"Hunting?" Mica guessed.
Justine scoffed. "Don't you two know anything? That's Lovers' Lane down there. They're making out, you idgets."
Mica's eyes bugged, and Regina suspected that her own face looked the same. She'd heard whispers and giggles of the place, but she hadn't known it actually existed. The implication hit her full force, and she swallowed. "You mean they're having sex?"
"Yeah, probably."
The trio fell silent, straining for glimpses and sounds that Regina didn't know if she'd even recognize. But she did know one thing—if their parents found out they were spying at Lovers' Lane, they'd be grounded for the rest of their sorry lives and into the hereafter. Still... lately she'd developed a burning curiosity about this sex thing that superseded even the desire to become a teenage sleuth.
Through the trees, she made out two figures in the car who appeared to be grappling for leverage in the backseat, but she couldn't tell who was on top or which body parts were in use. Male grunts and moans floated up to them, so Pete was obviously getting the better end of the deal. Suddenly the driver's seat shot forward and the horn blasted. Regina jerked and Mica screamed, which sent them all scurrying back from the edge. Justine flogged Mica, hissing at her to be quiet. All grunts and moans subsided, and the next noise was the sound of the car engine starting. It took Pete a few seconds to find a gear, then he peeled out of there as fast as his little car would take him. The girls crept back to the edge in time to see his "Monroeville Mudcats" bumper sticker disappear.
Justine rolled onto her back and laughed. She had big boobs. Regina used fruit to monitor her sisters' Cross Your Heart bras that went through the laundry. Justine was now up to a large navel orange, and Mica, a lemon. She herself was looking at a lifetime of bing cherries.
"I would've liked to see the look on Tobi's face," Justine said. "I'll bet she was going down on him."
Regina laughed, too. "What do you mean?"
Justine sighed. "You should read something besides those silly little-girl books."
Regina bit into her lip—it was true that the age difference between her and Justine seemed vaster than three years. Justine was a fully developed woman, who wore high-heeled sandals and required her own bathroom for grooming, while Regina favored Converse sneakers and had not yet broken the seal on the box of Tampax her mother had given her two years ago. Justine was a whiz with makeup and had a suitcase full of mysterious pots and tools. Once she'd talked Regina into wearing mascara, but when Regina's eyes had swollen shut from an allergic reaction, Justine had declared her to be a hopeless "before" and turned her attention to Mica.
"I
do
read... other things," Regina mumbled. Although those svelte creatures in
'Teen
magazine might as well be on another planet. Still, she devoured the how-to articles, hoping to mine one nugget of life-altering truth from the profusion of perplexing DOs and DON'Ts lists: DO consider a permanent wave if your hair is thin. (Hers was.) DON'T wear the same pair of shoes every day. (She did.) DO learn to flirt with your eyes.
(Huh?)
To date, she hadn't uncovered the key to an expedient and successful transition into womanhood, but there was always next month, and more DOs and DON'Ts.
Justine picked a wide blade of grass. "Take a look under Cissy and John's mattress if you want a real education."
"You're not supposed to call them by their first names."
"Oh, yeah, they can shack up for twenty years, but we're supposed to follow the rules." Justine held the blade between her thumbs and blew hard through the minuscule opening yet was unable to produce a whistle.
"Don't talk like that," Regina said. She'd heard enough snide comments about their parents from other people, from other kids.
Immoral. Indecent. Illegitimate.
"They're married under common law."
"Common-law marriages aren't recognized in North Carolina," Justine said, blowing again, to no avail.
"They're bohemian," Regina retorted. She'd been so happy to find a word to describe her hippie parents that didn't sound kooky.
Her sisters weren't listening.
"What's under their mattress?" Mica asked, giving Justine's shoulder enough of a shove to dislodge the blade of grass.
"Hey!"
"Tell us, Miss Know-It-All." Mica picked her own blade of grass, mimicked the gesture, and produced not just a whistle but a tune.
Regina shook her head—her two sisters lived to outdo each other.
"You're too young to know," Justine purred.
And Regina didn't
want
to know what her parents kept under their mattress, so she cast about for a diversion. "How did you find this place?"
Justine took the bait. "By accident. I was walking home one day and heard a woman wailing like a banshee. I thought someone was being murdered or something." She laughed. "That lady was yelling for God, all right, but believe me, she was
not
in trouble."
