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

by Juliet Rosetti

  “Don’t start,” Mazie snapped. “I’ve got a parasol and I’m not afraid to use it.”

  She was panting and sweaty from her sprint to the courthouse square, but she needn’t have worried about being late. The parade showed no signs of starting. The high school band was still tootling and tweedling on the courthouse lawn, bored-looking horses were chafing at the bit, and the 4-H kids were still frantically gluing tissue paper rosettes onto their float. She’d found the car she was supposed to ride in by the simple expedient of walking around the square until she found a convertible with a banner on its side door reading Mazie Maguire, Miss 2002.

  “Is this thing yours?” she asked Johnny, pointing to the car.

  “Yup. Beauty, huh?”

  The convertible was a bright turquoise Chevy Bel Air dating from the era of rocketship tail fins, hoods the length of shuffleboard courts, and hubcaps the size of flying saucers. It could have doubled as a Star Wars cargo transporter. Johnny Hoolihan, the class hood, the kid who rode an Indian motorbike to school because Harleys were for fat old farts in five-hundred-dollar leather jackets, would have spit on the Bel Air.

  But times change, and Johnny Hoolihan had changed too. He was a proud parent to this whale, pointing out its V-8 engine, bench seats, hood ornament, big chrome bumpers, and other incomprehensible details. Mazie found her gaze lingering not on the car, but on Johnny, who wore era-appropriate skinny-leg jeans and a biceps-revealing white T-shirt. His hair was too short to wear in a ducktail, but he still managed to emit a sexy Grease vibe. He smelled good too, she noticed, inhaling cedar and spice as Johnny moved closer to show her the workmanship on the car’s grille.

  Mazie scanned the Bel Air’s vast metal bulk. “Does this thing actually run?”

  “Like a tank, baby. Seven miles to the gallon.”

  “How did I wind up with you as my driver?” she asked.

  Johnny gave her a slow, smug smile. “Because I got hold of the list of who rides in what car and made a switch.”

  “I bet you’re sorry now you switched.” Mazie twirled around slowly, the better to give him the full effect of the gown’s radioactive yellow glory. The back of the skirt moved a millisecond slower than the front, as though the rear was hurrying to catch up with the front. She hadn’t had time to go back to the school and change into heels, so she was still wearing her old tennis shoes with no socks. There was a rip in the toe of the right shoe, and her robin’s egg blue toenail polish gleamed through.

  Johnny’s eyes lingered a little too long on Mazie’s own front bumpers. “No,” he said. “I do not regret cheating to win the privilege of driving Miss Mazie.”

  “Oops—almost forgot my sash.” Mazie pulled the satin sash out of her purse. It was rumpled and frayed, but you could still clearly read Miss Quail Hollow 2002 on it. She draped it across her chest.

  “It’s crooked,” Johnny said. “Let me help.” She could feel his hands, warm and dry against her bare back as he adjusted the sash, and her heart seemed to be attempting one of those dances popular back in the ’60s—the Watusi or the Cool Jerk. Steady, Maguire—you already have a man.

  “I thought you’d be tied up with the murder investigation,” Mazie said.

  “Spent the whole night on it. Haven’t been to bed yet. If we get through this parade without some idiot throwing firecrackers in the Slurpee machine, I might even get to go to bed.”

  Johnny looked as though he needed a ten-gallon coffee transfusion.

  “Did you find out who killed Derek?”

  “No, we did not, but if we did I wouldn’t tell you. Do you think law enforcement officials go around blabbing everything they know to the public?”

  “But I’m not the public. I’m a Miss Quail Hollow—I ought to be in the loop, the way Double-oh-seven keeps the Queen of England informed on terrorism stuff.”

  Even through his dark sunglasses, she could see Johnny’s eyes roll, but she went on.

  “It’s part of my job to assist our brave, dedicated law enforcement officials in fulfilling their duties, however I can, Chief Hoolihan.”

  “Shoveling it on pretty thick there, aren’t you? But I like the part about you fulfilling me.”

  Mazie whacked his arm with her parasol. “Sir, a gentleman does not speak that way to a lady!”

  “Well, kiss my grits, honey—I didn’t know I was in the presence of one.”

  “Come on, Johnny—at least tell me if you arrested someone.”

