by Diana Palmer
"I suppose you're justified in what you're thinking," she said quietly, "but you're quite wrong. I'm not trying totocome on to you. This morning was really an accident. And I have a bad battery connection that I meant to see about earlier, but I had some distractions. All I have to do is beat on it with a shoe, and I can crank it. So please don't let me detain you."
She turned back to the engine, her hands trembling with mingled hurt and confusion, took off her shoe and slammed it against the battery terminal with a sharp, angry blow. She stood up and almost collided with the mechanic.
"There does seem to be a little corrosion there," he said slowly, obviously surprised.
She didn't answer him. She didn't even look at him. She closed the hatch, got in behind the wheel and tried the key. This time it cranked.
She didn't look back as she drove off, fighting tears all the way. Horrible, arrogant, conceited man, she thought furiously, and wished she could call him what she was thinking he was.
Maureen had an active mental life. In her mind, she could be and do anything. But in real life, she was only a shadow of the person inside her. The inner Maureen could engage in verbal battles and give people the devil. But the outer Maureen, the one who seemed always to blend into the background, was a different proposition. She fumed and muttered, but she was too softhearted to argue with people. She walked away from fights. She always had.
Back at the small duplex in which she lived, she kicked off her shoes and flopped down on her worn sofa. She couldn't remember a time in her life when she'd been as weary. Everyone had bad days, she reminded herself. But hers seemed to go from bad to worse.
That ill-mannered mechanic's sarcasm had been the last straw. So he was dishy. That gave him no excuse to accuse her of chasing him, for heaven's sake. Who did he think he was? Nobody who really knew her would ever think her capable of such a thing. She smiled ruefully when she remembered that there wasn't anybody who really knew her. Only her parents, and she'd lost them. She had nobody anymore. She didn't make close friends easily because she was basically shy and introverted. She waited for other people to make the first move. But no one ever had. And that was too bad, she thought sadly, because the inner Maureen was as vivacious as Auntie Mame, as outrageous and outgoing as any comedienne, as sexy as a movie star. But she couldn't get out of Maureen's mind to tell people that she was. The reckless, devil-may-care person inside her needed only a catalyst to bring her out, but there had never been one. She dreamed of doing exciting things, and she admired people like the absent Mr. MacFaber who weren't afraid to really live their lives. But Maureen was a slow starter. In fact, she'd never really started anything, except her job.
She put on jeans and a T-shirt, brushed out her long, dark hair and went barefoot into the kitchen to cook herself a hamburger. On the way she almost tripped over Bagwell, who'd let himself out of his cage and was having a ball with her measuring spoons.
"For heaven's sake, what are you doing down there?" she fussed, bending over. "Did I forget to put the lock on the cage again?"
"Hello," the big green Amazon parrot purred up at her, spreading his wings in a flirting welcome. "How are you-u-u-u?"
"I'm fine, thank you." She extended an arm and let him climb on, pausing to pick up his spoons and put him and them back into the big brass-toned cage he occupied most of the day. "I'll let you out again when I'm through cooking. You'll singe your wings on the stove if you come too close."
"Bad girl," Bagwell muttered, running along his perch with the spoons in his big beak. He was a yellow-naped Amazon, almost seven years old, and extremely precocious. Her parents had brought him back from a Florida vacation one year and had quickly learned that Amazon parrots were very loud. They'd given him to Maureen two years ago for company and protection, and so far he'd done well providing both. The one man she'd invited over for supper had barely escaped with all his fingers. He hadn't come back.
"You're ruining my social life," Maureen told the big green bird with a glare. "Thanks to you, I'll never get a roommate."
"I love you," he said, and made a purring parroty noise behind it.
"Flirt," she accused. She smiled, cooking her hamburger. She was using an iron pan, not her usual coated cookware. There had been an article in some bird magazine that warned bird owners about using nonstick cookware; it had said that the fumes could kill a bird. So now she cooked in enamel or iron pans. It was much messier, but safe for Bagwell.
