Tangled Thing Called Love: Life and Love on the Lam (A Loveswept Contemporary Romance)

by Juliet Rosetti

  “My sisters? I tried to stay as far away from them as possible. I’d hand ’em money when they overspent their allowance, patch up their wounds when they got hurt, punch out any guys who gave ’em grief, and tune out all the girl stuff.”

  “Well, that explains a lot.”

  “I think I’ve just been insulted.” Ben glanced over at Mazie and smiled. Against her will, she smiled back. He was looking way too good—dangerously good—his skin freshly tanned from being out in a boat today, his hair damp from a shower. “I’ve got a confession to make,” Ben said. “I had a motive for getting you alone—beyond wanting to get the lowdown on that khaki-pants-wearing, pimpmobile-driving dickhead. I wanted to ask you to show me the spot where Fawn Fanchon disappeared.”

  Mazie looked at him, surprised. “What for?”

  He cleared his throat. “The mystery about her disappearance—I think it would make a terrific documentary.”

  “Hundreds of teenage girls disappear every year, though—and Fawn isn’t exactly front-page news anymore.”

  “Maybe not, but there are a lot of unique elements here. The beauty queen angle, the outlaw family, the abandoned truck—it’s dynamite. I’d like to scope out the scene, maybe take a couple shots. It’s not that far, is it?”

  “No, just a few miles, over in Punhoqua Coulee.”

  “What are these coulees, anyway?”

  “They’re steep valleys between ridges, usually with streams or wetlands at the bottom. Turn left at the next intersection, drive about three miles, then it’ll be on the right.”

  “You really know this area.”

  “My brothers and I used to hike and canoe in these coulees. It’s a really huge area, probably a couple of hundred square miles. My grandpa told me that moonshiners used to hide their stills out there. Nowadays there are marijuana patches all over the place.”

  Ben opened his window to a chorus of spring peepers. The scents of pine, cedar, and wildflowers wafted into the car. An owl hooted in the woods. Ben slowed down as a raccoon waddled across the road.

  “Would Fawn have known these back roads too?” Ben asked.

  “Sure. Her family only lives a couple of miles down the road. Turn here—it’s a dirt surface, so you’ll have to go slow.”

  Ben turned onto Skifstead Road. It was rutted, muddy, and flooded in places, and so narrow that tree branches whipped against the sides of the car. After a mile or so, it ended in a turnaround just wide enough for a single vehicle.

  “This used to be a farm,” Mazie said. “A family of Swedish immigrants lived here eighty or ninety years ago, trying to make a go of farming. But the soil was too poor and they abandoned the place. This turnaround used to be the end of their lane. The farm buildings burned down years ago and the fields reverted to wilderness.”

  Ben stopped the car, grabbed his camera from the backseat, and got out. The light was fantastic: the sun just setting, flinging bright plumes of gold, salmon, and purple into the sky. He walked around slowly, trying to absorb everything. “Was Fawn’s disappearance covered by the local media?” he asked.

  “Oh, yeah—it was pretty sensational, not just locally, but it made the national news, too. TV stations as far away as Alaska were covering the story.”

  “Do you know where Fawn’s shoes were found?”

  “Sure. Everyone knows. It’s passed into local lore and legend.”

  Mazie led him down a narrow path between stands of birch and alder, a trail that appeared to have been trampled down over the years by the curious and the ghoulish. It opened into a small open glade above a sluggish, olive-colored stream whose surface was speckled with dead leaves. A rock the size of a laundry basket thrust up from the creek’s mossy banks.

  “This is it right here,” Mazie said, nudging the rock with her toe. “The spot where Fawn’s shoes were found.”

  The rock was scrawled with graffiti, some of it fresh, some of it so faded it was unreadable, but the general gist was We Luv U, Fawn! Hope U.R. OK. Other sentiments were cruder and lewder. Faded plastic flowers were stuck in the dirt around the rock, Mardi Gras beads were strung across it, a stuffed kitten was half-buried in weeds at the base, and scraps of a bright helium balloon lay scattered among the used condoms.

  Ben began moving around the rock, snapping shots from several angles. “Okay, Mazie Maguire, girl detective—what’s your take on Fawn’s disappearance?”

  Mazie picked up the kitten and brushed off the dirt. “It’s possible she just drove out here on an impulse that night. Maybe the turnaround was her favorite place—a quiet place to think. She might have wandered down to the creek, waded in, lost her balance, and drowned.”

