Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 3

by Margaret Lashley

  I’D WADED, ANKLE-DEEP, almost half a mile north along the beach to the yellow-and-gold, bumblebee-striped BilMar Hotel. My hands were full of freckled cockle shells and cute, little cat paw shells I’d picked up in the gentle surf along the way.

  My skin was sizzling in the midday sun, and I was dying for a dip in the ocean to cool off. I waded to shore, deposited my shells and sandals on the sand, and set my purse on top of my shoes. Then I peeled my sweaty sundress off over my head, dropped it on top of my purse, and waded into the Gulf.

  It was as warm as bathwater.

  July in St. Pete Beach meant warm seas, hot sun, and plenty of stingrays. The greyish-brown, shovel-shaped creatures congregated in small schools this time of year. Ranging from saucer-sized to as big as cookie sheets, the gentle creatures burrowed into the sand, and were usually nothing to worry about.

  Unless you stepped on one.

  I’d had the misfortune to do just that a few years back. The top of my foot had been speared by one of their poison-tipped tails.

  Just like my run-ins with Finkerman, the stingray’s poison had taken weeks to get over, and, in the end, had added absolutely no value to my life whatsoever, or anyone else’s, for that matter. And, just like Finkerman, it was an experience I didn’t care to repeat.

  Stepping into the water, I shuffled my feet along the hard, sandy bottom. That way, any stingrays lurking nearby would have advanced warning I was headed their way. Once the water was waist high, I lifted my feet and floated, lightly treading water to stay upright.

  The salty Gulf water buoyed my body, and I bobbed around in the gentle surf like a roasting cork. I kept an eye on my purse on shore, and wished I’d brought a sunhat. Otherwise, the blue sky and tropical beach created a scene as idyllic as any tourist brochure could conjure. Still, all I could think about was the current mess I was in.

  What is it with guys like Finkerman?

  What is it with guys in general?

  And Tom! How could he have been such a clod? Selling Goober’s dreamcatcher – and to Finkerman, of all people!

  The man I cared about most had somehow managed to find the man I cared about least, and sold him the only thing I had to remind me of the man I cared about like a brother.

  Some dreamcatcher that had turned out to be. More like a nightmare-catcher if you asked me....

  But what else should I have expected? If it weren’t for the orchestra of ironic twists in my life, I’d never go dancing at all.

  Topping the whole disaster off was another ironic doozy; I was living with a cop, but I couldn’t ask him to help me find my missing friend.

  It was too dangerous. For Tom.

  What if it turned out Goober was a felon on the run or something? And that check stub of his for ten grand. It could have been a hit-man payoff, for all I knew.

  No. It was too risky to get Tom involved. He could get in deep trouble for aiding and abetting a fugitive...or something like that.

  Besides, I’m so mad at Tom right now I could fry his butt in a skillet with a side of bacon....

  A seagull screeched overhead, as if heckling my screwed-up life. I splashed water at it and headed for shore. As I did, I thought I heard Glad’s toady voice whisper:

  “What are you winning, kiddo?”

  “Huh?”

  “What are you winning, holding onto your anger?”

  “I don’t know!” I hissed at the seagull.

  But I have a feeling I’m about to find out.

  Chapter Twenty

  On the way home from the beach, I stopped by the bank and picked up three rolls of quarters. I tucked them away inside my purse and set my expression to grim. With my foul mood restored and my hillbilly hacky-sack freshly restocked, I was ready to do battle.

  Tom wouldn’t even know what hit him.

  But alas, my vengeful rampage wasn’t to be. When my blond nemesis came home from work, the jerk foiled my plans – in a way I never saw coming.

  “YOU FORGIVE ME YET?” Tom asked through a narrow slit in the front door. Like a cop on a routine bust, he’d rung the door bell, then cracked the front door slightly ajar and hollered through the opening while maintaining a safe distance.

  “Absolutely not,” I said, and grabbed my weaponized purse from the kitchen counter.

  Tom poked a bunch of flowers through the crack in the door and waved them around like a white flag of surrender. They were daisies. My favorite.

