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

by Juliet Rosetti

  Was this the guy who’d run her off the road? Maybe the same person who’d decided it would be hilarious to drop a bucket of tar on her head? His deep tan suggested someone who spent hours up on a roof all day. He didn’t seem in any hurry to get back to his job, and Mazie had time to note every detail of his appearance, from his no-color eyes to his belt buckle. Still, a vivid word description wasn’t going to do much good—she needed a photo. And she needed a sneaky, silent spy-type camera to take it with, because her cell phone made a click that was audible half a block away.

  What she should have done, Mazie realized, was to pretend to be having car trouble, then call the guy over, start flirting, and ask to take his picture. But even as the thought formed, she discarded it. She was not capable of flirting with this man. Even standing there, cheeks hollowing as he inhaled smoke, he exuded an almost palpable air of menace. Quite simply, he scared her. He would hear the camera click, he’d see her; he’d pounce on her, and then he would—

  A school bus rumbled along the street in front of the school and turned into the lot, its engine growling, brakes squeaking, kids hanging out the windows, yelling and laughing.

  Now or never.

  Click.

  The bus provided just enough noise to cover the sound. Unaware that his image had been captured, the hard hat guy tossed the cigarette down, ground it out with the toe of his work boot, and slouched off.

  Mazie waited until she saw him disappear around the side of the building before straightening up and emerging from cover, realizing that she was shaking and drenched in sweat. Even though she’d been in the middle of a public parking lot, out in broad daylight, she felt that she’d somehow been in danger.

  She drove over to the Greenberg house, waiting impatiently as Holly gave her babysitter last-minute instructions. Finally Holly climbed into the car. Before she could even snap on her seat belt, Mazie brandished her cell phone to show Holly the photo. “Do you recognize this guy?” she asked.

  “I can’t see him,” Holly said, squinting.

  “What do you mean you can’t see him? He’s right in front of you, five inches tall!”

  “This picture is blurry—you’re a lousy photographer.”

  “It is not blurry! Your eyes are blurry. Put on your glasses.”

  Holly was too vain to wear her glasses in publc and stashed them, as though they were something illicit or embarrassing—like Preparation H or Beano or tickets to a boy band concert—at the very bottom of her purse. While she rooted around for the glasses, Mazie described what had just happened: how she’d recognized the white van in the parking lot, checked the license plate and pulled off the old left-your-lights-on scam.

  “Shame on you, tricking poor old Mrs. McDougal,” said Holly, finally excavating the eyeglasses and perching them on her nose, which instantly made her look like Anne Hathaway.

  “Yeah, I know—I’m going to hell for my sins, but it worked. The guy came rushing out to check his headlights. I had my camera ready and—”

  “Holy shit!” Holly jabbed a finger at the photo. “Do you know who that is? I mean who I think it is—of course I can’t be one hundred percent sure because this really is a shoddy photo, and you should have used the refocus—”

  “For God’s sake, Holly!”

  “Derek Ralston.”

  “Who?”

  “Derek Ralston. Remember—Fawn mentioned him in her diary? Derek, Dukie, Duke the Puke?”

  “Are you sure?”

  Holly frowned. “Pretty sure. I think I’ve seen him around town occasionally. He did odd jobs for a while—one of my aunts hired him to paint her house. Then she noticed things were going missing and fired him.” Holly used her thumbs to enlarge the photo until only the face showed. It was a three quarters view, and the larger it became, the scarier the guy looked. “Yeah—that’s Derek Ralston. I kind of remember those ugly tattoos. Brrr—he gives me the creeps.”

  “Me, too.” Mazie started the car and backed out of Holly’s driveway.

  “He must be working on the roofing project at the school,” Holly said excitedly. “You know what this means, Mazie—I bet he was the one who dropped that bucket yesterday. I mean it fits, doesn’t it? First he practically kills you out on the highway—”

  “But why would he do that? The guy doesn’t even know me. And I don’t know Derek Ralston from Adam. Anyway, we don’t know for sure that was his van. Maybe he just offered to run out and turn off the lights for his buddy.”

