Fifty is the New F-Word

by Margaret Lashley

  Five Oh

  Fifty is the New F-Word

  Book Five in the Val Fremden Mystery Series

  Margaret Lashley

  Copyright 2017 Margaret Lashley

  MargaretLashley.com

  Cover Design by Melinda de Ross

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For more information, write to: Zazzy Ideas, Inc. P.O. Box 1113, St. Petersburg, FL 33731

  This book is a work of fiction. While actual places throughout Florida have been used in this book, any resemblance to persons living or dead are purely coincidental. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, the names of places have been altered.

  More Praise for the Val Fremden Series

  “Ms Lashley’s writing style is brilliant and hilarious. The plot is imaginatively twisty, the situations are wacky, the characters are lovable, and there is a surprise ending that I never saw coming. I wish the author could write as fast as I can read!”

  “I’m a man and these are “Chick” books, but I don’t care, they’re funny.”

  “Val and Pals enjoy another improbable romp with dwarfs, shyster lawyers, a cursed engagement ring and another zany adventure.”

  “Breathtakingly brilliant. I signed up for unlimited amazon reading just for these books. This last year has been rough and these books are a miracle.”

  “This series is warm, funny, well written and had me laughing ruefully the whole read.”

  “Of course, nothing goes as planned and hilarity ensues. Another nice romp by Margaret Lashley.”

  More Hilarious Val Fremden Mysteries

  by Margaret Lashley

  Absolute Zero

  Glad One

  Two Crazy

  Three Dumb

  What Four

  Five Oh

  Six Tricks

  Seven Daze

  Figure Eight

  Cloud Nine

  “Normal is way overrated.”

  Val Fremden

  Contents

  Five Oh

  Copyright 2017 Margaret Lashley

  More Praise for the Val Fremden Series

  More Hilarious Val Fremden Mysteries

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  What’s Next for Val?

  Six Tricks Excerpt

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  I thought I saw a dwarf sneaking out of Laverne’s house last night. But I could have been wrong. It was dark. And I was hopped up on Nyquil.

  Funny. Yesterday, I’d started the day feeling lucky. I’d survived my mother’s “holiday hospitality” with most of my self-worth intact – and my boyfriend Tom and I’d made the journey home without a hitch.

  Well, that wasn’t quite true. There had been two hitches. But compared to the family fruitcake disaster I’d just lived through, they’d weighed in as pretty minor. After all, they were just a close brush with death and a marriage proposal.

  YESTERDAY, DURING THE ride home from Greenville, redneck capital of...the world, a rotten virus had walloped me in the head like a Rock’Em Sock’Em Robot. It was the second sucker-punch to knock me for a loop that day. The first had been when my boyfriend Tom surprised me with an engagement ring. After spewing a mouthful of RC Cola all over the dash of his truck like a sprinkler-head gone haywire, my mind had seized up with an all-too-familiar uncertainty. For the life of me, when it came to the idea of matrimony, I couldn’t decide whether to laugh for joy or scream with terror.

  I knew marrying Tom was my choice, but I wasn’t ready to make it. Not yet. All I’d known for certain at that moment was that I hadn’t wanted to disappoint Tom. So I’d smiled, swallowed my fears, and played along with the engagement – then tried my best not to crap my pants before we got back home to St. Pete Beach.

  During the five-hour drive, I’d felt increasingly weak and wobbly. By the time we reached Lake City, the anxiety that clouded my mind had grown so thick and heavy I could barely hold my head up. Somewhere around Ocala, my throat began to burn like fire. Hot pressure built up in my nose. Beads of sweat burst out above my lip.

  That’s when I knew for sure I hadn’t been swept off my feet by love. I’d been done in by the flu.

  I’d never been a good patient. Yesterday had proved that point again in spades. A tsunami of grouchiness had overtaken me. By the time poor Tom finally got me home, I’d been crabby enough to destroy Tokyo. He’d dropped me and my suitcase at the front door and fled. A veritable drive-by, dump-off. Who could blame him?

  In all fairness to Tom, I’d begged him to leave me to wallow in my own wretchedness last night. There was no point in him getting sick, too. And I sure as heck didn’t need him around to witness my hideous transformation into the red-eyed monster from planet Phlegm.

  So, I’d stumbled into my house alone last night and collapsed onto my bed. I was beyond miserable. And, of course, I couldn’t sleep. Around 2 a.m., I’d been in the bathroom slugging back my fourth shot of Nyquil when I’d heard a strange sound. With nothing else pressing on my agenda at that moment, I’d squandered what was left of my energy and dragged myself into the living room and peeked between the slats in the blinds.

  That’s when I thought I saw the dwarf sneaking down Laverne’s driveway. But like I said, it was dark. And it could have been the Nyquil. The last time I’d taken the stuff I’d mistaken the mailman for Elvis.

