Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 3

by Margaret Lashley

  “You aren’t...uh...planning on moving into a nursing home or anything, are you?”

  “What? No! Why would you ask that?”

  I gave the old woman the once-over. As thin, pale, and busted-up looking as she appeared, she could have been a posterchild for the Grim Reaper.

  “Amsel filed a quit-claim deed on your house.”

  “He what!” Langsbury shouted so loud she nearly fell over sideways. “I’ll kill him!”

  “I’m working on an even better plan, if you’re interested.”

  Langsbury’s thin lip curled upward. “Does it involve slow, painful suffering?”

  “Maybe. You up for it?”

  Langsbury glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then swung her bandaged arm out like a chicken and danced a jig on the sidewalk.

  “Bring it on, kid. As you can see, I’m as fit as a fiddle.”

  “HOW MUCH LONGER WE gonna sit out here in this heat?” Winky asked, and wiped his red face with the front of his threadbare t-shirt.

  “I don’t know.” I shifted my sweaty thighs in Maggie’s driver’s seat. “Until someone goes to Goober’s post office box, I guess.”

  “Lord a mighty. Look here, Val. I done got me a St. Pete swimmin’ pool.”

  I glanced over at Winky. He stuck a finger in his sweat-filled navel, causing the perspiration collected within it to spill out onto his belly.

  Okay. I’m outta here.

  “The two-hour limit on this parking spot is almost up,” I said. “Let’s go. If only there was some way of getting a note to Goober...you know, slipping one in his post office box or something. Then we could get in touch with him without having to stake out his box.”

  Winky cocked his freckled head at me like a quizzical, ginger-haired bulldog.

  “I got an idea,” he said.

  Great. I can’t wait to hear this one.

  “What?” I asked, and braced myself for the idiotic onslaught.

  “Why don’t you mail him a letter to his post office box?”

  The sharp sting of realizing my own colossal stupidity made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, despite the broiling heat.

  “Oh. Well...right, of course I could do that,” I said. “I was saving it...as a last resort.”

  “Uh-huh,” Winky said.

  Humiliation seared my burning cheeks. I glanced in the rearview mirror and nearly gasped. Not only was I officially a dingbat – the August heat and humidity had melted my makeup. I looked like Mrs. Potato Head after a five-minute stint in a microwave oven.

  “Okay. Plan B it is,” I said, and handed Winky the envelope on which I’d scribbled Langsbury’s address last night at Laverne’s. “We’ve got this other place to stake out. You know where it is?”

  Winky read the envelope. “Shore do. Take a turn down this here alley.”

  “I did as instructed and cut through the alley between First Street North and Central Avenue.

  As I cruised slowly by a fragrant dumpster, Winky hollered, “Stop the car!”

  I slammed on the brakes, but since we were only going about four miles an hour, the effect was melodramatic.

  “What?” I asked.

  “That car there.”

  I glanced at the rusty, baby-blue, 1980s-era Chevy Chevette parked up against the back of a shop wall.

  “Wow,” I deadpanned. “What a classic.”

  Winky looked at me like I was crazy. “Don’t you recognize it? That’s Goober’s car!”

  “What?” I squealed. “Oh my lord! Let’s go check it out!”

  In my mad scramble to get out of the car, my elbow mashed the horn on Maggie’s steering wheel. A second later, a head popped up in the Chevy’s front seat. It wasn’t Goober. This guy had hair.

  Frizzy, reddish-brown hair.

  A tall, skinny, beak-nosed man unfolded himself from the driver’s side door. He looked like a stink bug wearing a suit filched from a dirty-clothes hamper. Both his expression and hairdo reminded me of someone who might have recently been attacked by birds.

  Somewhere beneath all that grunge, a familiar face peeked through. My jaw hit the asphalt.

  It was my old nemesis, Ferrol Finkerman.

  “WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE you doing in Goober’s car?” I yelled at Finkerman.

  “Geeze, Fremden,” Finkerman said sourly. “Slow down. I didn’t know it was a goober car. And anyway, what, pray tell, is a goober car? An Uber without wheels?”

