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

by Margaret Lashley

  “Okay, already!” Clarice raced around and got ready in record time for her – forty three-minutes flat.

  ***

  We found Berta in The King’s Court, seated at the same table by the porthole window, slurping a cappuccino. Today Berta sported blue capris and a white top with a blue collar and twin, blue breast pockets. She looked as if she’d just finished her soda-jerk shift at a drugstore, circa 1943.

  “I was beginning to think you two fell overboard,” she said.

  “Sorry. My bad,” Clarice apologized.

  “Did you two catch the show last night?”

  “No,” I said, and shot Clarice a look. “We had an adventure, instead.”

  Berta flashed her perfect dentures. “Oo-la-la.”

  “I wish.” I sat down and leaned in toward her. “And how about you? Any traction on getting some action?”

  Berta shrugged. “Nah. No one on board my type.”

  My eyebrows raised involuntarily. I never thought about Berta having a “type.” I hadn’t even been able to figure out whether she liked men or women.

  “So, what’s your type?” I asked.

  Berta set her cup of cappuccino back in its saucer and looked me in the eye.

  “Dearly rich and nearly dead. What about you two? Tall, dark and then some?”

  Clarice sniggered despite herself. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Not for me,” I said. “I’m not sure I’m a ‘fling’ kind of gal.”

  “Why not?” Berta asked.

  “Because there’s no future in it.”

  “And you found a future with those guys you married? Hello, kid. Wake up!”

  “Hey, be nice,” Clarice said.

  “Sorry. I just hate to see Val stewing her guts out over this. You don’t have to marry every guy you sleep with, kid. I thought you knew better by now. I mean, Friedrich and all.”

  “I guess I’ve still got a bit of a learning curve.”

  We all three sighed at once.

  “Don’t we all, kids. Don’t we all.”

  ***

  The King Kavanaugh was docked off the stunning Italian town of Portofino this morning. Clarice and I’d thought about going on a tour, but decided to be lazy and read a book by the pool instead. I still hadn’t gotten to the sex part of Sex in Sorrento.

  I donned my white one-piece suit, a sheer floral cover-up and a pair of gold sandals. Clarice put me to shame in a gold bikini with fake jade beading that brought out the shine in her eyes. When we stepped out onto the open air pool deck, a panoramic view of Portofino splayed out in front of us.

  Portofino looked like an older, wiser, and perhaps a tad more relaxed version of Monaco. Her cliff-top buildings didn’t glitter like her younger sister’s skyscrapers, but the city itself did glow with something I could only define as satisfaction. Portofino seemed perfectly content to be exactly what she was – an elegant grand dame on the Ligurian Sea.

  Clarice and I had thought it would be hard to find two chairs together. Every time we’d passed by the pool area before, it had been crowded and noisy and chaotic. Like a colony of penguins, the white, round sunbathers had been squawking and shuffling and vying for tiny patches of territory on which to build their nests with towels and sunscreen and the latest paperback romances. Today, however, the pool area was nearly deserted.

  From across the pool I saw someone waving. I squinted against the sun and realized the arm belonged to Berta. If Portofino was the grand dame of the Ligurian, Berta was the grand disaster. She had on a neon-orange one-piece, floppy orange hat and orthopedic flip-flops. She looked for all the world like an Egyptian mummy on some tacky, touristy summer vacation.

  Clarice and I padded over to her. Berta pulled down her sunglasses long enough to show us a curious scrunch of eyebrows.

  “What are you kids doing here? I thought you were going on an excursion.”

  “We were, but we changed our minds. How about you?”

  “On port days, the ship’s half empty. It’s the only chance on old bat like me has of getting one of the good seats for a change.”

  “I know that’s –”

  “Aww, shit on a shingle,” Berta interrupted. “I forgot my sunscreen.”

  “You’re all settled in,” I said. “Just stay where you are, Berta. I’ll run get it for you.”

  “Thanks kid.” Berta looked around cautiously, then cupped her hands around her lips and mouthed the words, “Room three-three-two.” She fished her room card out of her orange-clad bosom and covertly slipped it into my hand like a five-dollar tip.

