“It’s still bloody, though,” I said. “Just like the piece of meat I found earlier.”
J.D. sighed. “I made the mistake of telling Laverne I liked my meat rare,” he said. “So tonight, she served me a half-raw chicken.”
“Ugh,” I said involuntarily. My gut boiled at the thought.
“I told you her food was deadly,” J.D. said. “I had to defend myself.”
“We understand,” I said. “Don’t we, guys.”
They nodded.
“Well, I better be getting back,” J.D. said, and climbed off the barstool.
I walked with him to the door. “No hard feelings, I hope?”
“No. You keep my secret, Val, and I’ll keep yours.”
“Deal,” I said, and opened the front door. “Wait a minute. What’s my secret?”
“That you hate dogs,” J.D. said matter-of-factly. He walked out and closed the door behind him.
“Geeze! Does everybody know?” I asked.
“Not everybody, or it wouldn’t be a secret,” Goober smirked. “Tom doesn’t know. Not yet, anyway. But when he gets back and finds Buster gone, well....”
“That J.D.’s a strange feller,” Winky said. “Reminds me of my nephew, Dexter.”
I rolled my tired eyes. “At least we know that J.D. isn’t a killer.” I looked at the guys wistfully. “And there’s still hope Buster’s alive, right?”
“He’s got to be out there somewheres,” Winky said.
“I just hope he’s not lonely. Or scared,” I said.
Goober snorted. “Or giving someone indigestion.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
I woke up Monday morning with thoughts buzzing around my brain like flies around a crap casserole. Last night, the guys and I had solved the mystery of the holes in Laverne’s yard. But as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I wondered if the potentially lethal food Laverne had served J.D. was intentional. Was it possible she trying to get him out of her house by poisoning him? She’d mentioned something about seeing that on TV. But then again, her cooking was the kind of stuff that started urban legends....
I sat up in bed and yawned. For the moment, that was one mystery that would have to remain unsolved. The first order of business for the day was to make a cappuccino.
I heard a snuffled snore from the living room. Wait a minute. No. The first order of business is to get rid of Winky and Goober. Tom will be coming home this evening.
I sucked in a breath.
Tom will be here tonight! The first order of business is to find Buster. But in order to do that, I need to not have any other business....
Okay. The first order of business is to call in sick....after I make a cappuccino.
My flapping ducks settled in a row in my mind. I crawled out of bed, put on my ratty bathrobe and crept into living room. As I slipped past the living room, I saw Goober’s long arms and legs sprawled out all over the sofa like a besotted orangutan. Winky was wedged underneath the couch like the loser of a drunken idiot’s bet. I shook my head at the ridiculous pair, perked my cappuccino, and snuck back to my bedroom before I woke the goofballs.
Back under the bed covers, I took a sip of cappuccino and checked my phone. There was a text from Tom saying he missed me, along with a picture of him sitting next to his boss at one of those hotel convention dinners. From the looks of it, he’d ordered the rubber chicken breast. I texted him back, “I miss you, too. Can’t wait to see you!”
It was my first white lie of the day. Not that I didn’t miss Tom. That part was true. But I could wait to see him until after I’d found Buster – or at least knew what had happened to him. If I didn’t find Buster before Tom got home...well...I didn’t know what I was going to do.
I clicked on Milly’s number and texted her, “Can’t make it today. Buster sick. Okay?”
Before I could set the phone down, she pinged back. “I understand. Take all the time you need.”
Huh. Either Milly was the most thoughtful boss in the world, or she was still steaming mad about the Barkmitzva disaster. I guess I’d find out tomorrow. I finished my cappuccino and got up to search for my favorite jeans. With all the commotion over the last few days, I hadn’t had time to do laundry. I found them crumpled in the dirty clothes hamper, wrinkled to hell. I wriggled into them anyway. They were so tight I knew all the wrinkles would scrunch out.
The realization that I knew this made me question myself. Am I that big a slob? I sighed and looked through my closet for a blouse. I guess it really didn’t matter how I looked. I had no one to impress this morning. Not even myself.
