Tangled Thing Called Love (27 page)

Channing set her hands on her hips. “What kind of attitude is that?”

Sophie wheeled on her. “Oh, get stuffed, Channing. Why don’t you knock off all that holier-than-thou shit? Everyone knows you’re angling for the Miss Congeniality spot!”

Mazie was standing directly across from Channing. Ordinarily Channing was so serene Mazie wondered whether she was popping Valium like Gummi Bears, but in that instant she saw the tranquil façade crack, replaced by an expression of such seething fury Mazie blinked. But the head-spun-around-backward look vanished in that blink, leaving Mazie doubting her own eyes.

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” Channing said softly, turning away. “But I guess I can understand it—we’re all under a lot of stress.”

Everyone suddenly went quiet, embarrassed by all the witchy stuff going around. Mazie had assumed that they were all too mature for this kind of juvenile infighting, but apparently they weren’t. What next—trashing one another on Facebook?

Channing came over and gave Mazie a hug. “I feel so bad about the dress, Mazie. I’d gladly offer you one of my gowns, only you’re so little you’d drown.”

She dropped a Hershey’s Kiss into Mazie’s hand. “I’m so totally jealous of you petites. You get all the guys because you’re so cute and tiny and look like you need to be protected.”

Mazie managed to restrain a snort, but she wanted to tell Channing that men did not prefer small women. The world was not designed for short people. If it had been, petites wouldn’t have to hack half a foot off their hems every time they bought pants, the Philippines would have been the world’s superpower, and Snooki would have been a supermodel.

“I’ll just wear what I have on for the parade,” Mazie declared. “There’s no rule saying you
have
to wear a gown.”

“Oh, yes, there is!” Gretchen Wuntz practically vibrated with indignation. “It’s on page seventeen in the rulebook.
Contestants must appear in formal evening wear, including sash and tiara, during the pageant parade event
.”

“You know, Gretchen,” Holly said. “If I had to kill everyone who hates you, it wouldn’t be murder, it’d be genocide.”

Gretchen flounced away, looking like she was trying to work out exactly how she’d been insulted.

“And
you
—” Holly suddenly turned on Mazie. “Why aren’t you furious? Tritt was right! Vandalizing that dress was a crime, the haute couture version of rape! Face it, Mazie—you’ve been frocked! So don’t act like you enjoyed it!”

Mazie dragged Holly into the hall, out of earshot of the others. “Of course I’m furious. I want to rip someone’s overteased hair out! But whoever did it—I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry.”

“Oh,” Holly said in a small voice. “I get it. It was all a big act. Hey, not bad. You faked me out.”

“Whoever hacked up my dress is an even better actress.”

“How are you going to find out who did it?”

“No clue. Right now I just want to find a dress, fast. If Jackie the Ripper thinks she can knock me out of the running, she can go frock herself!”

Holly gave her a knuckle bump. “Way to go, Maze! Do you have another dress at your house? Maybe your gran could run it into town for you.”

“My only other dress sort of got destroyed. Anyway, Gran is working at her church rummage sale.”

“The church rummage sale?” Holly’s eyes lit up. “Mazie, I stopped by there earlier today to pick up kids’ clothes. Do you know what else they’re selling there?”

“Reefers the size of votive candles?”

“Prom dresses.”

Chapter Thirty-one

“I’d like to get my hands on whoever played that dirty trick with your dress. I’d show ’em a thing or two,” Gran fumed. “I bet it was somebody who wanted you to drop out now that you’re tied for the lead.”

“The lead for what?”

Katie looked at Mazie in surprise. “The lead for Miss Quail Hollow, of course.”

Didn’t you know you raised the most money? Close to five thousand.”

“Gran
—you
did that, not me.”

Katie grinned. “I have to admit, it was a lot of fun, pitting the Maguires against the Carduccis on your ma’s side, each bunch trying to outshine the other.”

They were in the basement of Holy Sepulchre, the church Mazie had attended as a child. It had Gothic stained-glass windows, hard wooden pews, and steam radiators that clanked so insistently they sometimes drowned out the sermon. The giant rummage sale in the basement was the parish’s annual fund-raising event and was run mostly by older volunteers like Katie.

“Your queenometer was ahead by fifteen hundred dollars,” Gran went on, “but then those Olsons—they own a chain of waffle houses, you know—got a gander at it and tossed a whole trainload of cash into Sophie’s. So now you two are tied for fund-raising, with the Blumquist girl in third place. One of the judges blabbed to me in strictest confidence, Mazie, that you’re ahead on points.”

