Two Crazy: Fickle Finger of Fate (A Val Fremden Mystery Book 2)

by Margaret Lashley

  I was in the kitchen trying to put together a grocery list, but even fortified with two huge cups of coffee, I couldn’t get past item one – Ty D Bol. I recalled the time Tom had blindsided me before, when he’d neglected to mention that his “friend” at the forensics lab was his bombshell-gorgeous ex-wife. I wondered what else he had conveniently forgotten to clue me in on.

  Arrgh! There was only one way to tame the vicious gerbil running circles to nowhere inside my skull. I needed some serious chocolate therapy. The big guns. It was time for a trip to Chocolateers.

  I tore the one-item list from my notebook and slipped it into my purse. I ran a brush through my wavy brown hair, locked the front door behind me and slid sideways onto the red, fake-leather bucket seat behind Maggie’s steering wheel. I turned the ignition and hit the gas. The vintage Ford’s twin glass packs rumbled like a pack of angry, ’roid-raged bears.

  ***

  Downtown St. Pete was the kind of gritty-yet-trendy city center that suited both the ambitious and the artistic. Gleaming glass buildings towered over tiny, single-story shopfronts straight out of Main Street, circa 1930. Cracked sidewalks and red-brick alleyways led to walls adorned with amazing, hip murals, smelly dumpsters, and drunken derelicts. Chic new vegan restaurants sprouted up next to junk shops disguised as antique dealers, both doomed to die in the toxic fog of capitalistic disinterest. Still, somehow, one thing – no, two things – seemed to always prosper in any socioeconomic environment; coffee houses and chocolate shops.

  Addiction was never short of admirers. I was living proof. My brain worked better with a caffeine or anandamide buzz, and I was Jonesin’ for some chocolate, big time.

  When I needed a coffee fix, Brew’delicious had my vote. I loved the friendly baristas at the cozy wooden bar and the homey, eclectic hodgepodge of couches and chairs where patrons could sit and sip as long as they pleased. But when it came to cocoa beans, I was pulled like a mating-season salmon toward the stream of dark, rich heaven known as Chocolateers.

  Both shops were on Central Avenue. Chocolateers was closer to Beach Drive, wedged between an Irish pub and one of those new cigar bars that seemed to be popping up everywhere like pimples on a fat man’s ass. Personally, I didn’t get it. Cigar smoke was the best woman repellant ever invented. It wasn’t as if the men frequenting those places needed another reason for women to avoid them.

  As I walked by Cigar Daddy’s, I was forced to pass one of their customers puffing it up at a sidewalk table. Rotund and revolting, the man could have run a comb through the hair growing out of his nose and ears. His mint-green Nehru shirt had reached maximum capacity long ago, and could no longer span the girth of his huge beer belly. As I walked by him, he nailed me in the face with a lungful of smoke that smelled like a cherry fart.

  I stared at him in disgust. Really? My copywriter brain kicked in. Come and get it, ladies! Fat, greasy, ham-fisted troll – now with extra stink! I battled my way through his miserable cloud of screw you and slipped inside Chocolateers.

  If there really was such a thing as Nirvana or Heaven, it had better include chocolate or I’m not going. I felt my pupils dilate as I stared at the exquisite dollops of dark- and milk-chocolate delicacies arranged in precise rows and tidy boxed sets. Like puppies at a rescue center, I wanted to take all of them home with me. But like I’ve said before, I couldn’t be trusted alone with chocolate.

  “So, what’s it going to be today, Val?” asked the thin man in a white apron and chef’s hat.

  “The usual, Jack.”

  I drooled over a stack of peanut clusters and debated whether I should be happy or embarrassed to be on a first-name basis with the proprietor.

  “Two dark-chocolate-covered cherries coming up.”

  Jack reached a slim hand toward a stack of small, white paper bags, then hesitated. He looked over at me. His friendly face asked a question to which he already knew the answer.

  “Just hand ‘em over,” I said.

  I shoved a five-dollar bill across the counter.

  Jack grinned. “Why do I always feel like a dirty drug dealer when you come in?”

