Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 3

by Margaret Lashley

  Like magic, my mind went blank. Suddenly, out of a mist, a yellow blob emerged. The pulsing yellow amoeba slowly morphed into a Hummer, then into the ghastly, smirking face of Ferrol Finkerman.

  Langsbury snapped her fingers. I emerged from my foggy vision.

  “So, have you got a villain in mind for your next story?” she asked us.

  “Yes,” we muttered like hypnotized zombies.

  “Can you visualize him?” she asked, and shot a look toward Clarice.

  “Most definitely,” she answered.

  “Is he despicable?”

  “Yes!” Victoria said.

  Langsbury turned to me. “And how do you feel about your villain, Fremden?”

  “The mere thought of him makes me want to tear my hair out!”

  Langsbury smiled. “Good. Now think, ladies. About motivation. What does your despicable character value above all things?”

  “I dunno,” Victoria said.

  Her hesitant answer broke the magical flow of our instructor’s spell, and we returned to hard-slog reality.

  Langsbury sighed. “Come on, gals. He’s just a man. All men value pretty much the same things.”

  “Like what?” Clarice asked.

  Langsbury grinned sadistically. “That’s your job to decide. Think about it. In fact, let’s make that next week’s assignment. Drawing out the elements of your perpetrator. Get inside his mind. Uncover his motivation by determining what he values most.”

  Her words caused a lightbulb to go on inside my head.

  “I get it now,” I said, nearly jumping out of my chair. “Thank you Ms. Langsbury! You’re...you’re inspirational!”

  The old lady grabbed her pencil and absently jabbed it around in her brown helmet of a hairdo.

  “Eh,” she shrugged. “I do what I can.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  I pulled up along Bimini Circle two houses down from Laverne’s place. I cut the lights on Maggie and everything turned a dim, yellowish gray to match the pale light of the streetlamp.

  “That’s his motorcycle,” Laverne whispered, and pointed toward her driveway.

  “A Harley? That’s not exactly what I’d call a discreet vehicle.”

  “Harvey said in Florida the more you stand out, the less people notice you.”

  My lips twisted sourly. “Good point. So, where is he?”

  “Right here,” a man’s voice sounded.

  A few inches from the driver’s side door, a face loomed at me in the darkness, causing a pathetic little screech to squeak past my tonsils.

  “Don’t worry,” Laverne said, and reached over to pat my hand. “That’s Harvey Hooters. You know. The hit man, honey.”

  “I prefer to be called Double H, or ‘The Problem Solver,’” he said, and took a step back from my door.

  Even in the dim light, I could see that Harvey had all the outward trappings of a typical Harley biker, including the full beard, the leather vest, the do-rag bandana, and a belly large enough to harbor a full-term manatee fetus.

  “Should we go inside to discuss your...problem?” Double H asked.

  “Sure,” Laverne said. “I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

  She reached down to the floorboard and brought up a plastic container. “I baked brownies in class tonight. They’re still warm!”

  My gut lurched. “Keep your voices down,” I whispered. “Let’s get inside before Tom or any of the other nosy neighbors spot us.”

  Laverne extracted her grasshopper legs from Maggie, and we followed her as she toddled up her driveway. Her silver heels sparkled in the moonlight, giving off the appearance she was stomping on fireflies.

  Double H and I took seats at the kitchen counter while Laverne prepared her unintentionally, yet nonetheless malevolent, refreshments.

  “Nice place you got here, Laverne,” Double H said. “Reminds me of the old times.”

  “Those were the days, all right,” Laverne said.

  She looked up at the ceiling dreamily and dumped a scoop of coffee onto the counter, missing the filter by a good six inches.

  “So, who is it you want snuffed out?” he asked.

  I nearly choked.

  “Ferrol Finkerman,” Laverne said, as casually as if she were naming him as the recipient for a gift certificate from Sears.

  “From what you told me, he sounds like a real jerk,” Double H said.

  “He does certainly live up to his name,” I said.

