Tangled Thing Called Love (31 page)

She raced toward it, but Channing, who knew the garage inside out, had taken a shortcut and suddenly shot out from behind the van, holding a heavy steel mallet. Snagging Mazie’s hair, she yanked her forward, swinging the mallet down at her head. Mazie reacted instinctively, lunging against Channing’s torso to get inside the swing. The mallet struck the van instead, gouging a deep dent in its side. Channing struck again, and this time the mallet hit Mazie’s hip, but the acres of skirts acted as a barrier. Frantically Mazie scrabbled for a weapon, thinking how bizarre this was, clamping herself to the bosom of someone
intent on bashing her brains out.

Channing was amazingly strong, her athlete’s body seething with hard muscle. If this became an endurance contest, Channing would win. They were both panting like long-distance runners, and Mazie could smell Channing’s sweat. Something pointy jabbed against Mazie’s thigh. The Scarlett O’Hara parasol! Ripping it free, Mazie gripped it by the handle and without bothering to take aim, jabbed the point with all her strength into the first part of Channing’s body she could reach—her waist!

Screeching in agony, Channing released Mazie and dropped the mallet. Her hand flew to her right side, where the parasol’s sharp tip had gouged into the flesh and was protruding from the front of her body, just above the hipbone. Mazie yanked out the parasol and blood bubbled from the wound—it didn’t appear serious, but it had a lot of shock value, Channing’s eyes went wide. Then she opened her mouth and howled.

Close the deal before your enemy regains her balance;
Mazie had learned that in prison. She slammed Channing against the van’s side, leaned into her, assumed a my-ovaries-clank-when-I-walk expression, and thrust the bloodied point of the parasol straight up into Channing’s left nostril. “Shut up,” Mazie whispered. Another bit of Cellblock 19 wisdom:
A whisper is scarier than a shout
.

Channing stopped screaming, but her chest heaved and snot flooded out of her other nostril. “Move a muscle and I jam this thing right up into your brain,” Mazie hissed. “If it doesn’t kill you, you’ll live in a wheelchair for the rest of your life.”

Sheer malarkey. Probably the worst Channing would suffer would be a sinus headache, but Mazie was making this up on the fly and her mind and mouth weren’t necessarily aligned.

“Tell me about Fawn,” she demanded, still in that menacing whisper.

“I don’t know!” Channing moaned, her right hand clapped to her stab wound, her left hand flopping around aimlessly.

Mazie snatched up the mallet. “Maybe I ought to test your reflexes,” she snarled, tapping the mallet against Channing’s leg. “We’ll start with your kneecap. How much damage do you think this hammer could do, Channing? Picture yourself hobbling down the runway.”

“Please,” Channing pleaded, tears pouring down her face. “I don’t know anything.”

Channing was truly terrified. If she’d been thinking straight she would have realized she was twice as strong as Mazie and only had to knee her in the stomach to make her crumple.

Maybe she was going about this the wrong way, Mazie thought. Maybe she needed to appeal to Channing’s vanity. You catch more flies with honey and all that.

“Channing,” she said, using her normal voice, but still keeping the parasol wedged in Channing’s nose. “I’m sorry I hurt you. That cut on your side is just a little puncture wound. It probably won’t even need stitches. You can stick a really thin bandage over it and it won’t show under your gown. That way you can still compete in the pageant tomorrow.”

That pageant would be taking place in the state mental health hospital, but Mazie didn’t mention that part.

Channing’s sobs tapered off. “If my hand slips, though, Channing, this thing will slice right through your nose, and your face will be horribly disfigured. You wouldn’t want that, would you?” Mazie asked.

Channing just moaned.

“You can still win the pageant, Channing,” Mazie continued, adopting a soothing tone. “You’re beautiful, you’re talented, you’re nice to everyone—”

Was that laying it on too thick? No, Channing was definitely calming down, her eyes locking on Mazie, wanting to trust her.

“Listen—this was supposed to be a surprise, but it’s too good to keep to myself,” Mazie said. “I’ll tell you if you promise to act all surprised tomorrow, okay?”

Channing blinked her eyes rapidly. Was that a yes?

“Ready for the surprise? Okay, here it is—back on the boat, we voted you Miss Congeniality.”

“You … did?” Channing breathed.

“Yes—congratulations! And I bet you win the title, too. One of the judges told us they’d made a mistake in their calculations—you’re actually in first place by fifteen points. You’re going to win Miss Congeniality
and
Miss Quail Hollow. A double whammy!”

