Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 3

by Margaret Lashley

  “Woggles? Raccoons? Possums?” J.D. shook his head. “I’m from D.C., Val. The only vile creatures I’m familiar with have elected positions.”

  A hearty laugh rang out from around the corner. Chief Collins stepped into view.

  “Sorry, buddy,” J.D. spat. “Freak show’s over.”

  Chief Collins’ jovial expression evaporated.

  “My apologies, Mister Attorney Man. I already spoke to Detective Rogers about his unfortunate remark. Some folks around here don’t have any manners to mind.”

  “I appreciate that,” J.D. countered, “but I would like to exercise my client/attorney privilege now, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Chief Collins said, and took a step closer. “But earlier today, Ms. Fremden said she wanted to talk to me. I thought maybe the three of us could kill two birds with one stone.”

  Chief Collins scowled and his ears turned red. “Pardon me. That was an ill-thought out analogy.”

  J.D. turned and looked me in the eye. “What do you think?”

  “He knows more about varmints than you do.”

  “What’s a varmint?” J.D. asked.

  Chief Collins grinned. “I believe the little lady just proved her point.”

  “FUNNY YOU SHOULD MENTION raccoons,” Chief Collins said. “Rogers found a dead one in that RV that belongs to your friend Johna.... Johova.... Gerald.”

  “That explains the smell,” I said.

  “Gerald?” J.D. asked.

  “Goober,” I explained. “He drove Cold Cuts’ RV over here to bring me the spare keys to Maggie.”

  “Maggie?” Chief Collins asked.

  “My car,” I said.

  “Oh,” the Chief replied, and chewed his toothpick.

  J.D. cleared his throat. “Now that all that’s been cleared up, can we get back to the raccoons?”

  “Right.”

  I leaned back in the comfy chair in the Chief’s office and tried to appear as if I had something very, very worthwhile to say. I didn’t. All I really had was a nagging suspicion. It wasn’t even a full-fledged hunch.

  “Woggles really seemed to like raccoons,” I began.

  “Well, there’s no accounting for taste,” J.D. said.

  I pursed my lips, hoping to increase the strength of my telepathic message to J.D.; You’re not helping. I directed my next words to Chief Collins.

  “Besides his hat, Woggles made Elmira a purse out of a raccoon hide.”

  “Elmira Fitch.”

  The Chief said her name as if it tasted bad. He blew out a breath and continued.

  “Yes. I believe that she and Mr. Walters were...uh...close. I do have some concerns about her. She’s one jealous woman. I can see where she might have seen you as a threat.”

  “But why would she kill Woggles if she didn’t like me?”

  Chief Collins looked me in the eye and spoke slowly.

  “Not every aimed arrow flies true.”

  My forehead went slack to match my jaw.

  “Oh.”

  I looked over at J.D. He was on his knees in the chair beside me, busily scribbling into a notebook he’d perched on the armrest like a makeshift desk.

  “Detective Rogers searched Woggles place after he died,” Chief Collins continued. “His RV was loaded with raccoon pelts. I believe you were trying to make a point about that, Ms. Fremden?”

  I swallowed hard, trying to digest my own bull-crap.

  “I dunno. Do you think maybe they...you know...the raccoons could have killed him? You know, like they...you know...ganged up on him while he was in the truck-bed pool? Could they maybe have maybe, you know...drowned him...out of revenge?”

  J.D. put his head in his hands.

  Chief Collins didn’t take it so hard.

  “Hmmm,” he said, and leaned back in his chair. He chewed on his toothpick enthusiastically as he contemplated my theory.

  “I once saw a raccoon drown a hound dog that was chasing him across a river.”

  He sat back up in his chair. “You could be on to something there, Ms. Fremden. I believe if Woggles had been drinking...I mean, well, I’ve lived in Florida long enough to know that darn near anything’s possible.”

  “Chief Collins,” J.D. asked, tapping a pen on his notebook. “Can you tell me how it was possible for Mr. Woggles to capture so many of these raccoon animals?”

