Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 3

by Margaret Lashley

  “That’s right,” Winnie agreed. “We’re in it together, come heck or high water.”

  A buzzer went off somewhere in the shack. Winnie glanced behind her, then back at me.

  “Nice to see you Val, but I’ve got to get back to the fryer. Donuts wait for no man.”

  “Or woman,” Winky said, then laughed like Woody Woodpecker on crack.

  I took a sip of coffee and waited for the staccato sound of Winky’s chortle to stop ricocheting off the concrete blocks. I got tired of waiting and reached for a donut.

  Winky slapped my hand with the flyswatter.

  “Them’s for payin’ customers,” he said.

  I jerked my hand back and rubbed where he’d swatted it. Winky looked horrified.

  “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked. He shoved the plate stacked with donuts at me. “Here. Take all you want.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “But I will take a chocolate glazed.”

  “My personal favorite,” Winky said, and handed me a napkin.

  “Thanks. You know, Winky, I think I found a clue to where Goober might be.”

  Winky looked around, as if the clue might be dangling from a hook in the air. Or maybe he’d just spotted another fly.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Inside a tobacco tin.”

  Winky shook his head and laughed.

  “Uh huh. You mean like them prank calls we used to pull when we was kids? ‘Lady, you got Prince Albert in a can? Well, you better done go let him out.’”

  “No, Winky. Not like that.”

  “Well, come on, Val. Goober can’t fit in a tin can.”

  “Not Goober. A clue, Winky. You remember that redneck dreamcatcher Goober left me?”

  “Shore do. Quite a work of art, as I recall.”

  “Well, I found this inside the Skoal can.”

  I pulled the tiny slip of paper from my pocket and handed it to Winky.

  “What’s it say?” he asked.

  “PObbLE.”

  “Well I’ll be.” Winky’s left eyebrow raised up half an inch. He stared at me intently. “It’s ‘pobbley’ some kind a clue all right,” he said, then laughed at his own joke again.

  When he finally noticed I wasn’t laughing along, Winky shored up his face and handed the tiny slip of paper back to me.

  “Don’t take this stuff so seriously,” he said.

  “Geeze, Winky. Aren’t you worried about Goober at all?”

  “Naw. Worryin’ just ain’t in my vocabulary. Besides, he’ll turn up directly. Like I was tryin’ to tell you, Val. Us fellers what come from nothin’, like me and Goober? Well, we got the advantage.”

  “The advantage?”

  Winky tapped a stubby finger to his freckled noggin and nodded slowly.

  “We know how to survive by our wits.”

  Great. Now I’m really worried.

  Chapter Four

  On my way home from Sunset Beach, a thought went through my mind like a bullet through baloney.

  Everything changes. And now, I’m no longer footloose and fancy-free.

  My life had become complicated.

  Again.

  For the fourth time in my life, I found myself ensnarled in the tangle of compromises and responsibilities that came lumbering along, hand-in-hand, with romantic relationships.

  When Tom had moved in a few months ago, my beloved sweatpants, house moo-moos, and dinners with Ben & Jerry had been obliterated, replaced by daily makeup routines, non-elastic-waist clothing, and Tom’s “sensible meals.”

  The way I saw it, cohabitation had turned out to have all the disadvantages of marriage, and none of the perks. I had to put up with lack of privacy and all of Tom’s quirks. Yet, I wasn’t entitled to his pension or his life insurance payout when he croaked.

  Maybe Winky was right. Maybe marrying Tom was the right thing to do. But then again....

  Should I really be thinking about marrying Tom just so I get his stuff when he dies?

  The mercenary nature of my thoughts shocked my Southern sensibilities enough that I argued back with myself.

  I don’t want Tom to die. I love him! I just want all the sacrifices to be worth it. Is that too much to ask?

  I shook my head to clear my mind and stomped on the gas pedal. Maggie’s twin-glasspack muffler roared to life, blowing away my lingering thoughts about matrimony. The void was filled by thoughts about my other housemate.

  Snoggles.

  A wry grin crept across my face.

  Why am I so worried about Tom? The compromises I make for him are nothing compared to taking care of Snogs...and that pup doesn’t even bring home a paycheck!

