Tom resurrected his horrible Southern accent. “You know how to cook vitals. You was born in Chattahoochee. You speak the language.”
I laughed. “It’s vittles, not vitals.”
“See? You speak fluent redneck.”
“And you don’t. So please, drop that horrible accent or I’m sending you back to Maryland.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Since you aren’t from around here, I guess you’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing redneck foreplay,” I joked.
“Redneck foreplay? You’ve got my attention, ma’am. What’s that?”
I sidled up to Tom and poked him hard on the bicep with my index finger. “Hey. You awake?”
Tom looked at me for a second, expecting more. Then realization dawned on his face and he burst out laughing.
“You’re funny, Valiant.”
“Oh! Please don’t ever call me that!”
“Why?”
“Just don’t.”
“Okay, okay! Let’s change the subject. I think she likes me. Your mom, I mean. She said I was good looking, ‘If you go for that sort of thing.’”
“I didn’t hear her say that.”
“Aha! So you were listening in.”
“Busted. But I didn’t get to hear everything. I was cooking vittles, you know.”
“And they was some gosh-darn good vittles, too. That chicken is somewhere up in heaven crowing about how good you fried him up. Deeeelicious.”
“What did I tell you about that accent, officer?”
“Sorry ma’am.” Tom winked. “What do you redneck girls do with naughty boys who won’t listen?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
***
I let Tom concentrate on driving as we wound our way east on I-10 through busy Tallahassee. Coming out the other side we were facing over an hour of boring highway until we hit Lake City. Winky was still sawing logs in the back, but not too loudly. Every once in a while he would rip out a round of flatulence that sent us scrambling to roll the windows down for fresh air. We’d just ventilated the 4Runner for the third or fourth time when a thought occurred to me.
“Tom, when was it you had your first case? The Buckaroo Bandit?”
“November a hundred years ago.”
I slapped his arm playfully. “I’m serious.”
“Twenty years ago…so…1989.”
“Do you remember the month?”
“Fishing season. So, May or June.”
“Tony and Glad got married in October that same year. If that was Bobby’s skull in that Piggly Wiggly bag, it means he was dead before they got married. Do you think Glad knew Bobby was dead?”
“Huh. There’s a thought. That would make her marriage to Tony legit. Pretty convenient, timing-wise. If the skull really is Bobby’s.”
“It’s his. Who else’s could it be?”
“Okay, let’s assume it is. Jacob said he pulled Bobby’s teeth out in like, 1987, right? That leaves two years of unaccounted time before the skull was found. Anything could have happened in between. If Jacob left Bobby alone in the woods, he could have bled to death. Or Bobby could have recovered and later had a fishing accident. Or Jacob could be lying and he actually finished Bobby off himself. That way Jacob would be able to tell Tony and Glad that the coast was clear, so to speak.”
So to speak, not sore to speak! He’s literate! Hurray! I looked over at Tom. He seemed even more handsome somehow. “Or maybe Glad didn’t know anything about what Jacob did,” I speculated. “If she didn’t, why would she marry Tony if she knew she was still married to Bobby?”
“People do it all the time, Val. It’s just a piece of paper until you mail it in. Even then, different states, different names. Cross-checking public records has its limitations.”
“Hmmmm.”
“You sound like your m….”
The hard look on my face froze Tom’s mouth mid-word. “I mean it sounds like you haven’t been to your mom’s in a while.”
Guilt washed over me like a ton of dirty gym socks. “Yes, I’m a stranger now. And keep getting stranger.”
“Jolly to Fremden. Think about it, Val. You went from being happy – Jolly – to being a stranger, Fremden. I hope you didn’t become a stranger to being jolly along the way.”
How poetic. “Me too,” was all I said.
Chapter Thirty
We got lucky and Winky slept all the way to Tampa, giving Tom and me a chance to get a little more personal with our conversation and sneak in that second kiss. It was worth the wait – and the guilt of drugging Winky with Dramamine. The poor guy was still a bit groggy when we arrived at my place. Jorge was there, sitting in his old grey-and-bondo Buick, dutifully staking out my street. He saw us and jumped out of his vehicle. He greeted us both with Old Spice-scented hugs.
