I Scream, You Scream Read online

  “Thanks, Wayne,” I said. “That means a lot.”

  He nodded once, as though something important had been settled. That nod felt like the punctuation to a chapter in our life.

  “Well, now, you and Alice and the boy oughta put on these shirts, before Brittanie sees you out of uniform and takes a strip out of my hide.”

  I chuckled as I took the shirts from him. “She’s got you on a short leash, huh?”

  The instant the words left my mouth, I regretted them. I shouldn’t poke around in Wayne and Brittanie’s relationship. Made me look like a scorned woman trying desperately to keep my claws in my ex-husband.

  Which, I assure you, I was not.

  I didn’t expect Wayne to answer. And I guess he didn’t, really. At least not directly.

  He looked at the ground, and a faint flush stained his throat. “She’s a good kid. Real ambitious. Real smart. A little set in her ways, but I guess I don’t mind.” He cleared his throat, shuffled his feet, and glanced at his watch. “Folks’ll be showing up soon. I better scoot.”

  I watched Wayne walk away, marveling that my two-timing rat-bastard of an ex-husband appeared to be at least a little bit in love with Miss Fancy Britches Brittanie.

  I never liked parties much. Making chitchat with people you don’t know, staying alert for candid photos, and eating standing up . . . None of that really appeals.

  Turns out, working a party is even worse than being a guest. No one expected me to make small talk at the luau, and I got to sit down to eat—on a camp chair behind my van, with only Alice and Kyle to keep me company, but I did get to sit. Still, the awkward looks I got from all my former friends and neighbors—overly bright smiles beneath panic-stricken gazes—killed my appetite.

  “Tally! Good heavens, I almost didn’t recognize you!”

  “I’ve been meaning to come by your little store, but you know how it is. Busy, busy, busy.”

  “I was going to call you last weekend, but the barbecue turned into such a couples thing.”

  I was grateful when dinner service rolled around and all the ladies in their linen shift dresses and the men in their golf shirts settled at their tables, while grass-skirt-clad coeds circulated with the food.

  When the hula servers started clearing away the plates of roasted pork and bowls of suspiciously Middle-American potato salad, I dragged Kyle and Alice bodily from their whispering tête-à-tête in the shade of my old GMC van and stationed them by the portable freezer to hand out the shallow dishes of ice cream, while I took up a position behind the table, stacking cups of sundae topping on round trays. Dessert service was more chaotic than dinner, with guests milling about between the tables and the waitresses dodging Junior Leaguers as they wended their way through the hubbub. Still, I soon fell into a rhythm that synched with my breathing, pushing nearly every other thought from my mind.

  The only thing that got through, like a crack of lightning in a peaceful night sky, was Finn Harper. He sidled up to the table, a spark of mischief in his heavy-lidded green eyes, a half smile on his face, and a dish of ice cream in his left hand. I froze, a container of pineapple topping in each hand. He brushed my fingers lightly as he took one of them from me.

  “Thanks, Tally.”

  That whole night, he was the only person who thought to say “thank you” to me, the hired help.

  When the rush died down, I reached up to brush a sweaty strand of hair back from my brow and almost jumped out of my skin when I found Finn standing not two feet away, smiling that same lazy smile.

  “Hey, Tally,” he drawled.

  “Oh. Hi.” I wiped my fingers on my jeans, then smoothed my hair behind my ears again. “What’s up?”

  He jerked his head at the mingling partygoers behind him. “Hard-nosed journalism at its finest.”

  “Ah, yes. Must be a real drag to go from—” I paused because I wasn’t sure what exactly Finn had been doing for the last eighteen years. I had shut that door in my life and didn’t feel like peeking behind it, so I worked hard to avoid the inevitable small-town gossip. “Well, you know what I mean.”

  His smile widened. “Minneapolis. Crime and local politics.” He shrugged. “This is a little tame, I suppose, but it has its advantages.”

  “Really?”

  “Like the ice cream. Nothing that good in the Twin Cities.” His voice dropped to an intimate rumble. “Decadent.” Wrapped in the mellow twilight, his words made me feel things I had no business feeling.

  I felt a blush burn my face, and I rushed to change the subject.

