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

by Juliet Rosetti

  “I don’t see any sign of him,” Holly reported. “He must be at work.”

  “What time does the birdseed plant get out?” Mazie asked.

  “Three thirty. We’ve got tons of time.”

  “I’m not sure I want to do this.”

  “Don’t chicken out now,” Holly said. “This was your idea.”

  “What are you talking about? It was your idea.”

  Mazie turned around in the next driveway and drove back the way they’d come. A couple of hundred feet along, she spotted a grassy track leading into a hay field.

  “There,” Holly said. “You can park beneath those trees. They’ll screen the van from anyone passing on the road.”

  Mazie turned in and parked. “We can’t stay too long,” she said. “The van might get too hot for Muffin.”

  “Right. Ten minutes, tops.”

  Mazie cracked the windows just enough so that not even Muffin, whose body had the flexibility of Silly Putty, could squeeze through. Cutting across a field, they approached Gil’s trailer.

  “He doesn’t have a pit bull, does he?” Holly asked nervously as they tiptoed across the weed-choked lawn. “He’s the kind of guy who would have a pit bull.”

  “Now you think of that? If he had a pit bull, we’d already be kibble.”

  The trailer was white aluminum with blue trim, filled in here and there with plywood panels and resting on a concrete slab. Gil had made a few feeble attempts to spiff up the place—a rubber tire was filled with scraggly geraniums, a couple of bird feeders hung from trees, and the skirting was freshly painted, but cosmetics couldn’t disguise the fact that this was a rusting forty-year-old trailer. Two steps covered in ragged green carpet led up to the only door. Holly tried it. Locked.

  “Maybe there’s an open window,” she said.

  They crept around the side of the trailer.

  “There,” Holly whispered, pointing to a window about five feet above the ground, the kind of window that swivels outward on a fulcrum. It was open about six inches.

  “Too high,” Mazie said.

  “We need to find something to climb on.”

  “Like what?”

  Holly pointed. “Like one of those trash cans.”

  Three garbage cans were lined up against a utility shed next to the trailer. One of them was empty, Mazie discovered upon further investigation. It was made of army green rubber and looked as though it’d been in a knock-down-drag-out fight with a raccoon. Its slime-crusted sides were providing an all-you-can-eat buffet lunch for a few trillion flies.

  Making a mental note to boil her hands when she got home, Mazie, trailed by a posse of buzzing flies, dragged the garbage can back to the trailer, upended it, and thumped it beneath the window.

  “Be my guest,” she told Holly.

  Still wearing the red polka dot skirt she’d had on at the rehearsal, Holly climbed onto the can, teetered, then steadied herself by clutching Mazie’s head.

  “Ouch.”

  “Sorry.”

  Mazie shooed away flies as Holly fiddled with the window crank, but the garbage can, not built to withstand anything heavier than coffee grounds and potato skins, buckled inward.

  “Hurry up,” Mazie hissed.

  Holly gave a final crank, and the window gap widened. “Okay—you should be able to squeeze in there.”

  “Me? I thought you were going to do it!”

  “If I try to get through that window I’ll be wearing this trailer like a tutu.”

  Holly knocked the can over as she jumped off, and a tornado of flies swarmed out, carrying enough septic bacteria on their feet to infect the entire planet. Setting the can upright again, Mazie climbed up, steadying herself against Holly for balance. She stuck her head through the window, checking for signs of pit bull infestation—femurs strewn about, human spleen chew toys—and when the coast appeared to be clear, hoisted herself up and wormed through the opening. There was a bad moment when her bottom got stuck like Winnie the Pooh in the rabbit hole, but Holly shoved until Mazie squirted out the other side and dropped onto a bed.

  Judging from the wrestling posters taped to the walls, this must have been Fawn’s brothers’ room. Cautiously emerging from the bedroom, Mazie tiptoed down the hall to the kitchen, unlocked the door, and opened it. Breathing rapidly, Holly scuttled inside. “I haven’t been this scared since I was seventeen and Richie’s mom caught us having sex on her patio furniture.”

  “You told me you were a virgin when you got married.”

  “Well, yeah—virtually. Sex doesn’t count if you don’t have an orgasm, and Richie’s technique wasn’t too good in those days.”