  I kept a poker face, but I was more curious than ever. What’s up with all the secrecy? I had her room key, and I was going to find out.

  ***

  When I opened Berta’s cabin door, I had to step over an envelope on the floor. It had a heart drawn on it in red lipstick. Should I pick it up? Should I pretend I never saw it?

  I did a quick scan of the bathroom and found the sunscreen on the counter. Next to it was a bottle of men’s aftershave. Strange. I checked the shower. There was a men’s cheap plastic razor in the soap holder. What was going on here?

  I opened Berta’s clothes closet and rifled through the Skittles rainbow of garish clothes. At the back I found a few men’s trousers, a man’s dark suit and several men’s shirts. On the floor of the closet was a collection of orthopedic sandals and shoes…and a pair of men’s black-and-white spats.

  OMG! Berta’s shacking up with Vinny Cannoli!

  A flood of shame washed over me. Oh crap! All those bad things I’d said about his jokes! Then I thought about all the notes shoved under the door by those other women. What was up with that? Should I tell Berta he’s a philanderer? Or should I keep my mouth shut? Berta was no dummy. Surely she must already know. Maybe that’s why she never told us she was with him. She was ashamed!

  Poor Berta! I’d been cheated on before, and it sucked! What’s wrong with men when a smart woman like Berta has to settle for a two-timing lout like Vinny Cannoli?

  I wanted to help her, but what could I do? Then a thought struck me. Berta said Vinny was going to perform again tomorrow night. Well, he’s going to get a performance from me! I’m going to wait for him in the hallway and give him a piece of my mind!

  I tried to fix everything back like it had been before I rifled through it. I closed the closet. I tiptoed over the envelopes and pulled the cabin door closed. For the time being, I would act as if nothing happened. I would hand her the sunscreen and…. Oh crap! I forgot the sunscreen!

  ***

  When I got back to the pool, Clarice was gone. I spotted her waving at me from the pool. I tried to act nonchalant as I handed poor Berta her sunscreen.

  “Here you are, dear.”

  “Dear? What’s gotten up your ass, kid?”

  My heart thumped. “Oh. Nothing! You…you said Vinny Cannoli is playing again tomorrow. Are you going?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. You should give him a shot, kid. He’s not that bad.”

  Not that bad! Should I tell her he’s a cheater? Maybe she doesn’t care. Maybe he’s the nearly-dead, dearly rich guy of her dreams. He certainly seemed to have one foot in the grave. Either way, it was none of my business.

  I shoved my thoughts aside. “Why do you like him so much, Berta?”

  “Vinny? I don’t know. He makes me laugh. We’re both from the same era. Made of the same dough, if you know what I mean.”

  “You’re both crusty, New York bagels?”

  “Ha ha. Yeah. Something like that.”

  “Have you ever met him? Talked to him…I mean?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  My heart thumped again. Watch it, Val. “Just curious. I don’t get what you see in him.”

  “Back in my day, people appreciated subtlety. A joke didn’t have to be profane or degrade somebody to be funny. Hell, when I was growing up, cuss words were practically illegal. Nowadays, that’s pretty much all you hear on the comedy stage.”

  “I
guess you’re really into comedy, huh?”

  “Some stuff, yeah. Like Vinny Cannoli. He’s old school. Gives people of my generation a taste of the sappy old stuff we were weaned on. There’s comfort in nostalgia. You’ll understand that someday. But enjoying the good old days doesn’t mean we don’t know the score, kid. We just choose to play the game by a different set of rules.”

  Lying? Cheating? Deceiving? Sounded like the same rules to me.

  “So your generation doesn’t go in for dirty jokes. Keep it squeaky clean, like in the old movies.”

  “Don’t underestimate us septuagenarians, kid. We’ve had sex, you know. People like you are living proof.”

  I blew out a laugh and shrugged. “Yeah, you’re right. I guess every generation thinks they somehow invented sex.”

  “Bingo, kid. But jokes about sex don’t have to be raunchy to be funny. There’s intelligent ones, too. The kind that make you think.”

  “Like what?”

  “Okay. Let’s see…. What do you call the really dense, hairy part at the base of the penis?”

