2 Days 'Til Sundae (2 'Til Series Book 1)

by Heather Muzik

  Magnus yipped like a much smaller dog and got low on his front legs, trying to entice them to get up and play.

  “Magnus!” That voice again, still smooth enough to be trouble to Catherine’s ears.

  Joel Trager was backlit by the floodlights that had suddenly illuminated the yard just inches from where they were spread-eagle on the ground.

  “What did you find to play with? …. You got a possum, boy?” he asked, getting ever closer. “You know he’ll tear you up.”

  “Shit—shit—shit—” Georgia said under her breath. She sounded like a skipping record.

  Tara was totally still, eyes wide—finally they’d found something that shut her trap.

  Suddenly Georgia’s needle jumped the scratch. “I can’t go to jail. I can’t have a baby there. I can’t be somebody’s bitch—I’m going to be a mother….” she babbled, her words becoming incoherent.

  They both looked over at Catherine who was busy scratching. They sandwiched her between fearful gazes, forcing her to look straight ahead at the next worst thing in her life right now—Joel Trager.

  “Now what in the hell is this?” he asked.

  She could only imagine what it looked like to the unaware homeowner.

  “It’s Charlie’s freakin’ Angels in my front yard!” He ran his hands through his unbelievable head of hair; he didn’t even try and it was perfect, which made her hate him even more. He fixed his gaze first on Georgia, with her red waves peeking insistently out from under the black knit beanie, twigs poking out of the material in spots as if maybe she had purposely attempted to improve her camouflage. Then Tara with her black football lines on her face and high-heel boots better suited to the more selective criminal activity of streetwalking than burgling. Then, self-satisfaction brimming, he fixated on Catherine, not even having the courtesy to seem in the least surprised.

  She jumped up, hoping to stave off a call to the police. “I can explain,” Catherine begged.

  “Try me.”

  “You see, we weren’t actually trying to steal anything.” Her breath came in quick gasps. “I just—I have to get home and I thought that I could leave you the money for the dollhouse and when I find you a replacement I can ship it to you.”

  “Seriously? That’s your story?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “And where’d you get the hired hands?”

  “They’re just some people I found who were willing to work for cheap,” she said dismissively, trying at the very least to protect their identities.

  “Ninety bucks an hour is cheap?” he asked.

  “Huh?”

  “That’s the going rate for a lawyer, isn’t it? Maybe even more in the big city.” His tone was completely deadpan. “And the other is—wait, let me guess—your agent… excuse me, your insurance agent.

  Catherine heard a squawk at her side and elbowed Georgia in the ribs before she could get mouthy about being mistaken for the lowest of the low, at least in her eyes. Georgia had a problem with their type, enough that she bought all her insurance direct online so she avoided their clutches completely. Her last boyfriend before she married Thomas was a lying cheating bastard and a hell of an insurance agent.

  “What’s going on out there, Fynn?” A woman’s voice—Drew’s voice—called from the house.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said, at normal conversation level, straight to Catherine.

  Drew came jogging out to them and stopped short when she saw the three women clad in black.

  Catherine gave a small, hand-up, motionless wave.

  Drew stifled a laugh in return.

  “So just what the hell am I supposed to do with this? Obviously you aren’t firing on all cylinders. I’m beginning to fear for my life,” he said theatrically, his gaze burning steady on Catherine.

  “It’s not like we’re armed or anything,” Tara piped up. “Unless you count the jerky and my mace, but I think I left that in the car,” she admitted, patting herself down.

  “Just let me buy the damn dollhouse and I’ll be out of your hair for good,” Catherine pleaded unbecomingly.

  “What is this about?” Drew asked, turning to him.

  “She wants something that I bought for Cara.”

  “I’ll replace it,” she clarified, speaking directly to Drew. “I’ve been here asking him to sell it to me and he keeps shutting me down. It’s just a stupid toy.”

  “Obviously it’s more than a stupid toy to you,” he bit back.

  “I don’t get it,” Drew said, bewildered. “She wants to buy something from you?”