  Chief Collins leaned back again and squeezed his chin between his thumb and index finger.

  “Now that’s a good question. I don’t recall the report saying anything about any traps being found around his place.”

  By some miracle, my random, bull-crap thoughts formed into a fully-formed cow patty of an idea. I bolted upright in my chair.

  “Chief Collins!” I nearly shouted. “That dead raccoon you found in Goob...Gerald’s RV. Could we get it tested or autopsied or whatever you do to figure out why an animal died?”

  “I suppose so. I think it’s still in the dumpster out back. Why?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. But maybe whatever killed it, might hold a clue about how...or who...killed Woggles.”

  “It’s worth a shot,” Chief Collins said, and reached for his desk phone. “And I got the perfect detective for the job.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Thanks for posting my bail,” I said to J.D. as my butt sank into the luxurious softness of the white-leather seats in his Mercedes Benz.

  “That’s what I came here for,” he said, and mashed the raised gas pedal designed to accommodate his small frame. “Glad we could work it out.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you. You’re a miracle worker. Take a left out of the parking lot.”

  J.D. turned the steering wheel and adjusted the rearview mirror. The sunlight caught one of the huge diamonds on his gold watch and laser-beamed me in the retina.

  “Actually, you deserve the credit,” J.D. said. “Chief Collins was impressed with your cooperation.”

  “Really?” I said, blinking back the orange dots dancing around in the air. “So he believes me? That I’m innocent, I mean?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. It’s more like he can’t believe anybody could be so dumb as to incriminate themselves as thoroughly as you have.”

  “What?”

  I plastered on my best scowl, but J.D. wasn’t paying any attention. He was too busy watching the traffic whizzing by on SR 60.

  “Do I turn left or right here?” he asked.

  I traded my wasted scowl for a sulking pout.

  “Take a right. Does this mean I can go home now?”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  J.D. mashed the gas and took off like Mario Andretti. I gripped the cushy armrest. My fingers sunk into it like it was made of marshmallow fluff.

  “Oooh,” I cooed.

  J.D. eyed me up and down. I stopped squeezing the fancy merchandise.

  “As part of your bail agreement, you need to stick around town until the coroner’s report comes back. You’re not quite off the hook yet, Val. But at least you’re no longer the only bait in town. Not where Chief Collins is concerned, anyway.”

  “Thank goodness for friends in high places.”

  J.D. gave me another quick study. “I don’t know how ‘high’ either of us are.”

  “You’re both higher than me. I mean, I feel like I should be riding in a cattle trailer behind you. Look at my clothes. I’m probably ruining your leather seats as we speak!”

  J.D. looked horrified for a split second, then caught himself. “You don’t look that bad.”

  “Turn here,” I said. “J.D., I’ve been in these shorts and t-shirt for over two days.”

  J.D.’s lips pursed into a twisted grin. “I thought it was the raccoon.”

  “You jerk!” I teased, and bopped him on the arm. “Turn in here. Drop me off at the front of the store.”

  “Okay,” J.D. said. “But listen. I’m heading back to civilization. Lay low for the next day or so. Don’t do anything stup
id, okay?”

  “Me? Do something stupid? Not a chance.”

  J.D. stopped his Mercedes, temporarily blocking the pedestrian cattle-crossing leading up to the entrance to Walmart. I cracked open the passenger door, letting in the oppressive heat. I stuck a foot out onto the half-melted asphalt.

  “Thanks again for the ride...and everything.”

  “So, you’ll be all right, on your own?” he asked.

  “I’m part redneck, J.D. Who says I’m on my own?”

  I grinned and tilted my frizzy-haired head toward the storefront.

  J.D. leaned over and peeked out my side window. “What?”

  “Look closer.”

  J.D. pulled off his Gucci sunglasses and strained his eyes toward the Walmart entrance.

  To the left of the sliding glass doors, a shabbily dressed old man was dancing for tips. He suddenly stopped, tipped his top hat toward us, and smiled. As he did, a shiny gold tooth glinted in the midday sun.