  “I don’t know. What?”

  “The man.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Clarice and I had signed up for a bus trip to Sorrento this morning, and a drive along the Amalfi Coast afterward. This was the same area of Italy we’d seen together last fall. In my small view of the world, if there was any place on the planet worth seeing twice, this was it. Monaco was the playground for the rich and glamorous. The Amalfi Coast was the playground for Mother Nature. She’d toyed with its landscape like a biscuit recipe, trying to find out just how high she could get jaw-dropping beauty to rise.

  I felt bad that Clarice was going to miss it all. She’d had to beg off this morning. She’d complained of loose bowels last night after dinner. This morning I woke to find her in the bathroom sleeping next to the toilet. She’d told me she’d felt better, but wasn’t sure she should come along. She didn’t trust her body not to let her down. I’d helped her back into bed and promised to take lots of pictures and drink a lemon cello in her honor.

  From my window on the King Kavanaugh shuttle bus, the Tyrrhenian Sea splashed blue and foamy at the base of beige cliffs that jutted a thousand feet into the clear, blue sky. Dozens of birds soared against the craggy stone backdrop, teasing fishermen in the boats below. In every little village we passed, the homes and shops were cozy and immaculate, like something out of Better Homes and Gardens. Even though I knew what to expect, the Amalfi Coast still took my breath away. Its beauty and perfection bordered on simply unbelievable.

  I’d wanted to look international for the trip. I’d worn a short, loose-fitting blue halter dress patterned with white Greek symbols. Strappy sandals, a floppy white hat tied with a blue ribbon, and my trusty straw tote from Italy finished off my ensemble. I’d planned a leisurely day of café sitting, people watching, shopping, and general tourist gawking.

  About halfway through the bus ride to Sorrento, however, I realized I was feeling a bit off. By the time we arrived at the city center, I barely wanted to get off the bus. I struggled out of the vehicle and searched for a place to sit down. Thankfully, both corners of the intersection we’d been dumped off at had outdoor cafés. I spied an empty table for two at the one on the right. It looked like a little oasis amid the café’s lemon trees and pots of gardenias. I made my way over and took a seat.

  While I waited to be served, a ghostly white woman of around fifty with dull, black, shoe-polish hair came and sat down in a chair next to me. The chair didn’t belong to my table or to the one next to it. It just floated there, random and alone, like the strange woman perched on it like a nervous dove. She had on so much makeup I wondered if she might be traveling in disguise. I didn’t have nothing against someone making the most of what they had in the looks department, but if this woman got caught in a rainstorm, her face would’ve melted off.

  “Excuse me, do you speak English?” the woman asked. She had a British accent.

  “Yes, I speak English.”

  “Could you take my picture, dear?”

  Dear? Now I knew how Berta had felt.

  “Sure.”

  The woman handed me her phone. “Just push the button here.”

  “Okay. Smile”

  The woman grinned, proving what they say about British teeth. I snapped a couple of shots and handed the camera back to the woman.

  “Prego,” said a man’s voice. I turned to see the waiter had arrived.

  “Uno cappuccino, per favore.”

  At hearing me speak Italian, the waiter brightened up perceptibly. He smiled warmly and disappeared.

  I turned back to talk to the black-haired woman, but she stared straight ahead, as if I were of no further use to her. I sighed and looked away, just in time to see a lovely man walk by and give me a thumbs up. I perked up and smiled. He was tall and slim and dressed in a dark blue suit. He carried a motorcycle helmet in one arm. With those smoldering brown eyes and dark, wavy hair, he just had to be the real Italian deal.

  He changed directions and came to sit at the table between me and the Brit.

  “Where are you from?” he asked.

  “Glastonbury,” said the other woman. She smiled at him like a hungry wolf.

  Not missing a beat, the handsome stranger said, “And you, miss? Where are you from?”

  “Florida,” I said, slightly ashamed of not being European.

  “And how long are you here?”

  I waited a moment to see if the British woman would answer. She didn’t. She was too busy gathering her things to leave.

  “Just a few hours. I’m on a tour.”

