Adrenaline pulsed through my veins, standing the rest of my hair on end. I turned to run. I only managed two steps before whatever it was caught me by the foot. I fell. It bashed me hard on the back of my head. As my face hit the floor, I saw a mouse staring at me from under the cabinet baseboard.
Then everything went black.
Chapter Seventeen
I woke up sopping wet in a pool of blood. My head throbbed with dull, intermittent pulses of pain. Sunbeams shot their cruel lasers through the kitchen window straight into my eyes, turning up the volume on my headache. I raised a red, sticky hand to my forehead. Memories of last night flooded back and I sat up with a start.
As my face rose from the floor, something dislodged from the side of my head and slid down my cheek. It plopped onto my shoulder and fell into my lap. A pang of horror clamped my eyes shut.
Dear lord! Is that my ear? Have I been cut to pieces by some sick slasher?
I cracked opened one eye and peeked down. In between my knees, a plump, silver-haired man smiled back at me. His cook’s hat, cocked at a rakish angle, seemed to imply this had all been in jolly good fun. I let out a half-cry/half-laugh and plucked the Chef Boyardee spaghetti sauce lid from my lap. I wasn’t covered in blood. I was covered in spaghetti Bolognese.
I glanced around. So was the entire kitchen.
“Oh, great,” I muttered. I grabbed the end of the dinette table and pulled myself to standing. The dull ache pulsing between my eyes picked up tempo. I took a step with my right foot. My little toe shot a bullet of pain directly into my brain.
I looked down at my little toe. It was the size and color of a small plum.
What the? Why would someone break into my RV, knock me out with a jar of spaghetti sauce and smash my little toe?
A chill shot through me.
Oh no! What if they’re still in here!
I leaned over and took a cautious peek down the hallway toward the bedroom. My instincts had been right. The intruder was still there. A hand came up and slapped me in the forehead. It was my own.
Halfway down the hall, the bathroom door hung open. The intruder last night had been my own reflection in a full-length mirror. I’d run away from my own shadow.
What an idiot! Last night I’d stubbed my toe on the corner of the dinette booth. When I fell, it must have knocked the jar of spaghetti sauce off the table and right onto my dimwitted noggin.
Bloody. Freaking. Brilliant.
Great detective work, Val. You just solved the case of your own stupidity.
I STRIPPED OFF MY TOMATO-spattered clothes and stuffed myself inside the phone-booth sized shower. Last night’s fried food fest hadn’t done me any favors. My butt was already big enough to fill a bench. Now my stomach was as bloated as a dead toad-frog.
After I cleaned myself up, I put on a loose-fitting sundress, bandaged my toe and started in on the sauce-splattered kitchen. Over by the fridge I found the busted jar of spaghetti sauce. The expiration date revealed it had gone bad sometime during the second Bush administration.
Geeze! The jar must have exploded on impact. That would explain the spatter. That crap was everywhere!
I sponged down the sink, counters and cabinets and started on the booth. The mouse was gone, but it had left a trail of footprints across the table. Gross! With no mop to be found, I hobbled outside and yanked my “emergency” towel from the makeshift clothesline. I tried to wipe down the floor with it, but it was still so dirty from cleaning Maggie that I only managed to add mud to the Bolognese. Not a pretty combo.
I flung the towel out the door and got the one I’d just dried myself off with.
A half an hour later, every towel in the place was filthy and so was I. I took another shower and changed into jean shorts and a t-shirt. My head had stopped throbbing, but my toe wasn’t that easily dissuaded. To make matters worse, my tin-can condo was heating up in the late morning sun like an Easy-Bake oven with a million-watt bulb.
I cranked the window-rattler AC unit down to sixty-eight degrees and hoped for the best. What I really needed, though, was a nice, cold drink. I opened the freezer in search of ice. The tiny freezer was empty except for my flask of Tanqueray and a miniscule, Barbie-sized ice tray. I dumped the dehydrated, yellowed chips of ice in a glass. They looked like a pile of dead man’s toenails.
Geeze, Louise. Maybe I can borrow Charlene’s shopper chopper....
