I smirked at my tall, lanky friend who hid his intellect as if it were the map to the lost treasure of El Dorado. Despite his apparently solid brain and body, in all the time I’d known him, Goober had never held down a steady job.
When I’d left my glorified file-clerk post at the accounting firm of Griffith & Maas, I’d recommended him to fill the position. My friend and boss, Milly Halbert-Pantski, had hired him on a trial basis. Given his track record, I wondered which one of them was having more trials with their current arrangement.
“So, how do you like working for Milly?” I asked.
“Okay, I guess.” Goober sighed and scratched the armpit of his white t-shirt. “But then again, I never have taken too well to domestication.”
“What do you mean? Don’t tell me you’re finding it hard to fill my shoes.”
Goober grinned. “You do have some pretty big feet. But sorry, Val. Your sensible pumps just aren’t my style. I’m more of a trashy, rhinestone-studded stiletto man myself.”
“Ha ha.” I laughed drolly and tried to will myself not to look at Goober’s feet, but I couldn’t resist. The off chance that he was in hooker high heels was too good to miss. Come to find out, he wasn’t wearing any shoes at all. A ping of disappointment made my gut loosen.
“What’s the problem, then? Don’t like the idea of a having a work wardrobe, eh?”
“No, it’s more the whole, ‘Be there at a certain time,’ bit.” Goober ran a hand across his bald pate as he spoke. “All that, ‘Do this, don’t do that,’ stuff rubs me the wrong way.”
I shrugged. “You’ll get used to it.”
“Did you?” Goober studied my face as he smoothed his bushy moustache with his right thumb and forefinger.
I sneered and he looked away and shrugged. “Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. Anyway, how’s your new career going? Written any best-sellers yet?”
I blew out a breath. “Not quite. But I did sign up for a class on how to write mystery books for fun and profit.”
“Intriguing.” A bushy, angular eyebrow raised on Goober’s forehead, giving me an idea of what Spock might have looked like if he were bald.
“There you all are!” Winky bellowed from the open back door. “Y’all ready to eat?”
“Let the gastronomical revelry begin,” Goober said with sardonic cheer. As Winky paraded past us, Goober turned to me and whispered. “Quick. Tell me. Which one did Laverne bring?”
“No worries,” I whispered. “The target has been destroyed.”
“Nice work, Fremden,” Goober replied. “Remind me to give you a raise.”
“...AND BLESS OUR GOOD brother Old Joe,” Winky prayed over the table full of food, “Who if’n he hadn’t up and died and left me his bait shack, none of this would a been possible. Amen.”
“Amen,” everyone echoed.
“Hey. Where’s the cookies I brought?” Laverne asked Tom as we lined up to receive our portion of the evening’s redneck bounty.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Tom said. “Don’t say anything, but I think Winky went and hid them, to, you know, keep them all for himself.”
Laverne shot a dirty look at the back of Winky’s head.
“He’s got a thing for snickerdoodles,” I said. “And he heard yours are the best.”
Her horsey face softened into an impish, motherly smile. “Oh, that Winky. Okay. I won’t mention it.”
I exchanged glances with Tom, then turned and tapped Jorge on the shoulder. He was ahead of me in the buffet line. “Hey, Jorge. What did you bring?”
“Hey. Me and Sherryl brought homemade peccadillo.”
“Mmm! That sounds great!”
I was sure it was. Jorge was a great cook. His peccadillo meant there was something on the buffet that didn’t contain Karo syrup, Crisco, pork by-products, or red dye number 87. Yes!
“How about you?” Jorge asked.
“That tray of chocolate-drizzled strawberries, banana chunks and marshmallows,” I answered.
“Good to know.” Jorge took a fork and filled his plate from my tray. Soldiers in arms needed to stick together.
“What’s that orange stuff that looks kind of like dried-up macaroni and cheese?” I asked Jorge.
“Sherryl told me Winnie made it. It’s Cheeto squares.”
“What?” I asked as I heaped a mound of peccadillo into the biggest section of my fancy, Chinet-brand paper plate.
