Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 1

by Margaret Lashley

  “Aw, come on. You don’t look that bad.”

  I shot Milly a sideways glance, my eyelids heavy with mascara and iridescent purple eyeshadow. Laverne had really done a number on me this time. The old woman had explained her strategy as she’d applied false eyelashes to my upper lids. It was simple, actually. The plan was to offer two kinds of bait. One of us was to be a lady and the other a tramp. Well, Daisy Duck was no tramp.

  I tugged on the inseam of my red hot-pants in a futile attempt to release their camel toe grip. As I did, my right boob nearly fell out of my black tube top. Classy.

  “Oops a daisy!” Milly remarked at my close call, then laughed at her unintentional joke.

  “Ha ha.” I said sarcastically, then looked at my ridiculous face in the rearview mirror. “I think KISS wore less makeup than this.”

  “Which one?”

  “The whole band. Combined.”

  Milly studied me for a moment. “You know. You may be right.”

  Milly glanced down at my silver knee boots. They delivered the finishing touch for my call-girl cabaret outfit Laverne had fished from her own private stash.

  “I think their boot heels were lower, too,” Milly remarked. “How can you drive in those? They look like you took them off a disco tranny.”

  I shot her some side eye. “Well, while we’re hurling insults, if your pumps were white, you could get into Disneyworld for free. Quack quack.”

  Milly punched me on my arm. “Oh yeah? Well, there ought to be a law against pants that tight. I can see your religion!’

  I snarled and yanked at the inseam again. “At least we’ve got one thing going for us. In these getups, no one will ever recognize us.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” Milly agreed. “What about the guys? What are they wearing?”

  “I dunno. Goober promised not to wear overalls with no shirt again. Jorge’s usually dressed within normal human parameters.”

  We pulled into the lot at Garvey’s and waited for the guys to show. I blew out a breath and made a wish. “Here’s hoping the third time’s the charm.”

  Milly glanced over at me and shook her head. “Val, charming’s not your style.”

  MY MASCARA WAS ABOUT to drip when the grey-blue Dodge finally rambled into the parking lot fifteen minutes late. Winky waved through the open passenger window and yanked open the door from the outside.

  “Ain’t y’all a sight for sore eyes,” he laughed. “Where’s my salve?”

  Winnie stared at us, wide eyed. Her mouth slacked opened and formed a tiny “O” but she didn’t say a word.

  The side door slid open and Goober ambled out like a brown wolf spider. He was clad in a dark-tan tweed suit that would have looked quite presentable if the pant legs weren’t six inches too short. The floodwater hem left exposed a pair of dull, black-and-white spats – and orange ankle socks that perfectly matched the t-shirt under his jacket. A sickly-sweet, burning odor filled the air. I punched Milly on the arm.

  “You take Goober. Please!”

  Milly shot me a suspicious pout. “Why?”

  “His aftershave is already damaging my olfactory receptors.”

  Milly sighed. “Okay.”

  Jorge was the last to emerge from the van. Dressed completely in black, he nearly disappeared under the shadow cast by the oak tree above. Whether he looked fashionably cool or like a mafia drug dealer, I couldn’t decide.

  “Hola, amigas,” he said, and tipped his black fedora.

  Jorge’s dark eyes shone brightly, even in the shade. For some reason, they unsettled me. I was used to them being dull and glassy. Then a realization shook me. Jorge just might be...sober.

  I wobbled hastily in my space boots over to Jorge and grabbed him by the arm before Milly could change her mind about Goober. “You’re with me, Jorge.”

  Winky wolf-whistled in my direction. “Hoochie coochie mama!”

  His remark broke Winnie’s silence. She hollered out the van window.

  “Get back in here, Winky!” He flinched and ducked his head as if Winnie’s words were flying objects, then obeyed like a scolded pup.

  Goober watched Winky cower into the van. He sniffed and stuck his chin out. “And that, my dear ladies, is why I prefer bachelorhood.” He took Milly’s arm. “Shall we?”

  Milly shot me a look that said I owed her big time. She smiled up at Goober. “Yes, lets.” She daintily took his arm.

  “Okay, here we go,” I said. “And remember, we don’t know each other.”

  Behind me I heard Daisy quack, “I wish.”