I stuffed my sauce-soaked clothes and towels into a garbage bag, opened the RV door and tossed it outside. As I did, my eyes caught sight of Elmira’s back end. She straightened up, turned around and glared at me.
I couldn’t decide what it was about the woman that was more disconcerting. Was it her bad attitude, her frizzy beard, or her belief that it was okay to wear a white sports bra as a top? I waved at her. She shot me a look that could have melted a steel girder at the North Pole.
“Witch!” she hissed.
Dumbfounded, I stood in the doorway and watched her huff down the lane.
“Don’t take it personal. Elmira hates near ‘bout ever’body.”
“Hi, Stumpy.”
“Mornin’ Val. You seen Woggles around?”
“No. Not since last night. Hey, do you know where I can get some ice?”
“Up by the laundry-mat.”
“There’s a laundry here?”
“Sure. A dollar a load.”
“Thanks. Good to know.”
“You got quarters?”
“Yessir.”
“All right then. You should be all set. You have yourself a good morning, young lady.”
“You, too. And thanks again for inviting me to the fish fry last night. It was fun.”
I went inside and pulled a roll of quarters from my purse. I always kept at least two full rolls in my handbag at all times. My adoptive mother, Lucille Jolly, had shown me by example that a purse full of quarters could come in handy against stray dogs, strange women and wayward husbands. Over the years, I’d begun to see her point more and more.
Quarters in hand, I grabbed my writing notebook, locked the RV and slung the bag of towels over my shoulder. Barefoot and with a smashed toe, I hobbled down the dirt road in the general direction of the laundromat like a down-and-out Santa with a busted sleigh.
Chapter Eighteen
I don’t know why I was so surprised, but I was. The Hell’ammo’s so-called “laundromat” was just a derelict washer and dryer loitering under an open, tin-roofed porch like a pair of stray dogs. Both appeared to have been scabbed together from the remains of the poor machines that had come before them. I hobbled over to the washer, lifted the harvest gold lid on its otherwise white frame, and peered cautiously inside to make sure it wasn’t already occupied.
Seeing as the washing machine didn’t contain anyone else’s laundry or a newborn litter of varmints, I bought some soap out of the small vending machine nailed to the wall, ripped the top off a box of Stain-Killer Tide about the size of a deck of cards, and poured it in. I hoisted the garbage bag up and let the Chef Boyardee-encrusted clothes and towels tumble in.
The last thing to fall out was my muddy “emergency” towel. It was as stiff and black as a charred steak. Beyond saving, I tossed it in the trash and pumped four quarters in the washer. Seeing as how there was no “post-apocalypse” wash option, I mashed the button for “heavy duty” and hit start. The machine jerked to life and began humming.
With just thirty minutes to kill and a little toe screaming bloody murder, it didn’t seem worth it to shamble back to the RV. Instead, I took advantage of the “waiting room” facilities. I limped over to the ice machine and blew seventy-five cents on a twenty-pound bag of ice, then plopped down in a dilapidated lawn chair.
As I sat there, a plastic bag drifted by like a tumbleweed, giving me an idea. I snatched the wayward bag and fashioned it into an icepack for my toe. That done, I hoisted my foot up to rest on the upturned hull of a refrigerator, and gently applied the little bag of ice. The relief was instant.
<
br /> “Aahh.”
It seemed a shame to waste the other nineteen pounds of ice. A while back, I’d read an article about how ice could kill fat cells. Some scientist had come to that conclusion after noticing that kids who ate popsicles developed dimples. If ice pops could put a divot in some kid’s fat cheeks, why couldn’t it carve out a sizable slab from my stomach? Besides, what did I have to lose? It was sweltering outside, and there was nobody around to tell me not to try this at home.
I hauled the bag of ice up onto my bloated gut and wondered how long it would take to get down to a size six. While I waited for my fat to melt away, I got out my notebook and fiddled with more ideas on how to kill someone with a casserole....
“That’s a novel way to cool off.”
I looked up. Gold-toothed Steve was staring at me, an amused look plastered on his smarmy face.
