Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 3

by Margaret Lashley

  “Okay,” I said. “By the way, that’s my favorite thing about you.”

  “What?”

  “That you take care of the garbage.”

  “Nice to know I’m appreciated for my talents, smarty pants.”

  Tom released me from his arms and jingled the change in his hand.

  “So, how do you want to blow our winnings?” he asked.

  I took him by the arm and gave him a coy grin.

  “It’s Saturday night. I’m sure a handsome man like you can think of something.”

  SUNDAY MORNING, WHILE Tom was in the shower, I bolted for the garage. I needed to get the yard sale table in order before I got nailed by the Knick Knack Nazi. I also needed to get my contraband figurines out of the garage before Tom took out the trash. I’d smuggled Doo-Doo Daddy home last night after the sale. He was now with the other three figurines hiding out like illegal immigrants in a box in my garage....

  As my fingers wrapped around the doorknob leading out to the garage, my cellphone buzzed. I jumped as if the blasted door handle had been electrified.

  The display on my cellphone read: Scam Likely. I stepped into the garage, hit the door opener and answered the call anyway.

  “Hello?”

  “I can’t believe you poisoned me!” a man’s trembling voice hissed. “I thought we were pals!”

  “Finkerman?”

  “Who else? Or do you make a habit of poisoning people?”

  “It was the word ‘pals’ that threw me off,” I said. “I never agreed to that. Anyway, what are you talking about?”

  “Those cookies. What was in them?”

  “Uh...what?”

  “You heard me. Do we need to go to the emergency room, or is this survivable?”

  “We?”

  “Me and my...client.”

  “Since when do you see clients on Sunday?”

  “Okay. It was a date. You satisfied?”

  I stifled a snort. “Sure. Was she?”

  “Har har. Now cut the crap and answer the question, Fremden. Do I need to call poison control? Take ipecac? Get my stomach pumped in the ER?”

  “Describe your symptoms.”

  Finkerman growled. “I could sue you, you know.”

  “Really? For what?”

  “Assault with a deadly cookie.”

  “I didn’t force you eat them, Finkerman. Besides, you’re the one who wanted the snickerdoodles in the first place. As I recall, it was you who initiated the trade. You even proclaimed you’d won.”

  “Irrelevant! Probably.... Anyway, I can still get you for intent to do bodily harm.”

  “I don’t think so. You see, I didn’t make the cookies, Finkerman. So how was I to know they would cause you...stomach distress.”

  “Aha! You knew, all right! Those cookies were gastric time bombs! I’ll have you know I crapped my pants – in my Hummer – driving down U.S. 19!”

  I stifled a laugh and imagined the cover of my first mystery novel featuring a yellow Hummer on the cover...Dial “D” for Diarrhea....

  “So?” I snorted. “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “I’m at Walmart now, buying new underpants.”

  I clenched my jaw against the rising need to laugh out loud.

  “Geeze, Finkerman. That must be...uh...embarrassing.”

  “Not really,” Finkerman said dryly. “Like I said, I’m at Walmart.”

  “Look,” I said. “How about this? I’ll pay for your underwear, and even throw in an air freshener for your Hummer.”

  “Aha! So, you admit your guilt. Thanks. That’s all I need for now.”

  The phone clicked off. I stared at the blank screen. A niggling thread of dread began to gnaw away at my gut.

  “Oh, crap. What have I done?”

  “What’s wrong, sugar?” Laverne’s voice sounded nearby.

  I looked up. My bobble-headed neighbor was smiling at me like a kindly mother donkey.

  “You know that old saying, Laverne? ‘No good deed goes unpunished?’”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re looking at its latest victim.”

  Laverne’s bulgy eyes went puppy-dog sad. “What was your good deed, honey?”

  I smirked sourly.

  “I saved the world from your deadly....”

  Oh, crap!

  “...uh...figurines.” I grabbed the box off the shelf and showed her my motley collection.

  Laverne peeked inside the box. “But, sugar, those aren’t mine.”

  I chewed my lip, grateful Laverne’s one-gear mind hadn’t picked up on the word “deadly.”

  “Are you sure, Laverne?”

