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

by Margaret Lashley

  “You’re it!” he squealed.

  He turned and ran down the hallway, his butt cheeks bouncing with each hard footfall. I tried to chase him, but I couldn’t. I was tied to the chair, completely naked. Apparently, I was incorrigible.

  ***

  I woke suddenly.

  “Dammit all to shit!”

  I squinted at the clock. The blurry, glowing letters sharpened into 3:13 a.m. I’d forgotten to turn off the clock radio.

  “Where the hell is it?”

  My sleepy brain began to fire off a few neurons. Wait a minute. You can’t say that word over public airwaves. An ice-cold shot of liquid fear surged through me. I sat up in bed like a rocket.

  “Where the hell is it?” demanded a man’s muffled voice from somewhere in the darkness.

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. This had to be a dream.

  “I said, where the hell is it?”

  The voice was louder. Closer. The bottom corner of the mattress sank down. My blood turned to ice water. The clock cast a dim green glow on the shadowy silhouette of someone in dark clothes and a Halloween mask sitting on the bottom corner of my bed.

  “I’m not here to hurt you, lady. I’m here to find…. What the…shit! Just tell me. Where’s the goddam finger?”

  The finger! “I…I don’t have it. The…cops. They took it.”

  My fumbled words sounded strange and far away.

  “The cops! Goddam it all to hell!”

  The intruder punched the bed with his fist. Like a spectator, I watched, fascinated, as my right leg reared back and kicked the man square in the mask with the butt of my heel. He tumbled off the bed in a noisy heap.

  “Aaughh! Mother of macaroons! My eye!”

  “Get out! Get out of here!”

  Screaming used up my last drop of adrenaline-fueled bravado. I backed up against the headboard, yanked my legs into my chest, pulled the covers to my chin and waited in the silence for whatever might come next.

  The man gathered himself off the floor with a grunt. He limped out of the dim room, a trail of obscenities following behind him. I sat, frozen in my seated fetal position, until I heard the front door open and shut again. I tried to reach for my phone, but my arm wouldn’t cooperate. By the numbers on the clock, it took eight minutes for my body to start working again. When it finally did, I reached numbly for my cellphone and punched #7. Speed-dial for Tom.

  “Tom! Robber…couch…finger!”

  “Val? Are you alright?”

  “I…I….”

  “Just calm down. I’m here. I’m listening. Are you okay?”

  The sound of Tom’s voice loosened my tight lungs enough for me to get some air.

  “Yes. I think so. Just…freaked…out.”

  “What happened?”

  “Someone broke in!”

  “What!”

  The full force of what had just happened hit me like a punch to the gut. My hands began to shake. My throat felt dry and stretched. I dropped the phone. My fingers were stiff and clumsy as uncooperative as I fumbled to pick it up again.

  “Val? Val? Are you there?”

  “Yes…”

  “Is he still in the house?” Tom’s voice was restrained panic.

  “No.”

  I heard Tom let out a big breath.

  “Okay. Good. Stay calm. Did he hurt you?”

  “No.”

  Another big sigh of relief from Tom.

  “Did he steal your purse? Cash?”

  “No. He wanted the finger.”

  “What? You said he was after the finger?”

  “Yeah. I told him the cops had it. He got mad and punched the bed. I…I kicked him and he left. Oh, Tom, please, can you come over?”

  “I’m sorry, Val.” Tom’s voice shifted to professional detachment. “But this is getting into serious territory. As much as I hate to say it, you’re going to have to report this to Hans Jergen. He’s probably going to do a crime-scene investigation.”

  “Can’t you come anyway? Just to be here with me?”

  “I want to, believe me. But my presence wouldn’t help your case.”

  “What do you mean? Why not?”

  “I told you, just trust me on this, please.”

  “Wait a minute! My case?”

  ***

  “So let me get this straight, Ms. Fremden,” Officer Jergen said dryly.

  He stood in my kitchen, his left ankle crossed over his right, and shook his condescending head scornfully at his police report.

  “A man broke into your house last night and asked where your finger was.”

  “Yes. Well…no.”

  I was still in my bathrobe, my hair tangled, my face strained with shock.

  “I don’t think it was my finger he wanted. I think he was after the other finger.”

  Officer Jergen looked up from his report, his ice-water eyes pierced me with suspicion.

  “Did he ask specifically about a severed finger?”

  “Um…no, but what else could he have meant?”

  I looked around my little house. Two cops were milling around. My beautiful, fresh paint job was being covered in black splotches of fingerprint dusting powder.

  “Ms. Fremden, pay attention,” Officer Jergen scolded. “You say this man was about four feet tall, wore a George W. Bush mask, and spoke mainly in obscenities.”

  “It could have been an Alfred E. Neumann mask…the Mad Magazine kid? It was dark.”