  WHEN WE STEPPED INSIDE Garvey’s, I was surprised. The old lady with the orange-whip hairdo wasn’t around. Instead, a relatively normal-looking, red-haired girl stared at us blankly.

  “How many?”

  Jorge looked at me uncertainly. “Uh...two,” I answered.

  The girl led us to a booth and carelessly flung two menus on the table. She returned a moment later and seated Goober and Milly at a table for two just a few feet away from me and Jorge. Unfortunately, that put me back in range of Peanut Head’s noxious cloud of cologne. My eyes began to water.

  Jorge reached across the table and patted my hand. “Don’t cry, Val. We’ll find her.”

  I was going to say something snarky, but Jorge wasn’t joking. His dark, serious eyes burned with compassion, not comedy. I settled for a simple, “Thanks.”

  A few seconds later, the waitress reappeared with glasses of Garvey’s signature tainted water. Even though I hadn’t seen the girl in Garvey’s before, she had to have been a regular employee. She hadn’t so much as batted an eye at the four of us. I glanced around at the other clientele and suddenly didn’t feel so conspicuous anymore.

  “Where’s the regular lady?” I asked.

  The girl’s left eyebrow ticked up a notch. “At Garvey’s, we don’t ask questions, and customers don’t either.”

  Given her red hair and bad attitude, she and the old lady had to have been related. Or maybe it was something in the water....

  “So? What’ll it be?” The girl tapped a pencil impatiently on a pad.

  Before I could answer, Jorge piped up. “We’ll have the cheese fondue.”

  Great. I may never poop again. “I’ll have the biggest glass of chardonnay you’ve got.”

  The waitress scribbled on her pad and looked over at Jorge.

  “Just water for me,” he said softly. He started to pick up his glass. I grabbed his hand.

  “Do you have Coco Rico?” I asked the girl. “It’s a coconut soft drink. It’s Jorge’s favorite.”

  “I don’t think so. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  She left. I let go of Jorge’s hand like it was a rattlesnake. “Don’t drink that water,” I whispered.

  “Why not?”

  “I dunno. Just don’t.”

  The waitress returned with a wineglass the size of a grapefruit. It was filled to the brim with urine-colored liquid. For some reason, just the sight of it made me need to pee. I smiled tentatively at the waitress. Her expression dared me to take a sip. When I didn’t, she shrugged and turned to Jorge.

  “And for the gentleman.” She sat a glass of clear, bubbly liquid on the table with a proud flourish. “Sprite and coconut syrup. Give it a go.”

  Jorge took a sip. His eyes lit up. He nodded to the waitress, then me. “Gracias. It’s good.”

  I looked over at Milly. She was sniffing at a glass of red wine as big as my dodgy chardonnay. Goober was sucking down a beer like a baby goat with a milk bottle. What have I done?

  THE CHEESE FONDUE TURNED out to be a bad choice, but not just because of its potential to permanently clog my colon. Jorge’s hands shook so badly during dinner that he got more cheese on the tablecloth than in his mouth. By the time he’d finished, the trail of cheese from the pot to his plate made it appear as if the entire cauldron of greasy, yellowish goo had been dumped in his lap.

  Even worse, Cold Cuts hadn’t shown.

  I looked over at Milly
and shrugged. The evening was a bust. I flagged down the waitress.

  “Could we get our check, please?”

  “Separate or together?”

  “Oh. Together. And I’ll get their check, too.”

  I pointed over at Milly and Goober. The girl didn’t bat an eyelash.

  “A foursome. Huh. Never saw that one coming.”

  The waitress scooted off before I could defend myself. I waved over at Milly and Goober. “You guys ready to go?”

  “Absolutely,” Goober said, and yanked the paper napkin from his t-shirt collar.

  “Did you enjoy your meal?” I asked Goober. Milly had stuck to wine. Smart girl.

  “Negatory,” Goober replied. He nodded at a plate empty except for a few crusts of bread. “They call this a tuna-fish sandwich? I’ve had better tasting cat food.”

  I didn’t doubt it. I started to say so, but one of my fake eyelashes fell off and landed in the fondue pot. My nose was stuffy from inhaling Goober’s radioactive aftershave, and my stomach was starting to boil. I felt like Cinderella after midnight. I was falling apart at the seams.

