Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 3

by Margaret Lashley

  “Huh?” Goober asked, his mouth already full of taco.

  “The note in the dreamcatcher. The one you duct-taped inside the Skoal tin.”

  “Oh.”

  “I figured it out and sent you a letter.” More like a nasty-gram, actually. “When you get it, you can just toss it. Tear it up, even. It’s probably better if you don’t read it at all.”

  Goober eyed me curiously. “What are you talking about?”

  “The post office box. Number 3799?”

  “That’s not my number.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No. It’s 1113.”

  “Then what was the note for?”

  “Note?” Goober’s left eyebrow went up. “What did it say?”

  “PObbLE.”

  “Oh. Yeah. That was the name I was going to suggest for that new puppy of yours.”

  “What?” I nearly screeched. “That’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard.”

  Goober shrugged. “So what’d you end up calling it, anyway?”

  My face heated up like a gas stove. “Uh...Sir Albert Snoggles.”

  “The third,” Winky added with a beaming smile.

  “Oh really?” Goober said, his left eyebrow forming a sharp right angle. “You’re right, Val. That’s so much better than Pobble.”

  “She calls him Snogs for short,” Winky said.

  It was time to change the subject again before I burst into flames of humiliation.

  “What do you think about what’s happening to Caddy’s?” I asked Goober. “Can you believe some idiot developer’s going to tear it down and build condos?”

  “All good things must come to an end,” Goober said. He turned to Winky. “Does that include the donut shop?”

  “Pro’lly.”

  “What will you do then?” Goober asked.

  “Thought I might start me a spare parts and handyman business for folks in my neighborhood. You know, I could get me a warehouse built like Betty Jean’s Beauty & Feed. Picture this: a big ol’ sign over the door that says, Winky’s Trailer Fixin’s.”

  “Riveting,” Goober said. “But the name makes for an unfortunate acronym.”

  “A misfortunate what?” Winky asked.

  “I wish you every good fortune,” Goober said. He shot me a look and changed the subject. “So Val, you said Greg and Norma are missing. What kind of intel have you dug up so far?”

  “Me?” I asked, feigning innocence.

  “Yes, you,” Goober said. “Don’t forget. I know you. There’s no way you’re just letting this run its course.”

  “Tom’s been filling me in with bits and pieces,” I confessed. “I think this developer guy Amsel has something to do with Greg and Norma’s disappearance. But Tom’s hands are tied when it comes to the guy.”

  “Why?”

  “The mayor doesn’t want anything ruining the condo deal. The cops were told to make Amsel a low priority suspect. But like me, Tom feels in his gut that he’s involved somehow.”

  “I feel something else in my gut,” Winky said. He patted his belly full of tacos.

  “Me, too,” Tiny said.

  “What do you have on Amsel?” Goober asked, turning back to me.

  “Nothing, really. Looks like he’s bought Caddy’s from Greg. But that in itself I find strange. I would have sworn Greg would never sell Caddy’s.”

  “Amsel must have met his price,” Goober said.

  “Or had something on him,” I said.

  “Like what?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “So that’s all you’ve got?” Goober asked. “A bill of sale? If that was evidence for murder, Val, every property owner on the planet would be guilty.”

  “It’s not all,” I argued. “Last year, another guy Amsel bought property from went missing in Boca Raton.”

  “Mouth of the rat,” Goober said, and crinkled his upper lip. “Never saw the allure in that name.”

  “Me either. Anyway, they never found the guy. Amsel had worked out the contract so he got total possession of the deed.”

  “Now that’s compelling info,” Goober said. “Any solid evidence?”

  “No. Just footprints in the sand. And the signs of a struggle. Tom said it looked like someone had been dragged away on their heels by two women in size ten Birkenstocks.”

  “Huh,” Goober said. “The old lesbian hat-trick.”

  “Is that a thing?” I asked.

  “I dunno. But it’s got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  “Goober, I’m trying to be serious here.”

  “I know. But it’s hard when you have an orange taco-grease moustache.”

