Cloud Nine- When Pigs Fly

by Margaret Lashley

  “Pigs are trainable, for sure, Laverne. You thinking of getting one?”

  “Uh...I...” Laverne stuttered.

  “No, Jake,” I said. “That enormous bag of pig chow is for her baking class tonight.”

  “I’ll ignore that remark,” Jake said. “So, you’ve got a pig. Indoor or out?”

  “Uh...a bit of both?” Laverne said weakly.

  “Huh. Good idea. You know, pigs make excellent indoor pets. They don’t have sweat glands like dogs and cats. And they don’t shed. All in all, a pig’s a pretty good choice for a pet.”

  Laverne beamed. Then, suddenly, she winced in what appeared to be horror. “Jake, don’t tell Nancy Meyers. She’ll –”

  “No need to explain,” Jake said, shaking his head. “Mum’s the word.”

  “Who’s Mum?” Laverne asked.

  Jake locked eyes with me for a second, then looked back at Laverne. “Uh...nice shirt,” he said.

  Laverne giggled and shifted her shoulders, causing the sequined words on her shirt to glitter in the late-afternoon sun.

  “Virginia is for Lovers,” Jake read out loud. “Huh. I always thought Virginia was for smoked ham.”

  ON THE WAY TO CLASS, I thought about telling Laverne about the clue I’d found in the Skoal tin. But from the worried look on the poor woman’s face, I figured she had enough on her plate dealing with Randolph.

  I pulled into the parking lot at St. Pete Community College and killed the ignition. Laverne and I climbed out of the car. I waited for a moment and watched her absently toddle off down the sidewalk toward the scene of her next baking fiasco.

  The sun was just beginning to set. The sky was pinkish gray, like the dying ashes of a crushed-out cigarette. The air was almost as hot. The dog days of summer were nearly over, but they were getting in their last humid hassles. In a few days, September would arrive and give us hope – though mostly false – that a cool breeze was just around the corner.

  As I walked toward my classroom, I swiped at a trail of sweat tickling the back of my neck.

  “Hot one, tonight,” said a guy wheeling a janitor’s cart.

  “Sure is.”

  I reached for the doorknob to my classroom and spotted a hastily-scrawled note taped to the door. It read, “Mystery Writing for Fun & Profit has been cancelled until further notice.”

  What?

  I called after the janitor guy.

  “Hey! Sir! Do you know anything about this?”

  The guy turned his head. “What’s that?”

  “My writing class is cancelled. Do you know why?”

  “Uh...yeah. But I’m not allowed to say.”

  The know-it-all grin on his face sent my imagination spinning. I had to know what he knew.

  “I’ll give you five bucks,” I said.

  The guy’s grin broadened. “Twenty.”

  I dug through my wallet. “I’ve got thirteen bucks.”

  “Deal.”

  I handed over the cash. He stuffed it in the shirt pocket of his blue janitor uniform.

  “So, what do you want to know?” he asked.

  “Well...for starters, is Angela Langsbury okay?”

  “You mean the old lady who teaches the class?”

  “Yes.”

  An image of the scrawny old woman flashed in my mind. Her stiff, brown helmet of lacquered, dandruff-raining hair. Translucent skin the color of skim milk. A wrinkly face permanently stuck in sarcastic mode.

  “That lady’s one tough old bird,” the janitor said. “She actually came out on top.”

  “On top? On top of what?” I asked.

  “The big blowout. At that murder-mystery thingy they had in Orlando over the weekend.”

  My eyebrows met my hairline. “Blowout? Was there an explosion? Was anyone injured?”

  “No bombs. More like a catfight, from what I read.”

  “Read?”

  The janitor looked around and put his index finger to his lips. “Yeah. Well, I kind of, you know, accidently saw the HR file on the, uh, incident.”

  “Oh my word! Tell me everything you know!”

  The guy grinned. “Apparently, sometime during that retreat thing, Langsbury got fed up with this woman named Victoria and hauled off and sprayed her in the face with a can of Aquanet hairspray.”

  “She what?!”

  “Yeah. In the report, Langsbury was quoted as saying ‘Make it rain,” right before she blasted her.

