WHEN WE PULLED UP IN the driveway with our new housemate, Sir Albert Snoggles, III, we were shocked to see J.D. throw a suitcase in the trunk of his white Mercedes and speed off.
“What’s going on?” I called out.
Laverne picked her way across the lawn.
“Is that your new puppy?” she asked.
“No,” Tom joked. “He’s his stunt double.”
“Oh,” Laverne said. “Well, I bet he looks just like him.”
“Right.”
“Can I hold him?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, and put the pup in her arms.
“Aren’t you the sweetest thing!” she cooed.
“What’s up with J.D.?” I asked.
“I think we’re through,” Laverne said.
She shrugged and looked up from the pup toward Tom and me.
“You know, you two are lucky,” she said. “Some people never do ripen up with age. They stay sour their whole lives.”
I squeezed Tom’s hand.
“I’m sorry, Laverne,” I offered.
“Don’t be. I’ll be fine. Happiness is an inside job, you know.”
She handed the pup over to Tom.
“Well, I better get back inside. I got a Skinny Dip dinner waiting for me. See you around!”
Laverne turned to go, then waved at someone behind us. I turned to see Jake busy pounding another sign in his yard.
“Tom, go on in with Snoggles. I want to ask Jake something.”
As Tom toted the pup inside, I marched over to Jake.
“What are you doing, fraternizing with the enemy?” I demanded.
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw you with Nancy. And I heard you talking with her about Ralph.”
Jake eyed me dubiously, like a jaded primate.
“So what if I talked to her. Ralph’s a real handful. Nancy needed help from somebody who understood the criminal mind.”
“Because Ralph’s a thief?”
Jake looked at me dubiously. “How’d you know that?”
“I...uh...might have overheard some of your conversation.”
“Inside Nancy’s house? Geeze, Val. You’re as big a busybody as she is.”
“I am not! And I think it’s illegal, what she’s doing. You can’t hold a man against his will like that. You of all people should know that, Jake!”
“Geeze, Val. If you’re gonna go snooping around, you should at least get your facts straight.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ralph’s not a man. He’s a parrot.”
I STOMPED BACK TO MY house, feeling like a complete bird brain. I kicked off my sandals and stepped right into a warm puddle.
“Tom!” I yelled.
He came down the hallway toting the puppy and a pile of old newspapers.
“Sorry. I was going to put papers down, but little Snoggles here beat me to it.”
“Well aren’t you a little darling,” I said.
Tom handed me the pup. “Watch him while I lay the newspapers around.”
I carried the wriggling pup down the hallway toward the bedroom.
“So, you like to be naughty?” I asked Snoggles.
He yipped in reply.
“Okay then. Give this a go.”
I reached into my secret shoebox stash and tossed a rag on the floor. Little Snoggles went wild.
“Oh, no!” I cried out.
Tom came running in. “What’s wrong? Is the puppy okay?”
“Oh, Tom,” I wailed. “Look what little Snoggles did to your uniform!”
As if on cue, little Albert snarled, then ripped at the already torn sleeve of Tom’s ruined cop shirt.
Tom shook his head and laughed. “He’s so cute, you just have to forgive him.
“I totally agree.”
I picked up the ball of fluff and held him to my chest.
Yes, Sir Albert Snoggles, III, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship....
FROM THE WAY TOM WAS acting, you would think he and I’d just adopted a real kid.
Even from my vantage point – peeking out through a slit in the living room blinds – I could see Tom beaming at Snoggles like a proud papa. Our neighbor Jake appeared equally enamored with our new canine companion.
I smiled and let go of the blinds. It had been a hectic day, but Snoggles seemed to be settling in quickly to his new surroundings. So, while Tom and the new pup weren’t underfoot, I used the respite to hang up Goober’s redneck dreamcatcher.
Instead of returning it to the window in the bedroom, I decided it would look better in my home office. I reached up to hook the dreamcatcher’s hanger onto the curtain rod, but all I got was a beer can in the eyeball. I was too short to reach the rod by a good five inches.
I needed something to stand on.
Too lazy to drag a stool from the kitchen, I wheeled my office chair up to the side of the daybed, where I’d laid the dreamcatcher. I braced the chair against the bed, then carefully climbed into it until I was squatting with my feet in the seat and my hands on the back of the chair.
I grabbed the dreamcatcher. Then slowly, as if I were learning to ride a surfboard, I cautiously wobbled my way from squatting to standing.
So far, so good.
I held the dreamcatcher up and reached for the curtain rod....