  “Humph!” I responded sourly.

  Tom poked his head inside and shot me one of his impossible-to-hate, boyish grins.

  “I’ve got something else for you, too,” he said, and slipped a shoulder through the door.

  “Forget it,” I grumbled. “I am sooo not in the mood.”

  Tom eyed my purse warily, then laughed. “It’s a book, Val.”

  I gripped my purse strap tighter. “I’m not in the mood to read, either, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  Tom stepped a leg inside, and cautiously extended his arm toward me, as if he were afraid he might lose a limb.

  In his outstretched hand was a small paperback entitled, Precious Names for Precious Pets. The cover featured a puppy so cute I wanted to claw my eyes out. My jaw unclenched a tiny smidgen.

  “What do we need that for?” I muttered. “I thought you and Milly already decided on a name without me.”

  Tom stepped the rest of the way inside. “What gave you that idea?”

  “Milly told me. She put it on the puppy’s registration papers.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know. When I talked to her, I just meant it as a placeholder, Val. A joke.”

  I shot Tom a dirty look. “Ha ha.”

  “Come on, Val. I got this book so we can decide on a name for the puppy together.”

  Before I could raise my purse high enough to bop him, Tom stepped up, wrapped his arms around me, and pulled me close. Then he surprised me by shuffling backward like a crab. I wriggled against Tom’s chest as he dragged me and my foul mood along with him, like some “emotional repo” man.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  Then I realized what was happening.

  I tried to squirm free of his hug, but it was too late. Tom tumbled, butt-first, into his disgusting Barcalounger, pulling me along onto his lap.

  As I fell, I lost my grip on my hillbilly hacky-sack. It dropped onto the floor, and let out a groan the likes of which I’d only ever heard emanate from my Uncle Popeye after Thanksgiving dinner.

  Oh, good lord! The figurine! It’s still in my purse!

  I took the only evasive action I could think of. I kissed Tom hard on the mouth, hoping to distract him from the gut-wrenching moan.

  “That’s a new one,” he said, pulling away from my lip-lock.

  “What?” I asked, and tried to kiss him again.

  “No really. Was that you, Val? I mean, are you okay?”

  “Uh. Yeah. I ate lunch at Laverne’s,” I lied.

  “Oh,” Tom said, and eyed me dubiously. “Well, I was gonna take you out for dinner to make up for, you know, Goober’s dreamcatcher.”

  “Oh.” A tinge of relief offered itself up like a booby prize. At least Tom hadn’t figured out I was harboring a fugitive figurine in my purse.

  “But I guess we’d better order in,” he said. “You know, just in case.”

  “Sure,” I said sweetly. “Whatever you say.”

  “What?” Tom asked.

  He craned his head back to get a better look at me. “I never thought I’d hear you say those words, Val. Have you got a fever or something?”

  Yeah. A fever that nothing short of pummeling porcelain to pieces is gonna cure.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I was swimming in the crystal blue Gulf off of Sunset Beach. I took a bite of peanut-butter donut and petted the stingray I was riding on.

  All of a sudden, a gigantic grey shadow the size of an elephant swam underneath us, casting a menacing, dark shadow on the sandy bottom. I frantically nudged the si
des of the stingray, trying to get it to gallop away to safety.

  But it was too late.

  The gigantic beast rocketed past us, then circled back around. It blasted a giant breath out of its blowhole, then plowed through the water toward me and the stingray like a renegade torpedo.

  Just before it rammed us into oblivion, the behemoth sea monster stopped dead in front of us, causing a wall of breakwater to swoosh over my head. I grabbed onto the stingray’s gills for dear life, and nearly tumbled backward, head over heels, from the blast of the powerful wave.

  As the wall of water passed, I swiped frantically at my eyes. I was desperate to get a bead on my enemy and what he was up to. The saltwater stung as I blinked in disbelief.

  Jutting out of the water right before me was the hideous head of a beastly whale-shark thing. Its long, pointy nose was like that of a sawfish. The top of its head was covered in hairy tentacles that reminded me of a rusty, fraying Brillo Pad.

