Irritatingly, Jorge’s stunningly beautiful girlfriend Sherryl seemed immune to both flab and flatulence.
I’d been keeping an eye on her like the jealous wife of a cheating husband. Something just wasn’t right about her. I knew from careful observation that Sherryl had eaten enough food to choke a goat, yet her belly had remained suspiciously – and annoyingly – flat.
So, when we’d all stripped to our bathing suits to get into the pool, I was relieved to see Goober leave his t-shirt on. I followed his lead and left mine on, too. Next to Sherryl, I needed all the camouflage I could get. Even in a one-piece suit made of inch-thick spandex, compared to Sherryl I looked like a whale caught in a tarp. If she hadn’t been so nice to me the first time I met her, I could have despised her on this point alone. But she couldn’t help being gorgeous, so I decided to cut her some slack.
“Nice bathing suit,” I said as I climbed down the ladder into the water beside Sherryl. Her blue-black hair and silver earrings shone in the moonlight.
“Thanks,” she said. “It’s so hard to find one that fits right when you’re a size two.” Sherryl smiled at me sweetly, with no hint of malice. I wish I could have said the same about myself. She passed me a water noodle. “Goober says you’re writing a book.”
“Yes. Well –”
“A book!” Winky bellowed from his perch inside a donut-shaped float. “Well how ‘bout that! What kind a book, Val?”
“Uh...a murder mystery,” I fumbled.
“Woo hoo! A murder mystery!” Winky said. “What’s it called?”
I sunk down in the water to my neck, not so much out of embarrassment as to hide my arm flab. “I don’t have a title yet.”
Winky chortled. “Well let me help you out there. I got an idea. How about The Mystery of the Butt Crack, by Eileen Dover!”
Everyone laughed, causing someone to fart. I’m not saying who.
“Very funny,” I snorted.
“Oh! I got it!” Goober said as he bobbed around on a float. “Lost in the Desert, by Rhoda Kamel.”
I smirked. “Ha ha.”
“I know!” Laverne said, her hand waving in the air like an eager schoolgirl. “Case of the Frustrated Nympho, by Anita Mann.”
The pool went silent for a moment as we all stared, open-mouthed, at the old woman in a gold thong. Then, as if someone un-clicked a “pause” button, we all came back to life. Raucous laughter filled the night air, and Winky got so tickled he upturned his float. He flailed around and came up for air looking like a half-drowned rat. Winnie had to grab him by the back of his neck to keep him from slipping back under.
“You really should learn how to swim, Winky!” she scolded.
“Why? When I got you to save me, sugar pea.” The pair made googly eyes at each other until I felt awkward.
“Well, I think that’s really impressive,” Sherryl said, breaking the silence. “Val, from all the stakeouts Jorge’s told me he’s been on with you, I think you’d make a pretty good detective.”
“Thanks, Sherryl,” I said.
“As long as she sticks to a keyboard,” Tom interjected. He slipped across the pool and encircled me in his arms. “Promise me, Val, from now on, you’ll keep your detective work to the pages in your books. Please?”
“I promise,” I said.
But under the water, my fingers were crossed. And I farted. Again.
Chapter Seven
“You’ve never looked more handsome,” I said to Tom as he walked into the bedroom Saturday morning.
“I bet you say that to all the guys with cappuccinos,” he quipped.
I smiled coyly. “No. Only the ones with two.”
Tom flashed his boyish grin and handed me a cup. He kissed my nose and climbed back into bed beside me. I settled into the pillows.
Ahh! This was my absolute favorite time of day. So many fresh possibilities lay ahead – but for the moment, the only ones that mattered had either a handsome, stubbly face or a frothy milk topping sprinkled with cinnamon. I took a sip of my cappuccino. It was perfection in a cup.
“Mmm. Whatever you just did, keep doing it,” I said.
Tom’s eyes sparkled. He wagged his blond eyebrows at me. “Are you talking about the cappuccino or the –”
“Enough!” I giggled, and elbowed him, nearly sloshing my cup.
“Never enough,” Tom whispered seductively.