Channing jerked in surprise.

“Keep still. If your face is messed up, they won’t let you win. You have to tell me
what you did to Fawn.”

Silence. More time ticked by while Channing sobbed, sniffled, gulped, and hiccuped. This wasn’t going to work, Mazie thought. Her arms were getting tired from holding the parasol and the mallet. The rain was coming down harder now, thumping on the corrugated steel roof like spoons being chucked down a mine shaft.

“She cheated,” Channing said, snuffling.

Mazie’s attention shot back to her. “Fawn cheated?”

“Mama promised
I’d
win. When Fawn got into first place Mama took money out of Buzzy’s safe. She rubbed grease on it. She said I should stick the money in Fawn’s bag. So I did. Just a fifty-dollar bill, though—the rest I kept for myself because Mama never gave me enough allowance. I watched the police officer come. I thought he’d take Fawn to jail. But he didn’t and she—Fawn—won the whole thing!”

Channing started crying. She no longer seemed aware of where she was or that the tip of an umbrella was jammed up her nose. “I thought Mama would make them take the crown away from Fawn and give it to me, but Mama said it was too late. She said it was my own fault for not beating that trashy girl. But I
did
try! I put the food coloring on her dress and started those rumors—”

Above the clatter of the rain Mazie thought she heard another sound—a cough, or someone clearing his throat? Mazie whirled around. She couldn’t see anything, but her senses were on alert now, warning her of danger. She peered into the shadows, where anyone could be hiding. Her gut instinct was warning her to get out, but she needed the truth from Channing first.

“I had a key to Fawn’s truck. Mama said Buzzy should never have given her that truck. I unlocked the truck. It had a front seat and a skinny backseat. I scrunched down in the back under an old coat. I waited and waited. Fawn was so selfish, making me wait—my legs got all cramped and it was hot. Finally she got in and started driving. I waited until we were out in the country, then when she braked at a stop sign I lunged up over the seat.”

Channing’s pale green eyes stared into Mazie’s. “Then the accident happened,” she said in a little-girl voice.

“What accident was that, Channing?” Mazie asked softly, sliding the parasol out of her nose.

“The thing with my hands around her neck. I’ve got strong hands. Fawn had a skinny little neck.”

“You strangled her?”

“Accidentally,” Channing whispered. She took her hand off the wound in her side and used it to wipe her nose, leaving blood smeared across her mouth. “It was Fawn’s fault, not mine. Mazie, are you sure they voted me Miss Congeniality?”

Oh, brother
. “Yeah, definitely. You’ll get a trophy cup with your name etched on it. What did you do with Fawn’s body?”

“Right there,” Channing pointed.

“Where?” Mazie half-turned, trying to figure out what she was pointing at.

“The grease pit.” Channing giggled. “You’re almost standing on it. You’re sure I won’t need stitches for this cut, Mazie? Because I hate getting stitches.”

“How did the body get in there?”

“After I … had the accident, I drove Fawn’s truck around for a while. I didn’t know what to do. So I went to Dukie’s apartment. He just got back from a bar and he was drunk. When I told him about Fawn, he called me a retard—you shouldn’t call people that, should you, Mazie? But I told him I’d let him do those nasty things with me he was always pestering for, and he agreed to help. He said we should dump the body in Buzzy’s grease pit because it never got cleaned out and nobody would notice Fawn’s body stinking because the chemicals would cover the smell.”

“What about the truck?” Mazie asked.

“I drove it to that road in the swamp. Dukie and I knew that place because we used to party out there. I found Fawn’s shoes in the truck. They flew off her feet because she kicked a lot while I was chok—while I was accidentally doing that bad thing. I tossed the shoes and the bouquet down by the creek so people would think Fawn drowned. But I kept the sash and the crown because they were
mine
. Dukie followed me on his motorcycle and then we both—”

“Channy, you need to learn to shut your stupid mouth,” said a male voice.

Chapter Thirty-six

Mazie whirled around.

Not fast enough. She lost the precious instant when she still could have run. He stepped out of the shadows, wrenched the mallet from her grip, and twisted her arm behind her back, all in one fluid motion.

“Quite the little spitfire, aren’t you?” Oscar Woods said, grinning. “I watched you beating the crap out of Channy, and she’s twice your size.”

