Mixed Nuts

by Venita Louise

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  Vintage Romance Publishing

  www.vrpublishing.com

  Copyright ©2005 by Venita Louise

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Praise for Initials for Murder

  A delightful romp into the past, Initials for Murder immerses the reader in another time and place—1946 in Southern California. We learn the slang, the music and the customs as we live the tension with Tom and Olivia. A pepper of humor, the sweetness of an old-fashioned love story and tense moments as detective and criminals bump heads make this an entertaining and memorable book.

  Coffeetime Romances

  Initials for Murder is a picture perfect snapshot of a “Dick Tracy” kind of story, complete with glamour, a puzzling mystery and a pretty lady who’s stumbled onto something dangerous. It is a tried and true formula for a great story. Venita Louise is dead on the money with her descriptive scenes, mannerisms, and even her fashion sense, giving readers a peek in to the past. Initials for Murder is a well-crafted story with a twist on the ending.

  Fallen Angels Review

  Mixed Nuts

  Venita Louise

  Vintage Romance Publishing

  Goose Creek, South Carolina

  www.vrpublishing.com

  Mixed Nuts

  Copyright ©2005 Venita Bart

  Cover illustration copyright © 2005 by Patricia Foltz

  Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web-without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, please contact Vintage Romance Publishing, LLC, 107 Clearview Circle, Goose Creek, SC 29445.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names save actual historical individuals. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  ISBN: 0-9770107-6-7

  PUBLISHED BY VINTAGE ROMANCE PUBLISHING, LLC

  www.vrpublishing.com

  For my son, Joel.

  My inspiration. My teacher. My light.

  Chapter One

  A slender ray of morning sunlight fell across the polished top of Frank Beal’s Sherman Clay upright piano. He lightly tapped the keys with the tips of his fingers patiently waiting for inspiration to ignite.

  “Good morning dad,” greeted Matt, still nibbling on a wedge of toast.

  Frank turned on the piano stool. “Morning, Matt. Ready for school?”

  Matt bounced in, his eight-year-old freckled face sparkling with a soap clean smile.

  “Knock, knock,” he said fairly squirming with anticipation.

  Frank looked at his son. “What?”

  “Knock, knock,” Matt repeated.

  Frank sighed and took his fingers off the keyboard. “All right,” he said. “Who’s there?”

  Matt covered his mouth to muffle a giggle. “Little ole lady.”

  “Little ole lady who?” Frank asked trying to guess the puzzle.

  “I didn’t know you could yodel,” Matt said throwing his head back to howl with laughter.

  “Matt!” Joan called. “We have to go.”

  “Okay, Mom,” he said as he rolled his big blue-green eyes.

  Frank reached out to ruffle his son’s hair.

  Joan entered the room with her keys in hand. “The Roberts are getting a new Ford Fairlane station wagon this weekend.” She placed a brochure on the piano in front of Frank. “What do you say we go to the Ford dealer tonight and have a look at them?”

  Frank frowned. “What’s wrong with our Caballero? Wouldn’t you really rather have a Buick?”

  “What?” She pulled her fox jacket on. “You want me to drive around in a seven year old car?” She shook her head. “I couldn’t live with myself if I had to drive past their new car everyday.”

  “But I’m living with you,” Frank replied.

  “Exactly,” Joan said as she turned toward the bottom of the stairs. “Melinda!” she called.

  Objection marked Frank’s face. “Honey, it’s been a tough year. I’m really struggling with this new ad campaign and ideas aren’t exactly flowing out of me.” He stood up to walk toward her. “I think we should keep the spending down for awhile.”

  Joan smiled at him sweetly and tilted her head. “You’ve never let us down before.” She stepped in front of him and wrapped her arms around his neck. She rose on tiptoe and planted a long wet one on him.

  “Groady!” Matt grimaced.

  Frank laughed and stepped over to playfully lift Matt up off his feet.

  Clomping equal to the sound of horse hooves descended the stairs. “I’m ready,” Melinda announced.

  “You’ve something under your eyes,” Joan said wetting her thumb and leaning toward her.

  “Don’t you dare wipe off my tweaks, Mother!” Melinda shrieked.

  Joan’s face pinched up. “Why do you need to wear tweaks?”

  “Twiggy wears them; they make your eyes look bigger.” Melinda widened her eyes then batted her false eyelashes and ran her fingers through her long blond hair.

  “They look more like dangling caterpillars, and Twiggy gets paid to wear them,” Joan snapped.

  Melinda flicked her hair back and with half lidded eyes said, “I’ve decided to become a model, Mother.”

  “Where’s your sister?” Joan asked as she adjusted her jacket.

  Melinda shrugged and clomped to the front door. “I’m riding to school with Bobby today.”

  Joan turned toward her. “You’ve been seeing an awful lot of him lately.”

  Melinda grinned from ear to ear. “I know.” She opened the door and stepped out.

  “Wait! You’re not going to wear those raggedy bell bottoms to school are you?”

  The door closed.

  “Frank, you need to talk to her,” Joan said as she stepped up on the bottom stair. “Susan!” she called up.