“Really?” I pulled away long enough to take another sip of cappuccino. Then I set my cup on the nightstand and snuggled up against Tom. “Okay, then. Prove it.”
Tom’s left eyebrow shot up. “Are you calling my bluff?”
“No,” I teased. “I’m calling your buff...as, ‘in the’.”
“Nice one,” Tom said, and gazed at me with bedroom eyes.
“Well? What are you waiting for?” I asked.
“For you to recognize my poke-her face.”
“Ugh. Tom, I think that’s gotta be your worst joke ever.”
Tom grinned. “Well then, let me make it up to you....”
“WANT TO GO WITH ME to Fred’s Furniture to find a daybed?” I asked Tom as he emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his taut waist.
“Uh...you know shopping’s not my thing.”
“I know,” I sulked. To be honest, it wasn’t mine, either. But I was eager to kill the last impediment distracting me from writing. Once I had the new daybed all set up, I’d have no more excuses.
“Suit yourself,” I called after Tom as he padded to the bedroom. I opened a notebook on the desk in my home office and wrote down another unique way to die; “Paralysis by procrastination.”
Not great, I thought, as I set the pen down. I took a step toward the door and tripped over one of Tom’s moving boxes stacked along the wall. Ever since that horrible escapade at Tony’s Hoarder House of Horrors, aka, the house I now live in, anything that smacked of clutter had sent a panic-wave of claustrophobia shooting through me.
Just like now.
“Tom! Promise me you’ll get rid of these boxes while I’m gone!” I yelled a little too shrilly.
“I promise!” I heard him call from the bedroom.
I walked to the kitchen, grabbed my purse and keys looked around for my sunglasses. The last time I had them I was...crap! At Winky’s place. I picked up my cellphone.
“Winky?”
“Hey there, Val pal!”
“Great party last night.”
“Thanky!”
“You have an awesome place,” I said. My grandmother had taught me that a proper Southern woman was always on the ready with a carefully prepared compliment for her discourse companion – even if she had to sugar-coat a turd, or paint a lie white.
“Winky, your home is like...a country retreat in the heart of the city.”
“You should see my other one!”
“Other one? Are you saying you have another place?”
“Yep. It’s a little getaway in the woods called Shell Hammock.”
“Really? Where’s that?”
“Over in Polk County. I seen it on line when I was lookin’ for a place for me and Winnie to put our new doublewide. It looks real nice, Val. On a big ol’ lake, too, with a fishin’ dock.”
“Sounds pretty. Why didn’t you two just move there?”
“Well, we’s business folk now, Val. Got to run the bait shop. Besides, Winnie wanted her a brand-new trailer. And a feller needs a place to run off to, now and again.”
“Run off to?”
“You know, to collect his thoughts. Catch a few bream ‘n’ catfish. Have a few beers...”
Scratch his balls.
“...so I thought, what the heck, I’ll get me both places.”
“Huh. Good for you. So, what’s it like there?”
“I don’t rightly know. I ain’t been there yet. But my cousin Sammy said it was real nice. He had a place there a while back. You and Tom are welcome to go up and stay at mine any time you want.”
“Thanks, Winky. I jus
t might take you up on that.”
“All righty, then! But listen, I gots to go.”
“Okay. Tell Winnie thanks again for the party from me.”
“Will do.”
I clicked off the phone and shook my head. I couldn’t decide which was more astounding. Winky with a first home, or Winky with a second one.
Dang it! I forgot to ask about my sunglasses!
SUNDAY NIGHT, I FINISHED painting the last of the cut-in work along the baseboards. My office was now a cheerful, limey shade of green that matched the print on the new coverlet for the daybed I’d found at Fred’s Furniture. It was scheduled to be delivered tomorrow morning.
Tom had offered to help paint, but I’d wanted to do it all on my own. I closed the paint can and looked at my tidy desk. I admired the writing schedule I’d etched out on my calendar for the week, as well as the new system of punishment and reward I’d devised to encourage my steady work progress.