The chair shot out from under me like a bull out of a rodeo gate. I yelped, flung the dreamcatcher across the room, and took a flying leap toward the daybed. I landed on it in a face-first belly flop.
The dreamcatcher wasn’t quite as lucky.
I looked over to see it was lying on the floor in a corner, like the aftermath of a party I was glad I hadn’t been invited to.
Both beer cans that’d been dangling on fishing line from the bottom of the dreamcatcher were covered in collision dents. The tin of Skoal chewing tobacco wasn’t smashed, but the impact had caused it to burst open. Its lid was still rolling around in circles on the floor, making a tinny, down-the-drain kind of sound.
I climbed off the daybed and picked up the lid just as it made its final death spiral. I walked to the corner and picked up the derelict remains of the rest of the dreamcatcher.
I wiped the dust bunnies off the pink panties and was about to put the lid back on the Skoal tin when I realized there was something inside it. A slip of paper had been fastened inside with thin strips of duct tape. Written on the paper was a single word.
PObbLE
Goober had left me a clue after all!
Carefully, I peeled the paper from the duct tape. I put it on my desk and replaced the lid on the Skoal tin. After procuring a stool from the kitchen, I hung the redneck dreamcatcher in the window. It glimmered in the sunlight, none the worse for wear except for the dents.
Actually, I think they give it more character....
With the dreamcatcher in place once again, a little sigh of relief escaped my lips. I smiled and picked up the small strip of paper I’d found inside the tin.
PObbLE
What in the world could that mean?
“What’cha doin?” Tom asked, startling me enough to make me suck in a breath.
“Oh! Nothing,” I said, and hid the paper behind my back. “Justin hanging up Goober’s dreamcatcher. See?”
Tom looked up at the contraption made of pink panties and beer cans and smiled wistfully.
“How’d it get all banged up?” he asked.
“Uh...I dropped it,” I said. “Does it look bad?”
“No worse than usual,” Tom joked. He smiled, then his expression went as serious as mine.
“Don’t worry, Val. We’ll find him.”
Tom wrapped his arms around me. “Let me help out this time, okay?”
“Yeah, sure thing,” I said, and carefully tucked the tiny piece of paper away in my pocket.
DEAR READER,
Thanks so much for reading Figure Eight! Who doesn’t like a good yard sale?
Or a good yarn tale....
Life is a lot like a yard sale. People and things show up at our tables whether we want them to or not – and they either stick around a while, or just eyeball us briefly and keep on walking.
And, like a karmic yard sale, sometimes it just feels good to get rid of the useless things cluttering up our lives. (I’ve heard that’s how we make room for new ones.)
While I was writing Figure Eight, I lost a good friend. But then an old friend came back into my life. Was it coincidence? Fate? The hand of God?
I can’t say for sure. But it makes me wonder if maybe we’re all just table fodder in the big yard sale of life. If so, I want to be a Mr. Peanut piggy bank.
How about you?
If you’d like to know when my future novels come out, please subscribe to my newsletter. I won’t sell your name or send too many notices to your inbox. Just click the link below to get started!
Newsletter Link: https://dl.bookfunnel.com/fuw7rbfx21
Also, thanks again for reading my book. Until next time, all my best!
Sincerely,
Margaret Lashley
P.S. I live for reviews! The link to leave yours for Figure Eight is right here:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07GW4H956
P.S.S. (Can of Aquanet?) If you’d like to contact me, you can reach me by:
Website: https://www.margaretlashley.com
Email: [email protected]
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/valandpalspage/
Cloud Nine
When Pigs Fly
Book Nine in the Val Fremden Mystery Series
Margaret Lashley
Copyright 2018 Margaret Lashley
MargaretLashley.com
Cover Design by Melinda de Ross
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
For more information, write to: Zazzy Ideas, Inc. P.O. Box 1113, St. Petersburg, FL 33731
This book is a work of fiction. While actual places throughout Florida have been used in this book, any resemblance to persons living or dead are purely coincidental. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, the names of places have been altered.
Praise for Cloud Nine & the Val Fremden Series
“When I read the first book in this series I loved it. I never expected the rest of the series was going to introduce me to the wackiest, weirdest, most wonderful cast of characters I've ever come across.”
“A hilarious take on life, love and.....pigs. A story line fit to tickle your funny bone.”
“This series is a breath of fresh air. Hilarious, exceedingly well crafted, with amazingly quirky, lovable characters.”
“I’ve loved each book in this wild ride! I hate to see it end.”
“Hooked like a fish. OMG Margaret Lashley is the best! Val could be Stephanie Plum's double!! Phenomenal writing.”