  Mazie’s heart was beating at a million thumps a minute, and it belatedly occurred to her that opening the door might have tripped a silent alarm that was even now alerting a squad of security goons. Oh, terrific strategic planning, Maguire. “Fawn’s room is at the end,” she told Holly.

  “Wait,” Holly said. “Shouldn’t we search Gil’s room too?” Holly pushed open the door of a room that, judging by the funky smell, must be Gil’s.

  “Make it fast.” The idea of touching Gil’s stuff gave Mazie the heebie-jeebies.

  “Why are we whispering?” Holly asked.

  “I don’t know. I just feel we need to.”

  “We should be wearing gloves.”

  “Well, gosh darn it! I left my rubber gloves back in the crime scene van.”

  Most of Gil’s bedroom space was taken up by a wall-length dresser holding a wide-screen TV and a king-sized bed covered with a hideous maroon velvet spread. Gil had tacky taste in home décor, but the room was barracks-neat, the wastebaskets were empty, the furniture was polished, and the space under the bed was dust-bunny-free. A narrow closet held a few shirts and pants on wire hangers.

  “What are we looking for?” Mazie asked.

  “I don’t know. Photos? A stash of diamonds? A signed confession?”

  Shoeboxes lined the top shelf of the closet. As Mazie attempted to haul down the first box, it flew from her shaking hands and its contents—videos with lurid jackets—spilled out.

  Holly picked one up. “Throbbin Hood?”

  Mazie picked up another. “Edward Penishands?”

  They were gross, they were hard-core porn, and they were fascinating in a repulsive sort of way. Every single one had to be checked in case it might be a vital clue. Saturday Night Beaver. White Men Can’t Hump. Spankenstein. Rambone.

  “I feel sticky all over,” Holly said.

  “I want to shower in Lysol.”

  “These are disgusting. Do you think Gil would miss one?”

  “Holly!”

  “Well, sometimes Richie needs a little starch in the old macaroni—”

  “Put it back. We’re done here.”

  They repacked the boxes, shoved them back onto the shelf, and moved on to Fawn’s room. Mazie focused on the stack of notebooks crammed into Fawn’s nightstand while Holly went through her wardrobe, feeling the undersides of shelves, checking for loose boards that might conceal hiding places. The police had probably gone over every inch of the room years ago, but there was always a chance they’d missed something.

  “Look—bloodstains,” Holly suddenly hissed, clutching a hand to her chest.

  Mazie set down Fawn’s senior-year schedule to check out the faint brownish blotch on the linoleum beneath an edge of carpet. Mazie knew that police investigators had special equipment capable of revealing blood even if it had been bleached or painted over, but lacking sophisticated blood detection gear, she employed the finger-lick method, wetting her index finger, squidging it around in the stain, and flicking it over her tongue.

  “Grape juice.”

  “Darn.” Holly sounded disappointed.

  “Well, we don’t want Fawn to be dead, right?”

  “Right.” Holly started rooting through the jewelry box atop Fawn’s dresser. “Hey—pacifiers! Remember pacies?”

  “Of course I remember pacies. You weren
’t dressed in the nineties if you didn’t have half a dozen pastel baby binkies looped around your neck.”

  “Check out this pendant.” Holly held up a rectangular pendant, about two inches long, with gold metallic flowers splayed across a blue enamel background. It wasn’t exactly hideous, but it didn’t really seem like Fawn, who’d compensated for her limited budget with an amazing eye for color and design.

  “Holly? I think we need to go. Now.” The hair on the back of Mazie’s neck lifted and her stomach jittered. She’d learned to trust that gut feeling. Jamming Fawn’s notebooks back into the nightstand, she hastily stood, dusting her hands on her shorts.

  “Check it out, Mazie!” Holding up the pendant, Holly clicked something. “Ta-dah!” The pendant split into two pieces: a jewelry top and a bottom with a rectangular metal tongue. “It’s a flash drive,” Holly said triumphantly. “About four gigabytes, I’d say.”

  “We can’t take it,” Mazie said, trying to look stern. “That’d be stealing.”

  “And stealing is wrong. I always tell my kids that.” Holly put the chain around her neck, tucking the pendant into her shirt. “Luckily, I’m more of a do-as-I-say mom.”

  Mazie’s get-out-of-here-now feeling was intensifying. Quickly they tidied things up, and seconds later they were slamming out the trailer’s door. They were halfway across the lawn when Mazie halted in her tracks.