  Frank gave her a confused look. “Me?”

  “You’re her father aren’t you? She’s nearly sixteen.”

  “I always thought you would talk to the girls, and I would talk to Matt.” He slinked an arm around Matt’s shoulders. Matt beamed up at him.

  Joan stepped down from the stair walking toward him. Frank returned to the piano and plopped back down on the stool.

  “Since we have two girls and one boy, I guess that means I’m doing double duty. Do you think that’s fair?” Joan asked.

  Just then Susan bounced down the stairs. Frank released a breath.

  “Good morning.” She carried a clipboard and wore safety yellow hardhat. “I have made a thorough inspection of the house,” she said solemnly, “and have found several safety violations.” She tore a sheet from her clipboard and handed it to Frank. “You’ll have to make these repairs before the end of the month, Daddy, or I will be forced to report you.”

  “You wouldn’t,” he said half smiling at her.

  “Daddy,” she said authoritatively. “You are in violation of official fire codes, and if you don’t get them fixed I’ll have to report you to the fire department.”

&nbs
p; He gazed absently at the paper.

  “It’s my civic duty, Daddy. Besides, you don’t want your family and home to be at risk of death and destruction do you?”

  “Noooo,” Frank said slowly and shook his head.

  “Have you ever seen a dead body, Daddy?” She continued brightly. “We saw pictures in biology class. Did you know there is a substance called adipocere that forms over the fatty tissue after death?”

  “Yuck!” Matt said and scrunched up his face.

  “Commonly known as grave wax,” Frank lisped and turning his hands into claws, got off the bench and moved toward them dragging a leg behind him as he growled. Susan and Matt screamed and ran for the door.

  “See you tonight,” Joan said and kissed his cheek. “Don’t forget we’re going to the Ford dealer.”

  “You know, Honey, our Buick is just fine with me. It’s roomy, dependable and still in style,” he argued.

  Joan bit back a grin then brushed her lips to his ear. “True but I can’t help but think that a Ford is a better idea.”

  Frank watched silently as they crowded out the front door. He plopped down on the piano bench and studied his reflection in the glossy wood finish. A new piano would be nice, he thought. It could be just the thing to break this creative block. How about a baby grand? Or maybe just a padded bench? That would be nice, too. He wouldn’t be able to afford that and a new Ford Fairlane. He began to play a lilting version of ‘Moonlight Becomes You’.

  He rolled his hazel eyes to the ceiling. “Grave wax becomes you,” he began to sing. “It flows from your eyes. It certainly draws a mixture of flies.”

  The doorbell rang. “Now what?” he said to himself. He stood. “I’m never going to get this ad finished with all these interruptions.”

  He walked over and opened the door and found himself staring at a hand holding up a rather large snail.

  “Meester Beal, is thees jore snail?” It was the Robert’s gardener, Tito Tortuga.

  “I’ve never seen it before,” Frank replied.

  “It is eating Meester Robers plants,” Tito said as his black eyes squinted accusingly. “I believe it ees from jore yard.”

  Frank looked toward the bay window facing the back yard. “Why? Is he carrying some sort of identification with this address on it?” Frank smiled. “There are ways of dealing with snails you know. You can sprinkle salt on them or set up beer traps…”

  “Meester Beal!” Tito glared at him. “Please, stop sending jore snails to Meester Robers yard or else … things … may … happen.”

  Frank rose to his full height, and he puffed out his chest. “Yeah? What things?”

  Tito dropped the snail at Frank’s feet and turned on his heel. “If jew keep sending snails, jew weel find out, but jew don want to know,” he warned over his shoulder.

  Frank watched him get into his pick up truck and ease away from the curb. He watched until he was down the street and out of sight.

  First Robert’s new car and now his gardener. At the last neighborhood social, Robert’s bragged that he had hired Brazilian gardener, or as he called him a seedsman. One who could grow a virtual Shangri-La. And except for the substantial destruction caused by a nasty infestation of lawn snails he seemed to be doing a pretty good job.

  Frank strolled back to his piano and sat down, closed his eyes and took some deep breaths. What would make someone knock ten people down to get to get to a tin of shoe polish? He thought of the basic elements that make people buy products. Saving time, saving money, health, protection or keeping up with the Jones’s. He chuckled. In his case, it was keeping up with the Joans’s. Between his wife, Joan, and Robert’s wife, Joan, maintaining one-upmanship was a full time job.

  He tinkled the keys and sighed. Nothing. It wasn’t easy to paint a picture with a tune. A tune with meaningful words no less. Be funny, but not too funny, be clever but not for the sake of being clever, and never be a clown. People don’t buy things from clowns. He massaged his fingers into his forehead. No Use.

  Frank stood and walked to the closet. He opened the door and picked up his tennis racquet from the floor. Time to relax, he thought. This would get his juices flowing. He walked to the sliding glass door and stepped into the backyard. The grass was in need of a mow, and the flowerbeds had lost some of their definition but it was still the biggest yard on the block. He took a couple of practice swings and walked across the flagstone patio to stand next to the barbeque grill. He pulled the cool morning air into his lungs and watched a couple of sparrows quarreling over a slimy bug.

