Night of the Living Deb Read online

  heartily disapproved.

  Since Brian wasn’t picking up his phone, preventing me from letting off steam, I felt all bottled up and tense.

  I had an ache in my chest, drumming at my temples, and my skin was crawling like I was getting a virus but it wasn’t full-blown yet.

  Wherefore art thou, Malone? I thought, not happy in the least that he was hiding out from the world. Sheesh, hiding out from me.

  Just to make myself feel better, I started going through all the horrible, dreadful explanations of why Malone couldn’t pick up the phone on his end. I devised a simple multiple choice test, like so:

  (a) A thief had broken into his apartment, tied him up and gagged him.

  (b) He was lying unconscious in a ditch.

  (c) He was dead.

  (d) He’d drunkenly gone home with a stripper, only to wake up with her panties wrapped around his

  head, and he was too embarrassed to talk to me.

  I shuddered at the last one, figuring it had better be one of the other three or I would personally put Malone in a coma and/or kill him with my bare hands, and no jury in the State of Texas with even one sympathetic woman seated on it would ever convict me.

  Lucky for me, I knew that murder wouldn’t be necessary.

  My boyfriend was no slime ball.

  Brian Malone was a good guy, reared by parents who were still alive and happily married and who lived in St. Louis, smack-dab in the honest-to-God Heartland.

  (Though that was pretty much all I knew about them.) He had an undergrad degree from Washington University and a J.D. from Harvard, and did pro bono legal work for Operation Kindness, a humane animal rescue organization and one of my pet nonprofits (no pun intended).

  All right, so he was the second worst kind of lawyer—a defense attorney—not far behind the bottom-feeding ambulance chasers, but he was hardly shady or sleazy.

  He was honest to a fault.

  I’d never seen him be less than straightforward.

  So for now I’d go with gagged, unconscious, or dead.

  Never panties on the head.

  No way.

  That settled, I arrived at my place within about twenty minutes, my stomach filled to the brim with banana-topped pancakes, and I changed into an old pair of jeans and T-shirt. If Malone wasn’t around to otherwise occupy my time, I would do something else I loved, because I had to stop dwelling on things that made me go “Ick.”

  Like my mother and Stephen flying off to Vegas together next weekend.

  Something I still wasn’t feeling any too open-minded about.

  I put on some music, a set of Best of Mozart CDs rather than my usual playlist of anything Def Leppard, and I sat at my easel, dabbing a plastic palette with generous blobs from my assorted tubes of acrylic.

  As the warm midday light filtered in, I let my mind drift to somewhere else completely. Then I picked up a clean brush and began to have at it.

  For some reason, I saw bold streaks of black, grays, and reds in my mind’s eye, a veritable vortex of them, and I used heavy brushstrokes, sweeping and swirling, something fierce and tangible directing each motion.

  I got so immersed in the act of creating that I lost track of time, only vaguely noticing the change of light, the warming of the tiny living room as the sun rose, shifting as the hours of afternoon slipped past.

  The phone shrieked, and I came off the stool with a start, nearly sending a wide stroke of bloodred sailing across waves of gray.

  Geez, Louise.

  My heart pounded as I set down brush and palette, rubbed my hands on my jeans, and raced to grab up the handset.

  The clock on the mantel showed three-thirty.

  A good three hours since I’d left the Mansion.

  “Brian?” I said instinctively, thinking it was about time.

  “What, you can’t find him either?” a self-satisfied voice remarked on the other end. “Because I’ve been trying all day and getting nada.”

  Crap.

  It was my dear pal Allie.

  Brunch with Mother and then this.

  Had I broken a mirror recently? Was I doomed to seven years of bad juju?

  Fitting that Mozart’s “Requiem” played at precisely that moment. Funeral music seemed the appropriate ambiance for a conversation with Allie the Impaler.

  “Did you want something?” I asked her, perching on the arm of my sofa, a gentle pounding taking shape behind my eyes. I wondered if a preventive Excedrin was in order.