  As I waited for the janitor to stop laughing, I tried my best not to succumb to a giggling fit myself.

  “The hairspray kind a temporarily blinded that Victoria woman,” he said between wheezy chuckles. “But she came out swinging anyway. She tried to punch Langsbury out, but ended up smashing some other gal’s nose instead.”

  “Clarice’s?” I asked.

  “That’s the one!” the janitor said, and laughed.

  “What else?”

  The janitor looked up to the ashen sky for a moment and sucked in a breath.

  “Well, there was something else about someone getting stabbed with a pencil. Can’t remember exactly who did what. But I think one of the gals filed charges.”

  “Charges?”

  “Yeah. Sorry, but that’s as far as I got. The HR lady came back in her office so I dropped the file like a hot potato. I don’t wanna get fired, you know.”

  “Geeze,” I muttered.

  “Yeah.” The janitor chuckled. “Who would’ve thought that old Langsbury could put up such a fight? She must weigh all of eighty pounds.”

  “Yeah. Who’d have thought? Thanks for the info.”

  “No problem. Have a good one.” The janitor turned and continued on his route, pushing his cart down the open corridor.

  I went back to the parking lot and plopped down in Maggie’s driver’s seat. I tried to envision Langsbury duking it out with Victoria. The thought of scrawny, ancient, bad-tempered Angela Langsbury chasing after bottle-blonde Victoria with a can of Aquanet made my lips curl with pleasure.

  Victoria was no friend of mine. I didn’t like her attitude or the company she kept. Somewhere in her fifties, Victoria always wore the dark-framed glasses and condescending expression of a snotty librarian. It was only later that I’d found out she actually was a librarian. That’s when I’d also discovered she’d supplied that lowlife Finkerman with the names of folks with overdue library books. He’d used that intel to extort money from these folks to “clear their good names.”

  Poor Laverne had been one of their victims.

  What a couple of scumbags.

  I pictured Langsbury trapping Victoria in a corner somewhere and hosing her smug face down with hairspray until it ran down the lenses of her eyeglasses like thick, gooey rain.

  For the second time that evening, a warm, satisfying, and slightly evil grin spread across my lips.

  Good for you, Langsbury. Good for you.

  Chapter Seven

  “How was class?” Tom asked as I came through the front door. My answer was drowned out by the yips of a love-starved puppy.

  “Snogs!”

  I picked up the wriggling bundle of fluff and got a kiss on either cheek by both of my cute guys.

  “Snogs?” Tom asked and made a sour face. “Were you calling the dog or blowing your nose?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Snogs sounds gross. Like phlegm.”

  “Excuse me?” I said playfully. “Grosser than Sir Albert Snoggles, III? I don’t think so!”

  Tom grinned. “Okay. I’ll let you have that one.” He repeated his question. “So tell me, what did you do in class?”

  I detected a tinge of persistence in Tom’s usually laid-back tone. I studied him for a second. His smile seemed artificially tight. His eyes were focused on me like a TV cop’s. But then again, he was a police lieutenant....

  “Uh...nothing, Tom. Class was cancelled.”

  Tom’s face softened a bit. “Good.”

  “What do you mean, good?”

&n
bsp; “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that...well, while you were out, a lady called on the land line. She left a message saying she was your writing instructor.”

  “Angela Langsbury?”

  “Yes.” Tom sounded relieved. “I thought it was a prank call. I should have known better.” He shook his head and laughed softly. “Only you, Val.”

  “What do you mean, only me?”

  “Only you could have a murder mystery instructor named Angela Langsbury. You, my dear, are a magnet for the absurd.”

  Oh, boy. If you only knew the half of it.

  In the five years since I’d returned from Germany to St. Pete, the absurd had followed me around, pestering the living daylights out of me like a swamp full of angry no-see-ums.

