Tangled Thing Called Love (13 page)

Johnny stopped at the bottom of the steps, turned, and looked at Mazie. “Oh, I almost forgot.”

It was the
Columbo
gambit, Mazie thought: the false exit, then the seemingly casual “Oh, uh, one more thing.” She’d seen it in every
Columbo
rerun—the ploy that catches the suspect off guard and confuses her into confessing a vital secret. Johnny was even scratching his head like Columbo. They’d let down their guard too soon!

“I had an interesting conversation with Bodelle Blumquist this afternoon,” Johnny said. “I happened to mention to her that it’s illegal to discriminate against people on the basis of their prison records.” He paused, looked Mazie directly in the eye, and said, “Here’s the magic word:
lawsuit
. Bodelle right away backed down. Said you’d misunderstood her meaning and that of course you’re welcome in the pageant.”

He sketched a salute and left. For good this time.

Mazie and Holly stood staring at each other for a dumbstruck second, then Holly shrieked, “Mazie—you’re back in!
And
we’re not going to jail! We should celebrate!”

“I don’t know …” Mazie didn’t share Holly’s sense of jubilation at being back in the pageant, although, now that she thought about it, she liked the idea of annoying Bodelle Blumquist. “Okay,” she finally said. “I’m in.”

She and Holly knuckle-bumped to seal the deal, but when Holly started rattling off everything she would need, Mazie nearly decided to back out again. “A swimsuit, of course,” Holly said, ticking items off on her fingers, “and some kind of costume for the talent competition, and two evening gowns—one for the convertible parade on Saturday afternoon and one for the final competition—”

“Swimsuit? Evening gown?” Mazie squawked. “The dressiest thing I own is a clean T-shirt! Where am I supposed to come up with this stuff?”

Holly shrugged. “The fashion fairy?”

The fashion fairy?
Of course!

Mazie took out her phone and punched in Magenta’s number.

He answered on the first ring. “Hey, sweetie. I miss you like crazy. Do they have you wearing bib overalls and pitching manure?”

Magenta was Mazie’s best male friend, a combination of fashion guru, yenta, and big brother. His real name was Wally Pfluge, but he’d decided he didn’t want to go through
life with a name that sounded like window grout and had renamed himself for a
Rocky Horror Picture Show
character. He ran a boutique for drag queens on Milwaukee’s Brady Street, rented Mazie the flat behind his shop, looked after Muffin when she needed a dogsitter, and had been Mazie’s most reliable shoulder to cry on when Ben had left her.

“No bibs,” Mazie said. “Just lust-crazed swampies who crave spanking—”

“Oh, honey, had I but known!”

“And a lost girl and a hot police chief and I’m going to be in the Miss Quail Hollow Pageant.”

“I’m so torn here. What do I need to hear about first—Officer Hottie or the beauty pageant? Oh, go with the pageant—you know what a sucker I am for these things. The gowns! The gloves to the armpits. The ventriloquist acts!”

“I need an evening gown.”

“Clutching my hand to my palpitating bosom here, sweetikins. Do you know how long I’ve waited for you to utter that sentence? It’s like waiting for your kids to produce a grandchild. Serendipity at work here, Mazie: I’ve got the perfect thing—it’s a Jovani. I just bought it from Sarah Jessica Parker!”

“
The
Sarah Jessica Parker?”

“Well, from the boutique that sold it to SJP. She took it home but then changed her mind, so technically it’s used clothing—but she’s exactly your size, unless you’ve gained weight, what with all the deep-fried cheese balls you’ve probably been scarfing.”

“I lost a half pound. I call it the hellion-twins diet.”

“When do you need the dress?”

“By Saturday. But is there any chance you could come on Thursday instead, to whip me into shape for the swimsuit competition?”

There was a pause while Magenta mulled it over, then he said, “Tell you what. I’ll close at two on Thursday—it’s a slow time of year, anyway. I’ll drive out, bring the SJP and my little basket of goodies. Do they have electricity out in the boonies or should I bring batteries?”

“Just bring yourself.”

“Kisses to the Muffster.”

“Who were you talking to?” Holly asked when Mazie hung up. “She sounded kind
of weird.”

