Three Dumb: Wheelin' & Dealin' (A Val & Pals Humorous Mystery Book 3)

by Margaret Lashley

  “Thanks, Tom.”

  “So…you’re enjoying your birthday gift?”

  “The yard? Yes!” I exclaimed, grateful for the change of topic. “Very much so. It’s beautiful.”

  I leaned over the bucket seat to kiss Tom. He met me halfway.

  ***

  The evening sky threatened rain, so instead of taking our usual walk along the waterfront, Tom found a parking spot off 1st Avenue and 3rd Street. The ice between us melted quickly as we ambled along the tiny patch of urban jungle known as downtown St. Petersburg. The city was still in the fits and starts of a reluctant renaissance. Tom took my hand as we passed scabby little bars and thrift shops trying desperately to survive among the slick, new bistros and high-end boutiques. I realized for the first time how much St. Petersburg reminded me of my relationship with Tom. We were both struggling to let go of the past and trust in a brighter future.

  Red Mesa, our favorite Mexican restaurant, was one of the first businesses to take a chance on St. Pete’s rebirth. Now it was enjoying the rewards of its smart decision. It was crowded almost every week night, and impossibly so on the weekends. Tom and I strolled arm-in-arm up to the low, red-brick wall that formed the restaurant’s outdoor courtyard. Arranged within its walls were clusters of wrought-iron tables and chairs, separated by terracotta pots planted with cascading flowers and small bay trees. Lanterns strung on wires overhead glowed golden in the slate-blue sky and gave the whole place a cozy, garden-party atmosphere.

  I preferred sitting in the outdoor courtyard, even in the oppressive summer heat. I enjoyed the tropical ambiance, and the relative quiet. Red Mesa’s inside dining area was nice, but one try had been enough for me. The concrete floors and glass walls made the place an echo chamber. I’d found myself shouting just to be heard above the din. No thanks. I’d already gotten too old for that shit.

  Tom found us a table for two in the courtyard next to a planter box full of fragrant, pink petunias. I ordered a black-bean burrito and a glass of white sangria. Tom got soft tacos and a beer. Good old, Tom. He always ordered the same thing. I smiled at the handsome blond man with the crisp white shirt rolled up at the sleeves. I watched him as he chatted with the waiter and placed his order. Unlike me, Tom was a study in unfaltering confidence and cordiality. In fact, Tom was boringly reliable in all the right ways – and deliciously unpredictable in all the right ways, as well.

  And he loved me. The thought made me catch my breath.

  Tom put down the menu and took my hand. His warm touch sent tingly electric shocks racing to some of my most private places.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

  “Oh. Just wondering how your work is going,” I lied.

  If I’d told him the truth, we’d have never made it through dinner.

  ***

  On the drive home, Tom seemed far away. At my prompting, he groused a little about work, but didn’t said anything specific. I asked about the tag search for my mom’s RV, but he hadn’t had anything to report yet. I considered telling him about the idea I had brewing in my head – a plan to catch Cold Cuts – but decided against it. Tom hadn’t been too thrilled when he’d found out about my last scheme involving Goober, a dog stroller and a bottle of Jack. So, I decided to keep my mouth shut and enjoy the ride in silence.

  I guess, like Tom, I got lost in my own thoughts. I was taken by surprise when he pulled up in my driveway.

  “Oh. We’re home already,” I said absently.

  “Well, you’re home, at least,” Tom joked.

  I looked around. “And no van, either. Not yet, anyway.”

  Tom took my hand. “Look, Val. I’m sorry I’ve been distracted lately. Stuff at work. Nothing to do with you. And I want to apologize again…about the RV…and Glad. If you think of anything else I can do to help, just let me know. I promise, I’ll be on it.”

  His earnest face melted the last shard of ice I’d been holding onto. “Thanks, Tom.”

  He squeezed my hand again, then employed an index finger to gently dawdle a line on my inner arm from my wrist to my elbow. “Too bad I have to work tomorrow,” he said huskily.

  His comment jarred me to attention. “Oh! Work! I forgot to mention it! Tom, I’m thinking about taking a job at Milly’s office. I have an interview tomorrow.”

  “You’re kidding.” Tom’s sexy voice took on a playful, curious tone. “I thought you wanted to be a detective.”