  I shot him a jaded sneer.

  “Because you are, Jack. You’re the gaul-dang chocolate pusher-man.”

  Jack nodded apologetically.

  “Well, I have to admit it, Val. You do look like you just got a fix every time you pop those cherries in your mouth.”

  “You of all people should know, Jack. Great chocolate fixes everything.”

  I picked up the cherries. Jack watched me intently from the corner of his eye. He knew from experience that looking head-on at what was coming next would be too much for him to bear.

  I crammed both chocolate-covered, liquid-centered globs of ecstasy into my mouth. Jack blanched. He waved goodbye and I slipped out the door. I concentrated on the yummy flavors as I ran past Cigar Daddy’s and its patrons’ smelly, yellow haze of disgust and desperation.

  ***

  Meeting my chocolate dealer had placed me just a few blocks from the convenience store-cum-drunkard’s paradise called Detroit Liquors. During my first year back in the States, this humble little shop had earned a huge place in my heart. It was the only shop within walking distance of my old apartment, so it was there where I was first introduced to Fosters beer. Along with malt liquor, cigarettes and condoms, “The Deet” sold Fosters in shiny silver cans as big as my head. After seven years abroad, I’d returned home in need of a friend. Fosters had been the first one to meet my criteria; it was cheap, easy to get along with, and it never talked back.

  My list of friends had grown a bit over the last year and a half. The party I’d thrown a few days ago was a good reminder of it – but it also put to mind the fact that I could use a few women friends. At any rate, my birthday festivities had me running low on beer and Tanqueray. I decided to walk down to The Deet and pick up a six pack and a pint.

  I crossed the street and window-shopped the row of glass storefronts along the way. One shop advertised huge glass jars of olives and olive oil. Another window displayed gourmet cupcakes topped with spring flowers piped in bright green and yellow icing. Abby’s Shabby Chic was crammed with old furniture painted white to look new, then the edges rubbed off to look old again.

  Because it was designed near the turn of the century, every city block in downtown St. Pete was divided in half by a brick-paved service alley. I crossed the alley half a block from The Deet and looked up from my cellphone. A tall, bald guy was walking in my direction, pushing a baby stroller up the dumpster-lined side street. Hee waved. I took a closer look. It was Goober. I stopped and waited for him.

  “What’s up with the stroller?”

  “Hitting all the known vices today, I see.”

  I eyed him with a tinge of suspicion.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on. Chocolate drool and The Deet?”

  I frowned and wiped the corners of my mouth with the tips of my thumb and forefinger. Goober grinned and gave me a quick nod. My face was clean.

  “Thanks. So, what are you doing with a baby stroller?”

  “You mean BOB? I’m working on my next avocation.”

  “What happened to Le Fartomane?”

  “Le Petomane,” Goober corrected.

  He shook his deeply tanned, peanut-shaped head.

  “Tsk. Tsk. How soon the fartiste is forgotten.”

  I blew out a big sigh. “Well? Why did you quit?”

  “I didn’t. I got shut down.”

  Goober glanced up and down the alley. He leaned in closer toward me. He pushed down on the stroller until it creaked under his weight.

  “Damn shame, too. I was just getting good at it. Yesterday some cop came by. Said he was getting complaints and that I was disturbing the peace. ‘Unsanitary insanity,’ he called it. Bastard! One little technical difficulty and I’m out on my ass.” Goober blew out a big sigh. “Another budding career brought down by a bad burrito.”

  I blanched and recoiled in
voluntarily. I willed myself to think of rows of pretty chocolates, puppies playing in the park, smelly guys with cigars – anything but the image trying to force its way to the surface of my mind like a beach ball trapped underwater.

  “So what’s with the baby stroller?” I asked yet again, desperate for a diversion.

  “Guy’s gotta make a living.”

  “What about the money I gave you?”

  “A pack of dogs ate it.”

  “By dogs, he means a pack of greyhounds,” Jorge said from behind me.

  I turned around. Jorge’s hair and the aviator sunglasses on top of his head gleamed the same blue-black in the glaring sun. He appeared relatively sober, considering it was already almost noon. He shot me a rare glimpse in the eye, then studied my sandals.