  “We need to tell Johnny about this.” Holly punched a number into Mazie’s phone. “He can trace the plates. I mean the police do that all the time, right?”

  “I guess.” As far as Mazie was concerned, law officials had way too much power to snoop on people.

  Holly talked for a while, then hung up, looking disappointed. “Johnny’s not in. He decided to take an actual day of his vacation. His secretary said she’d have him call us when he gets back.”

  “The nerve of him, actually using his vacation days.”

  Holly used the sun visor mirror to apply lip gloss. “Know what I think? This all has something to do with Fawn.”

  “Have you been huffing your hair spray? Because that’s crazy.”

  “Oh, crazy am I? Then how do you explain the fact that the minute your gorgeous gentleman caller starts snooping into Fawn’s disappearance, tar buckets are suddenly falling from the sky? What if—” She clutched Mazie’s arm. “What if Derek Ralston murdered Fawn?”

  Mazie frowned, not wanting to admit how much she was buying into Holly’s theory, but feeling obliged to poke holes in it. “The police must have questioned Ralston. If there was any evidence he was behind Fawn’s disappearance, they would have arrested him.”

  Holly’s eyes sparkled. “Hey, maybe we could—”

  “No!” Mazie slammed on the brakes at the single stoplight on Main Street with a lot more force than strictly necessary. “No more snooping around. I’ve hung up my gumshoes. Anyway, I’m still traumatized from yesterday, seeing Gil Fanchon’s bare backside.”

  Holly sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Damn! I never have any fun. But speaking of backsides—”

  “Right. Swimwear.”

  Quail Hollow’s shopping options were limited. The nearest place that even had a Macy’s was across the Mississippi in Dubuque, a good hour’s drive away, and Holly’s babysitting meter was ticking away. So it was the strip mall on the highway or nothing. It wasn’t exactly the Mall of America, but it at least had a Shopko that sold clothes. Inside the store, they made their way to the swimwear department.

  “You know the best way to shop for bikinis?” Holly asked.

  “There’s a best way?”

  “In a dark room, at midnight, with all the mirrors draped.”

  “What, no blindfold?”

  “I read about this one study that showed that bikini shopping made women anxious and depressed.”

  “Yeah—sponsored by Dr. Sherlock of the No Shit University.”

  Holly inspected a floral two-piece suit with a skirted bottom. “What do you think of this?”

  “It would make a great tablecloth for a luau.” Mazie held up a red bikini with rows of glittery fringe against her chest. “How about this?”

  Holly shook her head. “You’d be a shoo-in for the Miss Slut-a-Rama Pageant.”

  Mazie offered Holly a lime green bikini with a ruffled bottom. “This color would look fantastic on you.”

  “You’re joking. My butt would look so big I’d need beepers if I backed up.” She waggled a bright orange bikini at Mazie, raising her eyebrows. “Whaddaya think?”

  “Jailhouse orange. In case someone forgets my prison record.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.”

  It was slow, painful work, but after twenty minutes they’d each managed to cull out half a dozen of the least-loathesome two-piecers. They found side-by-side dressing rooms so that they could talk through the paper-thin walls. Mazie tried on a pale peach bikini, only to discover tha
t it was so close to her skin color it made her look nude. Making a mental note to pick up some fast-tan, she peeled off the bikini, found her phone, and called Ben.

  “How’s the equipment rental going?” she asked.

  “It’s taking a while. I ran into a guy who owns an independent production company. He’s definitely interested in the Fawn story and might be able to get us some financing.”

  “That’s great.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying on swimsuits.”

  He groaned. “Wish I were there.”

  Knowing it was evil, but unable to resist, Mazie said, “I’m standing here in the dressing room, completely naked.”

  There was a sound at the other end. A few seconds later Ben came back on. “I dropped my phone,” he said.

  “Listen, when you were going through those files yesterday did you—”

  “Could we have a little more talk about you being naked?”

