Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 3

by Margaret Lashley

  “Val Fremden.”

  Fargo snickered, slightly unnerving me.

  “Just a moment,” he said.

  I waited on the line for at least a minute while a fly crawled across the kitchen window pane. I wished the fly was Finkerman, and I was a flyswatter.

  “Val Fremden,” Finkerman’s voice came on the line, making me jump.

  “Ferrol Finkerman,” I said sourly.

  “Oh, come now. No need for attitude. What say we get together for a little tit for tat. You show me yours, I show you mine.”

  “Could you come up with an analogy that doesn’t make me want to hurl my lunch?”

  “Always the joker. Well, this time, the jokes on you.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “What say we meet at my office and find out?”

  “Fine. What time?”

  “Does now work for you?”

  “As my mother always says, “There’s no time like the present to wipe a smile off someone’s face.”

  I RANG THE DOORBELL and waited.

  “Be right there,” Laverne’s voice called out.

  From the bushes beside her front door, two gnomes stared at me, their faces ecstatic with glee at the prospect of heading off to work with a hammer and a shovel.

  I want that hammer.

  The door flew open.

  “What’s up?” Laverne asked.

  “I need to borrow that letter,” I said. “The one from Finkerman.”

  “Sure, honey. Do you want to meet Harvey Hooters?”

  “Who?”

  “Harvey Hooters. The hitman.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Not a whit. He said he could snuff Finkerman out, no problem.”

  “You actually hired a hitman?”

  “Of course. That’s what you told me to do, isn’t it?”

  “Geeze, Laverne! And Harvey Hooters? I can’t say that’s the kind of name that instills fear into the hearts of men.”

  Laverne cocked her head sideways. “Is it supposed to?”

  I took the letter from her hand, then sucked in a deep breath to calm myself.

  “Listen, Laverne, how about, just for the moment, we consider this Harvey Hooters guy as Plan B.”

  “I think it’s too late for that, Val. By the way, did you get my kosher water?”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I pulled up in front of Finkerman’s office and grabbed my dossier of evidence. It consisted of the cellphone pictures of Finkerman at Walmart and the extortion letter he’d slapped Laverne with for an overdue book.

  Having failed to secure Goober’s dreamcatcher with stealth and a blonde wig as big as a beach cooler, I was back, this time in more normal attire, to initiate a couple of trades. If all went according to plan, I’d swap the incriminating photos for the dreamcatcher, and the incriminating letter – along with a threat to report Finkerman to the bar for extortion – in exchange for him dropping his suit against me for the incident involving Laverne’s gastronomically disastrous cookies.

  I climbed out of Maggie and marched to Finkerman’s door in full Valiant Stranger mode.

  It’s time for that frizzy-haired freak to take a fall.

  “Ms. Fremden, I presume?” young Fargo Finkerman said when I walked in the door. His face and voice mirrored his uncle’s uncanny ability for smarm.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  Fargo mashed a button on his phone. I heard a buzz emanate from behind Finkerman’s office door. A moment later, the door cracked open and Ferrol Finkerman’s pointy, Pinocchio nose poked out.

  “You look different today,” he said. “Do come in.”

  I followed Finkerman into his office and sat down in a fake leather chair that was sticky to the touch. I shivered with disgust. I needed to get out of there before I caught an STD, so I cut right to the chase.

  “I think you have something of mine, Finkerman, and I’d like to get it back.”

  Finkerman looked surprised. “I’ve got something of yours?”

  “Yes. A...redneck dreamcatcher.”

  Finkerman laughed for a full minute while I visualized taking another shower in bleach...and pouring some down his throat while I was at it.

  “That’s priceless,” he said finally, trying to compose himself. “And, pray tell, what does this ‘redneck dreamcatcher’ of yours look like?”

  “You know good and well what it looks like.”

  Finkerman wiped tears from his eyes. “Well, to be honest, I had no idea of its ethnic origins when I bought it.”

  I unclenched my vice-like jaws long enough to hiss, “Just hand it over, Finkerman, and I’ll give you something in return.”

