The Man For Maggie. Frances Housden
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to be next?”
Max glowered at him and swallowed a curse as he heard the waitress set the coffee down on the counter behind him. The nerve of this guy! Hell, it was his embroidering of the facts that kept women awake at night. “Take it up with Henare.”
“Who’s the babe? Any connection with the case?”
Damn! Max didn’t want this jerk sniffing around Maggie. “Give me a break, mate, I do have a private life.” Maggie’d be sure to clam up if she caught on to Babcox’s line of work.
“Can’t say as I blame you. Wouldn’t mind a piece of that myself.”
Max stiffened and his hands fisted as he fought back the urge to plant them in Babcox’s filthy mouth. His nostrils flared with loathing as he sucked in a breath and held it.
With a nod of his head he drew Babcox’s attention to a poster advertising MacBeth. “If it’s more bloody murder you’re after, try backstage. You’ll learn more there than you’ll get out of me.”
“Yeah, real funny, Sergeant. But at least they know who did it.” The reporter put a couple of paces between himself and Max, then added, “Never let it be said I couldn’t take a hint. I’ll be seeing you, Strachan.”
“Not if I can help it. Listen good, Babcox, keep out of my face or I’ll get you banned from media releases.”
Max set Maggie’s coffee down in front of her. “Here you are. I hope it’s not cold. I got held up. Did you want something to eat with it? I didn’t think to ask if you were hungry.”
“No problem, coffee’s fine. Who was your friend?”
“Friend’s the wrong word for a lowlife you wouldn’t wanna be caught dead near,” answered Max, and realized his mistake as he saw Maggie’s expression tighten. He took the tub chair beside her, keeping his back to the window so he could see the whole room. He didn’t trust that guy one inch. “Anyway, he’s gone and the air’s fresher for it.”
“I suppose in your line of work you meet more people you dislike than not.”
“That just about sums it up.”
Maggie didn’t reply; instead she tore open three of the small packs of sugar and tipped them one after the other into her coffee. Caffeine was what she needed but a little sweetness wouldn’t go amiss.
“Maggie Kovacs! It is you.”
Suddenly Maggie found herself smothered in a soft, pillowy chest and a designer fragrance.
“I could hardly believe my eyes, it’s been so long.”
Once she’d been released and could breathe again, Maggie recognized Carla Dunsmuir. “Carla, how are—?”
“Oh, my dear! I’m so pleased to see that at last you’ve come out to play. And is this the man who’s rescued you? Your father would be so pleased.” Ever flamboyant, Carla gushed over both of them in warm, scented waves, eyes flashing and hands keeping time with her mouth.
The direction of Carla’s thoughts was all too obvious. She rushed on, not waiting for introductions. All Maggie could do was let her run her course. Nothing and no one ever stopped Carla once she’d hit her stride.
“I haven’t seen you since Frank’s funeral. So sad, so sad, but it’s thanks to him that I’m here today.” She smiled gently. “You know what they say about ill winds.”
“I do?” What was the woman talking about? Here because of Frank? Maggie needed help keeping up with her. She needed coffee.
Max stood with his hand on the chair next to him. “Care to join us?” he asked, hoping like hell the woman would say no, yet interested in spite of himself in what she had to say on the subject of Maggie’s father.
“No, thanks. I’m just passing through. That’s what I meant, Maggie. I needed something to do. I was lonely without Frank—you know what I mean. You must miss him more than me. Such a beautiful man.”
For a moment Carla’s face crumpled and Maggie braced herself, but thankfully she carried on with her explanation.
“So I ended up getting involved with the opera company and now I’m on the board. We’re doing a short season of Turandot,” she said, as if she personally would appear on-stage. “It starts tonight with a gala opening,” Carla chiruped, her hands fluttering and chest quivering in excitement. “So much to do, so little time.”
“I’m happy for you. Very happy.” Maggie felt positive Max must have realized by now that Carla had been her father’s lover.
“Such a tragedy.” Carla looked over at Max, sighing gustily. “I’m sure Maggie’s told you all about it.” Max nodded, but still she carried on. “So unexpected, too. I mean, these things always are, but it’s just that Frank was always so careful, checking everything before we took off. I often went with him, you know, but not that day. He refused to take me….” Carla trailed off, then looked at Maggie apologetically. “You mustn’t think he didn’t believe in you—I’m certain he did. It was just that being the sort of man he was, he wouldn’t let it rule his life.”
Max reached under the table and took the hand he knew Maggie had clenched in her lap. He undid her fingers and wrapped his own around them, rubbing the back of her hand against his thigh. Blasted woman! Why wouldn’t she leave? Would nothing go his way this morning?
“Anyway, Frank saved my life, but I never understood how it happened. I mean the plane was only six hours past its last fifty-hour check.” Carla looked at the jeweled watch circling her plump wrist. “Heavens, I must run!” She leaned forward and planted a kiss in the air near Maggie’s cheek. “Look after yourself, dear, and remember,” she said with a wink, “don’t let life grind you down!”
“Phew! I’m exhausted. How about you?” Max asked as he watched Carla’s departing figure disappear into the auditorium.
Maggie felt drained, which wasn’t unusual after a meeting with the woman. She shook her head. “It’s all right, I’m used to her.” She laughed out loud at a joke she’d thought long dead. “I never understood her and my father. I mean, their personalities were so different it was like combining candy floss with a lit match, yet I’m sure he loved her. In fact, I always thought he would marry her one day, but they never even got engaged.”
“They say opposites attract. Look at us.” Max dropped the statement into the conversation, reminding her their relationship wasn’t all-business. Truth be known, he’d rather it was pleasure that had brought them to this stage, where Maggie was easy with him holding her hand, and trusting enough to let him warm it against his thigh. He looked at the lush redness of her mouth and wondered how long he would have to wait to taste it again.
But anytime now he would have to get back to the folded paper, and the drawing burning a hole in his pocket.
“At least my father and Carla had some common ground, like opera, flying and wine.” There were questions in Maggie’s eyes, thousands of them floating around in the dark brown depths.
Max didn’t know the answers. He wished he did. All he could do was work his way through them and pray for a miracle. For one clue to jump up and hit him in the eye.
“I like wine, but as for the rest…” Max shrugged. “…I can’t tell Turandot from a tarot card. But tell me, what really did happen to your father?”
“I believe he was murdered!”
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