  Laverne peered into the box again and nodded sternly.

  “Oh, yes. I’m sure, honey. I used to collect those Dr. Dingbat figures. But I gave them up. You know, J.D. says they’re too crude.”

  “Dr. Dingbat?”

  Laverne reached into the box and plucked out the figurine of the fat man on the toilet. She flipped it over, exposing two unsightly brown bottoms.

  “See here? This one’s called, Diagnosis: Difficult Defecation.”

  My upper lip jerked as if it’d been caught on a fishhook.

  “You don’t say, Laverne.”

  “No. I don’t. The figurine does, Val. Right here.”

  Laverne pointed a red-lacquered nail at the words embossed into the ceramic figure’s posterior. “See that double ‘D’ there? That makes it a genuine Dr. Dingbat.”

  “How do you know that, Laverne?”

  “Well, as another old sayin’ goes, Val, ‘It takes one to know one.’”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  WHILE TOM WAS AWAY at the gas station filling his SUV, I seized the opportunity to smuggle my ill-gotten loot over the border from my garage into the house.

  A criminal thrill raced through me as I transferred each forbidden figurine into an awaiting shoebox, then snuck across the threshold of the garage door and back into the house.

  Evading the watchful eye of the border cop, I safely stowed the tacky collection away in the back of my closet, right between a shoebox full of Halloween candy and box containing a pair of high heels I knew I’d never wear, but, nevertheless, couldn’t foresee a future worth living without.

  As I slid the box of contraband ceramics into place, a sigh of relief escaped my lips. I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t officially cheating on my deal with Tom. After all, I’d only procured them. Technically, no figurines had been smashed...yet.

  The way I saw it, I was simply preparing for the day when I could exercise the glaring loophole in Tom’s wager. He hadn’t said I had to give up figurines forever. Just for four weeks. If I could hold out that long, he’d get rid of his hideous chair, and I could go back to my penchant for pulverizing porcelain.

  And this new batch of mutant miscreations would do nicely.

  I closed the closet door and chewed my bottom lip.

  All I have to do now is keep my mitts off them for a month.

  Failing that, I suppose I could always buy a slipcover for Tom’s chair....

  Chapter Ten

  It was 7:57 a.m. Sunday morning and both I and my yard-sale table were again up and ready for action. Across the street, Knick Knack Nancy was peering down the street with her binoculars. I couldn’t stand the suspense, so I walked over to investigate.

  “What are you looking at?” I asked.

  Nancy lowered her binoculars, revealing a face perpetually frozen with annoyance.

  “Surveying the troops,” she said.

  She nodded toward the bake sale table at the end of the block, and poked the spyglass back in front of her ice-water-blue peepers. She grunted and shook her head.

  “Ugh,” she groaned. “Can you believe it? Connors is bringing the same thing she brought last year. I hope there’s no raisins in it this time. Ugh! A Jello mold? Really, Gaylord? Who brings Jello to a bake sale? A cheapskate, that’s who!”

  Nancy dropped the binoculars an
d gave me the once over.

  “What did you bring?” she demanded.

  “Uh...snickerdoodles,” I said. “A double batch!” I offered brightly, hoping to win favor with her, but losing some with my self-respect in the process.

  “Ugh,” Nancy grunted. “Same as Laverne. You two should coordinate your strategies better.” She peeked through the binoculars again. “I only see one tray of snickerdoodles.”

  “Uh...yeah. I dropped mine and had to ditch them,” I lied.

  Nancy nearly dropped her spy wear. “That’s pathetic, Fremden! If it were up to me, you’d be demoted to peeling potatoes.”

  I let that one slide, since I no longer owned a potato peeler.

  “What did you bring, Nancy?”

  It was a fair question, but one I knew Nancy was always loath to answer. As secretive as she was stodgy, Nancy always postponed revealing her bake-off entry until Sunday. Nobody knew why. Maybe she was hoping to win a medal of honor for it. Maybe she was just nuts.

  “I made my double-fudge brownies,” she said proudly. “They’re famous in Stuttgart. Now, off to your post, Fremden. And take the clipboard with you. We might as well get the voting started.”

