“She is?”
“Yeah.”
J.D. grimaced. “Oh, crap.”
“HOWDY, Y’ALL,” WINKY called to us through the service window as we walked up to the little concrete bunker known as Winnie and Winky’s Bait & Donut Shop.
J.D. and I picked out the most reliable-looking table and chairs from amongst a handful of offerings that all appeared to have been rescued from a dumpster at some point. A minute or so later, Winky was at our sides, serving us hot, fresh coffee in Styrofoam cups.
“What happened to the ceramic mugs?” I asked.
“Shhh! They’s all busted,” Winky whispered, and shifted his eyes toward the shack. “You ain’t the only one around here likes to smash things to smithereens.”
“Hey Val and J.D.!” Winnie called from the service window. She shot Winky a look that made him jump like a scalded cat. “Y’all want a peanut-butter bomb?”
“Sure, make it two,” I said, before J.D. could object.
“You’ve got to try one,” I said to J.D. as he stared at me with a skeptical look on his face. “They’re filled with custard crème and topped with peanut butter icing sprinkled with bacon bits. You haven’t lived until you’ve had one.”
“Yes,” J.D. deadpanned. “I’m sure that my life up to now has just been a pointless sham.”
“I’ll fetch ‘em,” Winky said. “But I got to tell you, not ever’thang’s hunky-dory here at the shop.”
“You mean the proposed constr –” I began.
“Me an’ Winnie’s on the outs about the weddin’,” Winky said, cutting me off.
“Oh. Why?” I asked.
“She wants to have a bunch a corny gay men at the reception. I mean, I got nothin’ against any kind a folks, but I don’t want no pure strangers at our shindig. I want it to be for friends and family only, you know what I mean?”
“I can understand that,” I said.
“Val, talk some sense into her, would ya?” Winky pleaded.
“Uh...okay. Send her out with the donuts and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Here you go, on the house,” Winnie said as she set the peanut-butter bombs on the table.
J.D. carefully picked one up employing a dainty pinch of his fingers. He sniffed it. He took a tentative nibble. The whites of his eyes doubled. He took a huge bite.
“Dear lord in heaven,” he said, and looked up at Winnie’s beaming face. “Do you have any more of these? I’ll take all you’ve got left – in a to-go bag.”
Winnie laughed. “Sure thing, J.D. Glad you like ‘em!”
“Like them? No,” J.D. said. “I’m in love.”
I grinned at the fastidious little attorney. J.D. was acting totally out of character. Maybe he actually was loosening up. Winnie turned to leave. I grabbed her arm.
“Winnie, what’s with the corny gay men?” I asked.
“Corny gay men?”
“Winky said you want them at the reception.”
“He said what?” Winnie’s cute button nose crinkled like a pug’s. A second later, her face smoothed out again. She shook her head. “That ding-dong. I didn’t say corny gay men. I said Cornish game hens. You know, them fancy little chickens you serve whole?”
I held back a smirk. It wasn’t easy.
“Oh. Sure,” I said. “Well, maybe you should explain that to him before he calls off the wedding on account of it.”
“Oh, he’s not calling off this wedding,” Winnie said. “Over my dead body!” Winnie stomped off into the shack, bellowing Winky’s name.
“I wish all the world’s problems were that easy to solve,” J.D. said. “You going to eat yours?”
J.D.’s donut was gone.
“I most certainly am,” I said, and swatted at J.D.’s hand. “Keep your mitts off!”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he said, as Winky came stumbling out of the shop.
“Thanks for settin’ Winnie straight on that one, Val. I don’t know what you said, but it worked. She just told me she’d cancel them Cornish fellers if she could serve midget chickens for the reception dinner.” Winky glanced over at J.D. “No offense intended.”
J.D. grinned and shook his head. “None taken.” He took a sip of coffee and cleared his throat. “So, why don’t we get down to business. Winky, do you recall anything strange about Goober’s actions in the days prior to his disappearance?”