  “I’m not trying to get in the way of your life here; you obviously have a perfect little family thing going. I just want to get Caramellie and move on.”

  “Oh,” Drew laughed. “We aren’t a family—I mean, Fynn’s my brother.”

  “Your brother?” Catherine asked in shock, staring at the woman who had so kindly led her to Joel Trager’s front door, who had so helpfully lent an ear when she was complaining about him. Seeing them side by side the resemblance was uncanny. She should have put two and two together, but instead she had allowed herself to walk around so blind and twisted by this Fynn character that she couldn’t think straight.

  -30-

  “Holy shit!” Georgia exclaimed when they got back in the car. “Do you know how close we were to orange jumpsuits?”

  “Been there before,” Tara said almost dreamily, like she was reminiscing about the good old days.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Been arrested.”

  “What?” Georgia’s voice had gone several octaves higher.

  “Just once.”

  But Catherine wasn’t listening. She was too busy trying to understand what had just happened and why she felt a certain satisfaction knowing that Drew and Fynn weren’t married… relief even—probably because her own single status would piss her off even more if someone so damn bristly and prickly was actually married and in the family way when she couldn’t even go on a decent date.

  “I say we stop and get some booze to celebrate,” Tara sang out.

  “Celebrate what? We didn’t succeed!” Catherine shouted over the radio that Tara had jacked up.

  “We didn’t get booked,” Georgia pointed out. “Considering we got caught, avoiding fingerprinting translates to success as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Whatever. It’s not like you can drink anyway,” Catherine grumbled, ticked off that her cohorts had already forgotten the purpose of this venture in the rush of avoiding capture. She hadn’t gotten what she wanted. It was still in that house, probably in that pink room, probably a few feet from where she’d been standing—and what did he have a pink room for anyway? Was he planning to kidnap little girls and hold them in that perfect little room—the kind of room she would have given darn near anything to have when she was a girl? It all seemed squirrelly in light of—

  “Stop being such a bitch,” Tara reprimanded.

  “And just what am I supposed to do now?” Catherine asked.

  “Get shitfaced and worry about the rest in the morning.”

  They drove through old town and into new town to find liquor—hard liquor, Tara insisted. Georgia wandered around the store aimlessly, picking up doodads—a beer stein and a magnet with Nekoyah emblazoned across each of them proudly. At the checkout she slapped her things on the counter next to the completely necessary vodka and a twelve pack of beer—bottles, of course.

  Tara looked at her dumbly. “I’m not buying those.”

  “I didn’t ask you to pay for them,” Georgia cried out, incensed at the accusation. Then she looked to Catherine for validation, mouthing please because she’d left her purse at the cabin. “This is a vacation—sort of. I need to commemorate it.”

  Catherine opened her wallet begrudgingly, remembering their sophomore year of college—the first time they went on spring break. They drove from Penn State to Florida with a soundtrack of Guns N’ Roses screeching “Panama Ci
ty,” and like a little old lady, Georgia had collected souvenir spoons and thimbles and magnets from each state they passed through along the way. She was a creature of habit.

  At this point Catherine didn’t even want to get drunk. She just wanted to go to bed and sleep off the humiliation, but far be it from her to deny her “friends” what their little hearts desired even if she couldn’t get what she wanted most of all.

  “Don’t worry about a thing, sista. I’ve got you covered.” Tara pushed her out of the way, digging beneath the crewneck of her shirt and into her bra and whipping out some cash. She’d been insistent that burglars don’t carry purses—of course they don’t tend to carry their own cash around either; they steal it, she’d been careful to explain.

  *****

  Tara was draped in a chair and Catherine was on the loveseat, both of them lolling from too many shots with beer chasers. She wasn’t sure but it seemed like the alcohol had actually melted her skeleton inside her skin. At least she wasn’t nearly as itchy anymore though—maybe it had also deadened her nerve endings like an anesthetic—take that, Doc Trager!

  “Now what?” Georgia asked sleepily from the bed.

