Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 3

by Margaret Lashley

  Looking at the hideous thing now, I wondered if maybe it’d been more of a parting shot.

  The crude, makeshift contraption was nothing more than a cheap, wire clothes hanger that’d been hand-bent into a warped circle. A pair of hot-pink thong panties stretched across the width of the circle like a frilly Mercedes logo. If that weren’t low-rent enough, the folk artist/deviant who’d concocted it had used fishing line to tie three aluminum cans to the bottom half. Two Pabst Blue Ribbon cans and a Skoal tobacco tin dangled from the dreamcatcher like garbage snagged in a spider’s web.

  Definitely not the classiest gift I’ve ever gotten.

  If the dreamcatcher had come from anyone else, I’d have thrown it in the trash. But it was from Goober. And now, it was all I had left of him.

  Five days ago, when I’d first attempted to hang it in my office window, it had fallen out of my hands and crashed onto the terrazzo floor. The impact had dented the beer cans, and caused the Skoal tin to burst open. That’s how I’d found the puzzling message within. It’d been duct-taped to the inside of the tobacco lid.

  I took one last look at the sticky scrap of paper.

  PObbLE

  I sighed and placed it back inside my desk drawer.

  Goober had called the hideous window decoration a “redneck dreamcatcher.”

  Now, all I had to do was catch a redneck with it.

  Chapter Two

  My world had changed significantly since I’d found that cryptic note inside the Skoal tin.

  For one, Tom, my boyfriend, had instigated a “healthy eating plan” that seemed to be based mainly on broccoli and its nasty cruciferous cousins. As a result, I’d been forced to stuff my face with tortilla chips and ice cream while he was away at work. As a result of that, I’d gained three pounds. As a result of that, I’d pummeled two figurines to smithereens with my “Hammer of Justice.”

  The other major change going on was more furry than frustrating. My life as I’d known it had been taken over by one small, fuzzy, four-legged canine named Sir Albert Snoggles, III.

  Tom had named the little Pomeranian mix after a favorite dog from his childhood. I hadn’t been too keen on the moniker myself. Not only was the name gross, it was actually longer than the poor little dog it was meant for!

  Still, I’d had no choice in the matter. I’d lost a wager with Tom that had cost me a great deal – though, in hindsight, most of that was just hard-headed pride.

  Tom had bet me I couldn’t go a month without using my Hammer of Justice to pulverize tacky figurines. If I’d managed to control my addiction, Tom had pledged to get rid of his horrid, plaid Barcalounger. And when I said horrid, I meant horrid with a capital “H.” Never in the history of upholstery had a chair so ugly been manufactured and allowed to live. The eyesore was so disgusting that it’d not only destroyed my living room décor – I’d have bet money that in another week it would have begun to cause my eyes to bleed.

  Well, long story short, as I said before, I’d lost the bet. But then I found out I’d been hoodwinked by Tom and our friends. It hadn’t been a fair wager. So to even the score, I’d taken out my hammer and exacted my own brand of justice on his Barcalounger.

  That hadn’t been a fair fight either. When I was done with it, that poor chair hadn’t had a leg left to stand on.

  So, as a consolation prize, I’d consented to allowing Tom to name the puppy Sir Albert Snoggles, III.

  Looking back on it now, it was a pretty fair trade.

  Unlike Tom’s hideous chair, the puppy’s name had begun to grow on me. In fact, the fluffy white ball with a grey patch on one foot and the tips of both ears had quickly become my constant companion. Snoggles seemed quite content to lay in the cozy dog bed by my desk as I pecked away at my keyboard for hours on end. To my surprise, I, in return, was quite content to have his company.

  “I THINK OLD LANGSBURY will like this one,” I said as I typed “The End” on my latest short story. I saved the file and snapped my laptop closed. “It’s time for a treat.”

  As I reached for a jellybean to reward myself, I realized someone else in the room had misinterpreted my meaning.

  Snoggles perked up, dashed from his bed, and yipped and danced beside my right shin, twirling around on his tiny back legs like a furry ballerina.

