CHAPTER FOUR
The waiting room at the dentist’s office is quiet even with the TV on. A perky talk show host flaps her lips and waves her hands in high definition, but no sound escapes.
The only person present, a girl with a chrysanthemum in her long black hair, is more interested in her magazine. Odd. Not because the girl is Maia, but because the magazine is National Geographic and not the Globe or the National Examiner. But that’s unfair. Maia’s a gossip. She’s not stupid.
Maia’s so engrossed in the article, she marks her place with a forefinger before looking up to check who’s come into the room.
“Girl,” she says, gazing up at me over the pages of the magazine, “where the hell have you been?”
Becky must have called Maia for a ride when I failed to return the Honda Fit. I sink into the seat beside her. “How mad is she?”
“Forget about that.” Maia smells like lavender. I was with her at the mall when she bought the lotion and after-shower spray at the bath and body store. She bought chrysanthemum pins during the same trip to alternate with the real flowers she almost always wears in her hair. She shuts her magazine and puts it down on a side table. “Tell me about this.”
She taps the side of my face with her index finger. My cheek stings where she touches.
“Oh, this.” I lay my hand over the mark, trying for out of sight, out of mind. “This is nothing.”
“It looks like you got bitch-slapped.”
“Who would do that?”
“Let’s see.” Maia taps the side of her mouth with a finger. Star decals decorate her nails. “My guess is you were at the hospital. Am I right?”
“Right.” Maybe I can get her off topic. “Hunter’s going to be fine. Good news, right?”
She gives me a close-lipped smile and nods. “It’s wonderful. But then Hunter’s like a lizard. Pull off his leg, and he’ll grow another one.”
It sounds like something Max might say about Hunter. Unlike what I suspect of Max, though, Maia doesn’t have a secret history with Hunter. They went out. She dumped him. End of story.
“Did the doctors figure out what was wrong with him?” Maia asks.
Sooner or later, Maia will find out Hunter was poisoned. I won’t tell her. Not when the cops could be holding back the information from the general public. A disadvantage to eavesdropping is you never know what’s supposed to be a secret.
“I don’t know,” I lie.
“Would you tell me if you did?”
“Why wouldn’t I tell you?”
“You haven’t told me Adair slapped you.”
“How do you know it was Adair?”
“Process of elimination. I crossed off Hunter’s nurses and doctors. Jealous girlfriend seemed a better bet. Adair was at the hospital, right?”
No use continuing to deny it. “Right. But Adair is Hunter’s ex-girlfriend.”
“You sure about that?”
“You’re the one who told me they were taking a break.”
“Guess Adair decided break time’s over.” Maia tilts her head to the side. “Did you at least get in a slap or two? Maybe some hair pulling?”
“Someone held me back.” Not for anything will I tell her it was Max. “Hospitals aren’t big on fights.”
“Too bad. She probably had it coming.” Maia stands up, slinging her hobo-style bag across her body. “I’ve got to get going.”
From experience, I know the damage has already been done. By this time tomorrow, everybody on the strip will know Adair and I got into a cat fight over Hunter. Swell.
Before Maia can leave, a plump, gray-haired woman comes out from behind the reception desk and points a remote at the TV. The volume steadily increases while Constance Hightower’s beautiful face fills the screen. She looks a lot better than she did a few nights ago on the beach.
“... special report,” a voice says. “The Wilmington News is reporting that Constance Hightower, who was found dead on Midway Beach two nights ago in an apparent suicide, may have been murdered.”
I already know this from reading the newspaper story, but the receptionist gasps. “Lord, have mercy!” she says, drowning out the voiceover.
“Shhh.” Maia steps past the receptionist closer to the TV. Yep. Everybody in town is more interested in the infamous Black Widow than I am.
“...story in today’s edition claims Hightower’s body was moved after she died. Police declined comment about the lack of blood at the scene, but the newspaper quotes an anonymous source who saw somebody carrying what appeared to be a body.”
Maia whirls away from the TV, pinning me with her gaze. “Are you the source?”
“Me? No. Why would you think that?”
She gets up close and personal. “You found the body, didn’t you?”
“You’re the one who found the body?” The receptionist joins the conversation, her eyes going round.
The conversation drowns out the voiceover on TV. The picture switches to a video of Constance at the beauty pageant she won. She’s dressed in a slinky gold evening gown and holding the hand of another impossibly gorgeous young woman. The emcee opens the envelope and announces the winner. Constance beams, drops the other woman’s hand like she’s the bearer of an alien plague and steps forward to accept her crown.
“If somebody dumped the body,” I say, “they did it before we got there.”
“Is that the truth?” Maia demands. “Or is this something else you’ll only tell Becky?”
“It’s the truth. I swear it.”
It’s not the first time I’ve sworn to Maia that I wasn’t lying. When Maia gets a lead on a piece of gossip, she’s relentless. Sort of like the bad guys in horror movies who resurrect in time for sequels. Well, not really. But it’s the same idea.
