Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 1

by Margaret Lashley

I wrapped Goober’s arm around my shoulder and started leading him to the car.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “To take you home.”

  “Not without my pizza first. I earned it.”

  I smiled at Goober. “Yes, my friend, you certainly did.”

  Goober straightened his back. “Thanks.”

  I helped him hobble into the pizza shop and settled him on a stool. “What would you like? Anything. My treat.”

  “I’ve been wanting to try the sausage and pepper,” Goober said. “Extra cheese?”

  “Coming right up.”

  “And a beer?”

  “Sorry, we don’t serve beer,” said the pizza guy.

  “Then you still owe me one,” Goober said to me.

  “Okay.” I placed the order with the tattooed pizza baker, then fished a couple of sodas out of the side fridge and sat next to Goober.

  “What are you going to do now, Val? Any more ideas where the piggybank could be?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Too bad. I miss Glad, too, you know.”

  I looked over at Goober. “Yeah. Thanks. But you know, Goober, I don’t feel that bad about it anymore. Someone told me recently that memories don’t reside in objects, but in our hearts.”

  “I totally concur.” Goober slugged down half a Sprite. “I prefer to collect experiences, not things.”

  “How’s it going with you guys? At Jorge’s place?”

  “Well, I’ve been a solo act for a long time, Val. Cohabitation requires adjustments in one’s habitual routine.”

  “Geeze, Goober, sometimes I think you were an English professor in a past life.”

  “Close. Sociology.”

  “Get out of here!”

  “Yeah. Human behavior fascinates me.”

  “Well, I suspect you stay pretty fascinated at Jorge’s.”

  Goober smiled and sucked down the rest of his soda. “You have no idea.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I WOKE UP THIRSTY AND fumbled into the kitchen. The clock on the microwave read 1:34. Crap! I poured a glass of water from the kitchen tap and drank it down, then padded back to bed. After tossing and turning in the tangled sheets, I finally gave up on trying to go back to sleep. I reached for my cellphone to check for messages. The display read 6:49 a.m. I got up to make coffee and noticed the microwave clock still read 1:34. What a dumb jerk I am. That wasn’t the time. It was the leftover minutes from reheating last night’s dinner.

  I did the math. Suddenly I didn’t feel so tired anymore. I’d gotten a good night’s sleep, considering I’d passed out around 9:30 last night. I smiled. Not just because of that. I’d also just remembered it was Taco Tuesday. Then I remembered I didn’t have to go to work. Sweeet!

  Yes, the day was shaping up to be a good one, indeed. I finished brewing my cappuccino and went back to bed to enjoy it at my leisure. I didn’t have to be dressed until 10 a.m. That’s when Milly and Cold Cuts were coming over to discuss our new business plan.

  COLD CUTS ARRIVED AS her natural, red-haired self. She carried a laptop in one hand, a folder in the other. She looked eager and determined – definitely her scariest outfit yet. She set the laptop up on my kitchen counter and showed us her handy work. She’d already designed a fabulous website and a couple of pretty cool logo ideas for Date Busters. In less than an hour, all three of us had agreed on everything and ordered business cards for express delivery. Milly was to hand them out at the next Leadership Ladies meetup on Thursday. Geeze. Maybe this was going to be a lot easier than I thought.

  “Hey Cold Cuts,” Milly said. “We’re busting bad dates. But how do you define a date as bad?”

  “When it’s not good, you just know,” she answered. “But remember, we don’t have to decide. If a woman buzzes us, she’s already made that call.”

  “Oh. Yeah,” Milly said. “So what’s a good date? To you, Cold Cuts?”

  “I dunno. Someone who doesn’t make me want to castrate them.”

  Milly chuckled. “And you, Val?”

  “Someone who’s company is even better than being alone.”

  That’s a good one,” Milly said. “Me? I want a date that feels as good as being with you, Val. I want to marry my best friend.”

  I blew Milly a kiss. “Is that a proposal, Milly?”

  “No!” she laughed. “A man who’s my best friend.”

  “Ah, the elusive man’s best friend,” Cold Cuts said. “My suggestion? Come back reincarnated as a golden retriever.”