  “Not a goober car. Goober’s car. It belongs to our friend Goober. What are you doing with it?”

  “Nothing. I found it here and, well, you know the rules. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. I just...took up temporary residence.”

  “You’re living in it?”

  Finkerman shrugged. “Well, everybody’s gotta live somewhere.”

  “I lived in the bed of a pick ‘em up truck for three months,” Winky said. “Had a topper and everything!”

  “Sweet,” Finkerman deadpanned.

  “Why are you living in a car?” I asked.

  “Funny story,” Finkerman said. He tried to laugh, but it came out more like a wheeze. “I got in a little hot water over that whole overdue library book thing. My idiot nephew Fargo, you remember him?”

  “Yes.”

  “He sent one of my letters to the wife of a circuit judge. Come to find out you were right, Fremden. Soliciting a fee to make a fake legal problem go away qualifies as extortion. Who knew?”

  “You should have, that’s who. You’re an attorney, after all!”

  “Not anymore. I kind of got, well...disbarred.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry none,” Winky said. “When I lost my job, I got disbarred to, but I cheered up directly.”

  “Winky, that’s despaired...and I don’t think you used quite the right syntax.”

  “Sin tax?” Winky asked. “There’s a tax on sin now?”

  “Only in Georgia and parts of Tennessee,” Finkerman quipped.

  “Well, at least you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” I said. “How long have you been...uh...living in the Chevy?”

  “Since Thursday. They repo’d my Hummer.”

  “Yeah. I think I saw that go down.” I didn’t bother to hide the grin creeping across my face. “So, what will you do now?”

  “Not sure,” Finkerman said. “At the moment, my options are rather slim. I need to lay low...bill collectors and all. Still, you can’t get blood out of a turnip.”

  “Or integrity out of a Finkerman,” I said.

  “When’s this Goober guy getting back?” Finkerman asked. “I could stay here and ‘guard’ his vehicle while he’s gone. For a small fee, of course.”

  I shook my head. “You never know when to quit, do you?”

  Winky tugged on my sleeve. “Val, I think he just said he did. You know, quit. Attorneyin’ and all.”

  I held in a sigh. “Right.”

  I walked over and peeked inside the Chevette. It was full to the brim with clothes, blankets, food wrappers and whatever else, I didn’t want to know. If Goober’s Chevy had held any clues to his whereabouts, they’d been buried or obliterated by Finkerman’s unsanctioned inhabitation.

  “I think we should take the Chevy back to my place,” I said.

  “I’ve got a set a spare tires at the donut shack,” Winky said. “You could take me to get ‘em.”

  “Don’t bother,” Finkerman said. “It’s not going anywhere.” He lifted the hood and held it open for our inspection. “Take a look.”

  “Dang,” Winky said. “Looks like they done got the battery, the distributor cap, and a few other hoozy-whatsits.”

  Finkerman let go and the hood slammed shut. “So, what do you think of my gracious offer to guard this little beauty for you?”

  “Not much,” I said. “You already let them steal the tires and engine right out from under you.”

  “Technically, they stole the engine right out from in front of me. Actually, it was like that when I got here. Otherw
ise, I’d have hotwired the thing and driven somewhere that didn’t offer the aromatic allure of week-old dumpster.”

  I pondered my options. They were pretty slim.

  “Okay,” I said. “I guess it won’t hurt if you stay another night or two. But don’t leave without telling me. I may want to search the vehicle. I’ll need you to sort out what junk is yours and which is Goober’s.”

  “Not a problem,” Finkerman said, and held out a thin, insectoid hand. “You owe me for five days service.”

  “What?” I practically screeched.

  “Like I said, I’ve been guarding the car since Thursday.”

  “Five days. This ought to cover it.” I handed Finkerman a fiver.

  He took it and tucked it inside his rumpled suit jacket. “Your graciousness knows no bounds, Fremden.”

  “Neither does your gall, Finkerman. Come on, Winky, let’s go.”

  “Nice seeing you,” Finkerman quipped as we walked away.