“Hmmm. Lemme thank,” he said. Winky turned a chair backwards and pulled it up to the table. He straddled it, laid his forearms across the top of the backrest, and nested his freckled face on top of his arms.
“You know, old Goober always did act a bit odd. Always comin’ up with them schemes and stuff. You know? Like that pet crematorium gig. Remember?”
“How could I forget?” I said. “But I think what J.D. means is, did Goober ever tell you anything weird, like he had to leave town because someone was after him? Something like that?”
“Naw. Not really. He never had no visitors. Not even no bill collectors nor nothin’. I think there must a been good money in what he done for a livin’.”
The check for ten grand. Winky knows something about it!
“Really?” I asked. “What did he do for a living?”
“Val, you know yourself. Goober was a natural-born fartiste.”
My face collapsed like a two-dollar beach chair.
“Okay,” I said, my hopes fading. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. I always wondered. How does a feller learn how to fart at will? I been practicin’ all my life and never figured it out.”
“I think our work here is done,” J.D. said. He stood up so quickly his chair fell backward onto the concrete floor.
“All righty, then,” Winky said. “But looks like their work’s just gettin’ started.”
Winky nodded toward the beach. I turned in that direction and spotted two men carrying a big sign nailed to two fence posts. On the sign was an image of an ugly, boxy condo tower and the words, “Future Home of Randy Towers, brought to you by Progress Inc.”
My jaw dropped as the men leaned the sign against the side of Caddy’s beach bar and went inside. My fingers twitched for my Hammer of Justice. Good thing I didn’t have it on me. I’d never find Goober if I was behind bars.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
“Just let me get the donuts first,” J.D. said. He walked over to the service window with a twenty dollar bill, but couldn’t reach the counter.
“No one ever thinks of the little people,” he said sourly.
“Winnie!” I called out. “We’re ready for the donuts.”
She appeared in the window. I grabbed the twenty from J.D. and handed it to her
“This is too much,” she said.
“Then you’re charging too little,” J.D. said.
Winnie stuck her head out the service window, spotted J.D. and beamed a proud smile at him. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome,” J.D. said, and patted the sack in his hand. “These are delicious.”
Winnie and Winky waved at us the entire time as we made our way across the sand to the parking lot.
“Odd,” J.D. said. “Winky didn’t seem bothered at all about his place being slated for demolition.”
“No. He’s not much for worrying.”
“Takes it all philosophically, huh?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that. The only philosophical question I’ve ever heard him pondered is, ‘What would happen if the whole world farted at once?’”
J.D. laughed so hard he farted himself.
“Excuse me,” he said, his face as red as a beet. “I should have known better than to eat breakfast at Laverne’s.”
Chapter Fiveteen
“How far is it to Jorge’s place?” J.D. asked.
“Another ten minutes, give or take a traffic light,” I said. “Why? You in a hurry?”
“No. I’m okay.”
I glanced over at him in the passenger seat. “You look sweaty. Shou
ld I put the top up and turn on the AC?”
“I’m fine. I’m curious. Why couldn’t Jorge have met us at Winky’s donut establishment?”
“He offered to. But Goober used to live at Jorge’s place. I was thinking we could check out his old room for clues.”
“Oh. That makes sense.”
I turned off Central Avenue onto Thirty-Fourth Street, also known as U.S. 19. We tooled past a few miles of ugly strip centers and chain stores. When I hit a pothole right past the Toyota dealership, J.D. groaned.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
I sped through the green light and maneuvered onto the fancy new stretch of US 19. Like an interstate overpass, the new road bypassed the next fifteen miles of strip centers all the way to Palm Harbor. We weren’t going the entire distance, but for J.D. it was still a trip too far.
“I’m not gonna make it, Val,” J.D. said.
I looked over at him. He was the color of cream of broccoli soup. Sweat stained the pits of his once crisp, pink Polo shirt.
“Geeze, J.D.! Are you having a heart attack? Don’t die on me!”