  “Ha ha. I can’t even solve the mystery of how to get out of my own way.”

  Tom looked into my eyes, but he didn’t say a word. I pushed him with my shoulder.

  “This is where you’re supposed to laugh Tom, and tell me, ‘That’s not true.’”

  Again, Tom grinned, but uttered not a syllable. I frowned and punched him in the arm.

  “Jerk!”

  Tom laughed and pulled me close to his chest.

  “A job, huh? It might be just what you need to keep yourself out of trouble.”

  “Very funny. But, I guess I could use the money.”

  “Who couldn’t?”

  I pulled away enough to look Tom in the face. “Yeah. Plus, if I had a job, I’d have a good excuse for not going up to visit my mother on Mother’s Day. Is that wrong, too?”

  Tom looked me up and down skeptically. “Possibly.”

  I pouted. “Well, if it is, then I don’t want to be right.”

  Tom flashed his sexy, devilish smile. “Well, as long as you’re in the mood to be wrong….”

  He took my chin in his hand and kissed me hard on the mouth. Damn! That man was a good kisser. I wanted him. Badly. But part of me was having second thoughts. I pulled away and frowned.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes…”

  I tried to explain, but Tom started nibbling my neck and my mind went blank. He whispered in my ear.

  “Val, can I spend the night?”

  “No,” I whispered back. “Winky and Winnie will be here soon.”

  Tom returned to nibbling until he broke down my resistance.

  “Okay. You can come in for a nightcap.”

  I took Tom by the hand and led into the house and back to the bedroom, unbuttoning my blouse along the way with my free hand. I peeled off my skirt and lay on the bed in my bra and panties and watched Tom undress. His white shirt glowed in the dim light against his tan, muscular chest. As he lay down next to me and kissed my ear, my back arched all on its own. His fingers, like hot silk, caressed my skin….

  I wanted Tom to stay the night. Part of me wanted him to stay forever.

  But it was not to be. Not right now. Tonight, we would both have to settle for a quickie.

  Tom wasn’t to blame. Neither were Winnie and Winky. It was that damned burrito I’d eaten for dinner. Experience had taught me I had about an hour before those dastardly black beans would work their magic in my colon. In sixty or so odd minutes, those little ebony legumes would generate enough methane to propel me halfway to the moon.

  I didn’t want Tom around to witness my unscheduled lunar blastoff.

  Chapter Seven

  I woke up feeling like Paul Bunyan had kicked me in the ass with his giant logging boot. I swung my legs over the right side of the bed. Wrong move. My eyebrows met my hairline. My teeth clamped together. My body froze in pain.

  I took a deep breath, held it for a second, and blew it out. This time, I scooted slowly to the edge of the bed, moving cautiously through the aching soreness. I put one foot, then the other onto the floor, testing each joint as if it were a rusty hinge that might lock up or, worse yet, break completely off. I stood, then staggered and lurched like a robot on stilts. By the time I got to the bathroom, either the pain had faded or I’d gotten used to it.

  The mirror on the back of the bathroom door revealed the reason for my rude awakening. I lifted my t-shirt and pulled down my panties. Overnight, a nightmarish watercolor of yellow, black, purple and green had covered my right buttock like a macabre canvas. Ouch! My min
d flashed back to the parking lot…to that poor bag of tortilla chips. I frowned sourly.

  Well, at least I don’t have tread marks.

  I pulled up my big-girl panties and made a slow, geriatric amble toward the coffee maker. Surely this was nothing a cappuccino with a shot of Bailey’s couldn’t cure. I upped my dosage when I hit my hip on the corner of the kitchen counter.

  Ooww! Make that two shots….

  The coffee maker was humming along nicely when I noticed Winnie’s old, grey-blue Dodge van in the driveway. It backfired, belched smoke and backed slowly out of the drive. In its place, Winky stood there, staring at me wide-eyed – like a stagehand caught unaware at an unexpected curtain opening. Our eyes met. I waved. He waved once, dropped his gaze downward and disappeared behind the garage. Weird.

  Then I remembered I was in my underwear.

