Bud dropped his left hand, turned, making the three of them a triangle. “Julia, this is Max Starr. She’s agreed to do anything you need. Writing notes, sending cards, making phone calls. She’ll even arrange the funeral, if you’d like. She’s had experience with that, haven’t you, Max?”
His eyes glittered as if he’d shoved a sword unerringly through her heart. Max didn’t allow a waver of emotion. She didn’t even think of how hard the right words were to find. Instead she said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. La Russa.” Short, sweet, to the point, nothing more.
It was what strangers had said after Cameron’s death, an easy line, a way to dispense with the formality, to move beyond the difficult and onto familiar ground, like how nice the weather was and how they hoped there wouldn’t be as much rain this year as last. A nice, neat way to express sympathy for the loss of a husband, of love, security, friendship, of life as you’ve known it, of the thousand things you didn’t even know you’d lose when you lost him.
Julia stared at her a moment longer than polite society allowed, and for that same horrible moment, Max thought she’d actually said the words aloud.
“It’s nice meeting you. And thank you,” Julia finally said.
No, no, Max hadn’t said it aloud. And if Julia had murdered her husband, she was certainly saying good riddance instead of mourning his loss.
Julia smoothed the full skirt of her black dress. Out of nervousness or fastidiousness, Max couldn’t be sure. “Won’t you come in?” Julia stepped aside and held the door wide. Max followed Bud into the impressive marble hallway, the staircase opposite like something out of Gone with the Wind.
“I see Baxter’s here.”
“He’s in the sitting room.” Julia indicated a room on the left. “Would you like some tea?”
“We’d love it.”
Tea seemed to be a mainstay in houses of mourning. Max had experienced it only two weeks before when Bethany Spring had been murdered.
Julia disappeared into the back of the house, presumably to make tea, or to order it made.
Max entered the sitting room behind and slightly to Bud’s left. She therefore had a bird’s eye view of the look on Baxter’s face. First surprise, then suspicion, just like Julia’s, finally, a mask dropped into place.
Who was he to Julia? Family, friend? Or could it be that Julia was having her own dalliance while Lance was planning a condo for his lover?
“Traynor, good to see you.” The man, of Bud’s approximate age, crossed the long room, and held out his hand. They shook, but the gesture lacked warmth on both their parts.
Bud gripped her arm—proprietarily?—and introduced her. “Baxter Newton, Max Starr, my assistant.”
Baxter gave her the once over, then turned back to Bud. “I didn’t know you had an assistant, Traynor.”
“Max is my personal assistant, recently retained.”
Beyond the introduction, they spoke as if she wasn’t there. Rather than call attention to herself by asking about Baxter’s association with Julia, Max let them talk over her. In her role as personal assistant, the question would be inappropriate anyway. If she didn’t figure out the relationship through the conversation, she’d get it out of Bud after they left.
“Pity about Lance,” Traynor went on. “Do the police have any idea who did it?”
Baxter’s lips tightened, and emotion flashed in his eyes behind his glasses. Max stored the look to analyze later. Then, shoulders relaxing, the man shrugged eloquently. His salt and pepper hair and the loosening flesh of his cheeks put him somewhere in his sixties. Less than average height, slight of build, wearing small round glasses and a red bow tie, Baxter Newton nevertheless wore the aura of a man with unsuspected power. Erect stance, tailored suit, and sharp eyes, his gaze flicked from Bud to Max, to the hand Bud still kept on her arm, and then straight to Max’s eyes. He seemed to know the effort it took to allow Bud’s touch, to play this particular role. He blinked, and the moment of total understanding faded.
“I suppose Julia went for more tea and cups. Why don’t you come with me into the sun?”
He led the way to the far end of the room. They passed the white baby grand, the fireplace with marble mantle, and a grouping of uncomfortable antique chairs that looked of French origin. The angle of the morning sun left the majority of the room in light shadow. Until they got to the end where Baxter sat down on a flowered sofa in full sun, head turned slightly to avoid the glare.
Before taking a seat, Max waited for Bud. He chose the loveseat opposite Baxter, patting the cushions like she was a dog being offered the treat of sitting next to her master.
Baxter didn’t pat. She sat beside him. He drank from his cup, unashamed that they had nothing for the moment.
Bud smiled as if amused by her rejection. “How is Julia really doing, Baxter? I’ve been worried.”