Power to the Max (11 page)

Bud Traynor took her to Hillsborough where the rich lived. She digested the route they drove in order to duplicate it if she needed to. With his hand on the armrest between them, Bud seemed to steal her concentration. The tan leather smelled of his expensive cologne and cigars. She breathed the same air as he did, saw the same things, moved almost within his aura. He was like a parasite she feared would burrow inside her if she ever lost a moment’s control.

Max wished for Cameron’s voice inside her head to keep her sane. There was only silence. This was obviously something Cameron felt she had to do on her own. Or, he thought she was too insane to bother with.

Hillsborough was a few miles outside of
San Francisco
, but about forty-five minutes from her apartment. There were people who loved the hustle of the city, the noise on the streets, the feeling that you could step outside your door and be a part of Life with a capital L. There were others who preferred the anonymity of the suburbs. They wanted comfort and riches, people on their terms and on their schedules. Somehow she knew Lance had been a city dweller. This house was for his wife, Julia.

Bud Traynor rolled down his window, pushed a button mounted at the side of a gray metal pole, stated his name, and the iron fence swung open.

The gate whooshed closed behind them.

The house perched on the hill like a huge sun-bleached snail shell. Colonial columns flanked the wide stone steps, latticed windows reached floor to ceiling on the ground level, and a balcony ran the length of the upper floors. Azaleas, camellias, and rhododendrons long past the flowering season surrounded the great beast of a home. A lush green lawn the size of a football field sloped leisurely down to the walls protecting the property. Jays squawked in the trees, but the sounds of cars on the street and children playing in the park across the road simply disappeared behind the twelve-foot stucco walls. It was a lovely place, peaceful, calm, and restorative.

At least it would have been if she hadn’t been seated next to Bud Traynor.

A white BMW Z4 Roadster sat near the front door, the top down for the sunny day to come. Black netting fit across the roll bars to cut the wind. Max coveted the netting for her own Miata even as she pictured Julia La Russa behind the wheel, a chartreuse scarf covering her hair like Tippi Hedren in a Hitchcock movie.

Perfect image. The wife who’d murdered her husband and gotten her friends to lie for her. Real Hitchcockian.

Bud pulled in behind the Beemer, turned off the engine, and got out before Max had a chance to ask what his intentions were. She’d idiotically let him bring her this far. What the hell had she been thinking? Witt would be spitting bullets if he knew she’d put herself in such a vulnerable position. Instinct told her to get out and run as far and fast as she could. She almost gave in to the feeling, would have, except the need to know loomed heavy over her. Vulnerability, idiocy, and fear aside, Max had to know what Bud wanted to tell her.

Problem was she had no idea what his game was.

Cameron’s voice inside her head. Finally. His timing was impeccable. Calm spread through her limbs.

Max repeated the words like an incantation as she climbed the flagstones. Bud pressed the bell, its echoes sneaking out through the glass above the wide double doors.

They waited two heartbeats, three. A side curtain fluttered. Another heartbeat, and the door opened.

She’d expected a maid or a butler. Instead, the woman of the house, indicated by the expensive cut of her black mourning dress, the perfect pearl studs in her ears, and the size of the diamond on the ring finger of her left hand, stood in the doorway. Her hair, a lively brown, reached past her ears then curled under. Older than her husband—dead husband—by perhaps five years, Julia La Russa had kept her shape far better than most women in their late forties. Her wide mouth seemed capable of big smiles and lots of happiness, yet she lacked the requisite laugh lines.

She did not look like a Z4 kind of woman.

“Oh Bud, thank you for coming.” Her voice seemed mellowed with age and circumstance, excitement banked, enthusiasm dampened. It was not a voice that would reveal much emotion, at least not anymore. Why? Marriage to Lance or maturity? Or perhaps it was her husband’s murder.

She put her hand in Bud’s, palm down, as if she expected a bow over it and a token kiss of respect.

Bud, in turn, took her hand, then used it to pull her into his embrace. Over Bud’s shoulder, Max saw the woman’s slightly widened eyes of shock. Julia’s hands fluttered ineffectually against his back. Fear passed through her gaze, the briefest flicker banked before Max could be absolutely sure she saw it.

Hmm. Julia wasn’t used to demonstrative behavior either. Legacy of Lance as well? Or did that flash of alarm come strictly from Bud’s touch?

Bud held her away, far enough to look deeply into her eyes. “I am so sorry that it’s taken this long to come see you. Unforgivable. But I brought a present I hope will make it up to you.”

“A present?” Definite suspicion now. She obviously wasn’t used to accepting anything. Hell, maybe it was the idea of a gift to commemorate a husband’s death. Then again, perhaps it was the giver of the gift she distrusted. Other than to intimate he might have lied for Julia—which could be total horse shit considering the source—he’d given Max no indication of how close they might, or might not, be.

“Yes. I’ve brought you my assistant.” Bud held out a hand in Max’s direction.

Julia La Russa gave Max a quick glance, too quick for Max to discern any reaction.

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.”

Baxter tipped his head. “Her husband was found murdered in her office after allegedly having sex with another woman on top of her desk. How do you think she’s
really
doing, Traynor?” For a moment, his face turned ugly, his glare set on Bud’s mouth.

Bud didn’t miss a beat. He put his hands together and shook his head, sadly, so sadly. He was very good. If he tried hard enough, Max was sure he could dredge up a few tears, too.

Baxter looked at her watching Bud. She turned to catch his eye, but couldn’t be sure what he thought he saw.

Undercurrents flowed between the two men. Max failed to read their true meaning. It had been that way in the hall with Julia. Bud, pushing, Julia, a tad surprised, a hint of distrust, more comfortable fetching tea than with Bud’s arms around her. Now Baxter, something akin to hatred in the glance he’d shot Bud.

The controlled Bud was back again. “The least I can do for Julia is loan her Max for a few days. Max can handle any unpleasant task Julia doesn’t want to deal with.”

Baxter’s nostrils flared, but his voice remained civil. “I’m sure she appreciates it, but Julia has her own assistant.”

Heels tapping on the hardwood floor behind them, Julia answered before Bud could. “I could use the help.” She looked at Max with eyes that were not quite so dull anymore. “Tea will be here in a moment.” She looked at Baxter. “How can you drink while our guests have nothing?”

“Theirs is on the way.”

Tone of voice and expression of face were everything. Neither was angry. In fact, if anything, there was a slight rise to Baxter’s lips that hadn’t been there before. They bantered. It was friendly. They were probably not even aware they did it. Max wondered again at the relationship but was unable to pinpoint it.