Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
What’s Next for Val?
Cloud Nine Excerpt
About the Author
Chapter One
During my half-century on this planet, I’d learned that everybody had some kind of secret stuffed away in their closet. Some folks called them skeletons. Others called them boogey men.
As for me, what hid away in my closet was made of ceramic.
And it compelled me to do it bodily harm.
“DO ME A FAVOR, VAL. Change your clothes.”
My bleary eyes glanced up from the computer screen. I’d been pecking away at the keyboard since 3 a.m., when I’d been throttled awake by a crazy story idea that’d left my mind wobbling around in circles like a gerbil in a lopsided wheel.
Tom, my long-time boyfriend and short-time housemate, leaned against the door of my home office. Blond, clean-shaven, and in a cop uniform crisp enough to crunch, it almost appeared as if he’d been sent by the government to force me to clean up my act.
“Why should I change my clothes?” I argued.
“Because I almost mistook you for a homeless drifter,” he said.
Both Tom and the frothy cup of cappuccino in his hand were two temptations I found hard to resist. Still, I always gave it my best shot.
“Nobody can see me, Tom. Besides...these are my...uh...business pajamas.”
Tom’s left eyebrow ticked upward.
“There’s no such thing as business pajamas, Val. Unless you’re a ‘lady of the night.’ But you, my dear, could never be one of those....”
“Thank you.” I smiled and batted my eyes demurely.
“....because we both know you can’t stay awake past 9:30.”
Tom drove his jab deeper with an exaggerated wink. My lips twisted into a sneer faster than a barefoot tourist in an asphalt parking lot.
“Hardy har har, Tom. You know, I think I liked you better when you couldn’t tell a joke.”
Tom pretended to be confused. “Who’s joking?”
“Ugh!” I rolled my bloodshot eyes. “You win, okay? Now, hand over the cappuccino before somebody gets hurt.”
Tom laughed, gave me the cup, and tousled my nappy bed-head as if I were a child. I took a greedy sip of the delicious brew and watched Tom fiddle with the shirt collar on his perfectly pressed police uniform.
“When you’re done with the cappuccino, get a shower and get dressed, would you?” he said. “Go out and see the world. It’s still out there, you know.”
I scowled. “This never would have happened if I hadn’t let you move in.”
“What wouldn’t?” Tom quipped. “You working at home, or your total abandonment of personal hygiene?”
I glared at Tom. “Like I said before, I liked you better when you couldn’t tell a joke.”
“And like I said, I’m not joking. I’m heading off to work now. Why don’t you come up for air, Val...and give the rest of us a breather, too?”
“Another zinger,” I deadpanned. “Maybe you should be a writer.”
Tom shook his head.
“Nope. One’s plenty enough for this place. I gotta go.”
He handed me the morning paper, kissed me goodbye, and disappeared down the hallway. A moment later, I heard the front door close behind him.
I peeked out the blinds to make sure Tom was gone, then I sniffed my right armpit.
Good thing I was sitting down.
Okay. So I’ve been in my pajamas since Monday. Big deal. That was only two days ago.
I glanced down at the St. Petersburg Times. It must have been a typo. According to the paper, it was Thursday, July 18th.
“What?” I muttered.
Four days! Gone by in a blur!
I leaned back in my chair, tapped a finger on my desk, and vaguely recalled a string of hurried, takeout dinners with Tom, followed by typing into the night until I couldn’t see straight, then falling into bed long after Tom was fast asleep.
My word count for the week was incredible. But my love life was definitely down for the count.
I sat up and sighed.
At least Angela Langsbury, my writing instructor, would be proud when I showed up to class tonight with my latest story. But if I didn’t get a bath and return to the “planet of the washed” soon, Tom and I might soon be all washed-up.
I took another sip of cappuccino and looked down at my computer screen. My gerbil mind took a tentative step on its wobbly wheel.
I’ll just finish this scene, and then I’ll take a little break....
Chapter Two
The doorbell rang. My flying fingers froze and hovered above the keyboard. I glanced at the clock.
It’s half-past noon!
I padded to the door and peeked out the peephole. Either I’d forgotten it was national Wear Every Piece of Jewelry You Own Day, or I was being paid a call by my next-door neighbor, Laverne Cowens.
I opened the door. Laverne let out a little gasp. Her eyes doubled in size, and the crescent of red lipstick below her nose melted like a Christmas candle in a microwave.
“Oh my word, honey! Have you been sick?”
“No,” I said, and winced. The sunlight flashing off Laverne’s sequined blouse was blinding. I crossed my arms and tucked my fingers under the armpits of my smelly gray t-shirt. “Why would you ask that?”
“Well, I haven’t seen you for darn near a week...and you look like –”
“I’ve been busy,” I said. “Writing and stuff, you know.”
“Oh.” Laverne eyed me up and down. She didn’t look that convinced.
I tapped my foot on the threshold. “Did you need something, Laverne?”
Her donkey-shaped head raised up until our eyes met again. She flashed her horsey dentures at me.