  “Greyhounds?” I asked.

  “Derby Lane.”

  Jorge shot a glance at Goober. He smoothed his moustache with his thumb and forefinger, then wiggled his bushy upper lip back and forth, settling the hairy beast back in place.

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Goober. “Nothing to worry about, Val. I’ve got a new place to live and another idea in the works. See? I found this premo baby stroller in the alley. A BOB sport utility model. A beaut, isn’t she?”

  I eyed the stroller. It looked like an overgrown tricycle with handlebars over the back wheels. With its fat rubber tires, rugged stainless steel body and thick canvas seat, it appeared to have been built to withstand a lunar landing.

  “It’s the SUV of baby transportation,” boasted Goober proudly.

  “It’s busted,” I said.

  “Yeah, the front axle’s bent to hell,” agreed Goober. “But Winky says he can fix it for me.”

  “What are you going to do with it, Goober? I hate to be the one to break it to you, but nobody’s going to trust you with their baby.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Val.”

  Goober shot me a look of pity for my pathetic ignorance.

  “I’m talking about a new customer service here – something totally outside the playpen, sore to speak.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know all those people you see pushing their dogs around in strollers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’m the new dog taxi. Specializing in pampered pooches. I was thinking about calling it Goober Dog.”

  I raised my eyebrows in astonishment. “That’s so bizarre it might actually work.”

  “It better,” said Jorge. “Goober lost all his money and his job on Beach Drive.”

  “Bastards. I wasn’t panhandling. I was offering a legitimate entertainment venue in exchange for charitable donations.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure you can get your spot back –”

  “Venues aren’t as easy to come by as you think Val. The busker community can be vicious. I’d been lucky that a place had opened up when it did.”

  “Who had it before?”

  “Some guitar player, I think.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Goober shrugged. “Who the hell knows?”

  “Do you know a lot of guys out here, Goober? Panha…uh…buskers, I mean?”

  “I’m making a name in the community. Why?”

  “Well, I might need your help finding someone. The guy who helped Tom load my couch onto his 4Runner.”

  “Sure. What did he look like?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  Goober shot me a wry look. “Well, that certainly narrows it down.”

  Chapter Ten

  Of all the things I’d dreamed of doing when I was a little kid, toting around a picture of a dead finger wasn’t one of them. Probably because I’m a girl.

  Five days had passed since the cops hauled the crappy couch away to wherever they stored that kind of evidence. They’d told me I’d get the sofa back after the case was solved. I figured that was an excellent reason not to get involved in finding the finger’s owner. But then that threatening interview with Officer Jergen had changed my mind. I could end up in hot water over that stupid thing.

  I hadn’t talked with Tom about the hobo napping on the couch yet, so all I had to go on was the souvenir photo on my phone. Tom had taken a snapshot of the disgusting digit right before he’d dunked it into the pickle jar he’d taken from my fridge. Someone at the party ate all my kosher dills and put the empty jar back. Given my guest list, it could have been anybody.

  At any rate, a dismembered finger wasn’t the kind of thing you could show just anybody. Thankfully, none of my friends were the prissy type. I was sitting in the corner booth at Water Loo’s watching Goober, Winky and Jorge take turns ogling the gruesome picture on my cell phone screen.

  “So, you guys have any ideas about whose finger it could be?”

  Goober glanced at the picture again.

  “The initials on the ring are W and H. Hmmm. Let me think. Oh! I know! It belongs to old Wanna Humper!”

  Winky sucked in a chortle and snorted out a laugh.

  “Another good’un, Goober! Mister Wanna Humper, let me introduce you to Anita Mann.”

  Goober slapped Winky on the back and they both laughed until tears streamed down their cheeks. I guess rotten minds laugh alike. Jorge either didn’t get the joke or didn’t think it was funny. Being the first cop on the scene of the traffic accident that had killed his wife and kids had maimed the poor guy for life. I handed Jorge my phone. He laid it on the table in front of him, then curled his fingers into binoculars and studied the photo, section by section.