  “We forgot to lock the door!” Mazie said. “Gil will know someone’s been here. Go on to the van—I’ll catch up with you.”

  They hadn’t closed the window either, Mazie remembered when she was inside the trailer. Dashing to the boys’ bedroom, she wrestled with the crank handle. It was jammed open. Gritting her teeth, she yanked on it until it finally gave and she was able to manhandle it back to its original position.

  She hurried back to the kitchen. Just as she set her hand on the door handle, she heard the sound of an engine outside. Her stomach plunged. Looking out the window, she saw a large SUV careening into the driveway, Ted Nugent pounding from the speakers. The vehicle jerked to a halt, the door flew open, and Gil Fanchon jumped out of the passenger side. As the SUV pulled away, Gil jogged toward the trailer.

  There was only this single door; he’d see her if she left now. Maybe she could squeeze back out the bedroom window? But what if her butt got stuck again? Mazie looked around wildly for a hiding place, but in a house trailer the options were limited. Gil was already at the front door, rattling the handle, discovering it was unlocked.

  Inspired by terror, the Mazie Maguire juke ’n’ jive show kicked into gear. She moved out of sight, into the hallway. Gil came in, and she heard his heavy steps, crossing the kitchen, stopping in the middle of the floor.

  Mazie stepped out of the hallway. “Hey, Gil—how’s it going?”

  He jumped as though he’d been goosed with a cattle prod.

  “Oh—sorry—didn’t mean to startle you. Just stopped by to do some light-meter measuring.” Mazie had no idea what light-meter measuring was, but she’d heard Ben use the term. “For the film. We decided the trailer lighting isn’t bright enough—we’re going to have to install lights.”

  His eyes narrowed. “How’d you git in?”

  “The door was open.” Mazie did the batted-lashes, sparkly-smile thing. “You said to come back anytime, so I just thought I’d nip in and get the job done. That’s not a problem, is it?”

  “Hell yeah, it’s a problem.” With his large gray eyes and concave Kevin Bacon jawline, Gil might have been good-looking if it hadn’t been for his stumpy, stained teeth and lank, unwashed hair. He wore a sleeveless black T-shirt over stringy biceps that would have looked better covered up. “I always lock that door. Don’t want my sister’s meth freak boyfriend sneaking in. One time I come home and find him cookin’ up a batch of yellow bam right there on my stove. The sorry son of a bitch used up all my drain cleaner, too. So how’d you get in? Probably the window—yeah, that’s how you did it, a skinny little thing like you.”

  Gil surveyed Mazie’s body, and his gaze felt like lizards with tiny suction cup feet crawling along her skin. “Got some nice, juicy meat on those bones, though.” He reached over and pinched Mazie’s ass.

  “Hey!” She leaped backward, out of range of his hands.

  Wearing a crooked smile, he shuffled toward her. “That light-meter stuff is so much bullcrap, isn’t it? You come here hopin’ for a taste of the Gil-man, didn’t you? Hot to trot, girlie? That muscleman boyfriend of yours don’t look like he’s any fun at all.”

  “I’m not really up for fun right now,” Mazie said, spidering one hand backward on the kitchen counter, groping for a weapon. “I don’t even like fun.”

  His hand snaked out and closed around her left wrist, yanking her toward him until she could smell his sour breath. “Did you bring a camera, sweetbuns? Tell you what—me and you’ll make a home video. You got a bangin’ bod, girl—you ever do porn flicks?”

  Mazie’s groping hand closed around something stiff and wiry. Snatching it up—it was a flyswatter—she slammed it down on Gil’s hand as hard as she could.

  “Son of a bitch!” He let go of her wrist and stared at his hand, imprinted with the swatter’s grid pattern. She tried to dart around him, but he was fast, backpedaling to block her access to the door.

  “Gahhdamn, girl—that stung!” Gil rubbed his wrist, his eyes bright, his tongue waggling in one corner of his mouth. “But you done right to whack the Gil-man. The Gil-man was naughty. The Gil-man deserved it.” He giggled. “The Gil-man needs a spankin’ real bad.”