  A LIGHT TAPPING AT my front door woke me from a shallow, fitful sleep. I cracked open a crusty eye. My retina was instantly seared by the laser-white light radiating around the edges of the bedroom blinds like a million-megawatt picture frame. I squeezed my eye shut and groaned.

  “Ughh...”

  The tapping came again. Louder and more persistent this time. Absolutely no part of my body whatsoever wanted to move. But, as usual, I was overridden by ingrained Southern guilt. I couldn
’t not answer the door, for heaven’s sake!

  “Dang it!” I threw back the covers and drug myself out of bed. I wrapped my freezing body in my ratty bathrobe and fumbled down the hallway. One blurry, bloodshot eye strained to focus through the front-door peephole. A tall, thin, old lady with strawberry blond curls and a donkey face came into view. She stood at the door grinning like a chimp with a banana-split hangover. It was my next-door neighbor, Laverne Cowens. I sighed and opened the door.

  “Hey, Laverne,” I rasped. “Just so you know, I could be highly contagious.”

  “Highly who? I thought you were my neighbor, Val Fremden,” Laverne joked.

  “Huh,” I grunted. Through my stuffy nose, it sounded more like “honk.”

  The twinkle in her bulgy eyes faded a notch as she studied my face. A sympathetic pout formed on her lips. “Awe, honey. I was just trying to be funny. You look awful!”

  “Thanks.” I blew what was left of my brains into a sodden tissue.

  “You crawl back into bed. I’ll make you some chicken soup.”

  “You don’t have to –”

  “Nonsense!” Laverne clomped inside on her gold high heels. She shooed me toward my bedroom with a thin, liver-spotted hand. “Just tell me one thing first, honey. Where’s your can opener?”

  The right side of my mouth curled upward. I flailed a weak arm in the direction of the kitchen. “Third drawer to the left.”

  “All righty, then. Scoot!”

  I shuffled my way down the hall toward the bathroom as Laverne banged my pots and pans around like a naughty two-year-old. I avoided my reflection in the vanity mirror. I felt sick enough already.

  In my addle-brained state, I thought if I could brush my matted hair, I’d feel better. I picked up the brush and forced it into my hair. It stuck in place like it was covered in Crazy Glue. Great. I yanked the brush out of the rat’s nest encircling my head and fumbled my way back to bed.

  As I lay there pondering the idea that death might be a pleasant option, that crazy old lady who lives next door managed to make me laugh. From the kitchen, Laverne, bubble-headed sage and former Vegas showgirl, was belting out a horrendously off-key rendition of Zippity Do Da, punctuating it randomly with an occasional, “Gosh, dang it!”

  I sighed and relaxed into the bed covers as my fevered mind envisioned Laverne doing the can-can with a can of soup in each hand.

  I was lying on an operating table. A masked doctor held my detached heart up to the light.

  “What’s your opinion?” the doctor asked the man next to him, a clown wearing a brown derby hat with a daisy sticking out of it.

  “Lederhosen,” the clown said.

  “Just as I suspected,” the masked surgeon said. “Get her out of here.”

  An orderly appeared from the mist, looking suspiciously like Sasquatch in blue scrubs. He grabbed my foot and started yanking it....

  I woke with a start. Laverne was standing at the foot of my bed, shaking my left foot through the bedspread.

  “Hey, honey. Wake up. Soup’s on.” She held my big blue mixing bowl in her hands. “Eat up. Then I want to hear all about your trip to your mom’s.”

  Laverne watched me patiently, grinning in her mother donkey sort of way, as I hauled my body to sitting and settled myself in amongst the bed pillows.

  “Where do I start?” I groaned.

  “Why, at the beginning, of course.” She stretched her long, spidery arms across the bed to hand me the bowl of soup. As I reached for it, she stopped midway, leaving my fingers grasping feebly at the air like a toddler begging to be picked up.

  “Where’d you get that?” she asked.

  “Get what?”

  “That ring.”

  “Oh.” I winced weakly. “Tom gave it to me. I guess...we’re...engaged, sort of.”

  Laverne eyed the ring dubiously. “It doesn’t look like an engagement ring.”

  “I know. It’s a blue sapphire. Tom said it was unusual, because I’m so unusual.”

  “Huh. Let me see it.”

  I held my hand out.

  “No,” Laverne said. “I mean take it off. Let me see it.”

  I did as I was told. Laverne set the bowl of soup on the nightstand, grabbed the ring and held it up to the ceiling light. One bulgy eye squinted as the other opened wide to study the inside the band. “It’s engraved,” she needlessly informed me. “I Luv U. Aww. L-U-V.” She looked over and shot me a full-denture grin. “How sweet!”

  “Yeah. Don’t remind me,” I said grumpily. “It’s pretty sappy. And the dumb spelling doesn’t help, either. But I’ve decided to chalk it up to lack of space, rather than Tom’s lack of taste.”

  Laverne’s smiling face wilted like a plucked daisy in the sun. “Tom’s a good guy, you know.”

