Hoodwinked

Chapter Two

Maureen hated her own cowardice the next morning, but she peeked around the corner before she went out her door. The last thing she wanted was a confrontation with her new neighbor, even if she did probably have to see him at work.

She got into her yellow VW, and crossing her fingers for luck, managed to crank it on the first try. She backed it out into the road and drove off, noticing with relief that the truck wasn’t in the other side of the driveway. He must already have left for work.

Sure enough, when she got to the MacFaber Corporation offices, the red-and-rust pickup was already there. Maureen went quickly into the building and to the office she shared with Mr. Blake, glancing nervously around. But her new neighbor was nowhere in sight, thank God.

Mr. Blake glanced up when she took him the mail, staring at her blankly.

“The mail, sir,” Maureen said, putting it in front of him on the cluttered desk.

“Yes, of course,” he murmured. He seemed to be looking through her, as he did when he was preoccupied.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Blake?” she asked worriedly.

“No, nothing at all,” he assured her, but he didn’t look terribly convincing. She knew that his brother-in-law had been out on sick leave ever since the disappointing trial run of the new Faber-jet design. Maybe he was worried about the older man.

“Is your brother-in-law getting better?” she asked.

He gave her a quick, suspicious look.

“I know you must be worried about him,” she said gently. “I hope he’s all right.”

“He’s much better, thank you, Maureen,” he said stiffly. “I expect he’ll be back at work before very long.” He moved uncomfortably, as if it bothered him to talk about personal subjects. “Get me the Radley file, if you please.”

“Yes, sir.” She smiled. She liked her boss, but he had seemed terribly unlike himself lately. He needed to rest more, she decided, and not worry so much. His brother-in-law, Mr. Jameson, was a much less regimented person, a mechanic with an easygoing temperament but a stubborn resistance to authority and new techniques. She smiled, thinking privately that Mr. Jameson and the new mechanic would probably butt heads pretty quickly. It disturbed her to think about her disagreeable new neighbor.

She took Mr. Blake the file and went back to her routine. She enjoyed her job, but it could get hectic, especially when there were visiting dignitaries or government inspectors around. There was a lot of concern about the disappointing first test flight of the corporation’s Faber jet, and perhaps that was at the root of Mr. Blake’s nervousness. Quality control was where the buck stopped when anything went wrong with new designs, especially when the design department could prove that they weren’t at fault. That put not only Maureen’s boss but the entire quality-control department on the firing line.

The design department had already proved itself blameless; they’d shown a computer-graphics presentation of the craft’s performance on paper. The plane should have flown perfectly. So now everybody was beginning to think that the flaw was much more likely the result of sabotage than a design defect. MacFaber had enemies. Most successful companies and executives did. One particular rival firm, Peters Aviation, had recently made a takeover bid for MacFaber’s corporation. But characteristically, old MacFaber had pulled his irons out of the fire just in time by gathering up proxies. He had three votes over what he needed to win the fight, and Peters had gone away fuming but empty-handed. But if the new design failed, and Peters got his design in ahead of time, the board of directors might vote a lack of faith in MacFaber and approve the takeover. It was a risky situation.

Maureen, like the rest of the staff, had wondered at the poor maiden performance of the renovated Faber jet. It didn’t seem possible that it had been sabotaged, but the evidence was beginning to point that way. How curious that Mr. MacFaber hadn’t been roaring around the place raising Cain over the difficulties. But perhaps the lady in Rio had him mesmerized.

“I’d like to mesmerize someone, just once,” she muttered as she pulled up the Faber-jet file on her computer and began to type the performance report Mr. Blake had given her.

The intercom buzzed, interrupting her thoughts. “Miss Harris.”

“Yes, Mr. Blake?”

“Please go down to Mr. MacFaber’s office and ask Charlene for the latest figures on the cost overrun on the Faber-jet modifications,” he said.

“I’ll go right now.”

She left the computer up and running and went down the hall to the huge office that Mr. MacFaber occupied when he was in residence. Charlene, a pretty blonde, was glaring at her computer monitor and grumbling.

“I hate computers,” she said, glaring at the screen. “I hate computers, I hate companies that use computers, I even hate people who make computers!”

“Shame on you,” Maureen said. “You’ll upset it and it will get sick.”

“Good. I hope it dies! It just ate a whole morning’s work and it won’t give it back!”

“Here. I’ll save you. Get up.” Maureen grinned at her, sat down, and within five minutes had pulled out the backup copy of the file, copied it, and put Charlene back in the chair.

Charlene stared at her suspiciously. “I don’t trust people who understand how to do things like that. What if you’re an enemy agent or something?”

“I can’t possibly be. I don’t even own a trench coat,” Maureen said reasonably. “Mr. Blake wants the latest cost-overrun figures on the Faber jet. I’d have asked for them on my terminal, but I imagined you having hysterics if you had to try to send it via your modem.”