  Double H sucked his teeth. “So, do you have any particular way you want to see him come to his untimely demise?”

  “What do you mean?” Laverne asked, and poured water from the carafe into the coffee machine.

  “You know,” Double H said. “How do you want him done in? Terminated. Murdered.”

  “Murdered!” Laverne gasped. “Who said anything about murder?”

  “You did,” Harvey said. “You said you wanted him snuffed out.”

  Laverne gulped. “Harvey, I thought that meant you were gonna put snuff up his nose ‘til he hollered ‘uncle.’”

  Double H shook his head and laughed. “I should have known. Laverne, you haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Really, Double H,” I said. “We weren’t thinking of anything that...you know...drastic.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Double H said. “I’ve seen his type before. Finkerman’s a mushroom in the dung pile of life. You get rid of him and another one just sprouts up in his place.”

  “You are so right,” I said. “In fact, he’s already training someone now. The little toadstool’s name is Fargo. He’s his nephew.”

  “I see,” Double H said. “So if murder ain’t on the agenda, what is?”

  “Well, I was thinking,” I said. “Tonight, in class, my teacher said that to conquer a villain, first you should try to understand him. You know, what motivates him to do the things he does. She said guys are easy to figure out because they all value the same basic stuff.”

  Double H grunted and adjusted his do-rag. “Huh. You don’t say.”

  “No, Harvey. Her teacher does,” Laverne offered, and reached for some coffee cups in the cupboard above her head.

  Double H turned his attention back to me, grinning and shaking his bearded head.

  “So, anyway, the trick is to find out what Finkerman values most,” I explained, “and then use it as leverage to pry Laverne’s letter and my lawsuit out of his conniving hands.”

  “So, how can I help?” Harvey asked.

  “Well, you’re a man,” I said. “What does a man value most?”

  “That’s easy,” he said. “His ‘family jewels.’”

  I squelched a grimace. “Okay. What else?”

  Double H scratched a spot under his do-rag. “Uh...his non-family jewels?”

  Well, there went my hopes he was Einstein.

  “Okay,” I said. “And then?”

  “His looks?”

  A wheel turned in my rusty mind.

  “That’s it!” I said. “Let’s set up a meeting with Finkerman tomorrow. I think I’ve got an idea on how we can make him fold.”

  “Fold what?” Laverne asked.

  “His hand,” Double H grunted, then nodded like a thug. “All right, then. We’ll ‘interrogate’ him in his office...get him where he lives.”

  “Exactly!” I said.

  A second thought took the wind out of my sails.

  “Wait.... Crap!” I said. “We can’t. I just remembered. Finkerman’s got surveillance cameras all over his office.”

  Double H shook his head. “I hate when that happens.”

  Silence fell as the three of us put on our thinking caps. Some fit better than others. As I glanced at the pair beside me, I nearly lost hope. I’d have bet good money that between that pair of dim bulbs, there wasn’t twenty watts worth of light shining into the darkness.

  “Wait a minute! That’s it!” I said, and snapped my fingers.

  My partners in crime lifted their sagging heads and eyed me
eagerly, as if I held the secret to eternal youth.

  I wish.

  “What is it?” Laverne asked.

  “Finkerman’s got surveillance cameras everywhere, right? If we can get our hands on the video tape of him ripping up your letter, we can use it against him. I mean, while I was trying to wrestle your letter from his grubby paws, he practically confessed to extortion!”

  Double H bobbed his huge lion head. “Works for me.”

  “I’m in, too,” Laverne said, and set two cups of coffee in front of me and Double H.

  “Okay, it’s settled,” I said. “Let’s meet back here at seven tomorrow morning.”

  “But Val, Finkerman’s business card said they don’t open till nine,” Laverne said.

  “Precisely,” I said with a grin.

  Double H returned my smile, and raised a cup of coffee in a toast. “Early morning breaking and entering. I’ll drink to that!”

  I shot him a small, quick shake of my head and whispered, “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Right after Tom left for work, I dashed to the bedroom and pulled out the black shirt and sweatpants I’d stashed in the top drawer of my vanity. In the dusty beams of the morning sun, they suddenly didn’t seem like quite the right choice for a daylight robbery.