  I wiped my lips with a napkin. “Do you want to hear what I know or not?”

  “Sure. But wait until we get in the car. I’ve got an urgent pit stop to make.”

  I felt my stomach gurgle.

  “Me, too,” I said.

  Thank goodness we’re not at my mother’s.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “I think Norma did it,” Winky said as he turned the hearse onto I-75 southbound.

  “But Greg and Norma are both missing,” I argued. “She could be just as much a victim as Greg. Remember that fake life alert bracelet Norma gave him? The one he always joked around with customers with?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tom pulled one up out of the Gulf of Mexico on his fishing trip last Sunday.”

  “Lucky him,” Winky said. “Best I ever caught was a rusty tin can.”

  “Sounds like a pretty suspicious coincidence,” Goober said.

  “So you think Norma might have gotten rid of Greg?” I asked.

  “She’s strong enough to,” Winky said. “Norma’s done beat me at arm wrastlin’ more times than I care to admit.”

  “Okay, yeah. She’s tough,” I agreed. “But she’s also kind-hearted. I remember she was so generous and helpful when Glad passed away. She put on a brave face, but I know she went in the ladies’ room and cried after I left.”

  “Anybody what goes in that Taco Schnell mens’ room today’s gonna cry, too,” Winky said.

  “Winky!” I barked, and elbowed him in the ribs. “We’re talking about life and death here!”

  Winky laughed. “Well, so am I.”

  “Ugh!” I looked to Goober for support. His silly face wore an amused, contented look.

  “So you don’t want to think Norma had anything to do with Greg’s disappearance,” Goober said. “Let me just remind you, the woman’s got big feet. When was the last time you saw her?”

  “The day Greg disappeared.”

  “How’d she seem to you?”

  I grimaced. “Well, she seemed kind of off.”

  “Off? How?”

  “I don’t know. Grumpy. Or jumpy. Something like that.”

  “What time was it?” Goober asked.

  “I dunno. Late morning. Elevenish.”

  “So when you saw her, no one was aware yet that Greg wasn’t going to show up for his three o-clock shift.”

  “That’s true.” I was losing confidence in my convictions. “But it could have been that Norma was upset because she knew Caddy’s had been sold.”

  “How would she know that?” Goober asked.

  “She’s been working with Greg since day one. He tells her everything.”

  “He trusts her, then?”

  “Yes. At least enough to run the cash register and make the bank deposits.”

  “Good friends, then.”

  “Sure. Like family, even. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was in his will.”

  Goober’s left eyebrow ticked upward. “So, then, the plot thickens. Maybe Norma decided to swipe what was in the cash register and get out of town. Or, maybe by getting rid of Greg, if she was in his will, she could keep the whole enchilada.”

  “Don’t say enchilada,” Winky said, then belched loud enough to rattle the windows on the hearse.

  “Follow the money trail,” I said, remembering Finkerma
n’s advice.

  “Speaking of money trail,” Goober said, “is Tiny still behind us?” He turned and looked back to check on the RV.

  “Yep, it’s still there,” Winky said.

  “What’s that broken-down RV got to do with money?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Except my life savings are stashed in its walls.”

  “How much you got?” Winky asked.

  Goober shrugged. “Just five or six million, tops. Wouldn’t fit in the trunk of the Chevette anymore.”

  Winky whistled. My gut flopped. Either Taco Schnell was launching a second attack or Goober really was right when he’d said that people acted funny whenever money was concerned.

  “Tell me more about this Amsel guy,” Goober said.

  “I already told you what I know.” I peeled my eyes from the shabby RV tagging along behind us. “He’s your typical jerk-wad developer. He doesn’t give a rat’s about Sunset Beach. He just wants to cash in on the project and leave us with nothing but another beautiful view shot to hell by another lousy building.”

  “Why do you think he picked Sunset Beach?” Goober asked.

  “Because it’s my favorite place in the world,” I said angrily.

  “I doubt that. Has he got connections here?”

