No matter how many times I tell her I don’t want to live alone again, Aunt Weeby digs in her heels. “I won’t hear another word, Andrea Autumn Adams. And I even talked to your daddy and mama about this. We all agree. You need your own place.”
“When I lived in New York,” I say, “I realized I didn’t like living alone. Even a cat didn’t cut it. I came back to my family home. That’s what I really like.”
She puts on that look of hers. Come to think of it, it looks a whole lot like the one on the mule I rode in the Himalayas. I’m afraid nothing I say or do is going to change her mind. As usual.
Should I start looking for that sinking ship?
“Well, sugarplum,” she says. “If you like family living so much, then it’s fine time you quit being chicken and find yourself the man what’ll give you that there family you say you want. And I know you won’t be bothering yourself to do that while you’re bunking down with me. Besides, I like to have my . . . umm . . .” She brings her brows together, thinks. “That’s it! I like my
space
.”
I start the car, but before I put it in drive, her cell phone rings. “Good morning. Olivia Adams Miller here.”
A woman’s voice crackles over the connection, but I can’t make out the words. Trust me. I try.
“Oh no!” Aunt Weeby says. “You don’t say.”
More crackle. Then, “That’s awful, Mona. Did you call Donald yet? A’ course, we’ll be right there. We’re in the car already, Andie’s got the engine cranking, and it won’t take us but a shake of a puppy dog’s tail to get there.”
She closes her phone and holds it between both her hands, eyes shut as tight as the phone while she prays.
Curiosity nails me again. When she opens her eyes, I burst out, “Well? Aren’t you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“Aunt Weeby! Miss Mona just called. You said something was awful, that she should call the chief, and that we’d be right there. Start at the beginning and go right through to where I’m supposed to drive us.”
“I’m sorry, dear. It’s just so strange . . .”
Turns out, there’s been trouble at the S.T.U.D. Someone broke in, tossed the place, and the security company is there. Miss Mona and the rest of the S.T.U.D.’s employees are going through their offices or dressing rooms and desks to see what, if anything, was taken. I need to do the same.
A fire and a break-in.
Coincidence? Yeah, right.
While I don’t normally have what you might call a lead foot, I’m afraid I would’ve wound up with a speeding ticket had a PD cruiser been anywhere in my vicinity. I made it to the studio in what felt like seconds.
My footsteps echo down the deserted halls. After a quick check, I’m pretty sure nothing’s missing from my dressing room, but the same can’t be said about Glory’s cubbyhole. Every scrap of film she shot in Kashmir is gone.
“Why?” she asks.
No one can—or will—say. We don’t know. For sure.
Yet.
Then there’s the really weird one. Allison comes marching down the hall, two red spots on her fair cheekbones, anger in her blue eyes. “My makeup bag’s gone! Who’d want to steal that? Even with all the jams, jellies, and potions I keep in there, it’s not worth much.”
“Trust me,” I tell her. “Whoever took your bag didn’t want the war paint.”
She seems fascinated by something just over my brow line. “Uh . . . Andie? Have you looked in a mirror yet? You really have to do something about that . . . hair.”
Ouch!
I’d done everything possible
not
to look in the mirror after my shower. “It must be bad, if you noticed it after all”—I wave—“this.”
“It’s bad.”
I clutch my head, pat around, and realize I have fewer clumps than I did this morning when I got up. “It didn’t look too bad after my shower.”
Allison turns me around. “It’s really bad in the back. It must have been plastered to your head while it was still wet.” She bends over to pick something up off the floor. “Look.”
A Brillo-pad look-alike sits in the palm of her hand, the color somewhere between aged copper and scorched mac’n’cheese. I’ve scorched a batch or two in my day, so I know.
Swallow me earth!
“Oh. My. Goodness. I gotta get to a salon. How much longer are we going to have to stay here?”
Chief Clark—you knew I’d have to face him again here, didn’t you?—steps out of the call-in center down the hall. “You can go get yourself fixed, Miss Andie. You need all the help you can get.”
I look from side to side, waiting for Max’s snort of laughter, but he’s nowhere to be found. And even though I’d rather not, I have to ask. “Anybody seen Max?”
“He was here when we opened up this morning,” Miss Mona says. “I’ll have Ruth Marie page him. Hang on a second.”
Even though he’s said I could leave, I hang around to listen to everybody give the chief a rundown of where they were overnight. Nothing sounds too interesting, since everyone says they were in bed. But that’s what you’d expect, right?
