Baxter Newton a murderer? It was certainly possible. In the past two months, Max had learned that just about anyone was capable under a peculiar set of circumstances.
What bothered Max was that Bud Traynor had led her right to Baxter. It automatically indicated there was far more going on. She had no more trust for Bud than she would for ... her uncle. Or the men who’d killed Cameron, all three of them, but especially not the big one, the ringleader with steel-toed boots capable of breaking her ribs.
So what was going on between Baxter Newton and Bud Traynor? Why did Bud want him out of the way? And was there any truth at all in the things Bud had told her?
Max pondered the issue for ten minutes. Then she went out like a light, the transition between sleeping and waking so abrupt that she wasn’t even aware of drifting in that intervening state.
She woke an hour later, hot and wet with memories—or were they dreams—of Witt teasing her clitoris. Her breasts felt heavy and achy, her sex slick and well-used, and her flesh flushed. Pleasant. Nice. Alive. Witt was right. Living on the edge felt good. She could move mountains feeling like this.
She could vanquish a killer.
Calling Sunny, Max told her not to worry and not to look for another job yet. Yes, she’d be okay for money, no, she wouldn’t have to sell her car, her one remaining asset, to survive, and thanks for caring. Sunny was a sweet blonde doll. Maybe someday, Max could stretch that description to include friend.
She called Julia La Russa, apologized for not returning the call yesterday and invited herself over at ten o’clock. Since Bud had driven, she was still a bit unsure of the route despite her concentration, so she left early in case she had problems and arrived at a quarter to ten, apologizing to Julia once again.
Julia had draped herself in a cloud of black chiffon, another full skirt, the neck of this outfit high and fastened with an ivory Cameo. Her cheeks rouged, lips glossed and lined, the ineffectually concealed dark circles beneath her brown eyes spoke to a sleepless night. Her body odor was slightly off, not offensive, merely off, reminding Max of old ladies, hospitals and musty old houses with too many knick-knacks that couldn’t be dusted.
Damn. Witt was right. The slight sexual high thrumming through her veins did make everything clearer, sharper. Weird.
“Thank you for coming, Max.” Julia took Max’s arm, pulled her inside. Her benign smile didn’t befit the recently widowed. The turn of her lips might mean she hadn’t cared much for Lance and didn’t care that he was gone. Or it could be a smile Julia La Russa hid behind, her charity smile, her public facade. For all Max knew, she herself had hidden behind such a smile in those first weeks after Cameron’s death. Despite sensing the woman’s warmth beneath her subdued exterior, Max couldn’t quite be sure who the real Julia was.
The lobby—Max couldn’t think of another word for it, it was that big—held the warmth of the morning sun from the row of ceiling-high windows above the front door.
“This time, I made tea beforehand so you wouldn’t have to wait.” Ever the perfect hostess, the flow of words never ceased as Julia led the way up the stairs in graceful pumps with wide heels no more than two inches tall. “I do hope you like tea. I know most people prefer coffee, and I can make it if you want, but tea is somehow more civilized. Unless it’s after dinner. Coffee is perfect after dinner.”
They turned up the right-hand staircase. And still the monologue went on. Max failed to take it all in, sure she didn’t need to. No clues there, except again, that suggestion of a facade Julia hid behind, and perhaps nervousness.
A bank of windows at the back, above the stairs, faced those at the front. Through them, yards and yards of green grass led up to a grove of eucalyptus, acting as a windbreak. Below the window, Max caught a glimpse of patio, a water fountain, and stone benches as she followed Julia around the next curve in the staircase.
Julia’s black dress swished against the banister. The house was deceptively small, especially considering the cavernous lobby. Downstairs, Max had noted the music room on the left, a large dining room on the right, with the kitchen presumably at the back of the house. On the second level, two doors on the right of the staircase and two on the left. Granted, the doors were far apart, leading one to believe the rooms were of good size, but there could still be no more than four bedrooms.
Did two people need any more? There’d been no mention of surviving children in the article Max had found in the paper. The house lacked the requisite patter of small feet and other noise. Fatherhood for Lance La Russa didn’t feel right.