  Sir Albert Snoggles, III’s constant demand for attention had spelled the end to my lazy afternoons sprawled out in bed, binge-watching Forensic Files “for research” while Tom was at work.

  Snoggles’ walnut-sized bladder had a two-hour wee window. That meant my ability to skitter off someplace willy-nilly, whenever I wanted, was also out the window.

  For a four-pound ball of fur, Snogs had turned out to be a pretty heavy ball and chain. Even so, I didn’t mind that much. The frequent potty walks gave me a break from sitting at my computer all day writing. And, secretly, I hoped the exercise would keep my butt from growing wider with every passing hour....

  However, what I did mind was all the work it now took simply to leave the house. I’d never had children of my own, so I hadn’t been prepared for all the preparation! I also hadn’t been expecting that a tiny puppy could be so darn smart.

  I was pretty sure he had ESPP: extra-sensory puppy perception. What else would explain why Snogs would begin whining as soon as I reached for my shoes?

  Nope. There were no more quick getaways in my future. First I had to cuddle Snogs for reassurance. Next came the obligatory doggy treats to keep him calm. Then, while he was busy licking peanut butter out of the center of a toy bone, I’d get busy scrounging up enough newspapers to line his cage. A walnut’s worth of liquid required a surprising amount of newsprint to soak it all up.

  But the worst part about having a puppy was something I couldn’t blame on Snogs. It seemed that no matter what I did, I always felt guilty for leaving him alone.

  Guilt sucked.

  And for me, guilt had a face. It looked exactly like my adoptive mother, Lucille Jolly Short. Ironically, taking care of Snogs had actually given me a bit more empathy for what Lucille must have sacrificed when she allowed her husband Justas to take me in and raise me.

  Still, it hadn’t been enough empathy to brave a phone call to her.

  Not today, anyway.

  I PULLED INTO MY DRIVEWAY and set Maggie’s gearshift to park. Then I sucked in a big breath and tried to shift my mindset, as well.

  I will not feel guilty about caging Snogs.

  Leaving Snogs cooped up in a cage while I was gone hadn’t been my first choice. But the little rascal had proven he couldn’t be trusted out loose on his own. Only once had I caved in to his whining and left him out while I ran a short errand. When I’d returned twenty minutes later, the little deviant had chewed his way through my tennis shoe, one of Tom’s socks, and the plastic handle on the kitchen dust pan.

  I climbed out of Maggie’s bucket seat and fumbled in my purse for my house keys. As I turned the lock to the front door, I could hear Snogs begin to yip and whine.

  How could so much noise come from a blob of white fluff the size of a bag of chips?

  “I’m home Snogs!” I called out as I stepped inside.

  I kicked off my sandals by the door, so as not to track in any beach sand still clinging to their soles. Then I padded barefoot over to the corner of the living room. When I looked down, Snogs was yapping and bouncing off the sides of his cage like a mop head in a tumble dryer.

  “You crazy nutcase!”

  I squatted down and slid the lock on the cage door. Snogs sprung through it and licked me in the chops before I could even figure out which end of him was which.


  “Yuck! Stop!” I scolded.

  Snogs rewarded me with another lick across the face.

  “Ugh!”

  The fluffy white pup jumped and danced and darted between my feet as I walked over to the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. Despite the messy kisses, the sound of his tiny nails ticking on the terrazzo floor made me smile.

  I was a proud puppy mama.

  I slid the door open. Snogs shot out into the backyard like a skein of wool fired from a grenade launcher. He bounded across the grass and disappeared behind the fire pit Tom had built for my birthday.

  So much energy for such a teensy ball of nothing!

  I shook my head and followed the sound of Snogs’ tiny yips and grunts.

  Grunts? Wait a minute. That’s a new one.

  I peeked around the fire pit and found Snogs busy christening the patio pavers with a poop deposit. He yipped again, and then I heard another grunt – but it wasn’t coming from him. It was coming from my next-door neighbor, Laverne.

  Weird. I didn’t think Laverne was the grunting kind.

