Val & Pals Boxed Set: Volumes 1,2 & the Prequel (Val & Pals Humorous Mystery Series)

by Margaret Lashley

  The waiter approached. “Red or white, Val?”

  “After all this time living here, you should know which wine is good. Order what you think I would like.”

  “The Primitivo rosso, then,” he instructed the waiter.

  “Primitivo?”

  “Ya. It is the oldest wine grapes of the Puglia region,” explained Friedrich. “It is the city of Manduria where they grow the grapes and make the wine. The Primitivo grape makes a dark, earthy bouquet. It has a sweet ending, as you say. With a hint of himbeerin – uh, raspberries. It is actually a very traditional wine. Simply made, yet surprisingly complex. Very similar to the woman sitting in front of me.”

  If some man back in the States had delivered Friedrich’s last lines, I would have sneered and dismissed him as a fake, womanizing jackass. But there was a blunt honesty about Friedrich that made me believe in his sincerity. I blushed a little at his compliment, and hoped the fading sunset would hide my indiscretion. I’d never thought about myself that way before. Earthy? Maybe. Sweet? Hmmm. Raspberries? Yes. Definitely raspberries.

  “Now that’s some pretty smooth talking,” I said before I could stop myself.

  I regretted my stupid comment as soon as I heard it come out of my mouth. Typical me. Whenever a man I liked paid me a compliment, I had to spoil the moment. It was as mandatory as it was involuntary. Why do I do this to myself? Why?

  “What does this mean, this smooth talking?”

  Hot dog! I’ve been granted a do-over! I decided to cover my blunder with a white lie.

  “It means elegant…to speak elegantly,” I improvised.

  “Ah. Then I accept your compliment.” Friedrich’s half-smile made another appearance and decided to stay awhile. It softened the hardness of his taught, square jawline. The candlelight played in his blue eyes, and as the waiter poured the wine, I realized Friedrich’s eyes were the same color as the sea.

  “A toast,” he said, and raised his glass.

  “A toast.” I started to take a sip of wine.

  “Stop!” Friedrich commanded. He stood abruptly, knocking the table forward a few inches. “Don’t drink it!”

  “Why? Is it poisoned?”

  “No. Two reasons,” he explained, sitting down again. “First, we must toast to something. Second, you must look in my eyes before you take the first drink.”

  “Okay.” I shrugged my shoulders and raised my glass in anticipation.

  “A toast to friendship.” Friedrich’s eyes focused intently on mine as he said the words. For emphasis, he pointed an index finger to his eye.

  “To friendship,” I echoed. A sliver of disappointment deflated me ever so slightly. I looked into Friedrich’s sea-blue eyes and took a sip.

  The wine was just as he’d described – rich, complex, with a slightly sweet berry finish. I savored it for a moment, and watched Friedrich do the same. When he looked at me again, I asked the obligatory question.

  “Why do I have to look into your eyes when we toast?”

  “If not, seven years bad sex,” Friedrich said matter-of-factly, as if it were common knowledge.

  Something in his professorial manner cracked me up. I started giggling and nearly spewed my mouthful of wine. I couldn’t stop myself. Friedrich studied me curiously at first, but when I snorted as I gasped for air, he gave in and attempted a hesitant laugh. He looked as stiff and rusty as a wrench left out in the rain. But the more he tried, the easier it got for him. After a while, all I had to do was point a finger at my eye and he’d crack up, making me laugh right along with him.

  We kept this up until the first course, the antipasti, arrived. The somber waiter set down a rustic, clay bowl piled high with small, green and black olives. A basket of warm, crusty bread accompanied them, along with a bottle of golden-green olive oil and a plate of milky mozzarella. I guess there was no German protocol for food like there was for wine, because Friedrich dug right into the feast. I followed suit.

  The primo piatto came next – a course of succulent, balsamic shrimp and calamari insalata. Next came the secondo piatto – the main courses. Mine was fresh, Adriatic mussels smothered in cream with a side of thick, homemade linguini. Friedrich ordered a delicious-looking, roast duck carbonara. As we dined, the crowd grew thick and the sky grew dark. We took turns coming up with things to toast to, always careful to look into each other’s eyes.