  “IT SOUNDS LIKE LUNCH Meat has her act together,” Tom said absently. He smiled at me from the doorframe, but his eyes seemed distant. Taco Tuesday wasn’t living up to its usual spiciness.

  “It’s Cold Cuts. And yeah, she may be a lot more organized than I thought. She’s been running her other business out of the RV. I guess she has some cross-over skills.”

  “You ready to roll?” Tom asked.

  “Sure. But what about my hello kiss?”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Tom obliged me.

  Huh. Still no habaneros.

  I shook it off and smiled. “Okay, I’m ready now. Look out, Taco Tuesday! Here we come!”

  But things never heated up. The entire drive downtown, Tom was silent. He was focused on something other than me, and I didn’t care for it. When we walked along the waterfront and he stared at the boats without even mentioning my new pink blouse, I started to worry. Had he given up on the idea of “us” as a couple?

  “Is everything okay between us?” I asked.

  Tom flinched, as if coming out of a stupor. “What?”

  “You seem...distant. Did I do something to tick you off?”

  “Oh. No. Your fine. This has nothing to do with you.”

  “Then what is it, Tom?”

  He sighed and hung his head slightly. “Work. Jergen threatened me with an internal investigation today.”

  I jerked Tom’s hand to stop him walking. “What for?”

  He gave me a smile designed to hide his worry. It didn’t work. “Some expensive items are missing from the evidence room.”

  “Okay. But why in the world does he suspect you?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “He’s still holding a grudge about you and his sister? Tom, you didn’t even do anything! You were protecting your best friend John. The baby Jergen thought was yours... it didn’t survive....”

  “Apparently, he doesn’t want me to, either.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “You know, for the first time in my life, I don’t know. I mean, normally, I could go to the Chief of Police. But, as you know, that’s Jergen’s dear old daddy.”

  “Good grief, Tom. What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing. Just keep your faith in me? That would be enough.”

  It stunned me to see Tom so open and raw and hurting. “Of course.”

  I held Tom’s hand through dinner, but neither one of us had much of an appetite. When he crawled in bed next to me later than night, he couldn’t perform. He turned his back to me. I snuggled next to him and spooned him. I didn’t know what to else to say or do.

  As I lay awake beside Tom, I thought about Hans Jergen. That man had crossed the line. His petty bull crap had just become personal. Very personal.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  TODAY I WAS ON A NEW manhunt. Not for Glad’s ashes, but for Jergen’s sorry behind!

  I spent the morning trying to think of a ruse to tell Mrs. Barnes so she’d let me back in the file room at Griffith & Maas. I wanted that copy of Jergen’s tax return. I’d left it behind in my rush to follow Milly when she’d stomped out of the office to avoid taking that drug test.

  I settled on a plan. I’d tell her I was asthmatic and forgot my inhaler.

  I practiced wheezing in the mirror until I thought I had it down pat. I ate lunch, got dressed and drove to Griffith & Maas. I arrived a few minutes after 2 p.m. Mrs. Barnes should have been back by now. But when I drove up, her c
ar wasn’t in the lot. The office looked closed.

  Dang it!

  I was desperate to get Jergen’s phone number or address. Sometimes, when you’re on a noble mission, the universe steps up and helps you out. I was parked on the side of the road, googling Hans Jergen’s name, when the dirtbag himself walked up beside me.

  “Out of gas again?” he taunted. “Some people never learn.”

  His voice startled me. I hadn’t seen him pull up. I flinched and pressed my cellphone screen against my chest.

  “No. I was just.... Never mind. Listen, I want you to leave Tom alone.”

  Jergen snorted. “What are you talking about?”

  “I think you know.”

  “Look, Ms. Fremden. Stay out of this. People get what they deserve.”

  I wrangled around in the seat to face him. Jergen’s hand instinctually went to his gun holster. I backed down.

  “Tom doesn’t deserve this! He didn’t knock up your sister Rita. John did! Tom took the hit so you and your pea-sized...

  I glanced at his crotch but I didn’t sink that low.

  ...brain would think that John wasn’t such a bad guy after all.”

