Fifty is the New F-Word

by Margaret Lashley

  I checked my phone. Sure enough. There was a text from Cold Cuts. “I missed it.”

  “Anyway, I got a text from this guy Darren saying he was a friend of yours. He told me we should all meet at his place. He gave me the address. I didn’t realize it was the city morgue until we pulled in. He came out and told us you liked pranks, and that he needed our help to pull one off on you. I told him you weren’t that keen. But I went inside anyway, to use the restroom. When I came back out, I found Tom crouched on top of Bill like he was some kind of criminal.”

  “Are you a criminal?” I asked Bill.

  “No,” he said.

  “Then why the alias?” Tom asked.

  Bill sighed. “My name is William F. Rockbottom, IV. What would you do with a name like that? I just...shortened it. You know. Bill for William. Robo for Rock-Bottom. That’s not a crime.”

  “Monty told us you’ve been charged with kidnapping and car theft before,” I said.

  Bill blew out a big breath. “Monty would be that dramatic. Listen, when I was seventeen, my girlfriend at the time wanted to go see a movie. Her father said no. I had my license, but no car. I thought I’d be a hero in her eyes. I ‘borrowed’ her father’s station wagon and drove us to the theater. When we walked out, the police were waiting. I got charged with kidnapping and car theft and reckless driving, even though nobody had even seen us leave. What can I say? Her father didn’t want me seeing her, so he took care of me. He was a real douche.”

  “Geeze, did we get this wrong,” I said. “We thought you’d kidnapped Cold Cuts and stole the RV. Maybe even...you know...killed her.”

  “Innocent on all charges,” Cold Cuts said.

  “Sorry about the rough treatment,” Tom said to Bill. “No hard feelings, I hope?”

  “You were looking out for my girl,” Bill said, and kissed Cold Cuts lightly on the lips. “How could I blame you for that?”

  “So, that’s it,” Tom said. “Unbelievable. I’m really glad you’re okay, Cold Cuts. Excuse me, but I need to go make some calls now. I really am glad this all worked out. You two make a cute couple.”

  Tom got up and left.

  “I’m sorry if I worried you, Val,” Cold Cuts said. “I really had no idea you didn’t get my note when I left. And the whole text thing...bummer!”

  “It’s all right now. I’m just glad you’re okay.” My phone chirped. It was a text from Finkerman.

  “So that clears everything up, I guess?” Cold Cuts said.

  “Well, almost everything,” I said. I looked at the cozy pair and forced a smiled. “You two by chance in the mood for a party?”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  It took three days for everyone’s guts to get back to normal after eating Laverne’s cake – less time than it took to set the record straight with the Sarasota Police Department. But even though the charges were dropped, I still had two angry cops to deal with. My situation with Tom was no better. And the fifteen-grand lawsuit with Detective Stanley was still unresolved.

  I hadn’t talked to Tom since that day at Davie’s Donuts. I still didn’t know what to say to him. Oddly enough, I’d had better luck with Finkerman. He’d agreed to my request for a mediation session with his client. I’d just arrived at Finkerman’s office, where I was to meet with him and Detective Stanley. I’d brought along my own back-up team.

  “You brought Penelope Piddleton with you?” Detective Stanley said as we entered the mediation room. The place was as barren, grim and listless as I’d imagined it would be.

  “This is not acceptable,” Finkerman said. “She’s your accomplice, for crying out loud.”

  “Gentlemen, we’re not here to pick a fight,” I said. “I promise you’ll find her presence here...pertinent.”

  “Humph,” Finkerman grunted, but acquiesced.

  Cold Cuts and I took seats together on the opposite side of a cheap, grey Formica table.

  “Well?” Finkerman said impatiently. “What’s your proposal?”

  “First, Cold Cuts and I want to apologize to Detective Stanley. We never intended for anything like what happened to...you know...happen.”

  “Right,” Finkerman said. “But I think my client will be comforted more by the feeling of fifteen grand in his pocket.” He turned to Stanley. “Am I right?” Stanley sneered and nodded his agreement.

  “Well, as you know, money can’t buy everything,” I said.