“She said it’s made of melted marshmallows and Cheetos,” Jorge explained as I stared at him dumbly. “You know. Like Rice Krispy squares, only you use Cheetos instead.”
“Oh. I see.”
Ugh. If that glop had been topped with hotdog slices, it would have had all the makings of a well-rounded redneck meal.
AFTER WAITING HALF an hour after dinner, Winky cordially invited us all to take a dip in his pool. I’m not sure what the waiting was about. There was no danger of drowning. I was only five-foot, two inches, and the water barely came up to my shoulders. Besides, if the rest of the group was in my state of gastric distress, they all had recently inflated their built-in flotation devices. I, personally, had enough gas in my bowels to keep me afloat all the way to Cuba.
Irritatingly, Jorge’s stunningly beautiful girlfriend Sherryl seemed immune to both flab and flatulence.
I’d been keeping an eye on her like the jealous wife of a cheating husband. Something just wasn’t right about her. I knew from careful observation that Sherryl had eaten enough food to choke a goat, yet her belly had remained suspiciously – and annoyingly – flat.
So, when we’d all stripped to our bathing suits to get into the pool, I was relieved to see Goober leave his t-shirt on. I followed his lead and left mine on, too. Next to Sherryl, I needed all the camouflage I could get. Even in a one-piece suit made of inch-thick spandex, compared to Sherryl I looked like a whale caught in a tarp. If she hadn’t been so nice to me the first time I met her, I could have despised her on this point alone. But she couldn’t help being gorgeous, so I decided to cut her some slack.
“Nice bathing suit,” I said as I climbed down the ladder into the water beside Sherryl. Her blue-black hair and silver earrings shone in the moonlight.
“Thanks,” she said. “It’s so hard to find one that fits right when you’re a size two.” Sherryl smiled at me sweetly, with no hint of malice. I wish I could have said the same about myself. She passed me a water noodle. “Goober says you’re writing a book.”
“Yes. Well –”
“A book!” Winky bellowed from his perch inside a donut-shaped float. “Well how ‘bout that! What kind a book, Val?”
“Uh...a murder mystery,” I fumbled.
“Woo hoo! A murder mystery!” Winky said. “What’s it called?”
I sunk down in the water to my neck, not so much out of embarrassment as to hide my arm flab. “I don’t have a title yet.”
Winky chortled. “Well let me help you out there. I got an idea. How about The Mystery of the Butt Crack, by Eileen Dover!”
Everyone laughed, causing someone to fart. I’m not saying who.
“Very funny,” I snorted.
“Oh! I got it!” Goober said as he bobbed around on a float. “Lost in the Desert, by Rhoda Kamel.”
I smirked. “Ha ha.”
“I know!” Laverne said, her hand waving in the air like an eager schoolgirl. “Case of the Frustrated Nympho, by Anita Mann.”
The pool went silent for a moment as we all stared, open-mouthed, at the old woman in a gold thong. Then, as if someone un-clicked a “pause” button, we all came back to life. Raucous laughter filled the night air, and Winky got so tickled he upturned his float. He flailed around and came up for air looking like a half-drowned rat. Winnie had to grab him by the back of his neck to keep him from slipping back under.
“You really should learn how to swim, Winky!” she scolded.
“Why? When I got you to save me, sugar pea.” The pair made googly eyes at each other until I felt awkward.
“Thanks, Sherryl,” I said.
“As long as she sticks to a keyboard,” Tom interjected. He slipped across the pool and encircled me in his arms. “Promise me, Val, from now on, you’ll keep your detective work to the pages in your books. Please?”
“I promise,” I said.
But under the water, my fingers were crossed. And I farted.
Again.
Chapter Seven
“You’ve never looked more handsome,” I said to Tom as he walked into the bedroom Saturday morning.
“I bet you say that to all the guys with cappuccinos,” he quipped.
I smiled coyly. “No. Only the ones with two.”
Tom flashed his boyish grin and handed me a cup. He kissed my nose and climbed back into bed beside me. I settled into the pillows.
