“F” is for Fred
A Malibu Mystery
Cantrell Black
Copyright Information
This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to real person, alive or dead, is completely coincidental.
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“F” is for Fred
Copyright © 2019 by Rebecca Cantrell and Sean Black
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Cover Design by Kit Foster www.kitfosterdesign.com
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All rights reserved.
Contents
About the Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
More Malibu Mystery Books
Malibu Mystery News
About the Book
After a caviar-related disaster, Sofia Salgado races to prevent the assassination of Maloney Investigations’ greatest celebrity—Fred the seagull.
When Sofia returns from vacation, she discovers that her “pet” seagull, Fred, has become her greatest enemy: the paparazzi. Sofia’s former agent has dressed him with a tiny camera and created a wildly successful YouTube channel. To ensure his loyalty, her agent has been bribing Fred with caviar, feeding into his addiction and stoking a fire within his tiny bird heart, that can only be quenched by more caviar. So he starts hitting luxurious parties.
When a disgruntled host attempts to defend his stash from Fred’s determined assault with bullets, Sofia must find him before he gets another chance to finish the job. Weighing her down is her insufferable fellow detective, Aidan Maloney, and kindergartener bodyguard, Violet.
Can Sofia lead this crew to Fred before it’s too late?
1
Sofia stood on the porch of her cozy trailer, enjoying the sounds of early morning. The Pacific Ocean stretched in front of her, enigmatic and silver. White gulls wheeled between the water and the sky, and waves crashed against the sands.
The view and the location made her little blue mobile home one of the most expensive trailers on Earth, but she loved it anyway. She took a deep breath and lost herself in appreciation of Mother Nature—salty breeze against her cheeks, the fresh smell of eucalyptus, and an early-morning glow on the mountains.
Her peace lasted all of seven seconds.
A loud squawk from the railing around her front porch reminded her of what was important.
“Good morning, Fred,” she said.
A gull blinked one beady eye at her. He was plump and sleek, and as unforgiving as the ocean. Fred was kind of her pet, inasmuch as he could be anybody’s pet, since he was a wild seagull who did whatever he wanted. What he wanted now was to yell at her until she gave him breakfast. It was their morning routine.
He squawked again, probably waking up the neighbors.
“I checked before I came outside,” she told him. “All I have to eat in the house is some stale bread.”
She tore it into four pieces and set them atop the wooden railing. Fred cocked his head and glared at it with one yellow eye. Usually, he devoured everything she gave him. Why was he so finicky today?
“I was off on a trip with my parents, and I haven’t had time to shop yet.” She felt ridiculous apologizing to a seagull because her scraps weren’t good enough, but he seemed to expect it. “I’ll pick up fish or something on the way home.”
Fred squawked again. He sounded grouchy. He walked over to look at the bread, but instead of eating it, he crammed one webbed foot onto the wholegrain surface, then ruffled his feathers. That was a pretty cold rejection.
She looked at the bird more closely. “What happened to your leg?”
His legs were usually dusty pink, but today one was a weird purple. Was that a bad sign? He seemed healthy, and his leg didn’t seem to be injured. He didn’t have a limp. She bent to examine it. The leg was purple from his webbed toes up to where it disappeared into his white feathers. A lavender blotch stained them. He must have stepped in something.
Could it have made him sick? That might explain why he wasn’t eating. She couldn’t imagine what else might get in the way of Fred’s appetite. Should she call a vet? Was there a rescue organization for gulls? She ought to know. What kind of bird parent didn’t know these things?
“Good morning!” boomed a voice from behind her. She jumped. Interestingly, Fred didn’t budge.
She sighed and turned. Just as she’d expected: her ex-agent Jeffery Weiner. He wore red board shorts with a weird wide belt and a pair of designer sunglasses. It was way too early to need sunglasses. Like a lot about Jeffery, they were for show.
“How’s my favorite client?” he asked.
He’d been trying to get her to come back to acting since about five minutes before she quit. “You’re not my agent. I fired you.”
He pointed to the disgruntled seagull. “I meant Fred.”
Too impossible to believe before coffee. “My Fred? Your client?”
“He’s not your Fred. He’s a free agent, aren’t you, son?”
Jeffery was finally losing it. Anyone could have seen the warning signs.
“He’s a bird,” she said.
“Not just any bird. He’s a YouTube sensation!”
She double-checked her memory. She’d been gone exactly two weeks, not long enough for the world to turn topsy-turvy. Sure, the family cruise had been a little surreal. Her nephew, Van, had been chastised by the captain for piping the theme song from the movie Titanic across the public-address system, and her niece, Violet, had started a fight club for seven-year-olds. But Sofia was home now, and life was supposed to be back to normal.