  “So, uh, you get any juicy tidbits while you were circulating?”

  “Hmm. Define juicy.” He held up a hand and began ticking off items on his fingers. “Honey Jillson apparently wore an above-the-knee skirt to the Zeta Eta Chi pledge tea.”

  “Really?” I was genuinely shocked.

  Finn shrugged. “She’s got the legs to carry it off.”

  I shoved his shoulder. “Finn Harper! The mayor’s wife is seventy if she’s a day.”

  He laughed. “All the more reason for her to flaunt what God gave her.”

  “You’re incorrigible. What else?”

  He leaned in close, dropping his voice to a husky whisper. “Folks seem real surprised Eddie Collins showed up.”

  Getting into the spirit of dishing dirt, I tipped my head close to his. “That is a surprise. Eddie Collins is one of Wayne’s competitors now. He jumped on the whole ‘live green’ bandwagon and provides organic lawn care and pest removal. Charges a small fortune, from what I hear. I can’t believe Wayne invited him.”

  Finn bobbled his eyebrows. “The buzz is that he didn’t. Either Wayne’s girlfriend—” He stopped short, looking at me in abject horror.

  I couldn’t hold back a wry chuckle. “It’s okay. Her name’s Brittanie.”

  He nodded slowly, all the while studying me as if he were looking for signs of hairline fractures, any underlying structural weakness that might lead me to shatter at the mention of the other woman. “So, either Brittanie invited good ol’ Eddie, or he invited himself.”

  “Fascinating.”

  Finn continued to watch me closely until the silence between us grew uncomfortable. When he finally spoke, the words tumbled over one another in a rush. “Tally, are you okay?”

  I put a hand to my cheek. “I’m fine. Why? Do I look sick?” My hand drifted up to my hair, and I silently cursed Bree’s do-it-yourself highlights. I probably looked like I had jaundice.

  Finn exhaled sharply, a sound I couldn’t interpret. It might have been a laugh or a sigh of impatience. “You look fine.” He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. In that instant, I could see through the veil of years to the brooding teenager I had loved with a passion beyond reason. I had to look away.

  “I just picked up bits and pieces about what happened between you and Wayne,” he continued. “It must be hard to be here, watching him with Brittanie.”

  I kept my eyes fixed on a group of children swirling sparklers over the head of a frenzied Australian shepherd, writing their names in big looping letters of ephemeral light. “Brittanie didn’t kill my marriage.” I allowed myself a thin-lipped smile. “She swooped in while the body was still warm, but Wayne was tomcatting around long before that little girl showed up.”

  “I’m sorry, Tally.”

  I waved away his apology.

  “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I heard JoAnne Simms call Brittanie a little whore.”

  That surprised a laugh out of me, and I clapped both my hands over my mouth. “Oh, I’m going to hell for making fun.”

  I glanced at Finn and found his smoky green eyes smoldering like a peat fire. Something dark and delicious stirred in their depths, and as he leaned forward, I caught a hint of his scent, brisk notes of juniper and mint and laundry soap.

  I stood mesmerized as his lips parted, but I never learned what he planned to say, because Wayne picked that moment to strut up, chest puffed out like he
was a bantam rooster, the thumb of one hand hooked in the waist of his chinos, the other hand grasping a sweating plastic cup of margarita slushy—tinted Wayne’s Weed and Seed green.

  He looped his free arm over Finn’s shoulders as if they were old drinking buddies. “Hey, Scoop!” Wayne laughed loudly at his own joke. I recognized the way his lids drooped over fever-bright eyes. Wayne was drunk.

  He took a swallow of margarita. “This little lady giving you an earful? Because you gotta take what she says with a grain of salt. She’s still got her dander up pretty good.”

  Finn stiffened visibly. “Actually, Wayne, I was doing the talking. Tally was just being polite, listening to me ramble.”

  Wayne laughed again. “I guess that’s a reporter’s job, gossiping and such.”

  I braced myself, waiting for Finn to haul off and sock Wayne in the face. The teenage Finn would have swung first and thought second, but the years had apparently smoothed his rough edges. The muscle on one side of his jaw bunched up, as did his fists, but he didn’t take a punch. He did, however, step out from under Wayne’s arm and move away a few paces.