"How about a carrot, Bagwell?" she asked the parrot.
"Carrot! Carrot!" he echoed.
She got him one out of the crisper and heated it just to room temperature in the microwave before she put it in his food dish. He took half of it in his claw and stood eating it contentedly.
"You're company, at least." She sighed, turning the hamburger one last time before taking it up. "I'm glad you're good for seventy years or so, Bagwell. If I can't have a husband, at least I've got you."
Bagwell glanced at her with green disinterest and went back to chewing his carrot.
There was a commotion out front followed by a yelling voice giving instructions. It was usually a quiet neighborhood, but that was an ominous sound. Maureen left Bagwell and went into the living room to peep out from behind the curtain. Two men were at the other half of her duplex, the one that had remained unoccupied for the past six weeks since the music lover had moved out. People tended to come and go there, because the man who owned the other half of the duplex traveled and rented it out. The last occupant had been a hard-rock fan, and Maureen hadn't been sorry to see him leave. But now she was wondering who would take his place.
She got her answer almost at once, and it seemed like fate, sure enough. A bad end to an even worse day. A big, dark man in a red-and-rust-colored pickup truck had backed into the second driveway, with what was obviously a small load of furniture.
She closed the curtain before he saw her, thanking providence that her small yellow VW was out of sight so that he wouldn't realize who his nearest neighbor was. There were other houses and apartments in the neighborhood, but none close, and there were a lot of trees separating the small duplex from the other dwellings. Maureen had liked that when she moved in, but now she was beginning to feel uncomfortable. She didn't like that big man anymore, even if he was dishy, and she was frankly irritated that she wasn't going to be able to avoid him at home. Well, maybe he'd stay inside. That way she could do her precious gardening in the plot outback without having to be observed at it.
"AAAHHH!" Bagwell screamed. "AAAHHH!"
She rushed into the kitchen, putting her finger against her lips as she tried to quiet the screaming bird. It was almost dark, and Bagwell had to do his thing at sundown. Some Amazons purred themselves to sleep, she'd heard. Bagwell wasn't one of them. He did a whole routine, from screaming to hanging upside down from the ceiling of his cage, and he wouldn't stop until he was covered.
Terrified that her unwanted new neighbor was going to burst in the door any minute to find out who was being beaten, Maureen rushed to get a cloth and threw it over the cage. When Bagwell stopped yelling his parroty head off, she'd clean out the remains of his carrots and put in fresh water and papers.
She leaned against the wall with a sigh of relief. That was when she saw the shadow against the window. She felt her knees going weak. It had to be him. The shadow was huge, and if he was at the kitchen window, that meant he could see her yellow VW, which was parked just behind the duplex.
She waited there, frozen, to see what he did. But the shadow went away almost instantly, and nobody knocked.
Maureen remained immobile for another minute. Then she went and peeked out the curtain at the back door, but there was nobody in sight. Thank God, he wasn't going to give her any trouble.
But if he was a peace-loving man, Bagwell might give him some. The last occupant, while loud, had at least not complained about Bagwell. Maureen had a feeling that this new lodger wasn't fond of noise, musical or otherwise. It could present some proble
ms.
She made herself a sandwich and some coffee and finally uncovered Bagwell. He was nodding off, his eyes closed, his feathers ruffled, one leg pulled up under him.
"Loudmouth," she muttered.
He was purring to himself, making little singing noises that had amused her last boyfriend until Bagwell had tried to make dessert out of his fingers.
She sipped her coffee, wondering what she was going to do now that her new enemy had become her neighbor. What a horrible turn of events. It was such a wild coincidence, to have him living next door, out of all the apartments and houses vacant in the city. For just a minute, she thought about going next door and accusing him of chasing her . But she knew she'd never have the nerve. Still, how had he known about this vacant house, and did he know that she lived here? It was so curious.