  “The guy had money,” Jorge said into the table. His head was still down, his face a few inches from the picture.

  “Sure. He had a gold ring,” I said.

  Jorge looked up, his half-lit face showing a clarity I’d never seen before.

  “He also had a manicure. Trimmed cuticles. Nails buffed to a polished shine.”

  “You mean nail,” Winky said.

  He snatched the phone away from Jorge.

  “It’s only one lousy little finger, compar-do. Looks like his picker, too.”

  “That’s gross, Winky!” I said.

  “What’s so gross about playin’ guitar?” Winky asked. “Get yore mind outta the gutter, gal.”

  ***

  I left Water Loo’s in a better mood, my faith in my skid row pals renewed. Jorge had given me the first clue for my case. I called Tom with the news.

  “Tom, your buddy Jorge came up with something interesting. He said the finger belonged to a guy who took care of himself. It was manicured.”

  “Uh huh. Good. Anything else?”

  “He and Winky both agreed it was an index finger.”

  “Okay. So we’re looking for a guy missing that finger. Right or left?”

  Crap! “I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask. Hey, do you want to come by tonight? I want to talk to you about the hobo.”

  “Which one? Winky or Goober?”

  “Ha ha. The one that was sleeping on the couch. Who helped you load it into your truck.”

  “I know. Look, Val. He was just your average derelict. About five-foot eight. Full head of brown hair. Probably mid-forties.”

  “Any distinguishing characteristics?”

  “Look at you, miss fancy detective.”

  “I’m just doing my best to stay off the radar and out of jail. Can you think of anything?”

  “Hmm. Well, he had a bunch of tattoos. But who doesn’t nowadays?”

  “Remember any of them?”

  “Yeah. He had a mermaid tail on his left arm. Her head was on his neck, getting ready to bite him like a vampire. His t-shirt covered up the rest.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on, Tom! This is serious! Don’t you care about me clearing my name?”

  “Sure I do. Just trying to lighten you up. Okay. Seriously. He had a scar across his right cheek. And a chipped upper front tooth. Left, I think.”

  “What color were his eyes?”


  “Not sure.”

  “What color are my eyes?”

  “Shit brown.”

  I didn’t say a word. Tom had hurt my feelings. Again.

  “Anyway, I can’t come over tonight, Val. Something’s come up.”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  I clicked off the phone, my heart a jumble of conflicting emotions. Why had Tom treated my situation so casually? Why had he insulted me? Why didn’t he want to come over? Was Tom breaking up with me? Is that why he didn’t buy me a birthday present?

  Chapter Eleven

  I spread my arms and legs like a starfish across my full-sized bed, lifted up a butt cheek and let one rip. I sank back down into mattress and sighed. It was nice not to have to entertain a one-man audience tonight. I was in a foul mood, and I wanted to enjoy it in peace.

  Alone time was definitely underrated. Tom and I had both been married before. I’d found the whole situation grossly overrated. “Til death do us part,” sounded like a terminal sentence. I much preferred Tom’s and my arrangement; “Til space do us need.” Somehow it just…worked.

  Sprawled out in my bed alone, I distracted my racing mind by staring at a crime investigation show on TV. I could always count on the narrator’s droning voice to put me to sleep….

  I dreamt I was locked up in a facility for the criminally nude. Each of my fellow inmates roamed the hallways in some state of disrobe. Those on the road to recovery from wanton nakedness wore random bits of clothing. One had on a shoe. Another, a floppy hat.

  I was seated in a long hallway. A big black guy wearing a single sock walked by. Next came a red-headed woman wearing a bra and panties. She looked at me and shook her head scornfully. An old man wearing a kilt danced a jig and sang a song, the words to which I couldn’t make out. I watched him intently as he passed.

  When I turned back around, I discovered a short, thick man standing in the hallway, just two feet away from me. I could see his toenails. They looked like talons. The man’s face was obscured by an eagle mask. It was the only thing he wore besides a single glove…a glove with one missing finger. He tapped me sharply on the shoulder with his left index finger.