“Hi, Val. This is just a wake-up call.”
“I’m awake,” I said more seriously, and wrapped a towel around my torso.
“This is a wake-up call that your chance at a career is going down the crapper, girl! You need to submit that story outline by Monday. And it better be good.”
“Okay, already. I promise.”
“I’m holding you to it,” Jamie barked. Her tone smacked of mistrust. “Call me tonight. Give me a rough outline. Let me sleep tonight without having to take a Xanax.”
Jamie reminded me of my mother. She had a knack for making me feel both loved and guilty at the same time.
“Okay,” I acquiesced.
Today. Tomorrow. What difference does it make? Squat was squat.
“Call me at six. Sharp!”
“Okay, okay! Talk to you then.”
I clicked off the phone and felt a trickle run down my back. Was it shower water or sweat? When the summer heat was on, it was hard to tell. As I hung my towel on the rod, the bathroom mirror reminded me that I was probably better off not being seen in public. My nose was as big as a plum.
A bum with a plum.
“Just call me plum bum,” I said to my reflection. Neither of us looked amused.
I got dressed, plugged in the computer and had a conjugal visit with old reliable, Mr. Coffee. I was steaming the milk when it frothed over and scalded my hand.
“Really? You too?” I hissed at the appliance. But he just sat there like an inanimate object, as if he had nothing to do with my sour mood. “Typical man!”
I spooned the milk foam over the espresso and took a sip. My sour mood sweetened on contact. I logged onto my computer and opened a new file. I named it Double Booty, since I had absolutely, positively no other ideas. I needed five hundred words for the book synopsis. Only four hundred and ninety-eight more to go....
STARING AT A BLANK computer screen always made me itchy. I needed a break. I checked the freezer. The Tanqueray bottle was as empty as I was. But I knew where I could get a pocket flask really cheap.
I climbed aboard Shaggy Maggie. She flew west on First Avenue North, like a homing pigeon, toward Water Loo’s. I didn’t even try to stop her.
Screw it.
I had to admit it. I wanted some company. I missed Glad something awful.
So what if the only people in my life happen to be dumpster divers? What’s the big deal?
I rationalized that I was going there to conduct research. I would turn this coffee break into a working meeting. Yes! I would pump the stooges for theories about Thelma G. Goldrich. Hopefully they could give me some ideas, crazy or otherwise, that I could use in my book outline. God knew, at this point I had nothing to lose.
As I drove into the lot, I could see the gang was all there, safely huddled together in their greasy brown corner of the world. I opened the glass door and stepped inside. The lukewarm air wheezing from the asthmatic wall-unit air conditioner was thick with the aroma of burnt coffee and desperation. But it didn’t seem as overpowering as usual.
Geeze. I hope this place isn’t growing on me....
Winnie the waitress squinted at me through her red, cat-eye glasses as I entered her greasy domain. But when she saw my nose, her face softened into a milder-than-usual look of disgust. I flashed her a red-nosed smile and wondered how it could be that a girl half my age would even think of being jealous of me. Sure, she was a little plump. But she was also cute and stylish in her own funky way.
Then I remembered.
Of course!
The age-old, feminine Achilles’ heel: low self-esteem. Since time immemorial, the insidiously female plague had knocked down women around the globe. Weirdly, most men appeared to have developed an immunity to it, either through mama’s love, work achievement, self-delusion, or sheer stupidity.
Lucky them.
I glanced around the restaurant. Water Loo’s was nearly empty, save one old man at the bar and three lunatics in the corner booth. All three stooges were present and at full attention, waving and smiling at me. I smiled and waved back. As I did, I felt something inside me relax and go slack. I think it was the final shreds of my ambition.
As I picked my way around sticky tables and crusty linoleum stains, I studied Winky, Jorge and Goober. Each looked genuinely...what was the word for it? Content!
Screw me. It never failed to surprise me that a man could be fat, bald, ugly, broke, missing teeth or other body parts, lack personality, charm and erectile function and still think he’s god’s gift to womankind. The male capacity for self-delusion almost made me wish I had a pair.
Almost.