  He unzipped his jeans, hauled them down, hooked his thumbs into his boxers and wiggled them down his bony hips, then turned around and leaned his upper body over the counter. “You spank the Gil-man good now, honey. You give him what-for. Oh, man, this is going to sting.” Squeezing his eyes shut in anticipation, he set his jaw. “Don’t hold back, now—you let Gil have it!”

  Dropping the swatter, Mazie bolted for the door. She was nearly to the road before Gil hobbled out of his trailer, pants around his ankles. “Hold up,” he hollered. “You can use a wooden spoon instead. Or a whisk. I got a good-quality whisk. Or a metal pancake turner—that’s got a real whang to it.”

  Holly’s van whipped around the curve. Gravel sprayed as she jammed on the brakes. Mazie flung herself into the van and hammered down the lock.

  Holly’s eyes went wide. “My God—did he—”

  “Just go!”

  Holly stepped on the gas. It was probably the first time the mommy-van had seen ninety. Muffin jumped up into Mazie’s lap, barking loudly, excited by the speed.

  “Did he try to—”

  “No,” Mazie said. “But that was just down the road.”

  “We’re going straight to the police.”

  “No! No police.” Mazie’s motto was: Don’t bother the law and the law won’t bother you. “He just wanted me to smack his butt with a flyswatter.”

  “Flyswatter?” Holly sputtered.

  “It still had flecks of fly guts on it.”

  “Blech! Fifty shades of gore! I think I’m going to blow my lunch.”

  “He would have settled for a wooden spoon.”

  Holly snorted.

  “Or a whisk. He seemed to be proud of owning a whisk.”

  It was too much for Holly. She broke into cackles of laughter. When she could finally talk, she said, “Too bad he didn’t have a nutcracker lying around.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “We’ve got to report that man,” Holly said.

  “We can’t. We were trespassing,” Mazie said. “We broke and entered. We stole property. What if he decides to call the police and report us?”

  “Gil Fanchon is not going to call the police. He’s got a criminal record—nobody’s going to believe anything he says.” But Holly sounded a little shaky on that.

  “It just seems weird,” Mazie said. “Gil coming home an hour ahead of time. He came tearing into the trailer like he knew someone was insi
de.”

  “Maybe a neighbor noticed us snooping around and phoned him.”

  Mazie tried to recall the layout of the Fanchon property. Now that they were miles away, approaching the Quail Hollow town limits, her heart rate had returned to normal. “I don’t think his trailer is in any of his neighbors’ sight lines. Did you mention our plans to anyone?”

  “No.” Holly frowned. “But someone in the bar might have heard us.”

  Oscar, the bartender, had been hovering nearby when she and Holly had hatched their crime-sniffing plans, Mazie thought. “What do you know about Oscar?”

  “Oscar Woods? I dunno. He’s an okay guy, I guess. He’s popular around here—he sponsors a Little League team and donates to local charities. I think he’s been married and divorced a couple times.”

  “Is Gil one of Oscar’s regulars?”

  “You’re asking a woman whose only contact with bars for the past ten years has been crib bars? I have no idea.”

  They pulled up in front of Holly’s house, a Victorian painted lady done in shades of lavender, cream, and coral and surrounded by thriving masses of lilac hydrangeas. It was exactly the kind of house Mazie wanted to live in someday—as long as it came with a guarantee of a bat-free attic.

  The minute Holly walked in her front door she morphed from crime-sniffing gumshoe to bossy mommy. Her kids came spilling out to greet her: Eric, nine, a husky boy who looked like his dad and was already playing junior football; Camille, a cutie of seven with a mouthful of gappy teeth; four-year-old Charlie; and the baby, Mallory, a twenty-month-old miniature replica of her mother, down to the chocolate eyes and dark, glossy hair. Sam and Joey Maguire were there too, and to Mazie’s relief hadn’t demolished anything. The babysitter, a middle-aged woman, left, looking frazzled, and Holly took over, handing out peanut butter crackers and juice boxes and sending all of them except for Mallory to eat outside on the patio.

  As soon as the kids were outside Holly and Mazie scurried to Holly’s computer and thrust in Fawn’s flash drive. The computer took forever to warm up, long enough for Mazie to change Mallory’s diaper—might as well get her diaper-changing game on before the new Maguire baby came home—but at last the file came up. There was only one document listed on the flash drive. Luckily, it wasn’t encrypted or password-protected. Holding her breath, Mazie clicked it open.