Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 3

by Margaret Lashley

  “Your reputation preceded you,” I said. “You’re just too good with a teasing comb.”

  “Yes,” Goober sighed. “It’s the true artists who are so often plagued by unwanted fame.”

  “Goober,” Winky asked, disbelief still marring his freckled face, “If’n that really is you, what in god’s good golly are you doing here...dressed like that...working at a beauty parlor?”

  Goober ran his thumb and index finger absently along his upper lip, smoothing down the ghost of the wooly brown moustache that usually inhabited the space. A warm, comforting feeling enveloped me as I watched him perform his familiar ritual. It was as if no time at all had passed since we’d seen each other last.

  “Well, long story short, I parked the RV beside Betty Jean’s Beauty and Feed store nearly a month ago, and it wouldn’t start again,” Goober explained. “After a week or so, I ran out of clean clothes. I started dipping into Cold Cuts’ disguises...then Betty Jean put a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window...and, as they say, the rest is history.”

  “What about this stupid medical gig of yours?” I asked.

  Goober shrugged. “Hey, teasing hair doesn’t pay as much as you might think.”

  “But why did you leave...and not tell us where you were going?”

  “Because at the time, I didn’t know myself. Then life got busy. You know how it is. And you wouldn’t believe how many women in this county need a wash-n-set every week.”

  “But why did you leave in the first place?” I insisted.

  “I told you, Val. The AARP found me.”

  “So what?”

  “Well, once they know where you live, it’s not long before ‘the others’ do, too.”

  I studied the half-strange, half-familiar face of the tranny sitting next to me. Dressed in a practically glowing yellow pantsuit and sporting a rainbow Mohawk, Goober wasn’t exactly “blending into the scenery.” But then again, he had plucked his bushy eyebrows. They now looked like a pair of starving caterpillars mating on his forehead.

  Is Goober a spy, a master of disguise, or a raving lunatic?

  “What ‘others’ are you talking about?” I asked. “The CIA? FBI? KGB?”

  “No,” Goober said.

  “Little green Martian mens?” Winky asked, wide-eyed.

  Goober shook his head. “Negatory.”

  “What then?” I asked.

  Goober shrugged. “Relatives.”

  “Oh,” Winky and I said simultaneously.

  I nodded in sympathy and said, “Well, that makes perfect sense.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Nice ride,” Goober said as he climbed into the backseat of Winky’s flame-covered hearse.

  “Thanky,” Winky beamed from behind the steering wheel. He turned to me and asked, “Where we off to next?”

  “I guess we can take Goober back to the feed store place. There’s no use in him having to suffer through a visit with my mother.”

  “That’s true,” Winky agreed. “Not with his health problems and all.”

  Goober and I shared a secret eye roll as Winky shifted into drive and headed back to US 90.

  “I don’t mind meeting your mother,” Goober said. “But it would be good to have Winky take a look under the hood of the Minnie Winnie first. I’d like to get her in working order, in case I need to make a quick getaway.”

  “I doubt you’d have to worry about that,” I said. “The only way your relatives would find you in Greenville is if they lived there themselves. This place makes the middle of nowhere look like New York City.”

  “Why’d you drive that thing instead of your Chevy, anyways?” Winky asked.

  “You’ve obviously never owned a Chevette,” Goober said. “Riding a bicycle made of macaroni in the rain would probably be more reliable.”

  “I heard that,” Winky said, and let out one of his psychotic, woodpecker laughs.

  I watched the sarcastic lines in Goober’s face soften into a smile. My own lips followed suit.

  “How’d the Chevette end up in the ally by the post office?” I asked.

  “No real mystery to it. It died on me there,” Goober said.

  “So you actually did come back to St. Pete after rescuing me from that RV park in Lake Wales.”