  Jergen hid his stunned look under false bravado. “You’re full of it.”

  “It’s true. Every word! So lay off Tom.”

  Jergen sneered at me. “It’s too late for that.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “You think you –”

  “Shut up you jerkoff! Stop harassing Tom or else!”

  “Or else what?”

  “Or else I’ll spill the beans on you!”

  “You’ve got nothing on me.”

  “I’ve got two words on you, Jergen. Pet Patrol.”

  Jergen’s smug face crumbled. He exhaled as if he’d been punched in the gut. I had no idea what Pet Patrol was, but there was no mistaking his reaction. I’d definitely struck a nerve. Maybe even an artery. I turned the ignition on Maggie and hit the gas. From the rearview mirror, I saw Lt. Hans Jergen staring at me, slack jawed and speechless, like a fish out of water dumped on the side of the road.

  FOUR HOURS LATER, I was holed up in the parking lot of a convenience store with Cold Cuts in the old RV. My stomach flopped. I was still a little shaky over my showdown with Jergen, but a new kind of nervousness was moving in to take its place. Flop sweat. Cold Cuts and I were on call for our first, official Date Busters gig. Both of us were dressed and ready to rescue our client, Sharon, at a moment’s notice.

  Cold Cuts was incognito in a sad-faced clown outfit. I was dressed like a nurse. We’d already passed an hour throwing stale popcorn into a little basketball hoop suction-cupped to the windshield. Bored and anxious, we’d made a game of placing bets on the two winos loitering outside the store. Whichever bum puked or passed out first would determine the winner. The stakes couldn’t have been higher. The future of my recently acquired Mounds candy bar was hanging in the balance.

  “Ha!” Cold Cuts said and smacked her clown thigh. “There he goes! Old Shaky Legs gives up the goods first! Hand it over.”

  I slapped the candy bar in her gloved hand. “Beginner’s luck.” I glanced out the window at my contender. “Great. There goes Thunder Pants.” I rolled down the window. “Couldn’t toss your cookies just one minute earlier? Thanks for nothing!”

  I sat back and looked at Cold Cuts’ sad clown face. My gut wrenched in doubt. “What are we doing here? This was a terrible –”

  Suddenly the Date Busters hotline buzzed. Cold Cuts grabbed it and looked at the screen.

  “It’s Sharon. Things have run afoul at the Chicken Hut.”

  Panic shot through me. “What do we do now?”

  “Take it easy. Follow my lead. Here we go.”

  Cold Cuts turned the ignition on the old RV. It sputtered to life. She backed out of the parking lot and took a right on Gulf Boulevard, leaving Shaky Legs and Thunder Pants in a cloud of oily smoke.

  COLD CUTS AND I BURST into the Chicken Hut. I felt like a psychiatric nurse chasing a psychotic clown. We spotted Sharon and made a beeline toward her. The look on her face told me she was more horrified than I was. Cold Cuts sauntered up to the booth and slapped her oversized, gloved hand on the table.

  “Who do you think you are, clowning around with my girl?”

  “What’s going on here?” Sharon’s date asked.

  Sharon shrugged apologetically and stood up. “I have no idea. Wait here, Stan.”

  Sharon grabbed both of us by the collars and marched us to the ladies’ room.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “We got your call,” Cold Cuts said.

  “What? I didn’t call.”

  “Look.” Cold Cuts showed her the phone screen. “Isn’t this your number?”

  Sharon pulled her phone from her back pocket. “Crap! I must have butt-dialed you!”

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  “I’m afraid not. Sorry! Listen, could you two go and apologize to Stan? He seems like an actual nice guy, for once.”

  We followed Sharon back to the table, dragging our feet and hanging our heads like two naughty children.

  “We’re sorry, Stan. False alarm.”

  Stan eyed us as if we’d just landed from planet Kreton. He looked over at Sharon. “What’s going on?”

  “I’ll explain after these ladies go.” Sharon turned and waved us away dismissively. “Goodbye.”

  We made a hasty retreat back to the RV.

  “Crap! Our first call was a butt-dial,” I sighed. “How appropriate.”