  I nodded in lieu of a formal salute, and headed back across the street. As I reached the sidewalk, I glanced down the road. Over by the bake sale table, one of the ladies was releasing the rope that cordoned off the customers. A throng of rabid-looking yard-sale enthusiasts started pouring into the street.

  “You ready?” Jake called to me from his stand next door.

  “I guess so,” I called back, and took a quick detour over toward his table. Halfway through his yard, I stepped in a hole and fell to one knee on the grass.

  “What the heck?” I called out.

  “Sorry,” Jake said. “Post hole. Some jerk took my sign again.”

  I glanced back toward Nancy. She quickly looked away. “I think I have an idea who.”

  “Tell me!” Jake said.

  I leaned over the table and whispered in his hairy ear. “It’s brownies. Spread the word.”

  “Brownies? Who the heck is brownies?”

  I’d forgotten Jake was new to the neighborhood. “The bake off. The Knick Knack Nazi made brownies. Vote for her and she has to kiss that pig.”

  “Huh? Why would I want to make that poor pig kiss a Nazi?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Not a Nazi. Nancy.” I nodded toward Nancy’s place. “That’s her...uh...nickname.”

  Jake looked over at Nancy. “Why?”

  “Well, for a few reasons. Listen, I can’t say for certain, Jake, but I’m like...one hundred and fifty percent sure Nancy’s the one who’s been taking your signs.”

  This time, Jake’s eyes looked different as they shifted their gaze across the street to where Brunhilda was busy polishing her knick-knacks.

  “Why would she do that?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Sadistic pleasure?”

  Jake grimaced. “Geeze.”

  He shot a glance down the street toward the bake sale. I figured he was either trying to get a look at Nancy’s brownies or the little pink piglet frolicking in the grassy area by the baked goods table.

  “So, what’s it gonna be?” I asked. “Vote for the brownies and Nancy locks lips with a pig.”

  Jake grimaced. “I wouldn’t wish that on any living creature.”

  I laughed. “Somebody’s gotta do it. Anyway, you’ve got to vote for someone to win the bake-off. It’s tradition, Jake. When you’re done, pass the clipboard to the next table. They’ll tally the votes at the end to decide the winner.”

  “Doesn’t sound like winning to me,” Jake muttered.

  “Yeah. This year is kind of strange. Usually, the bake-off prize is something like a manicure or a grocery-store certificate. But this year...well, I dunno what happened.”

  Jake looked at the clipboard, his face sullen.

  “Think of it Jake. For the first time in neighborhood yard sale history, we have a chance to stick it to the man...or should I say...to the Knick Knack Nazi.”

  Jake studied me for a moment. “What have you got against her, Val?”

  “Nothing anybody else in the neighborhood hasn’t got. Listen, I’ve got to get back to my table. Just a friendly word of advice. Don’t leave your garbage cans out past 8:30 in the morning or you’ll get a nasty Nazi-gram.”

  Jake’s hairy eyebrows slowly met and formed a small, swarthy mountain in the middle of his forehead.

  “Don’t tell me she’s the one who left me that awful note.”

  “Uh...I’d bet good money on it.”

  Jake glanced over at Nancy, then back to me.

  “Val, you don’t think I resemble a sloth, do you?”

  I bit my lip. “Of course not. Look Jake, I gotta go before Nancy fines me for loitering.”

  I shoved the clipboard into his hairy hand.

  “Remember, vote for the brownies and we get to see Nancy kiss a pig!”

  Jake shot me a devious grin. He grabbed the cheap ballpoint chained securely to the clipboard and said,

  “Okay, Val. It’s on.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Lord a-mighty, there’s a carnage a people lollygaggin’ ‘round up in here,” Winky commented as he strode up to my yard-sale table.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Shouldn’t you be at your shop selling donuts or fishing worms or something?”

  Winky glanced around as if to make sure nobody else was listening, then wagged his eyebrows at me.

  “Winnie let me escape for an hour. I just couldn’t bear missin’ out on the yard sale of the century.”