I WAS POURING WINKY a cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. “That must be Winnie,” I said. I put the carafe back in the coffee machine and padded toward the door.
Winky burst out laughing.
I whipped around. “What?”
“Looks like you got yourself a panny-tumor,” Winky said.
“A what?”
Winky pointed to the back of my shin. “Winnie gets ‘em all the time. Either that, or you forgot to flush.”
I looked at the back of my left leg. An odd bulge protruded from inside my jeans, halfway down my thigh.
“What the?” I looked up at Winky. He was grinning at me through one side of his freckled face.
“Answer the door,” I groused, and sprinted back to my bedroom. I yanked down my jeans. Wedged inside the pant leg was a pair of wadded up panties – a relic from the last time I’d worn them.
Panny tumor...panty tumor! I really am a slob! Great. I’ll never live this one down.
Braced to be teased within an inch of my sense of humor, I marched back to the kitchen. But Winky’s attention was no longer on me. He had his eye on Winnie...and her bag full of peanut-butter bacon bombs.
“Keep your mitts off those,” Winnie scolded Winkie, and slapped his hand. “Those are for Val.”
“Are those the bombs?” I asked.
“Sure are,” Winnie said. “A baker’s dozen.”
“Awesome!” I took one out of the bag and bit into it as Winky looked on with envy. “Oooh, these are soooo good!” I teased.
“Thanks,” Winnie said. “Keep your fingers crossed. I sent the entry in this morning.”
“Well, if you don’t win, it would be a crime against bacon,” I joked. “When will you know?”
“Coupla weeks,” Winnie said. “I saw Goober’s car outside. Where is he?”
“In the shower.”
“Not anymore,” Goober said, emerging from the hallway. He was wearing a fresh t-shirt but the same dirty cargo shorts. But hey, who was I to judge?
“I was just telling Winnie these donuts are to die for,” I said to Goober. “If Winky had any sense, he would marry her and snap her up!”
Winnie giggled, but Winky didn’t look to keen on the idea.
“I dunno,” he said, still pouting. His eyes shifted left and right. “I been tricked by bacon before.”
“Huh?” I grunted.
Goober closed his eyes and shook his head softly. “Don’t ask.”
WITH WINKY SAFELY BACK in Winnie’s care, it was one stooge down, one to go. I was about to give Goober the boot when my phone rang.
“Hi. I’m calling about the dog in the flyer?”
“Uh...yes?”
“Is it still available?”
“What do you mean, is it still available?”
“Oh. I mean, has anyone claimed it yet? Uh...you see...uh...my dog is missing. He’s got all four limbs, right?”
I put my hand over the speaker and looked over at Goober. “Someone’s calling about Buster. There’s something really odd about him....and his voice sounds familiar.”
Goober grabbed the phone. “Hello. Could you describe the dog? Yeah. Uh huh. Uh huh. You don’t say. Huh. That sounds like a pretty good deal, actually.”
What was Goober doing? Negotiating? For a dog I didn’t have?
I shot Goober a dirty look. He got the message.
“But not this time,” he
said. “See you around.” Goober clicked off and handed me back my cellphone.
“Well?” I asked.
“Oh. It was Capone. You remember, the guy who tried to scam you for fifty bucks over that guitar guy’s missing finger?”
“How could I forget?” I said, suddenly irritated. “I know who Capone is, Goober. Why was he calling about Buster?”
Goober shrugged. “Says he knows a guy who’ll pay twenty bucks a head for decent lookin’ pooches.”
“What? Why? What does he do with them?”
“How the hell should I know? Maybe he re-sells ‘em online. Maybe they go to research labs. I didn’t ask.”
“Animal research? What happens –?”
The blaring tune Dixie Land cut me off. It was coming from underneath the couch. It was Winky’s ringtone. He’d forgotten his phone again.
“Should I answer it?” I asked Goober as I scrounged for it on my hands and knees.
“Sure. He might be calling to tell himself he lost his phone.”
I laughed. “Wouldn’t surprise me one bit.” I clicked on the phone. “Winky? Is that you?”
“I’m calling for Wallace J. Winchly,” the man said.