  “But they dragged the creek, right? They would have found her body.”

  “Not necessarily. It could have snagged on an underwater log or—what are you doing?”

  Ben was shucking off his shoes and socks and rolling up his jeans legs. When he finished, he stepped into the creek and slogged through the water to the opposite bank, a distance of about twelve feet, the water never higher than his mid-calf. “She’d have had to be pretty clumsy to drown here. It’s not deep.”

  “Maybe she was drunk,” Mazie suggested.

  “You knew this girl, right?”

  “A little. We rode the bus together. She was a year ahead of me in school.”

  “Was she the type to get drunk by herself?”

  “No,” Mazie admitted.

  Standing on the opposite bank, Ben lined up a shot of the clearing, making Mazie the focal point. “Don’t move,” he ordered. “You’re Fawn.”

  A crashing sound came from the woods behind Mazie. She whirled around with a startled yelp. Ben reacted immediately, plunging into the water, lunging across the creek and up onto the bank. Something large was bashing through the undergrowth a few yards away.

  “Probably a deer,” Mazie quavered, and Ben was gratified to discover that she’d instinctively moved close to him. They stood still for a moment, then the thrashing noises stopped.

  “Your brother told me there are bears and wild pigs around here,” Ben said in a low voice. “Was he shining me on?”

  “No—they’ve been sighted here, but I’ve never heard of them attacking people.” Mazie looked up at him with a mischievous look. “Of course it could be the Coulee Devil.”

  “Snipe hunt.” He grinned. “See if the dumb city slicker falls for it.”

  “The Coulee Devil is a kind of Sasquatch creature that’s supposed to live in these woods. It walks upright; it has yellowish-gray fur and glow-in-the-dark eyes, and it reeks like sulfur.”

  “Some idiot in a gorilla suit.”

  “Reliable witnesses swear they’ve seen it—a sheriff’s deputy, a school bus driver—”

  “I suppose this thing dragged Fawn off and ate her for supper. A Sasquatch running around in the backwoods—mind-blowing!”

  “You don’t seriously believe there’s a Coulee Devil?”

  “Doesn’t matter what I believe. It’s what people want to believe. A maiden and a monster. Beauty and the Beast. The Devil and the Damsel. People eat this stuff up.”

  Ben walked ahead, holding aside branches for Mazie as they took the trail back toward the road. When they broke out of the trees Ben halted so abruptly Mazie rear-ended him.

  A man stood a few feet away, holding a strung arrow on a high-powered bow, aiming it directly at Ben’s heart.

  Chapter Ten

  “Who the hell’re you?” snarled the man.

  He was tall and gaunt, probably in his early fifties, with gray-brown hair scraggling to his shoulders and a mouthful of bad teeth in a long, lean face. He wore a hunter’s camouflage shirt with the sleeves ripped off, jeans, and neon orange sneakers that must have scared off wild game for miles around. A leather arrow quiver was strapped across his back.

  “Mr. Fanchon?” Mazie asked shakily. “Gil Fanchon?”

  He squinted at her, keeping his arrow aimed at Labeck. “Do I know you?”

&nbs
p; “I’m Mike Maguire’s daughter. I’m Mazie.”

  “Mike’s girl?” He lowered the bow, though he still kept the arrow on the string. He pointed to Labeck. “Who’s that, then? Can’t be a Maguire, not with that size on him.”

  “He’s with me. His name is Ben Labeck. Ben, this is Gil Fanchon, Fawn’s dad.”

  Ben nodded but kept his eyes on the bow.

  “Well, I guess you two’s all right, then.” Fanchon lowered the bow. “I wouldn’t’ve really skewered you. I just use the bow to scare off those goddamn kids that go down by the crick, drink and smoke dope and holler, ‘Fawn, you out there? Come on out, Fawn—I want to kiss a ghost.’ And other stuff I won’t repeat in front of a lady.”

  All the light had seeped from the sky. As it grew dark the spring peepers stepped up their volume, and they had to raise their voices to be heard.

  “Know what the worst thing is?” Gil Fanchon released the arrow from the bow and carefully set it back in his quiver. “When them kids bring teddy bears and what-all and set ’em on Fawn’s rock. Like at those highway sites where somebody got killed. That rock down there ain’t a grave site. Because my Fawn isn’t dead.”