“Hola, guys! Como estas?”
“No she wat’n in no coma, mister,” grumbled Winky, climbing out of the backseat of the 4Runner. He rubbed his head and stumbled over to Jorge’s Buick. “She was just crazy’s all. Y’all don’t mind me. I’m gonna take a nap.” Winky crawled into the backseat of Jorge’s car. He laid down and his head disappeared behind the front seat.
Jorge looked questioningly at Tom and me. We both shrugged. Jorge smiled and shrugged too, then presented me with my apartment key as if he were handing over the crown jewels. What he said next was really good news. He and Goober had located the whereabouts of the Bulldog Woman’s hideaway.
“So, what did you find out?” Tom asked Jorge.
“This woman, she’s staying at the Landmark Motel over by Mirror Lake. And she’s not alone. There’s some old gringo guy with her.”
“Señor Blanco?”
“Jes. Everything blanco. White shirt, white belt, white shoes.” Jorge touched his chest, then waist, then shins as he talked, as if doing some type of show-and-tell calisthenics routine.
“Did they come by here again?”
“No. But Goober called about a half an hour ago. He said they were at Tony’s place. They tried the front door and then walked around back. He said they were back there for a long time. Goober got tired of waiting and snuck a peek behind the back corner of the house. He saw the fat lady giving old Blanco hell. Goober tried to tell me something else over the phone, but he was whispering too low. I don’t know what he said. Then he hung up. You’re gonna have to get the rest of the story from him.”
“Where is he now?”
“Probably still in front of Tony’s. He told me he ran out of gas.”
“Okay. Good work, partner.” Tom patted Jorge on the shoulder. “Thanks for taking Winky home, too. You did great.”
Jorge beamed. Tom turned to face me. “Val, I’m going to head over to Tony’s. I’ve got a spare gas can in the back of the 4Runner.”
“I’m going with you,” I said.
Tom smiled. “No argument here.”
***
It was almost 3 p.m. when we turned onto Bimini Circle. Goober’s car was parked about four houses down from Tony’s. The Dodge was empty except for about four million mangled Marlboro cigarette butts. They spilled like a jumbled waterfall out of the ashtray and onto the floorboards. There was no sign of the white Prius. We drove on to the house and pulled up in the driveway. Still no Goober. Tom tried him on his cellphone. No answer. But we heard a faint ringing coming from the backyard. Goober had set his ringtone to the theme from Superman. Of course.
I grinned wryly at Tom. But the look on his face caused my mood to switch to worry. Before I could say a word, Tom raced around the side of the house. I followed, picking my way through the gravel as quickly as I could in sandals. I rounded the corner and saw Tom kneeling beside Goober. Old Peanut Head was splayed out on the back landing, his phone a few feet from his right hand. I was about to laugh with relief when I spied a huge red knot in the middle of Goober’s forehead.
“Goober, buddy, wake up,” Tom said. He shook Goober gently by the shoulders.
“Hmmm?” G
oober groaned and tried to sit up.
“You okay? What happened?”
Goober touched his forehead and winced. “I don’t know.” His eyes focused first on Tom, then on me. A grin crept over his face. “I guess I OD’ed on Fukitol.”
I smiled and breathed a sigh of relief. At least his sense of humor was still intact.
“Looks like the back door’s been jimmied open,” said Tom. “Val, stay with Goober.”
“I’m going with you,” I said.
“You keep saying that.”
“I’ve been in the house before.”
“I’ve been in, too, Val. DNA samples, remember?”
“Yeah. But I went through Glad’s personal stuff. I think I’d notice if more than a few toenail clippings were missing.”
“Fair enough.”
Tom propped Goober up against the outside wall. I got him a glass of water from the kitchen, then scrounged around in my purse for an aspirin. The best I could come up with was Extra-Strength Midol. I thought twice before handing the tablet to Goober.
Goober examined the pill and laughed. “Perfect! You know, Val….”