  We toasted to old friends, new adventures, la dolce vita, and the beauty that surrounded us. I don’t remember all of them, but the last one will stay etched in my memory forever. Friedrich took my hand and looked softly into my eyes. He raised his glass with the last sip of wine.

  “To this moment in time,” he half-whispered. “May it never be forgotten.”

  I batted back unexpected tears and raised my glass. “Never forgotten,” I managed to choke out.

  After dinner, Friedrich and I strolled to the piazza, a small park at the heart of the city. Unlike Dominik, Friedrich didn’t touch me or even try to hold my hand. In the soft lamplight, we watched young lovers neck, and children of all ages play gleefully up and down the square, as carefree as birds on the wing. Parents and grandparents sat vigil on benches nearby, one eye on the kids, one eye on the passersby as they gossiped amongst themselves. In this land of the truly living, not even the pitch-black sky could convince an Italian it was time to call it a day.

  Friedrich and I strolled along together, silently watching the world go by. Lost in my own thoughts, I suddenly realized we were walking over familiar ground. We were back at the Hotel Bella Vista. Antonio acknowledged us with a nod as we entered the empty lobby. We squeezed into the tiny elevator and rode it to my floor, our faces mere inches apart.

  “Thank you for such a wonderful evening,” I said, afraid Friedrich could smell the garlic on my breath.

  “You are welcome.”

  The elevator door opened. I smiled. “Well, goodnight then.”

  I turned to step out of the elevator. I felt Friedrich’s hand touched my cheek. I looked back to face him and he kissed me – a light peck on the lips. From the look on his face, I think he was as stunned by his actions as I was.

  “Thanks,” I fumbled. My eyes as wide as jar lids. Friedrich gave a perfunctory, tight-lipped nod.

  I stepped out of the elevator. I heard the door closing behind me, but I didn’t look back. I fumbled for my room key, but my mind had turned to mush. My hands jerked like I had ahold of a jackhammer as I struggled to get the blasted key inside the lock. Finally, the door opened and I tumbled into my room. A jolt of electricity shot through me. I felt something begin to unfold – no – to reawaken inside me. I burst into tears. I wasn’t sure what for.

  I kicked off my shoes and sat on the bed. My head spun like a top. Suddenly, I heard a strange thump from the room next door. I sniffled, dried my tears on the backs of my hands, and listened in the quiet. I heard the thump again, followed by a moan. Then another thump. Another moan.

  I broke out into a grin. Then I started snickering. Unlike chicken shit me, someone next door was getting the ride of their lives.

  Chapter Eleven

  My cappuccino grew cold as I sat lost in my thoughts, replaying last night with Friedrich over and over in my head. The sunset. The wine. The walk home. The elevator kiss…. Was it a real kiss, or just an afterthought?

  “You’re up early.”

  Berta’s voice burst my daydream bubble and teleported me back from laugher and soft candlelight to breakfast clatter and fluorescent lighting. I blinked up at the woman taking a seat across from me at the table.

  “Actually, this is my normal time,” I replied. “You’re the one up early today. I’m glad to have the company for a change.”

  “When you’re my age, you don’t have to get up early. So far, that’s the only advantage I’ve found about old age.”

  Berta flashed a smile, revealing a row of pearly whites too perfect to be anything but dentures. Well into her seventies, Berta wore the neat costume of a dignified seni
or citizen; fashionably color-coordinated polyester pants, wrinkle-resistant patterned top, knit jacket, and white slip-on sneakers. But for me, her cover was blown as soon as she opened her mouth. Berta was as conservative as Lady Gaga.

  “I’m on at 8:30 today,” she said sullenly, staring dully at her vending machine coffee. “That’s bitching early, if you ask me. How about you?”

  “Class at 8:20. Frank should be down any minute.”

  “Now that guy’s a piece of work.”

  “I guess you should know, being a psychologist.”

  Berta laughed. “Major control issues. You don’t need to be a psychologist to see that one coming. Looks like you drew the shit end of the stick with the partner assignments, kid.”

  “Yeah. But at least I’m not married to the guy. What does Botox Broad see in him?”