  “I’m going to the toilet,” I said, and yanked on the hem of my cherry-red hot pants.

  As I hobbled along Garvey’s human gauntlet of shame back toward the restroom, I held my head high. My mind focused on one thought; No one here knows who I am. I shoved open the bathroom door and got a gander at myself in the mirror straight ahead. I was so mortified I barely noticed the waitress standing beside me, applying mascara.

  “You know, Val, you could do better.”

  The hair on the back of my neck curled in horror. “What?”

  “The guy’s obviously a drunk. He’s got the DTs. Still, not the worst I’ve seen in here. Great costume, by the way”

  I stared at the red-haired hash slinger. “Excuse me, but who are you?”

  She stopped applying mascara and grinned at me. “All right! You didn’t recognize me! Yes!”

  Then I did.

  “Oh my word! Cold Cuts?”

  Cold Cuts’ victory face disappeared. “Yeah.”

  “I.... Look. It’s a long story. I’ve been trying to find you. I need to ask you something.”

  “What?”

  “Did you buy an RV from Lefty’s scrapyard last Saturday?”

  Cold Cuts frowned. “Well, yeah. Maybe.”

  “Cold Cuts, that was my RV! I need to get it back.”

  The girl crinkled her nose defensively. “Why?”

  “That’s another long story. It belonged to my mother.”

  “So she wants it back?”

  “Well, no. She’s...dead.”

  “Look, Val. I like the old RV. And I’ve already got her all fixed up.”

  “But my mother loved it.”

  “Even so, she’s gone, Val. She can’t use it.”

  “I know. But I want to keep it...for the memories.”

  “Memories don’t exist in things. They exist in your heart.”

  “But....” I didn’t know what to say. Why was she being so...rational? “I don’t want to argue with you, but this is personal.”

  “I get it. But the RV was a mess. You weren’t actually using it. Or taking care of it.”

  “I was going to. Then my boyfriend sold it without asking me.”

  “Looks to me like he did you a favor, Val. It was time to let it go.”

  I slumped my butt onto the bathroom counter. Maybe she had a point. “Did you happen to find a Mr. Peanut piggybank in the RV?”

  “What? No. But you’re missing the point, Val. Memories don’t exist in –”

  “My mother’s ashes were inside that bank.”

  Cold Cuts’ face softened, along with her tone. “Oh. I see. There wasn’t any piggybank.”

  My heart sank. “Are you sure?”

  Cold Cuts dropped the rest of her tough-waitress persona. “Look Val, my cousin scoured that thing from top to bottom. Like I said, it was a mess, you know.”

  “I’m sure it was. But...do you think your cousin might have –”

  “Huh. There’s an idea. He is a bit of a black sheep. Always looking for easy cash, you know? I made him work for it with that job. Probably the only honest, hard work he’s done in a decade. He could have found the bank and not told me. I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s a scrounger. Digs through dumpsters and stuff. Anything good he finds he sells on eBay. I could see if he has it.”

  My body involuntarily straightened with hope. “Cold Cuts, that would be...wonderful. Could you call him right now? It’s really important.”

  “Look, I would, but he doesn’t have a phone. And I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll try and reach him and get back to you.”

  I told Cold Cuts my number. She punched it into her cellphone.

  “Please. Call me as soon as you find out anything.”

  “Okay. But it could take a while. Capone isn’t the easiest person to get a hold of.”

  A huge crashing sound interrupted my next thought. Cold Cuts and I dashed out into the dining room. My mouth dropped open like my jaw was made of lead. As Jorge and Milly looked on in horror, the clown-haired old lady was straddling Goober in his chair, throttling the life out of him. His brown-tweed monkey arms and legs flailed as his face turned from pink to red. Glass from broken wine glasses and beer bottles littered the floor.

  My eyes scanned the room. The regular patrons watched in glee, apparently delighted with the free, after-dinner show. I blinked and focused on Milly. She stood rigid, her back to a booth, frozen in dread. Jorge’s eyes met mine for a second, then he sprang into action and tried to pry the old lady’s fingers from around Goober’s throat. Dressed all in black, he was a poor-man’s imitation of Zorro. Zerro, perhaps?