  Frank stepped over to a large aquarium and tapped on the side of the glass. “Hello, my voracious herbivores.” He sprinkled in some fish pellets and watched his belly-footed pets sluggishly feeling their way around. The sides of the aquarium fogged as the morning sun warmed their mossy bed.

  He slid a large Ramshorn snail from the side of the glass and held it up. “You are ripe for duty.” He raised his tennis racket and held up the snail. “Now go get the breakfast of champions,” he said as his racquet met the shell with a pong sound. The snail sailed neatly over the cinder block fence into Roberts’ back yard. He removed several more snails from the aquarium and served them over the fence as well.

  Chapter Two

  “It has a 289 V8 engine, more than enough power to take you and that beautiful family of yours anywhere you want to go,” the car salesman beamed.

  “We’ll take it,” Joan said as she inspected the wood veneer along the side of the station wagon.

  “Honey,” Frank laughed uncomfortably. “We need some time to talk about this, it’s a major purchase,” he said to the salesman.

  The salesman gave him an acquiescent nod.

  Matt bounced enthusiastically behind the steering wheel making engine noises with his mouth. Frank took Joan by the elbow and guided her to the other side of the car. “Let’s discuss this.”

  Joan frowned. “What’s to discuss? It’s a Ranch Custom wagon.”

  “So?” Frank frowned.

  She smiled deliciously and squeezed her arms around his middle and pressed up against him. Emerald eyes met his hazel. “So,” she said as she kissed underneath his jaw. “Joan and Rex Roberts will be green with envy.”

  Frank frowned. He was beginning to wonder if it wouldn’t be easier to murder the Roberts instead of spending money they didn’t have to make them jealous.

  “That’s a lot of green to slap down to create more of the color green,” he replied.

  “Don’t you just love the smell of a new car, though?” Joan asked with a hopeful expression.

  “Within two weeks it’s going to smell like the old one, an odorous combination of French fries, pizza, and Matt’s science projects,” Frank argued.

  Joan sighed. “You only go around once in life, you’ve got to grab all the gusto you can.”

  Frank scratched his head. “But why does gusto have to be so expensive?”

  Joan looked at the salesman. “We’ll take it,” she said again.

  “Great!” The salesman clapped his hands together. “Let’s get the paperwork started.” He motioned for them to follow him to the sales office.

  “Where’s Susan?” Joan’s eyes scanned the showroom.

  Frank ran tired fingers over his dark short-cropped hair. “My guess is she’s underneath the car checking the brakes.”

  “Folks!” The salesman raised an arm and called from the sales office.

  Frank pulled Matt from behind the steering wheel before they marched into the sales office.

  “Have you seen our daughter?” Joan asked as she stepped into the office and sat down.

  “I’m here, Mother,” Susan said from behind. She walked up to the salesman and coolly tore the top sheet from her clipboard. “I’ve found a fire hazard in your coffee room.” Her yellow hard hat seemed to take on an even more official gleam.

  He hesitatingly took the paper and looked at her with surprise.

  “Do you know it isn’t safe to repair a fray
ed cord with black sticky tape?” She shook her head. “Either replace the cord, or buy a new percolator within two weeks, or I will have to report you to the fire department.”

  The salesman looked at Frank and Joan. They smiled and shrugged in unison.

  “We’ll have to bring Susan every time we buy a new car,” Joan said as she ran her hand over the smooth vinyl seats.

  Frank nodded. “I have to admit he came down quite a bit on the price.”

  “I’m hungry,” Matt whined from the back.

  Joan looked over at Frank. “I didn’t plan dinner.”

  Frank turned his head to look at Matt. “What do you feel like eating?”

  “Hamburgers!”

  Susan groaned. “How can you eat something that you can’t watch them make? I mean, how do you know the people who work in those hamburger joints don’t put something disgusting in it?”

  “Susan, please,” Joan said with a wince. “Fine, we’ll go to a restaurant. We’ll go to the Red Barn.”

  “How do you know what they put in their hamburgers?”

  “Susan, it’s a nice steak house, they aren’t going to put disgusting things in your food.”

  “But how do you know?”

  “I know,” Frank lied. “I asked them once and it seems it’s an all beef patty, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles and onions on a sesame seed bun.”

  Susan was quiet for a moment. “What’s in the special sauce?”

  “What do you think is in it?” Joan turned to glare at Susan in the back seat.

  Susan shrugged. “That’s the point. I don’t know what’s inside the bun.”

  “Maybe you should learn to think outside the bun,” Joan suggested.

  “Man, this power steering is great,” Frank said as he turned into the parking lot of the Red Barn.

  “I want to drive home,” Joan said. “After all, buying a new car was my idea.”

  Frank eased into a parking space. “Have it your way.”

  They walked backwards toward the door to admire their shiny new car. The light was dim inside the restaurant compared to the bright lights of the parking lot. Frank nodded to the piano player out of professional courtesy as they walked to their booth. The sawdust on the floor instantly reminded him of the places he and his brother used to frequent as teenagers back in Indiana.