  “Hmmm,” Finkerman hummed. He folded his hands into a steeple and touched the tip to his lips.

  “So that’s why you dropped by unannounced yesterday.”

  I nearly swallowed my tonsils.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Grow up, Fremden. I’ve got this place covered with surveillance cameras.” He pointed to one in the corner. “I’ve got your whole act down on tape. Nicely done, by the way, Ms. Feldman.”

  “But...how did you know it was me?”

  “I’d recognize that big butt of yours from a mile away. Without binoculars, I might add.”

  “Okay. Fine. It was me. Now what do you want for it?”

  “The tape, or the dreamcatcher?”

  I groaned inside. “Both.”

  “How about let’s say...five hundred bucks.”

  “Five hundred...ugh!”

  I dug around in my purse and pulled out my cellphone.

  “How about this instead!”

  I shoved the phone screen into Finkerman’s smug face. Reflecting back in his bugged-out eyes was a clear shot of him paying a Walmart cashier for a three-pack of Fruit-of-the-Looms. The darkened area on the back of his pants was irrefutable proof he was in desperate need of a change of undies, and pronto.

  Finkerman’s expression went all twitchy. He chewed his bottom lip while his face turned the color of a honey-baked ham.

  Finally, he blew out a breath and said, “Deal. The last thing I need is for clients to know I shop at Walmart.”

  He reached in a desk drawer and handed over the video tape. I deleted the photo from my phone.

  “So, where’s the dreamcatcher?” I asked.

  “That’s a little more complicated.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you see, on my way back to my Hummer, some guy at the yard sale offered to trade me for it. What can I say? I’m an old softie. Besides, I needed a radio and a potato peeler more than that stupid thing.”

  My heart sunk.

  Oh crap!

  “Geeze, Finkerman! What’d the guy look like?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Think! It’s important.”

  “Just your average white guy. Tall. Slim. Cheezy moustache.”

  Goober!

  “Was he bald?”

  Finkerman shrugged. “Hard to tell. He was wearing a baseball cap.”

  I slumped back in my seat. Finkerman grinned at me like a Chucky doll.

  “If it’s any consolation,” he smirked, “you can have the potato peeler.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “So, that leaves us with the little matter of my defamation suit against you,” Finkerman said, and leaned back in his chair.

  I took a deep breath, trying to recover from the reeling blow that Finkerman had traded away Goober’s dreamcatcher, and that there was barely a chance in hell I’d ever see it again.

  I sat up and peeled my left forearm off the armrest of the sticky vinyl chair. I wished I’d been wearing long sleeves, pants and boots...instead of a short jean skirt and sleeveless pink tank top. Every inch of my exposed skin crawled at the prospect of making contact with any surface in his office.

  “Not exactly, Finkerman. I’ve got another bone to pick with you.”

  “Really? And what would that be?�
��

  “This.”

  I shoved Finkerman’s letter to Laverne across the desk at him.

  “As far as I can remember,” I said, “extortion is still illegal in these, and I quote, ‘blessed United States of America.’”

  Finkerman snatched up the letter, looked it over and smiled proudly at his handiwork.

  “Ah, yes. Cowens. She’s that wacko neighbor of yours from the yard sale, right? I have to say, I’d never seen an Armani suit in size munchkin before.”

  “Leave her alone!” I yelled. “What you’re doing is extortion! What kind of creep takes advantage of senior citizens? And give up the lawsuit against me, Finkerman, or I’m reporting you to the Florida Bar Association!”

  Finkerman mulled over the idea. “And if I do give it up?”

  I nodded at the letter in his hand. “I’ll pretend I never saw that.”

  “Saw what?” Finkerman asked, and ripped the letter in half.

  I gasped. “Don’t you dare!”

  “Dare what?” Finkerman asked, and ripped it in half again.

  “I’ll sue you!” I screeched.

  “For what?” Finkerman laughed.

  “For being a bona fide fleabag!” I yelled, and catapulted across his desk.

