Fifty is the New F-Word

by Margaret Lashley

  “Uh huh. When was the last time you saw her?”

  “This morning. She was in bed. I let her sleep in and I went to the beach, like I said. I came back here to get her for breakfast, but she was still asleep. So I went alone.”

  “You went to breakfast here at the resort. What time?”

  “Around nine.”

  “Ms. Fremden, I was in the breakfast room at nine. I didn’t see you there.”

  “That’s because I didn’t go.”

  Detective Stanley’s jaws worked as if he were chewing ground glass. “Which one is it? Did you have breakfast at nine or didn’t you?”

  “I went in...I saw the back of your toup – head – and left. I swear!”

  The detective’s jowly face took on the color of a ripe pomegranate. “And why would you do that, Ms. Fremden?” His sour breath smelled of coffee and cat food, making me glad I hadn’t eaten that gross breakfast buffet.

  “I...I.... Look, it doesn’t matter why I didn’t eat breakfast! We need to find my friend. She could be hurt!”

  “You think?” Detective Stanley sneered. “Well, now we’re getting somewhere. What’s your friend’s name?”

  I started to say Cold Cuts again, but stopped myself in time. I wracked my brain for her real name. What is it? What is it?

  “Is that a hard question?” the detective sneered.

  Crap! I’d only heard Cold Cuts’ real name once. And she’d made me promise never to speak it aloud again. What was it? Then it popped up in my mind like a toaster pastry. “Penelope.” I said. “Penelope Piddle.”

  Detective Stanley stared at me, incredulous. “Penelope Piddle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Uh huh. So tell me, are you sure it was ‘Ms. Piddle’ you saw in the bed this morning?”

  I thought about it. I’d never actually seen her. “Well, no. But I mean, who else could it have been?”

  “Yes. Who else indeed,” Detective Stanley said in a tone that made me feel he’d already reached his verdict about me. “When was the last time you saw Ms. Piddle for certain?”

  “Last night. We went for a sunset sail. A thunderstorm came up and we got...uh...delayed. We got back really late last night. I left her on the beach with the boat captain.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I...uh...they were...friends.”

  “And who is this captain?”

  “He works here. He’s also the yoga guy.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Bilbo Bob, or something like that.”

  “Bill Robo?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “How convenient,” the detective sneered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It appears that he’s missing, too.”

  “What?”

  “Where’s your vehicle, Ms. Fremden?”

  “In the parking lot. It’s an RV. But it’s not mine. It’s Cold...uh...it belongs to Ms. Piddle.”

  “There’s no RV in the parking lot, Ms. Fremden.”

  “But –”

  “Did anyone see you last night who could corroborate your alleged sailboat story?”

  “No.”

  “How convenient, again.”

  I slumped in my wheelchair. This was all going to hell in a jet-powered handbasket. “Wait!” I nearly yelled. “There was a guy last night who saw me.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know his name. But I’ve seen him here twice.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Uh...,” I cringed. It sounded so weird even I could barely believe it. “He was an old white guy. I couldn’t see his face because he was wearing...a beekeeper’s hat.”

  Detective Stanley sucked in a big breath, pursed his lips, then blew it out. “Uh huh. So tell me, if you couldn’t see his face, how did you know it was a man?”

  “Because of his voice.”

  “You spoke with him? What did you two talk about?”

  “Nothing. He just said something to me.”

  “And that would be?”

  I cringed. “Hard-bodied grubs.”

  I could almost hear the detective’s teeth grind together as he scribbled on his pad. “And tell me, how did you know he was old?”

  I closed my eyes and forced the words from my lips. “Because besides the beekeeper’s hat, he was naked.”

  Detective slapped his notebook together. “This is absurd! The EMTs said you were laughing and joking like there was a party going on. I didn’t want to believe it. You might think this is funny, but believe me, this is no joking matter, Ms. Fremden.”

  “I don’t...I’m not!”

  A uniformed cop came running up to the cottage. “Sorry I’m late, sir!” he said.