  Mazie laughed. “Did you come across any references to Derek Ralston?”

  “The one Fawn mentioned in her diary?”

  “Yes. Did the police question him about Fawn?”

  “They hauled him in several times, but he told the same story each time. Fawn left the high school around eleven that night. Derek was at a bar until two o’clock that night—a bunch of witnesses backed him up. But you can see why the cops were looking hard at Ralston. He’s got a record. Drugs, assaults, and some other nasty stuff. Then there’s the fact that he was a mechanic at the garage where Fawn worked. But the police never proved anything.”

  There was a pause, then Ben said suspiciously, “Why? You aren’t thinking of—”

  “No! No more snooping around, I promise.”

  “Mazie—”

  “Gotta go; I think Holly needs me for something.” She disconnected.

  “Darn,” Holly said when Mazie repeated what Ben had told her. “I really wanted it to be Derek—or Duke or whatever—because he’s such a jerk.”

  “Don’t give up hope. All it means is nobody proved anything.”

  An hour later, after more excruciating try-ons, they’d made their selections: a black crochet-knit bikini for Mazie and a turquoise tankini top with a black bottom for Holly. Merchandise in hand, they headed toward the checkout.

  “If we’re back in the pageant,” Holly said, “we’re going to have to do a talent number. Are you going to do a piano solo like you did first time around?”

  “I’m pretty rusty. I’d have to practice. What are you going to do?”

  “No clue. When I was in the pageant the first time, I gave a speech on patriotism. It was totally lame. I would never have won if the president of the American Legion hadn’t been one of the judges.”

  “That’s not true. You were always going to win.”

  “What do you think Tabitha Tritt-Shimmel is going to do for her talent?” Holly asked.

  “Twirl tassels with her tits.”

  Holly cracked up. “I could do that. I’ve got good boobs.”

  “Do you have tassels?” Mazie was always interested in hearing what married couples got up to in the privacy of their bedrooms.

  “No, but I’ve got nipple pads from the time I was leaking milk all over my blouses. Maybe my talent could be changing a baby onstage.”

  “That sounds good. The baby would probably have to have a union card, though.”

  “I could change the diaper one-handed while juggling stuff with the other—baby bottles, mittens, Matchbox cars. No, seriously, Mazie, I can’t sing, dance, or twirl batons. What am I supposed to do for my talent?”

  Mazie pondered as they marched up to the express lane, where only one customer was ahead of them. Utterly disregarding the 10 Items or Less sign prominently posted, the woman ahead began piling the dozens of items in her shopping cart onto the belt. In case the Little Debbie company ever went out of business, she’d still have enough Nutty Bars and Strawberry Shortcakes to last a decade.

  Studying the boxes of snacks, Mazie said, “You could make cookies or something. You’re a fabulous cook. Do an onstage demo.”

  Holly cocked her head, considering. “I don’t know if there’d be enough time. They only give us three minutes for our talent.”

  “There must be something you can do in three minutes.”

  “Sex?”

  The woman ahead turned around and tsk-tsked. Holly stuck her tongue out at her.

  “You and Richie do it in three minutes?” Mazie whispered.

  “Ten seconds is our top speed. When you have four kids you have to work fast. The trick is not bothering to undress.”

  “Okay, what else takes three minutes?”

  Holly regarded a box of instant rice in the 10-items-or-less woman’s shopping cart.

  “Maybe I could do a moo goo gai pan.”

  “Is that from the Kama Sutra?”

  “Chinese food, smart-ass! I could bring an electric wok onstage, slice up some veggies, and do a stir-fry. But I’d probably be so nervous I’d chop off my fingers. Do you think the judges would take off points for that?”

  “Not if you smiled while you bled to death.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I don’t know about you,” Holly said as they emerged from the store, blinking in the bright sunlight, “but I’ve got toenails that could rip through steel girders. Are you up for a pedi?”

  “Sure,” Mazie said, mentally shuffling through her maxed-out credit cards, wondering which one might work.