  Some habits die hard. I moved around the table and took the glass out of Wayne’s hand before I remembered it wasn’t my job anymore to corral the man when he was drunk.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought.

  Raising the glass to my own lips, I smiled and said, “Thanks for bringing me a drink, Wayne.”

  A bemused look on his face, Wayne simply nodded.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Finn’s eyes narrow and his mouth flatten. Well, better he be peeved with me than fightin’ mad at Wayne.

  I had the cup raised to take another sip when Brittanie crashed our awkward little party.

  “What’s going on here?” she demanded, her words running together in a gentle slur. Her striking eyes, just a shade lighter than Liz Taylor violet, looked slightly unfocused.

  Apparently Wayne wasn’t the only one hitting the margarita machine pretty hard that night.

  Her gaze slid from Wayne’s scarlet face to my hand resting on his forearm. “Dammit, Wayne,” she snapped, “I turn my back on you for five minutes and you’re sniffing around her skirt like a stray dog.”

  Wayne raised his hand in a placating gesture. “Now, Brit, don’t get your panties in a bunch. I was just making conversation.”

  Brittanie snorted. “Right. Tally may have bought your bull crap, but I’m wise to you. I know you can’t keep your fly fastened, and I know that look on your face. You’re flirting, and you’re busted.”

  Wayne glanced nervously over his shoulder. Around us, party chatter died and guests turned our way.

  “Brit, keep your voice down,” he hissed.

  “Oh, get over yourself, Wayne. Everyone here knows you ran around on Tally for years. But I’ll be damned if I let you humiliate me the way you did her.”

  My eyes met Finn’s for an instant, but I couldn’t bear to hold his gaze.

  “Please, Brit, you’re jumping to conclusions.”

  “‘Please, Brit,’” she mocked. For a second, she teetered in her strappy high-heel sandals, and she grabbed Wayne’s arm to steady herself. “I saw your Visa statement, Wayne. A couple of hinky charges on there, you know? Including a big ol’ bill from Sinclair’s, but you haven’t given me any jewelry since my birthday in July.”

  Wow. Miss Fancy Britches Brittanie was playing hardball, snooping through Wayne’s mail. I suppose I should have been appalled, but if I’d taken that sort of initiative, I might have discovered Wayne’s extracurricular activities a little sooner.

  The color drained from Wayne’s face. “Brittanie, this isn’t the time or place to discuss that.”

  She snorted but turned her attention from Wayne to me.

  “And you,” she spat. “You just couldn’t wait to crawl back into his bed, could you?”

  Finn took a step in my direction, but I held up a hand to ward him off. I could handle one little girl, no matter how big her hair or her boobs were.

  “Why don’t you give it up? I mean, look at us.” Brittanie waved a hand down the length of her body. She wore a formfitting dress—in Wayne’s Weed and Seed green, of course—the delicate spaghetti straps just barely holding the bodice over her ginormous breasts. Her belly was as flat as the West Texas plains, her legs as long as the Rio Grande.

  I didn’t have to look at my own dumpy khaki shorts and wilted Hawaiian shirt to realize what a stark contrast they presented. But I couldn’t let her attack slide. With half of Dalliance looking on—not to mention Finn Harper—I had to put Miss Fancy Britches in her place.

  “Listen, honey, not every man will be blinded by your bodacious ta-tas. There’s a little thing called character, and you can’t get it from a personal trainer. Eventually, gravity will take its toll, and if you want to be able to face yourself in the mirror after that happens, you might want to focus a bit more energy on being less of a bitch.”

  I paused for breath, a little stunned at myself. I glanced to my side and found Finn looking at me as if I were a new species. Behind him, Kyle and Alice stood with their mouths hanging open.

  But it was Wayne who spoke. “Brittanie is not a bitch. She’s just not feeling herself tonight. Come on, baby, let’s go.” He gently grasped her elbow and started to steer her away.

  For an instant, I thought Brittanie was going to protest. But then she swayed again, and suddenly she looked very sleepy. She leaned against Wayne, sheltered beneath his arm, and together they headed toward the parking lot.

  I watched them go for a moment, then turned and clapped my hands in Kyle and Alice’s direction. “Come on, troops. Let’s get this mess cleaned up so we can hit the road.”

  As they scurried to work with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, I threw Finn a sheepish look.

  “Still think your new beat is a little tame?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Never underestimate small-town drama. I’ve got enough material to write a story that will have tongues wagging for weeks.”

  Sure enough, the next morning all the old-timers at the Fry by Night were jawin’ over Denver omelets and Finn’s story. But the buzz didn’t even last through the day. By noon, a much bigger story had stolen all Finn’s thunder.

  chapter 4

  Word spread faster than an Oklahoma twister.

  I got the news from Karla Faye Hoffstead, who had done my hair since I got my first perm in the ninth grade. Karla Faye owned the Hair Apparent Salon, a no-frills beauty shop that always smelled of permanent wave solution and the overheated elements of the bubble-domed chair dryers. For years Wayne had pushed me to go to Artemis, an upscale spa complete with aromatherapy facials and hot-rock massages, but I didn’t want to have to dress up to get my hair cut. I stayed loyal to Karla Faye, and eventually Wayne stopped complaining.

  In the wee hours after the Weed and Seed luau, I had tried to fix Bree’s highlighting job with a box of caramel-colored discount dye from the all-night drugstore. My efforts had backfired, and now my stripes were a sort of salmon pink. I called Karla Faye first thing Saturday morning in hysterics, and she agreed to stay after her regular shift to help me out.

  At a little after three o’clock that afternoon, I slipped in the front door of the Hair Apparent wearing my floppy gardening hat and a pair of Jackie O sunglasses. The shop was quiet save for the rhythmic whuffing of a load of towels in the dryer and the low murmur of voices coming from a handful of women gathered by the shampoo sink. My sneaker squeaked on the linoleum floor, and every gaze snapped to me.

  Karla Faye broke from the huddle and tottered across the salon on her three-inch spike heels to greet me. She wore skintight black jeans, an orange jersey tunic that hung off one bony shoulder, and a wide black leather belt slung low on her skinny hips. She might have been wearing the very same outfit when she gave me that perm in the ninth grade.

  “Lord a-mercy, Tally. Have you heard the news?”

  “What news?” I asked as I pulled of
f my hat.

  “About that little—” Karla Faye gasped. “Bless your heart, what happened to your head?”

  “Bree happened to my head,” I moaned.

  Karla Faye clucked softly. “How many times have I told you? Surgery, dentistry, and permanent hair color . . . the three things in this life you need a professional for.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry. But I was in a bad place emotionally, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Can you fix it?”

  “Baby girl, I can fix anything.”

  She led me to her station and shook out a leopard-print cape while I settled in the chair.

  “So, what’s got you all atwitter?” I asked as Karla Faye joined the Velcro tabs of the cape around my neck. The rest of the stylists were still whispering by the shampoo sink, and I caught several of them casting sideways glances in our direction.

  “Oh!” Karla Faye threw up her hands in alarm. “I can’t believe I got sidetracked. But, honestly, pink stripes?”

  “Karla Faye.”

  “Right. Are you ready for this?” She rested her hands on my shoulders, as though she was steadying me for a blow. “That little hussy who’s been playing house with your Wayne?”

  I didn’t bother to point out that he definitely wasn’t my Wayne anymore. “Brittanie? What about her?”

  Karla Faye leaned in so close that her breath, sharp with the scent of menthol cigarettes, stirred the delicate hairs at my temple when she whispered.

  “She’s dead.”

  She may as well have been speaking Swahili. The words just didn’t make any sense.

  “What?”

  “Dead. As in doornail.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Vonda Hudson, who works in the 911 call center, came in for a manicure over her lunch break. All that typing is hell on her nails. Well, anyway, Vonda said a 911 call came in from Wayne himself at around ten thirty. He said Brittanie had been feeling poorly when she went to bed last night so he let her sleep in this morning, but when he went in to check on her, she wouldn’t wake up. He thought she wasn’t breathing. Ambulance radioed back that she was DOA.”