  He clamped his hand over his heart. “I’d feel it in here if my baby girl was gone. I walk down here to the crick every night because it makes me feel close to her.”

  “You still live nearby, don’t you?” Mazie asked.

  “Yup. Just a couple miles.”

  “Can we offer you a lift back to your place?” Ben asked.

  “Why, I appreciate that. Been a long day, and my legs ain’t what they used to be.”

  Gil sat in the backseat and gave Ben directions. He lived in a trailer on a blacktop road that ran along the perimeter of the swamp. “You two come on in now,” Gil ordered as they stopped in the trailer’s dirt driveway. He got out of the car, carefully holding his bow. “I’ll pay you back for that ride with a nice glass of iced tea.”

  Ben cocked an eyebrow at Mazie, a gesture that meant: I want to do this, okay?

  He wasn’t doing this just to be polite, she guessed; he was after something.

  They followed Gil into the trailer, its living room crammed with furniture he’d evidently purchased at Big Howie’s House o’ Tacky Taste. Green vinyl sofa and recliner with built-in cup holders, chrome coffee table, and floor-to-ceiling entertainment center with a large television perched precariously on a too-small pedestal. Mazie looked around the trailer for signs of kids, but the place had a bachelor air—no skateboards, backpacks, or sneakers strewn around.

  Gil placed his bow in a rack on the wall and went to the refrigerator. The kitchen appliances were new and shiny, Mazie noticed, studying her reflection in a chrome toaster. Her face glowed radioactive red from her bike ride today.

  “Where do you work, Mr. Fanchon?” she asked.

  “It’s Gil, honey. Don’t ask me where I work. Say, ‘What do you work for?’ Go on, ask.”

  “Okay. What do you work for?”

  “Chicken feed.” He guffawed. “Birdseed of all kinds. I work at the Chik-K-D birdseed factory out on the highway. Fifteen years I been there. Funny thing how even when they don’t have food to put on their table, folks still shell out money for the birds. Fawn used to have a pet parakeet. Died after she went missing. The younger ones didn’t take care of it.”

  “Fawn’s little brothers. Are they still—”

  “All out on their own these days. Fawn, now—she was my brightest. Wanted to go to college. Got accepted to a bunch of ’em, only I wouldn’t sign the loan papers for her. That’s how come she went in for that Miss Quail Hollow foolishness—she wanted the scholarship money.”

  Gil scooped ice cubes into three tumblers and took a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator. He poured tea into the tumblers with a practiced twist of the wrist. “I didn’t want Fawn going off to college, see? Wanted her to stay here and take care of the rugrats so’s I could keep on with my barhoppin’.”

  Mazie leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping her tea, eying Gil’s bow on its wall hook. It looked like a traditional Indian bow turned inside out. It was stainless steel with space-age string and all sorts of complicated gadgets affixed to it. It looked capable of not just bringing down a deer, but skinning and dressing it, too. A weapon like that couldn’t come cheap. How did a guy who worked for birdseed get the money for a bow like that?

  “When Fawn comes back I’m going to show her the money I got saved up for her,” Gil said. “Tell her now she can go to any damn college in the country if she wants.”

  Ben shot Mazie a look, and she was sure he was thinking the same thing she was: Gil Fanchon was in free fall from reality. If she were alive, Fawn would be almost thirty-one, maybe with kids of her own.

  Ben cleared his throat. “Gil,” he said. “I work as a cameraman for a Milwaukee television station, but I also do independent film projects.”

  “That right?” Gil was a twitcher, jiggling his feet, scratching his arms, cracking his knuckles. Probably an ex-smoker whose fingers still itched for a cigarette. “You mean like the History Channel? I watch them shows a lot, especially the World War Two stuff.”

  “I think people would be interested in an investigative journalism story about your daughter.”

  Gil’s eyes widened. “Abso-damn-lutely. You investigate the hell out of my baby girl’s disappearance. Show it on that Great Unsolved Mysteries program. I bet folks would be poppin’ out of the woodwork saying they seen Fawn. Hell, she might see it herself and come home.”

  “I can’t guarantee a cable network would pick this up,” Labeck said. “But if you’d allow it, we could do some preliminary filming this week—right now, in fact. I’d like to get some background on your daughter.”

