CHAPTER ELEVEN
The multilane, multicolored plastic slide that sits at the edge of the carnival is called the Monster. Whoever named the giant slide doesn’t have a clue what a real monster is. I’ve got a terrible feeling I’m about to find out if the voices in Mom’s head are any indication.
How insane is it that I’m taking their advice?
“Can I get one of those?” A boy with close-cropped dark hair points at the stack of burlap bags behind me. Riders sit on them with the goal of keeping all their skin. The boy’s approximately Julian’s age like just about everybody who takes a turn on the Monster.
“Sure thing.” I give him the burlap in exchange for his ticket. “Bring it back when you’re done. And don’t slide until the coast is clear.”
The boy is so eager to reach the top of the ride, I’m not sure he heard me. A half-dozen kids, all boys, are in line behind him. They scamper up the slide one after another until only one boy is left. It’s Julian’s friend Tommy. He hands me his ticket without meeting my eyes, but I don’t turn over the burlap.
“Tommy Donatelli. Just the boy I’ve been wanting to talk to.”
Tommy’s short for his age, about the same height as Julian, which means he’s five or six inches shorter than me. His dark eyes don’t lift. “What did I do?”
“It’s not what you did. It’s what you didn’t do.”
“Huh?”
I should have this conversation with Julian. And I will, as soon as I can get up the anger to yell at him. The last few days, I’ve been too absurdly glad he’s alive to scold him for the incredibly stupid thing he did.
“You know what you did, Tommy. You didn’t stop Julian from swimming beside that pier.”
“Hey, it wasn’t my fault.” His dark eyes finally meet mine.
“You’re two years older than Julian, Tommy. You should have looked out for him. Everybody in town knows those currents are deadly.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not what the lady told us.”
A premonition of what he’s about to say hits me like a slap to the face, but I still ask the question. “What lady?”
“The big lady, the one who saved Julian. She told us it was safe to swim there now.”
If Roxy were in sight right now, I’d tackle her. Okay, maybe not. But I might manage to claw her eyes out. “When was this?”
“The day Julian won that teddy bear. The big lady, she was spinning the color wheel.”
My brother said he’d won three games in a row. I should have known few people win that many times straight at a carnival game without help. Roxy either told Julian which color squares to place his quarters on or she rigged the wheel.
“What exactly did she say about swimming near the pier, Tommy?”
“She said it was fun, that she swims there all the time. She told us the same thing Sunday right before Julian went in.”
I don’t believe for a second that Roxy is dumb enough to swim there, yet she must be familiar enough with the currents to know she could pull Julian to safety. Because she’d set up the entire Roxy-to-the-rescue operation. I’m sure of it. I even know why: To ingratiate herself with my family. If the dinner invitation is any indication, it’s working.
“Can I have one of those burlap things now?” Tommy asks.
“Nope.” I pick up one end of the heavy chain we use to block the entrance to the stairs and secure it. “Ride’s closed.”
“The carnival’s still open,” Tommy wails in protest. “You can’t do that.”
“I just did.”
I take off at a jog. I’ve got some pretty good ideas of where to look for Roxy, but before I run a dozen steps my cell phone rings. I slow down enough to check the display. Max. I click on the phone. “Yeah?”
“Can you meet me in front of the pier? I need your help.”
I knew it as soon as the phone rang. The police are on to him. I stop moving entirely and give the conversation my full attention. “I won’t be your alibi, if that’s the kind of help you need.”
“Alibi for what?”
“For what happened to Stuart Bigelow.”
Silence. It lasts so long, I think he might have hung up. “I don’t need an alibi, Jade,” he says after long moments. “Now can you meet me or not?”
“Why should I?”
“It’s important. I’ll explain when you get here.”
The line goes dead. Great. He hung up, expecting me to do as he says. I’m tempted to stand him up while I deal with Roxy. But now that I’ve had a chance to calm down, I realize I can confront Roxy later. The bigger mystery is waiting for me.
Max stands at the entrance to the pier where I can’t miss him, not that I would. At his height and with those dark good looks, he stands out in a crowd. He waits, unsmiling, as I approach. Closer to the ocean, the wind is more of a factor. It whips at our clothes and hair and smells of salt and sea.
“So I’m a murderer, huh?” Max speaks barely loud enough to be heard over the wind’s whistle, but I can pick out what sounds like hurt in his voice.
I lift my chin. “I’m not ruling out anything.”
He takes a step toward me. I hold my ground, staring up at him. It seems like I can feel the heat of his body, the warmth of his breath, but maybe that’s just the wind. “If I’m a murderer,” he whispers, his face close to mine, “why aren’t you afraid of me?”
The feeling coursing through me isn’t fear. Otherwise, dealing with him would be easier.
“And if I’m a murderer,” Max continues whispering, “why didn’t you stick around the motel this afternoon and rat me out to the cops?”
I wouldn’t admit it didn’t occur to me that he could have murdered Bigelow even if a Nazi dentist had me strapped to a chair.
“I’m not here to talk about me.” It’s impossible to stick my chin any higher in the air. “You promised to explain why you want help.”
If he doesn’t need me to get his alibi straight, I don’t have a clue what he wants.
He straightens until there’s enough distance between us that I can breathe without smelling his clean scent. “I found Leanne Livingston.”
“Who?”
“The Black Widow’s sister. She was staying with Constance at Ocean Breeze until recently.”
“Was she missing?”
“By choice,” Max says. “She cleared out of the mansion after her sister died, probably because of all the press.”
“And you’ve been looking for her?” I know the answer. Max has been more obsessed with the Black Widow case than he is the mystery of his own disappearance.