  I started to scream, but Cold Cuts beat me to it. “Selma! Grandma! Quit!”

  The geriatric strangler looked up, spied her granddaughter and loosened her grip. Goober hacked and sucked a giant breath into his beet-red face. Jorge pulled the old woman off Goober and helped her to stand. She smoothed her orange hair, brushed off her rumpled brown dress and pulled up her knee-high stockings. The room had gone church-mouse quiet. The old woman cleared her throat and raised her nose two inches.

  “I’ll have you know Garvey’s used to be the height of cuisine,” she announced to the captive crowd.

  Goober stood up, cleared his throat and rasped. “Yeah. And my granny used to look good naked.”

  The crowd burst out laughing. The old woman lost her temper and dignity and lunged at Goober again. He bolted for the door, Jorge hot on his heels. I slapped a hundred dollar bill in Cold Cuts’ hand and grabbed Milly by the arm. Cold Cuts held her grandmother at bay while I led poor, stunned Milly out the door of Garvey’s fine dining establishment as fast as my camel toe permitted.

  A quiet, dignified getaway wasn’t in the cards. But at least I’d found Cold Cuts. Good thing, too. Returning to Garvey’s was now out of the question.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ON THE DRIVE HOME FROM Garvey’s, my remaining false eyelash gave up the ghost and flew away in the damp night air. When we reached Central Avenue, Winnie’s Dodge honked behind me and turned the opposite way. I looked over at Milly in the passenger seat. She hadn’t said a word since she’d witnessed Goober’s near strangulation.

  “I wonder if they called the cops,” Milly muttered.

  I tried to make light of the situation. “I hope not. They’d never believe I wasn’t a prostitute.”

  Milly shook her head in disbelief. “You know, sometimes I feel like you couldn’t make this crap up. Our lives, I mean.”

  I tried to unzip my silver platform boots. “Yeah. The thrill of victory. The agony of the feet.”

  “So, how’d you leave it with Cold Cuts?”

  “Besides quickly, you mean?”

  “Ha ha. Are you two getting together? Is she supposed to call you or what?”

  “I gave her my number. But I don’t think I’ll be getting the RV back. She wants to k
eep it.”

  “That’s not very nice.”

  I sighed. “Yeah. According to Cold Cuts, memories don’t live in objects. They live in our hearts.”

  “Huh. And in our thighs,” Milly said dryly. “Mine remember every ice cream sandwich I ever ate.”

  I smiled over at my best friend. She’d rallied back quickly from the shock. “Don’t get me started.”

  Milly smirked, then her face went serious again. “What about the piggybank, Val? Does she have it?”

  My gut slumped. “No. She said she never saw it. Her cousin cleaned out the RV. She’s going to check with him.”

  “Well, at least there’s still a chance then. Right?”

  I shrugged. “I sure hope so.”

  “Speaking of hope, any word from Tom?”

  “No. And I haven’t had time to call him, either. It was such a stupid misunderstanding.”

  “That seems to happen a lot between men and women.”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t usually involve seeing another man’s junk.”

  “What?”

  I WOKE WITH A VAGUE memory niggling at my brain like a tiny, parasitic worm. I couldn’t decide if it was part of a dream or one of those words that won’t come to you no matter how hard you try, but then pop up randomly out of nowhere when you least expect them.

  Capone.

  I shot up in bed. Capone! Cold Cuts’ cousin. No. It couldn’t be.

  I’d met Capone not long after my birthday last month, when I’d been searching for the owner of a finger that had mysteriously ended up in my couch. Capone had tried to swindle me out of five dollars by introducing me to an imposter – a guy with a rag over his hand and all ten fingers. But in the end, Capone had come through with the real guy. And he’d done it all for fifty bucks and a slice of pepperoni pizza.

  What were the odds that the Capone I knew was Cold Cuts’ cousin? But, on the other hand, it had to be him. I mean, how many dumpster-diving, scar-faced Capones were running around St. Pete? What’s more, I knew the general area where he typically hung out.

  I climbed out of bed, brewed a cappuccino and checked my phone. No word from Cold Cuts. I slipped into a pair of shorts and a tank top. I was about to jump in Maggie and head in the vicinity of Old Northeast Pizza when I realized it was Friday.