“Careful. I can make that knot a matching set.”
Goober flinched, then mockingly whined. “I was just going to say that you’re a sweet lady.”
I looked at Goober’s swollen forehead and remembered he’d been doing me a favor. “And you’re a nice man. I’m just not in the mood for a joke right now.”
“Maybe you need this more than me.” Goober held out the Midol tablet.
I shook my fist at him and laughed despite myself.
***
The house had been ransacked. Drawers were pulled out. Papers were strewn everywhere. To the unsuspecting, it might have looked like it was normal for Tony’s hoarder house. But I knew better. When I made it through the garbage-lined hallway to the bedroom, I saw Glad’s three shoeboxes dumped out on the bed. The sight hit me hard in the gut. It was pretty obvious who the perpetrators were. But as far as I could tell at first glance, nothing was missing.
“What do you think they were looking for?” Tom asked.
“I was about to ask you the same question. Maybe the marriage certificate?”
“Maybe.”
I sorted through the papers and mementos strewn all over the bed. “The picture of Glad and Tony on the beach is gone, Tom. Tony’s letter to Glad from boarding school, too. Shit! So is the picture of Glad with her baby!”
“How about cash? Jewelry?” Tom asked.
My mind flashed to the little green rhinestone oval. It was still in my travel bag. Then I thought of something else. “Glad used to wear a lot of rings. I think she had them on when they took her to the morgue. Where would they be now?”
“Probably still there. When you signed for her, did they give you a bag with her personal effects?”
“No. I never thought to ask.”
“Maybe you should.”
I nodded. “I will tomorr….”
I was stopped short by the sound of Goober’s voice from outside. He was yelling a stream of obscenities. Tom and I locked eyes, then dashed toward the hallway. Tom grabbed my hand and we pushed and pulled our bodies through the narrow passage clogged with newspapers and magazines. Finally, the garbage pile opened up. We’d made it to the kitchen. Tom flung open the back door and we practically tumbled over each other into the backyard.
“Gaaddang pile of shit! Let me loose!”
I could hear Goober, but I couldn’t see him. It was like trying to find a toaster amongst the maze of junked appliances and furniture. Finally, Goober flailed a long, tattooed arm and I spotted him, twisted backward around a deep freezer, his belt loop hung up on the handle. Tom hurtled over a pile of rusty lawn furniture to reach him, and worked Goober loose from the Frigidaire’s rusty grasp.
“They got in the RV, too,” Goober said, exasperated.
Tom helped me climb over the deep freeze and we both peered inside Glad’s old Minnie Winnie. It looked like a tornado had picked up a ton of garbage and flung it around inside. The sickly sweet smell of air freshener failed to mask the funk of the abandoned old RV. The greenish-brown upholstery showed evidence that when Glad moved out, mice and who knows what else had moved in.
“There’s a new can of air freshener on the table. They must have sprayed it,” Tom said.
“I can’t blame them.” I felt like retching.
Tom climbed inside the cabin and scrounged around in an open kitchen drawer. He pulled out a set of tongs and picked up the aerosol can with them. “Fingerprint evidence.”
Tom brushed by me with the can. After he stepped out the door, I climbed in. That’s when I finally noticed the overwhelmingly obvious. Every inch of wall and door space in the RV was covered in stickers and pictures and drawings of dragonflies. A never-ending, dizzying decoupage of fairy-like insects. I stood open-mouthed, admiring the mad, hypnotic splendor of Glad’s artwork. Goober stuck his head in the Minnie Winnie and sniffed.
“Who farted flowers?”
“He said this place was covered in butterflies.”
“Who?”
“Jacob.”
“Who the fuck is Jacob?”
“Señor Blanco.”
“You talked to him?”
“Yes. He said Glad’s RV was covered in butterflies.”
“Butterflies, dragonflies, what’s the difference?”
I aimed my frustration at the indifference of the male species. “Men!”
“Women!” Goober shot back.
***
Tom dropped the can of air freshener in an evidence bag and drove down to Goober’s car. Tom emptied the five-gallon gas can into Goober’s tank and handed him some money for his efforts.