“I am not twice her size!” Channing squawked. “I weigh one hundred nineteen.”

“Yeah, right, Channy, and I’m Hillary Clinton.” Oscar snorted.

“You
knew
? About Fawn?” Mazie felt giddy. Neurons were pinging around inside her brain, theories were rapidly shuffling and reshuffling; coincidences were being outed as not-coincidences.

Oscar wrenched her arm higher, making her cry out in pain. “Channy—get me a rag from that pile there. We’re going to have to muzzle Miss Pain in the Ass here.”

“Who’s Miss Pain in the Ass? Oh, you mean Mazie? Guess what, Oscar—I’m going to be Miss Congeniality! And probably Miss Quail Hollow.” Channing broke into a smile that exposed her blood-smeared teeth.

Oscar dragged Mazie across the floor, her skirt bouncing up and down, Channing trailing after, chattering. “This time I’ll get a crowning ceremony. When Fawn had her accident, I was the runner-up. They should have had a ceremony—you know, where they put the tiara on my head and I did my queen walk down the runway. But it never happened. Instead
she
was on the news all the time. Fawn, Fawn, Fawn, where is Fawn Fanchon, from morning to night—I got so tired of it!”

“The cheese has slid off
that
one’s cracker,” Oscar muttered. He shoved Mazie behind an SUV that would shield them from anyone who peered into the garage.

“I was going to cut the ribbon at a minimart opening,” Channing prattled on. “I got all dressed up in my pageant gown. I put on my sash and the tiara—the one Fawn stole. But when Mama saw the tiara she freaked out. She made me tell her where I’d gotten it and I
had to tell her about Fawn.”

Channing handed a grease-stained rag to Oscar. “Mama tried to burn the sash and the tiara in our backyard grill, but I knocked Mama down and grabbed the crown out of the fire and hid it in Buzzy’s garage. Only I don’t like having the tiara so close to her”—Channing pointed to the floor—“in case Fawn’s not really dead and tries to get it back.”

“You were a goddamn nuisance from the first day you walked in my bar,” Oscar growled in Mazie’s ear. “Snooping, asking questions.” Clamping her jaw in his hand, he forced open Mazie’s mouth and stuffed the rag so far back in her throat she gagged. “Fetch me that roll of tape off that shelf,” he snapped at Channing.

Channing brought him the tape. “Mama bought me a new tiara. I wore it to the minimart opening, but it wasn’t as nice as my real one.” She checked her reflection in the side mirror of a truck. “I was supposed to give a speech on good grooming to the Girl Scouts in September, but then 9/11 happened and my speech got canceled. All anyone talked about was the stupid World Trade Center. Like it was more important.”

Oscar spoke to Channing in a loud voice, trying to cut through her mental fog. “Take hold of Mazie while I tape her up.”

Muscles tensed, nerves quivering, Mazie was primed for the changing of the guard. When Channing moved to pinion her from behind, Oscar stepped back and she jerked her leg up, trying to kick him in the crotch. Once again the imbecile dress foiled her, the skirt springing up in her face, the kick missing by a mile. Oscar grabbed her shoulders and shook her so violently her head snapped back and forth and her teeth rattled. “You try that again I’ll hurt you bad,” he hissed.

He jerked a phone out of his jeans pocket and jabbed in numbers. Someone answered and he barked, “Get over to the garage. Right away.” Disconnecting, he turned back to Mazie and proceeded to mummy-wrap her body from shoulders to waist, strapping her arms tightly against her body with automotive tape. She struggled, her heart violently slamming against her ribs, wild plans for escape whirling through her head.

Headlights suddenly flashed through the windows of the bay door, bright beams that scythed across the building’s high ceiling. A vehicle was approaching at a high rate of speed, its brakes screeching as it suddenly slowed and turned into the narrow alley that ran along the side of the garage. Was this the person Oscar had phoned?

Oscar used his big teeth to rip off a last length of tape. “Channing. Hey! Wake up!” He snapped his fingers to get her attention. “You keep hold of her now—don’t let go of her for one second.” He hurried toward the back of the garage. Mazie heard the garage’s rear door opening. There was the murmur of voices, then the slap of footsteps across the cement floor.

Bodelle Blumquist strode around the side of the van. She wore white knit pants, a red raincoat, and flower-patterned rubber boots. Without the troweled-on makeup, she looked like a suburban grandmother. She halted, taking in the scene with disbelief. “What in freaking hell is going on?”