  “Why do you think Goober left his car there?” I asked Winky as we climbed into Maggie.

  “I don’t rightly know. But they wasn’t any parking tickets on it. Maybe it’s a kind ‘a secret spot. You know, one that don’t get checked by the police.”

  I shifted into drive and cruised toward the end of the alley.

  “Huh. That make sense, I guess. It would explain how Finkerman could stay there so long without being run off.”

  “Yep.” Winky agreed. “Or, you know, it bein’ a secret spot all hid away and such, it could be that’s where Goober got hisself abducted by aliens.”

  I closed my eyes and took a breath.

  “Right, Winky. Or it could be that.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  After leaving Finkerman in a downtown alley as the official, live-in bodyguard of Goober’s old Chevette, I’d planned to head over to Langsbury’s place with Winky and see what we could find out about Amsel. But Winky had to get back to work, so I dropped him off at the donut shop.

  I made a quick pit stop at home to grab a floppy sun hat and sunglasses as a disguise before I went to stake out Langsbury’s place by myself. But once I stepped inside my front door, real life derailed my well-laid plans.

  First, I had to let Snogs out for a wee. While I waited on him to do his business, I thought I might as well write a letter to Goober to mail when I left.

  I sat at my desk and dashed off a less-than gracious note to Goober, telling him that absconding without a word to his whereabouts was a rather jerky thing to do. After signing it, I decided to include my phone number, just in case he’d lost his cellphone. When I’d misplaced mine last year, I’d realized I hadn’t known a single soul’s phone number by heart anymore. Not even Tom’s.

  With Snogs relieved and the letter to Goober done, I searched around for an envelope to mail it in. That’s when it dawned on me that Winky still had the envelope I’d used to scribble down old lady Langsbury’s address. I started to give him a call to get it, but then again, I wasn’t sure I could count on him to accurately relay the information.

  I blew out a breath and glanced at the newspaper lying on the kitchen counter. The new banner on the Tampa Bay Times informed me that it was Monday. That meant it was my night to make dinner.

  Crap on a cracker.

  I picked up the newspaper and skipped to the local business page. A new picture of Amsel made my stomach turn. He had one foot on the head of a shovel, digging it into the sand next to Caddy’s. The smug grin on his ugly mug made me want to puke. I ripped the section out and called for Snogs.

  “Here boy!”

  Snogs came running up. I put the newsprint on the floor and a toe on Amsel’s face. “I’ve gotta run. Do your business right here, okay?”

  Snogs yipped.

  It sounded like “I’ll do my best,” to me.

  I tousled the pup’s head and glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It read 3:39 p.m. If I left immediately, I’d have just enough time to swing by the donut shop, grab the envelope from Winky, then stop at the grocery store, pick up some semi-healthy food from the Publix deli, slap it into some serving dishes, and hide the take-out containers in the trash before Tom got home.

  I grabbed my keys and made a mad dash for the door.

  This healthy, home-cooked meal plan is going to be the death of me....

  I WAS IN THE GARAGE stuffing the deli containers into the trash bin when I heard Tom’s SUV pull up in the driveway. I scrambled back inside, yanked on an apron, and did my best Doris Day impression.

  “Honey, you’re home!”

  Tom eyed me skeptically, then cracked a weak smile. “Hey.”

  “Geeze, Tom. You look beat.”

  “Thanks.” Tom kissed me absently on the lips, took off his gun holster, and eyed the fake home-cooked meal laid out on the dining room table. “Huh.”

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Just exhausted. You’re lucky you don’t work like I do. You get to sit around and write all day. I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

  Me either, buddy.

  “Any news about Greg and Norma?” I asked.

  “Nothing much. It’s weird.”

  Tom pulled a bottle of beer out of the fridge and offered it to me. I took it. He fished out another for himself.

  “What’s weird?” I asked.

  Tom popped the top on his beer and took a sip. “I dunno. My gut tells me Amsel’s our guy. But thanks to orders from higher up, I can’t touch him. And maybe they’re right, because the evidence keeps pointing elsewhere.”