  Nanette’s Nails was two stores down from the Shopko. They went in, and because they arrived at a slack time they were able to get served immediately. They sat down in side-by-side pedi chairs, took off their shoes and socks, and rolled their jeans legs while Nanette, the shop owner, ran water into the tubs.

  The warm water felt delicious. “This is so-o nice,” Mazie murmured.

  “It’s even better with fish,” said Nanette, who had spirals of frizzy red hair caught up in a ponytail. “I used to offer fish pedicures.”

  “I didn’t realize fish had toenails,” Mazie said.

  Holly jabbed her with her elbow.

  Nanette giggled. “No, you get these little tiny carp—they’re called doctor fish—and you dump them in the tub and they nibble the dead skin off your foot.”

  “I had a fish pedi one time,” Holly said. “They tickle. It was pre-orgasmic.”

  “Anyhow”—Nanette sighed—“they found out those fish carried bacteria, so they made us stop using them.”

  Mazie was embarrassed to let Nanette see her feet. She’d been doing her own pedis and her toenails looked like Bigfoot’s. When Nanette went to get her emery boards, Holly took out her smartphone. She tapped it against her teeth.

  “I’ve been thinking, Mazie. You know that expression ‘I’d kill for those shoes’? With Bodelle Blumquist I get the feeling it’s more than words. Remember in Fawn’s diary, where she thought Bodelle planted money in her bag?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If Bodelle was capable of that, she was capable of a lot worse.”

  “Like murder? Holly, there’s absolutely nothing linking Bodelle to Fawn’s disappearance.”

  “I’m going to use a cross-referencing app.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I look for points where Fawn and Bodelle intersect.” She started typing into her smartphone. “Here we go—lots of stuff about the Miss Quail Hollow Pageant, but we know all that already … Wait a second … Oh, that’s interesting!”

  “What is?”

  Nanette came back and Holly clammed up, but kept her eyes glued to the smartphone, eyebrows raising higher and higher. Seething with impatience, Mazie waited for the interminable time it took Nanette to file and shape twenty nails. Then Nanette hauled out a selection of nail polishes on a rolling cart. “What’ll it be, gals?”

  Holly tore her eyes away from the phone. “I’m getting Aquamarine Sunset. To go with my swimsuit.”

  “Orchid,” Mazie said.
/>   “Again?” Holly sniffed. “Try something different. New colors give you a psychological boost.”

  “You’re telling me I’m boring, right? Okay, to prove how nonboring I am, I’ll close my eyes and pick the first bottle I point to.” Squeezing shut her eyes, Mazie waved a hand around, hoping she wouldn’t pick black, and lit on a bottle. She opened her eyes. Robin’s Egg, a pale blue speckled with gold.

  Finally, when she’d separated their toes by wads of foam rubber and set their feet under a dryer, Nanette left and they could talk again.

  “You’re never going to believe this,” Holly whispered. “You know the Fawn Foundation?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s big, Mazie!”

  “How big?” She’d been picturing cans with coin slots at the checkout counters in local stores.

  “International. It’s got a website, it’s got a professionally produced video, and it’s set up to accept all major credit cards.”

  “Does it say how much money they’re sitting on?”

  “No, but I’ll ask Richie if he can find out. Being a tax attorney, he has access to databases not open to the public. But that’s not the good part, Mazie—check out who’s on the Fawn Foundation’s board of directors!”

  Mazie looked. There were only three names listed: Gil Fanchon, Bodelle Blumquist—and Oscar Woods.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I knew the pageant was coming up,” Holly moaned, turning sideways to check out her reflection in the three-way mirror. “I meant to lose weight: I clipped out pictures of nonfattening foods and taped them to my fridge; I took out a fitness center membership. But every time I imagined myself in a swimsuit in front of three hundred people I’d get stressed out and the only thing that helped was eating.”

  They were in the high school faculty lounge, now transformed into the pageant’s dressing room with full-length mirrors, plastic bins for cosmetics, and portable clothes racks.