“Pieces?” Cold Cuts asked. “Gee. I should have put it somewhere out of reach.”
“It’s okay. You hear me? Just take care of Freddie. You’ve got enough to worry about.”
“Okay. Still, I’m sorry.”
I walked into the kitchen and smoothed out the three miniscule, soggy blobs of paper on the sunny window sill. When I turned around, Freddie was standing right behind me.
He stared over my shoulder. Then he opened his mouth. A slice of hotdog fell out, and he said, “Post office box.”
“What’s he talking about?” I asked Cold Cuts.
“I don’t know,” she answered. Cold Cuts joined us in the kitchen, carrying the empty casserole dish.
Freddie pointed to the window. “Post office box,” he repeated.
“There’s no mailbox in the backyard, Freddie,” I said.
“Post office box,” he said insistently, and pointed at the windowsill.
I glanced at the scraps of wet paper and did a double-take. Separated, the three pieces individual read: PO 99 37. Something squirmed inside my brain.
“Sorry about that,” Cold Cuts said, and took Freddie by the hand. “He just spouts off random stuff sometimes.”
“Don’t be sorry. I think he just gave me an idea.”
“What?”
“The last time I saw Goober was downtown at the post office. I wonder. Could he have left me a note in his post office box?”
“Well?” Cold Cuts asked. “What are we waiting for?”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Cold Cuts’ van pulled up in front of the open-air post office on First Avenue North and Fourth Street in downtown St. Petersburg.
My gut flopped in anticipation as I stared through the van’s window at row upon row of small, black post office boxes. They were all tucked away from the weather beneath the twenty-foot-high ceiling of the post office’s open porch. The one-of-a-kind porch was supported by beautiful, arched columns decorated with Spanish-looking tilework. It was a rather auspicious-looking place to search for clues to a rather inauspicious-looking man.
“You go run and check it out,” Cold Cuts said from the driver’s seat. “I’ll stay here with Freddie.”
“Okay.”
I opened the van door and sprinted up to the black boxes. At first glance, it was overwhelming. There seemed to be thousands of them. Each box was no bigger than a slice of bread. Adorning every single one was a number and a brass lock.
I glanced over at the very last one. It was number four thousand. That meant the box number couldn’t be 9937. It had to be 3799. Yes! I ran over to the box and stared at it.
Crap! Now what?
I looked over at Cold Cuts and motioned toward the lobby. She nodded. I sprinted to the door and tried to yank it open. It wouldn’t budge. A sign on the window informed me that Saturday hours of operation were from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. I checked my watch. It was five after one.
Crap on a cracker!
“It’s closed,” I said to Cold Cuts as I climbed into the van. “I guess it’ll have to wait until Monday.”
“YOU SURE YOU CAN’T come in?” I asked Cold Cuts as we sat in the van in my driveway.
“Yes. We’ve got to get back. Freddie doesn’t like being gone from home too long.”
I looked in the backseat. Freddie was sitting on his hands like a naughty kid waiting to see the principal. “I understand.” I leaned in for a hug. “See you again soon. It was great catching up.”
I waved goodbye, and as the van made its way down the street I realized that some things never changed. Cold Cuts was still the same fun-loving, brave-hearted woman she always had been, ever ready for a laugh and whatever adventure came her way.
I sighed as she and Freddie disappeared out of view, only to be replaced by the sight of a sweaty, Spandex-clad Nancy doing grunt aerobics in her front yard.
“Who was that?” she asked in between grunts.
“Some old friends,” I said.
“You want to form a grunt aerobics club?” she asked.
“Not today.”
I made a hasty retreat inside. When I walked into the kitchen, I saw Cold Cuts’ yellow casserole dish.
Dang it!
I grabbed my phone and gave her a ring.
“Cold Cuts! You forgot your dish.”
“Huh? Freddie, stop that! Sorry. The dish? Just keep it for now. I’ll see you again soon. Come down and see me in Sarasota, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I gotta go. Freddie, stop that!”