  I grabbed his spidery wrist and arm-wrestled him for the letter. As I tangoed around on my knees on his credenza, he managed to mash a buzzer on his phone. A second later, young Fargo Finkerman dashed in.

  “Help me, you dolt!” Finkerman bellowed.

  Fargo took a tentative step toward us.

  “Touch me and I’ll sue you!” I hissed.

  The young man shrunk back, uncertainty marring his face like a bad tattoo.

  “Come on, Finkerman,” I grunted, getting him in a headlock. “Give me the letter. If there’s nothing illegal about it, why do you care if I have it or not?”

  “Watch the hair!” Finkerman yelped. “Tell me the secret ingredient in those nasty cookies of yours and I’ll think about letting you have the letter back.”

  “No!”

  I grabbed for the wad of torn paper in his hand and missed.

  “Come on,” Finkerman said, pushing my arm away. “What was in those cookies? Let me guess. Insecticide?”

  “No!” I grunted. “If it was, you’d be dead by now, you blood-sucking cockroach!”

  “Um...should I call the police?” Fargo asked, and for a moment stopped wringing his hands.

  “No!” Finkerman and I yelled in unison.

  The unexpected point of agreement made us both stop cold. We stared at each other in an unspoken détente, and eased up on our battlefield positions.

  “It appears we have reached a stalemate,” Finkerman said, and carefully smoothed his thin, frizzy hair with a wobbly hand.

  “Looks like,” I grumbled.

  Fargo smiled like a bank hostage and asked, “Coffee, anyone?”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Great. I was batting zero.

  No dreamcatcher. No extortion letter. One still-active lawsuit against me.

  I’d played my best hand against Finkerman and come away with zilch.

  Adding insult to injury, I could still picture the shyster’s smug face as I’d walked out the door. He’d smiled like a catfish with gas and waved goodbye at me with a fistful of Laverne’s shredded letter raining down in bits onto the sidewalk.

  As I’d strapped myself into Maggie to make my getaway, the sore winner had gloated with glee, and informed me that possession was nine-tenths of the law.

  I’d un-gleefully informed him that he was nine-tenths of a scumbag.

  It was all too much. I snapped. On the way home, I stopped at ACE Hardware off Boca Ciega Drive and bought myself a hammer. It was an act of self-preservation. I was literally trembling with rage, and didn’t trust myself to be able to safely climb the ladder to get up into my attic.

  “MY LIFE’S GOING DOWN the toilet because of you!” I hissed at the hapless lump of ceramic shaped like a fat man on a crapper.

  I must have been blinded by anger, because the irony of my statement completely escaped me.

  Perched alone on a concrete block out in the backyard, the Dr. Dingbat’s Difficult Defecation figurine looked rather small and defenseless. As the figurine’s lone judge, jury and executioner, I became a bit unnerved when I noticed that its grimacing expression had appeared to shift. Somehow, it now looked more like a plea for mercy than an effort to dislodge excrement.

  But there was no turning back. The Hammer of Justice had spoken.

  I raised the shiny new hammer over my headful of rationalizations.

  True, there’d been no trial. But the death sentence I’m about to hand down is guaranteed to be swift and merciful....

  As the stainless steel hammer impacted his sweaty bald head, Doo-Doo Daddy exploded into a million pieces. He also let loose a slow, pathetic groan that reverberated off the wall of the house like a warped Bob Dylan song played at too slow a speed.

  The relief was instant.

  Ridding the world of one more hideous creation from the sick mind of mankind was a life purpose I had embraced since my twenties. It never failed to soothe whatever ailed me.

  Scintillating satisfaction surged through me as I stared down at the results of my handiwork. One blow from my Hammer of Justice had vanquished the vile, villainous foe forever. All that remained was a scattered pile of shards...and, oddly, a little speaker-thingy attached to a battery by a bit of bent wire.

  I picked up the strange innards. It let out one last mournful grunt and dislodged a little slip of paper with the words NIM 1 printed on it.