  “Well, if Brian’s not there, then where is he?” she demanded.

  “Don’t tell me you lost him already, Kendricks.

  It took me six months to drive him off and y’all have only been dating for, what, three?”

  “Four,” I snipped.

  “Whatever.”

  If there was a way to send an electric shock through the phone line, I would’ve done it just to hear the woman scream.

  “He’s not lost, Allie. He’s a grown man with free will, you know. I’m not his mother or his keeper.” Well, I wasn’t. I rubbed my forehead. “He’s probably at his place, recovering from his trip to Stripper Land with Matty.”

  “Nope, not so,” Allie insisted. “I dropped by his apartment a few minutes ago, and I didn’t see his Acura in the lot. His Sunday New York Times was still on the mat, so I knocked till my knuckles bled. The woman next door even poked her head out, said I could stop the racket because he wasn’t there. Not that I didn’t want to take her word for it, but I let myself in and poked around, and she was right.”

  The pancakes turned in my belly.

  “You have a key?” I asked—more like gasped—not sure whether I was more upset about that or the fact that Brian wasn’t home.

  Allie laughed, and not in a good way. “My God, Kendricks, he keeps a spare over the door frame in that little spot where he peeled out a hunk of wood putty.”

  “Oh, yeah, that key,” I said, though I had no idea what she was talking about. Malone had never informed me about the hidey-hole to which Allie was obviously privy.

  “His bed wasn’t slept in, so I don’t think he ever went back to his place,” she continued in her self-assured manner.

  “So you don’t know where he is? He’s got some papers from the file of a big-time case we’re working on, and I want to get cracking, even if he’s slacking off. Only I couldn’t find the documents or his briefcase. You think he has it all with him?”

  “Shackled to his wrist, no doubt,” I said, because Malone didn’t go anywhere without his attaché. Well, except the shower and bed. “Maybe he’s at Matty’s,” I suggested, only to be shot down again.

  “Nope, not there either. I checked in with Eleanor this morning, and she said Matty had to take a cab home from The Men’s Club. Brian apparently left him there, high and dry. Well, high, anyway.”

  “That’s not possible,” I said, because it couldn’t be.

  Brian wouldn’t have taken Matty out on the town only to leave him stranded at the strip joint. That wasn’t his style.

  “Hey, Kendricks, I’m just telling you what Eleanor said. I figured Brian was with you, since I can’t track him down anywhere. But you’re obviously clueless, too. I’ll drop by the office later and see if he’s there. We’ve got so much work to do on the Oleksiy case, and Abramawitz has been breathing down our necks about every little detail, since he trusted us to be part of the defense team in such a

  high-profile trial.”

  Did ARGH handle any other cases than high-profile? I nearly commented. I figured media attractiveness was one of the requirements for taking on a client. That and the client’s ability to plunk down a huge honking retainer check.

  Allie continued to rattle on: “There were a couple new prosecution witnesses we’re supposed to vet, though Brian supposedly got a head start on Friday. We were going to meet today, so he could fill me in.” She made a noise of impatience. “Would you ask him to call me if y
ou hear from him first?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I murmured.

  But I’d stopped listening to her.

  Pretty soon she got the picture, said, “Good-bye,” and hung up.

  I barely noticed she wasn’t on the other end.

  My brain got stuck a ways back on some things she’d said, namely that Malone had left Matty stranded at The Men’s Club. His car wasn’t at his apartment, his Sunday Times still lay on his mat, and his bed had not been slept in. He wasn’t answering his cell or his landline. And, according

  to Allie, he wasn’t at Matty’s.

  Where the heck was he?

  If he’d had to take off for parts unknown, at a moment’s notice (which had about a snowball’s chance in hell of happening, as he was disinclined toward spontaneity and more inclined toward overplanning), then why hadn’t he touched base with anyone?

  With me, in particular?

  I pushed the Reset button on the handset and returned it to its cradle. That flulike sense of unease washed through me again. This time I didn’t brush it off.