  “Argh!” J.D. groaned. “Don’t tell me.”

  “It’s –” I began.

  J.D. stuck his fingers in his ears.

  “If that’s Goober, I don’t want to know.”

  “I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU to ditch the gold tooth,” I said as Goober picked up his Starbucks tip cup.

  He shrugged. “I dunno. It’s kind of growing on me.”

  “Like mold?”

  “Look who’s talking. Those clothes should be burned at the stake.” Goober grinned. “You as hungry as you look?”

  “Now that you mention it, I’m starved.”

  Goober rattled the change in the paper coffee cup.

  “Where can a recently cashed up fellow take a girl out around here?”

  I peeked in the cup. “Just how cashed up are you?”

  Goober poured the change into his hand. “Dang. A dollar thirteen.”

  I shrugged. “Not bad for a few minutes work.”

  Goober slid the change into his pocket. “I’ve been here three hours.”

  “Oh. Well, with that kind of money, we could split a Yoo Hoo.”

  “Geeze. Don’t tell me you’re as broke as I am.”

  “No,” I shrugged. “Just kidding. Dinner’s on me. It’s only fair. You’re paying for lodging tonight.”

  I nodded my head in the direction of the old Minnie Winnie still parked out in the back section of Walmart’s blacktop oasis.

  “Right. Thanks. Tell you what, Val. You can have the bed tonight.”

  I took my top-hatted friend by the arm.

  “Such a gentleman.”

  He grinned. “I do my best.”

  “You up for tacos again?” I asked as we strolled through the crowd spilling out of Walmart.

  Goober raised his head high and put a hand on my forearm.

  “Always, m’ lady.”

  TITO’S TACOS SMELLED like lard mixed with cumin and desperation. I felt right at home.

  “How’d you get released so fast?” I asked Goober as I slid into the greasy booth.

  Goober shrugged and took a seat across from me.

  “I made a phone call. Pulled a few strings.”

  “I bet you did. What kind of strings?”

  Goober shot me a look.

  “I know. I know. You can’t tell me. Well, let me tell you this. The Chief seemed really pissed about you walking out the door.”

  Goober sighed. “I wasn’t put on this Earth to make everybody happy.”

  “What were you put on this Earth to do, Goober? I have a feeling being a fartist isn’t your only major skill.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Val. Save your worrying for yourself. You’re the one who needs it at the moment.”

  “Why did you have that dead raccoon in the RV?”

  “I thought it might come in handy.”

  “Come in handy? For what? Dinner?”

  Goober shrugged.

  “Wait a minute. You had your suspicions, too, didn’t you?”

  “Raccoons don’t generally up and die. Not in public, anyway.”

  “I asked Chief Collins to have it tested.”

  Goober smiled at me softly. “Then you did good.”

  A waitress dressed in an embarrassingly cheap-looking, tassel-lined vest and matching red-felt sombrero waddled up to our booth.

  “What’ll ya have?” she asked, then smacked on a huge wad of pink bubblegum.

  “I’ll have a pair of your finest tacos, madam, and your cheapest tequila,” Goober said. He tipped his top hat for emphasis.

  The waitress stopped chomping on her gum.

  I smirked and said, “I’ll have the same.”

  I COULD FEEL “THE URPS” coming on as we walked from the restaurant through the parking lot toward the RV.

  As we crossed from one line of parked cars to the next, I realized my little toe wasn’t aching as much. Instead of looking like a plum stuck to the side of my green flip-flops, it now was masquerading as a red grape.

  “Goober, look! My –”

  “Shhh!” Goober hissed. He grabbed me by the arm and yanked me behind an enormous, black SUV.

  “Ouch!” I cried out. “Watch the merchandise!”

  “Sorry. It was an emergency.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look for yourself.”

  My line of sight followed the trajectory of Goober’s boney finger all the way to the Minnie Winnie.

  Circling it like four well-fed vultures were Stumpy, Slim, Charlene and Elmira.

  “Crap! What are we gonna do now?”