  “What a pity. You are so beautiful. I would like to get to know you.”

  Come on! This is unbelievable. Where are all these men back in Florida? He must be a gigolo!

  “How sweet,” I answered.

  “May I join you for a…what are you drinking?”

  The waiter arrived with my cappuccino. In an Italian microsecond, the two men exchanged a quick succession of hand signals. Whether the motorcycle man had ordered a drink or the two had just sized me up, I had no idea. But I didn’t have the presence of mind to care. My stomach had begun to gurgle and boil like Uncle Jack’s moonshine still right before it blew.

  “I am Roberto,” said the devil in a blue suit as he joined me at my table. He took my hand and kissed it. “You are a lovely woman.”

  My stomach gurgled louder. I laughed to cover the noise.

  “Thank you. I am…Megan,” I lied.

  What was the point in being honest? I’d never see him again. Maybe that was the whole point to these crazy encounters.

  I began to break out in a sweat. My stomach gurgled again. I needed a toilet – pronto.

  “Excuse me, Roberto.”

  I walked slowly and carefully until I was out of his line of sight, then I ran inside the restaurant.

  “Toilette!” I nearly screamed at the waiter. He pointed upstairs. I leapt like a gazelle up the stairs and grabbed the handle on the ladies’ room door. It was locked. I tried the men’s room. The door opened right before my bowels did. I shit my underpants a little. There was no time to be ladylike and line the seat rim with toilet paper. I sat my ass on the bare toilet seat and shot a jet stream of diarrhea into the bowl. Whew!

  I did a courtesy flush, then waited to see if there would be an encore performance. After a minute or so, I was pretty sure I was done. I stepped out of the crappy panties between my feet and looked around for a place to throw them away. Most ladies’ rooms had a container for sanitary discards, but this was the men’s room. Oh crap! There wasn’t even a garbage can! I couldn’t just leave the panties lying there on the floor. I couldn’t flush them down the toilet, either. What if it clogged? Oh, I didn’t even want to think about it! Oh no! What if someone was waiting right outside the door?

  I was about to panic when I spied a small window about eight feet up on the wall. I could fling them out the window! I tried tossi
ng them up, but missed and narrowly escaped them falling back into my face. Yuck! An idea hit me. I took a pen from my purse and used it like a makeshift slingshot. I stretched the elastic waistband over one end, pulled it tight, and catapulted the shit-stained panties out the window on the first shot. Finally, one of my country skills paid off! Good riddance, nasty panties!

  I washed my hands with half the soap in the dispenser, then cracked open the door cautiously and took a peek around. The coast was clear. I’d gotten away scot-free! Yes!

  I felt loads better and about a ton lighter as I tiptoed down the stairs and out of the café. As soon as I stepped outside onto the sidewalk, I heard a commotion. I peeked around a lemon tree and saw a couple yelling at my waiter. I recognized the man. It was blowhard Frank from the WOW vacation group. His pink-haired companion was Botox Val.

  Frank was waving his arms wildly, pointing at the sky. I followed his finger upward to a small, square window in a wall. I followed blubber-lipped Val’s eyes over to their table. My gut went limp. Oh my gawd! My shit-stained panties had landed right in the middle of their dinner! They were hanging off of their water carafe like a crap-filled flag of surrender.

  I snorted with laughter. Frank looked my way. I yanked the brim of my hat down over my face and turned hard on my heels. I scooted away as fast as humanly possible in a short dress and no panties, but I kept doubling over with crazy laughter that teetered back and forth between bitter horror and sweet revenge. I dove inside a tacky tourist store about a half a block away, next to the shuttlebus bus rendezvous point. I spent the next hour holed up in there like a fugitive from justice, smirking and lurking behind bottles of lemon cello and racks of laminated placemats.

  ***

  First Dominik, then Friedrich, now Roberto. Three strikes. I was out. But for the moment, it didn’t matter. After what had happened with Frank and Val II today, I felt like I’d just hit a home run. The universe had conspired to help me settle an old score. It was rooting for my side at last! Even Sung-Li wasn’t around to shame me when I re-boarded the King Kavanaugh. Yes!