  “Uh-oh. I’ve gone and said the “T” word. I guess I’d better get you a treat, too, or you’ll think I never keep my promises.”

  Snoggles yipped again. I tousled his fuzzy head.

  “Come on, then. Off to the kitchen.”

  I padded over to the cabinets and opened the cupboard above the refrigerator. In the meantime, Snoggles bided his time impatiently by tearing up a sheet of newspaper on the floor and running around with it like a deranged squirrel.

  “Snoggs! You’re supposed to be pee-peeing on that – not tearing it to shreds!”

  At the mention of his name, the pup changed directions and headed right for me, dragging the newspaper with him like a hobo security blanket.

  I bent over and put Snoggles’ treat on the floor.

  “Here you go.”

  The pup dropped the soggy patch of newsprint in his mouth and dove for the little, bone-shaped treat.

  As he slurped it up, I grabbed the chewed section of The St. Petersburg Times he’d been dragging around. I was about to throw it in the trash when a photo caught my eye. It was the slightly damp image of a greasy-looking, ham-fisted man puffing on a cigar. He was shaking hands with the mayor.

  “Just what we need. Another stupid land developer,” I said to Snoggles.

  As I tossed the paper in the bin, the words Sunset Beach caught my eye. My gut flopped. I grabbed the crumpled scrap of newsprint out of the trash, spread it out on the kitchen counter and smoothed it with my hands.

  I read the article word for word.

  It was bad news all around.

  According to the article, the guy holding the cigar was one Timothy “Tim” Amsel from Chicago. He was working with the city, trying to gain permission for new construction on Sunset Beach. Next to his chummy photo with the mayor was a rendering of the project being proposed by his company, Progress, Inc.

  My eyes nearly fell out of my skull.

  It was another ugly, boxy, high-rise condo tower. Worse still, Progress, Inc. was proposing to build it right on the spot where Caddy’s now stood. If approved, the project, Randy Towers, would spell the end of my favorite beach bar, as well as the donut shack run by my good friends Winky and Winnie.

  I grabbed a pen and drew a Snidely Whiplash moustache on the pig-faced jerk from Chicago.

  To me, so-called “progress” could be a downright scoundrel.

  It might as well look like one, too.

  Chapter Three

  The whitewall tires of my 1963 Ford Falcon convertible made a peanut-brittle crunch as they rolled across the crushed-shell parking lot next to Caddy’s beach bar on Sunset Beach. It was mid-morning, late August, and already hot as blue blazes. But I, for one, found the heat comforting. Unlike hideous condo towers, the sauna-like weather belonged in Florida.

  I shifted Maggie into park, hauled my butt out of her red vinyl bucket seat, and looked past half an acre of sand to the sparkling Gulf of Mexico beyond. I took a long, calming breath and tried to savor the sights, sounds and smells of the little slice of heaven surrounding me.

  The gentle Gulf breeze in my hair. The warm, soft sand beneath my feet. The reedy whisper of the sea oats. The clean freshness of the salt air....

  Sunset Beach meant more to me than to most. It had been my port in the storm when I’d washed ashore five years ago, broke, friendless, and shattered by another failed attempt at love. Sunset Beach had been, in a word, my haven. Its unspoiled beauty had been a salve to my mind and heart, and had slowly helped heal the wounds inflicted by a more complicated world.

  A walk along its gently lapping shoreline never ceased to calm my frayed nerves. It had been unfailing at delivering solace when I’d felt out of sor
ts.

  And now it was slated for demolition.

  Like so many beaches on Florida’s west coast, Sunset Beach offered a wide, flat strip of sand as fine and white as cane sugar. At its edge, the wide expanse of the Gulf of Mexico beckoned, glimmering in the sun like liquid turquoise.

  When I’d first arrived back in St. Petersburg, I’d sought the sanctuary of the beach because it was free. Unlike man, Mother Nature wasn’t motivated by profit. Left to her own devices, she’d never charged an entrance fee. As far as I could tell, she’d always seemed content with gratitude as her sole reward.

  I took another deep breath of salt air and closed my eyes, letting the breeze twirl my hair into curls that tickled my face.

