Power to the Max by Jasmine Haynes Read Free Book Online

flashed her a particularly innocent smile, then went back to swirling the bitters and sugar in her champagne. “Of course, maybe you don’t want to spend time with a wacky old lady.”

    “I don’t think you’re wacky.”

    Ladybird gave her best imitation of a scowl. It didn’t quite reach her eyes. “That Debbie Doodoo did.”

    Debbie Doodoo, Witt’s first wife, now his ex-wife of three years. “Yes, well, she’s long gone, Ladybird.”

    Debbie Doodoo had aborted Witt’s child without even telling him. He’d left her without a backward glance. Of course, that story had come from Ladybird. Witt’s version was something about Debbie telling him to sit when he took a leak. Max believed the sit command had come first, but the terrible thing Debbie did had been the unforgivable.

    Max shuddered thinking about it.

    Ladybird rolled her Witt-blue eyes. “Thank God. She even stopped him from coming to see me when they first got married.”

    “B-i-t-c-h,” Max muttered in commiseration.

    Ladybird giggled again. “I knew when they were close to getting a divorce without Witt even telling me. He started Sunday dinners again. And he came alone. It was only a matter of time after that. Nothing is coincidence, you know.”

    Ah, another Witticism.

    A half-hour ticked by, and the dance floor began to thin out, the Lawrence Welk dancers either leaving or favoring a drink and a respite. The music changed, moving from the forties and fifties into the seventies and eighties, though still of the Musak variety.

    A few more conventioneers, presumably from the nearby Moscone Center , trickled in to fill up the tables. One guy, in particular, caught her attention. Greek God came to mind at that first glance—though she couldn’t have said exactly what a Greek God looked like—late twenties, dark hair, longish, waves struggling against the length, a shadowed chin as if he’d forgotten to shave before coming to the bar. Wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers, Sutter would have said, though why Sutter Cahill should come to mind now was beyond Max, except that Sutter would have drooled over this guy.

    And so probably would Max’s quarry, the woman with inextricable ties to Lance La Russa’s death.

    Max sucked in a breath. “Oh my God, I forgot.”

    “What?” Ladybird took her arm in a bird-like grip.

    “I forgot to ask him about the bracelet and the key.”

    “You forgot to ask who about what bracelet and key?”

    “Witt. The man had a sapphire bracelet in his pocket. And a key to an apartment he’d furnished.”

    “You think Witt knows what happened to those things?”

    “He can at least ask someone.”

    “Why don’t you call him?”

    Max snorted. “Yeah, right. He’d want to know where I am and why I want to know.”

    “You mean you didn’t tell him we were coming here tonight?”

    Max drummed her fingers, still watching the door. “No.”

    Ladybird clapped her hands lightly. “Then this is our little stakeout.”

    “Yes. Witt wouldn’t like it if he knew.” Hint, hint, Ladybird.

    “Oh, I won’t tell. But let’s call him to find out about the bracelet and key.”

    Max tried to curb the little woman’s excitement. “Ladybird, I just said—”

    “I’ll call. Do you have your cell phone?” Ladybird Long held out her hand expectantly.

    Max hesitated.

    “Trust me, Max. I can help. Witt doesn’t even know I know how to lie.”

    She had a point there. And it was Witt’s cell phone anyway; he’d given it to Max. She dug in her purse for the thing and handed it over. “The number’s already in memory.”

    Ladybird punched a couple of buttons and held the gadget to her ear like a pro. That was odd, too. Little old ladies didn’t have the knack for cell phones. They were supposed to be gadget-illiterate. Except for Ladybird.

    Her eyes sparkled. Witt—or someone—answered immediately. “This is your mother.” Definitely Witt.

    “Yes, she’s here with me.”