  In that time, I’d been forced to falsify public records to claim the dead body of a stranger – who’d later turned out to be my biological mother. I’d been robbed by a dwarf looking for somebody’s disembodied finger. I’d chased down a hippie in a rogue RV to recover my mom’s cremated remains after Tom traded them for a tiki hut. I’d competed with my adoptive mom Lucille and tied for “family fruitcake” of the year. I’d been sued for using a toothpick to lift the lid on a cop’s bad toupee. I’d undergone relationship therapy from a dog psychologist. I’d been abducted by a serial killer disguised as Bigfoot. And two weeks ago, I’d been outwitted by a ceramic effigy of a man squatting on a toilet.

  And now, I’m the unwilling accomplice to a geriatric showgirl harboring a fugitive pig living in a compost bin.

  Magnet for the absurd doesn’t even scratch the surface.

  “Magnet for the absurd, huh?” I said, and set Snogs down. I wrapped my arms around Tom’s neck and winked. “So that’s why you find me so irresistible.”

  Tom laughed. “That’s got to be it.” He winked a sea-green eye at me, then kissed me in a way that removed any lingering doubts about his intentions.

  Which, by the way, turned out to be far from absurd. But then again, I’ve always been a sucker for a handsome blond with tight buns....

  “DID YOU HEAR THE NEWS about Caddy’s?” Tom asked as he washed up the supper dishes.

  “Yeah. That guy Tim Amsel looks like a real scumbag,” I said, and scraped my uneaten broccoli into the garbage can.

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Tom joked, and made a bandito mask out of the dish towel.

  “Not that deceiving,” I said dryly. “That guy’s so gross he could go under cover in a pig farm – without a disguise.”

  Tom didn’t laugh. He dropped the dishtowel from his face and said, “Right,” as if he hadn’t heard me.

  “Have you been to Caddy’s lately?” he asked.

  I put a clean glass away in the cupboard and closed the door. When I turned back to face him, Tom had his interrogating cop eyes trained on me again.

  “I was there today. Why?”

  “Nothing. Well...just...I’d rather you didn’t go there again, okay?”

  “Why not?”

  “The owner, Greg Parsons, has been reported missing.”

  Something caught in my throat. “What do you mean, missing?”

  “An employee called the station this afternoon. Parsons didn’t come to work as scheduled.”

  “So?”

  “The employee sounded pretty upset. She said Parsons has never shown up late since she’s been working there. We’re giving him forty-eight hours to turn up before we file an official missing person report.”

  “What do you think –?”

  “Sorry, Val. That’s all I can tell you right now.”

  “I understand. Can you tell me if the employee who called in the report was named Norma?”

  Tom looked surprised, then nodded.

  I blew out a breath. “Then something’s up for sure, Tom. If Greg was just taking a day off, Norma would have known about it.”

  Tom chewed his lip for a moment and said, “Okay. Thanks for the tip.”

  “Sure. You know, I –”

  “Let’s don’t discuss it anymore, okay?”

  “I wasn’t. I was going to say that Goober’s been missing a lot more than forty-eight hours, and nobody’s filed a report on him.”

  “He’s a grown man, Val. I’m sure he’s just out having a good time in the old RV. He’ll turn up.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said half-heartedly.

  I almost told Tom about finding the clue in the Skoal can. But he didn’t seem that interested. Just like Winky, neither guy seemed that concerned about Goober.

  Was it a guy thing?

  Or was I just being a worry wart?

  Chapter Eight

  I waited until 9:00 a.m. to call Angela Langsbury back. I wasn’t sure if she was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise kind of woman or not. As skeletal and ghostly pale as she was, she might have slept in a coffin and fed on the blood of students at night, for all I knew.

  “Hello?” said a voice only a mother toad could love.

  I recognized it immediately.

  “Ms. Langsbury? It’s me, Val. You called yesterday?”

  “Uh...yeah. Fremden. I guess you know the writing class was cancelled.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Uh-huh. What do you know about it?”

  “About what?” I asked, not wanting to get the tell-all janitor in trouble.

  “Never mind. Listen, I need you to provide a deposition for me. As a character witness. Would you be able to do that?”

  “Really? Is Victoria suing you?”

  “So you do know.”

  Crap.

  “Uh...a little bit. Listen. The whole hairspray thing? I get that. But nobody in their right mind would believe you stabbed her with a pencil.”