“I don’t care if I win or not.”

Gran frowned. “Of course you care! You’re a scrapper, Mazie. Now let’s get you a dress to scrap in.” She led Mazie over to a clothesline where a dozen gowns on plastic hangers were displayed. “How about this flowered number?”

“Only if I need a shower curtain.”

Gran held up a shimmery red satin gown.

Mazie shook her head. Tabitha Tritt-Shimmel had practically trademarked that color.

“All the really good stuff got snapped up this morning,” Gran said. “Oh, hold on—what about this jobbie? It looks to be about your size. One of Carrie Jaworski’s bridesmaids wore it for her big, fat Scarlett O’Hara–themed wedding. It even comes with a matching parasol! Try it on.”

“No way!” The dress was the size of the Superdome and the exact yellow of a Peeps Easter chick.

“Parade starts in ten minutes,” Gran pointed out. “If you don’t show up in a dress you’ll forfeit your chance to win. It’d be a shame to let down your relatives after they chipped in all that money.”

Boy, did this woman ever know how to trowel on the guilt! Heaving a martyred sigh, Mazie said she’d try on the dress, wondering how she’d ever gotten involved in this whole bizarre event in the first place.

The gown’s petticoat was pinned to a separate hanger. Gran detached the petticoat and spread it flat on the floor. It was a circle of white muslin that looked as though it had been abandoned by a paratrooper. The fabric was stretched across five concentric plastic rings, the smallest about the size of a dinner plate, the largest nearly as big around as an igloo. The circular hole in the middle appeared to be the waist.

“Take off your other things,” Gran instructed. “I’ll stand in front of you so no one can see.”

Quickly Mazie stripped down to bra and underpants, then stepped into the center of the parachute and pulled it up to her waist. The petticoat came alarmingly alive, bouncing and swaying, making her feel like the clapper of a large, malevolent bell.

“I wouldn’t put it past Bodelle Blumquist to have been the one to wreck your dress,” Gran growled, wrestling the yellow monstrosity off its hanger. “I’ll bet she had keys to the teachers’ lounge.”

Mazie held up her arms and Gran slid Big Bird over her head. “But that Tritt woman might have done it, too.” Gran began fastening the buttons that ran up the back of the dress. There were millions of them, each no larger than an M&M. “Now, there’s a piece of work for you. I wouldn’t turn my back on her for a second.”

“Tabitha adored that dress. I can’t see her wrecking it.”

“Maybe it’s a case of ‘If I can’t have it, neither can you.’ ”

“Okay. Tabitha’s on the short list, right next to Bodelle. It could have been Sophie Olson, though. She was the last one to leave the dressing room yesterday.”

“That family’s got money out the wazoo.” Gran sniffed. “Just goes to prove you can’t buy class. Those Olsons spoiled that girl rotten. She’s used to getting her own way. Maybe she wrecked your dress to knock you out of the game.”

Sophie Olson of the orange fake-tan. Yup—Sophie definitely went on the short list.

“Now take a deep breath, Mazie, so I can do up this last button.”

Mazie sucked in her gut, remembering the scene in
Gone with the Wind
where Scarlett is being laced up for the barbecue at Twelve Oaks. How did those Southern belles endure it?

“What about Bodelle’s daughter?” Gran asked. “Batty as a bedbug, that one.”

“Channing? She’s always seemed nice.”

“Hah! You know about that business in St. Paul, don’t you?”

Mazie shook her head. She’d been out of the hometown gossip loop for years.

“Channing went to college up there. Flunked out first semester. Beats me how she got into college in the first place—if that girl ever had a brainstorm, it was a light drizzle. Anyway, she got a paper-pushing job with some big company. Met this married man at her office and started stepping out with him. When he refused to leave his wife, Channing began harassing the woman. Vandalized her car, stalked her, even physically attacked her. The woman took out a restraining order against Channing.”

“Channing?”
Mazie blinked, trying to reconcile the sweet, helpful woman who’d come to her defense today with the virago Gran was describing.

Gran nodded. “There’s something wrong with that girl. She was married, but that broke up after a few months. Spousal abuse.”

“Her husband beat her?”

“The other way around. The fella filed for divorce from his hospital bed.”

“Seriously?”