  “A wallet, most likely. It’s amazing what some people will put up with for a meal ticket.”

  “I know, right? I’d rather starve than sell my soul to a dipshit, no matter how thick his wallet might be.”

  Berta studied me for a moment. “You know, I like your attitude, kid. You seem hell-bent on making the best of things. Like with your luggage. Kudos on how you handled that fiasco. I think I would’ve blown a gasket over that one.”

  “Thanks. It’s a new thing I’m trying out. Going with the flow. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

  Berta laughed. “Could be.”

  “To be honest, Berta, I messed up the first half of my life pretty darn badly. I’m trying not to waste the second half, too. That’s why I’m here. I’m on kind of a…mission. I’m trying to figure out what I want to do with my life.”

  “Divorced the sucker, huh?” Berta smiled wryly and showed me the left side of her upper dentures.

  “You’re good.”

  “Nah. Some people call it a mid-life crisis, but I think it’s more like a wake-up call. You hit forty and you realize you don’t have so much time to piss around anymore. Your shoved-away dreams gang up on you and kick you in the proverbial ass. You’re left with two choices. Either get off your butt and get going, or fall back into the familiar and sleepwalk yourself into an early grave – if you’re lucky.”

  “My god! Are you some kind of mind reader?”

  “Hardly. Hate to break it to you, kid, but you’re a typical, textbook case. But unlike most folks, you chose to get going. Good choice.”

  “What do you mean, good choice? Do you think everyone should get divorced when they turn forty?”

  “Naw. Everyone should wake up and smell the coffee, kid. They should take stock. Figure out if they’re on the right track or not. Then make the tough choices, if need be.”

  Berta took a sip of her vending machine coffee and made a sour face. I waved a thumb and index finger at Giuseppe. He acknowledged me with a quick nod.

  “So my situation is not so unusual.” I felt less special and brave, somehow.

  “Not at all,” laughed Berta. “After I left the convent, I got married. We both tried, but it just didn’t take. We split up twenty years ago, and I’ve never looked back. I wasn’t sure what I wanted back then, but I knew one thing for damn sure. I didn’t want him.”

  “Exactly!”

  I felt a growing camaraderie with the crusty old sage disguised as some kid’s great grandmother.

  “That’s exactly how I felt about Jimmy, my ex. But where do I go from here? If I read another candy-coated book telling me everything will be alright if I just believe in miracles and rainbows and unicorns, I’m going to projectile vomit!”

  Berta nearly choked on a sip of coffee. I suddenly felt awkward. Had she just written just such a book?

  “What a bunch of flapdoodle!”

  I sighed with relief. “I don’t mean to sound like an ingrate, but if all anyone had to do was believe, wouldn’t everyone have what they wanted? And what does that make people like me who are still trying to figure it all out? Unbelievers? Lazy slobs? Idiots? Infidels?”

  “Not at all, kid. Actually, just the opposite, believe it or not. After all my years sorting out the assholes from the angels, I should know. I call people like you truth seekers. Your kind isn’t after a quick-fix, feel-good pile of horseshit like so many people are. I can tell by your moxie that you’re a fighter, not a victim. You’re willing to do the dirty work to find your own truth.”

  “How do you know all this?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Because you and me, kid, are cut from the same bolt of cloth. Like it or lump it, for people like you and me, nothing but our own truth will do.”

  Giuseppe arrived with the cappuccinos and placed one on the table in front of me, the other in front of Berta. The old woman looked down at hers, then up at me. A perfect, pearly-white smile of delight spread across her wise face.

  “Thanks for the advice.” I raised my cup to her.

  “Cheapest session I ever gave.” She shook her head in mock lament. We clinked our cappuccinos together and took a sip.

  “Ahhh, now that’s a cup of joe!” said Berta. “I tell you what, kid. This alone could make me want to live in Italy the rest of my days. I could hang a sign out, ‘Will Psychoanalyze for Cappuccino.’”

  “That’s a thought. But I don’t think the Italians are as neurotic as the Americans. Clients could be pretty scarce.”

  The old woman shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. “Oh well, there’s always blow jobs.”