“I’ve gotta go,” Maia repeats. She hurries away like I’ve seen her do a hundred other times when she has news to spread. If I’m lucky, she’ll be so busy talking about the Black Widow she’ll forget Adair slapped me.
Except I’m never that lucky.
The receptionist turns the volume of the TV all the way down before addressing me. “Who do you think killed Constance?”
It’s a stretch to believe that one of Boris’s children slit the Black Widow’s wrists, waited for her to bleed out and then dumped her on the beach. “Hannibal Lecter?”
“I don’t know Hannibal Lecter.”
Seriously? People like her take all the fun out of sarcasm.
While I wait for Becky, I turn my attention to my own problems. It had taken me a long time last night to fall asleep after talking to my mom. Weird stuff has happened to both of us, forcing me to consider whether I’m letting paranoia overtake me like she did. But, no. If I was never missing, like Roxy claims, then how to explain Max? Like me, Max can’t account for the hours he was gone. If, that is, he’s telling the truth.
Before I can reach any conclusions, Becky comes into the waiting room. I stand up, ready to grovel. She rushes toward me and throws her arms around me in a tight hug.
“Wait a minute,” I say while she’s squeezing. “You’re not mad?”
“I was too worried to be mad.” She draws back. “Why didn’t you call me back this morning?”
“I texted.”
“Then you do know you sent the text?” She peers up at me with anxious eyes. One side of her face sags from Novocain. “It’s not like before with, um, well, you know.”
Yeah, I do. But I haven’t been able to prove yet that Roxy—or perhaps the evil clown—used my phone to text Becky when I’d lost those forty-eight hours. Because, damn it, that did happen. Unlike my mom, I can recognize the truth.
“I know I sent the text this morning,” I say.
Becky draws back and punches me in the arm.
“Hey, what was that for?” I ask, rubbing the spot.
“For letting me worry.”
“Nothing to worry about.”
“Then why is your face bruised?”
Oops. I should have taken Max’s su
ggestion about the ice. The Hannibal Lecter-challenged receptionist is openly listening. I grab Becky’s arm and usher her toward the exit. “Let’s get out of here.”
When we’re outside, Becky plants her feet and crosses her arms over her chest. “Spill.”
I did promise her last night when I talked her into letting me borrow her car that I’d tell all, even about Max.
“This might take a while.” I point to an empty playground across the street. “Some swings over there are calling our names.”
When we’re sitting side by side and I’ve sworn her to secrecy, I start talking. I’m not sure why, but I don’t start with what I learned during my visit to Max’s duplex. Instead I tell Becky about visiting the hospital. About Adair walloping me. About Max stepping in. Even about overhearing Hunter had been poisoned.
“Oh, my God. Poisoned?” She’s a gasper, the same as the dentist office receptionist. “Are you sure you heard that right?”
“Positive.”
“But who poisons somebody?” She scrunches up her nose. Not a good look with her lopsided mouth. “Besides the Black Widow. And she kind of had reason, with Boris cheating and all. But, I mean, this isn’t Arsenic and Old Ladies.”
“Arsenic and Old Lace,” When I was on my old movie kick, I’d made Becky sit through about a dozen of them. That one’s about a pair of insane maiden aunts who cheerfully off old men with poisonous elderberry wine. “And I can think of somebody who’d poison Hunter.”
“Who?”
Something stops me from sharing my suspicion of Max. “Adair was working the concession stand last night when Hunter stopped by.”
“Adair? That’s completely nuts.” The Novocain is affecting her speech, making it slow and slurred, sort of the way my Mom sounds sometimes. “You can’t suspect somebody of attempted murder because you’re jealous.”
“I am not jealous!”
“She’s skinny, six feet tall and Hunter’s into her.”
“Okay, you’ve got a point.”
“I’ve got another one.” She pushes off the ground with one of her feet. The swing barely moves. Becky’s tiny, but these swings are made for kids. My butt’s starting to hurt from being squeezed by the chains holding them up. “Max is into you. That should make you forget all about Hunter.”
I’d promised when I borrowed her car to tell her what was going on with Max. Time to make good on that. As soon as she stops swinging. That takes about ten seconds. Here goes. “Max is only into me because he was a missing person, too.”
“Get out of here!” Her response reminds me that she doesn’t buy my story.
“It’s true. I saw his missing person flier.” For someone who hasn’t made up her mind about Max, I sound pretty defensive. Stay cool, Jade. I fill her in on the details.
“That’s all you know?” Becky asks when I finish. “Did you even call the police to check if he’s telling the truth?”
“Well, no.”
“Anybody with Photoshop can make a missing person flier. Why are you taking Max’s word as gospel? He could have made up the story after he heard about you.”
It’s the same thought that ran through my mind, but I want to discount it. “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. But I’d damn sure find out if he was on the level.”
“What’s with the about-face, Becks? I thought you liked Max.”
“I like you, Jade. I’m on your side. And you’re not...” she hesitates. “...thinking real clearly lately.”
“I’m thinking just fine!” I snap.
“Down, girl.” Becky holds up a hand. “All I’m saying is that you need to start separating fact from fiction.”