  The creature opened its huge, hideous jaws full of dagger-like, blood-encrusted teeth and said:

  “You ready for a cappuccino?”

  I cracked an eye open, then pulled the soggy corner of a pillow from my mouth.

  “Good morning, princess,” Tom quipped.

  “Nyeahgh,” I said, and raised up on an elbow.

  “How about I just set this on the nightstand? Sorry, but I gotta go get dressed. I’m running late.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I muttered.

  Tom kissed me on the nose, set the cup down, and turned to leave.

  “Hey, Tom?” I called after him.

  He turned back to face me. “Yeah?”

  “I was just wondering. How many hairs do you need to do a DNA analysis?”

  Tom’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “You heard me,” I said, and reached for the cappuccino.

  “Just one, if it’s got a follicle. Why?”

  “Just need it for this story I’m working on.”

  Relief melted the worried edges of his face. “Oh. Okay. Hey, mind if I take some quarters? I’ve gotta park downtown later today.”

  “No problem. I’ve got plenty in my purse.”

  Tom grinned slyly. “Thought so. Look, no need for you to get up. Take it easy.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  I watched Tom disappear down the hallway. I took a sip of cappuccino and sighed. Then the caffeine kicked my brain awake and I nearly spewed hot coffee all over the sheets.

  Crap on a cracker! My purse! Doo-Doo Daddy’s still in there! If Tom sets off another round of grunts from that figurine, I’ll be had! Plus, dang it! I forgot! I’m supposed to be mad at him!

  “Stay out of my purse!” I screeched and scrambled out of bed like a two-timing hussy.

  I slammed the cappuccino on the nightstand, collided with the doorframe, and bounced off the walls down the hall until I spilled out into the living room and nearly rammed right into Tom.

  He was leaning across his eyesore of a chair, his butt toward me. He had one hand on the armrest of the Barcalounger, supporting his torso. The other arm was reaching down toward the floor. His fingertips were mere inches away from my purse....

  “Don’t touch that!” I bellowed.

  Tom jumped as if he’d been poked by a hot cattle prod. His right hand instinctively reached for his pistol, but his undies weren’t packing. He whirled around to face me.

  “What in the world is up with you, Val?”

  “Nothing!”

  I backpedaled against the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

  “It’s just that...you know...a woman’s purse is her, like, you know...her sanctuary, Tom!”

  Tom didn’t say a word. Instead, he stared at me with an expression he must have honed over three decades of having to listen to idiotic alibis.

  “Sanctuary?” he said finally.

  “Look, Tom. You go get dressed. I’ll get the quarters. How many do you need?”

  “Enough for three hours ought to cover it.”

  “Okay, a whole roll then.” I shooed him down the hallway. “Go. Get dressed! I’ll take care of it.”

  As Tom disappeared into the bathroom, my knees nearly buckled with relief.

  Geeze. That was a close one.

  Twice already I’d had to lie to cover my tracks for carrying around that stupid figurine!

  I jerked opened my purse. As I fished for Tom’s quarters, a sweaty little guy stared back at me from his perch on a toilet.

  From the looks of it, it was pretty clear that one of us had some pretty screwed up priorities...and I had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t Doo-Doo Daddy.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  With Tom and his prying eyes safely away at work, it was time to get serious about my current life situation. Too many things were spiraling out of control. My addled brain was overwhelmed.

  I padded over to my desk, grabbed a notebook and jotted down a quick list of my most pressing disasters currently plaguing me.

  There were five.

  Six, if I counted my figurine addiction.

  Geeze! I’m dealing with more catastrophes than the Red Cross!

  I glanced over my list.

  Current disaster one: Finkerman had Goober’s dreamcatcher. On the plus side, I had his unflattering Walmart cameo. I figured this disaster could be resolved with an even swap. Easy-peasy. But then again, nothing involving Finkerman was ever easy.

  Current disaster two: Finkerman’s lawsuit against me. On the plus side...there was no plus side. I had nothing on the jerk big enough to hold back that impending fiasco. So far, the poison-tipped spear I needed to slay him still eluded me....