  Since meeting the former Vegas showgirl three years ago, I’d come to know that Laverne Cowens valued glitz and glamour over pedestrian practicality any day. Always persnickety with her appearance, she preferred sequins to khakis, and wore makeup and high heels just to take out the trash.

  Grunting just didn’t seem to fit her normal repertoire.

  Another grunt sent my eyes scanning her backyard. I spotted the skinny septuagenarian behind one of her many prize rose bushes. She was standing next to a newly built section of fence she’d had erected to house a compost pile. At six-feet-something in silver high heels, Laverne towered over the four-foot tall, six-by-six square of wooden fence like the Jolly Green Giant’s albino grandma.

  I watched as she scraped a plate of food over the fence into the pit. Laverne took care not to get any on her outfit, which happened to be a full-skirted, red-polka-dot dress that could have been torn from a 1956 Sears catalogue. I half-expected an animated bluebird to twitter by and land on her shoulder.

  I laughed to myself. Laverne was a notoriously bad cook. At the rate her indigestible comestibles would be ending up in that compost bin, I figured it wouldn’t be long before she’d be needing to expand her facilities.

  “Now you be good, you hear?” she said to the food scraps as they tumbled off into the bin.

  If I hadn’t known Laverne so well, I might’ve thought it odd for her to be talking to compost.

  “Hey, Laverne,” I called out. “What ‘cha doing?”

  The sound of my voice made Laverne jump as if she’d been stuck in the posterior with a pitchfork. She froze in place, shushed the compost pile with a quick, “Shhh!” then turned and beamed her perfect, pearly dentures at me.

  “Hi! Uh...Val. Yes, it’s just little old me. All by myself, here. Alone, you know.”

  I’d heard better adlibbed lies from a first-grader.

  “Okaaay,” I said, and looked over toward the compost bin. Laverne shifted her body to block my view.

  “I’m not up to anything,” she volunteered. “Nice day, huh?”

  “Sure.”

  Laverne spotted the puppy bounding at my feet. Her huge, doe eyes and lit up.

  “Oh! It’s little Sir Albert Snoggles! Isn’t he just a handful of precious?”

  “He’s a handful, all right,” I smirked.

  Laverne bent over the picket fence to pet Snogs, who danced at the opportunity to have his head petted.

  “You’re such a good boy!” Laverne gushed.

  A sudden creaking sound made me look up. The gate to Laverne’s compost bin flew open. A pinkish blur streaked across the yard. It headed straight for Laverne, who was still bent over the fence, petting Snogs.

  Before I could utter a word of warning, it rammed into her. Laverne shot straight up and let out a squeal something akin to the sound a rubber chicken might make if it was being squeezed by a talkative harbor seal.

  “What in the world is going on?” I asked.

  “Nothing!” Laverne squealed.

  She grabbed the edges of her hoop skirt and squatted down in the lawn. Her flouncy skirt parachuted around her, making it appear as if Laverne were an ancient, strawberry-blonde fairy who’d just popped halfway through the middle of a red, polka-dotted mushroom.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  Before she could answer, something began to move underneath Laverne’s skirt. It poked the fabric upward here, then a moment later, over there. Laverne forced a smile at me, and tried valiantly to chase the poked-up spots with her hands, as if she were participating in a covert game of Whack-a-Mole.

  But it was no use. Despite her best efforts, eventually, a little face peeked out from under the skirt’s round blanket of polka dots.

  The face was pink. And it had a snout.

  It was a pig the size of a Boston terrier.

  “What in the world...?” I gasped.

  Laverne winced. She eyed me sheepishly, and said, “I think you already know Randolph.”

  Chapter Five

  “Randolph?” I gasped as I stared at Laverne over the white picket fence.

  She was kneeling in her yard, encircled by a red, polka-dotted skirt that was harboring a fugitive pig underneath.

  “How did you end up with a pig, of all things?”

  Laverne shot me an apologetic look and let out a huge sigh. She stroked the pig’s cheek, then confessed her clandestine operation to me as if I were the pope.

  “Randolph’s the pig from the yard sale, Val. You know. The one I got to kiss because I won the bake-off.”

  I felt the strain of my eyes doubling.