Still, can you imagine Allison ripping off her own makeup bag, then tearing the place apart?
Neither can I.
By the time everyone’s done, Mr. Magnificent is still conspicuously absent. “No Max yet,” I point out.
The chief glances down the hall both ways and then pulls out his cell. “I’ll be needing to check his dressing room, then. But let me ask one of my officers out there by them studio gates. He’ll know if Mr. Matthews went off somewhere.”
From Chief Clark’s end of the conversation, I figure out it’s a no. No one’s seen my cohost. And I’m beginning to worry. Could he be the one who trashed this place? Is he the one who stole the Kashmir film? Allison’s bag? My backpack?
Do I go back as far as the dead Kashmiri men?
He’s conveniently been everywhere that matters.
I’m glad I’m not a cat—curiosity’s got a chokehold on me. And worry too. I don’t like to think I might’ve fallen for a creep. While the chief thanks his officer, I start walking. “I’ll check his dressing room.”
Before the chief can stop me, I’m down the hall. Max’s door is open, and I walk right in, then stop. Oh yeah. He’s there, all right. I scream and scream and scream.
Sprawled on the floor, Max lays flat on his back, his forehead split open by a two-inch gash. Blood muddies his blond hair, and his blue eyes are closed.
My stomach turns. My temples pound. My eyes well up. “He can’t be dead,” I yell at God. “He can’t be. You can’t do this—”
“You’re giving me a headache, Andi-ana Jones,” Max mumbles. “Why’re you screaming?”
“Because you’re dead—Whoa! You’re not dead.” I fly to his side. “What happened? How’d you split your head?”
He blinks. “I split my head? You mean, it’s not your screaming that’s making it hurt like nobody’s business?” When he goes to sit, he moans and falls back again.
“Don’t do that!” I hold him down. “Somebody call an ambulance!”
Allison runs in and to my side. “They’re on their way. I dialed when I heard your first scream. I know I screamed like that when I found the houseboy in my room.”
“God’s been good this time,” I say. “Max is going to be fine.”
“There you go, folks. Dr. Instant-Diagnosis-Adams has it all figured out.” He winces, but goes on. “Like you said, I’m still among the living. How about you let me speak for myself?”
The chief joins us. “So why don’t you speak awhile, son? Tell me what happened.”
Max rubs his forehead, his fingers gentle over the wide cut, then grimaces. “I’m not sure. I came to check my dressing room, and while I was going through my desk, someone walked in. I turned, but before I could see who it was, I went down, man. All I know is, it hurts.”
Chief Clark takes notes. “You don’t remember anything else after that?”
“How could he?” I ask. “He was still out when I walked in. Why don’t you quit badgering him?”
An ambulance gurney follows a sharp rap at the door. While a pair of EMTs secure Max for his trip to the hospital, the rest of us stand back to give the professionals room to work.
On their way out, one of the medics gestures for the chief.
Okay. So it isn’t the smoothest move on my part, but I have to know what’s going on. I slink over, inch by silent inch, and perk up my ears.
“His pockets are ripped almost all the way out,” the middle-aged woman says. “There’s nothing in them.”
“Aw, no!” Max moans. “They took my wallet?”
The chief gives the torn-apart room another good look. “I don’t see a wallet anywhere in this mess, but I suppose it could be buried. Not likely, you understand. And Debra’s right about them pants of yours. The pockets are shot.”
I’m ready to go out on a pretty big, sturdy limb here. I’m willing to bet whoever’s been attacking us is after a sapphire or two. From Kashmir.
No joke.
But am I ready to take prisoners out on my limb? Am I ready to embarrass myself? I’m sure I’m on the right track. Too much has happened, and it all points to those new mine sites and the smuggling that’s been rumored about for years.
It’s a long way from what I know to what I’m willing to share. For once, I don’t blurt out my every thought. I follow the gurney down the hall, a prayer of thanksgiving in my heart. I may have my suspicions about Max, but I also have other feelings for him. I don’t wish him any harm. I’m glad he’s going to be fine. The sight of him makes my stupid heart go pitter-patter. And that response only grows as time goes by.
When I get to the front door, Miss Mona comes up from behind and puts an arm around my waist. “You’re worried about him, aren’t you?”
“Depends on what you mean by worried.”
