Sisters of the Peninsula,” Max read aloud. She laughed, choked it off. Her throat burned.
Bud Traynor was the magnanimous host for this gala. Bud Traynor. Father of Wendy Gregory, last week’s murder victim. Father and so much worse. The epitome of evil in Max’s mind.