Hoodwinked (4 page)

She started moving away. “I don't pull routines. And I can change the oil and spark plugs, and even change a fan belt if I have to.”

“A woman of accomplishments,” he said. His eyes narrowed, calculating. “You know something about engines, then?”

“About Volkswagen engines, yes,” she said. “My uncle was chief mechanic at an import shop for years. He taught me.” She lifted her chin. He brought out something deeply buried in her—a temper she didn't
know she had. She felt her face going hot and her hands trembling, but she couldn't keep quiet any longer. “And just to set the record straight, you appeal to me about as much as this sandwich did.” She waved it at him.

He lifted an eyebrow, and there was something almost sensual in the set of his wide, chiseled mouth. “Odd. I've been told that I don't taste half-bad.”

She didn't know if he was joking or not. Probably not. He wasn't smiling, and his face was like stone. It didn't matter, anyway; she wanted nothing else to do with him. She turned and left the canteen quickly, on legs that threatened to fold up under her. He'd ruined her lunch and the rest of the day. She'd never talked angrily to anyone in her life. He was really bringing out her latent beastly qualities, she thought, and almost laughed at the way she'd bristled. That would have amused her father and mother. The thought made her sad. She quickened her steps back to the office.

Mr. Blake had more correspondence for her to cope with after lunch, and again she was late leaving the office. But this time, thank God, the red-and-rust-colored pickup truck was missing from the parking lot, so she climbed gratefully into her small car and went home.

Bagwell was playing with a lava rock on a chain when she went in through the back door, but he dropped it the minute he spotted her and began to dance and prance and purr.

“Pretty girl!” he cooed. “Pretty girl! Hello!”

“Hi, Bagwell.” She smiled, stopping by the cage to unfasten it and let him out. He climbed onto the overhead perch and ruffled his feathers, tolerating her
affectionate hand on his green head for a minute before he tried to make a meal of it.

“Vicious bird,” she muttered, grinning. “Biting the hand that feeds you. How about some apple?”

“Ap-ple,” he agreed. “Ap-ple.”

She put down her purse, kicked off her shoes with a sigh, and shared a tart, crunchy Granny Smith with him. “Bagwell, the days get longer and longer. I think I need a change of scenery.”

“Good ap-ple,” he murmured, preoccupied with the slice of fruit he was holding in his claw.

“You've got a one-track mind,” she said. She got up and looked in the cupboard to see what there was to eat. “Well, it's the grocery store for me tomorrow, old fellow,” she said, grimacing when she saw the meager supply of food. “I guess it's cereal or sandwiches.”

She changed into jeans and a sweatshirt while he was still working on his apple. Then she brewed a pot of coffee, got out bologna and mustard and made herself a sandwich, and turned on the television, searching in vain for anything except local or national news. In desperation, she slid a science-fiction movie into the VCR her parents had given her two Christmases ago and sat back to watch it.

Unfortunately Bagwell liked the sound of high-tech fantasy weapons and could mimic them very well. But he didn't stop when they did. He continued through the dialogue, shrieking and firing and booming.

“I hate parrots,” Maureen told him as she switched off the movie in self-defense.

He flew down from his perch and walked over to the sofa, pulling himself up by his beak to stand on
the arm of the rickety, worn piece of secondhand furniture.

“I'm pretty,” he said.

She scratched his head lovingly. “Yes, you are, precious,” she agreed with a smile. She leaned back and he climbed onto her jeans-clad leg. Seconds later, he was fluffed up with one foot drawn under him, half-asleep.

“Hey, now, no dozing,” she teased. She got him on her forearm and carried him to his cage. He dozed on while she cleaned it and put in fresh water. Then she put him up for the night, covering him with a thin sheet.

He was a lot of company, but he had to have at least twelve hours of sleep or he got grumpy. So she spent most of her evenings watching television alone.

