Tangled Thing Called Love (17 page)

“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 that 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.

“When my kids didn’t clean their plates, I ate their leftovers,” Holly went on, rubbing cocoa butter into the C-section scar on her lower abdomen. “When I was happy, I ate. When I was depressed, I ate. Once I ate a whole carton of Cool Whip and washed it down with peanut butter cups. It was like being pregnant, only I didn’t even get to pop out a baby at the end.”

Mazie adjusted Holly’s bikini strap. “Okay, so your chest doesn’t look like a chicken carcass and you don’t have famine-victim legs. Who decreed that women have to look like hat racks? If some moron doesn’t like the way you look, it’s their problem. Now put on some blusher—you look way too pale.”

It was as though the swimsuit competition were a tsunami they’d been warned about in plenty of time so they could get to higher ground, but they’d chosen to ignore it until the giant wave was sweeping them out to sea. Somehow they’d lulled themselves into thinking the swimsuit competition was not going to happen, and now it was happening and they were experiencing the panic of women about to get their periods and discovering the chocolate was all gone.

Holly was not the only person having a meltdown. Tabitha Tritt-Shimmel was in the bathroom, throwing up—either a severe case of nerves or an effort to obtain a flatter stomach. Sophie Olson was taking such deep breaths she was hyperventilating, Ashley Dorfmann was brushing her teeth with cat litter, and Rosie Martinez was moaning that her
bikini top made her chumba-wumbas look too small. Amid the bedlam, only Channing Blumquist, already made-up and wearing a white swimsuit that showed off her perfect tan, remained calm.

Holly tried to pull her bikini bottom down underneath her butt cheeks. “Do you know any liposuctionists who make house calls?” She looked ready to cry.

Mazie unknotted the sarong-sized scarf she was wearing around her hips, a silk batik in brilliant oranges, reds, and blues she’d discovered tucked away in her dresser drawer. It was a bit high on the gaud-o-meter, but it exploded like a firecracker against her plain black bikini and covered up the parts she didn’t want exposed.

Greater love hath no woman than this: that she lay down her wrap for her friend. Mazie handed the scarf to Holly, who snatched it like a lifeline and draped it around herself, working that style juju some women are born with, angling the scarf to create a slash in front that allowed her terrific legs to flash and knotting it just below the belly button. Good thing they weren’t competing in one of those “Who Wore It Better?” photos in
People
, Mazie thought, because Holly would have kicked her couture-challenged butt.

“Best. Friend. Ever,” Holly said, giving Mazie a hug.

“The rules say two-piece.” Gretchen Wuntz swooped down, a bat out of button-down-collar hell, scrutinizing Holly’s outfit. “I’m counting
three
pieces here. Top, bottom, and scarf. The rules say
two-piece
. That ought to automatically disqualify you.”

A more sensitive woman would have withered under the combined glares of Mazie and Holly, but Gretchen had Naugahyde where other people had skin. “Go ahead, check the rulebook if you don’t believe me,” she said, pressing her lips together.

“Gretchen, the last thing I want to do is hurt you,” Mazie said, narrowing her eyes and turning on her psycho-convict stare, “but it’s still down there on my list.”

Before Gretchen could inform her that threatening people was against the rules, there was a sharp rap on the teachers’ lounge door.

Darlene Krumke opened it. “No men allowed,” she barked, blocking the door.

“Don’t think of me as a
man
, darling,” said the intruder, ducking under her arm and breezing into the room. “Think of me as a sister who fights a daily battle against five o’clock shadow.”

“Magenta!” Mazie rushed over and gave him a giant hug. “You made it!”

“Of course I made it. I wouldn’t miss this for the world!”

The room fell silent, all eyes fixed on Magenta, who was lugging a tote bag large enough to hold the folded-over body of an anorexic model. Quail Hollow wasn’t a town where men who resembled Magenta routinely strolled down Main Street checking out the antique shops. He was six feet tall, with a beaky nose, eyes subtly defined in burnt umber liner, and short, dyed black hair worn in spiky tufts, like a hedgehog who’d tried to mate with a tub of gel. In deference to small-town sensibilities, he was dressed conservatively in skinny jeans, pale peach silk shirt, denim loafers, and subdued earrings.