“No...no heart attack,” J.D. panted. “Food poisoning. Laverne’s....need men’s room. Now.”
“There’s not another exit for five or six miles. Can you make it?”
“I don’t have much choice,” he groaned.
J.D.’s gut gurgled loud enough to hear over Maggie’s rumbling glass-packs. Having been a victim of Laverne’s cooking myself, I knew we’d never make it in time.
“I’m pulling over,” I said, and maneuvered Maggie into the emergency lane. I slammed on the brakes.
J.D. let out a flappy fart and a moan.
“Awgggh! I can’t hold it in. What have you got that I could...you know....”
“Hold on.”
I jumped out of the car, popped the trunk and scrounged around for something. My hand landed on Cold Cuts’ yellow casserole dish. I grabbed it and handed it to J.D.
“Here. Use this,” I said.
J.D. didn’t blink twice. He grabbed the pot and started unbuckling his pants. I ran over to the driver’s side, hit the ignition and then the switch to raise the convertible top on the car.
“Good luck,” I said, and left him to it.
“Nearughguh,” J.D. replied.
I walked to the back of the car and tried not to look as Maggie’s top slowly rose up in the air, then fell down onto the frame, mercifully shielding me from the view of J.D., pants down, squatting in a casserole dish on the passenger floorboard.
I waited by the roadside a few minutes, being windswept by vehicles as they flew past us on the US 19 overpass. Finally, I yelled, “There’s a box of tissues on the floorboard somewhere.”
“Found ‘em,” J.D. said weakly.
“Should I –”
“Just give me another minute, please.”
“Okay.”
I waved off a truck full of construction workers that stopped to help, and tried to look cheerful and un-needy to others passing by. Finally, J.D. emerged from the passenger side of the car holding the yellow casserole dish in his hand.
“What should I do with this?” he asked.
If only Finkerman hadn’t moved his office I’d have the perfect plan for it....
“Uh...I vote we just leave it here on the side of the road.”
“Right.”
J.D. set the dish on the pavement behind Maggie and climbed back into the passenger seat. I got in and started to fasten the clips to secure the ragtop, but a certain odor stopped me in my tracks. I glanced over at J.D.
“Mind if I put the top back down?”
J.D.’s face was the mottled greenish-red of a half-ripe tomato. He kept his eyes on the road straight ahead and said, “I think that’s a judicious idea.”
“MAY I USE YOUR RESTROOM?” J.D. asked as Jorge answered the door.
“Uh...sure. Come on in.”
Jorge’s place was a modest, 1950s ranch house like mine, only larger. It had a master bed and bath suite on one end, and two bedrooms and a bath on the other. The kitchen and living room were located in the center of the house.
I’d only been there twice before. Once was to celebrate Jorge’s fortieth day of sobriety. The other was to celebrate his six-month mark without a drink.
Back then, Winnie and Winky had been living in the master suite. Jorge had taken one of the smaller bedrooms on the other end, next to Goober. He’d furnished the room with family mementos and a heart-flinching collection of photos of his wife and kids who’d been killed in a traffic accident. Mixed in among them were a few photos of Jorge and his buddies during his former glory days on the police force.
It reminded me that, not too long ago, it had seemed that Jorge’s best days were behind him.
But sobriety and Sherryl had changed all that.
The photos of Jorge’s deceased wife and children were still around the house, but now they were joined by happy photos of him together with Sherryl and her family. The whole house had a much lighter vibe.
“So where’s Goober’s room?” J.D. asked when he emerged from using the facilities.
“Look for the one with the ‘Keep Out’ sign,” I joked.
“Oh. We took that down,” Jorge said. “Come on, I’ll show you.” As he led us to the room, he added, “I don’t think you’ll find much of Goober left in here. Sorry, but we’ve been doing some renovations.”
When he opened the door to Goober’s old room, it was apparent that Jorge and Sherryl were in the midst of plotting some diabolical plan. Either that, or they were putting together something from IKEA.
“What is all this?” I asked.
