Life Sentences (29 page)

As suddenly as Celeste’s heart had plummeted earlier, it leapt at the sight of his comfortable looks. She parked and checked her face in the visor mirror before hopping out, surprised by the quick return of her uplifted spirit. “Get a grip,” she said, and then clasped her hand over her mouth in shock because she sounded just like Pilar.

Max placed a hand on Celeste’s elbow and guided her through the entrance. He apparently hadn’t totally given up on old-fashioned gentlemanly ways. When he helped Celeste remove her cashmere coat, she congratulated herself for leaving her politically incorrect furs with Marcus. It was one more positive step she had taken. It was a decision similar to the one Pilar made when she got rid of the Mercedes.

Once seated in the lounge before a newly kindled fire, Celeste eased into the cushions of the over-stuffed chair. “Thank you for coming, Max. I had to get away from all that media junk.” She handed him a stack of newspaper clippings. “Here’s the latest. At least the reporters’ phone calls ended once I moved and delisted my number. Leaving my condo is also easier without the throng of photographerschasing after me.”

“It had to be a horror show,” Max acknowledged. As he took the articles, he paused long enough for his touch to register. Celeste’s palm heated as though it was seared with a branding iron. Similar moments at the Thunder Bay Inn and the light house came to mind.

“I’ve been following all these from Marquette. The news is as big there because Pilar worked at the prison.” Max set the stack to the side. “But not this one.” He removed the top article from the pile. The headline jumped from the page:
DID PRISON ROMANCE LEAD WOMAN DOCTOR TO HER DEATH?

“How did this journalist get that information?” Max asked.

The waitress brought their martinis. She glanced at the headline and said, “Terrible what happened to that doctor. I hope the police have better luck in finding her killer than they did the guy who murdered Mr. Batchelor and his girlfriend up here years ago.”

Celeste covered her mouth to keep a gasp from slipping out. Then she checked her hurt feelings. The waitress couldn’t have known she was Pilar’s mother. When the waitress left, Celeste answered Max. “The story only refers to sources.”

Max threw the article back on top of the others and tasted his martini. “Who told this guy about Wilbanks? I haven’t let any reporters near him.”

“Chad can call the reporters collect, can’t he?” Celeste was amazed at how much she had learned about prison life.

“Yes. But we’ve been monitoring his calls and he’s not placed one to a reporter.” Max tapped his fingers against the table. He pursed his lips and became reflective.

The liquid of Celeste’s martini flowed like a hot line of lava through her body. She set the glass down and said, “A dollar for your thoughts.” An old Glenn Miller tune, “String of Pearls”, played in the background.

“Sorry. I was thinking about Chad’s phone calls. He may not be contacting the media, but his mother might. Then, again, there could be a leak in the system.”

Celeste placed a hand on his to stop the tapping and said, “And there has been news about the cross-country chase for Jane Carson and Tommy Johnson since his escape. I’d think it would be easy for a good reporter to dig up the real dirt.”

Celeste removed her hand from his. Max placed the freed hand in his lap and studied her for a few moments. “So, Celeste, why are you so anxious to see me, other than I’m such a fascinating and handsome man?” he asked, as his cheery smile relaxed her.

“What better reason than that?” she teased. The martini loosened Celeste’s inhibitions and she decided to tell her whole story to that kind man. “Well, Max, here it goes.”

An hour later, Celeste finished her tale about Marcus’ affair, his illegitimate son, how alienated from her father Pilar always felt, and how guilty Celeste herself felt because she did very little to stop Pilar’s murder. Max’s face reflected sadness more than sympathy.

The waitress saved him from a comment for the moment when she led them from the lounge into the dining area. In the candle light, Max appeared younger and less downcast. Did Celeste want to see him that way because she feared he didn’t want to remain a friend with a woman with such a mixed up past?

“Well? Do you have anything to say?” Celeste finally asked.

Max leaned back in his chair. “Your family saga sounds like something from that soap, “The Young and the Restless”.”

“That stings.” Celeste scrunched her face in pretend pain and then took a hefty drink of her second martini.

“I didn’t mean anything harmful, Celeste. It’s just a lot to handle all at once.” He gulped his drink. “But it doesn’t change anything between us.”