“Well, that’s the tittle-tattle. But you know how it is with small-town gossip—if you don’t know the truth, you make it up. Bodelle dragged Channing back home. Said she needed help with her gift shop, but I think it was to keep an eye on her.” Gran bent down to fluff out the skirt. “Beats me how Bodelle can afford a fancy car and designer clothes off
the piddly income from that shop of hers.”

Which reminded Mazie that Bodelle was on the Fawn Foundation’s board of directors. She and Holly had planned to do some digging into that, but what with pageants and werewolf attacks and newborn babies and Derek Ralston’s murder, they hadn’t had time.

“Come over to the mirror now and see how you look,” Gran said.

How she
looked
? Like the love child of Glinda the Good Witch and Chiquita Banana, Mazie thought. The dress had skimpy puffed sleeves and a low-cut bodice that thrust up her boobs like hush puppies in a basket. The waist tapered to a narrow point before ballooning into a big yellow Bundt cake of a skirt.

She couldn’t go out dressed in this, Mazie thought. She’d be the town laughingstock, if she wasn’t already. Carrie Jaworski must have really hated her bridesmaids to make them wear these confections.

“Musn’t forget your parasol.” Gran handed her a ruffled yellow umbrella that didn’t appear capable of keeping the sun off a gnat. Probably Southern belles used them to trip up competing belles. “And your pantalettes.” Grinning, Gran danced a pair of ruffled long johns at Mazie, a garment so ridiculous only Little Bo Peep could have loved it.

The church basement door opened and Holly breezed in, wearing a rose silk taffeta gown and a tiara and looking chic and pretty. Catching sight of Mazie, she halted in her tracks. Her eyes bugged, her jaw dropped, and her hand flew to her mouth. Mazie pirouetted to give her the full effect of the dress, and Holly erupted into whoops of laughter. Every time she recovered, she’d look at Mazie, wearing the Cupcake That Ate the South, and crack up again.

Finally she straightened, wiped tears out of her eyes, and drawled, “Well, fiddle-dee-dee, Miss Scarlett—why does a girl have to look so godamighty silly to catch herself a man?”

Chapter Thirty-two

Johnny Hoolihan whipped off his sunglasses, scanned Mazie top to bottom, and took in every cubic yard of the yellow blimp. Finally he said, “Did you lose a bet?”

“Don’t start,” Mazie snapped. “I’ve got a parasol and I’m not afraid to use it.”

She was panting and sweaty from her sprint to the courthouse square, but she needn’t have worried about being late. The parade showed no signs of starting. The high school band was still tootling and tweedling on the courthouse lawn, bored-looking horses were chafing at the bit, and the 4-H kids were still frantically gluing tissue paper rosettes onto their float. She’d found the car she was supposed to ride in by the simple expedient of walking around the square until she found a convertible with a banner on its side door reading
Mazie Maguire, Miss 2002
.

“Is this thing yours?” she asked Johnny, pointing to the car.

“Yup. Beauty, huh?”

The convertible was a bright turquoise Chevy Bel Air dating from the era of rocketship tail fins, hoods the length of shuffleboard courts, and hubcaps the size of flying saucers. It could have doubled as a
Star Wars
cargo transporter. Johnny Hoolihan, the class hood, the kid who rode an Indian motorbike to school because Harleys were for fat old farts in five-hundred-dollar leather jackets, would have spit on the Bel Air.

But times change, and Johnny Hoolihan had changed too. He was a proud parent to this whale, pointing out its V-8 engine, bench seats, hood ornament, big chrome bumpers, and other incomprehensible details. Mazie found her gaze lingering not on the car, but on Johnny, who wore era-appropriate skinny-leg jeans and a biceps-revealing white T-shirt. His hair was too short to wear in a ducktail, but he still managed to emit a sexy
Grease
vibe. He smelled good too, she noticed, inhaling cedar and spice as Johnny moved closer to show her the workmanship on the car’s grille.

Mazie scanned the Bel Air’s vast metal bulk. “Does this thing actually run?”

“Like a tank, baby. Seven miles to the gallon.”

“How did I wind up with you as my driver?” she asked.

Johnny gave her a slow, smug smile. “Because I got hold of the list of who rides in what car and made a switch.”

“I bet you’re sorry now you switched.” Mazie twirled around slowly, the better to give him the full effect of the gown’s radioactive yellow glory. The back of the skirt moved a millisecond slower than the front, as though the rear was hurrying to catch up with the front. She hadn’t had time to go back to the school and change into heels, so she was still wearing her old tennis shoes with no socks. There was a rip in the toe of the right shoe, and her robin’s egg blue toenail polish gleamed through.