  I sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just not feeling the greatest right now.”

  “Sure. That’s it,” Laverne said, and perked back up. “Eat your soup. It’ll help.”

  I leaned across the pillows and reached sideways for the soup. As I did, my elbow hit the bowl and knocked it halfway off the nightstand. Laverne and I gasped and watched in slow-motion horror as the soup teetered precariously on the edge of the table.

  “I got it,” I cried, and tried to grab the bowl from the bottom. But I overreacted and swatted the bowl upward instead. It did a back flip, bounced off the nightstand and hit the rug with a wet thud. A quart of chicken-noodle soup splattered all over the place.

  “Oh, crap,” I groaned, and sank back into the pillows.

  “My lordy!” Laverne said. She crinkled her nose at the mess and handed me back my engagement ring. I groaned, slipped it on my finger, then tried to get out of bed.

  “What are you doing?” Laverne demanded.

  “Gotta...clean up...this mess,” I mumbled.

  “Nothin’ doin! It wasn’t your fault, honey. No use crying over spilled soup. I’ll fetch you another bowl and then clean this up myself.”

  “But...”

  “No buts! It’s not so bad, sugar. And you need to rest.” Laverne studied me for a moment, then winked. “And if you finish your soup, young lady, you can have a piece of cherry pie.”

  My heart lurched in my congested chest. Laverne’s cooking skills were legendary – in the way Jack the Ripper was legendary for making house calls.

  “Did you make the pie?” I asked.

  “Sure did!” Laverne beamed. “In my new cooking class. Southern Classic Desserts.”

  My life flashed before my eyes. Think of something, quick! “Uh...thanks, Laverne. It sounds delicious. Really. But I have to pass. I have a wedding dress to fit into, remember?”

  Laverne crinkled her nose, then brightened like a three-watt bulb. “Oh, that’s right! I didn’t think about that, sugar.” She grinned and pointed an index finger toward the ceiling. “One new soup, coming up!” She spun on her high heels and bounced out the bedroom door.

  I melted back into the pillows. Relief washed over me like a warm, Gulf tide. I’d narrowly evaded Laverne’s cooking, and, so far, Tom’s insistence on getting married. The dress I had to fit into wasn’t for my wedding. It was for my best friend Milly’s. She and Vance would be tying the knot in four months. I blew my swollen clown nose and sighed.

  Better you than me, girlfriend. Better you than me.

  Chapter Two

  It was some kind of new record for me. January, February and March had gone by without a single calamity or catastrophe to speak of. Work at Griffith & Maas was good – I’d even gotten a raise. I still had all my fingers and toes, and I’d lost three pounds. All in all, it had been a banner start to the new year.

  Even the bittersweet aftertaste of mom’s Christmas fruitcake had finally faded. Partially because it had been replaced by a new sourness on the tip of my tongue. It was also the fault of a cake. But this time, it was a birthday cake. Mine. Tomorrow I would, unofficially, turn fifty.

  Of course, that milestone had already officially occurred back on D
ecember 22. But if there was one good thing about being found by the side of the road as a baby, it was this; I could still unofficially claim the later birth date on my bogus birth certificate.

  When she’d taken me in, my adoptive mom and fruitcake saboteur, Lucille Jolly, had chosen April Fools’ Day as my birth date because she’d thought it was funny. But this year in particular, it had been kind of a lifesaver. By claiming April 1 as my birthday, I’d been able to, at least in my own mind, delay my inevitable demise for another 68 days. It would have been 69 days if this had been a leap year. But, as my luck would have it, it hadn’t been.

  The big five-oh. Oh boy....

  To top it off, today was Friday. That meant I had to spend my last day in my forties at work. Crap on a cracker. It’s not that I hated my job, per se. It was just...well, work wasn’t a four-letter word for nothing.

  “HOW’S IT FEEL TO BE officially old?” my best friend and boss Milly Halbert joked as I drug myself begrudgingly through the door at the accounting firm of Griffith and Maas.

  “Ha ha. Real funny. How’s it feel to be officially doomed?”

  The smarmy smile evaporated from Milly’s impish face. “What do you mean?”

  “Your impending nuptials. I may be old, Milly, but at least I’m still free. Besides, you’re only like, two years younger than me.”

  “Two and a half.” Milly twirled a lock of blonde hair around her finger. “And what’s so bad about being married?”

  “I guess you’ll find out soon enough.”

  Milly scowled and bit a fingernail. “Look, just because it didn’t work out for you doesn’t mean –”

  “Sorry. You’re right, Milly.” I was in no mood to think about marriage or to rain on Milly’s wedding parade. Turning fifty is a pity party for one. I shouldn’t invite others along for the ride.

  “Listen,” I said. “Let’s start over.” I turned my back to Milly, then spun back around. “Good morning, Milly!” I said cheerily, and shot her a smile worthy of a toothpaste commercial.