Celeste pursed her lips to one side and examined his face. Max seemed receptive. “You know, I took a chance letting you in on this sordid mess.”

Moving closer to Celeste, Max lifted her hand and kissed the fingers. She sizzled from her face to her toes. He lowered her hand but didn’t release it. “I know you did. The truth only makes us closer. Thank you for telling me before the story comes out in the tabloids.”

“What?” Her sudden movement caused a small portion of her drink to spill. “I don’t plan to tell anyone else. And I’m sure Marcus won’t ruin his reputation.”

“No, I agree. But then, there’s Maryann Wilbanks or Marcus’ mistresses.” He beckoned to the waitress.

“Why would they want to say anything?” Celeste had never considered there could be more than one mistress in Marcus’ life. She chose not to ask why Max said that.

“Money,” Max answered with certainty.

That comment upset Celeste, but then she knew Marcus. He’d buy off anyone to keep his reputation intact. Hopefully, he’d have that chance before a tabloid was willing to pay a mouthy person.

After they ordered dinner and wine, Max asked, “Why didn’t you have more children?”

“We tried, but something went haywire. I suffered a lot of problems and finally had a hysterectomy.”

“I’m so sorry, Celeste.” Max reached across the table and stroked her cheek.

“Me, too. Maybe things would have been different for Pilar and me if Marcus and I also had a son. We’ll never know.” Certain Marcus would have been different to her with or without a son, Celeste hadn’t ever dwelled on that issue until Pilar’s death.

Once their dinner was served, they ate rather than talked. Each needed time to process the evening, particularly the baring of Celeste’s soul, and Max’ unexpected andbold tenderness. Celeste ordered a dessert, something she rarely did. Yet she didn’t want the time with Max to end. While savoring a small bite of the lemon soufflé, she decided to pose the idea of putting Pilar’s story on “America’s Most Wanted”. What did she have to lose after she pulled all the skeletons from her closet and displayed them to Max?

Celeste set down her fork and pushed the plate to Max. He took a few bites as though it was something they’d done for years as a couple.

“Max?”

He swallowed, then answered, “Yes.”

“You know how concerned I am about nothing new happening in the pursuit of Jane and Tommy,” she said.

“Yes, I do, and I’m concerned, too.”

“Actually,” she said in a singsong voice, “I can’t sit still and not do everything possible.”

Max pushed the empty plate away and drank his coffee. He set the cup down. He was quiet for what seemed minutes. “I have a feeling you have something up your sleeve. Something a little out of the ordinary.”

Trying to offset the inevitable shock of her plan, Celeste smiled coquettishly. “I want to contact the TV show “America’s Most Wanted”. They always seem to have such good luck finding fugitives.”

Max’ mouth dropped open. He combed his fingers through his hair several times. His face crinkled into a hundred distressed lines which now, in the candle’s glow, became grotesque gray creases. He moved his lips from side to side.

That reaction didn’t appear positive. Losing her patience, Celeste asked, “Well, what do you think?”

“I don’t know. Those programs are more sensational than helpful. Those TV people are in it to make a buck from advertisers.” He wiped his lips with the napkin and placed it on the table. Max signaled to the waitress for their check.

Distressed by Max’s sudden need to leave, Celeste apologized. “I’m sorry you find our evening’s conversations difficult.”

Max paid the bill and walked to her chair. He pulled the chair out. When Celeste stood Max held both her hands. “Nothing is difficult with you. I’m just not sure about going forward with something that will reveal your whole life to millions of voyeurs. Besides,” he pointed out the window, “it’s beginning to snow. We better get back to the motel before the roads get too slick.”

Celeste was relieved Max was being more practical than scared off. Sometimes she did let her distrustful nature get in the way. But she had a lot of years to practice. She probably passed a little of her doubting disposition onto Pilar, except when it counted with Chad.

In the morning Celeste and Max parted on good terms. They made plans to get together in a few weeks. “Soon?” he asked, as though he suspected Celeste might renege.

“Of course. Need I remind you we are sleuths in partnership?”

Max kissed her on the cheek. “Soon, then,” he whispered. “Remember, I’m just a phone call away if you need to talk.”