She cleaned Bagwell's cage and covered him back up before she went to watch television. There wasn't much on, and she was tired. She made an early night of it, stretching lazily as she put on the long, men's pajama jacket that was all she wore to bed. It had been on sale at a department store and looked loose and comfortable. She didn't like frilly, lacy things that scratched, and she never could find a pair of women's pajamas that felt right. But this item did. She loved it, even though it brought back some bittersweet memories of a time when her parents had still been alive. Her mother had teased her about what man it belonged to, and they'd all laughed. Her parents had known that she was far too fastidious for love affairs. She was an unawakened twenty-four, a plain girl who didn't appeal to most men. She'd learned to accept that, and now she lived for her work. She had a good job and made good money, thanks to the MacFaber Corporation. She must be adept at her job, because her last boss had recommended her to Mr. Blake. She felt fortunate to be so highly thought of, when there were typists with more than her six months' experience who'd lost out on the junior secretary's job she held.
She turned out her light and lay back on the double bed, listening to the night sounds: traffic, and the occasional dog, and jets flying overhead. Closer, there was a different sound, like someone moving heavy objects around. She flushed as she realized that it must be her new neighbor. She'd never been in the other house, but probably his bedroom was right through that wall. She moved restlessly and decided that the very next day she was going to move her bed against another wall!
Two
» ^ «
Maureen hated her own cowardice the next morning, but she peeked around the corner before she went out her door. The last thing she wanted was a confrontation with her new neighbor, even if she did probably have to see him at work.
She got into her yellow VW, and crossing her fingers for luck, managed to crank it on the first try. She backed it out into the road and drove off, noticing with relief that the truck wasn't in the other side of the driveway. He must already have left for work.
Sure enough, when she got to the MacFaber Corporation offices, the red-and-rust pickup was already there. Maureen went quickly into the building and to the office she shared with Mr. Blake, glancing nervously around. But her new neighbor was nowhere in sight, thank God.
Mr. Blake glanced up when she took him the mail, staring at her blankly.
"The mail, sir," Maureen said, putting it in front of him on the cluttered desk.
"Yes, of course," he murmured. He seemed to be looking through her, as he did when he was preoccupied.
"Is something wrong, Mr. Blake?" she asked worriedly.
"No, nothing at all," he assured her, but he didn't look terribly convincing. She knew that his brother-in-law had been out on sick leave ever since the disappointing trial run of the new Faber-jet design. Maybe he was worried about the older man.
"Is your brother-in-law getting better?" she asked.
He gave her a quick, suspicious look.
"I know you must be worried about him," she said gently. "I hope he's all right."
"He's much better, thank you, Maureen," he said stiffly. "I expect he'll be back at work before very long." He moved uncomfortably, as if it bothered him to talk about personal subjects. "Get me the Radley file, if you please."
"Yes, sir." She smiled. She liked her boss, but he had seemed terribly unlike himself lately. He needed to rest more, she decided, and not worry so much. His brother-in-law, Mr. Jameson, was a much less regimented person, a mechanic with an easygoing temperament but a stubborn resistance to authority and new techniques. She smiled, thinking privately that Mr. Jameson and the new mechanic would probably butt heads pretty quickly. It disturbed her to think about her disagreeable new neighbor.
She took Mr. Blake the file and went back to her routine. She enjoyed her job, but it could get hectic, especially when there were visiting dignitaries or government inspectors around. There was a lot of concern about the disappointing first test flight of the corporation's Faber jet, and perhaps that was at the root of Mr. Blake's nervousness. Quality control was where the buck stopped when anything went wong with new designs, especially when the design department could prove that they weren't at fault. That put not only Maureen's boss but the entire quality-control department on the firing line.