  “No.”

  “No you didn’t arrest someone, or nope you’re not saying?”

  He folded his arms and leaned back against the car, no longer quite so thrilled at having the privilege of carting around Miss ’02. “No. Comment.”

  “If you answer just a few teeny-tiny questions, I’ll share my theory on Mr. Big. It’s a quid pro quo—everyone wins.”

  “Who the hell is Mr. Big?”

  “That’s what I’ll tell you. But you go first—tell me whether you found the murder suspect’s fingerprints in the van.”

  “Mazie, do you really think your wiles are going to win me over?” Johnny was trying to be stern, but a smile was lurking somewhere at the corners of his mouth.

  “Look—think of me as a police informant. You pay your snitches, don’t you? You pay me in information. So, did you get the perp’s fingerprints?”

  Johnny blew out a long breath. “You know, I have to admit I didn’t care much for that big-city boyfriend of yours. But now I feel kind of sorry for the poor sap. He doesn’t stand a chance against you, does he? All right—I’ll tell you about the prints. We found dozens of ’em inside Ralston’s van. Outside too. And guess what—there was a print on the license plate that belonged to none other than Miss Quail Hollow 2002.”

  “I guess I’m in the system, huh?”

  “Bells and whistles, baby. Now what do I make of that dainty little print?”

  Mazie took out her lipstick and scrolled it on, using the Bel Air’s big side mirror to check her reflection. “I saw Duke’s van in the high school parking lot and thought it looked like the one that ran me off the road. I meant to ask you to check the plates, but you were out that day, and things got a little crazy and—you don’t really think I shot him, do you? I don’t even know how to operate a gun. What kind of weapon was it?”

  “A .22-caliber handgun.”

  “Was it left behind at the scene?”

  “No, we haven’t found it yet.” He frowned at her. “How did you trick me into telling you all that?”

  “I’m just a good listener, sweetpea.”

  A fire engine siren wailed. “That’s the signal,” Johnny said. “You ready to roll?”

  “Yup. Me and the twenty-ton Tweety Bird.”

  Johnny opened the car’s rear door and helped her step in, the hoop skirt bobbing as though it were trying to escape the bounds of gravity. Johnny had spread a rug on the trunk for Mazie to sit on, but the perch still felt precarious. Any sudden stops and she was going to do a back flip over the rear bumper and end up splatted on the pavement like a skydiver who’d forgotten to pull the rip cord.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be wearing a crown?” Johnny asked.

  “Oh, right.” Digging in her purse, Mazie unearthed the tiara she’d bought at an accessories shop in the mall and stuck it on her head.

  Johnny looked at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You look really pretty. If I didn’t know how devious you are, I might even fall in love with you.”

  Why was it that compliments to her were always wrapped inside insults?

  Johnny got in and started the car. The eight cylinders roared to life, then settled down into a purr as the Bel Air eased away from the curb and into the street. Unfortunately, they hadn’t drawn the choicest placement in the parade; they were directly behind the Roy Rogers Rangers, a troop of middle-aged women in cowboy getup riding palomino horses. The horses were gorgeous, their coats polished to a golden sheen, their manes and tails shiny white plumes, but they must have be
en overrationed on bran because they were pooping enthusiastically. Johnny kept a wary distance between his car and the horses, driving at a snail-paced five miles an hour.

  This day that had started out so hot and sunny was growing increasingly overcast. Dark clouds were massing in the south, and a stiff breeze had sprung up, snapping flags, whirling grit through the air, and wreaking havoc with Mazie’s hair.

  “Okay, time for you to deliver on this Mr. Big of yours. Who is he?” Johnny asked.

  Pasting on her beauty queen smile, Mazie waved to a troop of Brownie Scouts flourishing miniature flags. “I think he’s the one who told Ralston to attack us out in the woods, to do whatever it took to get rid of us. If he got to rape me or cut up my face, that was just a bonus.”

  The Police and Fireman’s Band, marching behind their convertible, struck up “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” making conversation impossible. Feeling immensely dorky, Mazie waved in time with the beat as they slowly rolled along Main Street.

  Finally the number ended and Mazie asked, “Johnny—what do you think happened to Fawn?”