She curled up with a new book on Tudor history—a work about Henry VIII—and sipped black coffee. The man next door wasn't far from her thoughts. He irritated her more than anyone she knew, and his frankly insulting attitude in the canteen had made her angry. She'd never realized how uncomfortable it could be to have an enemy. He was her first. But she didn't know why he disliked her, and that made things worse.

She'd never mixed well. During her childhood, she'd been pretty much a loner and a misfit. Her father had been a college professor, a brilliant man who taught physics, and her equally brilliant mother had taught English at the high-school level. They'd enlarged on her school curriculum with things for her to study at home, and her well-rounded education had set her apart from her friends, who didn't understand why Maureen had her nose stuck in a book all the
time. She loved to read, and she liked learning new things. But her love life suffered, along with her social life. Boys had avoided her in school, just as grown men avoided her now. Her pet interests were Plantagenet and Tudor England, and ornithology; and her idea of the perfect date was a trip to a museum. Sex was something other people had, and she didn't know a birth-control pill from an aspirin. So, she told herself, perhaps it was just as well that she wasn't a raving beauty and fascinating to men; she didn't really have the right personality to be a swinger.

A light tapping on the wall next door caught her attention. It seemed to be coming from her bedroom. She put down her book and walked into the room, but then the tapping abruptly stopped. She went nearer to the wall and studied it closely, looking for holes. Surely the new neighbor wasn't a Peeping Tom! He wasn't the kind of man for that sort of thing. Or was he? But she didn't see any holes. With a sigh that was part irritation, part frustration, she went back into the living room and back to her book. Lately, life seemed to be chock-full of obstacles.

She carried Bagwell in his cage into the bedroom with her, as she usually did, so that he wouldn't start screaming when she turned off the lights.

“I love you!” he called loudly and made a noisy round of his cage before she talked softly to him, soothing him, and covered him again. She turned out the light, still talking softly, and he muttered for a minute, then curled one leg under, fluffed up and went to sleep. She settled down with a sigh, but she was restless, tossing and turning for a long time before she found sleep. The day had upset her, and she was glad that she had a weekend to regroup.

The next day was Saturday. Once, weekends had been the most important part of Maureen's life, because she could garden and stay outdoors. But not anymore. Now she was too aware of eyes next door. She knew he was watching her. She didn't even know how, but she could feel his gaze when she went to the trash can or the clothesline. She started digging a row in her small flower bed in which to put daisies, but even in jeans and a tan tank top, she felt as if she were working in the nude. She put her implements up and went inside to do housework instead.

He left about noon. She heard the pickup backing out, and with a cry of pure joy, she rushed into the backyard and started digging with a vengeance. By the time she heard the truck return, she'd done two rows, added fertilizer and planted seed. So there, she thought victoriously as she put up her gardening tools. If I have to dig and plant at night, I'm having my flower garden!

It was ridiculous, of course, to let a neighbor interfere with her activities to that extent. She started thinking about stone walls and huge privacy fences. But they cost money, and she didn't have any to spare. It took everything she made to pay the bills; there was nothing left over for extravagance.

The rest of the day was as lonely as it usually was. She watched a movie and went to bed early. Sunday morning she got up, made breakfast and went to church. Ordinarily she would have lain out in the sun that afternoon, but not with her new neighbor in residence. His pickup truck stayed in the driveway all day. But she hadn't heard any sounds coming from his apartment, and about dark, she heard a car pull up next door. Peeking out through the curtains, she
watched a Mercedes convertible let out the big, dark man just before it backed out into the road and took off.

He wasn't dressed like a mechanic. He was wearing what looked like a very expensive light tan suit and a shirt under it that almost had to be silk. She darted back from the window as he glanced in her direction. Well, well, she thought. Wasn't that one for the books? He was accusing her of dressing in an uptown way, so what would he call his own leisure clothes?