  “No,” Goober said. “I’d already left the Chevy at the post office before I went to Lake Wales. You see, I got a call from Tom saying you’d locked your keys in Maggie’s trunk and were stranded in some hillbilly campground. He asked if I could drive over with the spare set, and I thought, why not? It might be fun to give camping another try myself. So I got the spare keys for Maggie and called Cold Cuts about borrowing the old Minnie Winnie. She agreed. So, I took a Greyhound bus down to Sarasota and picked it up.”

  “That was really nice of you,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Goober said. “As they say, no good deed goes unpunished.”

  “What you mean by that?” Winky asked.

  “Well, by the time I got to the trailer park Val was staying at, she’d settled in and was making the best of it. I didn’t want to spoil her fun, so I put on a disguise I found in the back of the RV and blended into the crowd myself.”

  Goober poked me on the shoulder. “Little did I know Val here was gonna go poison some poor old man and turn the whole RV park into a giant redneck revenge rally.”

  I swatted him on the arm. “Goober! You know I didn’t have anything to do with Woggles’ death.”

  He looked over at Winky and waggled his eyebrows. “Yeah. That’s what they all say.”

  I shook my head at the two clowns. Winky let off another round of Woody Woodpecker impressions. He turned right, wiped his tears with his t-shirt, and hit the brakes. “Looks like we made it back in one piece.”

  “Miracles never cease,” Goober said.

  The cobbled-together feed and beauty store was on our right. Winky pulled the hearse up beside Glad’s old Minnie Winnie, cut the ignition, and hopped out of the car.

  “Let’s just have us a look-see.”

  Goober popped the hood. Winky lifted it and let out a long whistle.

  “Looks like the pistons done blowed,” Winky said. “Gonna cost a fortune to fix it.”

  “Will this cover it?” Goober asked.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills thick enough to make a Rockerfeller choke on a glass of hundred-year-old bourbon.

  Winky glanced at it and said, “Pro’lly.”

  “Okay,” Goober said. “Let me go inside and tell Betty Jean I’m taking the rest of the day off. Wednesday’s a slow day anyway. Nobody wants a wash-n-set this far out from the weekend.”

  As Goober disappeared into the trailer, I turned to Winky and said, “I think Goober’s like Howard Hughes.”

  “Yep. I could see that. He do like his pancakes.”

  “Winky, that’s Howard Johnson’s. What I mean is, I think Goober’s rich...and maybe a bit eccentric.”

  “You tryin’ to tell me he’s a crazy-rich redneck?”

  “Uh...yes.”

  Winky grinned and nodded. “Well, Val, it takes one to know one.”

  I pondered Winky’s statement while he fiddled around under the hood of the RV. He was right. We were all a bit redneck. And we were all rich. Some of us had more money than others. But the friendship, loyalty, and love we shared were luxuries no amount of money could buy.

  I WAS HURTLING DOWN a country road in a flaming hearse, on my way to have my self-esteem obliterated by a woman who found me on the side of the road. My chauffeur was a freckle-faced, redneck donut maker. In the backseat, a fugitive tranny with purple Frankenstein marks on his bald head was slipping out of a yellow pantsuit and into a pair of Winky’s orange coveralls.

  Yep. Life just doesn’t get any better than this.

  “Thanks for changing clothes, Goober,” I said, trying to keep my eyes on the road. “I’m not sure my mother could take the shock of finding out that her hairdresser is also a cross-dresser.”
/>   “No worries,” Goober grunted and he wrestled around in the backseat trying to put on the coveralls.

  “I don’t mean to be nosy,” I said to Goober, “but I’m dying to know. How’d you get all that money?”

  “What money?”

  “What money? That wad of bills you just showed Winky! That check stub for ten grand I saw at the post office?”

  “Oh. That money. Royalties.”

  “I knew it!” Winky yelled. “Yore a king or somethin’ ain’t you!”

  “Hardly,” Goober said. “I invented something NASA wanted big-time, okay?”

  “And that was your annual check?” I asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Monthly?”

  Goober sniffed. “Weekly.”

  “Geeze, Goober!” I practically screeched. “If you get all that money, why do you live like some hapless hobo?”