  He adjusted the rearview mirror and his blue-gray eyes caught hers. “What happened to Fawn Fanchon? I’ve been puzzling over that for years. Fawn and I were in the same class, you know—at least those times I made it to school. But here’s my take on it: Fawn is dead. She would never have left those little brothers of hers.”

  “Her dad thinks she’s still alive.”

  Johnny shook his head in disgust. “Gil Fanchon is a lying piece of crap. The night of the pageant, he was supposed to take the little boys to see Fawn. Instead, he went to a bar, leaving the kids—none of them older than ten—alone at home. When the boys didn’t show up at the pageant, Fawn would have realized they were home alone. She’d have been anxious to get back and check on them. Did you know Social Services took the boys away after Fawn disappeared?”

  Mazie shook her head. “Was it because Gil was a suspect in Fawn’s disappearance?”

  “He was investigated, but I think they took the kids away because Gil was a rotten parent. That didn’t keep him from playing the grieving daddy. For once in his life he was famous for something other than being voted the guy most likely to drown in his own vomit. The court wouldn’t give the boys back until he went through alcohol counseling.”

  A few drops of rain plunked down, fat drops that sent up a smell of wet earth. Mazie pageant-waved to the bystanders, remembering the beauty queen mantra: Elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, touch your pearls and blow a kiss. Some people clapped; some called out greetings; some flipped her the bird. Oh, well, even the Queen of England got a few of those.

  The parade ground to a halt and Johnny drummed his fingers on the wheel. “Going back to your Mr. Big—let me see if I got this straight. You think your Mr. Big killed Fawn? And he hired Ralston to keep you from unearthing the evidence?”

  “Right. Only Derek screwed up—his meth exploded, he caught on fire, he panicked. He went to Mr. Big for help, asked to be taken to a doctor.”

  “But Mr. Big thought Ralston would squeal his guts out, so he killed him.”

  “Something like that.”

  The wind picked up as they rolled past Oscar’s Bar. She caught a glimpse of Oscar Woods inside, moving around briskly, keeping up with customer demand. The parade must mean booming business for him.

  A strong gust of wind caught Mazie’s skirts. Her hoops, exhibiting all the stability of a Slinky toy on an escalator, boomeranged up to waist level, allowing parade watchers an unimpeded view of her bunny-printed bikini panties. Johnny caught the show in his rearview mirror and almost drove the car into the butt of a horse. The barflies clustered outside the tavern hooted, cheered, and raised their go-cups in salutes.

  “Ya got my vote, ’02!”

  “Mine too,” Johnny muttered.

  The crowds grew denser as they approached the center of downtown, the early birds in lawn chairs at the curbs, dads holding their toddlers up on their shoulders, kids waving flags in time with the “On, Wisconsin” being blared out by the high school band. The rain was spattering down lightly, and already umbrellas were being unfurled. They’d be lucky to make it through the parade without getting drenched, Mazie thought.

  Gran and the rummage sale ladies were standing out in front of the church, clapping. Gran pumped her fist and cheered. Nice to know she had at least one die-hard fan, Mazie thought, waving at Gran. But there was one person she still hoped to see.

  And there he was! He stood outside the hardware store, flanked by the twins, a head taller than everyone else. He caught Mazie’s eye, and she blew him a kiss, letting her skirt bounce up enough so he’d glimpse her underpants. Their eyes remained locked. Then Bonaparte Labeck picked up something he’d been holding at his side. It was Mazie’s queenometer.

  He raised it and held it in the center of his body so that the big bulb was at groin level and the stem was standing straight upright, bright red all the way to the top. He placed his hand over his heart and sent her a smile whose meaning was perfectly explicit: Once you’re on that boat—prepare to be boarded!

  Chapter Thirty-three

  There’s a reason Southern belles wore hoop skirts the size of circus tents. The ruffled blimps were designed to keep predatory males two yards away from the cookie jar. It would have required the arms of Rubber Man to undo the zillions of tiny hooks that defended a magnolia blossom’s honey pot. No way was that dress coming off until the ink on the marriage contract was dry.

  Mazie was discovering this firsthand, because a lust-crazed man was attempting to get into her knickers and she was doing everything possible to aid him in the task. Her lips were kissed to a state of bee-stung puffiness, her blood was roller-coastering through her veins, all systems were go, go, go.