“Who?”
“Wallace J. Winchly.”
“You’ve got the wrong number.”
“Uh...he goes by Winky, as you, apparently, are aware.”
My shoulders straightened. I knew that voice, too! “What do you want, Finkerman?”
“Val Fremden?”
“Yes,” I sighed. “What’s Winky done?”
“Nothing, unfortunately.”
“Then why are you calling him?”
“I’ve been hired to dispose of...I mean distribute the worldly belongings of one Joseph Bateman. Of Old Joe’s Bait & Tackle?”
“His last name was Bateman?”
“Huh? Oh. Yes. Well, it appears your friend left some merchandise in his shop. He needs to reclaim it or it will be disposed of.”
“Really. Well I’ll be sure and let him know.”
“Thank you. He needs to respond by next Friday or he forfeits his opportunity.”
“Why?” I sneered. “Is that when you start serving your next jail sentence?”
“You wish.”
“Yes, I certainly do,” I hissed, and clicked off the phone.
“Who was that?” Goober asked.
“Just another unwelcome blast from the past.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I don’t understand. I told my butler to have it fully serviced before he drove me here,” Goober deadpanned. He climbed out of the dead hulk of his rusty, baby-blue, 1985 Chevy Chevette. “I’m going to have to have a serious talk with my entire house staff.”
“Let me drive you home,” I offered.
“Nah. I’m in no hurry. Just drop me by Davie’s Donuts. Maybe Winky can come take a look at Maybelline.”
“Maybelline?” I snorted.
“Hey. You call your car Maggie. Mine’s Maybelline. Don’t be a hypocrite.”
I sighed. “Okay. I’ll take you to Davie’s. I’ve got to give Winky back his phone anyway. Here. Take it.” I handed the phone to Goober. “I also need to tell him about Finkerman.”
We hopped in Shabby Maggie and I hit the gas. Davie’s was just a few minute ride away.
“So what are you doing with yourself these days?” I asked Goober, not particularly curious about the answer. I glanced over at him. He’d stuck his right arm out the side or the car and was surfing air waves as we sped along. His eyes were focused straight ahead.
“I was helping Winnie and Winky out with the jewelry stuff,” he said. “But that’s kind of dried up. The price of scrap metal has plummeted, so it’s hardly worth recycling cans anymore.”
“Goober, what are you? Fifty? Why don’t you get a real job?”
“You mean like you?”
“Hey, I have a real job.”
“Val, if it weren’t for Milly, you’d be playing a kazoo on a corner for tip money. Face it, you’re as unemployable as me.”
“I really don’t see the need to insult someone who’s doing you a favor,” I sneered as I pulled into the parking lot at Davie’s. “Oh my lord!”
“What?”
“Look! Over there! It’s him!”
“Who?”
“Ape man! My psycho neighbor! And he’s heading right for the front door of the donut shop!”
“In a bipedal fashion, too,” Goober observed. “Impressive.”
I slammed into a parking place. “Call Winky!”
“Why?”
I grabbed the phone from Goober’s hand and started punching buttons. “Ape guy can recognize him. He ran Winky off with a cleaver, remember? We need to warn him!”
I saw Winnie’s number in contacts and punched it.
Winky answered. “Hello? Is this me?”
“What?”
“Winnie said I was calling her on her phone. But I’m here, so –”
“Winky! Shut up and listen. Ape man is about to walk in the donut shop!”
“Wow! Is this someone from the future? Callin’ to warn me?”
“Argh! It’s me, Val. I don’t have time to explain. Just get out of there. We’re in the parking lot!”
“How do I know this ain’t a trap?” Winky asked. “Maybe you’re that ape-man feller waitin’ outside to get me.”
“Don’t you recognize my voice?” I hissed.
“Huh. Well, he could be holdin’ you hostage. Or impersonatin’ your voice.”
Ape man was at the door, his hand on the handle. I took a deep breath. “Winky. Look out the door. What do you see?”
I heard a hillbilly holler. A second later, the side door flew open. Winky came running at us for all he was worth. He dove into the backseat. I hit the gas.