  “What? You’ve got to be kidding!”

  Laverne shrugged sheepishly. “No. I adopted him from Arnie, the Boy Scout. Right, Randolph?”

  At the mention of his name, the pig grunted and rubbed its snout against the back of Laverne’s liver-spotted hand.

  “Good grief! What were you thinking?” I asked, before I remembered that thinking wasn’t one of Laverne’s major talents.

  Laverne looked up at me. Tears brimmed her huge eyes.

  “Val, Arnie told me that if someone didn’t do something, Randolph was going to be...”

  Laverne put her hands over the young pig’s ears.

  “...turned into bacon and pork chops!”

  My heart pinged. “But Laverne, you can’t keep a pig in the city limits.”

  “I know. I was going to take him out to the country. But then I didn’t have the heart to let him go. Val, I’ve been lonely since J.D. and I broke up. Randolph’s been good company.”

  Laverne looked endearingly at the pig. “And you just love my cooking, don’t you, little Randolph?”

  Randolph grunted. It sounded as much like ‘yes’ in pig language as I could give him credit for. But then again, maybe sentimentality had begun to swamp what was left of my good sense.

  “So the compost pile was just a ruse,” I said.

  Laverne nodded guiltily. “He got too big for the laundry basket. And I had to keep him hidden from my nosy neighbors.”

  The bridge of my nose crinkled defensively. “I wouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Not you, Val. Nancy Meyers.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  I visualized the blonde battleaxe who lived across the street. Nancy Meyers took the “ho ho ho” right out of HOA.

  Even though my neighborhood, Bahia Shores, didn’t have an official home owners’ association, Nancy had made it her mission in life to sterilize the streets of any semblance of human activity, including garbage cans in driveways, bicycles on sidewalks, and grass blades longer than 5.25 inches.

  I bit my lip and shrugged at Laverne. “If it helps, I can give you the pet rulebook Nancy handed me when she heard Snogs was moving in. But I’m pretty sure it doesn’t cover pigs.”

  Laverne glanced in the direction of Nancy’s house, even though it wasn’t visible from her backyard.
I thought I saw a flash of panic in her eyes.

  “Val, promise me you won’t tell Nancy!”

  I blanched. “Of course I won’t!”

  “Don’t tell Tom, either, okay?”

  Laverne’s pleading doe eyes were hard to resist.

  “Okay,” I agreed. “But you’ve got to do something Laverne. And I mean quick. Randolph’s hardly a little piglet anymore. He must have doubled in size in less than a month. By next week, he could be as big as a Great Dane!”

  Laverne hugged Randolph to her and looked into his eyes as she spoke.

  “I know. But what can I do? My big boy is always hungry, aren’t you?”

  She looked up at me with those big, irresistible eyes again.

  “Will you help me find a place for him, Val? Somewhere out in the country, where he can run free?”

  “You mean like a farm?” I asked.

  Laverne smiled brightly. “Yes! That’s it. A farm!”

  Geeze. Just say no, Val. Say no! For crying out loud, say NO!

  “Okay,” I said. “In the meantime, keep Randolph in his pen...and whatever you do, keep him from getting loose again!”

  “I will,” Laverne said. “I promise. Come along, little Randolph.”

  Laverne stood up and pulled a treat from a pocket in her skirt. She waved it in front of Randolph’s snout. The pig grunted enthusiastically and followed her as she coaxed him back to the fenced “compost” area that was actually his covert pen. Laverne tossed the treat inside. Randolph strolled in, and she slid the lock on the gate.

  Snogs’ little paws thumped against my shin as he danced at my feet. I picked him up and waited as Laverne tottered back over to the picket fence between our properties.

  “Thanks, Val. I feel better now that we’ve got a plan.”

  “I didn’t realize that you had Randolph so well trained. I’m impressed.”

  “Huh?” Laverne cocked her horsey head at me. “Oh. You mean these? He’d do anything for one of these.”

  Laverne pulled something from the pocket of her skirt. It was a brown-and-yellow-striped, bacon-flavored treat. Apparently, the irony of it went over Laverne’s head like a whole squadron of flying pigs.