“No, honey. I just wanted to make sure you saw this.”
Laverne poked a pink flyer at me.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Why, it’s my favorite time of the year, Val. The annual neighborhood yard sale and bake-off!”
“Oh. Why didn’t I get a flyer?”
“I dunno. I got mine Sunday.”
I briefly scanned the flyer. My eyebrows shot up an inch. “Is this a typo? It says here that this year’s bake-off winner has to kiss a pig.”
Laverne snorted. “I know! Isn’t it fabulous? I’ve always wanted to do that!”
I looked at the skinny old woman sideways and, for a second, worried about the state of her mental health. Then I remembered that, given her baking skills, Laverne’s prospects of winning the bake-off were as likely as that pig’s were of sprouting wings and flying off to New Jersey.
“Are you gonna have a table and sell stuff this year?” Laverne asked.
As I mulled over the idea, my eyes wandered from the flyer and stared absently at the flashy gold sequins spelling out “I Love Vegas” on Laverne’s shirt.
If I did participate, it would mark my first time doing so. Not because I didn’t like a good yard sale, but because until now, I didn’t have anything spare to sell.
Then, a few years ago, I’d inherited this house.
Ironically, having been handed a house full of hoarder’s junk had turned me into a minimalist. I’d thrown out pretty much everything in the place, and had furnished its empty hull sparsely – namely the same recycled full-size bed and side table that had come with my tiny apartment. To that I’d added a cheap cappuccino maker and a few assorted sheets and towels.
The day I’d moved into this house, I’d left the rest of the junk from the apartment, including a crappy old couch, in the alley by the dumpster. But later that same day, Tom had arrived, dragging that nasty old couch along with him as a sort of gag gift.
Unbeknownst to him, a hitchhiker in the form of a dead finger had come along for the ride. The derelict digit had given me a run for my money with the law, and a lingering fear of used upholstery that some might argue bordered on clinical neurosis.
I’d replaced the finger-infested couch, and, after many attempts to unload my boyfriend, had finally decided to keep him.
Living alone had enabled me to keep things at my house pretty well pared down to the basic necessities. But all that had changed a few weeks ago, when Tom moved in...and brought all his stuff along with him.
I handed the flyer back to Laverne.
“Well, are you?” she asked.
“Am I what?”
“Are you gonna have a table at the yard sale this year?”
A grin crawled across my lips like a fly stuck in honey.
“Yeah. I think I will. But Tom’s not gonna like it.”
Laverne opened her mouth to speak, but the sudden sound of hammering struck us both dumb. We turned and looked down my driveway. The hammering was coming from the residence that bordered the left side of my lawn.
Our new neighbor, Jake Johnson, was pounding a sign into his yard. Perspiration glistened from his bald head. It was late July, so I assumed the rest of him was drenched in sweat as well. But it was impossible to be sure. With the exception of the top of Jake’s head, as far as I could tell his entire body was covered in thick, black hair.
The term “swarthy” didn’t even begin to do Jake justice.
As I watched him beat on the sign post, I couldn’t stop myself from wondering if maybe, just maybe, Jake Johnson was the Missing Link scientists had been searching for....
“Hi, Jake!” Laverne called out.
Jake looked over and waved. Short and muscular like an erect chimpanzee, he gave the sign post one more whack, then lumbered toward us, pounding the hammer in his fist as if he were practicing for his next target.
If Laverne had known everything I knew about our primitive neighbor, she’d have pirouetted on her gold high heels and fled for the hills.
A couple of months ago, Jake had been released from prison after serving twenty years for arson. And...uh...for barbequing his mother. According to newspaper reports, Jake had used a bedroom in his house next door as a kind of makeshift crematorium.
Most folks around here thought Jake was guilty as sin. But a few believed that his mother had been a victim of spontaneous combustion, and that he’d been wrongly convicted.
I was among those few.
Still, I had to admit, Jake had a rather worrisome penchant for outdoor grilling....
But whether Jake had been guilty or not, I would forever be indebted to him. During his time in the slammer, he’d earned a degree in pet psychology. Since his release, he’d put his new-found skills to work, helping skittish, incorrigible canine clients overcome their neuroses.
To non-believers, dog psychology may have sounded as preposterous as spontaneous combustion. But not to me. Not anymore, anyway. Not long ago, Jake’s unorthodox “primal howl” treatment had cured me of my fear of wedding rings, thus enabling me to lead a more full and productive life.
A smile curled my lips. The memory of sitting around a fire, howling with a poodle in Jake’s backyard warmed my heart. I waved at my therapist as he crossed the yard.
“Howdy, neighbor,” I said.
Jake had barely gotten within arm’s length of us when Laverne jabbed the pink flyer at him.
“You having a table this year?” she asked, wriggling as if her bladder were about to burst.
“I dunno. Don’t got much to sell,” Jake replied in an accent that reminded me the urban-dwelling ape-man once hailed from Jersey.
Hoboken-habilis.