"Who was she?" Mica asked, wide-eyed.
Justine grinned. "Mrs. Woods, the fat checker at the Grab 'N Go."
"Ewww!" Regina and Mica chorused.
"They were in a beat-up Oldsmobile, and was that rattletrap ever rockin'." Then she sat up, her eyes alight. "And get this—I couldn't see who they were, but there were
two
men with her."
Regina squinted. "Huh? Why?" No matter how she sorted the images in her head, the tabs didn't fit into the slots.
"One man was probably driving," Mica offered.
"Yeah, right," Justine said with a dry laugh.
Regina frowned. "We'd better get home—Mother is expecting us to watch the store this afternoon."
Justine dismissed her with a wave. "It's Monday—no one ever comes by on Monday except that smelly old Mr. Calvin with his smelly old books."
Regina stood and jammed her hands on what she hoped would someday become hips. "If you don't come right now, I'll tell Mom and Dad that you left the jewelry case open and all those things were stolen." Her current case-in-progress—the Mystery of the Missing Stuff.
Her older sister scoffed. "A few pieces of junk, so what?"
"That gold watch wasn't junk, and neither was that letter opener. Mom and Dad are going to be plenty steamed when they find out you were too busy watching Dean Haviland wash his car to keep an eye on the customers." Their parents' new dark-eyed deliveryman was nothing but trouble, Regina just knew it. (In the amateur-sleuth world, this feeling was known as a "hunch.") Flirtatious Dean Haviland was Suspect Number One in her investigation.
Justine bristled. "I was just making sure Dean didn't use too much water from the spigot. Besides, you were supposed to be helping me watch the store instead of holing up with one of your stupid books."
Regina pushed up her glasses. Did no one in her family understand the burning need to read the last few pages of a great mystery? "Mica was supposed to be helping, too."
Mica stuck out her tongue. "Justine,
you
probably took those things. You steal things when you think no one is watching."
"That's a lie!"
"No, it's not!"
"You're a liar!"
"You're a thief!"
Predictably, a shoving match ensued, and soon they were rolling around on the ground. Regina hadn't seen Justine take items from the store, but considering her older sister's contempt for the family business, she could believe it—Suspect Number Two.
"Stop it." She stepped between them and got yanked down with them for her trouble. Her glasses went flying. "Stop it!"
"Shhh!" Justine said, freezing. "I hear a car."
They shushed and disentangled. After Regina reclaimed her glasses, she joined her sisters on the ledge, where they'd parted the grass with their hands. A classic black Cadillac with a white ragtop lurched over the uneven ground; then the engine quieted. At the sight of the familiar car, Regina's mouth went dry. "Is that who I think it is?"
"Well, what do you know," Justine murmured. "Good old Aunt Lyla—and company. This is
great."
Justine hated Aunt Lyla, too. Granted, Justine hated a lot of people these days, but their mother's sister-in-law ranked high on the loathing list. Their beloved uncle was the mayor of Monroeville, but his wife, Lyla, was the evil queen. Even their mother, who released caught flies outside the kitchen screen door, developed a pucker when Her Highness put in an appearance at the shop to broker antiques she had acquired during her "travels" to Raleigh and Atlanta.
"Whoop-de-do," Regina's mom would mutter while opening the cash register drawer. Even though Lyla had a knack for stumbling onto good deals, Regina suspected that Cissy only tolerated the woman because she'd married Cissy's only brother, Lawrence Gilbert.
"Why would Aunt Lyla and Uncle Lawrence come out here to have sex?" Mica asked.
Justine sighed. "She's probably not with Uncle Lawrence, you imbecile."
A combination of the altitude and the suggestion that their aunt would keep naked company with another man tied Regina's intestines into a double-naught knot. Still, she couldn't drag her gaze away from the car.
The Caddy's white ragtop opened up like the mouth of a giant beast, then receded and dropped into folds along the backseat. Through the trees, only glimpses of the occupants were visible, but it was Lyla in the driver's seat all right—the plunging neckline of her yellow dress and acres of white cleavage were a dead giveaway. Their mother told them not to stare there when their aunt dropped by the shop, but Regina couldn't help it with Lyla's huge boobs being at eye level and all. They were magnificent. And store-bought, according to a conversation she'd overheard one morning when she passed her parents' open bedroom door. She wanted to see
that
catalog.