  I fiddled with the label on my beer. “Like where, elsewhere?”

  “To Bigfoot,” Tom quipped tiredly.

  “Yeah, right,” I said.

  “You know I shouldn’t be telling you anything.”

  “Why? What would happen if you did?”

  “I could get reprimanded. Sued. Fired. Beheaded.”

  “Fine. Don’t tell me anything. Just don’t joke about it, either. I know Greg and Norma. They’re friends, sort of.”

  Tom wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close. “Sorry. I’m just frustrated. I feel like my hands are tied. And whoever did this, well, she does have big feet.”

  I shifted out of Tom’s embrace. “She? You mean big feet like Norma?”

  “I mean any woman who wears size ten Birkenstocks.”

  I shook my head. “It just can’t be Norma, Tom.”

  Tom looked me in the eyes and shrugged. “If the shoe fits, Val.”

  “How do you know the perpetrator wore Birkenstocks? You can’t leave me hanging like that. I thought you said we were a team.”

  Tom locked eyes with me for a moment and said, “Okay. But what I’m going to show you stays between you and me.”

  Tom led me to the couch and sat down next to me.

  “Okay. Look at this,” he said, and opened a folder. He handed me a photo of footprints in the sand. “We found this trail of footprints. See those long gouges there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It looks like someone or something was dragged across the sand from Caddy’s out to the beach.”

  “I see.”

  “What’s weird is, on either side of the trail were sets of what appear to be identical women’s shoeprints. Large ones. Like size ten or bigger.”

  “So, what are you saying?”

  “Nothing but exactly what I just said.”

  “That Greg was abducted and dragged out to sea by a pair of Amazon women?”

  “I’d say that’s a stretch, Val. And I’ve already said too much.” He took the picture from me, put it back in the folder and closed it. “Let’s eat. I’m so hungry I could eat a rubber chicken breast.”

  “Good. Because that’s exactly what we’re having.”

  Chapter Twenty

  As I drove down Central Avenue toward downtown on Tuesday morning, I rehashed the plan in my mind that I’d come up with last night. I was going to mail Goober’s letter at his post office. That way, I could show
that skeptical mail clerk that I was legit. After all, why would I send a letter to someone’s post office box if I wasn’t officially allowed to have access to it?

  My upper lip snarled involuntarily.

  Crud. That doesn’t make any sense at all.

  Like messages from a dream written down in the middle of the night, in the light of day, my idea no longer held water. Or, should I say, Tanqueray.

  Last night, after three gin and tonics, the idea of handing that dubious postal clerk a letter addressed to Goober’s box had sounded like a brilliant plan. But as I paused as the light on Sixteenth Street, it suddenly sounded like crap.

  Double crap. On a cracker, even.

  Geeze, Val! Why would anyone send a letter to a post office box they supposedly were allowed to access themselves?

  I blew out a breath and resigned myself to Plan B. When I pulled up in front of the post office, I skipped going inside the lobby. Instead, I slipped Goober’s letter into the mail slot outside. Yesterday, the postal clerk had been suspicious, but he’d let me off without making a citizen’s arrest. There was no use tempting fate again. Ending up in federal prison didn’t sound too appealing.

  Neither did the other choice I was left contemplating. In fact, this last-resort option was so unappealing, I actually decided to visit Finkerman as a delay tactic. Besides, his new office was conveniently located just around the corner...in a baby-blue Chevy Chevette.

  I turned off First Street and cruised down the alley to Goober’s car. As a courtesy, I “rang the bell” by tapping lightly on Maggie’s horn. Finkerman’s frizzy head slowly rose up from the seat like Dracula emerging from his coffin.

  I was about to make a snarky remark when, to my surprise, another nappy head rose up beside him in the passenger seat. Disgust shot through my gut when I actually recognized the other face.

  What’s wrong with my life, that I know every miscreant and deviant in town?

  Finkerman’s passenger was Victoria, the snotty twit who’d lost her catfight and lawsuit with old lady Langsbury. Victoria put on her librarian glasses. She blinked, spotted me, and sneered.