CHAPTER FIVE
The small house on the western edge of the Wilmington suburbs looks abandoned. Its siding needs to be power washed, its shutters painted and its lawn mowed. Like the cabin in Wilder Woods, the house could easily be the setting for a horror movie.
I grab Max’s arm, stopping him before he steps onto the cracked sidewalk. “Convince me why this is a good idea.”
“I’ve been convincing you for the past hour.” That’s how long it took us to drive to Wilmington from Midway Beach after determining the Black Widow wasn’t hiding out in Adair’s body. “We need to find out if Stuart Bigelow’s widow knows anything.”
The idea hasn’t caught on with me. The Wilmington News reporter died about twenty-four hours ago, not even long enough for his widow to get past the denial stage.
“Are you sure this is the right address? It doesn’t look like anyone lives here.”
“One way to find out.” Max takes a step toward the house, but I grab his arm again before he can take another.
He turns back to me, appearing more puzzled than annoyed, the way he had in the car during the drive over. “What now?”
I don’t suppose he wants to hear that if we get inside the house, I half-expect we’ll run into an axe-wielding psychopath or the ghost of a wife-killing samurai. We’ve got enough weird stuff to consider.
“Do you really think Bigelow could be a Ringer?” I ask.
“We went over this in the car,” he says, sounding a smidge less patient. “If the Black Widow isn’t really dead, maybe Bigelow’s alive too.”
“Doesn’t it make more sense that someone killed him to get him to reveal his source?”
“Yes.” Max came up with that theory after Bigelow wrote a story quoting an anonymous source who saw somebody moving the Black Widow’s body to the beach. “But we’re exploring all the options, remember? One is talking to Jennifer Bigelow.”
I hold tight to his arm. “Even if Mrs. Bigelow is here, why would she talk to us?”
He leans down and kisses me, just plants one on me in broad daylight, never mind that none of the friends we’re trying to fool are looking on. The kiss is slow and undemanding, coaxing a response from me. He hooks his hands at my waist. I lift mine to loop around his neck. Only then does he raise his head and step back. The sun’s rays behind him create a halo effect, but that doesn’t fool me. I drop my hands.
“You did that to get me to let go of your arm,” I accuse.
He grins and strides toward the house before I can stop him. Damn.
“Can I help you with something?” The woman coming around the side of the house through the ankle-deep grass carries an axe. I’m about to run for my life when it occurs to me that it’s an oddly shaped axe, probably because it’s actually a hoe.
Max walks toward her, not the least bit afraid of the hoe. He turns on the full-wattage smile. “Are you Jennifer Bigelow?”
“Who’s asking?” She’s a small, round woman in her forties who doesn’t look like a Jennifer. Her face is marred by acne scars. Her hair’s tied back in a bandana, and she’s dressed in ratty jeans and a dirt-streaked T-shirt.
“I’m Max Harper, and this is my girlfriend Jade Greene.” His girlfriend? “You might recognize our names. We found the body.”
The woman stiffens, her hands tightening on the hoe. It has a wooden handle and a silver, triangular head. “The police found my husband’s body.”
“They did,” Max says, which is technically a lie since we were first on the scene, not that I’m about to point that out to scowling Jennifer Bigelow. “I meant Jade and I found Constance Hightower’s body. Your husband mentioned us in one of the stories he wrote about her.”
“What are you doing here?” she demands. “As you can see, I’m busy.”
“We can see that,” Max says. “Looks like you’re doing a little yard work.”
“A little?” Her mouth flat lines. “Are you blind? This is a hell of a lot more than a little yard work. Stu was always telling me he’d get around to it. Took me till today to figure that was never gonna happen.”
“He seemed really dedicated to newspaper work.” Max is trying to be cool, but it’s clear to me he’s desperately searching for a conversation ice breaker.
“I asked what you were doing here.” Jennifer Bigelow must think she can intimidate us with her bellow. That’s not happening. Roxy’s voice is much more thunderous.
“We were in Wilmington anyway,” Max says. “It seemed a good opportunity to tell you how sorry we are.”
That’s the cover story he came up with? Like it’s believable the two of us make condolence calls to strangers when someone we barely know dies?
“Who told you where we live?” Mrs. Bigelow asks.
“Stuart did.” Max reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card. “Your husband gave this to me when he interviewed us. It has your home address.”
“Of all the stupid...” Jennifer catches herself before she finishes the thought. She clears her throat. “Where’s the food?”
“What food?” Max asks.
She thumps the head of the hoe on the ground. “Most people bring food when they drop by to say they’re sorry.”
“We can get you a cheeseburger from McDonald’s,” Max offers.
“Not fast food,” she retorts. “Comfort food that’ll last me the next couple days when I’m too broken up to cook.”
She’s broken up? Whatever her mood, Max is getting nowhere tiptoeing around her. She seems like the kind of person who would appreciate the direct approach.
“Do the police know what happened?” It’s the first thing I’ve said since we got here.
“Somebody came into my husband’s hotel room and stabbed him with a ballpoint pen after they hit him upside the head,” she barks. “They don’t know if the blow or the pen killed him. But that hardly matters.”
Mrs. Bigelow flicks away a strand of hair that has come loose from her bandana. Her upper arms are well-defined, like she’d bat cleanup if she played for a softball team.
“I meant do the police have any suspects?” I refuse to back down, like I’m sure she wants us to.
She peers hard at me. “Let me see your driver’s license.”
“Why?”
“Let me see it!” She turns to Max. “Yours, too.”
No way am I giving in to this rude woman, new widow or not. “You don’t need—”
“Sure, you can see our driver’s licenses,” Max interrupts, sending me a look that telegraphs he wants me to be quiet. I’m reminded that he’s good at extracting information. He gets his out of his wallet, flips it open and extends it to Mrs. Bigelow. “Show her yours, Jade.”
I do as he asks, keeping a tight grip on the piece of plastic so she can’t snatch it from me. She examines both licenses, looking up to compare our faces to the photos. “Lucky for you that you are who you say you are.”
“Who else would we be?” I ask.
“She thought we might be undercover cops,” Max says. “Isn’t that right, Mrs. Bigelow?”
She says nothing, but I can tell by her glare that Max got it right. We’re on the young side to be police, but it’s been the premise of about a dozen movies, many with actors no older than we are.
“You’re a suspect, aren’t you?” Max asks.
“Who do you think you are? Coming here and making insinuations like that?” Her eyes bug out almost like the ravenous insect-like beast’s in the movie with all the disemboweled victims. The volume of her voice approaches Roxy territory.
“We didn’t mean anything by it,” Max begins. “We—”
“Get off my property!” She picks up the hoe and lifts it over her head, taking a few menacing steps toward us. “And don’t come back here bothering me again.”
Max seems like he’s about to say something else, but I grab his hand and pull him toward the pickup. He might not be able to tell when an angry woman is serious, but I can.
Neither of us say anything until we’
re a mile down the road, and I finally break the silence. “Well, what did you think?”
“I think I’d want to switch bodies too if I was married to her,” Max says.
“Bigelow might not have had the chance.”
“You think Jennifer Bigelow killed her husband?”
“I can see her getting mad enough to attack him, maybe because he was spending too much time away from his chores. She seemed angrier about doing yard work than losing her husband.”
“We can’t rule her out,” Max says.
“Since we’re operating on the theory that the Black Widow is still alive,” I say slowly, “we can’t rule out anything.”