“Yeah. I call it ‘country cryosurgery.’”
Steve’s bushy black eyebrows met in the middle. “What?”
“Never mind. What have you got there?”
“Oh. I saw you hobbling down the path. Thought you might could use this.”
Steve handed me an upside-down push-broom. Its flat pad of bristles had been wrapped in a towel and secured with duct tape.
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
“It’s a crutch. I made it myself.”
“You don’t say. What’s with the round thingy halfway down the handle?”
“Drink holder. Thought it might come in handy.”
“Oh. Sure,” I laughed. “But it would be handier if it already had a drink in it.”
Steve grinned. “I thought you might say that.” He reached in a plastic bag and pulled out a Fosters.
“My favorite!” I said.
“Beer. Never leave home without it. Trade you some of that ice for a sort-of cold one?”
“Deal.” I grinned, took the beer, and handed Steve the bag of ice from my lap. “So, what’s your story?” I asked as I cracked the tab.
Steve shrugged. “Not much to tell.” He eyed my notebook. “What are you working on there?”
“If you must know, ingenious ways to get rid of a body.”
Steve’s eyebrows disappeared into his baseball cap. “Oh.”
“It’s an assignment for a class I’m taking.”
“Let me guess. Mafia 101?”
I smirked. “No. But I like the way you think.”
“To great minds that think alike,” Steve said, and lifted his beer for a toast.
“Here, here.” I raised the beer to my lips and took a sip.
A high-pitched scream echoed through the trees.
I spewed my beer.
Steve looked around, then at me. His expression registered both concern and amusement. “I didn’t realize it was Bigfoot mating season.”
My heart flinched. “You really think that was Bigfoot?”
Steve opened his mouth to answer, but Stumpy came crashing out of the woods, rendering him mute. The old man hightailed it past us without saying a word.
Steve rubbed his goatee absently. “Depends on your definition of a ‘wild man.’ But I have to say, Stumpy’s rapid exit did seem rather ominous.”
“Geeze! Help me!” I cried as I tried to rock my butt out of the hole in the dilapidated lawn chair. “I’m a sitting duck!”
Steve tried to look serious, but I knew a stifled laugh when I saw one. “Don’t worry. Here, take the crutch.”
I hoisted myself up on the push-broom. The washing machine cut off. “Please. Steve. Could you help me get my clothes out of there?” I nodded my head toward the washer.
“Really? A murderous beast is breathing down our necks and you’re worried about your laundry?”
“It would be rude to leave it. What if someone else needed to use the washer?”
Steve shook his head. “You’ve got an odd set of priorities, Val.”
I grimaced apologetically. “I blame my mother.”
Steve snorted and lifted the lid on the washer. “Who doesn’t?”
BY THE TIME STEVE HELPED me hobble back to the RV, the Hell’ammo was eerily deserted. I stuffed the rest of the ice in my freezer and made Steve a gin and tonic to thank him. It was either that or kale chips. When I stuck my head out the door, Steve was hanging up the last of my laundry on the old clothes line. Everything was flecked with telltale pink spots compliments of Chef Boyardee.
“Crappy job,” I said.
“And here I thought you’d be all grateful and what-not.”
“Oh! Not you, Steve. I meant the washer!”
“Okay. That’s better.”
“Here. I made you something.”
“I hope it’s not another mess. I should be getting paid for being your domestic slave.”
“Har har. No. It’s a gin and tonic.”
“Wage terms accepted.”
I handed him a glass and hobbled back around to fetch my own, then joined him on the porch.
“Be honest. Do you think there’s such thing as Bigfoot?” I asked as we sipped cocktails by the clothesline.
“I’ve seen stranger things.”
“Like what?”
“Well, like that, for instance.”
I glanced in the direction Steve nodded and did a double-take. Coming up fast along the dirt path was a babushka-headed Charlene, peddling her shopper chopper for all she was worth. Inside her shopping cart, still in her sport bra and skirt, was her sister Elmira. She was on her knees, facing forward, holding a large wooden cross out in front of her like one of those patron saints carved on the bows of old Spanish galleons.