  Crap! I poured two shots of Bailey’s in my cappuccino and drank it down in a couple of quick gulps. It was going to be a long, strange day. I made another cappuccino and sipped it as I stared out the window at my beautiful backyard. The tiki hut and hammock looked even better now that Tom and I had kissed and made up. I smiled to myself and hobbled to the bathroom. A note on the mirror kicked my fledgling good mood in the teeth.

  Shit! Milly’s interview! I shuffled like a crippled crab back to the kitchen and looked at the clock on the stove. It was already 8:45. I had…let’s see…fifteen seconds to get ready. Crap on a cracker!

  There was no time to shower. I ransacked my closet for something appropriate to wear. Zilch. All I had was shorts, t-shirts, sundresses, jeans…and one little black dress that was way too short for the occasion. I had a cute skirt that would do, but I’d splotched mustard on it when I made Winky’s sandwich yesterday. Out of options, I squeezed into the black dress and put a white, button-up blouse over it to dress it down.

  I dumped my underwear drawer on the bed and rifled through the jumbled pile, searching desperately for the lone pair of pantyhose I kept around for weddings, bad dates and funerals. Voila! When I tried to pull them on, they tore apart in my hands. Dry rot. What a perfect analogy for my career. I tugged a pair of black high-heels onto my bare feet. When I took a step, a red-hot flash of pain shot from my right hip to my brain. I flung the shoes off and slipped on a pair of old-maid flats.

  Okay. All I had left to do was prepare my head for public presentation.

  I took a look in the vanity mirror. My hair was a frizzy mess. I tied it in a ponytail. Somehow, it looked even worse. How was that possible? Panic kicked in. Sweat trickled down my back. I let my hair down and fluffed it up with what was left of the can of Aqua Net that Laverne had used on me right before my infamous chicken fill-it disaster. I tinted my cheeks with blush, slapped some eyeliner under my eyes and smeared on some lipstick. It would have to do. I was out of time.

  I grabbed my purse, took a step toward the door and the room went a bit wonky. The Bailey’s had kicked in.

  Oh, crap! I…I might be too drunk to drive!

  What was I going to do? There wasn’t even time for a sobering piece of toast and butter. I shut my eyes in utter disbelief. What else could go wrong?

  That’s when I heard it. A rapping sound from the living room. I doddered down the hall and peeked into the living room. Winky was standing at the sliding glass door, his hands folded together at his waist like a naughty schoolboy. Now what? I slid the door open a crack.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Hate to ask, Val, but nature’s bangin’ at my backdoor with a sledgehammer.”

  “What?”

  “Can I use your facilities?”

  Unsavory images tried to worm their way into my mind. I batted them away. “Uh…okay. But make it quick. I’ve got a job interview to get to ASAP.”

  I stepped back out of his way and winced.

  “You look all stove up, Val Pal. Rough night?”

  “Something like that.”

  I hobbled over to the couch.

  “You don’t look like yore in no condition to drive.”

  I wasn’t. In more ways than one. I shrugged.

  “How ‘bout this. I’ll do my business, then drive you where you gots to go. Just give me two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  An image of Winky shaking something else came in for a landing before I could swat it away. I closed my eyes and winced. But it was desperate times. I couldn’t fail Milly again. And there was no time to call a cab….

  “Okay.”

  ***

  Winky turned the ignition on Maggie and grinned as she rumbled to life. His eyes lit up like a full moon over a hayseed’s hayfield.

  “Woo hoo! I always been wantin’ to drive yore car, Val!”

  “Have you got a license, Winky?”

  “Somewheres.”

  I sighed, forced a smile, and resigned myself to my fate.

  “Okay then. Let’s roll.”

  Winky backed Maggie down the driveway, shifted into gear and hit the gas with his big, lead foot. I nearly got whiplash.

  “Geeze, Winky. Take it easy!”

  “You in a hurry or not?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, all right then. Hold on!”

  Winky mashed the gas again. I rubbed my neck and looked on the bright side. Maybe the open air would sober me up. I took a deep breath, then caught my reflection in the side-view mirror and gasped. My blown-up hair, crude makeup and too-short skirt made me look like a televangelist’s mistress. All I needed was some shoulder pads and I could have starred in an ‘80’s sitcom as a skanky lush.

  Awesome sauce.

  “So. Job interview, huh? What you applyin’ for?”