  Sinking down on the sofa, I rubbed paint-smeared hands on paint-smeared jeans, going over the whole situation—if it was a situation—and trying not to get crazy until I had a good reason to be.

  Something was funky.

  Brian wasn’t the kind of person who took off without a word to anyone. He was the kind who’d do the opposite, call ahead, make a reservation, plot an “impromptu” trip to death, not the reverse. He didn’t do the unexpected, didn’t let people down or leave them guessing.

  So maybe Malone was in trouble. That’s the only answer that made sense.

  I just didn’t know what sort of trouble he might be in.

  Damn, why didn’t he call me, like a good boyfriend?

  I picked up the phone again and punched in Brian’s numbers for the third time that day. Six rings on the landline, then I got his voice mail. I left yet another message.

  Then I dialed his cell, which instantly clicked to his mailbox.

  “For Pete’s sake, where are you?” I said, unable to hide rising panic in my voice. “Please, please, call as soon as you get this. Apparently, Allie’s been looking for you, and now I’m worried, too.”

  I’d give him a few hours to call back. If he didn’t, I’d find Matty in the phone book and give him a buzz so we could have ourselves a little chat. The dude was obviously confused. He’d probably had way too much to drink last night, and maybe Malone had gone over his limit and ended up taking a taxi instead of driving under the influence.

  Perhaps he’d assumed Matty had called himself a cab as well.

  That would explain Brian’s car being absent from his parking lot.

  It wouldn’t explain why he was avoiding me, if that’s what he was doing. And I was beginning to wonder if that’s what it was.

  I put the image of him awakening in the bed of a stripper with her panties around his head out of my mind.

  Maybe he just needed some time to himself. Could be that his friend’s impending marriage had struck a chord in him, made him introspective about losing so many single pals to holy matrimony the past few years. But if he needed space, he could’ve told me. It might’ve stung a bit, but I would’ve let him have it.

  I’d never known Brian to act cowardly, even though I realized he didn’t like confrontations in his personal life, as opposed to the courtroom. Still, he should be able to talk to me.

  I was his one and only, wasn’t I?

  I mean, it wasn’t like we’d had any real conversation about our status, the whole “being exclusive” deal. We just were. I knew he wasn’t seeing anyone else. When would he have the time between hanging out at my condo and working on that Oleksiy case, or whatever Allie had called it?

  Working on that case with Allie, I repeated silently and found myself tensing.

  How many guys had to deal with a former lover every day on the job? Except Hugh Hefner, but his, er, office took “sleeping with the boss” to an extreme.

  I wonder how Brian put up with it, being stuck on a legal team with a woman he’d broken up with, who was everything I wasn’t: a few inches taller, several sizes smaller, naturally blond (so she claimed), not a zit or freckle in sight, able to wear four-inch heels without toppling over, and self-assured to the point of arrogance.

  Okay, so maybe I could see why Brian had been attracted to her, but she seemed awfully high maintenance to me, so demanding and pushy.

  It’s a wonder she and Malone had lasted six months before he’d thrown in the towel (he said it was mutual, but Allie had implied she’d driven him away, which was entirely plausible, from my viewpoint anyway).

  I might’ve thought, Ah, must’ve been the sex, but I didn’t want to go there, even briefly. That was like imagining my mother and Stephen Howard . . . gaaah.

  Squishing my eyes closed, I shook that thought from my head, like a dog shakes off water.

  Yuck.

  Back to Allie and Malone. I didn’t know much—and didn’t care to ask—beyond the fact that they’d started seeing each other soon after he’d moved here, two fledgling attorneys who’d bonded over late nights, long hours, and lack of sleep.

  I figured I’d chalk it up to bad judgment and loneliness.

  Knowing Allie as I did—which translated to “not at all”—

  I’d venture to guess that she’d instigated their romantic relationship.