“Fred is on YouTube?” she asked, just to make sure she’d heard Jeffery correctly.
“Fred’s Flights of Fancy. He’s got millions of views.” Jeffery beamed.
Fred pecked at his agent’s belt, which wasn’t a belt at all, Sofia saw. It was a fanny pack. Since when did Jeffery wear a fanny pack? “Fashion for old people and tourists,” he’d once called them.
Fred missed the pack and clocked Jeffery right in the kidneys.
Jeffery yelped, then took a deep breath. “Have to get my boy ready for work.”
She worried she’d be late for her own work at Maloney Investigations, but she couldn’t leave before she saw how this played out. “Did you dye his leg?” She crossed her arms and tried to stare Jeffery down.
“Food coloring. Non-toxic. Makes him easier to spot in the air. It’s kind of his trademark now.”
“Uh-huh.” A gull with a trademark.
Jeffery unzipped his fanny pack and took out a jar and a bird-sized hood. Mounted on top of the hood was a tiny camera. “Voilà!”
“How dare you put that thing on him!”
“He likes it,” Jeffery said.
She decided she’d better wait to drive Jeffery to the emergency room after Fred had explained to him why it was a bad i
dea to put a hood on a wild bird.
Jeffery opened the jar and spooned little black spheres onto her railing. When Fred landed and began to peck them up, Jeffery slipped the hood onto his head in one very slick move. In spite of her outrage, she was impressed.
Fred didn’t seem to mind. He kept eating and now, presumably, filming.
“What did you feed him? Bird drugs?”
“His daily caviar.” Jeffery screwed the jar closed and tucked it back into the fanny pack.
“Caviar?” She’d only tasted caviar once, and she used to be a movie star. Fred was eating it every day.
“Not the top-end stuff. He can’t tell the difference between that and the cheaper brands.”
That meant he’d probably given Fred some kind of caviar taste test. “He. Is. A. Bird!”
“That’s how I get away with it.” Jeffery chuckled.
She reached for Fred’s hood to remove the camera, but he pecked her hand and took off. Scolding, he circled above her.
“Don’t mess with Mother Nature.” Jeffery shook his finger at her. “He likes being a star.”
Like any contrary star, Fred disagreed. Beak clacking, he dove straight for Jeffery’s fanny pack. Jeffery dodged, but Fred kept coming.
“I think he wants the rest of his caviar,” she said.
Jeffery’s fanny pack and Fred went a couple more rounds before Jeffery gave up. “Just a minute!” He took the jar out of his pocket, unscrewed the lid and set the glass container on the railing.
Fred landed, settled his wings, and gulped tiny black pearls, like he was starving.
“He’s an addict,” Jeffery said. “He eats it as fast as he earns it.”
“Clients.” She shrugged. “What’re you going to do?”
“I’m going to edit that little interaction off the tape when he gets back. It’ll be bad for his image if I leave it.” Jeffery waved, either at her or Fred, she wasn’t sure which, then trotted up the path toward his own trailer.
She gaped after him. Fred finished the caviar, knocked the jar onto her porch, and flew away. He gave off a steam-punk vibe, in his hand-sewn hood with the tiny camera.
With a sigh, she scooped up her rejected bread, cupping her hands to hold in the crumbs, and set off for the parking lot. Several of the other residents got up early to jog on this path, and she didn’t want them to catch her making a mess. Some were pretty curmudgeonly.
Hollywood. A bird with an agent. No, a wild bird with an agent. Fred as a star. It was preposterous.
Then again, she’d been on sets with dogs and cats that had earned more than their human co-stars. And, as stars went, Fred had the temperament. He’d always been a diva.
No. He was a bird. He wasn’t supposed to be an Internet sensation. He was supposed to eat fish he scavenged from the ocean or the beach, not caviar from a jar. But she’d been feeding him old pizza and bologna for a long time and that wasn’t exactly in a bird’s recommended diet. And she’d seen him dumpster diving more often than fishing. So what was wrong with a little caviar?
Maybe this was the perfect career for him.
2
Sofia was debating the pros and cons of Fred’s new career when she reached the parking lot and dumped the bread into the trashcan. Fred’s first rejected breakfast taken care of.
Then she stopped to enjoy the view. The sun crested the Santa Monica mountains, its golden rays piercing a fog bank and radiating out in straight lines. All in all, a glorious sunrise.
Truth be told, she didn’t see a lot of sunrises these days. Back when she’d been working on her TV show, Half Pint Detective, she’d had morning call times, but since she’d left acting for the private detective business, she’d gotten to sleep in more. On the whole, she liked detecting better, but she missed walking through the early mornings, when the world was sleepy and quiet.