She looks confused—just a tad. “Worry is worry, Andie, dear. Max’s injury looks bad, but I’m sure they’ll stitch him up good. I’m more concerned about a concussion than that gash.”
And I’m more worried about a snake in the grass . . . one that’s wriggled his way into my heart.
My worry—and feelings for Max—is not something I’m ready to share with our boss, either. “A concussion’s no fun.”
Miss Mona makes me face her. She stares long enough that I’m sure she can see my feelings for Max. I blush. But I have nothing to say, not around the lump in my throat.
“Neither’s that dreadful hair, dear.” She pats my cheek. “You really have to do something about it.”
“I had other things on my mind today.”
“I understand.” She reaches into her pocket. “Here’s the studio card. Please go treat yourself. Get your hair done, buy yourself an outfit or two, shoes, a purse, some nice lotion, and makeup. You’ve had more than enough stress in the last few weeks than any ten women should have. And I don’t want you going on-screen looking like that.”
I’m tempted, really tempted. “But I drove Aunt Weeby—”
“Don’t worry about her. Davina will drive us home.”
Had this offer of the seemingly bottomless credit card come about a year ago, Miss Mona wouldn’t have had to tell me twice. But too many things have happened since I came home. I’ve changed. My focus has broadened, and fashion and my looks don’t take such a big chunk of my attention. The realization stuns me. Wow!
“I suppose . . . if I’m going to work anytime soon, I do have to do something about my head.”
“Didn’t I just say that, child?” my boss asks. “Now don’t waste another minute. Go take care of yourself.”
I give her a quick hug and kiss, and then head outside. The sun’s high in the sky, blazing hot, like any good Kentucky summer day. My sleek silver Honda Accord sparkles like a gleaming silver pendant.
“Like my new wheels?” I ask the off-duty police officer Miss Mona’s hired to do security, as he checks out my car.
He shrugs. “Nice car. But I’m checking them all. The chief asked me to make sure nothing was taken from any of them. I noticed your door wasn’t closed all the way.” He reaches out. “See?”
“Strange. I know I slammed it shut”—I was pretty mad about the break-ins, both at the studio and Aunt Weeby’s house—“and clicked the key chain lock. Maybe there’s something wrong with this gizmo.” I press the button.
BOOM!
Pieces of silver and tongues of fire fill the sky.
The earth shakes.
I stumble, scream.
Everything goes black.
White. Everything is blinding white. A strange buzz shimmies through my head. As if from a great distance, I hear muffled voices.
“She’s waking up.”
“Let’s pray.”
I blink, but all I see is more of the same white.
“Andie! Can you hear me?”
“Ye—” The gurgle dies in my sore throat. It hurts too much to try and push it out, so I shake my head.
Moan.
Bad, bad idea. I know exactly how Max felt— “Max!” The word scratches out of my dry lips. “Is he okay?”
“Isn’t that sweet, Mona?” Aunt Weeby says. “She’s asking about Max. I told you and told you there’s more than snarling going on. Why, I’d bet you we’ll be hearing wedding bells soon.”
Someone chokes.
In spite of the pain, and while exiled to this weird, white never-never land I’m in, I know when trouble strikes. Aunt Weeby’s nothing if not trouble. And then some.
“No,” I whisper. “No bells. Alarms don’t chime.”
“Aw, look.” Miss Mona’s voice rings with sympathy. “Poor thing’s still knocked silly. She’s not making any sense.”
“What’s so strange about that?” Max says. “Andie never makes sense.”
My eyes pop open wide. “Max! You’re s’posed to be hurt.” Even though my ears are ringing, and even though my head’s pounding, and, yes, even though my throat and lips sting like bad sunburns, I fight for a toehold on consciousness. My struggle brings results, and I prop myself on my elbows.
“Hi,” I say. “Why’s everyone here?”
Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona rush my bed—yes, I’m in bed, and all the whiteness comes from staring straight at the ceiling above. I’m not so loopy I can’t figure out I’m in the hospital.
“Don’t fight so hard,” Miss Mona says. “The doctors say you’re going to be fine, but the explosion didn’t do you any favors.”
“Oh no!” I groan. “Did I lose the rest of my hair?”
“Yes, ladies and gentlemen,” Max says. “She’s going to be fine.”
“My new car’s gone, isn’t it?”
“’Fraid so, Miss Andie,” Chief Clark says from the foot of the bed. “It looks like my men found them an explosive rigged to go off when you used that there electronic lock.”