  “I’ve heard all the drivel I can take from this woman,” Detective Stanley told the officer. “Take her down to the station. And call for a CSI unit.”

  “What?” I cried. “Wait! You’ve got this all wrong. I need to call my boyfriend. Where’s my purse? It must be in my room. Please! Let me get it.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Detective Stanley spat. “This room and everything in it is now under investigation as the scene of a homicide. You can call your ‘boyfriend’ from the police station.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Crippled, cuffed and about to be incarcerated! The only way this could get any worse was for Tom to see me being hauled away in the back of a police car. So, of course, that’s exactly what happened.

  “Val!” Tom yelled from across the parking lot. He was dressed for vacation and toting a suitcase. From fifty feet away, I saw his eyes grow as big as poached eggs. “What’s going on?” he yelled.

  “Tom!” I screeched, as two officers lifted me by the arms from the wheelchair. I took a step toward Tom, forgetting about my ankle. I stepped down and cried out in pain.

  “Are you all right?” Tom yelled. He dropped the suitcase and ran toward us.

  “Back it up, sir!” one of the cops warned.

  Tom stopped dead in his tracks and raised his open palms. “What’s going on?” he asked again.

  “They think I murdered Penelope!” I screamed as they shoved me into the back seat of a squad car and slammed the door. Tom stood there, mouth open, as the police officers peeled out of the parking lot. When I looked out the rear window, Tom was racing back to his SUV.

  I WAS BEGINNING TO feel trapped in the worst customer service call of all time. I’d just been transferred to another department. A new cop had come into the interrogation room, and I’d had to explain my whole story all over again, for the third time. If I hadn’t been so worried about Cold Cuts, I would have screamed in frustration.

  “I’ve already told you all I know,” I said. The cuffs were off, but my ankle ached and the aspirin the EMT had given me had worn off ages ago. I searched for a glint of mercy in the eyes of jowly faced Detective Stanley, but there was none to be found.

  “Well, Lieutenant Borge didn’t hear it,” Detective Stanley sneered. “So would you be so kind as to start at the beginning?” His eyes made it clear it wasn’t a request.

  “Like I said before, I don’t know where Penelope is,” I answered.

  “Were you really kicked in the head by a manikin leg?” Borge asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Was that before or after the ‘alleged’ sailboat ride?”

  So much for the good cop/bad cop routine. “Detective Stanley, you were there last night,” I argued. “You saw us leave to go sailing.”

  “I saw you both run off toward the beach,” he said curtly. “Nothing more.”

  “But you know we went sailing. You can check with Monty at the front desk. I made the reservation with him.”

  “I spoke with him already,” Detective Stanley said. “The clerk said he only saw you return last night. He also said you came in with your clothes wet and your hair disheveled. According to him, you were covered in red marks, as if you’d been in some kind of altercation.” />
  Crap! “Look, I know this looks bad, but I can explain....” A commotion outside the interrogation room door caused me to pause mid-sentence. It was Tom’s voice, yelling through the wall.

  “Tell them you want your attorney!” he bellowed.

  “I...I want to speak to my attorney,” I said.

  “Well, that’s it for us,” said Borge, blowing out a breath.

  Detective Stanley’s face went slack and grey as mud. “Take her to a holding cell.”

  I’D BARELY WARMED THE lumpy cot in my cell when Tom appeared on the other side of the bars. The sight of his face sent a wave of relief washing through me, as if a rope had been thrown to me at the bottom of a well. We talked through the bars while a uniformed cop watched our every move.

  “Val,” Tom whispered. “Are you okay?”

  “Tom! I...I guess so. How did you get in here?”

  “I’m a cop, remember?” he said. “And I reminded that Detective Stanley guy that he didn’t give you a proper phone call.” Tom shot the other cop a look that could melt glass. “Who’s this Penelope person they think you murdered?”

  “It’s Cold Cuts, Tom!”

  “What? What happened?”

  “Oh, geeze! I went for a walk on the beach this morning...there was this tornado...I got knocked out. When I woke up, there was blood all over the bathroom. Tom, it was horrible! And now Cold Cuts is missing. The cops think I murdered her – that I – sob – ditched her body somewhere!”