“Were they crying?” I asked as they whizzed by.
“I don’t know,” Steve muttered absently. “I wasn’t looking at their eyes.”
“I think we should go see what’s going on.”
“I dunno,” Steve hesitated. “If a skunk ape really is after them, we don’t stand a chance of outrunning them. Plus, it looks like they’ve got God on their side.”
I laughed partly out of fear, and partly because of the utter absurdity of, well, everything. I limped alongside Steve as he traced Charlene’s chopper marks over to the clubhouse. A crowd was gathered around the edge of the pool.
“What happened?” I asked Stumpy. He didn’t answer.
I hobbled over on my broom crutch and peered around his shoulder. The air went out of me like a punctured tire.
Inside the makeshift truck-bed pool, a body floated, face up. One eye stared blankly skyward. The other, well...didn’t.
Chapter Nineteen
Woggles was dead.
Dread stabbed my heart. But it wasn’t all for Woggles. Floating in the water beside him was the bottom half of a plastic container. Inside it, like the lone survivor in a doomed life raft, was the crescent-shaped remains of a half-eaten snickerdoodle.
My heart sunk to my knees. Oh dear lord. Laverne’s cooking has finally gone and killed someone.
My legs grew wobbly. I felt woozy. I leaned into the crutch, then crumpled to the ground like a soggy bag of boiled peanuts.
WHEN I CAME TO, I WAS lying on the pool deck. Woggles was splayed out in a stretcher beside me. Everyone from the trailer park was gathered around us like curious, poorly-dressed vultures.
I shot up to sitting. “I’m not dead!” I cried out, feeling the need to prove the point.
“I think we got that,” an EMT said, then spoke into his radio. “She’s awake, Chief.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“You passed out,” Steve said, and showed me his gold-toothed grin.
“Oh.” I looked over at my not-so-lucky companion. “Poor Woggles.”
“Here. Let me help you up.” Steve stretched out a hand. I took it. He pulled me up to standing, then handed me the broom-crutch. Charlene and Elmira eyed us warily as I steadied myself on my feet. I took a tentative step.
“Don’t go anywhere,” the EMT said firmly,
“What? Why not?”
�
�Chief wants to talk to you.”
“Chief?”
“That would be me,” said a middle-aged man in a police uniform. He broke through the small crowd and stepped to within a foot of me. “Chief Earl Collins.”
“Oh. Mr. Collins –”
“Chief Collins,” he said. “And you are?”
“Sorry, Chief Collins. I’m Val Fremden.”
“Tell me, Ms. Fremden, what do you think happened here?”
I thought about Laverne’s cookies. Had they done old Woggles in? A frog tied a knot in my tonsils. “I...uh...I don’t know.”
“Hmmm. Well, that’s too bad.”
“What do you mean, Chief?”
“It means we’re gonna have to do this the hard way.”
I shifted my weight on the crutch. “I don’t understand.”
“Look around,” he said. “According to everybody here, you killed Wally Walters.”
“What?!” I scanned the faces of my accusers. Their eyes darted around like minnows in a pond.
“But...but...” I stuttered.
“Um...Chief?” Steve said, holding up a finger. “Just for the record, that would be everyone but me.”
“Have it your way, mister. You can come in for questioning, too.”
Steve’s eyes doubled in size. “Well,” he backtracked, “I didn’t say she didn’t do it.”
“Right,” Chief Collins said. “Ms. Fremden, I’d like you to accompany me down to the station.”
Oh, dear lord! “Are you going to...cuff me?”
Chief Collins looked surprised. “Do I need to?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, all right then. You have some ID on you?”
“It’s back at the RV.”
“Lead the way.”
I hobbled down the dirt path. Chief Collins lagged a few yards behind me and talked to a man holding a clipboard.
“What do we have so far?” I heard Chief Collins ask.
“First blush, it looks like foul play,” the man answered. “Wounds to the body suggest a possible knife attack.”
Seven Daze: Redneck Rendezvous (A Val Fremden Mystery Book 7) Page 11