  Officer Jergen scribbled on his report. “Noted. Then you kicked him in the face and he ran away.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Ms. Fremden, we have found no evidence of forced entry. No evidence of a struggle, either. In fact, no evidence at all to corroborate your story. Right now, it’s just hearsay…your testimony against a theoretical…trick-or-treater. Tell me, do you take prescription medication of any kind?”

  My bleary eyes showed their bloodshot whites. “What? No!”

  “Do you take any other types of drugs, legal or illegal?”

  “No!”

  “An almost empty pint of Tanqueray gin was found in your freezer. Were you drinking last night?”

  “Well, I had a nightcap. A Tanqueray and tonic. But that doesn’t mean I –”

  “Ms. Fremden, given the gravity of human dismemberment cases, defendants have been known to concoct cover stories to point law enforcement down blind alleyways.”

  “But I didn’t –”

  Officer Jergen cut me off again. His icy eyes shone hot with disgust and contempt.

  “I have to say, a cussing, finger-thieving, dwarf president of the United States is one of the more imaginative stories I’ve heard in a while.”

  Jergen coughed out a cynical laugh and shook his head.

  “Mother of macaroons? That’s a good one.”

  I stared into his cold, humorless face. “But it’s the truth!”

  “According to you, Ms. Fremden, But I don’t believe it. Who would? I was going to let this case go. But in light of these events, I’m more convinced than ever that you’re hiding something. If you’re going to lie, at least try to do it well. I suggest you tell your absurd story to someone who has a vested interest in believing it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ms. Fremden, I suggest you hire an attorney.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Shit! Shit! And double shit! Just when I thought my life was getting back on track, I go and get the finger from the universe. And I need an attorney – again. Geeze!

  The only lawyer I knew in Florida was J.D. Fellows, my dead parents’ estate attorney. When the last cop left my place at 9:30 a.m., I called Mr. Fellows’ office and made an appointment with his secretary for 10:15 the next morning. After I hung up, I got out a sponge and a bucket of water and went to work on the fingerprint dust encircling my walls like a dirty bathtub ring.

  At least there was one thing I could always count. Ty D Bol. After an hour or so, I’d removed most of the fingerprint powder.
But the fragile, shaky feeling that had enveloped me in the wee hours of the night still clung to my back like a cold, damp rag. For the first time since leaving Germany, I felt unsafe. Worst of all, I wasn’t sure which man was the most to blame for it – the masked intruder, hateful Officer Jergen, or my fair-weather boyfriend who didn’t come to my rescue.

  There was only one sure-fire way to lift my mood when it was this low. I showered, pulled on a pair of jeans and a tank top, turned the ignition on Maggie and headed in the direction of Chocolateers.

  ***

  It was Wednesday morning all over again. I was still savoring the sickly-sweet aftertaste of cherry cordial and dark chocolate when I spied a familiar silhouette heading toward me. This time, it was hard not to notice Goober. He sashayed down the sidewalk on Central Avenue with his freshly patched-up moon-lander stroller. Twist-tied to the front of it was a makeshift cardboard sign that read: Über-Dog Royal Pet Services.

  Long, lanky Goober dressed for his new career in an oversized blue t-shirt, black cut-off shorts, purple tights and orange Converse high-top sneakers. On top of his shiny bald head, positioned at a rakish angle, was a Burger King crown with a bone-shaped doggie treat dangling from the front-most spike.

  I didn’t even cringe. A worrisome thought crossed my mind. Maybe this is my new normal.

  “How’s the new job going, Goober?”

  The mustachioed king of the canines shrugged.

  “Actually, as they say in the biz, Val, pretty doggone shitty. I think people may be more persnickety about their pooches than they are about their own kids.”

  “You could be right. Yesterday I saw a poodle in a stroller wearing a freaking rhinestone tiara. The owner gave her a sip of Evian from her own water bottle.”

  Goober lifted his crown and wiped the sweat from his bald head. He eyed me suspiciously.

  “Chocolateers again? Okay, now I’m worried. You alright, Val?”

  I hung my head a little and smiled wistfully.

  “I’ve been better.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a mean cop on my ass.”

  Goober’s eyebrows shot up an inch. He leered at me and started to say something, but I cut him off.

  “And I don’t mean Tom.”

  Goober’s eyebrows returned to normal. He held out his hand for me to shake.

  “Oh. Well in that case, let me officially welcome you to the club.”

  ***

  Before I left, I gave Goober the lowdown on Tom’s description of the alley hobo. No one had risen immediately to the top of his beer-soaked mind, but he’d said he’d keep an eye out for a guy with a scarred cheek and a chipped tooth. I also gave Goober my phone number and ten dollars to top off his pay-as-you-go cell phone so we could keep in touch. It was the first time I’d given one of the three derelicts my phone number. I hoped I wouldn’t live to regret it.