  “Go back to Tito’s and stand out front. I’ll infiltrate the crowd.”

  “Goober, no! Four against one? It’s too dangerous!”

  “Not really. You forget. They’ve only seen me as Steve.”

  “Oh. That’s right! Who are you now?”

  “Hobo Howard.”

  I looked him up and down. “Of course you are.”

  Goober turned to go.

  “Wait. You’ve got to do something about that smarmy moustache. It’s a dead giveaway.”

  “I’m way ahead of you.” Goober pulled a small box from his shirt pocket. “I always carry an emergency moustache with me.”

  My face impersonated a dead trout.

  Goober shook his head. “Just walk back over to the taco place. I’ll pick you up there.”

  I’D BARELY PUT MY FOOT on the curb in front of Tito’s when I heard tires squeal. I whirled around and saw the Minnie Winnie take a turn on two wheels. It cleared an old lady pushing a shopping cart and then slammed back onto the asphalt. The chassis bounced and lurched and squealed like a mattress at a disreputable motel.

  A second later, the RV screeched to a halt at my feet. Goober waved at me from the driver’s seat, his moustache at half-mast.

  “Get in! Hurry!”

  I yanked open the cab door and took a bum dive inside. My feet were still dangling out the door as Goober mashed the gas and sped off. I scrambled around to right myself in the seat and slammed the door shut.

  “Nice entry,” Goober said.

  “Thanks. I think.” I strapped myself into the seatbelt as Goober peeled out of the parking lot.

  “Where to now?”

  “The Hell’ammo.”

  “What! Why?”

  “You’ve got to get Maggie back...and your other stuff.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think now is such a good time.”

  Goober turned and grinned like a wiseacre.

  “I wasn’t put on this Earth to come up with good ideas. But surprisingly often, I do. Don’t you see, Val? Now’s the perfect time to go. We know where all those folks are, and we’ve got at least a two-minute lead.”

  Who was I to argue with a man wearing half a fake moustache?

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “I don’t know about this,” I told Goober as the old Minnie Winnie sped east down SR 60 toward the rural RV outpost affectionately known as the Hell’ammo.

  “Relax, Val. You think just like a redneck. Believ
e me, this is the last place they’ll come looking for us.”

  “I might be part redneck, Goober, but I’m not stupid.”

  “On the contrary,” he said, and flung his top hat back into the bowels of the RV. “You should be proud of being a redneck.”

  “Kiss my grits.”

  Goober laughed, then turned into Professor Peanuthead.

  “The term redneck has a rich etymology in the US.”

  I eyed him suspiciously. “A rich what?”

  Goober smirked and rolled his eyes.

  “History, okay? I read somewhere that the whole ‘redneck’ thing started with a coal miner uprising. The Blair Mountain Battle, if I recall correctly. That’s one of the first times working-class folks got tired of their lot and fought back against their employers. The miners wore red bandanas around their necks, hence coining the term ‘rednecks.’”

  My eyebrows ticked up a notch.

  “Huh. So, rednecks were America’s first ‘power to the people’ freedom fighters?”

  Goober shrugged. “I don’t know about the first, but yeah, in a way, that’s right.”

  I settled back into my seat, crossed my arms, and let a warm, satisfying smugness envelope my tired, half-redneck body.

  “WE’RE HERE,” GOOBER said, startling me awake.

  “Nyu-huh?” I grunted.

  Geeze, how tired did I have to be to doze off in the middle of running for my life?

  I looked around. Through the greyish-pink of dusk, I could just make out the overgrown entrance to the Hell’ammo across the paved road.

  Goober had backed the RV up into a tangled cover of scrub oaks and palmettoes. Our current covert position afforded a head-on view of the entryway to the redneck lair.

  I supposed, logistically, Goober’s choice would also aid in making a quick getaway, should one become necessary.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked, suddenly wide awake.

  “You’ll go first,” he said, and handed me a flashlight. “I’ll illuminate the road with the headlights until you drop out of sight. Then use your torch.”