  Of all the places I’d ever been in the world, Sunset Beach was where I’d felt most at home. It had provided the therapy I’d needed to find my feet again. It was also where I’d found the new friends who’d slowly morphed into my makeshift family.

  Glad. Winky. Jorge. Goober. Tom....

  The buzz of a plane overhead made me open my eyes. I used my hand as a visor and looked up. A small, red-and-white biplane passed directly overhead, blotting out the sun. The shadow flashed across my face for a blink of an eye.

  As it banked and headed eastward, back toward Albert Whitted airport in downtown St. Petersburg, a sudden realization caused my temper to flare.

  If Randy Towers gets built, those ugly condos will blot out this gorgeous view not just for a blink of an eye – but forever.

  And they call that progress?

  I picked up a freckled cockle shell and flung it angrily toward the water. Nowadays, keeping Florida Florida seemed more and more like an uphill, losing battle.

  The problem was, most people would probably cheer at the prospect of a shiny new condo replacing ratty old Caddy’s beach bar. I’d have been the first to admit the run-down bar wasn’t much to look at. But to me, it was hallowed ground. It’d been the launching pad for my fourth life do-over.

  Geeze. I’ve already lost so much. Will I have to let go of Caddy’s, too?

  I picked up another shell and studied it as I chewed my lip.

  Sure, Caddy’s was nothing fancy. But that’s why I liked it. It never claimed to be anything more than it was – just a simple, wooden shack for people to get together and have a good time.

  A few years back, Greg, the owner, had scabbed a rooftop deck onto the back of the little building. Even so, Caddy’s still looked more like a run-down old beach house than a restaurant. It had a porch that faced the water. And Greg had plopped a few picnic tables in the sandy beach by the porch, to serve customers who came clad in nothing but wet-bottomed bathing suits.

  Other than those modest improvements, Caddy’s had remained as unchanged as the Gulf of Mexico itself. With no air conditioning or bothersome doors to lock, the place dealt with Florida’s tourists and tropical weather like the rest of the natives – it took them as they came.

  It had no other choice.

  Except to sell out.

  I thought about that blasted newspaper article. That Amsel guy wouldn’t be making the news unless he’d already negotiated a deal with Greg.

  My gut dropped four inches.

  Oh, Greg! Say it isn’t so!

  CADDY’S WAS A PART of the old Florida I’d grown up with and loved. The thought of Sunset Beach becoming just another soulless stack of condos made my heart ache and my temper flare.

  I can’t let that happen!

  I blew out an angry breath and marched across the sand toward Caddy’s porch. As my sandals twisted their way across the little sugar-like dunes of sand, I caught sight of Norma, the grumpy head waitress.

  Like Caddy’s itself, Norma was an institution. She’d been working there since whoever founded the place had nailed the first two boards together and cracked open a beer to celebrate.

  “Norma!” I called out.

  She looked up and squinted. Norma was no longer a spring chicken. But Florida weather dictated that she still wear the obligatory beach-waitress uniform of short-shorts, a skin-tight t-shirt, and a sun visor.

  When I’d spotted her, the tough old bird was standing next to one of the picnic tables, taking a customer’s order. One of her big, sandal-clad feet was propped up on the bench, and she employed her raised knee to hold her order pad. She scribbled intently on a pad with a pen, aided by a pink triangle of tongue that wriggled in and out of one corner of her mouth.

  I smiled. I’d come to know that Norma had been blessed with a heart of gold – a fact she kept well-hidden behind a mannish face and a voice that could peel the paint off powder-coated metal. Four summers ago, she’d been a godsend to me. Norma’d helped me scrape up enough money to get Glad properly cremated. And she’d cried like a baby at the seaside service.

  I gave Norma a nod and a smile, then waited patiently as she finished taking the food and drink order of the half-toasted, half-roasted couple that was huddled under the shade of the picnic table’s beach umbrella.

  She finished scribbling on the pad, swung her leg off the bench, and looked my way.

  “Hey, Val,” she growled as I grinned at her. “What’s up?”

  “A lot. Is Greg around?”

  Norma’s eyes shifted to the left, then she blew out a breath. “Nope. Should be back around three.”