“Do you guys live here?” I teased. My simple joke caused the stooges’ smiles to evaporate into thoughtful, blank stares. Apparently, my lame attempt at humor was taken as a serious inquiry. Heat swarmed across my face like a swarm of killer bees, as I felt the full force of the enormous social gulf between us.
I had an apartment to go home to. Perhaps they were here because they had nowhere else to go.
Red-faced and humbled, I set my jaw to lockdown and slid into the booth next to Winky. He reached over to give me one of his signature armpit headlocks. I blocked his attempt with a defensive, Karate-style chop to his freckled forearm.
“Hey, not cool, Val Pal,” Winky sulked, looking genuinely hurt.
“Gotta protect the old schnoz, Winky,” I said, reminding him of the obvious.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry ’bout that.” His face brightened as he studied mine. “She’s a real beaut!”
“Thanks.”
“To answer your question, Val, no, we don’t live here,” said Goober. He removed his mirrored aviator shades. “But Winky here might if he ever gets the gumption to put the moves on Winnie.”
“Shut your pie hole!” Winky bellowed. His bright mood evaporated. He slumped into the booth and stared at his coffee mug.
“You’re a grumpy one today, bud. Somebody piss down your tent hole again?” Goober punched Winky good-naturedly on the arm. Winky swatted Goober’s hand away.
“Wait. You guys live in tents?” I asked.
“Just me and Winky,” Goober answered. “Jorge over there’s got it good. His mamasita lets him live in the garage at her house.”
“Jus’ until I get back on my feet,” Jorge said defensively. He shot Goober a dirty look, then glanced shyly over at me with his huge, blackish-brown eyes and smiled brightly. “It’s got air condition an’ everything!”
“A regular Taj-a-Maholic,” Winky sneered.
“At least it’s got a roof and walls,” Jorge sneered back.
“So where do you guys camp?” I asked.
Goober nearly choked on the spoon clicking around in his mouth.
“Camp? You make it sound like a vacation, Val. Living in a tent for a week is camping. For a month it’s an adventure, maybe. Any longer than that and you’ve got to admit to yourself that you are just one thin sheet of fabric away from being homeless.”
I swallowed hard. “So you and Winky camp...uh...are neighbors?”
“Yeah. There’s a makeshift camp out in the woods nearby. About half a dozen guys call it home. I’d tell you where it is, but then...”
“You’d have to kill me, right?” I joked.
“No. I wouldn’t want to be woken up with you bothering me every night for a quickie.” Goober grinned luridly at me from under his moustache. His tongue worked the handle of the spoon in his mouth, making it move rapidly up and down. The spoon clinked against his teeth with a tinny, hollow sound as his eyebrows made their own set of obscene movements.
Jorge and Winky snuffed back grins and snorts, as my expression morphed from dumbfounded to disgusted and back again. Goober’s contorted face was both hilarious and horrifying, making me unable to decide whether to laugh or scream. So I did neither. I opted to smile calmly, look away and change the subject.
“So, what do you guys think of Tony’s wife?” I asked Jorge and Winky.
“That bulldog witch can
kiss my behind,” Winky said sullenly.
“What I mean is, do you think she’s really Thelma G. Goldrich?” I asked. “The one in the will? If not, what’s her motivation?”
“What’s her motivation? What are you, some kind of detective?” asked Goober. “With your big, swollen nosy-nose we might start calling you Stephanie Plum.”
“I think that’s been taken,” I said snidely.
“No kidding.”
Goober’s retort bucked me off my high horse.
Val, you’re being a jerk! These guys aren’t dumb. At least Goober isn’t. But why, then, do they live their lives on the edge? Just one short step away from oblivion?
I saved my questions for another time, swallowed my snooty pride, and returned to the topic of discussion.
“So, really, do you think she’s Tony’s wife?” I asked meekly.
“At one time, apparently,” said Jorge. “Tom did said her name was Thelma Goldrich.”
“Speaking of Officer Foreman, how’s it going with Tommy dearest?” Goober interjected. He leaned over the booth until his face was just inches from mine. The close-up view and accompanying aroma made me flinch involuntarily.