  “Well, yes. He’s married to the sister of my writing instructor.”

  “Angela Langsbury?”

  “Yes. You remembered her name.”

  Goober grinned. “How could I forget that?”

  “Langsbury says he’s a tightwad. He’s actually staying with her instead of going to a hotel.”

  “So we know he’s pathologically cheap.”

  “I didn’t say he was pathological.”

  “Val, he’s staying with relatives instead of getting a hotel room.”

  “Okay. He’s pathological.”

  “Has he got any hobbies?”

  “Besides destroying the world’s natural beauty?”

  “Yeah. We need some guise to contact him.”

  “But Goober,” Winky said, “can’t we guys do it ourselves?”

  “I mean a reason, Winky. What’s this Amsel guy do for fun?”

  “Like I said, he destroys stuff.”

  “He smokes cigars,” Winky offered.

  “That’s it,” Goober said.

  “What’s it?” I asked.

  “Our way in. You suspect Amsel’s up to no good. We need a way to learn more about him. So we lure him into our trap with the promise of free cigars.”

  Goober’s idea made so much sense it almost shocked me.

  “That just might work,” I said.

  “Cigar aficionados have a language all their own,” Goober said, his faraway eyes already deep into his scheme. “They would have to be exclusive cigars.”

  “Oh! I got this one!” Winky hollered. “I got me a whole box a cigars a feller give me. They’re hand-rolled from Honduras. We could give ‘em to this Amsel feller. No problem.”

  “You don’t want them?” I asked.

  Winky shot me a look. “You know what Winnie would do if I lit one up? No thanks. I just finally got used to sleepin’ indoors.”

  “Good,” Goober said. “Now all we need is his address, and we can personally deliver them.”

  “I’m way ahead of you,” I said. I reached into my purse and whipped out the envelope with Angela Langsbury’s address.

  “Well done.” Goober grinned like the Cheshire cat. “I do believe, my compadres in arms, that it’s time for another stakeout.”

  “We better make it quick,” I said. “We’ve got the luau tomorrow night, then there’s just the weekend before they start tearing Caddy’s down on Monday. Why don’t you stay with me and Tom tonight? That way we can get an early start.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll go stay with the RV.”

  “To keep an eye on your money?” I asked.

  “Huh? No. Jezebel’s in there.”

  “Jezebel? Who’s Jezebel?”

  “My pet lizard, of course.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “You sure you’ve got room for Goober at your place?” I asked Winky as he dropped me off in my driveway late Thursday afternoon.

  “Yep. Enough for Tiny, too. He can park the RV in the yard and head out tomorrow. See you in the morning, Val.”

  As I tugged my suitcase up the driveway, I suddenly felt oddly alone after six hours in a hearse with Winky and Goober. But the feeling evaporated when I opened the front door and heard a familiar yip.

  “Snogs!”

  The tiny pup danced like a crazed dust bunny as I walked over to his cage.

  “How are you, sweetie?”

  I squatted down to let the dancing doggie out but the doorbell beat me to it. I stood, padded over to the front door and peeked through the hole. Laverne must have missed me, too. She was on my front porch jumping up and down, wringing her hands.

  “What’s up?” I asked as I opened the door.

  “Oh, Val! You’re home!”

  “Yeah. What’s wrong?”

  “Randolph’s been missing for three days!”

  So it’s true. I really do live in a three-ring circus.

  “That’s impossible, Laverne. I’ve only been gone a day and a half.”

  “Well, Randolph’s been missing since Tuesday night,” Laverne said, counting the day on a finger. “Yesterday was Wednesday.” She counted another finger. “And today’s Thursday.” The third finger went up. “See? That’s three days, Val.”

  “Okay,” I said, giving up on the math lesson. “What happened?”

  “Well, after Nancy brought him home Tuesday night, I hosed Randolph down and put him back in his pen. When I got up the next morning, he was gone!”

  “You don’t think that Nancy took him, do you?”

  “No. Like I said, Randolph ran away on his own.”