  Goober leaned forward until the chin on his bald head rested on the bench seat between me and Winky. It looked like a bowling ball that’d been attacked by kids wielding purple crayons.

  “I dunno,” he said. “Being rich is boring. Sure, the money comes in handy sometimes. But then, well, people start acting funny when they know you’re loaded.”

  “Acting funny?” Winky said. “You mean like they start tellin’ jokes and stuff?”

  “I don’t think he meant funny ha ha,” I said. “More like funny strange.”

  “Right,” Goober said. “Most people are just weird when it comes to money. That’s why I had to leave St. Pete. Every time the AARP finds me, I know my deadbeat relatives are only days behind.”

  “I get that,” I said. “But why live like a bum?”

  Goober cocked his head toward me. “It has its advantages.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, when you go out with a homeless guy, after the date, you can drop him off anywhere.”

  Winky shot out a staccato laugh.

  “Get serious!” I grumbled.

  “Okay,” Goober said. “Here’s one. No one pays attention to transients, Val. It’s the best way to remain invisible.”

  “That’s not true,” I argued.

  “Okay,” Goober said. “There was a guy standing by the traffic light we passed back in Monroe. What did he look like?”

  “I dunno.”

  “My point exactly. Being a transient, you can hide in plain sight.”

  “But then why go and do outrageous things...like your Le Petomaine fartist gig in downtown St. Pete? Or being a hair-teasing tranny in a rainbow Mohawk? Why couldn’t you just...I dunno...work a normal job in the feed store like a regular guy?”

  Goober lifted his head from the seat and shrugged. “Too much manual labor involved. Besides, can’t a guy have fun if he wants?”

  “Fun?”

  “Yeah. Working in the beauty shop, I get to hear the latest gossip. I know the dirt on everyone in town. See that gal over there?”

  Goober pointed to a plump woman coming out of a Li’l Champ convenience store.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “She has a two-carton-a-day habit.”

  “Cigarettes?” I asked.

  “Little Debbies.”

  “You don’t say,” Winky said. “What kind?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Better drink ‘em now, boys,” I said. “Mom doesn’t allow beer in the house.”

  Goober’s mention of a fat lady’s penchant for Little Debbies had stirred Winky’s appetite something fierce. He’d jerked the steering wheel on the hearse like a berserk chimpanzee, and before I knew it, had hung a U-turn on US 90 and lurched into the parking lot of the Li’l Champ convenience store in a cloud of orange dust.

  My forehead had almost hit the dash as he’d slammed on the brakes, but I hadn’t objected. In fact, I’d been glad. I’d been in no hurry whatsoever to get to our final destination, and a visit with my mother always went down better with a dose of liquid courage.

  After making a quick run inside for provisions, the three of us stood out in the parking lot, chugging back a shared six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I didn’t know if it was the beer or what, but sandwiched in amongst the monster trucks, ATVs and cobbled-together junkers around us, I didn’t feel so conspicuous anymore about leaning on a flame-covered hearse.

  “So, what’s been going on in your neck of the woods while I’ve been gone?” Goober asked.

  I glanced over at him. That conspicuous feeling started to creep back in again. The orange coveralls Goober’d borrowed from Winky only came down to his shins. Paired with his red converse sneakers, purple surgery marks and that rainbow Mohawk, Goober looked like a clown from some poor kid’s birthday party that had gone horribly awry.

  “Lose the Mohawk,” I said.

  “What? You’re not into diversity?” Goober joked.

  “Lose it. Please?” I begged.

  “Okay.” He grinned, looked in the side-view mirror and began peeling the strip of wig from his shiny pate.

  “Well, Laverne’s went and got herself a pet pig,” Winky said between gulps of beer. “Named him Randolph.”

  “Randolph,” Goober said, trying the word out on his tongue as if he could taste the bacon within it. “Sensible name for a Sus scrofa domesticus.”

  “He ain’t that messy,” Winky said. “Besides, Laverne keeps him outside now.”

  “At least until the fake luau on Friday,” I said. “Which, by the way, has actually turned into a real luau.”