“Nothing to report,” I said.
“No man down yet?” Goober asked. He sat back and pretended to write in an imaginary notepad.
“Absolutely not.”
“Won’t be long, now.” Goober’s eyes glanced up from his imaginary notebook just long enough to shoot me a lewd look.
The three men burst into a cacophony of raunchy laughter. Winnie must have felt sorry for me. The waitress walked up and actually handed me a cup of coffee. Her face was almost as red as mine.
“A toast!” I said, raising my mug.
I was on a mission to kill this conversation and get the hell back home.
My words caused the men’s laughter to sputter out like an engine taking on water. Each put a left hand over his heart and raised his cup to meet mine.
“WHAT A TOTAL WASTE of time,” I muttered to myself as I stomped across the Water Loo’s parking lot toward my car.
What did I expect? That these burn-outs would have ideas? I must be getting as demented as they are.
I climbed into Shabby Maggie, cursed the red-hot-lava seats, and twisted the key into the ignition. I was about to shift into reverse when I nearly jumped out of my skin. An old man was standing beside my driver’s-side door. I gasped at the short, wiry man with a full head of straight, steel-grey hair.
“Can I help you?” I asked curtly. The man nodded and took a tentative step toward the car. I slid Maggie into reverse and kept my hand on the shifter.
“I don’t mean you no harm,” he said, and raised his open palms in an effort to demonstrate that he was harmless. Dressed neatly in a clean white t-shirt and white plaid shorts held up with a white leather belt, white socks and white tennis shoes, he looked like he might have just dropped out of heaven.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I heard you talking in there about Glad and Tony Goldrich,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I knew Glad and Tony pretty well.”
My heart skipped a beat. “You did?”
“Yep,” the old man said. He nodded his head slowly, as if stirring up the memory in his brain. “I knew Tony from way back. College days.”
“Who are you?”
“Oh. Excuse me! My name is Jacob. I used to be Tony’s roommate at school.”
Something clicked in my brain. Tony’s letter to Glad from the academy. He wrote that if she received the letter, it was because his roommate Jacob.... Jacob! “You’re the Jacob who smuggled Tony’s letters out?”
“Uh...yes. How did you know that?”
I shifted Maggie back into park. This was just the break I’d been looking for. “Oh my god! Mister, have you got time to talk?”
He glanced at his naked wrist, then back. “Miss, I’ve got nothing but time.”
For a split second, I thought about going back into the Water Loo’s with Jacob. But then I remembered how hopeless it was to try to get serious with the stooges around. I sized up Jacob. He seemed harmless enough. I decided my best chance would be to make a clean getaway with him.
“Great! Why don’t you hop in?”
Chapter Nineteen
“YOU HUNGRY?” I ASKED Jacob.
I studied the immaculately white man as he climbed into the passenger seat. Everything about him seemed neat and orderly, including his movements. He strapped Maggie’s after-market seatbelt across his lap and settled himself in. Only then did he turn to me and speak.
“I could eat.”
“You like beer?”
“I could drink.” He smiled at me wistfully and looked away.
“I know just where to go.”
I shifted gears and pointed Maggie south on Gulf Boulevard in the direction of Bill’s Sand Bar. It was a small, open-air beach bar butted up to the sand behind the nostalgic Bon Aire Motel on St. Pete Beach. By nostalgic, I meant the motel was the kind of place that still advertised rooms with air conditioning and color TVs.
Bill’s Sand Bar wasn’t much to look at, either. But as that old saying went, looks could be deceiving. The scruffy little dive happened to have the coldest beer and the best fish spread in town. The view of the gulf from the barstools wasn’t half bad, either.
“So, what are you doing down here?” I asked as we tooled down the tourist strip. With the top down, we both enjoyed an unbroken view of the summer sky, clear and blue as a sapphire. The purity of the blue made the puffy clouds seem whiter, as if they’d just been laundered.