  I should’ve googled what to wear for such an occasion....

  But there was no time for second guessing. I pulled on the sweatpants and t-shirt, and inched my feet into a pair of sporty leather sandals that wouldn’t slow me down in case I had to make a run for it.

  I decided to leave the black face paint in the drawer.

  AS I CROSSED THE LAWN over to Laverne’s place, Double H came driving up on his Harley. I wondered how long it would be before my phone buzzed with an alert that SeaWorld was missing a walrus....

  This is going to be a disaster.

  Double H was dressed in grey chinos, black boots, and a black shirt with red and yellow flames licking up from the bottom hem, giving the appearance he was midway through being burned at the stake.

  I turned around, ran back inside my house, thought about giving up on the whole idea, gave up on that idea, grabbed a shirt and cap out of Tom’s closet, and ran back over to Laverne’s.

  “Here. Put this on,” I said to Double H. I handed him one of Tom’s cop shirts. “For a disguise.”

  “A cop? That’s a new one,” he said as he wriggled into it.

  Tom’s shirt fit him like a moo-moo on a cow-cow.

  I was trying to pull the ends together so he could button it when Laverne came out wearing her gold lame jumpsuit.

  Super. Nothing conspicuous about that. Geeze. Maybe the glare shooting off it’ll temporarily blind any potential witnesses....

  “Laverne, maybe you should stay behind,” I said. “If we get caught breaking and entering, you could be charged as an accessory.”

  Laverne’s huge eyes shifted to pleading puppy-dog mode. She shook her armful of bangle bracelets at me.

  “But Val, can’t you see? I love accessories!”

  Awesome. My partners in crime are an ancient, air-headed cabaret dancer in high heels and a Hell’s Angels wannabe that couldn’t run thirty feet without going into cardiac arrest.

  My confidence dropped down a mine shaft.

  I should just call the whole thing off, before we end up sharing a cell in Sing Sing....

  “Are you two sure you want to do this thing?” I asked.

  “Absolutely, sarge,” Double H said, and saluted me in his cop shirt and cap.

  “You’re darn tootin’!” Laverne answered brightly, and shot me two thumbs up.

  I sighed and resigned myself to my fate.

  “Okay, then. It’s on. Laverne, you ride with me. Double H, you follow behind, like you’re a motorcycle cop.”

  “Ten-four, good buddy,” Double H said, causing the doubt that had crept into my brain to compound exponentially.

  THE SLEAZY STRIP CENTER was deserted. I guess attorneys, hookers and sexual deviants liked to sleep in.

  “Here we go,” Double H said, and turned the knob on Finkerman’s office door. The fat, fake cop had picked the lock in under thirty seconds, and employed even fewer swear words in the process.

  So far, so good.

  The door gave way to his safe-cracker charms, and we piled into Finkerman’s office like it was Black Friday at Walmart.

  “Look around for the video tapes,” I said. “Laverne, you check out Fargo’s desk here.”

  “Is that Fargo?” Laverne asked, and picked up a framed photo of the two nearly identical men standing side by side.

  “Yeah.”

  Double H whistled. “No doubt those two are from the same gene pool.”

  “Gene pool?” I said. “More like scum pond. Double H, I think there’s a storage closet down the hall. Finkerman keeps a box of...uh...stuff in there. That may be where he stashes the tapes, too. You take the closet. I’ll check his private office.”

  “Ten four,” Double H said, and waddled down the hallway.

  I was almost through pilfering through the papers on Finkerman’s desk when Double H came in toting a box of VCR tapes.

  “You were right,” he said, and handed me a tape. “This one’s marked this week.”

  I grabbed the tape and stuck it in an old VCR on Finkerman’s desk. I found a remote control and clicked the sticky “on” button. The TV monitor mounted on the wall buzzed to life. I mashed a button on the VCR and the tape began to roll. So did a parade of call girls.