  “Geeze, Val! What a mess!”

  “I’m sorry, Tom!” I wailed between sobs. “I promise, I didn’t do it!”

  “What? Good grief, Val! I know that. Hold tight. I’m going to make some calls. I should have you out of here in no time.”

  “But what about Cold Cuts, Tom?”

  “Have you tried to call her?”

  “No. I couldn’t. They wouldn’t let me have my purse. It was in the room. I couldn’t get back in there.”

  “Who else has her number?”

  “I don’t know,” I said between sniffles. “I don’t think anybody we know does.”

  “Well, there is one thing I already know for sure, Val.”

  “What, Tom?”

  “You can’t help her from in there.”

  TOM WAS TRUE TO HIS word. An hour later, I was released from jail.

  “I’m not at all pleased with this,” Detective Stanley growled as Tom wheeled me down the hall of the police station. “If anything happens, it’s on your head, Lieutenant Foreman.”

  “I’ll take the risk,” Tom said. “Your claim against her is all circumstantial. You can’t hold her. You know that.”

  “Maybe. But it keeps getting less so by the minute.”

  I felt a hiccough in the wheelchair’s motion. Tom’s stride had faltered for a second. “What do you mean?” Tom asked.

  “The CSI guy working the scene just called,” Detective Stanley said. “He says there’s a blood trail leading from the cottage to the beach. And they found a pair of bloody pliers hidden under the mattress – along with what appears to be a human tooth.”

  “That still doesn’t prove anything,” Tom said as we reached the exit door.

  “Not yet,” Detective Stanley said. “But I’m putting a rush on the forensic tests. As soon as they’re in, I’m personally going to arrest your ‘friend’ Ms. Fremden and lock her away for good.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Tom hissed, and pushed my wheelchair out the door of the police station. I burst into tears.

  “Don’t worry about that old blowhard,” Tom said as he wheeled me to his SUV. He put on a cheerful face and hoisted me up out of the chair and into the passenger seat. But from the vanity mirror, I saw his face turn grim as he folded the wheelchair and put it in the backseat. He climbed into the driver’s seat and shut the door.

  “Tom –”

  “It’s going to be all right,” he said, cutting me off. He turned to me, the grimness on his face replaced by determination. “Here. Give me your hand.”

  “Why?”

  Tom sighed. “Just do it, Val. Okay?”

  I reached out my hand. Tom took it gently and slipped the sapphire engagement ring back on my finger. “That’s better,” he said, and kissed me lightly on the lips.

  Fresh tears welled in my eyes. “Are you sure you want to get involved with a potential murderer, Tom? What about your career!”

  Tom turned the ignition and bit his lip. “We’re in this together, Val. Thick or thin.”

  “I...I don’t know what to say, Tom. Thank you?”

  “You’d do the same for me.” Tom shifted into gear and backed out of the lot.

  “So what do we do now?” I asked.

  “We’re going to see your attorney friend, Mr. Fellows.”

  “You called him already?”

  “Yes,” Tom said and shifted into drive. “And I tried to get in touch with Cold Cuts, but then I realized I didn’t know her full name. What is it?”

  “Penelope Piddle.”

  Tom stepped on the brake and blew out a breath. “You’re kidding, Val. That’s what you told them?”

  “Yes. Of course. It’s the truth!”

  “I...I believe you. It’s just that...well, it doesn’t sound like, you know, a real name.”

  I slumped in my seat. “I know. That’s why Cold Cuts asked me never to call her that. The only reason I know it is because she had to sign that contract that time – you know, for that Date Busters deal.”

  Tom drove out of the lot and headed north. “It just seems so improbable,” he said, shaking his head. “But that still doesn’t explain why this Detective Stanley guy seems so...I dunno...out to get you. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “You said it yourself. The story...it’s so crazy. You might believe me, but he doesn’t.”

  Tom nodded. “I get that. But why would he want to see to it that you got put away forever?”