  “What do you mean, background?”

  “Photos, diaries, home video—anything that gives a sense of Fawn’s personality.”

  “Dunno.” Gil waggled a finger into his right ear. “Them things are sort of sacred. Would I get paid for this? It’s kind of like … invading my baby’s privacy.”

  Ben fished out his wallet and thrust a fifty-dollar bill into Gil’s hand. “If we get financial backing, there’ll be more down the line.”

  Gil stuffed the money in his shirt pocket. “This ain’t for myself, understand. It’ll go toward the Fawn Foundation.”

  “The Fawn Foundation?” Ben said.

  “Some folks hereabouts set up a fund to help find my daughter. Five bucks here, ten bucks there—people far away as China and Japan send money. Okay, now—how’s about we start with Fawn’s bedroom?”

  “Great,” Ben said. “Just give me a sec to go out and get my camera.”

  He went out to the car while Mazie followed Gil down a narrow hallway and into a bedroom barely large enough to contain a twin bed and a dresser.

  “I never changed a thing. All ready for Fawn when she comes back.” Gil picked up a photo that sat atop the dresser, wiped off dust with his sleeve, and handed it to Mazie. It was a ten-by-twelve in a silver frame and must have been taken the night Fawn was crowned, because she was wearing a long pink gown with a sweetheart neckline and cap sleeves. The Miss Quail Hollow 2001 sash was draped across her chest and she was holding a huge bouquet of red roses. The tiara was a circlet of intertwined rhinestone hearts with a tiny jeweled bird on top—a quail.

  The tiara had traditionally passed down to the new queen each year, but when Fawn had disappeared, the tiara had vanished too, replaced by a new, cheaper model. Studying the photo, Mazie saw how apt the name Fawn was. She had wide-set doe eyes framed by long, black lashes and an alert, slightly wary look, as though she was always on the lookout for predators. If Fawn was still alive, she would be a beautiful woman.

  “Fawn made that dress.” Gil pointed to the gown, moving so close to Mazie she could smell his breath. “Ran it up on her ma’s old sewing machine, ’cause I didn’t have no money for fancy store-bought dresses.”

  Ben returned with his camera. He took a still
shot of Fawn’s photo, then started videotaping the room, starting with the posters above her bed: Spice Girls, Nirvana, Backstreet Boys, Limp Bizkit, and half a dozen others.

  “How old was Fawn when her mom died?” Mazie asked.

  “Fourteen,” Gil growled. “It all come on real sudden. One day Danielle—that’s my wife—started complaining about her belly aching. Wouldn’t go see a doctor—she was scared of doctors—kept putting it off until the pain got so bad she collapsed. I drove her to the emergency room. The docs said it was a ruptured appendix and operated on her right away, but her insides got all infected. She went into cardiac arrest and died.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Mazie said.

  “Yeah. It was rough. Fawn took over, though—she was like a little mother to the three boys. Cooked their meals, got ’em off to school on time, stayed home with ’em if they was sick.”

  Gil shoved open the door of a cardboard wardrobe. “That’s all her stuff in there. Hung up on hangers all neat. Fawn couldn’t stand to see a mess.”

  Feeling like a gawker at a traffic crash, Mazie surveyed the outfits—a museum of the millennium. Baby-doll tops, cargo pants, denim jackets, peasant skirts, and off-the-shoulders tops. “Did the police check through her things?” she asked.

  Gil gave a bark of laughter. “You bet your sweet tushy. Went over this place with a fine-tooth comb, looking for bloodstains and what-all. In case you weren’t aware of it, the Fanchons don’t exactly have good reputations roundabouts here. Seeing as how we live out in the country, the county sheriff’s department handled it, but on account of Fawn last being seen in Quail Hollow the police had their noses in it too.”

  He fingered a plastic lei draped across Fawn’s dresser mirror. “Know what still bothers me? I didn’t go to see Fawnie in the pageant. I meant to. But I stopped in at the Pirate’s Den after work. Planned to get on home, pick up the boys, and take ’em over to watch Fawn up on that stage. It got to be ten o’clock, eleven—then it was too late. The bartender took away my car keys, but I had an extra key so I drove home, fell into bed with my clothes on. I didn’t even know Fawn didn’t come home that night until the boys woke me up, wanting their breakfasts, whining for their sister.”