Her Montana Millionaire. Crystal Green
here he was, wearing a tie as a hangman’s noose.
“I thought…” he began.
“Don’t think,” she said as he helped her wrap the cape around herself. “Live.”
Live. He hadn’t really been doing that for years. Had he?
Maybe he could enjoy a lovely woman’s company, just for tonight. It’s not like Michael had to know.
He donned his own coat, then followed her out the door, hardly believing he was doing it.
Ha-ha, yes! Jinni Fairchild hadn’t lost her appeal. That’s right. She had Max Cantrell wrapped around her ring finger, and the night was young.
They hadn’t walked far in the cool air, only to a grass field where Max had laid down his coat, inviting her to sit on it. After they chatted about the spell of unseasonable weather and made calls home on his cell phone— Jinni wanted Val to know she’d be out late—he’d sat next to her, arms resting on his knees as he stared at the sky, stars spangling the clear blue like lost fairy dust.
“It’s good to finally see things clearly,” he said. “We had a raging wildfire before you came to town, and the smoke hindered visibility.”
“What do you know. Usually things heat up after I enter a place.”
She shouldn’t have said that. Dumb, stupid Jinni. Two people had died, as far as she knew. Wanda Cantrell and Morris Templeton.
She quickly added, “Is everyone safe?”
“Dee Dee Reingard’s and Old Man Jackson’s homes burned down. And no one knows where Jackson is. He’s gone missing, just like Guy.”
“What about the two bodies that were found?”
Max glanced at her, the slight wind mussing his hair. “My sister-in-law and her boy toy? The cops suspect my younger brother torched them, I think. But Guy hasn’t been around to deny his involvement with the fire. And then there’re those invisibility rumors started by Linda Fioretti, Guy’s fellow teacher. Everyone in town is buzzing about how they think my fool of a brother’s peeping in their windows or stealing socks from their dryers. But you know that much already, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Jinni wasn’t used to men who’d call her out, keep her honest. As a biographer, she tended to ask a lot of leading questions. Maybe Max would be more of a challenge than she’d first thought. “Does the sheriff think Guy murdered Wanda and Morris out of jealous rage?”
“That’s their story.” His jaw muscles twitched, his long fingers dug into his arms. “They don’t realize that Guy hasn’t a violent bone in his body. Sure, he’s scatterbrained and intense when it comes to anything scientific. We were both like that, even as kids. But Guy—” He clamped shut his mouth.
The Montana night enveloped them: pine needles scented the aimless drift of air, bringing with it the faint twang of country music from Joe’s Bar.
Jinni touched his shoulder, allowed her hand to brush down his biceps. There were some muscles under that shirt.
Whoo. She loved good arms.
“No wonder you were fishing for the worm tonight,” she said.
He shot her that miffed glance again.
“Drinking tequila, Max. It’s a colorful way of referring to that worm at the bottom of the bottle?”
“I don’t drink that much.”
“Really? You seem to handle liquor well.” She laughed. “What am I saying? You’re a big guy. I’m sure it takes a lot to affect you.”
“I walked into the bar affected,” he said, shaking his head. “And here I am, laying all this frustration on you. I should’ve just kept my trap shut about Michael, my business, Guy….”
There it was again, that slight trailing off at the end of his brother’s name, just like a mysterious parchment note where someone has written a horrifying phrase: “Something is outside my door, something is coming for me…” and the ink trails off into a tragic, last-breath squiggle down the page.
Having a brother suspected of murder must’ve been equally horrifying. Jinni could sympathize with Max; she knew firsthand what it was like to worry about a sibling.
He hadn’t shrugged off her hand on his arm—not yet—so she began to stroke back and forth with her index finger, feeling a line of sinew beneath the weave of his shirt.
He gave a short, seemingly bitter laugh. “I’m a terrible brother. I must be, because there’re times when I can’t help thinking that Guy might’ve done it.”
Jinni felt her eyes widen. Lord help her, but the biographer, the researcher, the curious monster within was screaming, “What a story! This is your next subject!”
She ignored the ambition, the excitement of catching on to an exclusive opportunity like Max Cantrell—a multimillionaire recluse who didn’t talk to the press.
Still, she couldn’t help asking, “What makes you think your brother could murder his wife and Morris Templeton?”
“Nothing. Just a doubt, a what-if.” He glanced at her. “Told you. I’m a terrible human being.”
Here he was, suffering a major philosophical dilemma while she sat next to him in a Dior ensemble. The juxtaposition couldn’t have been more ironic if she’d been the main character in a Kafka story.
She was as useless to Max as she was to Val, having no idea how to handle a situation more pressing than choosing between two soirees on the same night. But that’s what happened when you distanced yourself from emotion and concentrated on things that didn’t matter so much.
Life hurt much less that way.
Yet somehow Max Cantrell was forcing her to face the music. Face the child who’d been so afraid of her mother’s disappointment that she’d followed in her shallow footsteps.
“You’re not terrible,” was all she could think to say. “You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t have doubts.”
“Yeah, I suppose so. But I seem to have more than my share of trust issues. My brother, my son…”
Trailing off again. Jinni wondered whom he was cutting from the list. That ex-wife?
He lay back on the grass, arms tucked under his head as he closed his eyes. As he reclined, she trailed her fingers down his chest, letting them rest there, feeling his heart beat through her own skin. She watched him for a second, hoping he’d switch from Melancholy Max to a gear more befitting a lover’s sky.
She waited. Nothing happened.
“Welcome to my midlife crisis,” he said. “Can’t say I know how to handle one, either, but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to dump all my problems on my nemesis from the MonMart parking lot.”
“Hey,” said Jinni, finally taking her hand away and lying down next to him, using his coat as a blanket, “I’m all ears.”
And all worked up, truth to tell.
She listened to him breathe, his chest rising and falling, making her want to rest her head on him, seeing the world float up and down.
He turned his head in her direction. “You won’t know about hitting that midlife brick wall for a while.”
“You flatter me so.”
“You’re…?”
“Yes, forty. And not afraid to admit it.”
She hated her age. It made her want to sit on a park bench, pretending to feed the pigeons like a nice old maid should, and trip all the premenopausal women as they walked by.
“That’s right,” she continued. “Forty’s just a number.”
“You