  I cringed. “Maybe it’s because I’ve seen him with his wig off.”

  Tom turned and stared at me with a face like melted wax. “Oh Val. Don’t tell me.”

  I bit my lip and cringed some more. “It was an accident.”

  Tom shook his head and closed his eyes. “What a mess. What a mess.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Aren’t we going to Mr. Fellows’ office?” I asked as Tom pulled his silver 4Runner onto Gulf Boulevard. We’d sat in near silence on the hour-long drive from the Sarasota police station back to St. Petersburg.

  “No. He said he’d meet us at your house.”

  “Oh. That’s strange.”

  Tom shook his head softly and kept his eyes on the road. “After all that’s happened today, you think that’s strange?”

  I looked down at my hands.

  “It’s Sunday, Val. He wasn’t in his office.”

  “Oh,” I said, and pursed my lips.

  Tom turned into Bahia Shores, and then onto Bimini Circle. A shiny white Mercedes was parked in my driveway. Up against poor Shabby Maggie, my old ’63 Ford Falcon convertible, the flashy Mercedes stood out like a diamond tiara on a warthog.

  Tom pulled up behind the Mercedes. The door flung open and Mr. Fellows climbed out. I’d forgotten how truly short he was. His diminutive frame barely came up to the hood of his fancy car. Dressed in khaki shorts, a pink polo shirt, argyle knee socks and white leather sports shoes, it wasn’t the first time he’d reminded me of a lawn jockey.

  Tom got out of his SUV, and shook Mr. Fellows’ hand. The two exchanged solemn faces. As Tom opened the backseat to get my wheelchair, Mr. Fellows disappeared behind the SUV for a moment. Suddenly, my door flew open. Mr. Fellows was standing there, looking up at me.

  “Pardon me if I’m not in full legal regalia,” he said, and smiled in a sweet, fatherly way.

  “Oh, Mr. Fellows, I’m so sorry to bother you with this – especially on a Sunday.”

  “It’s quite all right, Val. As it turns out, I was in the neighborhood.”

  “P
laying golf?” I asked.

  Mr. Fellows cocked his silver-haired head. “No. Why?”

  “Oh,” I said, and wanted to kick myself. “No reason.”

  “Here we go,” Tom said, and wheeled the chair around to my door.

  “Oh! Are you injured?” Mr. Fellows asked with genuine concern. “No one told me.”

  “Just a sprained ankle,” I said as Tom lifted me into the wheelchair.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Mr. Fellows said.

  “It sure is,” Tom agreed. “Should we get to it? We don’t have a lot of time to waste.”

  We went into the house and Tom propped me up on the couch. Oddly, Mr. Fellows took his shoes off. He grabbed a notepad from his briefcase and tossed it onto the easy chair across from the sofa. Then he climbed up and made himself comfortable in the big, puffy chair. At three feet and change, his stocking feet barely cleared the seat cushion.

  “Here you go,” Tom said, and put a plate of cookies on the coffee table between us. He handed each of us a mug of coffee, and me a pain pill as well. “Now, I’m off.”

  “What?” I asked. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m on vacation, so I might as well be a tourist at some fancy beach resort,” Tom said, trying to sound breezy. “A very nosy tourist. Thanks again for coming, Mr. Fellows.” Tom shook his hand, then came over and kissed me on the forehead. “Don’t worry, Val,” he whispered, then disappeared out the door.

  Don’t worry? Yeah. Like that was gonna happen.

  “NOW, LET ME MAKE SURE I’ve understood this correctly,” Mr. Fellows said, and peered at me past his bifocals from his nest amongst the pillows on the easy chair.

  “Okay,” I replied, and straightened myself up on the couch.

  “Your room wasn’t ready upon your arrival at the resort, so you were given free drinks and a sunset sail as consolation. You and Ms. Piddle went to the bar, drank margaritas and ripped the toupee off Detective James Stanley’s head as a joke.”

  “It wasn’t a joke. It was an accident. You see, I’d jabbed a toothpick in his hair right before I fell over.”