She clicked off the phone. I thought about what Tom had said about taking time off after the Caddy’s case to help me hunt for Goober. If I found him myself, we could take that time for a vacation down at the Sunset Sail-Away Resort instead.
I made a wish, and as a talisman to seal the deal, I put Cold Cuts’ casserole dish in the trunk of my car. That way, I wouldn’t forget it when we headed down to see them soon. As I closed the trunk, I spotted J.D.’s white Mercedes pull up in Laverne’s driveway.
I smiled and hoped the talisman would work for them, too, and the unlikely pair would find a way to reconcile their irreconcilable differences after all.
Chapter Thirteen
I made sure the bottle I grabbed out of the fridge was a beer, and popped it open. Then I flopped on a bar stool and watched the show. Tom was standing at the kitchen counter, chopping broccoli like a mad teppanyaki master.
“What’d that broccoli ever do to you?” I asked.
“Huh? Oh. Just taking out a little frustration.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
Tom blew out a breath and set his knife down.
“Greg Parsons became an official missing person case today.”
“Oh.”
“That’s not it. I told my boss yesterday about Amsel’s connection to the guy who went missing in Boca. Well, I got a call from him today saying to leave Amsel out of the investigation and to focus on other suspects.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t say outright, but I think the mayor’s putting pressure on him. Seems that our mayor’s a big fan of the Randy Towers project and doesn’t want any ‘undue bad press’ effecting its ‘forward movement.’”
“That’s not fair. Isn’t Amsel your main suspect?”
“Well, no. He’s one of them. But the main focus of attention right now is his head waitress, Norma. She’s involved in this somehow. But whether she’s the perpetrator or a victim, we just don’t know at this point.”
“Does this mean Amsel’s totally out of the investigation?”
“No. We’re just supposed to focus on finding other ‘more viable’ suspects first.”
“Who’s more viable than Amsel?”
“That’s what we’re supposed to get off our duffs and find out,” Tom said sourly. “I dunno, Val. I’ve got a bad feeling about Amsel, given his shady past.”
“Then you should pursue it. You taught me once that your gut has better instincts than your brain. You told me gut instinct solves more cases than anything else.”
“I know. And I still agree with that, Val. But as of right now, when it comes to Amsel, my hands are kind of tied.”
I shot Tom a sympathetic frown.
Well, my hands aren’t.
AFTER DINNER, WHILE Tom took Snogs for an evening walk to let off steam and broccoli-induced gas, I gave old lady Lansgbury a call. Last time we talked, she’d told me Amsel was her brother in law, and he was staying with her. If I knew her address, I could tail him. The trouble was, I couldn’t think of a very good reason to ask for her address.
“Yello?” Langsbury croaked into the phone.
“Hi. Uh...Mrs. Langsbury? It’s Val. I ran into a snag with the deposition Ms. Dimson prepared.”
“What do you mean?”
“I took it with me to read over, but someone stole the folder from my car. I thought I might drop by tomorrow and get another copy from you?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Oh. Uh...d
o you know where I could get one?”
“Geeze, Val. It isn’t some big mystery. Call Dimson.”
“Oh. Sure,” I laughed weakly. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m wondering.”
“Sorry to bother you. Have a nice weekend!”
I clicked off the phone before I humiliated myself any further. I could’ve asked Tom to look up her address, but then he’d have gotten suspicious. I glanced at the clock. I figured I still had around ten minutes before he’d be back with Snogs.
I made a split decision – and split – over to Laverne’s.
When I rapped on her front door, Laverne opened it clad in a gold lame lounging outfit I’d only ever seen the likes of in a vintage James Bond movie. She held a glass of champagne in her right hand.
“Hiya, honey! What’s up?”
“Hi, Laverne. Could you do me a favor? My teacher’s retiring and I wanted to get her a gift. Do you know how could I get her address?”
Laverne’s horsey head cocked sideways. “Well, just go to a dress store, sugar.”
“Not a d –” I stuttered. “I mean...I need to find the address where she lives, Laverne. To have the gift delivered.”