Ahh! This was my absolute favorite time of day. So many fresh possibilities lay ahead – but for the moment, the only ones that mattered had either a handsome, stubbly face or a frothy milk topping sprinkled with cinnamon. I took a sip of my cappuccino. It was perfection in a cup.
“Mmm. Whatever you just did, keep doing it,” I said.
Tom’s eyes sparkled. He wagged his blond eyebrows at me. “Are you talking about the cappuccino or the –”
“Enough!” I giggled, and elbowed him, nearly sloshing my cup.
“Never enough,” Tom whispered seductively.
“Really?” I pulled away long enough to take another sip of cappuccino. Then I set my cup on the nightstand and snuggled up against Tom. “Okay, then. Prove it.”
Tom’s left eyebrow shot up. “Are you calling my bluff?”
“No,” I teased. “I’m calling your buff...as, ‘in the’.”
“Nice one,” Tom said, and gazed at me with bedroom eyes.
“Well? What are you waiting for?” I asked.
“For you to recognize my poke-her face.”
“Ugh. Tom, I think that’s gotta be your worst joke ever.”
Tom grinned. “Well then, let me make it up to you....”
“WANT TO GO WITH ME to Fred’s Furniture to find a daybed?” I asked Tom as he emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his taut waist.
“Uh...you know shopping’s not my thing.”
“I know,” I sulked. To be honest, it wasn’t mine, either. But I was eager to kill the last impediment distracting me from writing. Once I had the new daybed all set up, I’d have no more excuses.
“Suit yourself,” I called after Tom as he padded to the bedroom. I opened a notebook on the desk in my home office and wrote down another unique way to die; “Paralysis by procrastination.”
Not great, I thought, as I set the pen down.
I took a step toward the door and tripped over one of Tom’s moving boxes stacked along the wall. Ever since that horrible escapade at Tony’s Hoarder House of Horrors, aka, the house I now live in, anything that smacked of clutter had sent a panic-wave of claustrophobia shooting through me.
Just like now.
“Tom! Promise me you’ll get rid of these boxes while I’m gone!” I yelled a little too shrilly.
“I promise!” I heard him call from the bedroom.
I walked to the kitchen, grabbed my purse and keys looked around for my sunglasses. The last time I had them I was...crap! At Winky’s place. I picked up my cellphone.
“Winky?”
“Hey there, Val pal!”
“Great party last night.”
“Thanky!”
“You have an awesome place,” I said. My grandmother had taught me that a proper Southern woman was always on the ready with a carefully prepared compliment for her discourse companion – even if she had to sugar-coat a turd, or paint a lie white.
“Winky, your home is like...a country retreat in the heart of the city.”
“You should see my other one!”
“Other one? Are you saying you have another place?”
“Yep. It’s a little getaway in the woods called Shell Hammock.”
“Really? Where’s that?”
“Over in Polk County. I seen it on line when I was lookin’ for a place for me and Winnie to put our new doublewide. It looks real nice, Val. On a big ol’ lake, too, with a fishin’ dock.”
“Sounds pretty. Why didn’t you two just move there?”
“Well, we’s business folk now, Val. Got to run the bait shop. Besides, Winnie wanted her a brand-new trailer. And a feller needs a place to run off to, now and again.”
“Run off to?”
“You know, to collect his thoughts. Catch a few bream ‘n’ catfish. Have a few beers...”
Scratch his balls.
“...so I thought, what the heck, I’ll get me both places.”
“Huh. Good for you. So, what’s it like there?”
“I don’t rightly know. I ain’t been there yet. But my cousin Sammy said it was real nice. He had a place there a while back. You and Tom are welcome to go up and stay at mine any time you want.”
“Thanks, Winky. I just might take you up on that.”
“All righty, then! But listen, I gots to go.”
“Okay. Tell Winnie thanks again for the party from me.”
“Will do.”
I clicked off the phone and shook my head. I couldn’t decide which was more astounding. Winky with a first home, or Winky with a second one.
Dang it! I forgot to ask about my sunglasses!