"Who's with her?" Mica whispered.
"I can't tell," Justine whispered back, craning. The man's generic pale shirt gave no hint to his identity, but whoever he was, he had to be roasting in those long sleeves. A local businessman? Regina thought she saw the flash of glasses, but sometimes her own spectacles reflected a glare.
Lyla leaned forward; then twangy country music floated up to them. Lots of fumbling, then the front seats reclined. Regina's heart thudded in her ears. "I think we'd better go."
Justine snorted. "No way, it's just getting good."
"Yeah," Mica said. "Shut up, spoilsport."
Regina swallowed hard and stayed put. Aunt Lyla's hyena laugh rang out; then the man sprawled on top of Lyla, obscuring the yellow dress. He started flailing, and Lyla started wailing. The big Caddy bucked like a stallion.
"Are they doing it?" Mica asked, mesmerized.
"Sure sounds that way," Justine said.
Even though she couldn't see anything specific, Regina's stomach felt heavy and tingly. She wanted to bolt upright and run home. Instead she lay there, listening as Dwight Yoakum's honky-tonk voice blended with the song of Lyla's cries rolling up and down, up and down.
"Yes... yes... yes."
"Yes, what?" Mica whispered.
"Shut up," Justine muttered.
The man was thrashing away. Regina winced—was sex always this fierce?
"Yes... yes... no—NO!"
An inhuman scream rent the air, raising the hair on the back of Regina's neck.
The car stopped moving, and Lyla's partner seemed to be scrambling, groping for the car door handle. Justine's head jutted forward. "Something's wrong." At the unfamiliar concern leadening her voice, Regina's heart bottomed out.
"What?" Mica asked, then grunted when Justine whomped her one.
Aunt Lyla lay still, but the man was a noisy commotion, flinging the passenger door open into the trunk of a small tree so hard the leaves shook. He tried to wedge his body through the opening, then heaved himself over the side of the car. He must have nudged the radio volume in the process, because Dwight Yoakum's yodeling exploded into the clearing and echoed off the wall of rock supporting them. The noise spooked them and the man, who twisted sideways, fell, then got up and ran haphazardly away from them, tearing through the underbrush.
"Why did he run away?" Mica whispered, unfazed by the previous whomping. "And why isn't Aunt Lyla moving?"
Justine's pale-faced silence transferred pure terror to Regina. The blaring music gave way to a raucous commercial for a car lot.
"Come on down to Alcatraz pre-owned cars in Monroeville! Our prices are so low, it's a crime!"
"Let's get the hell out of here," Justine murmured, and clambered to her feet.
Regina stood and grabbed Justine's arm. "Wait—Aunt Lyla might be having a heart attack or something. We can't just leave her here."
"How are we supposed to get down there?" Justine gestured wildly. "The road is at least a mile away, even if we cut through the creek. I say we scram."
"Maybe we should flag down a car," Mica said, chewing on a strand of dark hair.
"And say what?" Justine snapped. "That we spied while our aunt boffed a stranger? She probably just fell asleep, for God's sake!" But the tremor in her voice belied her flip attitude.
"Aunt LY-LA!" Mica yelled through cupped hands directed toward the car. But her echoing voice was drowned out by the blaring radio jingle for Campbell's Soup—
"M'm! M'm! Good!"
Their aunt didn't move.
Regina nudged her glasses and looked around for a spark of inspiration—what would Nancy Drew do? Probably tie her becoming black pedal pushers, neat blouse, and white cotton socks into a rope and have her friends Bess and George lower her, clad only in sensible underwear and loafers, over the rock wall. But Regina didn't trust the thread count of her cutoffs and T-shirt, nor the arm muscles of her girlie-girl sisters. Instead, she zeroed in on a sturdy maple tree that had grown from the floor of the clearing to a few feet past the rock ledge. About the diameter of a telephone pole and studded with enough limbs to likely support a clinging teenager. She walked over, grabbed a limb, and gave it a tentative shake.
"Are you crazy?" Justine said. "You'll fall and break your fool neck. Then Mom will kill
me
for letting you."