  I pictured poor little NIM 1, and all the other NIMs out there, slaving away as underpaid inspectors in some Chinese sweat-shop, wasting day after mindless day quality-checking an endless factory line of fat, sweaty, little white men grunting on porcelain thrones.

  I tossed the noisemaker thingy back on the ground.

  Compared to NIM 1, maybe my life wasn’t so bad after all.

  I’D LOST MY BET WITH Tom, but it had been worth it. However, as I swept up the broken remains of Dr. Dingbat’s disgrace to mankind, a sneaky second thought crept into my endorphin-filled brain.

  If a figurine shatters in a backyard and no one else is around to hear it, does it still make a sound? Does it still count as a deal-breaker?

  “Val? Is that you?”

  I whirled around. Laverne was at the picket fence that separated our yards. I hid the hammer behind my back.

  “Uh...hey, Laverne.”

  “How did it go with the letter?” she asked.

  “Not great.”

  Laverne bit her bottom lip. “Does this mean I’m gonna lose my good name, Val?”

  “No, Laverne. Not if I can help it.”

  “So, what do we do now?”

  My fingers wrapped tighter around the handle of the shiny new Hammer of Justice, II.

  “Well, Laverne, I think it just may be time to initiate Plan B.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Good thing it’s garbage day tomorrow.

  The bag containing the shattered remains of Doo-Doo Daddy made a dull tinkling sound when I set it on top of the bin in my garage. I hit the remote to raise the garage door, and strolled nonchalantly down the driveway to the sidewalk.

  My reconnaissance mission yielded two results.

  First, to my delight, my neighbor Jake had already put his trash can out on the curb. It was only 5:45 p.m., making it a risky move, considering it could earn him the wrath of Nancy Bristol-Butt Meyers. She preferred people to wait until after 7 p.m.

  Second, to my further delight, no one else was around.

  I hurried back into the garage and grabbed the sack of figurine shards. If I put them in Jake’s can, there’d be no risk of Tom finding them.

  I looked both ways before double-crossing my boyfriend, and scurried over to Jake’s trash bin. As I lifted the lid, a Jersey voice sounded behind me.

  “What’cha doin’, Val?”r />
  My back arched. I turned around slowly.

  “Uh...hi, Jake. Our bin is full...I hope you don’t mind?”

  “Nah. Anytime.”

  “Thanks.”

  I dropped the bag of incriminating evidence inside the can and closed the lid.

  “So, how’s the writing biz treatin’ ya?” Jake asked, and scratched a mosquito bite on his hairy arm with his hairy hand.

  “All I can say is, ‘Thank God Tom’s got a steady job.’”

  Jake laughed.

  I nodded toward the sign in his yard.

  “So, how’s it going with your venture?”

  “You mean You’re in Charge? Eh. It has its ups and downs. Speaking of which....”

  Jake nodded at something behind me. I turned to see Nancy Meyers marching toward us, a slip of paper in her tight little fist.

  “Johnson!” she barked as she descended upon us. “How many times do I have to tell you? Garbage bins are unsightly, and shouldn’t be on the street before seven!”

  “Some things shouldn’t be on the street ever,” Jake whispered in my ear.

  “What was that?” Nancy said. “If you have something to say, say it to all of us.”

  Jake smiled. “I was just wondering if you’re enjoying your ‘You’re in Charge’ mug?”

  “Oh. Well, yes.”

  “Would you like another? You know, for a matching set?”

  Nancy’s hard face softened slightly. “Yes. I think Ralph would like that.”

  “Hold on, and I’ll fetch you one.”

  “Jake, could I have one, too?” I asked.

  “Sure! Be right back.”

  As Jake disappeared into the house, Nancy turned her attention to my shortcomings...or, to be more specific, my potential future shortcomings.

  “Fremden, I hear you’re getting a dog on Saturday.”

  “How did you...yes.”

  “Wait here. You need a copy of the neighborhood handbook I prepared on dog etiquette.”

  Nancy trotted back across the street and disappeared inside her house. Jake came out of his garage, toting two “You’re In Charge” mugs full of hot, black coffee.