“Well, I was going to tell you next time we all got together,” he said. “But...well, it’s a crib.”
“A crib?”
“Sherryl’s pregnant.”
“Oh my goodness!” I cried out. I gave Jorge a huge bear hug. “Congratulations! You know, I should have guessed when I saw the new minivan out front.”
Jorge rolled his brown eyes. “We kind of eloped last week.” He showed me his wedding band. “Do me a favor, though. Keep it a secret for now. I haven’t told my mother yet.”
“I’m sure she’ll be absolutely thrilled,” I gushed.
“You think?” he asked hopefully.
“Absolutely.”
Jorge sighed with apparent relief.
“Congratulations,” J.D. said. He cleared his throat and asked, “So, Jorge, tell me what you’ve done to alter the room.”
“Well, pretty much everything. We scrubbed it, painted it, put up new curtains.”
“Did you find anything unusual when you were cleaning out the room?”
“Nada. Nothing.”
“That’s disappointing,” J.D. said. “Has Goober had any mail delivered since he’s been gone?”
“No. But He never used this address. He had a post office box downtown.”
“Right,” I said. “I’m going to check that out tomorrow, when the post office opens.”
“Did he ever mention anything about traveling?” J.D. asked. “Any hobbies? Clubs? Professional associations?”
“Oh! He once told me he used to be a sociology professor,” I said.
“Where?” J.D. asked.
“Who knows?” I said. “Goober told me teaching public school was the hardest time he ever did.”
“So you think he might have been incarcerated at one time?” J.D. asked.
I shrugged. “Or he could have been joking. He loved to joke.”
“Listen,” Jorge said. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go pick up Sherryl.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let me know if you think of anything else.”
“I will.”
“You ready to go, J.D.?”
“Yes. Thanks for your time, Jorge. Good luck to you and Sherryl.”
“Thanks.”
J.D. took me by the elbow and led me toward the front door.
“I don’t mean t
o be rude, but I want to go home and get a shower. Immediately.”
“I totally understand.”
As we climbed back into the car, J.D. turned to face me. “Val, promise me you won’t mention a word of this to Laverne. It may be the difference between her choosing me or Randolph.”
“J.D., Randolph is a pig.”
J.D. pursed his lips. “Most men are.”
“No I mean he’s a hoof-footed, snout-faced pig.”
J.D. nearly fell out of his seat. “What?”
I shook my head. “Laverne really didn’t tell you? Randolph’s her pet pig. She’s got it in the backyard. We’re hiding it so nosy Nancy won’t turn it into pork chops.”
“I would never allow that to happen,” he said.
I smiled. “Look at you, coming to Laverne’s rescue! You really have changed, J.D. You’re a prince!”
“No,” J.D. said tiredly. “I’m just Jewish.”
Chapter Sixteen
Just when I thought my day couldn’t possibly turn out to be crappier than J.D.’s was, the universe had to go and prove me wrong.
After our visit to Jorge, I’d dropped poor J.D. off at his ugly orange house on Sunset Beach so he could “freshen up” before he caught a taxi back to Laverne’s place. So, he was out of the picture when I arrived home.
Lucky him.
That made me the lone witnesses to the three-ring circus of stupidity playing out in front of my house on Bimini Circle.
As I drove up, I spotted Laverne running full-tilt along the sidewalk like an ancient praying mantis in heels. She was chasing a squealing, frolicking Randolph, who appeared to be having the time of his life.
Hot on Laverne’s heels was a huffing, red-faced Nancy Meyers, swinging a fishing net attached to a ten-foot pole. Ape-man Jake brought up the rear, galloping along behind Nancy, half-heartedly twirling a rather limp-looking lasso.
It was a conga line of lunatics being led by a pig in aviator goggles.
Nearly every molecule of my being begged me to just keeping on driving past the scene.
But Nancy was gaining on Laverne, and I just couldn’t leave the poor old gal to handle the wrath of the Knick-Knack Nazi all on her own.
Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 3 Page 46
