This was no dream; it was a vision. Her pulse raced. What did the license number mean? That the deaths surrounding Bud had been about his daughter? She scanned the scene for other details. Remember, remember everything because anything could be important. The flowers on the plant gave way to ripe purple-black berries begging to be eaten. The fruit suddenly cowered beneath a fast-growing weed. The berries withered like raisins, gasped, and died under the onslaught of the scraggly stuff. It grew like Kudzu in Georgia, reaching tendrils across the yellow brick road, tangling around her shoes and legs, sucking the life from her.
The Rolls picked up speed. Hopelessly entangled, Max was losing her footing. The Wicked Witch’s voice told her to sleep, sleep, and the vines swirled up her legs, entwining her thighs and bottom, then grew nettles. Stinging like a million fire ants attacking at once, climbing her body as if it were a tree, injecting poison...
At the end of the yellow road, outside the gates of the Emerald City, stood a man. The Wicked Witch’s cackle poured from his lips, but she knew that silver hair glinting in the sun.
Bud Traynor.
Max woke with a cry of rage, fear, and impotency on her lips. The bastard had been laughing at her, taunting her. She couldn’t escape him even in her sleep.
“What kind of poison was it?”
“How the hell should I know?” She wanted to slam her fist through the window.
Cameron needled her. “In The Wizard of Oz, it was poppies.”
She gave in, sitting up and throwing the pillow back on the floor where she found it. “Those flowers were not poppies.”
“Arsenic? Strychnine?”
“Arsenic’s a metal, isn’t it? And Strychnine? I don’t know.”
He waited a beat. “Maybe it was Belladonna.”
She knew the vision’s message. “Bud’s at the restaurant.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Not by choice, Max had once met Bud at Belladonna’s. Back then, she’d gotten the impression he frequented the place. Seated at the best table, he’d received the most attention. Then again, maybe the owners and staff pandered to his money.
He waited for her now, wearing a dark suit and formal white shirt instead of his usual casual polo. At the back of the restaurant in the same booth they’d sat in before, the white tablecloth masked his legs as she approached. He patted the seat beside him without a flicker of surprise or question. Yes, he’d been expecting her.
Dammit, why did it seem everybody could read her moves?
The dinner hour not quite upon them, only two other tables were occupied. Busboys smoothed out linen tablecloths and set silverware. The gentle chink of china and the drone of soft voices followed her as she crossed the room.
Bud smiled like a predator, flashing lots of white teeth. “I’m so glad you found me, Max.”
Her stomach rumbled over the scent of fresh bread. Her mouth watered. She imagined her hand at the back of his head, slamming him into the wood table, drowning him in a saucer of balsamic vinegar, the fragrance of garlic masking the stink of his death.
Her palms sweat with need. God, she was losing it.
“Why didn’t you just have your secretary tell me where you were?” The even rhythm of her voice pleased her.
“That would have spoiled your fun, wouldn’t it, Max?”
“It would have saved me time and gas.” She erased all inflection and watched him with a steady gaze.
He patted the fabric once more, hands peppered with light-colored liver spots she’d never noticed. Despite encroaching old age, he was no less powerful, no less a menace. Seated as he was in the middle of the bench, whether she entered from the left or the right, her thigh would be too close to his. Exactly as he intended.
She took the seat, slid close enough to smell his aftershave mingled with cigar smoke, the same scents that had trespassed in her apartment. The waiter appeared from nowhere, draped a white napkin over her lap, then looked to Bud for instructions. Receiving a nod of dismissal, the man inclined his head, and left.
Max took the opportunity in the brief silence. “Have you murdered them all yet?”