  “Most everything,” Finkerman retorted. “And you can steal the rest.”

  “It can’t buy looks, for example,” I continued, ignoring Finkerman. “Or sex appeal.”

  “I beg to differ,” Finkerman sneered.

  “I mean real sex appeal,” I said. “Not the kind measured by how thick your wallet is, or how shiny your toys are.”

  Finkerman’s face reddened. He pursed his lips. “What’s your point?”

  “The point is, we want to offer Detective Stanley not just an apology, but a...a...a –”

  “A makeover,” Cold Cuts said. “From a woman’s point of view.”

  “Wha –” Finkerman objected.

  “Hear her out,” I said. “She’s a professional. She works with movie stars!”

  Cold Cuts’ back straightened. “Yes. I work in movies and TV. And I believe Detective Stanley has excellent...uh...bone structure. Truly rugged good looks.”

  “Give me a break,” Finkerman laughed. He looked over at Stanley, who didn’t seem to share Finkerman’s opinion of him.

  Stanley puffed up in his chair. “I want to hear what Ms. Piddleton has to say, if you don’t mind, Ferrol.”

  Finkerman clapped his trap shut and glared at us. “Proceed.”

  Cold Cuts reached to her side, then placed on the table an expensive-looking leather container about the size and shape of a cigar box. “If Detective Stanley is willing to drop his lawsuit, I am prepared to offer him my prized possession,” she said softly.

  Finkerman crinkled his nose. “A bunch of cigars? Fifteen grand can buy –”

  “No. Not cigars,” Cold Cuts said, cutting him off. “A one-of-a-kind, custom hairpiece. Created for and worn by the legendary, super-sexy movie star Logan Greene.”

  “Logan Greene didn’t wear a toupee!” Finkerman sneered.

  “Exactly,” Cold Cuts said. “No one ever suspected a thing.”

  I could see the gears turning behind Detective Stanley’s horrid toupee. “I want it!” he bellowed, and lurched across the table toward the box. “Give it to me!”

  Cold Cuts picked up the box and smiled. “Just sign the papers dropping the case, and I’ll show you how to wear it like the king that you are.”

  I pushed the papers toward Detective Stanley and handed him a pen. He hesitated for a split second and looked over at Finkerman, who was opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. Stanley shook his jowly head at him, uncapped the pen and scribbled away.

  It was my turn to sneer at Finkerman.

  Stanley shoved the signed documents back my way.

  “Very good,” Cold Cuts said. “Please, Detective Stanley, follow me.” She stood and led Stanley into the ladies’ room.

  Finkerman sighed and slumped back in his seat. “Well played, Ms. Fremden. Well played.”

  “I PROMISED YOU A MAKEOVER for your birthday, and I delivered,” Cold Cuts said as we climbed into Shabby Maggie.

  “You sure did. And then some.” I turned the ignition and let Maggie’s glass-pack mufflers roar. “Tell me. Did that wig really belong to Logan Greene?”

  “Does it really matter?” she laughed. “Anything was better than this dead rat.” She held up the mangy old squirrel pelt that once disgraced Detective Stanley’s greasy pate. “What should I do with it?”

  “Yuck! Fling it out the.... Wait! I’ve got an idea.”

  We made a pit stop at the post office. I dug an old shoebox out of my trunk. “Who should we say it’s from?” I asked.

  “Your secret admirer,” Cold Cuts suggested.

  “Perfe
ct.”

  We waited in line, then watched the postal clerk wrap the box in brown paper. “Any hazardous materials inside?”

  “You could say that,” Cold Cuts smirked.

  “She’s just joking,” I said.

  The clerk eyed us dubiously and slapped the postage sticker on the box. Cold Cuts and I giggled like idiots as he placed it into the mail drop. Sometime in the coming week, Darren Dudley would have another disgusting dead body to deal with.

  “WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN with you and Bill?” I asked Cold Cuts as we pulled into my driveway. Her old RV was parked in the street.

  “I dunno. I guess we’ll play it by ear.”

  “I wish I could be so happy-go-lucky.”