  “What?” Langsbury croaked. “I don’t give a flip about that.”

  “Then what’s the deposition for?”

  “Victoria wants her eighteen hundred bucks back for the murder mystery weekend. I’m a teacher, for crying out loud. I don’t have that kind of money lying around! Besides, I already spent it on a bikini wax and a ticket to Cozumel.”

  Too much information.

  “Oh.”

  “So will you do it? Will you give a deposition?”

  “For what, exactly?”

  “I need you to back me up...you know, confirm that I made it clear in class there wouldn’t be any refunds for the trip. Not for any reason.”

  I bit my lip and thought it over. Langsbury had her issues with Victoria. So did I.

  I’d never gotten the chance to confront that jerk of a librarian for her part in hurting Laverne. Finkerman had sent Laverne a letter demanding ninety bucks to restore her standing as a good citizen and avoid legal issues arising from an overdue book. The thought that she might be considered a criminal had sent poor Laverne into a tizzy of worry. Helping Langsbury with a deposition could be my chance to even the score with smug-faced Victoria.

  I racked my brain trying to recall if I’d heard Langsbury tell the class about her zero-refund policy for the retreat.

  “Uh...I’m not sure, Mrs. Langsbury. I’m trying to recall –”

  “Oh, come on, Val! Do me a solid, would you? I can’t take this idiocy. Not on top of having my stupid brother-in-law squatting in my guest room. Twit thinks he owns half the planet, but he’s too cheap to spring for a hotel. Just my rotten luck.”

  “Well, I –”

  I was cut off by the sound of Langsbury yelling at someone. Thankfully, her ire wasn’t aimed at me. Through the receiver I heard her screech, “Tim, if you don’t put out that cigar, I swear I’m gonna kick you all the way back to Chicago!”

  What? Wait a minute....

  A beat later, a sweet, toady voice said, “So, what do you say, Val? Could you be a love and help an old lady out?”

  “Your brother-in-law wouldn’t happen to be Tim Amsel, would it?”

  Langsbury blew out a breath. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Hmmm. Well, you know, I just may remember something about you me
ntioning a no-refund policy. But to be clear, you’ll owe me one for it.”

  “Owe you one what?”

  “I’ll let you know later.”

  Langsbury groaned. “I don’t like the sound of that. But okay. What the hell. Hey, by the way, you wouldn’t happen to have an extra room to let, would you?”

  “Nope. I’m fresh out.”

  “Lucky you.”

  ON MY WAY OUT THE FRONT door, I turned and waved to Snogs. He returned my gesture with a yip and a pout. Trapped in his cage, poor Snogs looked like an incarcerated teddy bear.

  “Sorry,” I cooed as I backed out over the threshold. I grabbed the doorknob and bent over for one last wave to Snogs. As I did, my derriere made contact with something. I whipped around and nearly gasped. My nosy neighbor Nancy Meyers was standing cheek to jowl with me on my porch. I wondered how long she’d been there eavesdropping.

  “What are you doing here?” I barked.

  “Good morning to you, too,” she said with a huff. She stuck her perpetually upturned nose a little higher in the air and tugged at the hem of her blouse with both hands. “I just wanted to remind you that September starts in a few days.”

  “Uh...thanks?” I eyed her up and down with raised eyebrows.

  “Fremden! September is Spruce-Up Your Lawn Month! It’s time to weed and feed. And plant winter annuals.”

  “Nancy, in case you haven’t noticed, we don’t have winter here.”

  If I’d actually slapped her across the face, I think Nancy would’ve worn the same expression.

  “A green lawn is a keen lawn,” she said. “We don’t want people thinking our neighborhood is full of riff-raff.”

  “Define riff-raff.”

  Nancy ignored my request and shot me a look that made me seriously suspect that I was exactly the kind of ne’er-do-well to whom she’d been referring.

  “You know what I mean,” she said.

  “I’ll think about putting in some flowers, okay?”

  Nancy shot me a skeptical look and tried to peek through the door into my house. I closed it to a crack, just to tease her.

  “Was there something else?” I asked.