  But his fingers were too big to undo the buttons.

  In a state of painful readiness himself, her beau took the low road, tugging up the skirt hem. The hoops boomeranged, flipping the skirt over her head.

  “This is like wrestling a giant squid,” he growled, squashing the hoops to Mazie’s sides like giant saddlebags. His hands flew to her waist. Paused.

  “What’s this?”

  “They’re called pantalettes,” she explained.

  He uttered a bad word. Pantalettes were the Southern belle’s last line of defense, designed to thwart the bounder or cad who managed to penetrate the outer walls, the fabric equivalent of boiling oil poured from the ramparts. Mazie had hauled them on after the parade, when the temperature had plummeted and cold air was blowing up her skirts.

  Her own bounder was too cunning and resourceful to be thwarted for long. He was expert at gaining access to off-limits places and wasn’t about to let a triple granny knot bar the gates to Paradise. He had the knot undone in a heartbeat and began to slide the polished cotton down her hips, while sliding his lips from her mouth to her neck to the tops of her breasts.

  “Ben.” Mazie broke away, breathless. “Somebody might come along.”

  They were aboard the Coulee Queen, chartered for a dinner cruise around Quail Lake. The Queen was basically a big, flat-bottomed, floating box, its squarish lines softened by lacy ironwork balconies set about its three-tiered decks. It was white with blue trim and looked like an oversized wedding cake, except that where the bride and groom figurines would have been on a cake there were tall, double smokestacks. Although the boat was powered by diesel engines, it sported a bright red paddle wheel on its stern to give it a rakish riverboat appearance. The Queen was a wildly popular venue during the summer months for weddings, anniversary parties, and class reunions. Bodelle had chartered it months in advance for the Miss Quail Hollow banquet.

  Mazie had thought the cruise might be canceled because of the weather, but apparently drizzle and dark were no problems. To compensate for the dreary weather, people turned to drink, taking advantage of the open bar, most of them preferring to stay inside the cabin rather than brave the rain. All the pageant contestants were here, along w
ith their families and friends—probably fifty or sixty people in all. At the moment Mazie was supposed to be in the top-floor salon, posing for a group photo, but when Ben had snugged his arm around her waist and with a meaningful glint in his eye suggested a stroll on the deck, Mazie had slipped away. They’d found a deserted hallway outside the second-floor salon, but as things had rapidly progressed beyond kissing they’d realized they required more privacy.

  Within seconds Ben had found an alcove inside the lifebuoy locker, a space too narrow for horizontal bodies but just wide enough for two clinging vertical bodies. He yanked down the locker’s canvas awning to conceal them and took up where he’d left off. Pinning Mazie against a stack of life jackets, he freed her hush puppies from their constraints and cupped them in his hands. “This dress,” he murmured.

  “I know,” she said. “It’s awful.”

  “No, it’s great! Kind of kinky. I like it.”

  Forget garter belts and bustiers—Ben Labeck got hard over hoop skirts! Filing this fact away for future reference, Mazie loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, slid her hands inside his shirt, skimmed her fingers along the bare skin of his chest. His breath caught in his throat and she could feel his heart beating wildly beneath her hands.

  The pantalettes floated to the deck, pooling around her ankles. Ben kissed her neck and shoulders while she fumbled, hands shaking, with his belt and then his zipper.

  “Oh, God,” he murmured, breath ragged.

  “Oh, God,” Mazie breathed.

  “Oh my God!” someone screamed.

  More screams and shrieks came from the balcony above. Mazie and Ben looked into each other’s eyes, wondering whether they could achieve nirvana in five seconds. Answer: no.

  “Wait here,” Ben said. He was zipped up and out of the locker before Mazie’s lust-dazed brain comprehended what he was doing.

  Wait here, my ass! It took ages to pull up the stupid Bo Peep pantalettes, shove her boobs back into the dress, and assemble herself so she didn’t look like a slut who snuck off to get her jollies in the jolly boat. Galumphing up the stairs to the third-story deck with all the grace of the Fuji Blimp crashing into a skyscraper, she arrived just as Ben launched himself off a railing and into the lake.