“Well, I saw Tony’s obituary online,” Jacob explained. He held his hands in front of him in an apologetic, open-handed gesture as he talked. “I know it sounds weird, but it’s kind of a hobby for me. Online obituary surfing. There’s not much else to do when you get to be my age.”
Jacob looked over at me as if seeking forgiveness. I shrugged at him. That must have been enough, as he smiled painfully and continued talking.
“Anyway, I saw Tony’s obituary about a week ago. I came down for the memorial service. Were you there?”
“Briefly. I was the one in the bloody white sundress.”
“What?” Jacob asked, his eyebrows raising an inch. “I must have missed that. What happened?”
“I got punched out by Tony’s ex, Thelma Goldrich. Haven’t you noticed my big schnoz?”
“I have, young lady. But I’ve learned not to comment on such things. I got to say, her taking a swing at you also doesn’t surprise me much. I guess nothing does anymore. I saw her myself, you know. Thelma Goldrich, I mean. At Tony’s memorial. She’s changed on the outside, for sure. Almost unrecognizable except for that string of sausages she calls a ponytail. But from what you say, she’s still as rotten as ever on the inside.”
“Wait a minute! You know her?”
“No, not personally. But I know of her. From Tony.”
I pulled Maggie into the parking lot of the low-slung, 1950s-era Bon Aire Motel. Jacob continued sharing what he knew as we walked along a sidewalk that skirted the motel’s two-story, blue-grey walls. They formed a horseshoe-shaped, open-air courtyard filled with a veritable jungle of palm trees and colorful, tropical foliage.
“Tony and I were pretty good buddies in high school. The best, really. He was kind of shy back then. Always was. No ladies’ man, that’s for sure.” Jacob laughed as if sharing a joke with the ghosts of his past.
“Then he met Gladys – or should I say, Glad? It was spring break. Middle of May, I think, 1962 or three...something like that. Anyway, Tony and me were cruising for girls. That’s what we did back then before this blasted online dating and texting stuff. Anyway, we were feeling hungry and stopped at Duffy’s Burgers. It was a kind of drive-in place you just don’t see nowadays. Except maybe for Sonics.”
The sidewalk led us to a knee-high concrete wall abutting the sugar-white sand of St. Pete Beach. A short row of old-fashioned,
concrete picnic tables embedded with smooth, pastel-colored tiles offered uncomfortable but scenic places to sit and enjoy the stunning views of the gulf from under the cool shade of beach umbrellas sponsored by Corona beer.
“A cold one?” I asked Jacob.
“Just an iced tea will do me.” He forced a smile onto his tired, sad face.
“Okay then.”
Jacob chose a table while I walked over to the half-circle of peeling laminate countertop ringed by barstools that was known as Bill’s Sand Bar. I ordered the smoked fish spread and an iced tea for Jacob. Despite the overt advertising attempt, I chose Fosters over Corona. The day was blistering hot. But a nice breeze off the water and the shade of the umbrella made it pleasant weather for Florida, considering we were nearing mid-July’s triple-digit meltdown temperatures.
I handed Jacob his tea and set the fish spread on the table between us.
“Thank you, Miss...uh, I don’t mean to be impolite, but I don’t know your name.”
“Oh! Sorry. I’m Val Fremden.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Fremden. Are you a relative of Glad’s?”
“No.”
“Oh. I just thought...well...I didn’t see her at Tony’s memorial.”
“You don’t know, then.”
“Know what?”
“Glad is dead.”
“What?” said Jacob, choking on a sip of tea. “I didn’t see her obituary. I thought she was still.... What happened?”
I thought about explaining that the reason there was no obit was because Glad died with no ID, and how I’d falsified her name to claim her from the morgue, but then I remembered what I’d done was probably a crime. I wasn’t sure I could trust Jacob. Besides, I just wasn’t in the mood to think about Glad being dead.
“It’s a long story. But she’s at peace now. Ashes sprinkled in the Gulf of Mexico. Same place as Tony’s.”
Jacob shook his head. “That’s unbelievable. When did she die?”
“The last day of June.”
I felt a familiar tightening in my throat. I needed a change of topic. “How about a toast?” I held up my beer.
Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 1 Page 12