  Brian had such a shy streak, so it was hard to imagine him pursuing the Blond Bitch from Hell. Odd to

  consider the same man who’d been attracted to that harridan now kept company with me.

  Was I more his type? Or was she?

  Enough already.

  I could work myself into a tizzy, worrying about where Brian was and dwelling on his old affair with Allie.

  But it was a lovely, lazy Sunday, and I didn’t want to waste it.

  So I closed my eyes, visualized calm as the sweet sounds of “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” swelled joyfully in my ears. I pushed all the tension aside, stretching my arms overhead to loosen my shoulders. With a sigh, I went back to my easel, feeling lighter than just a few moments before.

  For a long, long while, I simply sat and scrutinized the canvas, getting an emotional read on what I’d done so far and where I was going with it. Finally, feeling focused, I used a small rag to wipe my brush, took a deep breath, picked up where I’d left off, and let the rest of the world disappear again.

  Soon I was deeply in the zone, working in an altered state, apart from the here and now, from the ticking clock, from anything real.

  I just painted.

  Minutes spun into hours, though I wasn’t cognizant of how much time had passed, not until the phone rang again, the high-pitched twitter erupting from across the living room, snapping my peace clean in two, like a bad omen.

  Chapter 5

  Tweeeeet!

  The obnoxious noise made minced meat of my concentration, and I winced as it pulled me

  out of my trance, as I’d been deep into adding texture to streaks of silver paint by dabbing the thick bands of color with crinkled foil. I briefly considered ignoring the call until I realized it could be Brian.

  So I dropped what I was doing, raced across the room and breathlessly answered, “Malone?” as I picked it up.

  “Lord Almighty, Kendricks, you mean you still don’t know where he is?”

  Well, shit on a stick.

  It was Allie again.

  I glanced at the clock, surprised at how late it was; but I’d been so absorbed in my painting I hadn’t noticed the light weakening beyond the slanted window blinds.

  It was already a quarter past six.

  “Has he made like ET and phoned home yet?” she demanded, then rushed on before I could get a word in.

  “ ’Cause hell if I can find him. Went to the office, and he was nowhere in sight, and he hadn’t been in unless he snuck past the front desk. I asked Secur
ity to check the names logged in since midnight, and Bri’s not on there anywhere. I’ve paged him, like, three times, and he hasn’t answered one. Even called a few of the guys from the firm that he pals around with, though they haven’t seen him since Friday. So what’s the deal, Andy? Has he gone AWOL, or is he just being a prick?”

  I bristled. Malone was never that. Not to me or anyone else, unless he had a split personality that I’d never glimpsed.

  If she hadn’t gotten me worrying all over again with her comments about Malone not being at the office and not returning the papers to the file, I would’ve hung up on her, then and there.

  The witch.

  “Listen, Allie, if you couldn’t find him at his apartment or ARGH, and he isn’t with his friends, then something’s odd and you know it. Brian doesn’t blow people off, or pull a diva and disappear”—which I’m sure Ms. Seven Jeans had done a time or two herself—“so he’s either with another friend and his cell’s not working or something’s happened to him, and we need to find out which it is.”

  She sounded only vaguely less snarky as she answered, “You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s not like him. He’s Mr. Dependable.

  Captain Clockwork. Sir Stick in the Mud. If he’s not dodging the both of us then he’s probably lying in

  a ditch somewhere or bound and gagged—”

  “Stop it. That’s not funny.”

  If she’d stood in front of me, I would’ve slapped her. I’d already ventured down that road myself, but I was joking.

  This felt suddenly serious.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Shut up, Allie.”

  “But I—”

  “Just shut up,” I snapped then added instinctively, “Please.”

  Thankfully, she did.

  My mind raced ahead, needing to figure out a plan, something to grab onto so we wouldn’t go round in circles again.

  Be calm, I told himself. Think, don’t panic.

  But a very panicky chorus of “What to do, what to do?”

  tick-tocked in my brain, keeping time with the beat of my heart as it slapped against my ribs.