“Oh. Easy. You got her phone number?”
“Yes.”
“Come on in.” Laverne waved me into her living room, which was so chock-a-block with tacky Vegas memorabilia that my fingers twitched for my Hammer of Justice.
Man, I could do some damage in here.
“Land line or cell phone?” Laverne asked as she sashayed over to a laptop open on her dining room table.
“Uh...I’m not sure. Land line, I think.”
“With a land line, you can get anything. J.D taught me that, didn’t you, sugar?”
Oh my gawd. I forgot J.D. was there!
I whirled around and tried my darndest to look surprised. “Hi, J.D!”
“Hello, Val,” he said through slightly pursed lips. “Nice of you to drop by.”
I winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your...uh...plans.”
“Not to worry!” Laverne said. “Sit down. I’ll show you how to do it.”
I sat down in front of her computer. Laverne pushed the power button with the tip of a red lacquered nail. J.D. and I exchanged tense, silent faces as we waited for the screen to boot up. I felt like the bratty kid sister that two teenagers had been forced to take along on a hot date.
I started to get up from the chair. “Listen, I really don’t want to bother you. This can wait.”
“Nonsense!” Laverne said as the screen flashed to life. “Now, just enter the password.”
“Uh...shouldn’t you do that?” I asked.
“Why? You can do it. You need to learn how!”
I looked at J.D. His shoulders slumped. If he hadn’t had a cocktail in his hands, I think he would have slapped his forehead.
“Uh...you sure you want me to put in your password?” I asked Laverne.
“Absolutely, honey.”
“Okay. What is it?”
Laverne leaned close to my ear and whispered, “I don’t know.”
Really?
“Laverne, if you don’t want me to know your password, why don’t you just type it in yourself?”
“I trust you honey. Don’t worry about it!”
“So, what’s the password?”
“I don’t know.”
I was already chomping at the bit, anxious to leave the scene of their senior-citizen love nest booty call. Laverne’s silly game was getting on my last nerve.
“Come on, Laverne!”
“Look, let me spell it for you, honey,” Laverne said patiently. “You ready?”
“Yes.”
“I-D-O-N-T-K-N-O-W.”
It was my turn to slap my forehead. I turned to look at Laverne. “That’s either the most idiotic or most brilliant password I’ve ever heard.”
“That’s our Laverne,” J.D. said, and raised his drink at me.
Laverne beamed her pearly dentures at us.
“Okay, so now what?” I asked.
“Get on Find-a-Fool dot com and type in her phone number,” Laverne said.
I did as instructed. “Yep. There she is. But there’s no address listed.”
“Must be a cell phone,” J.D. said. “Does she own her place?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Go to Pinellas House dot com and input her name,” J.D. instructed.
“Is this legal?” I asked J.D.
“It’s all part of open source intelligence. Who are you looking for, anyway?”
“Angela Langsbury. My murder mystery instructor.”
J.D. groaned. I wasn’t sure if it was from the absurdity of the whole situation or if he’d been forced to eat something Laverne had cooked.
“Bingo!” I said. “There’s the history of her buying the place, and the address.”
I scribbled it down on a piece of paper and was about to shut down the site when something caught my eye.
“Wait a second. It says here that two weeks ago, a quit-claim deed for the property was issued to Timothy Amsel.”
“Who’s that?” Laverne asked.
“Langsbury’s brother in law. That’s weird. She told me she couldn’t stand him.
Laverne smiled at J.D. “Well, honey, people do strange things for love all the time.”
“I’ll say,” J.D. remarked, and took a huge swig of his drink.
Chapter Fourteen
When I woke up Sunday morning, Tom had disappeared. But unlike Goober, Greg, and Norma, I knew where he’d gone. He’d had plans this morning to meet a buddy of his at Pass-a-Grille Beach so they could get an early start on some offshore fishing.
That meant I had the place to myself.
Ahhhhhh!