Charlene’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t even know how to turn on the modem, if you want the truth. I never wanted this job in the first place. Computers, modems, electronic typewriters—if the pay wasn’t so good, I’d leave tomorrow. You try sitting here trying to explain to everybody short of God that Mr. MacFaber hasn’t set foot in the office for the past year. Just try. Then explain to all these people who keep calling him that he can’t be reached by phone because he’s sitting on the banks of the Amazon contemplating the ancient Incas or something!”

“I’m really sorry,” Maureen said. “But I do need the cost-overrun figures.”

Charlene sighed. “Okay.”

She got up and fumbled through her immaculate filing cabinets until she got what she was looking for and handed a file to Maureen. “Don’t lose it and don’t let it out of your sight. Mr. Johnston will kill me if it vanishes.”

“You know very well the vice president in charge of production worships the ground you walk on.”

Charlene smiled smugly. “Yes, I do know. If he doesn’t watch out, I’ll have him in front of a minister. He’s sexy.”

“I think so, too, but we can’t all look like you,” Maureen told her. “Some of us have to look like me.”

“I like your new hairdo and makeup,” Charlene said kindly.

“I’m still going home alone, though.” Maureen shrugged. “Maybe someday I’ll get lucky.” She glanced around the plush, carpeted office. “Have you ever seen your boss?”

“Once, at a dead run, when I first got this promotion three months ago. Mostly I get memos and phone calls and relayed messages. He’s not bad looking, I guess. A bit old for my taste. Graying around the edges, you know, and a little on the heavy side. Too much high living, I suppose.” She frowned. “Although it could have been that bulky coat he was wearing.” She shrugged. “He had on dark glasses and a hat—I wouldn’t know him in a police lineup.”

“You’d think his picture would be around here somewhere, wouldn’t you, since it’s a family corporation,” Maureen remarked.

“There was a picture, but it didn’t come over with the stuff from the old building, God knows why.” Charlene sighed. “Bring that file back when you finish, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks.”

She took the file back to Mr. Blake and sat down at her computer again. Odd, some of the figures looked different. But a quick glance at the sheet she’d been copying from told her that they were correct. With a tiny shrug she got back to work.

The canteen was full when she got there. She’d long since decided that rushing out to a restaurant was wasted time, and fighting the hectic traffic just killed her appetite. Even if the canteen food was artificial tasting, it was handy and cheap.

She bought herself a cold meat sandwich and a diet soft drink and sat down as close to the window as she could get. She felt self-conscious around all these people, most of whom were men, although nothing about her clothes was the least bit provocative. She was wearing a beige suit and pink blouse, with her hair in a neat French twist at her nape. She looked young and elegant and not too unattractive, she thought. The makeup did help, but nothing would change the fact that she wore glasses. She’d tried contact lenses, but she’d grown allergic to them and kept getting eye infections, so she’d given up. Anyway, she was never going to be a raving beauty. As if that mattered. None of the men around here ever looked at her, anyway.

She munched on her sandwich, watching the antics of a squirrel in the big shade tree next to the canteen with a faint smile. It took a minute for her to realize that she wasn’t alone anymore. A shadow fell across her as the big, dark man she’d met yesterday sat down two seats away with his lunch pail, glancing coldly at her as he opened it.

She didn’t look back. She’d already had enough of his arrogance. Her sandwich began to taste like cardboard, but she didn’t let him know it.

“You work for Blake, don’t you?” he asked.

She kept her eyes on her sandwich. “Yes.”

He put his sandwich in a wrapper on the table and opened a thermos to pour some of its contents into a cup. “Does it pay pretty good?”

“I get by.” She was feeling more nervous by the minute. Her hands trembled on her sandwich, and he saw it and frowned.

He glanced her way with coal-black eyes that seemed to see every pore in her skin. “I’ll bet you do,” he replied. “You don’t dress like a penniless secretary.”

That was vaguely insulting. She almost told him that she bought her clothes at a nearly-new store that specialized in low prices and high quality, but he was a stranger. Not only that, he was an arrogant and rude stranger, and she didn’t like his insinuations.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work,” she murmured, averting her face.

“What do you people in quality control do?” he asked coldly, watching her. “If you did your job properly, that new jet wouldn’t have embarrassed the company on its first test flight.”

She colored delicately and wished she could escape. He made her feel guilty and she almost apologized. He was the most intimidating man she’d ever met. “Mr.—Mr. Blake works very hard,” she protested. “Maybe it was a mechanical problem,” she added with bravado. “You’re a mechanic, aren’t you?”

She hadn’t raised her voice, but he glanced around anyway. Assured that no one was close enough to hear them, he turned his attention back to Maureen.

His eyes narrowed. “That’s one reason I was surprised by your very obvious attempt to concoct an engine problem yesterday for my benefit,” he said.

“I told you, I had a corroded battery cable, and I didn’t have to concoct it. You saw the corrosion yourself.” She clasped her hands nervously. “I think you’re very conceited.”

It was like waving a red flag at a bull, she thought, fascinated by the black lightning flashing in his eyes.

“I’ve had that dead-battery routine pulled on me before,” he interrupted curtly.

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!