  “I feel like such a clown,” Cold Cuts said pathetically. Then laughed.

  I stifled a smirk. “Geeze. I hope this whole idea isn’t a mistake. I wanna go home.”

  “Me too,” Cold Cuts said. “Oh wait. I already am.” She drummed her fingers on the dash. “Ba-dum-bum.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  SO FAR, SO GOOD. I’D lain low and vegged all day in the hammock, celebrating my newfound freedom. With no repercussions from Jergen or Sharon falling on my head so far, I knocked wood and hoped tonight’s Date Busters patrol would turn out better than yesterday’s butt dial. Milly and I were on call together. We’d decided to kill the evening waiting around at Kelly’s Pub.

  I was a parole officer. It was the ironic and perfect foil for Milly, whose outfit could only be described as a trailer-trash prom queen. It was Milly’s first attempt at creating a disguise all on her own. For some reason, she’d dressed herself in a polyester, peach-colored dress with a too-revealing lace bodice. She’d accessorized it with a ton of eye makeup and an 80’s style, big-haired red wig crowned with a party-store tiara.

  We were on our second glass of wine and had run out of patience and conversation. We took to eavesdropping on the couple in the booth across from us. They looked like an interesting couple. Miserable, but interesting nonetheless.

  The woman was thin, pale, and elegant looking. She was probably around my age, mid to late forties. She was the kind of woman you figured never farted, but she was so nice you forgave her for it. She sat up straight, prim, dignified and patient as she listened to her partner, a moderately attractive man in his late fifties, drone on about himself. He wore an expensive suit and looked like he’d fit right in at the yacht club. I hoped for her sake he was worth it.

  “I don’t see why that’s so offensive,” he said.

  “Mentioning a woman’s weight is always offensive, Harold. It’s not like you’re perfect.”

  The man flashed a capped-tooth smile and cocked his head confidently. “Come on, Annie. In what way am I not perfect?”

  Milly’s lips and nose scrunched together. That was never a good sign.

  “You really think highly of yourself, don’t you?” Annie said.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Harold responded. “Admit it. I’m pretty easy on the eyes. And hard in the sack. In my age bracket, that makes me Superman. Come on, Annie. Being with me? You should count yourself among the
luckiest women on the planet.”

  Milly’s jaw tightened until every last tendon stood out around her lace neckline. She looked just exactly how I pictured E.T. would, if he’d just been called a tramp at the Alien of the Universe pageant. “I’m going in,” she growled.

  “But Milly,” I whispered, “it’s not our business!”

  “I don’t care,” she hissed. “That Dodo bird deserves to be extinctified.”

  Milly started to stand. I grabbed at her arm but missed. I watched, helpless, as my fledgling Date Buster partner flew the coop – and crash landed.

  “Listen here, Mister Wonderful,” she said, teetering on her heels in front of their booth. “I’ve seen better...peckers...on a bird bill...surgery...sanctuary.”

  The guy eyed Milly up and down and blew out a haughty laugh. “Well, look at you, Miss Honey Boo Boo...1969.”

  “Leave her alone, Harold,” the woman said. She looked up at Milly pleadingly, but there was no stopping her now.

  “You’re a...big meanie!” Milly stuttered.

  “Ouch! Did you come up with that zinger all by yourself?” he mocked.

  Milly stood her ground. “You should know. You look like a man who’s had a lot of practice “coming up” with something “all by yourself.”

  Oh, snap!

  Harold’s arrogance ticked up a notch to anger. “Excuse me, Miss Touch of Low Class, but do you have any idea who I am?”

  Milly put both hands to her cheeks and wagged her head. “Oh! Pardon me! If I’d known you had dementia, I’d have cut you some slack.” Milly shaped her hands into a megaphone. “Hey, does anyone in here know who this jerk is?”

  The guy lost it. “Why don’t you get lost, trailer trash!”

  Milly smiled victoriously, then turned to the woman. “Annie, you deserve better than this.”

  Annie looked embarrassed, but her eyes registered restrained amusement. She shot me a sideways glance as Harold, blustering and red-faced, stood up and glared down at her.

  “Annie, do you know this woman?”