  “I say we go back,” Tara announced, full of fresh, alcohol-induced cockiness at the same time her heavy drinking had stolen away all physical ability for doing any such thing. “I say we sneak in and tie him up and steal his motorcycle and his dog.”

  “I say we don’t,” Catherine hiccupped. “Not without a warrant.”

  “Right, we need a warrant,” Tara seconded the sentiment.

  They both turned toward the bed at the sound of a sudden loud snore. Georgia was sacked, her head back and mouth open.

  “And besides, what did the dog ever do to deserve that?” Catherine slurred, turning back to Tara.

  “The mangy mutt gave us away!”

  “But he’s cute.” Her eyes were shining with giddiness. “Besides, you can’t blame the dog for the asshole that raised him.”

  “But if we took the dog—” Tara stopped, leaning toward to the TV and peering at it closely. “Is that porn? .... What are they doing?”

  The volume was down to nothing and the picture was going in and out along with the guy.

  “It’s the only channel that works right now,” Catherine said by way of explanation.

  “You’re just a little ho,” Tara giggled.

  “Guys, seriously, what the hell are we going to do?” Georgia broke into the conversation, as if she hadn’t just woken herself from a sound sleep with her own snoring.

  “I’m tapped out,” Catherine said, momentarily sounding sober but quickly sliding into a lazy stupor again. “I just want to… bring him a cake and rub his face in it… or kick him in the balls and let him know what it feels like.”

  “You don’t have balls, do you?” Tara asked in wonder. “’Cuz that would explain a lot.”

  “No, but I feel like doubling over in agony every time I’m around him.”

  “That’s because you like him,” Georgia pointed out.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Catherine retorted.

  “You like him and your heart is in your crotch, throbbing for him,” Tara taunted.

  “When I see him I just want to grab him by the throat and—”

  “Pull his head between your breasts and suffocate him,” Tara offered.

  “Well, suffocate him, yes,” Catherine agreed, snort-laughing at that particular image of murder.

  “I think you two need some food to soak up the alcohol,” Georgia advised.

  “You guys ate most everything I bought today,” Catherine reprimanded slowly, the words hard to capture, sloshing lazily about in her head like they were.

  “Hey, I’m eating for two you know,” Georgia insisted righteously, her piggishness doctor-approved. “I have to eat lots of small meals or—” She made a hurling sound to flesh out the picture.

  “I’ve got my last piece of gum. I can make it a three-way,” Tara said gravely, then busted out laughing.

  “Oh, I’ve got what we need!” Georgia dug through her carry-on and pulled out a pink box. “Voila!”

  “Baked goods?” Tara asked, her nose sniffing out the sugar.

  “Cupcakes,” Catherine said, tears coming to her eyes as she realized what her friend had done.

  “Like those aren’t quiet food,” Tara charged, still holding a grudge about the crappy snack choices on their caper—peanut butter sandwiches and those damn bananas.

  They both ignored her.

  “I’ve only got four. I bought half a dozen but I got pretty hungry in the middle of the night,” Georgia said quickly, explaining herself before the questions started. She rubbed her stomach, placing the blame firmly on her child-to-be.

  “What are you talking about? Is this some kind of inside joke or celebration or something?” Tara looked from one to the other.

  Georgia opened the box and exposed four massive cupcakes with bright purple and white swirled icing and sparkling sprinkles. All three of them looked in the box as if it contained the answer to life itself.

  Tara reached for one and Georgia batted her hand away.

  “What? I don’t get to have any?”

  “Just chill a second.” She turned to Catherine. “I’m sorry; I didn’t think to pack candles.”

  Catherine’s lips trembled between sadness and a smile. Her brain was still foggy, but her heart was burning with love for her friend’s concern and care. “I have candles,” she said quietly.

  “Because packing candles was important, but extra clothes seemed overboard,” Tara said snarkily.

  “I bought candles yesterday…” she countered. Then she looked to Georgia. “I got crappy cupcakes too, but I never ate them. I threw them out this morning because they just weren’t right. And you weren’t with me.”