"Margaret Lashley is my favorite cozy book writer. She always gives the reader their money's worth."
"Plan your day around just enjoying every minute. Her characters are so vivid."
"I find the characters all extremely unique and entertaining. The author is very humorous and has a great imagination for storyline."
"If you want to kick back and laugh and maybe come away with a simple life lesson I highly recommend you take the journey with Val and her Pals."
More Hilarious Val Fremden Mysteries
by Margaret Lashley
Absolute Zero
Glad One
Two Crazy
Three Dumb
What Four
Five Oh
Six Tricks
Seven Daze
Figure Eight
Cloud Nine
“WHY IS IT WHENEVER Lady Luck chooses to shine on me, she uses a blowtorch?” Val Fremden
Contents
Cloud Nine
Copyright 2018 Margaret Lashley
More Praise for Cloud Nine & the Val Fremden Series
More Hilarious Val Fremden Mysteries
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fiveteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
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
What’s Next for Val?
About the Author
Chapter One
The scrap of paper in my hand was sticky to the touch. No bigger than the kind of note tucked inside a fortune cookie, it could’ve meant nothing at all. Yet, as I studied it, I couldn’t help but think that the fate of a good friend might depend on the single, enigmatic word written upon it.
PObbLE
What in the world could that mean?
An exasperated breath forced its way from my lungs. I read the word again.
PObbLE
This has to be a clue. Otherwise, I have pretty much nothing to go on.
Nearly three weeks had passed since Goober’d rescued me from a mob of enraged campers during a writer’s retreat that had gone horribly wrong.
No one had heard from him since.
I’d been the last one to see him alive. According to the law, that may’ve made me a suspect. But, like it or not, I answered to an even higher authority – the Southern Guilt Guidebook. According to it, I was definitely responsible.
Somehow. Someway....
I tapped a finger on my desk in the hope that knocking on fake wood laminate would change my luck, or loosen some forgotten detail lodged in the recesses of my addled brain.
I’ve got to be missing something.
Eighteen days ago, I’d waved goodbye to my tall, lanky friend in the parking lot of the Polk County Police Station in Lake Wales, Florida, about eighty miles east of St. Pete Beach. As a parting gesture, Goober’d waved back, and, in his uniquely goofy way, waggled his bushy eyebrows at me like a billiard ball infested with brown caterpillars.
Geeze. It seems like three years have gone by since then.
As in days past, I wracked my brain again, trying to recall anything suspicious about our last moments together. But try as I might, as far as I could tell, Goober’d given no indication anything weird had been going on.
But then again, he’d always been such an odd duck. There was no way for me to be absolutely sure....
The last thing Goober’d said to me before he’d taken off had actually been a question. He’d asked me if I’d known my way home. He’d offered to let me follow him. In hindsight, I wished I’d taken him up on the offer.
But I didn’t. Mainly because my access out of the parking lot had been blocked by an old hillbilly woman on a “shopper chopper.”
Those were the words Charlene had used to describe the strange, customized bike she’d ridden around on. It was a tricycle, actually. Soldered onto the frame where the front wheel used to be was a full-sized grocery-shopping cart. During my stay at that RV park in Lake Wales, I’d seen Charlene use the handy front basket for toting everything from groceries to grannies.
I could still recall the earnestness on Charlene’s face when she’d pulled that shopper chopper up behind my car and blocked me from backing up. The toilet-tube curlers pinned in her hair had jiggled around her jawline as she’d proffered her heartfelt apology for chasing me around the RV park with a pitchfork.
In her defense, she had thought I’d killed her sister’s 94-year-old boyfriend, Woggles with a Tupperware container full of Laverne’s snickerdoodles. It was a fair assumption, given Laverne’s history with baked goods.
At any rate, Charlene’s apology had delayed my leaving, and had put me about ten minutes behind Goober. In theory, I should’ve caught up with him before he reached the on-ramp for I-4. But I never saw him again. He’d simply vanished somewhere along State Road 60.
The thing was, he should’ve been easy to spot.
Goober’d been behind the wheel of a 1966 Minnie Winnie. The old RV used to belong to Glad, my biological mom. It was a hard target to miss. Still, compared to today’s huge RVs, the thing wasn’t much bigger than a tin can. I guess that made the fact that Goober’d left his strange clue inside another tin can kind of fitting.
I looked at it again.
PObbLE
I set the slip of paper on my desk and leaned back in my chair. My eyes shifted up toward the dreamcatcher hanging in the window of my home office. It’d been a parting gift from Goober.
Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 3 Page 38