That was one of the only things she missed. She’d gladly traded away being the center of attention for makeup and lighting. And for memorizing lines that came from someone else’s head. In her new job, she got to deal with reality. It was a relief to know she was going to a meeting to listen to someone’s real troubles and try to help them instead of sit in a makeup chair for hours.
Her boss, Brendan, hadn’t told her much when he’d asked her to come to work early. She liked not knowing all the details. It felt like improv—no lines, just creativity, her mind popping around, keeping things fresh.
As she unplugged her little red Tesla, she ran one finger through the dust and salt that had coated it during its two weeks waiting in the parking lot. She’d have to take it to the car wash after the mystery meeting. The poor baby needed some sparkle.
She pulled out of the parking lot and onto the Pacific Coast Highway. Not a lot of cars out at this hour, so she rolled down her windows, let the Tesla run fast, the way it liked, and sang along to the radio while the wind whipped through her hair and the ocean rolled by her passenger window. Another bonus for getting up early.
Before she got to the Maloney Investigations office, she stopped by the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf and picked up everyone’s favorite coffee as a welcome-back present—black for her and Brendan, a cappuccino for Aidan.
Brendan Maloney was a former Los Angeles cop who’d consulted on Sofia’s show. She’d known him since she was eleven, and he’d offered to take her on at his detective agency. His son, Aidan, had come to the show with his dad. He’d been thirteen then, and had been driving her crazy ever since. But even he deserved fresh coffee for coming in so early. Mornings weren’t his favorite time of day.
Coffee stowed in a cardboard tray on the floor, she finished her drive to work in a fairly sedate fashion. Too much traffic to do anything else. The parking lot was busy for this hour of the morning.
She spotted Aidan’s canary-yellow Porsche. He’d named it the Lemon Drop and he drove it as if it were made of sugar and would melt or crack at the slightest acceleration. It was parked between a sparkling white BMW and a pink painter’s van with the words Live Your Whimsy stenciled on the side in a curly font. She was pleased to see Brendan’s staid black Crown Vic wasn’t there yet. She was early.
She parked a few spaces away to think and sip her coffee. Time to do a little detecting. What were whimsical painters doing in the parking lot? The agency’s offices could definitely use some paint, but she couldn’t imagine Brendan springing for it. Even if he did, she was pretty sure he would never hire a company that advertised its whimsy. Eggshell white was the extent of his.
The painters must be there for one of the other tenants. The temp agency upstairs would be her first guess. She’d never been up there, but had the feeling it was better decorated than Maloney Investigations.
But she was wrong. The painters came out to their van, collected supplies, and headed over to the Maloney door. Interesting.
One more sip of coffee while she made a list of reasons for this:
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Brendan had decided to paint the office after all, and he’d called her in for an early meeting to discuss paint chips. She would have to spend the morning choosing among shades of white.
The office had been singled out by a reality-TV design show as something that could provide them with a strong before and after picture. Zebra stripes might be in her future.
The painters had the wrong address.
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She’d better go inside and see what was going on. She got out of the Tesla, locked up, and trotted across the parking lot, holding the tray of coffees.
One of the painters held open the door for her when she got there. A Malibu surfer dude from Central Casting—long blond hair highlighted by the sun, deep tan, bright blue eyes, toned physique.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Yup,” he answered.
She was expecting to get scoped out, because that was what usually happened, but the guy wasn’t looking at her. He was gazing past her into the office.
The object of his attention was a woman in a skin-tight white
jumpsuit with the largest boobs Sofia had ever seen. She couldn’t imagine what cup size they must be. How high did the letters go? Not to Z, she knew. For some reason, she thought they ended at N. So, this woman was probably an M. Maybe an L.
For a second the view distracted her from the other changes in the usually dilapidated office. All the furniture was gone. Even the carpet had disappeared—ripped up to reveal a bare concrete subfloor. And the painters were laying a coat of bright pink paint on the walls.
Pink.
She felt as if she’d stepped into The Twilight Zone, but even there she couldn’t picture Brendan in a pink office. Then again, The Twilight Zone was black-and-white.
“And you are?” The woman in the jumpsuit looked at her as if she’d blown in with a pile of trash.
“Sofia.”
The woman inclined her chin fractionally. She had the most amazing skin—alabaster and virtually pore-less. She could have been a face model but, sadly, most people would never get to her face. “Ah.”
“I work here,” Sofia said.
“I’ve heard of you.” It didn’t sound as if she’d heard many good things.
“Are you here for a consultation?” Sofia asked. It seemed unlikely, but she wasn’t going to make any assumptions.
“I’m Priscilla,” the woman said, as if that explained everything.
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