  I nearly dropped my cup. Berta grinned and tilted her gray-haired head to the right. “Speaking of BJ’s….”

  I looked in the direction of her nod and saw Frank walking into the dining room.

  “You are so bad!”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said proudly. “With age comes privilege. Follow your own drummer, kid. It works for me. It’ll work for you, too.”

  I reached across the table and took Berta’s thin, delicate hand and squeezed it. “You rock, Berta.”

  “Yeah, I kinda do, don’t I? You too, kid.”

  “I better go before BJ blows his top.”

  “Eeww.”

  A visual came to mind that made me grimace. “You are so so bad!”

  Berta grinned, and I headed toward Frank. I could hear him bitching at Giuseppe about the hot weather – as if it was the poor waiter’s fault.

  ***

  “Look who’s not coming to dinner,” said Val II to Frank.

  I’d tried to sneak past the dining room unnoticed, but was nabbed by the disapproving duo. They’d obviously dressed to impress each other tonight. They both reeked of what Grandma Violet called, “too much cologne and not enough good intentions.”

  “You’re right. I do have other plans tonight.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Val II hissed. She and Frank scrutinized me from head to toe, their sour mouths puckered as if they’d both been weaned on the same mildewed pickle.

  “I heard the two of you went to a fancy restaurant last night,” I said, ignoring their glares. I’d wanted to drive home the point that we were all free to opt out of the group meals in the evening. The fact that they were being hypocritical was totally lost on them, naturally. “You missed a great minestrone soup.”

  “The food was a lot better there than this dump,” Frank said

  “Yes! We had a wonderful time last night,” Val II added. Given the straining tendons in her neck, I wasn’t sure she’d ever had a good time.

  “Well, I’m glad that we’re all able to enjoy the delights of Italy.”

  “Some of us more than others,” Val II sneered.

  I’d never been accused of so much and been guilty of so little. I scoured my mind for a couple of snappy comebacks, but settled on silent dignity. Besides, I didn’t owe those jerks a damn thing, not even an explanation.

  “Enjoy your meal.” I hope you choke on it. I pivoted on my heels and clicked across the lobby toward the stairwell. I wanted to put some distance between me and those two turkey vultures before their combined negative energy vortexes sucked me under. I needed
to stay positive. I was on my way to room 222.

  ***

  Earlier that afternoon, I’d gone to swim a few laps in the pool and run into Friedrich out on the deck having a smoke.

  “Hallo Val. I’ve been thinking about Matera.”

  “Me too. That place is a punch to the gut. Pretty powerful.”

  “Ya. It is. You understand now, why it haunts me.”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Would you like to see The Passion of the Christ, then? The movie filmed at Matera?”

  “Is it playing at a theater?”

  “No. I have the DVD. We could watch it…in my room.”

  “Oh…”

  “I could also offer you dinner,” he added. “But I have to warn you first. I would be cooking. And the only place to watch TV is on my bed.”

  On his bed? What did he mean by that? Before I could think it through, I heard myself say, “Okay.”

  ***

  I stood in front of room 222, debating whether to knock. Had I made the right choice? Why had I decided to wear my sexy purple underwear? Clarice had given me the lacy, purple thong as a gag gift, “in case of emergency.” I guess this qualified. I’d never worn a thong before. The unfamiliar feel of it between my butt cheeks made me squirm like a wormy puppy.

  “How does anybody stand to wear these things?” I asked myself under my breath. I tugged on the back of my pants trying to free the rude scrap of material from my crack. Suddenly, the door opened.

  “Oh. I thought I heard someone out here,” Friedrich said. “Come in.”

  I cringed and stepped awkwardly inside. Friedrich shut the door, then kissed me lightly on the lips, exactly like the night before. Like his poker face, the kiss’s intent was hard to decipher. Friedrich walked over to a small, wooden table and poured two glasses of wine. As he did, I couldn’t help but think that maybe our kiss last night had meant nothing at all. It was just a normal, German greeting.

  Hello kiss. Goodbye kiss. See ya later, alligator kiss. Shut up, Val. Stop thinking! Just relax and enjoy the moment, for crying out loud!