SUNDAY NIGHT, I FINISHED painting the last of the cut-in work along the baseboards. My office was now a cheerful, limey shade of green that matched the print on the new coverlet for the daybed I’d found at Fred’s Furniture. It was scheduled to be delivered tomorrow morning.
Tom had offered to help paint, but I’d wanted to do it all on my own. I closed the paint can and looked at my tidy desk. I admired the writing schedule I’d etched out on my calendar for the week, as well as the new system of punishment and reward I’d devised to encourage my steady work progress.
Punishment was a thick, red rubber band I’d removed from a head of broccoli. I planned to wear it around my wrist and snap it if I caught myself procrastinating. Reward was a sparkling jar of colorful jelly beans. I’d get to have one for every thousand words I wrote.
I smiled, gathered up my paint brushes and drop cloth, and turned out the light.
Yes. I had everything in place to assure my writing success.
Chapter Eight
By 10:00 a.m. Monday morning, I’d been on a roll on my computer for nearly two hours. In that time, I’d won three games of Klondike in a row, completed Spider Solitaire in under two minutes, and cleared eight boards on TriPeaks.
And my wrist was redder than the band of rubber encircling it like a medieval torture device.
I was drawing back the band to snap it again when I thought I heard a noise. I glanced out the door toward the kitchen. I was fairly certain the pickles in the fridge were calling my name....
I snapped the rubber band around my wrist. “Ouch!” I screeched. “That really hurt!”
I clicked off the computer games. My finger hovered shakily over the Open File button. Then I realized something.
What was I thinking? There’s no use getting started writing when Fred’s delivery could show up any moment and blow my train of thought, right?
Are you kidding? Val, you don’t have a train of thought. You don’t even have a tricycle of thought!
Great. Now I’m not just talking to myself – I’m arguing with myself!
I sucked in a determined breath and planted my feet on the floor.
Your butt’s not going anywhere, missy! Write something!
I wracked my brain for ideas. Where could I get inspiration for a story?
Wait a minute. What was the name of that place Winky talked about? Shell Hammock?
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I googled it.
It was a trailer park. But it was the nicest looking trailer park I’d ever seen.
A narrow, rustic, sandy road wound through what looked to be about two acres of huge, ancient oak trees. Along the little country lane sat rows of shiny, well-kept trailers. Some were singlewides, some no bigger than an RV pull-behind. A few were doublewides. Each had quaint, carved wooden plaques hanging by their doors with slogans like, “Home Sweet Home,” “Our Little Slice of Heaven,” and “Welcome to Paradise.”
Shots of the grounds looked equally idyllic. Wooden swings beckoned from shady spots under the trees. A sparkling lake boasted a small marina and fishing dock. A little strip of sandy beach along the lakeshore was adorned with lounge chairs and umbrellas. There was also a shuffleboard court and a pool. A sandwich board in front of the cute clubhouse sported a hand-written message that read: “Blueberry Pancake Breakfast this Sunday.”
A rap at the door caught me by surprise. I peeked through the blinds. A Fred’s Furniture truck was idling in my driveway. I turned off the computer, popped a jelly bean in my mouth, and headed for the door.
THE HUMID MAY AIR WAS busy turning my hair into a Brillo pad as I tooled down Central Avenue with the top down.
I hadn’t gotten any writing done, but at least my daybed was set up and the nasty old bed was hauled away. My office was officially complete. And I was going to start writing as soon as I got back from lunch with Milly.
I pulled into the parking lot at Ming-Ming’s sushi right next to Milly’s red Beemer. As I walked up, I spied her through the plate-glass window. She was sitting at a tiny table for two. I waved and a thought struck me.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen my friend’s cute, blonde, button-nosed face look so perfectly content.
“You look like you’re in a good mood,” I said as I leaned down and gave her a hug.
“I am!” Milly said. “Two fantastic things just happened.”
“What?”
“All of Charmine’s puppies got their last shots and a clean bill of health yesterday,” Milly beamed like a proud mamma. “They’ll be ready to go in two weeks.”
Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 3 Page 5