  “Well, here I am—we’re all here.” Georgia placed the box on the bed and hugged Catherine. “For Josey’s birthday.”

  Tears in Catherine’s eyes made everything waver before her, or maybe that was the alcohol—or love.

  “Oh, this is a birthday party! I get it. Does this mean I get to be a part of this shindig now?” Tara asked, looking at each of them in turn.

  Catherine didn’t say anything, just went to her bag and pulled out the box of candles and stuck one in each of the cupcakes. “I don’t have a lighter or matches though,” she admitted.

  “I got one!” Tara whipped a Bic out of her bra where she kept her money.

  They both looked at her, wondering what their nonsmoking friend had a lighter for.

  “What?” she shrugged. “I didn’t know if we might need to set a diversionary fire tonight.”

  “Arson? Seriously?” Georgia shook her head.

  “Only if things went bad.”

  “You don’t call what happened bad?”

  “I mean really bad—guns blazing bad.”

  Georgia dismissed her, grabbing the lighter and lighting each candle.

  “So, do we sing or something?” Tara asked.

  “No, we don’t sing,” Georgia mocked.

  “Oh, because that would be weirder than celebrating a dead person’s birthday,” Tara bit back.

  Silence descended over the room as swiftly as the blade on a guillotine.

  “Sorry,” Tara whispered.

  “No, you’re right, it is weird. But obviously we’re not normal,” Catherine said, dropping into a chair in an effort to stop the room from spinning with the weight of the moment and the booze.

  “Hardly,” Georgia agreed.

  “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Tara chimed in.

  Thursday

  -31-

  “Beautiful morning isn’t it?”

  Catherine waved a hand in response, not knowing who the old gentleman was. There was not a sun to be seen in the sky; it was hiding bashfully behind a heavy curtain of gray—hardly the picture of beautiful. And it was so god-awful loud what with the cars going by on Main Street an
d the kindness everywhere. This was the sixth person who’d said some semblance of good morning to her. Plus there had been at least a dozen waves from across the street and from passing cars as well. Have I been here that long? She was becoming a townie, pulled into the fold and accepted as one of their own.

  And then there was Drew, coming right at her. The sidewalk suddenly felt way too narrow and she considered ducking into a store or crossing the street just to avoid her. But she’d already been noticed. The best she could do was walk by coldly. She was embarrassed and pissed off—not necessarily in that order. She was the one who had misconstrued their relationship, but even if Drew wasn’t Fynn’s wife, even if she was actually his sister, that didn’t change the fact that the woman had basically thrown her to the wolves… or wolf in this case. Drew had known darn well that her brother was a social porcupine and yet she had facilitated their meeting without helping her out one bit.

  Catherine averted her sunglass-shrouded eyes as she passed.

  “Wait, are you in a hurry?” Drew grabbed her arm gently, groaning, “I need a cup of coffee. My sweetheart of a husband drank the last one in the house this morning to force my hand into grocery shopping. That’s an act of war in my book. But I’ll teach him and buy my coffee out until he caves.” She pulled Catherine along with her, backward, as she talked. Not allowing for a refusal or even a response. By the time she finished they were at the diner. She opened the door, facing Catherine with eyes that were all blue sky and kindness. “Coming? You look like you could use a strong cup too.”

  Not that anyone could see behind the glasses, but they were certainly a dead giveaway first thing on a cloudy morning. Catherine cringed at how it made her look to be hungover like this—a crazed drunkard.

  “Just for a minute?” Drew prodded when Catherine remained glued to the sidewalk.

  She felt herself waver under the woman’s seemingly harmless gaze and had to remind herself that Drew had purposely played with her emotions. She might already be on her way back to New York right now with the dollhouse if Drew had told her the situation from the beginning—that Joel Trager was her asshole, crotchety, obnoxious brother. At least she would have been prepared for the worst, which was all he seemed willing to put out there. But Drew was also the only person who might still be able to help her out, and it wasn’t like she had ever explained what she was in town for in the first place. This could all be more of a misunderstanding than diabolical tampering.