  “It’s better not to try to force things to fit,” Cold Cuts said, and climbed out of the car. “I’d better get going. It’s a bit of a drive back to Sarasota, and I want to miss rush hour.”

  “Okay,” I climbed out of the car and followed her to the RV. “I’ll see you at Milly’s wedding next week, right?”

  “Yes. Wouldn’t miss it.” Cold Cuts hopped in the RV and shut the door, then rolled down the window. “And cheer up about Tom. People come into our lives to play roles we asked them to, Val. They say the worst roles go to the ones who love you the most.”

  “Geeze. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Actions, Val,” Cold Cuts said, and turned the ignition. The old RV sputtered to life. “Actions speak louder than words. Don’t think about what you two might have said in a moment of anger. Words are cheap. Think about what you two have done together. How you feel when you’re with him. That’s what really matters.”

  I nodded and watched the RV head down the road. Then I looked and saw a dwarf coming out Laverne’s front door.

  I hadn’t noticed the white Mercedes in Laverne’s drive when I’d pulled up. Mr. Fellows saw me, flinched, and then waved.

  “Thanks for the papers!” I called after him. “It worked! I’m off the hook!”

  “That’s great!” he called back.

  Laverne came out of the house, saw me and did a double take. She said something to Mr. Fellows. He waved one more time, got in his Mercedes and left. Laverne headed inside.

  I smelled a fish. “Laverne, wait up!”

  Laverne stood frozen with her hand on the doorknob.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “Are you getting sued or something?

  “Lord, no,” Laverne said, obviously relieved.

  “Then what’s Mr. Fellows doing here?”

  “I’m getting, old, honey,” Laverne explained. “I gotta think about dying. And what’ll happen to my stuff when I do. I didn’t want to leave a mess behind...you know, like Tony and Glad did to you.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I turned to head back to my house, but the words Laverne blurted next stopped me in my tracks.

  “All right! We’re having an affair, okay?”

  “What?” I whipped back around. “You and Mr. Fellows?”

  “Yes. JD asked me not to say anything. He didn’t want to make things weird between us.”

  “So why are you confessing now? You’re usually good at keeping secrets.”

  “This is one secret I can’t keep any longer. I’ve got to tell someone or I’m gonna bust. Val, I’m in love!”

  “In love? Wow...that’s fantastic! How long have you been –”

  “We got together when you were at your mom’s over Christmas. We didn’t have anything else to do. One thing led to another and...we found out we liked each other’s company.”

  So wait...I really did see a dwa...I mean Mr. Fellows at your place that time I had the flu. When you made me the soup.”

  “Yes. It could be.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Everyone was having a happy ending except Tom and me. Another week of angst had come and gone without a word between us. Tom’s actions were speaking loud and clear. It was over between us.

  I guess Laverne had been right all along. The engagement ring was cursed. But when I really thought about it, I just couldn’t believe my love life could be determined by a ring. After all, when it came to love, I’d generated a load of rotten luck all on my own.

  I twisted the ring on my finger. I was still wearing it because I’d been intrigued by something Laverne had said. Namely that, in my case, the ring’s curse might be reversed. Because my life was already plagued with bad luck, the ring might somehow have the opposite effect for me. Instead of making bad things happen, the ring might keep me safe from disaster as long as I wore it.

  Weirdly, so far, Laverne’s theory had borne itself out as true. The last week had passed without incident. My life was calm. Work was fine. Maggie was running okay. And not a single, solitary, crazy thing had happened to me. Everything was back to what most people would call ‘normal.’ But to me, it felt oddly like someone else’s normal.

  I sighed and smoothed the front of my pale-blue, satin dress. I locked the door behind me and headed to Sunset Beach for Milly and Vance’s wedding. As Milly’s Maid of Honor, I had two jobs. I was to hold Milly’s bouquet during the ceremony, and I was to find a place to ditch the wedding cake Laverne had made for the occasion. The horrid hunk of icing-covered gastric distress was in the trunk of my car, awaiting its demise. Somewhere across town, Jorge was putting the finishing touches on its stunt double.