“Gaul-dang it, Val!” Winky bellowed. “That was a close call! You should give a feller more warnin’, you know? ‘Specially since y’all know what’s gonna happen in the future an’ all!”
Goober and I exchanged glances. I hit the gas again and was about to peel out of the lot when a thought hit me. “Geeze! Do you think Winnie’s all right in there with him?”
“If he’s got a beef, it’s with us, not her,” Goober said.
“She’ll be all right,” Winky said. “Winnie done told me she’s used to handling skunk apes on a daily basis.”
Goober and I eyed each other again.
“I believe that,” I said, and turned out of the lot. “Guys...if he’s at the donut shop, you know what that means?”
“That he’s not on a gluten free diet?” Goober asked.
“No! That he’s not at home.”
“Brilliant deduction,” Goober deadpanned.
“Argh!” I grunted. “It means we can take a look around his place. He’s not there to chase us with a meat cleaver and slap us on a grille.”
“Well then, shake a leg, Val,” Winky said. “All this talk about food is making me hungry.”
“YOU WERE RIGHT, WINKY,” I whispered. “It’s a little graveyard, just like you said.”
The three of us had scaled a ladder over my neighbor’s chain link fence. Once we’d gotten through the tangle of hedges, we’d followed a worn-down trail in the waist-high weeds. The gap in the overgrowth had led to a dilapidated shed. Next to it, a small patch of ground had been cleared down to the soil. We stood around the bare plot of sand, staring at the handful of crudely-carved limestone headstones, each baring a different name.
“This is worse than I thought!” I said, swallowing hard. “He’s only been out a week or two...and there’s already what...six graves here?”
“You think he murdered all these people?” Goober asked.
“Why else would he hide them back here?” I asked.
“’Cause he’s ashamed ‘a his poor engravature skills?” Winky asked.
I blew out a breath. “Look. I’m gonna get some pictures of the headstones to show Tom. You guys look around. See if there’s anyth
ing else we should tell him about.” I snapped a few pictures of the plot and individual headstones. Bob. Ralf. Peggy. Jon-Jon. Lance. Mable.
Mable?Wait a minute. Wasn’t that his mother’s name?
A spine-chilling creak pierced the air, followed by a loud bang. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
“Hey y’all!” Winky called out. “Come take a look in here.”
Winky had pried open the shed door and was peeking inside. I walked over and cautiously stuck my head in for a look. Inside was an old wooden bench. On the bench lay a hammer and a chisel – and another half-finished gravestone. Carved into the slab were the letters B U and S.
“Oh my lord!” I cried out. “Do you know what this means?”
“He’s done kilt a bus driver?” Winky asked.
Winky’s phone rang, scaring the bejeesus out of Goober and me. Winky answered it nonchalantly. “Uh huh. Yeah. All right. Thanks for calling.” He hung up and put the phone back in his pocket.
“Well?” I asked.
“Oh. That was Winnie. She just wanted me to let you know that hairy guy just left.”
My heart dropped to my knees. “We need to get the hell out of here! Now!”
Weeds batted me in the face as we scrambled down the path and scrabbled through the hedges. I bit my nails as Goober scaled the ladder straddling the fence. He hopped off and held it for me as I crawled over. I jumped and landed in my yard next to Goober.
“Did you shut the shed door?” I asked Winky as he stepped a bare foot on the first rung of the ladder.
“Crap!” he hollered, and ran back into the thicket.
“My work here is done,” Goober said, and ran off.
I heard a loud creak and a bang. Winky’s face poked through the bushes a moment later.
“Hurry up, already!” I screeched.
“Hold your horses!” he grumbled. “I’m having testicle difficulties!”
“Technical,” I hissed as he climbed the rungs.
“Nope. Testicle, Val. I got me a major wedgie in the works.”
THE THREE OF US WERE on the street, standing around the open hood of Goober’s Chevette, still panting from our getaway sprint. Once we’d made it safely back over the fence, Goober had confessed he might have left a Zagnut wrapper at the scene of our crime. In a panic, I’d ordered them to establish an alibi by pretending to fix Goober’s car.
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