  Normally laid back and talkative, Norma seemed out of sorts.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  “I wanted to talk to you about –”

  “Listen, I gotta get this order in,” she said, cutting me off. “I don’t want the boss to get his panties in a wad.”

  “Okay.”

  I sighed and watched as she scurried off toward the kitchen. My crusade against progress had been thwarted for the moment. So, I turned and headed toward my next destination – a little concrete bunker wedged in the sand between Caddy’s and the main road.

  The tiny, ramshackle establishment was called Winnie and Winky’s Bait & Donut Shop. And if Progress, Inc. had its way, it would soon be just another forgotten piece of Florida history as well.

  “YEP. I SEEN IT,” WINKY said, and slapped a swatter at a fly that was creeping toward a plate of assorted, gooey-looking donuts half-melted by the heat. He poured a cup of coffee into a paper cup and handed it to me through the service window.

  “Aren’t you worried?” I asked, and jabbed a finger at the newspaper article I’d laid on the counter in front of him. “If this goes forward, your donut shop will be slated for imminent demolition.”

  Winky shrugged a shoulder at me through the window as he employed the flyswatter as a backscratcher.

  “Greg says it ain’t nothin’ to worry about right now, Val. It’s just a propulsion.”

  “Proposal.”

  Winky’s pale eyebrows nearly met his ginger buzz-cut.

  “Proposal?” he asked.

  He leaned his freckled head back and sideways, toward the inner workings of the donut shop.

  “You hear that, Winnie? Tom finally proposed!”

  A muffled sound came from somewhere in the concrete shack. Winky shot me a grin.

  “What’d you do, Val? Get Tom drunk? Hold his feet to the fire?”

  “Ha ha,” I said dryly. “He didn’t –”

  “I know! Let’s make us a double weddin’!”

  “Argh! Let’s not!”

  I couldn’t decide if I was more annoyed at the idea of getting married, or at Winky’s happy-go-lucky attitude. I possessed the talent required for neither.

  “I’m serious, Winky. Your shop is in danger!”

  I picked up the newspaper article and held it up like show-and-tell prop.

  “This proposal is already in the planning stage, see? It needs city approval, of course. But the way things go nowadays....”

  “Val, you worry too much.”

  Like a toddler with ADHD, Winky’s eyes were busy following the aeronautic acrobatics of another fly. He took a step toward it. I reached i
n the window and grabbed him by the frayed neck of his ratty t-shirt. The collar had long-since been removed, though it appeared it hadn’t gone willingly.

  “Look!” I said, and turned Winky’s head toward the ugly structure that stood a hundred yards to his left. It was an orange, angular, three-story house that looked as out of place on Sunset Beach as a wooly mammoth in a raincoat.

  “Just look at J.D.’s ugly house. The city planners will approve anything for someone with enough money.”

  Winky stuck his head out the service window like a red-headed tortoise. His upper lip hooked skyward.

  “How long you think we got, Val?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Till they tear this place down,” he said, suddenly looking crestfallen.

  I felt like the Grinch that stole Sunset Beach.

  “Maybe never.” I tried to sound a little more hopeful. “But if these plans get approved, work could start anytime. In a matter of weeks. Maybe even days.”

  “Then I got me an idea,” Winky said.

  “What? A protest?”

  “Naw. Let’s make hay while the sun’s shining.”

  “What?”

  “A party. Let’s have one here!”

  I glanced around at the crude concrete bunker and blanched. It wasn’t exactly the Ritz. It wasn’t even the Cheez Whiz on top of a Ritz.

  “Here? At the donut shack?” I asked.

  “Yep. Right ‘cheer. Well, Sunset Beach and Caddy’s, I mean. One last blowout. What a ya say to that?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Winnie said, coming up behind Winky. The cute, pudgy woman winked at me through her red-framed glasses, then took her place next to Winky like the mate to a redneck salt-and-pepper set.

  “You realize that you two could lose your business here, right? Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Val, you forget,” Winky said. “I come from a long line a people with nothin’. And when you got nothin’, you got nothin’ to lose. We’uns always find a way to make do.”