  “That’s some clientele he’s got,” Double H said.

  I shook my head at the stream of hookers that came and went out of Finkerman’s office, teasing the bejeebers out of Fargo as they left. It was like watching The Making of a Young Scumbag on PBS.

  “This tape is from the camera mounted by the front door,” I said. “We need the tape from Finkerman’s office camera.”

  “Roger that.” Double H said, and began pawing through the tapes in the box.

  I was about to stop the hooker parade tape when a mousy-looking woman came on screen.

  I recognized her face.

  “Here’s the latest names from the overdue book list,” the woman said, and handed Fargo a slip of paper. “Thirty-seven names,” she said, and pushed a pair of librarian glasses up on her nose. “That’s thirty-seven bucks you owe me.”

  Oh my gosh! Victoria really was a librarian!

  “Right,” Fargo said, and took a box from a locked drawer in his desk. He opened the petty cash box and counted out thirty-seven ones.

  Victoria, the library-faced lady from my writer’s class, snatched the cash and shot Fargo an evil grin.

  “Nice doing business with you.”

  Fargo smiled weakly. Victoria left. As the door closed behind her, Fargo put a finger gun to his temple and pulled the thumb trigger.

  Double H and I exchanged glances.

  “I know her!” I said, and pulled out the tape. “Okay. So, we’ve got the source of Finkerman’s mailing list. Now we just need to get Finkerman on tape admitting to extortion.”

  “Try this one,” Double H said, and handed me a tape. I stuck it in the VCR and got a close up look at a body part I never knew existed.

  “Ugh!” I groaned and covered my eyes. “Double H, you take control. Fast forward until you see a woman in a short jean skirt wrestling with Finkerman on his desk.

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  After three false alarms, Double H hit pay dirt.

  “Here’s another one,” he said.

  I cracked opened an eye for a look. There I was, wriggling around on the desk with Finkerman. Like all the other images on the tape, I wish I’d never seen it. I had enough cellulite on the back of my thighs to start my own fat farm.

  “That’s the tape,” I said.

  I shut off the VCR, grabbed the tape out of it, and crammed it into my purse with the other one.

  “Okay, Double H, let’s get out of here.�
�

  My partner in crime nodded, and we headed toward the exit. Down the hallway, we heard someone knocking around in the storeroom. The aroma of brewing coffee permeated the air.

  Oh, crap!

  “Finkerman’s here,” I whispered.

  “Wait here,” Double H said, and crept toward the storeroom door.

  Too nervous to sit still, I followed the portly fake policeman down the hall. Double H put a paw on the doorknob to the storeroom and jerked it open. I gasped as he raised his meaty fist like a club. Suddenly, he cocked his head sideways and let his arm fall to his side.

  I peeked into the storeroom. There, by the coffee machine, stood the ancient remains of the Bond girl in Goldfinger. Making coffee.

  “Laverne!” I yelled, causing Double H to fart.

  “Don’t scare me like that!” he said. “I thought I told you to wait over there!”

  “What are you doing in there?” I asked Laverne.

  “Making coffee,” she said, and beamed the full range of her dentures at me. “I thought you two might could use something to drink.”

  “We found the tapes,” I said. “Turn off the machine. We need to get out of here.”

  Laverne mashed the “off” button with a shiny red nail tip and tottered over toward us.

  “We’re the three banditos!” she chirped.

  “Right,” I said. “Now let’s get outta here before we get caught.”

  Laverne and I trailed behind Double H like ducklings. But just as he reached a huge paw for the front door, the tarnished brass knob began to turn on its own.

  Oh, geeze. Crap on a cracked up cracker.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “Someone’s at the door!” Laverne squealed, making me wish I had a roll of duct tape in my purse along with the rolls of quarters.

  I grabbed her by the arm and Double H shoved us down the hallway out of sight.

  Over Double H’s labored breathing, I could hear the door squeak open, then slam closed.

  Ferrol Finkerman grumbled, “I told that dolt a hundred times to lock that blasted door.”