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Could he possibly be the saboteur? Her heart jumped. He was new at the company. He wasn't known. He seemed to be a mechanic, but he dressed like a man with expensive tastes. Didn't saboteurs make a lot of money? He could have been hired by someone to make the plane fail. Not Mr. Peters, she decided firmly. By a curious coincidence, Mr. Peters of Peters Aviation was a member in good standing of the church she attended, and she knew he wasn't the kind of man to do something dirty like trying to undermine a competitor's product. But there were other people who might try to topple a new design—like two renegade members of MacFaber's own board of directors who'd wanted to sell out to Peters and were angry that Mr. MacFaber had blocked the plan.

She felt a surge of excitement as she considered her next move. She had the perfect opportunity to observe her next-door neighbor. Having him in proximity meant she could watch him. She could find out who his associates were, where he went, what he did. She could be—Maureen Harris, secret agent. She giggled. If only she had a trench coat.

She drifted off into a very satisfying fantasy. She'd just uncovered the saboteur and saved MacFaber's company. They were pinning a medal on her. It hurt!

She gasped, looking down to the big beak that was sinking into her sneaker.

“Bagwell!” she muttered. She offered him a shirt-clad arm and he climbed aboard with happy little mumbles. So much for fantasy, she sighed.

She carried Bagwell back to the kitchen, frowning thoughtfully. Of course, she'd have to be careful about her observation. It wouldn't do to let her sneaky neighbor see her watching him. Now she began to wonder if his moving in next door was really a coincidence, after all. Perhaps he'd known beforehand that she was Mr. Blake's secretary and thought that he might find out things about the jet from her. But that wasn't realistic, she decided with a sigh. What did she know about jet designs? She'd seen the blueprints only once, and her job involved less exciting things than the actual design of airplanes.

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. Her new neighbor might actually be a struggling mechanic, but he had some ritzy friends—if that car was anything to go by. She went to feed Bagwell, visions of trench coats and spy cameras running rampant in her bored mind. That was the trouble with living such a dull life, she told herself. It would get her into trouble one day.

The next week went by quickly, with only glimpses of her neighbor. Very cautiously, she kept an eye on him. She found subtle ways to question people, and she found out that his name was Jake Edwards and that he was from Arkansas. He had
excellent credentials, but he kept very much to himself and nobody knew anything about him.

She felt guilty because of her snooping, even though she felt a sense of accomplishment that she'd found out so much. But her conscience and the mechanic's evident dislike of her made her keep out of his way as much as possible. After all, he'd already accused her once of chasing him. God forbid that she should display any interest.

She'd started eating lunch in her office to make sure she didn't run into him in the canteen. And the next weekend was a repeat of the one before. She darted out to do her gardening when he wasn't home, otherwise never venturing outside. She had a post-office box, so she didn't have to go out to a mailbox, and she only subscribed to the weekly paper, which came in the mail.

The only unpleasantless was when she tiptoed outside to the trash can very early Sunday morning, with her long hair tumbled to her waist, wearing the men's pajama top that came to her knees. It was a shock to find her neighbor at
his
trash can, staring blatantly at her. She'd been too embarrassed even to speak. She'd darted back into her apartment and closed the door. After she got back from church, she hadn't ventured out in the yard even once. She and Bagwell had spent the day in front of the television, watching old war movies together.

She seemed to spend her life avoiding her new neighbor, she thought ruefully. But it never occurred to her that he'd notice, or that it would matter to him. So she got the shock of her life the following Monday when he came into her office at lunchtime to find her eating a bowl of canteen chili with some crackers
she'd brought from home along with a thermos of coffee. She paused with the spoon halfway to her mouth and stared at him.

He stared back. He looked even bigger at close range. He had the kind of physique that must have required some careful eating. He was enormous, but most of him seemed to be muscle. He had a broad face, almost leonine in look, with large dark eyes under a jutting brow. His eyebrows were bushy, but they suited him, like his imposing nose and square chin. He was even good-looking in a rough sort of way. He had hands like hams, and Maureen thought that she wouldn't have liked to run afoul of him if she'd been another man instead of a woman.

“Have you gone into hibernation?” he asked. He folded his arms across his massive chest and leaned back against the door with the nonchalance of a man who never doubted his instincts for an instant.