“Negatory.”
“Take it. You earned it,” Tom insisted.
“I don’t take money for helping friends,” protested Goober.
“Then let me buy you dinner.”
“That I’ll do. As long as it includes a beer.”
“Of course.”
“Or two.”
“Don’t push your luck,” Tom said jokingly. “How about the Sea Hag?”
Goober looked over at me. “I guess she can come, too.”
Both guys burst out laughing. “Very funny,” I said, and punched Goober on the arm.
The Sea Hag was the name of a popular restaurant in St. Pete Beach. If it were any more casual it wouldn’t need a roof. Nestled on the waterfront by a causeway, it was a great place to kick back and have a few cold ones. And it was close by. In less than ten minutes, the three of us were there, throwing one back.
“Do you remember what happened, Goober?” Tom asked, taking a sip from his mug of beer.
“Actually, no. I was talking to Jorge on the phone, and all of a sudden I blacked out. I don’t know if I fell over or got whacked.”
“That’s not unusual. To not remember, I mean,” Tom said. He’d switched to his cop voice. “People with concussions often forget the last few minutes before they sustained their injury. Those missing minutes will probably never come back. They get erased like an Etch-a-Sketch.”
Goober touched the knot on his upper forehead. It looked mean and angry, as if a horn was trying to break through. “I’ve lived through worse. Thanks for the Midol, Val. It actually helped.”
I nodded, relieved he was okay. “Anytime.”
“Good thing you didn’t give him aspirin,” Tom interjected. “It’s a blood thinner. Could have made any internal bleeding even worse.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that,” I said. Tom’s news made me feel somehow wrong and inadequate.
“It’s all good,” Tom said reassuringly. Under the table, he placed his left hand on my lower thigh and gave it a light squeeze. My inadequate feeling melted under the electric heat that shot through my body. Tom didn’t appear to take any notice. Instead, he shifted his attention back to Goober.
“You remember what kind of car they were driving?” Tom asked.
“A white Toyota. One of those hybrids.”
“A Prius. That’s the same car Jacob drives,” I said.
“Jacob, as in Señor Blanco,” Goober said, incredulous. “You on a first-name basis with these fuckers, Val?”
“Just one,” I answered defensively. “The guy. He actually came up and started talking to me in the Water Loo’s parking lot. He told me a lot of things about Tony and Glad.” A sudden streak of anger overwhelmed me. “Shit! Now that I think about it, Jacob set me up, Tom. I probably told him too much. About the letter, and the marriage license, I mean.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Tom, squeezing my thigh. His protectiveness felt ironically reassuring and scary at the same time. “You don’t need to contact him again.”
“Bulldog Woman, either,” said Goober. “Unless you’d like your nose to contact her fist again.” He moved his right arm, miming a boxing uppercut.
I instinctively touched my nose, then recycled Goober’s line. “I’ve lived through worse.”
The waitress delivered our fish burgers and fries, and we ate and drank and swapped war stories like old pals. I noticed Tom only had one beer, then switched to water. Afterward, he drove Goober back to his car and me to my apartment. I lingered in the cab just long enough to give Tom a hug and a nice, but not-too-naughty kiss. I couldn’t. I hadn’t shaved my legs in two days.
“We’re both tired and grimy,” I said. “I just want to jump in the shower and go to bed.”
Tom looked relieved. His reaction caused a tinge of insecurity to shoot through me.
“Yeah. It’s been a long day,” he said.
“Thank you for everything.”
“Sure thing.” Tom touched my face and smiled tenderly. “We’re on our way, Val.”
My heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”
Tom withdrew, embarrassed. “I mean, the case is on its way. We’ve got the evidence at the lab. Just a few more odds and ends to do while we wait for the DNA results.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure! Um, is the can from the RV part of the odds and ends?”
“You never know. It doesn’t hurt to gather ammunition, even if you never need it. As far as I know, breaking and entering is still a crime in Florida.”
Glad One: Starting Over is a %$#@&! (Val & Pals Book 2) Page 20