“He,”
Mazie corrected. “Magenta is a guy. My secret weapon.” Mazie did a bump and grind that made little Mallory break into giggles. “Tritt and Wuntz are not going to know what hit ’em.”

Chapter Fifteen

As a teenager, Mazie had spent half her summers in the back porch hammock, a crescent of saggy canvas strung between two sturdy porch pillars. It had started off its life with spiffy blue and yellow stripes, but after decades of wind and sun, it had faded to a washed-out beige. One year, home from college, she’d sewn half a dozen throw pillows in bright ginghams and florals and arranged them in a
Better Homes and Gardens
–style layout on the hammock. Cats and female family members adored those pillows. Males hated them. You could always tell who’d been using the hammock last because if it was a guy, the pillows would be dumped on the floor.

Mazie had never been able to comprehend this male animosity toward throw pillows, but it seemed to be a gender-specific trait, like selective hearing or never unloading the dishwasher. At the moment the pillows were on the porch deck and Bonaparte Labeck’s long frame was sprawled in the hammock, squinting at his iPad.

“Mazie—Holly sent the diary,” he said, looking up as she came out onto the porch. She’d changed out of her grungy shorts and T-shirt into a yellow sundress with skinny straps and espadrilles in fiesta colors.

Ben set down the iPad and scanned Mazie top to bottom. He rarely paid much attention to what she wore because he was more interested in what lay beneath, but he had the sense to say, “You look delicious.”

“Thanks,” she said, a little stiffly.

Still pissed-off at him, Ben thought. About time he did something about that. “You want to read the rest of the diary, don’t you?” he said, raising an eyebrow, holding out the iPad coaxingly.

She bit her lip. Skittish, but taking the bait…

“You can’t see from over there. Come here.” He moved over an inch on the hammock—a hammock he had big plans for—and patted the space next to him.

Apparently her curiosity outweighed her grudge, and she lowered herself onto the hammock, trying to keep a space between them—but gravity made that impossible, the
hammock’s slant tilting her toward his body.

He arranged her so that her head was snuggled against his chest, their hips and thighs touching. Her legs were bare and he was wearing shorts, and skin brushed skin, and it was so erotic he nearly groaned. She must have just taken a bath; she smelled so good he wanted to lick her—up, down, and all around. Her skirt hiked up and he wondered whether she was wearing panties underneath. He was becoming aroused. Very aroused, very hard, and very damn frustrated because it had been a long time since he’d made love to this woman.

Holly had kept Fawn’s flash drive but had downloaded the diary and sent it to Ben’s email. Having spent a frustrating day going through the police investigation records and coming up with more questions than answers, Ben had been delighted to hear about the existence of Fawn’s diary.

They read it together. Mazie had already read the first few entries at Holly’s house, but Ben was a fast reader and they were soon at the part she hadn’t seen yet. In late fall, Fawn had started writing about her hopes of getting into college, how she was working hard to keep her grade point average up and cramming for the SATs. Several boys had asked her out, but she’d turned them down because she was too busy with homework and babysitting her brothers.

“Awfully mature for her age,” Ben said.

“True,” Mazie said, “But still a kid in some ways.” The day Fawn had passed her driver’s test she’d filled an entire page with smiley-face emoticons, which made both Ben and Mazie smile.

In December of her senior year Fawn had started working at the BZ Garage.

Tuesday, December 12

Buzzy Zuff is the owner of the garage, but Bodelle Blumquist, his sister, is the one who hired me since Buzzy isn’t very good at book work and the other details of running a business—in fact, he can barely read. He doesn’t talk much either and has a speech impediment that makes it hard to understand him. He’s autistic, but he can take an engine apart and put it back together in about five minutes flat.

Ms. Peterson, my psychology teacher, said a lot of autistic people are like that—they’re geniuses at some special thing, and Buzzy’s genius is fixing engines. He does bodywork too, oil changes, tires—anything to do with cars and trucks.

Buzzy has a big head, a stocky body, and powerful arms—I guess from all the lifting and stuff he does all day. His face never shows much expression but he seems happy as long as he has engines to work on.