  “How do you know?”

  Laverne cocked her horsey head at me as if to imply I was missing the obvious.

  “Well, Val, he took his goggles with him.”

  I don’t live in a circus. I live in a looney bin!

  “Right. Well, I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

  “Thanks Val. Remember, he’ll be the pig in the brown aviator goggles.”

  “Got it.”

  ABOUT AN HOUR AFTER my chat with Laverne, my doorbell rang again. When I answered it, a strange man was standing at my door. A van was parked in the driveway. As I started to unlock the door, a shiver ran down my spine.

  Wait a minute. Is this how Greg and Norma got abducted?

  “What do you want?” I yelled through the door.

  “Delivery,” he barked back.

  “From who?”

  “Receipt here says, ‘From Vance with love.’”

  I opened the door. “What is it?”

  “Follow me.”

  I kept a wary distance as we walked to the van. But when the guy opened the door, a new kind of fear gripped me.

  Posed on a serving platter with an apple in its mouth was a fully dressed-for-roasting young pig. A lei of onion slices and cherry tomatoes was draped around its neck. A tag clipped to its left ear with a pin had one word on it.

  Randolph.

  Holy crap on a cracker! Could Vance have gotten his wires crossed?

  I shot a look toward Laverne’s house. Thankfully, she wasn’t outside to witness this.

  I looked back at the pig. It was the same size and shape as Randolph. But it couldn’t be him.

  Could it?

  Milly was supposed to tell Vance to deliver a roasting pig to Nancy’s place for a luau for Randolph, the pig in Laverne’s backyard. Could Vance have thought I wanted the pig in Laverne’s backyard to be prepared for the luau?

  No. It couldn’t be Randolph.

  “Oh. Here,” said the delivery driver. “I think these belong to you.” He reached over and handed me a pair of aviator goggles.

  Triple crap on a cracker!

 
“Where do you want it?” he asked.

  “The pig?” I asked, still reeling with shock.

  “No. The Goodyear blimp.”

  “Hold on a second.”

  I ran over to Jake’s place and rang the bell.

  “Jake, the pig’s here.”

  “Where?”

  “In the van.”

  “Good. “It’s about time.” He followed me across the lawn.

  “There may be a problem, though,” I said as we rounded the side of the van toward its open back-end.

  “I hope not, Val. I gotta get that pig in the ground before it’s too late!”

  Jake’s words hung in the humid air like a slab of butchered bacon. Laverne was standing on the sidewalk, staring wide-eyed into the back of the van. She turned to face us and saw the goggles in my hand.

  A tiny squeak emanated from her open mouth, then she keeled over into the grass.

  “Laverne!” I yelled. I dropped the goggles and ran over to her side. I knelt and held her horsey head up, then patted her cheeks, trying to revive her.

  “Laverne,” I pleaded into her groggy ear, “it’s not what you think!”

  At least, I hope it isn’t!

  AFTER GETTING LAVERNE home and set up on the couch with a glass of gin and a promise Randolph was still alive, I left the goggles with her, went home, called J.D., and finally let poor Snogs out for a wee.

  I’d already survived my mother, lunch at Taco Schnell, a six-hour trip with Goober and Winky, and possibly being an accomplice to the murder of Laverne’s pet pig. I needed a beer. But when I looked in the fridge all I saw was that kombucha crap and a big bowl of broccoli salad Tom must’ve made for dinner.

  “Arrghh!”

  After the day I’d just had, no stupid salad was going to cut it.

  I was jonesing for some comfort food. What I needed was fried chicken and macaroni ‘n’ cheese flavored ice cream.

  Why hasn’t anybody invented that yet?

  I slammed the fridge door, then walked into the dining area and pulled the soiled newspapers from Snog’s cage.

  Perfect way to end this crappy day.

  I headed to the garage to put the papers in the bin. When I opened the lid, what caught my eye set my mouth to watering. It was a takeout box from Tasty-Lickin’ Fried Chicken.