Ariel shook her head. “A stray Jules made friends with. One day we found it out back with its neck broken. Jules was crushed.”
Oh Jesus. Max felt sick. Shades of Lenny and the puppy in Of Mice and Men. Could Jules, not knowing his own strength, have killed the kitten?
Could he have killed Tiffany? Not meaning to, just like in the book?
If he had, it had been an accident. God, she didn’t want Jules to be the one she was after. Please, please, God, do not do that to me.
Max shivered and got to the point before Pippa returned for a little hell-raising. “I can take that to Tiffany’s sister on my way home tonight. Where does she live?”
Ariel tipped her head, looking at Max. “Why would you want to do that?”
Why? Think fast, Max. “I figured it might be too emotional for you.”
Ariel’s fingers clenched on the sides of the box she held. “You’ve got it all wrong, Max. I didn’t give a damn about Tiffany. She might have treated Jules with kid gloves, but she was a bitch. She’d screw anything that walked by, and she didn’t give a damn if he already belonged to someone else. In fact, I’m glad she’s dead.”
*
So—Tiffany had stolen Ariel’s guy. Did that make her capable of murder? Or just jealous? If she was guilty, she’d hardly admit she was glad her nemesis was dead. Unless she was very clever, had all her tracks covered, and wanted to make sure no one would catch her in a lie.
There was also a definite possibility she wanted old Miles Lamont for herself. Ewwe.
Max didn’t have an inkling of the answers at this point. So much for psychic powers.
Miles Lamont’s black Lincoln sat like a behemoth in front of the salon. Though well over the two-hour limit, no ticket protruded from the wiper blade.
Excitement coursed through her veins. Until the moment she shut the salon door and was faced with actually touching the damn car. She walked down the front path, stopped at the sidewalk, then swallowed. She could do it. Sure she could. If she didn’t hurry up, someone inside the salon might see her standing like an idiot in front of the big vehicle.
Buck up, girl. She clenched the keys in her hand and walked around the front bumper.
Max unlocked the door, took a deep breath, and climbed in.
Starting the engine, she pulled out of the parallel parking spot. She did not open her mind to any sensations, beyond the irritation of parking the boat in another parallel spot. There was a limit to what she could accomplish all at once.
“You didn’t open your mind, Max. That implies control.” Cameron’s voice oozed delight.
“If I had control, I would make sure you didn’t pop up at your usual inopportune moments.”
“You didn’t say that the other night when I made love to you in your dreams.”
“Oh, stuff it.”
“I wish I could. You know you loved it. You want more. You’ll beg me tonight.”
“No, I won’t. And I did not like what you did to me in the bathroom while Witt was outside.”
“You’re right. You didn’t like it, you loved it. You even imagined it was him.”
She scrambled out of the car, slamming the door on his voice. And the semi-truth in his words. She wasn’t kinky. Was she? Oh, God, what about the car thing when she’d let Cameron make her come in broad daylight with the top down? Yes, she just might be a little kinky.
Was Witt kinky?
Stop that, dammit. She shut her brain down on the weird thoughts.
The spot she chose for the car was around the corner, on a side street with minimal traffic and out of sight of the salon. The labels were presumably in the trunk—they hadn’t been in the back seat.
And the trunk was where Tiffany’s body would have been if the black Lincoln had been used as transportation.
She stared at the black paint until her vision swam. The glossy surface seemed to swirl. Her fingers caressed the key in her hand. She breathed in the scent of hot metal, rubber, and the faint odor of garbage drifting over from the alley. The same smells would have been present in the Round Up’s alley that night. She closed her eyes, and for a moment she could see herself as Snake the Wino hunkered down between the dumpsters.
But memory didn’t have as much punch as an actual vision.
She touched the trunk lid.
Nothing.
Max waited. A minute. Two minutes. Eyes closed, she took deep, from-the-gut breaths until her fingers and toes tingled.
Still nothing.
She opened her eyes, then unlocked the trunk and stared down into the neat, carpeted interior. A flashlight, a frost scraper, an umbrella, first aid kit, and a box of computer labels. She leaned forward and rested the palms of her hands against the floor of the compartment.
Another minute.
“I don’t see a thing. And don’t tell me I’m not trying, Cameron.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Maybe this isn’t the car.”
“Well, duh. But why can’t I sense anything at all?”
“Why indeed?”
She straightened and shoved the keys into the pocket of her blazer. “Because Tiffany wasn’t here. And everything I’ve felt involves Tiffany.”