there.”
“So, what were you able to tell him about the situation?” Maggie asked.
“The truth. I told him the truth.” Maggie just stared ather until Claire added, “Yes, I told him I used to date the victim, John Templeton, five years ago and that I haven’t seen him since I left Baltimore.”
“That must have gone over well,” Maggie said.
Claire and Max exchanged a look, and Maggie knew they were shutting her out of something. Had Claire confided in Max? Well, of course, she had. He was her attorney. Maggie wasn’t sure how she felt about this, even if she was the one who had put the two of them together.
A reporter was talking to a deputy who pointed toward them.
“Come on,” Max said. “We need to git while the gittin’ is good.”
He took both of their elbows and led them down the hall toward the exit. The reporter looked as if she was about to call out to them, but Max pulled them in close and started whispering nonsense.
“Fudge ripple with hot caramel sauce covered in whipped cream with chopped walnuts on the side,” he said.
“Sounds good to me,” Maggie said. “Are you buying?”
“I think this one is on me,” Claire said.
They cleared the doors with no cameras or mics jammed into their faces. So no one yet knew of the connection between Claire and the dead man. Maggie fervently hoped it stayed that way. They made a beeline for Maggie’s car. Max opened the door for Claire and then climbed in back.
Maggie hit the gas hard, leaving the station behind, and headed back to the Frosty Freeze. Not surprisingly, at least to Maggie, they found Max’s boss standing in front of the closed window, looking particularly irritated.
“Uh-oh,” Max said from the back seat.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got this,” Maggie said. It was the least she could do, since she had dragged him out of there to begin with.
“Button!” His boss glared at the back seat of Maggie’s station wagon. “Button, are you in there? What’s the big idea, closing during the middle of the day right before the lunch crush?”
Maggie looked around at the empty lot and then at Hugh Simpson, the owner. He was short and fat with a bad comb-over and favored plaid pants with silk shirts, unbuttoned low and topped off with a big, fat chain around his neck. Seriously, thirty plus years had passed since the era of the Hustle, and the man still hadn’t gotten the word that disco was dead.
“It’s my fault, Hugh,” Maggie said. “There was a small emergency and we needed Max’s legal expertise.”
“Oh, really?” Hugh asked. “I’m sorry, but show me where it says the Frosty Freeze offers free legal advice?”
“Sorry, Mr. Simpson,” Max said.
He climbed out of the backseat, only stopping to mutter something low to Claire. She nodded, and then he scooted through the side door of the building, back into the ice cream stand, where he pulled up the window shade and flipped the sign to OPEN .
“Sorry?” Hugh barked, smoothing a stray strand of hair back across his dome. “Sorry doesn’t get me my lost revenue. You are fired!”
Max poked his head out the window, rolled his eyes and shook his head. Hugh had fired him at least once a week since he’d taken the job here five years ago.
“We’re here to order sundaes,” Maggie said to Hugh. “Will that help?”
“If you’re paying fifty bucks a piece for them, maybe,” he snapped.
Maggie gasped. Her thrifty soul felt violated by the mere suggestion.
Claire came to stand beside her. She looked wan and subdued, and a spat with Hugh Simpson wasn’t going to help her in the least.
“Tell you what,” Maggie said. “If I can get twenty people to come here in the next hour, will you let Max keep his job?”
“Twenty, huh?” Hugh studied her from beneath heavy lidded eyes. “No tricks?”
“From me?” Maggie asked. She opened her eyes wide, the picture of innocence.
“You’re sly,” he said. “Always with the coupons and the price matching, I
“So, what were you able to tell him about the situation?” Maggie asked.
“The truth. I told him the truth.” Maggie just stared ather until Claire added, “Yes, I told him I used to date the victim, John Templeton, five years ago and that I haven’t seen him since I left Baltimore.”
“That must have gone over well,” Maggie said.
Claire and Max exchanged a look, and Maggie knew they were shutting her out of something. Had Claire confided in Max? Well, of course, she had. He was her attorney. Maggie wasn’t sure how she felt about this, even if she was the one who had put the two of them together.
A reporter was talking to a deputy who pointed toward them.
“Come on,” Max said. “We need to git while the gittin’ is good.”
He took both of their elbows and led them down the hall toward the exit. The reporter looked as if she was about to call out to them, but Max pulled them in close and started whispering nonsense.
“Fudge ripple with hot caramel sauce covered in whipped cream with chopped walnuts on the side,” he said.
“Sounds good to me,” Maggie said. “Are you buying?”
“I think this one is on me,” Claire said.
They cleared the doors with no cameras or mics jammed into their faces. So no one yet knew of the connection between Claire and the dead man. Maggie fervently hoped it stayed that way. They made a beeline for Maggie’s car. Max opened the door for Claire and then climbed in back.
Maggie hit the gas hard, leaving the station behind, and headed back to the Frosty Freeze. Not surprisingly, at least to Maggie, they found Max’s boss standing in front of the closed window, looking particularly irritated.
“Uh-oh,” Max said from the back seat.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got this,” Maggie said. It was the least she could do, since she had dragged him out of there to begin with.
“Button!” His boss glared at the back seat of Maggie’s station wagon. “Button, are you in there? What’s the big idea, closing during the middle of the day right before the lunch crush?”
Maggie looked around at the empty lot and then at Hugh Simpson, the owner. He was short and fat with a bad comb-over and favored plaid pants with silk shirts, unbuttoned low and topped off with a big, fat chain around his neck. Seriously, thirty plus years had passed since the era of the Hustle, and the man still hadn’t gotten the word that disco was dead.
“It’s my fault, Hugh,” Maggie said. “There was a small emergency and we needed Max’s legal expertise.”
“Oh, really?” Hugh asked. “I’m sorry, but show me where it says the Frosty Freeze offers free legal advice?”
“Sorry, Mr. Simpson,” Max said.
He climbed out of the backseat, only stopping to mutter something low to Claire. She nodded, and then he scooted through the side door of the building, back into the ice cream stand, where he pulled up the window shade and flipped the sign to OPEN .
“Sorry?” Hugh barked, smoothing a stray strand of hair back across his dome. “Sorry doesn’t get me my lost revenue. You are fired!”
Max poked his head out the window, rolled his eyes and shook his head. Hugh had fired him at least once a week since he’d taken the job here five years ago.
“We’re here to order sundaes,” Maggie said to Hugh. “Will that help?”
“If you’re paying fifty bucks a piece for them, maybe,” he snapped.
Maggie gasped. Her thrifty soul felt violated by the mere suggestion.
Claire came to stand beside her. She looked wan and subdued, and a spat with Hugh Simpson wasn’t going to help her in the least.
“Tell you what,” Maggie said. “If I can get twenty people to come here in the next hour, will you let Max keep his job?”
“Twenty, huh?” Hugh studied her from beneath heavy lidded eyes. “No tricks?”
“From me?” Maggie asked. She opened her eyes wide, the picture of innocence.
“You’re sly,” he said. “Always with the coupons and the price matching, I
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