Jake glanced to his left, then right, then pounded his fist palm with the hammer. As he looked me and Laverne up and down, I almost expected him to break out into a chimp mating call. But he lowered his gravelly voice and spoke in a half-whisper instead.
“You’s guys, I think we got a thief in the ‘hood. You know, that’s the third sign I’ve put up this week. I get up in the morning, and, like, ‘poof,’ the sign’s gone.”
“What’s it for?” Laverne asked. “The yard sale?”
“No. My animal therapy business.”
“Huh. That’s weird,” I said.
“Animal therapy’s not weird,” Jake said defensively.
“No. I mean it’s weird the signs are going missing,” I said.
“So, you’re not having a table, Jake?” Laverne whined, her face as fallen as a drop-kicked soufflé.
Jake shot me a quizzical look. I shrugged and mouthed the words, “Laverne loves yard sales.”
Jake cleared his throat. “Well, hey, I can probably scrounge up a table. I mean, who ain’t got junk? Or I’ll buy something, for sure. You never know what you’ll find at a yard sale.”
Laverne’s dentures beamed like pearly headlights. “That’s right, Jake! That’s the best part! Finding all the hidden treasures! Oh! I’m so excited I can hardly wait!”
“Yeah,” Jake said, and looked at the flyer. “But I ain’t too keen on this bake-sale thing.”
My gut gurgled. I eyed Jake and shook my head ever so slightly. But it was too late.
“Why not?” Laverne asked. Her worried, pug eyes shifted back and forth between me and Jake.
“Personally, I think making a pig kiss a person qualifies as animal cruelty,” Jake said.
Laverne put her hands on her hips and cocked her horsey head sideways.
“Well, now,” she said, “I guess that would depend on what kind of person the pig had to kiss.”
Chapter Three
When Laverne rang my doorbell at half past noon, I’d been deep in the “writing zone.” I’d almost finished my latest story, and I was desperate to get back to my computer before I lost my mojo.
As the old saying goes, “Desperate times call for desperate measures.” So, I got rid of the noisome pair by employing the newly acquired super-power of my crime-fighting alter-ego, Valiant Stranger.
Like Godzilla run amok in the suburbs of Tokyo, Valiant Stranger raised both arms and blasted out a mushroom cloud of body odor that nearly brought Jake and Laverne to their knees.
It was rude, I admit.
But highly effective.
No sooner had I raised my elbows level with my ears than Laverne’s face shriveled like a powdered prune. She mumbled something about having to get back and rearrange her silverware drawer, and took off toward her house.
Jake bowed out too, without bothering to offer an excuse. I imagined him needing to return to his Neanderthal lair to keep the home fire burning – just as I needed to get back to my writing cave before my inspiration fizzled out. I wondered if his lair smelled as bad as I did....
BY HALF-PAST THREE, I’d finished the final draft of a short story I’d started a few weeks ago called Golden Years.
I typed, “The End,” saved the file, and closed my laptop.
A satisfied grin spread across my lips. “The” and “end” had become my favorite new wor
ds.
I reached across my desk and pulled the lid off a jar of jellybeans. I plucked out a popcorn-flavored one and popped it into my mouth as a reward for a job well done...or, at any rate, done.
As I put the lid back on the jar of treats, a card pinned to the corkboard on the wall above my desk fell off and landed on my computer.
It was the dreamcatcher postcard my friend Goober had sent me a week or so ago, right after he’d disappeared.
My teeth gently chewed the buttery jellybean as I studied the glossy photo. It featured a beautiful, feathery dreamcatcher hanging from a country porch above a set of comfy-looking, pillow-laden rocking chairs. I re-read the accompanying inscription for the millionth time:
I hope all your dreams come true.
The sappy sentiment made my nose crinkle.
Horse crap!
Goober wasn’t the sentimental type. Neither was I. I imagined him laughing at the thought of me reading the postcard. He knew darn well I’d gag on its sugary sweetness.
Still, the mere thought of Goober caused a small ping of pain in my heart.
I blew out a breath and flipped the postcard over. It wasn’t the postcard image that haunted me. It was the unsigned note Goober had scrawled on the back.
If you ever need me, you know how to catch me.
The problem was, I didn’t.
How could I “catch” Goober? The last time I saw his dumb, peanut-shaped head was at the Polk County Police Station in Lake Wales, a good eighty miles or more from here. I’d stood in the parking lot and watched him take off down State Road 60 in Cold Cuts’ old Minnie Winnie RV.
At the time, I’d thought he was heading back to St. Pete like I was. But he’d never showed. Instead, he’d just up and disappeared, without telling me where he was going, what he was up to, or how in the world he’d earned that mysterious check for ten grand.
I studied the postmark on the card for a clue. Goober had mailed it from Greenville, where my adoptive mother, Lucille Jolly Short, lived. Did he do that so no one would suspect the postcard was from him? If so, why was he concerned about that?
The only thing I knew for certain about Goober was that right before he disappeared, he’d saved me and himself from an angry mob of RV’ers. So, I could safely assume he didn’t have a death wish...
Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 3 Page 20