  “Good,” Goober said, and flung the Mohawk into the hearse through an open window. “Nothing worse than a fake luau, I always say.”

  “And Caddy’s is going to be torn down to build condos,” I said.

  That got Goober’s attention. He scowled. “So, in other words, business as usual on the Florida Suncoast.”

  “I’m afraid so. I’d laugh at the stupidity of it all if it weren’t for the fact that people have gone missing in the deal.”

  “What people?” Goober asked.

  “Greg Parsons, for one,” Winky said.

  “Greg as in the owner of Caddy’s?” Goober asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “And Norma, too.”

  “Geeze.” Goober’s face grew serious for the first time. “What happened?”

  “If we knew that, they wouldn’t be missing now, would they?” Winky said.

  Goober sighed. “True enough. I guess that was the beer talking.”

  “I wish my beer could do the talking,” I bemoaned. “I never know what to say to my mother.”

  Winky belched. “Why don’t you just say ‘Hi, mom’?”

  “Gee, Winky,” I said sourly. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  WE WERE ON OUR WAY to mom’s place with a few beers under our belts when I realized I should probably call Tom and let him know the news.

  “Tom?”

  “Hey! You made it there okay, I see.”

  “Yes. And we found Goober!”

  “You what? You’re kidding!”

  “Nope. He was working as a tranny at my mom’s beauty parlor.”

  Tom was silent for a beat. “What’s wrong with me that I’m not even surprised by that?”

  I laughed. “I guess it comes with the territory when you’re part of this crew.”

  “He’s all right, then?” Tom asked.

  “Yes. He gave us a scare, but...never mind. It’s all good. I’ll explain when we get back tomorrow.”

  “He’s coming back with you?”

  “I...I guess so. I just assumed he would.”

  “Good. Tell him I said ‘hi.’”

  “I will. How are things going with your case? Any news on the whereabouts of Greg and Norma?”

  “Nothing definitive.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I was going to wait and tell you when you got back. But...we found something floating in the surf this morning. It appears to be a human thigh bone.”

  “Geeze! Greg’s?”

  “Too soon to tell.
And another thing. Demolition on Caddy’s starts Monday morning.”

  “Crap. Isn’t there any way to shut Amsel down?”

  “You can’t stop progress, Val.”

  “That’s not progress! I wear, Tom. If I have to, I’ll stand on the beach and fight the bulldozers tooth and nail.”

  “Save your strength for your mother. You’re gonna need it.”

  “Ugh. Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “Be good. See you tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  When I hung up the phone, Goober said, “Pardon my eavesdropping, but what’s so bad about your mom, anyway?”

  “Besides the fact that she has a mind rusted shut by entrenched opinions?”

  Goober laughed. “Whose mother doesn’t?”

  “No, really. My mother is a psychological force not to be reckoned with, Goober. She could have been downright diabolical if she’d had any ambition. Why do you think we call her husband ‘The Hostage’?”

  “Geeze!” Goober said, his eyebrows an inch higher than normal.

  “Speak of the devil, we’re here,” Winky said. He lurched the hearse into mom’s dirt driveway.

  A plump woman wearing a faded house dress, a frizzy perm and a bulldog scowl came out and stood on the porch.

  “’Bout time you got here!” she bellowed.

  I looked at the guys and said, “Welcome to my world.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Goober’s caterpillar eyebrows shot up another inch. “That’s your mom?”

  “Yeah. You do her hair at the beauty parlor,” I said as I opened the passenger door on the hearse.

  “Yes. I most certainly do. My condolences.”

  “Thanks.” I froze in place. “Wait. Why?”

  “Oh...no reason,” Goober said, and climbed out of the hearse behind me.

  “I see you done traded in another one,” Mom grumbled from the run-down porch tacked onto the faded, ranch-style house.

  “What?” I asked her.

  She nodded her frizzy head toward Goober. “That ain’t Tom.”

  “No, Mom. It’s Goober.”

  “That one what up and disappeared?”