I laid around in bed until I couldn’t stand it anymore, then I padded to the kitchen, made myself a cappuccino, and climbed up on the countertop to sneak the last twin-pack of Pop-Tarts I’d been hiding behind a flour canister in the top cupboard.
Tom’s penchant for healthy eating had me absolutely jonesing for some junk food. I drooled as the blueberry tarts toasted, and bided my time by giving Snogs his morning overdose of cuddling. But as soon as the pastries popped up, Snogs was back on the floor and I was flopped on the couch, chewing on Pop Tarts, slurping cappuccino and scanning the pages of St. Petersburg Times.
Ironically, the front-page news was about the paper itself. The St. Petersburg Times was merging with the paper across the bay, the Tampa Tribune. From now on, the new paper would be called the Tampa Bay Times.
What happened to the “St. Petersburg” part? Geeze! Would the entire history of my town be erased before I was in my grave?
“I hate change!” I grumbled to Snogs. He yipped conciliatorily, and jumped up high enough to lick my knee, which was sticking off the couch. I took a sip of cappuccino and turned the page. What I saw next soured my mood enough to curdle cream.
It was a picture of that pig-faced Tim Amsel. And he was holding a sledgehammer – up next to a porch post at Caddy’s! The caption read, “Demolition to begin next week.”
My jaw locked tighter than an Easter-Sunday girdle.
“Oh, no it isn’t! Not if I can help it!” I yelled, and flung the paper onto the floor, where Snogs gladly snapped it up like it was some sort of game.
But it wasn’t a game. Even worse, I had no idea how I could possibly fight the system, especially now that J.D. had said he couldn’t help me.
I glanced at the clock. It was 9:06 a.m. J.D. would be here in less than an hour to go with me to interview Winky and Jorge about Goober.
So much for my lazy Sunday.
I jumped up, got a quick shower, slipped on a sundress and headed out to give Snogs a morning walk. As we toddled down the driveway, I noticed that J.D.’s white Mercedes was still parked at Laverne’s. A smiled began to form on my lips, but got waylaid by a nearby grunt.
Oh no! Randolph’s loose again!
I scanned the bushes around Laverne’s house for a chubby little pig face. I found one, but it was across the street. Nancy was out doing jumping jacks on her front lawn again.
Good grief. I’ve created a monster...that grunts.
“Nice day for grunt aerobics,” she called out, red-faced and breathless.
“Every day is a good day for that,” I said cheerily, and flashed Nancy a grin.
Hoo boy, Val. You’re getting way too much sadistic pleasure from this....
AT 10:00 A.M. ON THE dot, J.D. appeared at my door looking dapper...and a bit sheepish.
“Good morning, Val.”
I eyed him up and down.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“No.”
“Sleepy?”
“No.”
“Dopey?”
“No.”
“Should I go on?”
J.D. rolled his eyes. “Okay. Let’s get this over with. I spent the night with Laverne, okay?”
I did an extremely poor job stifling a grin. “I thought you two broke up.”
“We did.”
“So, are you back together now?”
“I’m not sure. She said she’s been seeing this guy named Randolph. What kind of idiot is named Randolph anyway?”
“Well, a –”
“You know, I’m not sure if Laverne invited me over to get back together or to have one last chance to poison me.”
“Don’t tell me you ate something over there.”
“Are you kidding? No. Well, not really. Just a piece of toast...and a fried egg. It seemed safe enough.”
“Huh. Well, you and I have something in common, then. I think Tom’s trying to poison me, too. With a long, slow ingestion of broccoli.”
J.D. turned his nose up. “Yuck.”
“My sentiments exactly. So should we get going? Let’s head to Winky’s first.”
“Good. I could use a real cup of coffee.”
“Okay, then,” I said, pulling the door closed behind me. “The sooner we start, the sooner we can find Goober.”
“And the sooner we start, the sooner we’ll get this over with.”
“That’s the spirit,” I smirked. “Why don’t we take my car, J.D.? I wouldn’t want to get yours all sandy. Laverne’s always telling me how persnickety you are.”
Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 3 Page 45