  Winky’s jovial expression sagged with disappointment as he looked over the meager offerings left on my table. Apparently, even he didn’t want Tom’s dented rice cooker with no lid or a used chia pet in the shape of a reclining gnome.

  “Gaul dang it,” Winky sulked. “I’m too late. Val, you done sold outta the good stuff.”

  “Sorry, Winky. How about a consolation prize? There’s beer in the fridge.”

  Winky’s frown did a backflip. “Now yore talkin’!”

  I looked past his freckled face, down the sidewalk toward the crowd meandering my way.

  “Go help yourself, Winky,” I said, and hitched a thumb toward the garage. “I got customers coming.”

  As Winky disappeared into my house, a tiny, vestigial worm of anxiety wriggled in my gut. But I let it go. Now that Winky had Winnie and a home of his own, I wasn’t nearly as worried whether he was house broken...or if he’d break my house.

  I let go a breath and turned my attention to the man eyeing Tom’s old stereo speakers. The wiry guy appeared to have more tattoos than teeth. Rice didn’t require too many teeth to eat.

  “You look like you need a rice cooker,” I said to the toothless biker dude. “I’ll let you have it for four bucks.”

  The guy sniffed. “I’ll take it off your hands for a dollar.”

  “Deal.”

  He showed me his gums and picked up the rice cooker. “Where’s my dollar?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “My dollar to take this thing off your hands.”

  I pictured Tom’s rice cooker back in my kitchen, taking up precious cabinet space. If it was gone, so was that possibility.

  I paid the guy a buck.

  “And the gnome,” he said.

  I balked. “No way.”

  The biker dude laughed and shrugged. “Hey, it was worth a try.”

  “Good one,” I said. “But it ain’t gonna happen.”

  That gnome’s made of terra-cotta, buddy. If nothing else, it’s perfect target practice for my Hammer of Justice.

  “Okay. Have a good one,” he said and walked away.

  “What in tarnation is this stuff?” Winky asked.

  I whirled around to find the redheaded redneck riffling through a carton on a shelf in the garage. It was the box of discards for the sale. In it was Tom’s purple personal item! I leapt to Winky’s s
ide and snatched the box out of his hands.

  “Gimme that!”

  Winky recoiled.

  “Geeze, Val! Don’t go all loony-toons on me! I was just lookin’ for more stuff to fill out the sparse areas of yore table. Ain’t you ever heard a merchandising?”

  “No restocking!” I yelped. “It’s the rules!”

  Winky looked like he swallowed a wasp. “Whose rules?”

  I looked toward the street. My hands were full holding the carton, so I jabbed my chin in that direction.

  “Hers.”

  Across the road, Nancy Meyers was swatting the hand of some kid who’d made the mistake of reaching for her used paperbacks.

  “Believe me, Winky, you don’t want to get on that woman’s bad side.”

  “You’re telling me she’s got a good one?” Winky snorted. “From where I’m standin’, she looks purty bad from every angle, if’n you ask me.”

  “Well I never!” said a woman walking up to my table. She stopped dead in her tracks, shot us both a dirty look, and huffed off toward Jake’s place.

  “Ma’am!” I called after her. “He wasn’t talking about you!”

  I stifled a grin and shook my head at Winky. He was funny, but bad for business. And I still had Tom’s 1980s-era speakers and boom box to unload.

  “Do me a favor, Winky,” I said. “Go down and get me a brownie from the bake sale. And pick up one for yourself, if you want.”

  I pulled a dollar from my change purse and started to hand it to him, but he pushed it away.

  “You forget, Val. I’m a man ‘a means, now. I’ll buy.”

  “You’re right. Tell you what, why don’t you do me a different favor. Watch the table for me, Winky. I’ll run down there and get us both a brownie. And it’ll give me a chance to get a better look at that pig.”

  “Okay,” Winky shrugged. “But you’re gonna have to get the binoculars away from her first.”

  I BOUGHT TWO BROWNIES, petted the cute little pink pig, and skedaddled back before Winky could do too much damage. On my way there, I saw Jake standing at Nancy’s table, chatting her up. He handed her one of his shiny “You’re In Charge” coffee mugs, then ambled back toward his own table.