“Me and everybody else. The money was on her hometown in South Carolina, but she didn’t go back there.” He doesn’t give me a chance to ask how he knows that. “She stayed in Midway Beach.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I tracked down Leanne Livingston’s cell phone number and got her to agree to meet me. She’s waiting at the White Pelican.” He names the indoor/outdoor restaurant halfway down the pier. “If there’s a connection between us and her sister, Leanne might help us figure it out.”
“You already know I don’t think there is a connection. So why call me? Why not talk to her by yourself?”
“I started to.” Max pauses and bites his lower lip. “But she’s sitting at a table by herself. Crying.”
“So?”
“So that kind of stuff makes me uncomfortable.” He shuffles his feet. “I thought she’d be more likely to open up if I was with somebody female.”
“Are you for real?”
“Hey, I don’t have sisters.” He’d already told me he was an only child. “Are you in?”
I hesitate, eager to go back to figuring out what Roxy is up to.
“Please,” he adds.
The wind blows away my sigh, but not my nod.
The only woman sitting alone at the White Pelican wears a floppy hat and oversized sunglasses. Not the most popular look after the sun goes down. The band that plays ever
y night at the restaurant must be on break, because a sappy old song drifts from the interior of the restaurant.
“That’s her.” Max nods toward the table. “That’s Leanne Livingston.”
The wind is blowing harder now, chasing most people inside so that only a few outdoor tables are occupied. The woman with the floppy hat focuses on her amber-colored drink. Whiskey, if I had to guess.
“Leanne Livingston?” Max ventures when we’re standing beside her table. Her head snaps up. All I can see of her face is her mouth, nose, cheeks and chin. “I’m Max Harper, and this is Jade Greene.”
“You’re the one who called.” The corners of her mouth turn down and tremble. “The one who said you found my sister’s body on the beach.”
“That’s right. Mind if we join you?” Max doesn’t wait for her agreement, pulling out a chair for me and then settling beside me. “We’ve got some questions we’d like to ask you.”
“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” Leanne mumbles. She wags a finger, her words slightly slurred. “Are you gonna tell Boris’s son and daughter where I am? Those horrible Hightowers are looking for me, you know.”
“We don’t know Boris’s children,” Max says. “We won’t tell anybody anything.”
“Still not supposed to talk to you,” she mutters, the slurring more pronounced. She leans forward suddenly, sticking out her neck like she’s trying to get a good look at us. “Is it dark out here? I can’t see real good.”
“It might help to take off your sunglasses,” I suggest.
Leanne reaches up, feeling her sunglasses like she’s a blind person. She whips them off, giving me my first good look at her beautiful face.
If I was being choked to death, I’d have an easier time breathing. Because the woman’s high cheekbones and delicate features are unmistakable.
It’s Constance Hightower.
“I don’t understand.” I can hardly get the words out. “I thought you were dead.”
She covers her pretty mouth with a hand and laughs until the tears spilling out of her eyes seem to have nothing to do with mirth. Max isn’t laughing, but he doesn’t stare at her like she’s risen from the dead, either.
“I’m sorry.” Max’s apology and guilty look make no sense. “I should have told you Leanne is Constance’s identical twin.”
“You looked like you saw a ghost.” Leanne gulps and wipes at her tears. “But I understand. It’s not easy having this face. I can’t stand to look in a mirror.”
Of course. She’d be reminded her sister was dead every time she saw her own image. It seems like I should say something to let her know I feel for her. “I’m sorry for your loss, Leanne.”
She hiccups and blinks the moisture from her eyes. “Thank you.”
“We won’t take up much of your time,” Max says. “We just have a few questions.”
“Hey,” she says before Max can ask any of them, “do you know if there’s anything new with that reporter? Do the police know who killed him?”
“I don’t think so,” Max says.
“Because it wasn’t my sister.” Leanne wags her finger. “She doesn’t stab people with pens.”
“Your sister’s dead,” Max says gently.
“Connie wouldn’t kill herself.” Leanne’s voice is stronger and clearer now, almost as if she’s willing herself not to be drunk. Or maybe the monsoon-like wind is reviving her. “She always said she’d die before she went to jail, but she didn’t really mean it. The part about dying, I mean. Not the part about going to jail. I always knew Connie would find a way to beat the system. And she did.”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“It’s a twin thing. A connection that can’t be broken.” She stares across the table at us, more lucid by the second. “I’d know if Connie was dead.”
“But your sister is dead,” Max says again.
Leanne shakes her head and lowers her voice. “I’ll tell you a secret if you promise not to repeat it.”
We both nod our assent.
“Connie’s alive,” Leanne says.
Wow. This lady might have even more problems than my mom.
“She’s not alive,” I say as gently as I can. “Your twin’s body was found on the beach. Missing a whole lot of blood.”
Leanne shakes her head emphatically. “That wasn’t Connie. It only looked like Connie.”
Because identical triplets happen all the time.
“Then where is she?” Max goes along with the craziness.
“I don’t know,” Leanne whispers back. “But yesterday, she called me. She said she couldn’t stand the thought of me crying over her and that we could be together when all the publicity died down. A little while ago, she called again. I told her I was meeting you, and she said not to tell you anything.” She covers her mouth. “Oops.”
“It’s okay, Leanne,” Max says. “It’s not like we’re the police.”
“That’s true.” Leanne sounds unsure of herself. She chews her lower lip.
“Did your sister say where she was?” Max could have accepted that Leanne was done talking. He knows as well as I do the only place the Black Widow could be is the morgue.
Leanne keeps gnawing on her lip. Her eyebrows scrunch together. I’m sure she’s about to refuse to answer, but then she nods.
“Yes, she did.” Leanne speaks in a hushed whisper. “She said she was in somebody else’s body.”
###
THE SPIDER
Volume Three of the Dead Ringers serial