Punishment was a thick, red rubber band I’d removed from a head of broccoli. I planned to wear it around my wrist and snap it if I caught myself procrastinating. Reward was a sparkling jar of colorful jelly beans. I’d get to have one for every thousand words I wrote.
I smiled, gathered up my paint brushes and drop cloth, and turned out the light.
Yes. I had everything in place to assure my writing success.
Chapter Eight
By 10:00 a.m. Monday morning, I’d been on a roll on my computer for nearly two hours. In that time, I’d won three games of Klondike in a row, completed Spider Solitaire in under two minutes, and cleared eight boards on TriPeaks.
And my wrist was redder than the band of rubber encircling it like a medieval torture device.
I was drawing back the band to snap it again when I thought I heard a noise. I glanced out the door toward the kitchen. I was fairly certain the pickles in the fridge were calling my name....
I snapped the rubber band around my wrist. “Ouch!” I screeched. “That really hurt!”
I clicked off the computer games. My finger hovered shakily over the Open File button. Then I realized something. What was I thinking? There’s no use getting started writing when Fred’s delivery could show up any moment and blow my train of thought, right?
Are you kidding? Val, you don’t have a train of thought. You don’t even have a tricycle of thought!
Great. Now I’m not just talking to myself – I’m arguing with myself!
I sucked in a determined breath and planted my feet on the floor.
Your butt’s not going anywhere, missy! Write something!
I wracked my brain for ideas. Where could I get inspiration for a story?
Wait a minute. What was the name of that place Winky talked about? Shell Hammock?
I googled it. It was a trailer park. But it was the nicest looking trailer park I’d ever seen. A narrow, rustic, sandy road wound through what looked to be about two acres of huge, ancient oak trees. Along the little country lane sat rows of shiny, well-kept trailers. Some were singlewides, some no bigger than an RV pull-behind. A few were doublewides. Each had quaint, carved wooden plaques hanging by their doors with slogans like, “Home Sweet Home,” “Our Little Slice of Heaven,” and “Welcome to Paradise.”
Shots of the grounds looked equally idyllic. Wooden swings beckoned from shady spots under the trees. A sparkling lake boasted a small marina and fishing dock. A little strip of sandy beach along the lakeshore was adorned with lounge chairs and umbrellas. There was also a shuffleboard court and a pool. A sandwich board in front of the cute clubhouse sported a hand-written message that read: “Blueberry Pancake Breakfast this Sunday.”
A rap at the door caught me by surprise. I peeked through the office blinds. A Fred’s Furniture truck was idling in my driveway. I turned off the computer, popped a jelly bean in my mouth, and headed for the door.
THE HUMID MAY AIR WAS busy turning my hair into a Brillo pad as I tooled down Central Avenue with the top down. I hadn’t gotten any writing done, but at least my daybed was set up and the nasty old bed was hauled away. My office was officially complete. And I was going to start writing as soon as I got back from lunch with Milly.
I pulled into the parking lot at Ming-Ming’s sushi right next to Milly’s red Beemer. As I walked up, I spied her through the plate-glass window. She was sitting at a tiny table for two. I waved and a thought struck me. I didn’t think I’d ever seen my friend’s cute, blonde, button-nosed face look so perfectly content.
“You look like you’re in a good mood,” I said as I leaned down and gave her a hug.
“I am!” Milly said. “Two fantastic things just happened.”
“What?”
“All of Charmine’s puppies got their last shots and a clean bill of health yesterday,” Milly beamed like a proud mamma. “They’ll be ready to go in two weeks.”
“That’s great!” I pictured the six red-gold balls of mostly Pomeranian fluff and smiled.
“Have you and Tom decided on a name for yours yet?”
I pulled out a chair to sit. “No. It’s so hard. It’s like naming a kid!”
Milly smirked. “Tell me about it.” Her face suddenly shifted gears. “Oh my lord! Look at that guy,” she whispered. “There ought to be a law against dressing like that. Someone call the fashion police!”