  Current disaster three: Tom Foreman’s lousy performance as a boyfriend. He’d named the puppy without me and given away a semi-priceless family heirloom. On the plus side, his actions, while thoughtless, weren’t intentional. And he had a cute rear end. He’d kind of cleared himself of the puppy-naming wrong-doing last night. But he was still guilty as sin for selling Goober’s dreamcatcher to Finkerman. Not to mention the fact that I still owed him one for that stupid “vibrator in the yard-sale box” prank.

  I glanced at a picture of Tom on my desk and smiled like the Wicked Witch of the West.

  Oh, no, Tommie dearest. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that one!

  Current disaster four: the upcoming week’s assignment for Mystery Writing for Fun and Profit. On the plus side, I was kind of the teacher’s pet. Still, Langsbury’s charitable streak was as thin as her papery skin. Thursday night, she’d instructed each of us to do a mock crime scene investigation and report back to her about it this week. So far, I hadn’t done squat on the assignment. But it was only Tuesday. I still had two more days to figure that one out.

  Current disaster five. Goober was still missing in action. On the plus side....

  I chewed my pen. As much as I grumbled about Goober, I couldn’t think of a single good thing about him being gone. In fact, the mere thought of my goofy, wooly-mustachioed friend being lost and alone somewhere caused my gut to flop.

  I knew that under normal circumstances, Goober would be perfectly capable of taking care of himself. But what he’d done – up and leaving like he did – wasn’t normal. Something was wrong. Otherwise, why would he have disappeared like that? Why couldn’t he tell me or somebody what was going on? I mean, what if someone was after him or something?

  I glanced up at the postcard he’d sent.

  If you need me, you know how to catch me.

  The word “catch” could’ve just been a bad pun. But I didn’t think so. Even though I’d so far been unable to find one, my gut told me that Goober’s dreamcatcher held a clue to how to reach him. Now it was gone. Finkerman had it. And I had to get it back no matter what it took.

  I bit my lip and slapped the notebook down on my desk. I hadn’t wanted to smash a figurine so bad since...yesterday.

  I reached for my purse and the toilet-sitting figurine that still lurked inside it. As I did, my phone rang, sa
ving me from losing my bet with Tom for at least another minute or two.

  “Hello?”

  “Val! It’s me, Cold Cuts!”

  “Cold Cuts! Hey, stranger! How are things with you and Bill?”

  “Good, thanks. Listen, I was wondering. Have you’d heard anything from Goober?”

  My body slumped along with my voice. “Not a word. Have you?”

  “I got a letter in the mail from him today.”

  I sprung off my chair. “Really? What did he say?”

  “Well, that’s just it. He didn’t say anything. He just sent a check for $1,200. That’s the price we discussed for your...uh...the RV.”

  “No note or anything?”

  “No. Like I said, not a word.”

  “What about the check? Did it have an address on it?”

  “No. It was a cashier’s check.”

  “Dang it! Geeze. I hope he’s all right.”

  “Me, too. Well, look, Val. Some customers just walked in. Let’s catch up on Friday, okay?”

  “Friday?”

  “At Winnie’s engagement party.”

  “Oh my lord! I’d forgotten all about it!”

  “Got any idea what to get her?” Cold Cuts asked.

  “No. Wait. Winnie mentioned yesterday that she likes going to yard sales. Does that help?”

  “Huh. Not really. But...oops. Look, I gotta go. Bye!”

  Cold Cuts clicked off the phone. I pictured the cute, bohemian, thirty-something girl with wild brown hair. She must have been standing at the reception desk when she called. I visualized the kitschy, 1950s-Hawaiian style lobby of the Sunset Sail-Away Resort. Bill, her tall, thin, yoga-guru lover was probably right by her side. They made a good team.

  I sighed and plucked Goober’s postcard from the cork board above my desk and studied it for the millionth time.

  Like the cashier’s check he’d sent to Cold Cuts, Goober’s postcard didn’t offer up any new clues. But on the plus side, thanks to Cold Cuts’ call, I now knew that my wayward, traveling hobo friend was still alive and kicking.