“DeWitt, behave yourself,” Ladybird Long admonished her son.
Witt behave? He wouldn’t be the bane of Max’s existence if he behaved. He also wouldn’t be half as interesting or anywhere near as sexy.
With one deep breath, Max Starr blew out all thirty-three candles on her birthday cake.
“Oh my, oh my. What strong lungs you have. Now you have to cut your cake.” Ladybird held the biggest knife Max had ever seen.
“And don’t forget, I like mine big, Max, very big.” DeWitt Quentin Long, homicide detective, and Max’s sort-of boyfriend, smiled. Scrumptious in his black suit, charcoal shirt, and red tie, he made her tingle. She loved red and black, especially on him. She’d even come to love the blond hair and dimple in his chin.
Ladybird slugged him in the arm. Thank goodness she didn’t use the hand that still held the knife. “DeWitt, I know that was some kind of sexual innuendo. Control yourself. You’re embarrassing Max. And get out of your father’s chair.”
Witt, despite being a foot taller than his mother, vacated his seat at the head of the table. Ladybird had cleared five chairs of the stacks of grocery store flyers, advertisements, and magazines she refused to throw out due to a slightly irrational fear of dumpster divers. She was afraid someone would get her address labels. What was frightening about that since most of them appeared to be addressed to “Resident,” Max had yet to figure out.
So, seat number four was Horace’s. But what about the fifth?
Max had two things in common with Ladybird. First was the fact they both talked to the spirits of their dead husbands, the only difference being that Ladybird’s Horace had been dead for fifteen years and Cameron for only two. Finding out you aren’t the only person living with a ghost had been a real bonding experience. Then, of course, there was a fondness for that big brute of a son. Ladybird adored her son. Max didn’t quite adore, but she did at least like him most of the time.
“If you want her to cut, Mom, you better give her the knife.”
Max took the proffered blade and pulled out the burned candles. This was her first birthday party in over two years, even if it was only Witt and his mother. She hadn’t been a social creature since Cameron died, but damn if she wasn’t beginning to like these little get-togethers—tonight being the second one—with the Long family, deceased members included. If she didn’t watch out, she might even start depending on them. Scary thought.
She cut through layers of whipped cream ... and whipped cream ... and more whipped cream, finally hitting chocolate pay dirt somewhere near the cake plate. It was a wonder the candles hadn’t sunk into the middle of all the white goo.
Ladybird clapped her hands as Max lifted out the first piece, a big piece, whipped cream dripping all over. The creation was definitely the most bizarre thing Max had ever seen.
“It’s a bowl cake,” Ladybird said proudly.
“A bowl cake?” Witt echoed, staring at the half-inch layer of chocolate cake amidst all that white sweetness.
“Well, I have to admit it was the first cake I’ve baked from scratch in over twenty years. I don’t know what I did wrong, but the middle fell when I took it out of the oven. I didn’t want to waste it, so I filled it with whipped cream.” She flapped a hand. Thank God she didn’t have the knife anymore. “The girls at the church will love the leftovers.”
Ladybird’s blue hair sparkled in the light of the small dining room’s chandelier. She was a tiny woman. Max had always found it hard to believe she could have produced a giant like Witt. The only thing he’d inherited from his mother was a pair of brilliant blue eyes.
Max finished dishing out three plates of the bowl cake and set the knife down at the edge of the serving dish.
“Oh my dear, you must have more than that.”
Max looked down at the tiny slice she’d given herself.
“You’re such a slip of a thing,” Ladybird added. Cameron, less polite, would have called her anorexic at five-foot six-inches and a bit over one hundred pounds.
Max dutifully added another scoop—slice wasn’t really the right word—to her plate, then handed the desserts around.
Ladybird gasped.
“What?” Max looked to make sure she hadn’t dropped gobs of whipped cream on the tablecloth.
“You forgot Horace and Cameron.”
Ah, the fifth chair was for Cameron. It was one thing for Max to talk with her late lamented husband. It was quite another to invite him to a party with Witt present.
Max turned to Witt for guidance. Busy shoveling whipped cream and minuscule bits of chocolate cake into his mouth, he gave her that cool blue stare of his, the one that said you’re on your own, babe.
“Horace loved cake,” Ladybird went on. “I always cut him a piece so he doesn’t feel left out. Don’t you feel the same about Cameron?”
Max smiled and picked up the knife to cut two more pieces.