Celeste wouldn’t confide to Max, at least for the time, that she had made her mind up to contact the TV producers after she passed the idea by Detective Patterson. She would need help from the police if she was going to pull that off.

As Celeste watched Max’s car enter the north bound entrance to I-75, she believed she was one of the luckiest people in the world to have found Max Whitefeather.

D
ETECTIVE
P
ATTERSON VISITED
C
ELESTE
two weeks after her rendezvous with Max. She had telephoned him about tracking Tommy and Jane by giving Pilar’s story to the TV show. He was as skeptical as Max. So when Patterson showed up at her door, Celeste was a little embarrassed about her pushy suggestion.

Once inside Patterson accepted a cup of coffee and sat at the breakfast bar as though he were a family member and not the police. “Nice stools,” he commented as he twirled around.

“Thank you.” Celeste marveled at Patterson’s self confidence. “ Pier One.”

He stopped twirling. The smile left his face. He leaned over the countertop and confided, “Now that we have more to go on, I’ve convinced my boss to contact that show.” Patterson drank some coffee as the low autumn sunlight sneaked through the windows and streaked across his face. Celeste noted he was dressed more casually today in atweed sports coat and a sky-blue turtle neck that matched his eyes. The detective reminded her of a young Paul Newman, although his lankiness and laid-back style was more Clint Eastwood.

“What do you mean that you have more to go on?” Celeste set a plate of freshly baked raisin scones in front of Patterson. She enjoyed her newly emerging domestic trait. “No one has told me about any new findings,” she said in a less than agreeable tone. “As the victim’s mother, I should be the first to know everything.”

Patterson put his cup down. “We just got the lead a couple of days ago and had to check it out.” He examined the scones and chose a medium-sized one. “I’m sorry if you feel we haven’t been honest with you.” His composure eased Celeste as it always did.

“Never mind. Just tell me the news.” Celeste smoothed her silk tunic over the matching slacks and sat on a stool next to him.

“It’s not pleasant.” He bit into the scone and wiped the crumbs from his lips before chewing.

If Celeste could have had more children, she would have wanted a son just like Patterson. And like a mother, she tisked at his delaying tactic, and then sighed in exasperation. “Are you married?” she asked.

Patterson crunched his forehead. “Yes. Why?”

“Do you have children?”

“Two daughters,” he answered softly and less authoritatively.

“Then you understand how desperate a parent can get when she loses a child. So, let’s not play this game. Tell me.”

“R
IGHT
.” P
ATTERSON LOWERED HIS
head for a moment. He appeared reflective as though formulating the best way to report his news. “Do you remember when the Colorado police found a body of a hiker and suspected Johnson was the killer?” Detective Patterson paused before he explained further. “We know Johnson has spent a great deal of time in the wilderness practicing survival techniques.”

“What does this have to do with the hiker?” Celeste’s stomach turned over when she thought about another dead person.

“Sightings of a man and woman that resemble Jane and Tommy have been reported in that area of Colorado.” Patterson stopped until he heard Celeste’s loud, fretful gasp. He went on, but with caution. “One such report led police to search a hotel in Bluff, Utah. The hotel clerk found a backpack the police identified as belonging to the victim. The police also found Johnson’s fingerprints on the contents. He seems to be getting careless.”

“Is that it?” Celeste had hoped he would tell her they knew exactly where Johnson was.

“No.” Detective Patterson finished the scone. He glanced at the plate still filled with treats, but drank the remainder of his coffee instead. “Johnson and Carson have been seen in the Southfield area.”

“Oh, my God.” Celeste drifted into the living room and collapsed into a chair. How would she handle the end of that horrid affair. “Who saw them? Have they been arrested?”

Patterson’s sad face said everything. “No. They got away. For now.”

Celeste bounded from the chair and walked toward him. “They got away?” she screamed as she picked up a dish rag and cleaned the countertop in a manic flurry. She brushed crumbs into her hand and tossed them into the sink. She returned to the counter and scrubbed the surface, over and over, as though there was a stain that wouldn’t come out.

Patterson stopped her hand in mid-wipe. He held it until she looked at him. “One of the police officers,” he began, “assigned to the murder investigation spotted them at a Southfield Mall. The officer was there for another reason.”