  “Some kind of accounting assistant.” I took my eyes off the side mirror and stared at the road ahead. I prayed we’d get stuck in traffic.

  “Sounds fancy.”

  “I dunno. I probably won’t get it. My résumé is…Oh shit! I forgot my freaking résumé!”

  “Want me to turn around?”

  “No. No time. Geeze! I am so freaking…unemployable!”

  “Aw, come on, now Val. Don’t be so hard on yourself. There’s all kind a jobs out there. You’d be surprised. I found me plenty a opportunities. Things you’d never think about.”

  I raised a skeptical eyebrow at Winky. “Like what?”

  Winky flew past a bread truck and spit a hunk of chewing tobacco out the window.

  “Well, one time I got paid 50 dollars to leave a weddin’. That there kicked off a whole new income stream for me. For the next couple a years, I crashed ever weddin’, anniversary and hootenanny I heard tell of around Hawksville. Got myself so well knowed, people’d drive up to my place and hand me a twenty note just so I wouldn’t show up at their shindig. Heck, them was good times. Didn’t even have to leave the trailer.”

  Winky beamed at me proudly, then jerked the steering wheel to the left. He took the corner so hard I had to grab the door handle to keep from ending up in his lap.

  “So why’d you quit? I mean, if the money was good, why’d you come down to Florida?”

  Winky shot me a serious look. “Val, they’s some things you don’t ask a man. That’s one of ‘em.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Not a problem. You know, Goober said up in New York City, you can make good money just standing in line for people. Rich people don’t like to wait.”

  “They don’t like their parties crashed, either.”

  “Ha ha! That’s right. Hey, speakin’ a right. Wasn’t you a writer?”

  “I was. I tried to go back to writing last year. But I couldn’t find a job at an ad agency. I did have a couple of ideas for some books, though.”

  “Oh yeah? What kind a books?”

  “Books like, How to be Happy in a Cardboard Box. Or, maybe The Art of Dumpster Diving.”

  “Well, sounds like good information to me. I’d read ‘em.”

  I shot Winky a smile. “Thanks. Pull in there. That’s the place.”

  Winky skittered into
a slot and slammed on the brakes. I glanced in the side view mirror again. The wind had whipped my hair into cotton candy. It was officially big enough to come in handy as an air bag. I sighed, unlocked my seatbelt and groaned out loud as I lifted my trashy-looking butt out of the car.

  “What’s wrong with you? Sounds like the world done whipped your ass and it ain’t barely nine o’clock.”

  I turned around and shrugged. “There’s some things you don’t ask a woman, Winky. That’s one of ‘em.”

  Winky’s smile was tinged with concern. “Fair enough. I’ll be here waitin’ for ya when ya get done. Break a leg.”

  I didn’t half to. I already almost had.

  ***

  The interview started at 9:30 a.m. It was over at 9:33.

  I hobbled, half drunk, up to the reception desk at Griffith & Maas, CPAs. An exhausted looking woman in dire need of a root touch-up glanced up at me through her smudged bifocals. Her pained expression exactly mirrored how I felt inside. I forced a smile.

  “Hi. I’m Val Fremden.”

  She gave me a quick once-over. “Look, lady. We don’t take solicitations.”

  “Oh. No. I’m here for an interview with…uh….” Shit! What was that guy’s name? “I’m here about the accounting assistant position?”

  “Oh.” The woman’s left eyebrow ticked up a notch. The rest of her pinched, haggard face remained motionless. “Yes. Ms. Fremden, did you say? I’m Mrs. Barnes. I’ll ring Mr. Maas in his office. Please take a seat.”

  While I was trying to decide whether it was worth the pain of attempting to settle my bruised butt in a chair, a man came out of an office down at the end of the hallway. He was thin, balding, and just might have come over on the Mayflower. Dressed in an unremarkable blue suit, he reminded me of Mr. Burns on The Simpsons. When he reached the end of the hallway, he looked me over with eyes that hadn’t expected much, and were therefore not disappointed.

  “This way, Ms. Fremden,” he said tiredly, without making eye contact.

  The old man herded me down the hallway with a wave of his mummified hand. I tried my best not to limp or groan as he led me to an office with a gold placard on the door. It read, “J. W. Maas, Senior VP.”