It’s hard to believe Buzzy and Bodelle belong to the same family. They’re complete opposites. Bodelle is tall, pretty, and clever. She was some Miss Beer Thing years ago and manages to drop that into the conversation about ten times a day: “Back when I was Miss Beer Thing …” She moved to Hollywood and did some piddly stuff that made her think she was an actress, but apparently that fizzled out because she moved back here to Zilchville. She still acts like she’s hot shit and thinks she ought to be able to run this town. I think she’s ashamed of Buzzy’s being her brother and is always complaining about what a nuisance it is having him live with her.

Friday, January 12

Last month Bodelle bought this old Winnebago RV and had it hauled into the garage. It’s supposed to be Buzzy’s new living quarters. The trailer is kind of cute—it’s real small but it’s got a bed, kitchen, toilet and stuff. Buzzy took one step inside, then rushed out, making this squealing noise. He hates tiny enclosed spaces—is that claustrophobia? I’ll have to look it up because I’m taking the ACTs next week and you get tested on your vocab.

Sunday, January 14

Bodelle was in a snit about Buzzy refusing to live in the RV and told Buzzy he couldn’t live with her anymore. He rented a room at the Starlite Motel out on the highway. The RV is locked up and is supposed to be sold, but Channing—that’s Bodelle’s daughter—we’re both seniors—has a key and invites her friends into the RV for beer parties after the garage closes down for the night.

A dull
fwump
came from the vicinity of the orchard, followed by excited barking and the sounds of the boys’ voices.

“That damn potato gun again!” Mazie grumped.

“Awesome!” Joey’s voice.

“Put the Barbie doll in next.” Sam.

“Head first or feet first?”

“Feet.” Sam.

“Did the dog poop yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Give him some more butter.” Joey.

“Okay. I just hope the poop doesn’t stink up the barrel.”

“What are we aiming it at?”

“That sheet on the clothesline.”

“Want me to go strangle them?” Ben asked.

“Yes. Later. Scroll.”

Ben wrapped an arm around Mazie’s shoulder and pulled her closer to him.

Saturday, February 3

All I want to do is sleep! Jody and Tiff asked me to go to the mall with them but I’m too pooped. Have been working from 3 to 6 every night at the garage and worked all day today. We were so busy. My job is typing up the work order invoices and boy oh boy is it fun trying to decipher Buzzy’s scribbles! Then I have to look up how much a part costs and how much the labor per hour is and then total it all up and enter it into Buzzy’s Stone Age computer, which is slower than drying paint. Also I have to file papers, wash windows, and try to keep the grease scrubbed off the doors. Plus I have to make coffee. Buzzy drinks like fifty cups a day—he’s a total caffeine tripper. The very worst job is cleaning the johns, and holy frick—you wouldn’t believe what pigs some guys are! When the drive-in opens this summer I’m going to apply to work there because nothing could be worse than this crappy job.

Katie Maguire appeared at the screen door and looked out. “Oops—sorry, didn’t mean to disturb your canoodling. Just wanted to let you know there’s fresh strawberries in the kitchen. Help yourselves.”

“What’s canoodling?” Ben asked when Mazie’s gran had left.

“I don’t know, but it sounds kind of dirty,” Mazie said.

“Then why aren’t we doing it?”

Oh, how she wanted to canoodle with Ben Labeck.

He kissed her bare shoulder, slid his hand up under her skirt, and discovered that she was wearing cheekini panties.

Reluctantly, she slid his hand off her thigh. “We have to finish the diary.” She picked up the tablet, and held it so they both could see it.

Wednesday, March 7

I’ve got wheeeeels!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Buzzy gave me a truck!!!!!!!!! It’s old, it’s butt-ugly, but it runs and it’s mine, mine, mine bwahahahahahahahaha! He got it free from some farmer who just wanted it towed out of his shed. It was all covered in chicken shit, but somehow Buzzy got the engine running and said I could have the truck if I didn’t mind spending a fortune on oil.

I think Buzzy feels a little sorry for me, how I always have to wait around after the garage closes for Pop to pick me up. Half the time he doesn’t remember and I end up walking home in the dark.

Back to the truck. It’s a GM—about thirty years old, dark green, and the best thing is it’s got this kind of double cab thing—a big bench seat up front and then a cramped rear bench seat. There’ll be room for all the monkeys at once! Tonight, for our first official ride, we’re going to the Dairy Queen and I’m treating everyone to sundaes. Pop says I’ll spend every penny I earn on gas and oil but I don’t care. I’ve got wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeels!