Here Comes Trouble (12 page)

Megan had said the letter explained everything; a letter which Lacy still didn’t have the guts to read.

Her shirt fell to the floor as she walked to the dresser and opened the drawer. The envelope lay upside down from the way she’d tossed it in there. She eyed the crisp white envelope before slamming the drawer shut with enough force to rattle the lamp sitting on top.

“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “I don’t owe her anything.”

She peeled off her black pants and started the shower. The water shot out of the shower head and splattered on the dingy, cracked white tiles of the back tub wall. She eyed the water running down the drain and tried not to picture her mother sitting down and writing a letter to her long lost daughter. How long ago had she written it? What had been going through the woman’s mind? Had she cried? Had she felt anything at all?

With a groan of frustration, Lacy left the shower running and returned to the dresser drawer. The envelope lay in the exact same position it had one minute ago.

“Did you really expect it to move by itself?”

This time she picked it up and turned it over to see the front. Her name was scrawled in tiny, lowercase letters with a little line underneath. The envelope was sealed and she ran the tip of her finger along the seam. Back and forth her finger went like a hypnotist swinging one of those old pocket watches. With a weary sigh, she placed the envelope on top of the dresser instead of back inside the drawer. She wasn’t sure why, but for some reason the top of the dresser just seemed like a better place. Maybe seeing it every time she walked in and out of her room would motivate her to read it. For now, she just didn’t have the strength. It wasn’t like the letter was going anywhere, anyway.

Twenty minutes later, after a too-long shower, Lacy walked out of her room refreshed in a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top. She’d just walked into the kitchen to start dinner for herself when someone knocked on the door. Maybe Chase had come to continue their supposed affair.

On the other side of her door stood Mrs. Pratt, the ancient lady who lived down the street and head of the neighborhood watch. Lacy managed to stuff down her groan when she saw the frail, four-foot nothing woman. Mrs. Pratt wasn’t a bad person; she was just incredibly nosy. Lacy didn’t appreciate people prying into her life.

“Hi, hon. Mind if I come in?”

Sure, she was just thinking to herself how she wanted to spend her evening with the neighborhood gossip.

To Lacy’s knowledge, Mrs. Pratt had never smoked. Yet she had the voice of a woman who’d smoked unfiltered cigarettes since birth. Every time Lacy was around the old woman, she wanted to tell her to clear her throat.

To avoid being rude, Lacy stepped back. “Sure, Mrs. Pratt. Come on in.”

The woman’s distinct odor, like moth balls and cedar, washed over Lacy in a nauseating wave. Lacy shut the door and watched Mrs. Pratt show herself into the living room.

Stiff, cornflower blue pants encased Mrs. Pratt’s legs along with a long-sleeved, sunflower-yellow shirt. Her snow white hair was pulled back in a loose, sloppy bun with one of those nineteen-twenties beaded combs as an accent. The comb was actually quite pretty but on Mrs. Pratt it looked out of place like she wanted to look classy. A lot of words came to mind to describe her neighbor but classy wasn’t one of them.

Either the old woman was colorblind or she just didn’t give a damn what people thought of her. Given her personality Lacy would guess the latter.

“How’ve you been doing lately? I noticed your car making a funny noise the other day as you left for work. Sounds like your timing belt.” Mrs. Pratt shuffled around the room in her ugly orthopedic, brown leather shoes. Her sharp blue eyes darted around the room as though she was looking for something to fix–or gossip about

Lacy had noticed the squealing noise to but had no idea what it could have been, not to mention she didn’t have the money for a major auto repair. Unless she cashed that damn check. Why was it every time she turned around, life gave her a reason to take her mother’s guilt money when it was the last thing she wanted to do.

“Did you hear Annette had her triplets the other day? She named them April, May and June. Isn’t that the tackiest thing you’ve ever heard?”

Lacy did consider it sort of cruel to give your kids such cheesy names, but the tacky thing was, Mrs. Pratt gossiping about it. “Yes, that is pretty tacky.” Agreeing was easier than arguing, especially with Mrs. Pratt.

Lacy searched her brain for the fastest way to get the woman out of her house. “What brings you by today, Mrs. Pratt?”

She turned to face Lacy, her mouth pulled into a disapproving frown. Lacy noticed her pink lipstick had bled beyond the lines of her lips into the wrinkles gathered around her puckered, disapproving frown. “You got any ice tea?”

“Ah, sure.” Momentarily thrown off by her request, Lacy reached for her last bottle of Snapple and poured it into a glass. Actually, she’d been planning on saving her Blessed Peach Iced Tea for dinner, but whatever. If it would expedite Mrs. Pratt’s visit then so be it.

Mrs. Pratt wrapped her bony arthritis-warped fingers around the glass. “I was hoping for something homemade but I guess this will do.”

We all can’t be Martha Stewart
.

The glass trembled slightly in Mrs. Pratt’s unsteady grip as she took a shallow sip. Lacy didn’t bother asking the woman to use a coaster as she set the glass down on the coffee table.

“I’ll admit Snapple does know how to make good tea. Though it’s nowhere near as good as the sun tea my mother used to make. Have you ever made sun tea?”

Lacy was lucky she’d learned how to use the microwave, growing up. “No, I’ve never tried. You’ll have to teach me sometime.” Even though the last thing Lacy wanted was lessons on how to make sun tea from Mrs. Pratt, she didn’t want to be rude, either.

Mrs. Pratt settled her hunched-over frame into Ray’s brown corduroy recliner. Lacy expected her to ask for the remote so she could watch re-runs of
My Three Sons
and make herself at home.

“Pardon me if I sit down for a minute. My legs don’t hold me up so well.”

Great, now she felt bad for wanting to usher the woman out. As far as she knew, Mrs. Pratt didn’t have any family. Her husband had passed away about twenty years ago and the couple never had any children of their own. Mrs. Pratt had lived alone in her ancient, out-dated house for as long as Lacy had known her. She still drove a light-blue Cadillac the size of a small luxury liner. And every Saturday, she got out in her yard, with her sombrero-sized straw hat, and pulled the weeds in her beloved rose bushes. For eight-something years old, the woman was surprisingly efficient. Lacy often gave Mrs. Pratt a hard time because of her affinity to worm her way into other people’s lives, but loneliness probably played a big part in that. She knew the feeling. She suddenly hoped she wasn’t such a nosy, busy-body biddy when she was in her eighties. And alone. Oh…shit.

Lacy took a seat on the couch. “How’s your day been, Mrs. Pratt?”

She waived a weathered hand in the air. “Oh, the usual. Couldn’t get myself out of the bathtub this morning, then I couldn’t remember where I’d put my arthritis medication. Do yourself a favor Lacy, don’t ever get old. It all starts going downhill after fifty.”

The comment made Lacy smile. Mrs. Pratt could be annoying, but she was as spry as she was nosy.

Lacy knew she’d regret saying these next words but she did anyway. “If there’s anything you ever need from me, I’m just right down the street.”

Mrs. Pratt’s faded blue eyes lightened. “That’s sweet of you, hon. But the ladies at my church do everything for me that I need.” She spared her enormous, digital wristwatch a glance.

“I should get to the reason I’m here so I can get to the pharmacy before they close.” She jerked a craggy thumb over her shoulder. “You know the Hutchisons at the end of the street? Don and Jenny, with about six kids?”

Actually, they had five kids. They moved to the neighborhood a few years ago so Lacy didn’t know them that well. But she did see their oldest riding his bike up and down the street almost every afternoon.

“Anyway,” she continued before Lacy could confirm. “Jenny was at the park with her three youngest and she said she saw some guy with blond hair and one of those long, handle-bar moustaches lurking around the playground. She said he wasn’t doing anything bad, but he was sort of creepy. Have you seen anybody like that around here?”

Lacy slowed her breathing and waited for Mrs. Pratt to finish speaking. Dennis had blond hair, and five years was more than enough time to grow facial hair. Most people in the town knew her situation and what a worthless bastard Dennis was. But Jenny Hutchison was so new to the town she wouldn’t know Dennis Taylor if she looked him in the face. Mrs. Pratt would undoubtedly know him. She’d lived in Trouble her entire life and had been good friends with Ray. Lacy wasn’t sure how to respond to Mrs. Pratt. It wasn’t Dennis’ style to lurk in a place that wasn’t going to be beneficial to him in some way. If her father really was back in Trouble then the blond man Jenny saw could very well have been him. If she made her suspicions known to Mrs. Pratt, it would likely send the woman into a panicked frenzy, and the FBI would probably be here within the next twenty-four hours.

She forced herself not to fidget her fingers, which was a nasty habit of hers when nerves took over. “No, I haven’t seen anybody like that around here,” which technically wasn’t a lie. Lacy really hadn’t seen Dennis.

“I figured as much. He was probably some man Jenny hadn’t seen before. I’ve just been going house to house and letting people know to keep an eye out and report any strange things to me. If you happen to see this guy, will you let me know?”

Well, that depends
.

Lacy gave her a reassuring smile. “Of course I will.”

Mrs. Pratt placed her hands on the armrests of the chair and pushed without any success. The recliner rolled back and forth at her failed attempt to stand herself up. Lacy felt sorry for the woman and offered a solid hand of help. Mrs. Pratt’s breath came in and out with a rapid, wheezing sound.

“Thanks, hon,” she said on a breathless note. “That chair’s harder to get out of than it looks.”

“Ray always had trouble with it too,” Lacy replied, if only to make the woman feel better. Mrs. Pratt’s bony-fingered hand held onto Lacy’s arm as she led the old woman to the door. Once there, Lacy held it open for her. “I’ll let you know if I happen to see this blond-haired guy.” The words of reassurance made her feel like a hypocrite. Lacy had no intention of telling Mrs. Pratt anything that concerned Dennis Taylor. That was her burden to bear and no one else’s.

The soles of Mrs. Pratt’s leather shoes scuffed down the cement walkway and took her over to the next house. Lacy closed the door, trying to tell herself what she’d just heard didn’t mean anything; it was nothing more than a coincidence. There were lots of blond men in town and some of them probably had moustaches. Just because a guy with the same hair color as her father’s happened to be at her neighborhood park didn’t mean Dennis really was here. Or even looking for her, for that matter.

So why did that cold feeling snake its way down her back as it did whenever he was near? Something didn’t feel right. But, then again, things seldom felt right in her life. Forcing deep even breaths, Lacy walked down the hallway to her drawing room. On the floor sat the sketch of the pink-blossomed tree. She picked it up and studied the charcoal lines on the paper. This wasn’t the best work she’d ever done but it was definitely her favorite.

She tossed the paper back on the floor, feeling antsy and nervous. Damn him. Dennis wasn’t even in her life and he was still ruining her self-esteem. All she had to do was consider the possibility of him being in the area and her nerves went into overdrive. How is it he had this hold over her? Lacy had been taking care of herself for a long time; she’d never needed him.

Unsure of what to do with herself, she power-walked back to the kitchen and pulled some cookie dough ice cream out of the freezer. After heaping several spoonful’s into her mouth, Lacy failed to feel better. Instead she felt fat as well as on the edge. She returned the ice cream to the shelf and walked to her room.

The sight of her unmade bed reminded her of the previous night with Chase. Going to his house now was out of the question. Not only was he at work but jumping back into bed with him was likely to confuse her even more. She needed to keep her distance from him for a little while.

After pacing for the better part of ten minutes, Lacy exchanged her shorts for a pair of Capri’s and slid on her best-looking sandals. They had the fewest amount of scuffmarks on them.

Her purse lay tilted on its side from it landed after she walked in the door. She scooped it up and walked into the garage where she got behind the wheel of Ray’s rust bucket. After she’d sent up a prayer of desperation, the car finally started.