The design department had already proved itself blameless; they'd shown a computer-graphics presentation of the craft's performance on paper. The plane should have flown perfectly. So now everybody was beginning to think that the flaw was much more likely the result of sabotage than a design defect. MacFaber had enemies. Most successful companies and executives did. One particular rival firm, Peters Aviation, had recently made a takeover bid for MacFaber's corporation. But characteristically, old MacFaber had pulled his irons out of the fire just in time by gathering up proxies. He had three votes over what he needed to win the fight, and Peters had gone away fuming but empty-handed. But if the new design failed, and Peters got his design in ahead of time, the board of directors might vote a lack of faith in MacFaber and approve the takeover. It was a risky situation.
Maureen, like the rest of the staff, had wondered at the poor maiden performance of the renovated Faber jet. It didn't seem possible that it had been sabotaged, but the evidence was beginning to point that way. How curious that Mr. MacFaber hadn't been roaring around the place raising Cain over the difficulties. But perhaps the lady in Rio had him mesmerized.
"I'd like to mesmerize someone, just once," she muttered as she pulled up the Faber-jet file on her computer and began to type the performance report Mr. Blake had given her.
The intercom buzzed, interrupting her thoughts. "Miss Harris."
"Yes, Mr. Blake?"
"Please go down to Mr. MacFaber's office and ask Charlene for the latest figures on the cost overrun on the Faber-jet modifications," he said.
"I'll go right now."
She left the computer up and running and went down the hall to the huge office that Mr. MacFaber occupied when he was in residence. Charlene, a pretty blonde, was glaring at her computer monitor and grumbling.
"I hate computers," she said, glaring at the screen. "I hate computers, I hate companies that use computers, I even hate people who make computers!"
"Shame on you," Maureen said. "You'll upset it and it will get sick."
"Good. I hope it dies! It just ate a whole morning's work and it won't give it back!"
"Here. I'll save you. Get up." Maureen grinned at her, sat down, and within five minutes had pulled out the backup copy of the file, copied it, and put Charlene back in the chair.
Charlene stared at her suspiciously. "I don't trust people who understand how to do things like that. What if you're an enemy agent or something?"
"I can't possibly be. I don't even own a trench coat," Maureen said reasonably. "Mr. Blake wants the latest cost-overrun figures on the Faber jet. I'd have asked for them on my terminal, but I imagined you having hysterics if you had to try to send it via your modem."
Charlene's eyes narrowed. "I don't even know how to turn on the modem, if you want the truth. I never wanted this job in the first place. Computers, mode
ms, electronic typewritersif the pay wasn't so good, I'd leave tomorrow. You try sitting here trying to explain to everybody short of God that Mr. MacFaber hasn't set foot in the office for the past year. Just try. Then explain to all these people who keep calling him that he can't be reached by phone because he's sitting on the banks of the Amazon contemplating the ancient Incas or something!"
"I'm really sorry," Maureen said. "But I do need the cost-overrun figures"
Charlene sighed. "Okay."
She got up and fumbled through her immaculate filing cabinets until she got what she was looking for and handed a file to Maureen. "Don't lose it and don't let it out of your sight. Mr. Johnston will kill me if it vanishes."
"You know very well the vice president in charge of production worships the ground you walk on."
Charlene smiled smugly. "Yes, I do know. If he doesn't watch out, I'll have him in front of a minister. He's sexy."
"I think so, too, but we can't all look like you," Maureen told her. "Some of us have to look like me."
"I like your new hairdo and makeup," Charlene said kindly.
"I'm still going home alone, though." Maureen shrugged. "Maybe someday I'll get lucky." She glanced around the plush, carpeted office. "Have you ever seen your boss?"
"Once, at a dead run, when I first got this promotion three months ago. Mostly I get memos and phone calls and relayed messages. He's not bad looking, I guess. A bit old for my taste. Graying around the edges, you know, and a little on the heavy side. Too much high living, I suppose." She frowned. "Although it could have been that bulky coat he was wearing." She shrugged. "He had on dark glasses and a hatI wouldn't know him in a police lineup."