I looked over at the man in Milly’s crosshairs. He had on a hideous, pineapple-themed Hawaiian shirt, purple-and yellow plaid shorts, and Kermit-green tennis shoes.
“No way,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s too hideous to not be deliberate, Milly.”
Milly blanched. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I think someone dressed him like that intentionally.”
“Why?”
“So no woman would come near him.”
Milly studied me for a moment.
“Just a theory, mind you,” I backtracked.
Milly grinned. “Well, look at you, Miss Detective!” She took another look at the man’s decently attractive face. “You know, it makes sense now. Who do you think did it? His wife?”
“Most likely. Or his girlfriend.” A thought struck me. Was JD doing the same thing to Laverne? Dressing her in frog suits to keep other men away?
“What are you thinking now, Sherlock?” Milly stared at me, a smile gracing her pouty lips.
“Huh? Oh. Sorry. Nothing. Hey, you said you had two fantastic things to report. What’s the second thing?”
Milly wagged her perfect eyebrows. “Goober came in and quit this morning.”
My mouth fell open. “What? I’m sorry!”
“Why?”
“I recommended him and –”
Milly reached across the table and touched my hand. “Don’t be sorry, Val. I’m not.”
I cringed. “Was he that bad?”
Milly rolled her eyes. “Let’s just say, next time I’ll try my luck with a chimpanzee.”
“Geeze!”
“Moving on. How’s the writing going?”
A scowl flew across my face. “Argh! I hate that question!”
Milly laughed. “Touch a nerve?”
“More like stomped on one. I’m telling you, Milly, I feel like I’ve trapped myself in my own jail cell. I’ve been piddling around for a week and what have I got? Exactly squat, that’s what.”
“Huh. Maybe you should go on that writer’s retreat you told me about.”
“I don’t have eighteen dollars to waste, much less eighteen-hundred.”
Milly crinkled her nose. “It’s not a waste, Val. Think of it as an investment in your budding career as a novelist.”
“I dunno,” I shrugged. “I’ve already blown thirty-five bucks on the class.”
“Not worth it?”
“I wouldn’t say that. But it’s got my mind all messed up.”
“How?”
“I keep seeing everything as potential plot points and murder scenes.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Like right now, I
’m picturing you with a chopstick jammed in your eye.”
“That’s twisted.”
“For a novelist, that’s life.”
IT WAS AFTER LUNCH, and I was in downtown St. Petersburg, cruising along Fourth Street, in search of inspiration. In other words, instead of writing, I was wasting time. Finally, Southern guilt got the best of me. I sighed, gave in, and swerved over to the far right lane at the corner of First Avenue North. As I waited for the light to turn so I could head toward home, I saw Goober come out of the post office on the corner.
He didn’t notice me. I was about to honk when I saw him stop and drop something into the trash bin outside. Suddenly, the hair on my arms pricked up. A predatory thrill shot through me. I was a cat hunting a mouse. No...I was Valliant Stranger, on the trail of the elusive Goober Man!
Okay, maybe it was a little nutso. But it beat going home to a blank computer screen.
I hooked a sharp right, barreled across three lanes and glided into a fifteen-minute parking slot. I jumped out of Maggie and sprinted up to the trash can. I shoved in a fist and came up with a handful of envelopes. I stuffed them into my purse and looked up. Goober still hadn’t spotted me. He ducked into an alley. I hightailed it to the corner he’d disappeared behind and peeked around it like I’d seen cops do in the movies.
Nothing.
I couldn’t have been more than ten seconds behind him, but he was gone. I glanced back toward my car. A meter maid with a golf cart and a god complex was giving me the evil eye. The spot Maggie was parked in was marked Post Office Customers Only.
“Wait! I’m coming!” I yelled at the parking patrol lady as I dashed back to my car.
I showed her the handful of envelopes. “See? I was at the post office.”
Her sneer turned to a doubtful glare.
“I’m leaving, see?” I offered, and climbed into my car. I turned the ignition and my phone started ringing. I waved goodbye to Brunhilda the meter monster and pulled out onto First Avenue, then clicked on the phone.
Seven Daze Page 5
