Sunny held the receiver over the bed of the phone and let it drop the last three inches. “I’ll wager a three-course luncheon at Petrocelli’s, including their divine bread pudding for dessert, that you turn him down within the first five minutes of the interview.”
“If the job’s right, I can hack it.”
Sunny smiled, though it was slightly less brilliant than her usual. “Funny girl. But this is no laughing matter. If the man doesn’t turn you off, the reason the job’s available will.”
Max steeled herself. She’d never been much of an actress; Cameron could always see right through her attempts to lie. She went for the unconcerned approach. “I’m all ears.”
“The previous bookkeeper was murdered two days ago.” Sunny was clearly stunned over the information, her eyes wide and her perpetual smile absent for the moment.
Max let her mouth drop open dramatically. “You’re kidding.”
“That’s why Mr. Hackett was so disturbed by the call.” She shook her head. “But I can’t understand who called in the request for a temp. He had no clue.” Sunny straightened her shoulders indignantly. “But that gave him absolutely no reason to speak to me in such an insulting manner.”
“Of course not.”
“You don’t want that job, Max.”
“I’m a bit short on the bucks right now, Sunny.”
“And that man is a donkey’s behind.”
“You mean a horse’s ass.”
“A phallic symbol.”
“A dickhead.”
“I can find something better than this for you.”
“I’m tired of doing bank recs and ledger analysis.”
“No pun intended, dear, but this job will be murder on you.”
Sunny had no idea how right she was.
*
“How’d you know Wendy Gregory was a bookkeeper?” Cameron mused.
“It said she was in the article.”
“No, it didn’t.”
Max snorted. “It was there. I just skipped that part when I read it to you.”
At the end of the day, she sat on her back stoop, a four-by-four area constructed of plank decking at the bottom of the flight of stairs leading to her small room. She’d left her blazer upstairs as the evening worked its way into comfortable after the heat of an early September day. The little black cat whined in the tree above.
Max lived in a renovated Victorian, the upper floor having been converted into studios with bathroom, hot plate, closet, and bed. It housed mostly students attending nearby Santa Clara University. The deck, however, was hers alone, as were the stairs to her lodging. She paid a little more for the privacy, but it was worth the few meals she had to skip.
“I do believe you just told me a flat out lie, Max. You knew Wendy was an accountant just...because. Didn’t you, my love?”
Busted. “I’m not psychic. I’m just crazy.”
“Queen of Denial,” he said in a sing-song voice designed to piss her off.
She didn’t rise to the bait. “All right, if I’m possessed and I’m psychic, why don’t I just know who killed her? Why don’t I have her memories?”
“I don’t remember what happened to me. Maybe she’s no different. You need to work with her, not against her.”
Living with a lawyer, first when he was alive, then for the two years after his death, she’d learned to turn the tables on Cameron. “You’re the one with connections to the ‘other side’. Why don’t you interview Wendy and find out who killed her?”
“Now, Max, if she’s inside you, how can I—”
On a roll, she cut him off. “You could write a book about it. Murder in Long-term. We’ll say it’s ghost-written.”
“Very funny, darling.”
“You don’t sound like you think it’s funny.” But she thought it was, and the light-hearted switch tamped down the unease his words generated. She did crazy, not psychic. And certainly not possessed. She didn’t want to feel another woman’s messed up emotions. She had more than enough of her own.
“Feed the cat, Max.”
“You always change the subject when you don’t like what I’ve said.” Yeah, she wasn’t the only one who knew that trick. “Now, admit it was funny.”
“The cat’s hungry. Give it the rest of the tuna before the can rots in that tiny, broken-down refrigerator of yours.”
“If I feed it again, it’ll hang around like a buzzard.”
“I think it looks a little like Louis, don’t you?”
She closed her eyes for the briefest moment. “You won’t make me feel guilty.” But he had, despite her best intentions. “I couldn’t keep Louis once I moved in here. He’s got a good home.”
“With your best friend whom you haven’t called in two years?”
Right under her ribcage, an ache throbbed for her former friend Sutter Cahill. She went deeper into denial mode. “I hardly talked with Sutter after you and I got married.”
“I guess dinner twice a month didn’t count as ‘talking.’”
God, those dinners. All the laughter they’d shared. She’d been able to tell Sutter almost anything.