  THERE WEREN’T TOO MANY covert places to dump a dead cake body between my place and Sunset Beach. The only sure bet was a dumpster hidden behind the sea oats in St. Pete Beach’s public beach parking lot. When I drove up to it, I got more than I bargained for. The dumpster was nearly full to the brim with smelly picnic leftovers and busted beach chairs.

  And parked two spots away was a silver 4Runner.

  “Crap!” I muttered. “This is all I need.” I checked my face in the mirror, and slipped the ring off my finger. If that was Tom, I didn’t need him thinking I was pining away for him.

  I climbed out and opened the trunk with the key. Lying inside was the most hideous wedding cake I’d ever seen. It looked like a melted snowman that had been pissed on by a horde of winos.

  “Sorry, Laverne,” I said, and hoisted the thirty-pound monstrosity out of the trunk. I faltered in my high heels as I sidestepped the overflow of smelly garbage, but recovered and inched my way until I was about a foot from the dumpster. The rim on the thing was higher than I thought. I realized I’d have to lift the cake over my head to heave it in.

  I bent at the knees, grunted, and hoisted the monstrosity over my head. I wobbled on my heels, arched the cake too far back and lost my balance. The cake and I went tumbling backward.

  But I didn’t fall far.

  Someone’s arms caught me.

  “You didn’t happen to take any Nyquil, did you?” Tom’s voice sounded behind me.

  I cringed and shut my eyes. “No.”

  “I know you hate weddings, Val. But this is ridiculous.”

  I turned to find the cake had missed me, but not Tom. His shoulder was covered in gooey white slime punctuated with blackish cake crumbs. “Oh, geeze,” I muttered. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you dumping Milly’s cake?” Tom asked.

  “Laverne made it.”

  “Oh for cripes sake!” he said. “Help me get it in the dumpster before someone accidently ingests any of it!”

  I laughed despite myself, and helped Tom grab up the clumps of toxic cake and fling them by the handfuls into the dumpster.

  “I can’t believe you’ve made me your partner in crime again,” Tom said as we tossed the last remnants of the public menace into the bin.

  “Sorry,” I said, and grabbed a towel from my trunk. “I’m afraid I’m a bad influence.”

  I wiped the cake from Tom’s shirt, rubbed my hands on the towel and handed it to him. “It’s not so bad. I think your jacket should cover it.”

  He smiled at me sadly. “See you at the wedding, then.”

  I walked back to Shabby Maggie and climbed in. Then
I suddenly thought of something I wanted to say. I got out and marched up to Tom as he was opening the door to his SUV. I tapped him on the shoulder and swallowed hard.

  “Tom, I don’t want to be your partner in crime,” I said as he turned around to face me.

  “I know,” he said softly. “You’ve made that clear.”

  “No. No I haven’t. What I mean, is, I want to be your partner, Tom, plain and simple. Will you...would you...ask me again?” I held the blue sapphire ring in my open hand for him to see.

  “Really?” he asked.

  “Really,” I said.

  “Right here?” He asked, his sea-green eyes twinkling. “In front of the dumpster flies, the beer bottles and everything?”

  I smiled as tears brimmed my eyes. “Yes. Right here. Right now.”

  He laid the towel down and got on one knee. “Valliant Jolly Fremden, will you marry me?”

  I smiled. “Yes, Thomas Foreman. I’ll marry you.”

  Tom slipped the ring on my finger and kissed me hard on the mouth. “I thought you didn’t want me,” he whispered.

  “I’ve never wanted anything more,” I said. “We’ve been fools.”

  “Yes,” Tom said. “Fools in love.”

  WITH THE BLUE SAPPHIRE ring back on my finger, the wedding went off without a hitch. The weather was perfect, and the sunset over the Gulf was custom-made for a couple in love. Everyone wore their Sunday best, and when we raised a toast to Milly and Vance, I’d never seen a couple more radiant with happy expectations.

  “The deed is done,” I whispered in Jorge’s ear as I hugged him. “Now we just have to cut the cake. It looks marvelous!”

  “Yeah,” Jorge said. “Only I didn’t know what kind of cake was inside. I took a guess and made carrot.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m sure it will be delicious.”