  I passed a garage sale sign on my way home. It triggered another one of Valliant Stranger’s weaknesses. Maggie squealed as I hooked a hard right and followed the yellow, hand-drawn signs to a tiny little purple cottage with a detached garage almost as big as the house itself. The garage door was open and lined with tables and bookshelves heaped with junk. A chubby redheaded woman sat in a lawn chair in the driveway. She had a money belt around her waist, a clear-green plastic visor on her head, and a bag of Cheetos in her hand.

  I felt like Gretel being lured into her gingerbread garage. Still, I couldn’t fight my natural instinct to thrift shop.

  “Howdy. Lookin’ for anything in particular?” the lady asked as I walked up the drive.

  “Not really. Nice setup you’ve got here.”

  “Thanks. Keeps me outta trouble and in Cheetos. Want some?”

  The woman held up the bag and showed me her orange teeth.

  “No thanks. I’ll just look around.”

  “Help yourself. Holler if you need me.”

  I wandered through the garage. It was packed to the gills with the same things you find at every yard sale. Unused sporting equipment, ugly heirlooms, Avon collectibles and suspiciously unclean kitchen gadgets. I was just about to leave when I saw a box in the corner labeled, “Anything for 50 Cents”. I took a peek inside and grinned. I handed the lady five bucks.

  “Aww, I’m glad those things are going to a good home. You collect ‘em, do you?”

  “Yes. They bring me a lot of joy.”

  “Well I’m glad to hear it. Want me to wrap ‘em in newspaper?”

  “No. That won’t be necessary. But thanks.”

  The woman handed me back three Cheeto-stained one-dollar bills. I put them in the plastic grocery bag along with my prizes.

  “You get these often?” I asked as I walked toward Maggie.

  “Pretty regular. Stop by and see me. I’m here most days.”

  “Okay, thanks. I just might take you up on that.”

  I slid into the bucket seat and carefully laid the bag on the passenger seat. As I rumbled toward home, four chipped ceramic figurines clinked together, gossiping amongst themselves in their China voices about how lucky they were to find a new home. They had no idea what they were in for.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On the ride home from the garage sale, I realized I didn’t have a single girlfriend. Clarice, Berta and Glad…they’d all slipped away, like sand through my fingers. Was I like that lady on Murder She Wrote? Everyone who came near me ended up dying – the women, anyway.

  I sighed. I couldn’t do anything to change the past. But I did have a shot at changing the future. Last-night’s break-in had delivered more than one kind of shock. It was a rude awakening and a wake-up call. I was repeating the same mistake I had with Friedrich; I was becoming way too reliant on Tom. I needed to change that – and quick.

  I wracked my brain. Was there a single woman I could turn to for friendship and advice? I thought about calling my adoptive mom back in Greenville, but I could hear her voice without even picking up the phone:

  “I tried to tell you, Ragmuffin. But you’re too highfalutin for my advice now. That’s what happens when you go traipsing off to places you don’t belong.”

  I hit the gas and headed toward home.

  ***

  I wasn’t the kind to burn bridges. It was more my style to neglect them instead. I’d mastered the technique while I was away in Germany all those years. Out of sight, out of mind, I’d banished my old acquaintances to some cobwebbed corner of my brain. I’d paid little attention as my connections with my family and friends in Florida had grown weed-infested, corroded, and inched their way toward total disrepair.

  Since my return a year and a half ago, these half-forgotten folks had begun to spring to mind again like snippets from a favorite movie. I’d already tried to reconnect with a few old friends, but I’d done so with guilty trepidation. And a bit of shame. After all, in their eyes – and maybe mine too – I was a failure. I’d left the States riding a gallant, white steed of high-flying dreams. I’d returned dragging a dirty blue suitcase weighed down with painful lessons from the German school of hard knocks.

  I’d lost more than a husband in Germany. I’d lost my best friend, Clarice. And fun-loving old Berta, too. Finding Glad passed away on her lounge chair last year had left me gun-shy about investing my heart with anyone I thought could truly hurt me. My puny little birthday-party guest list was undeniable evidence of how small I’d allowed my world to shrink. But lately, I’d begun to miss the company of old friends. And by “old” I meant the kind of friends I’d had before I went abroad – the kind that didn’t consider dumpster diving a valid career opportunity.

  One such friend had been Milly Halbert.

  Over eight years had passed since I last saw Milly. We’d been fairly close before I left for Europe. But I’d abandoned her like a pirate’s wench when I sailed across the sea in search of la dolce vita. I’d returned nearly broke, with no job, no credit, no place to live and no friends that weren’t either strange or estranged. I’d been
snubbed by a few old acquaintances, and it had hurt. But I was sick and tired of licking the wounds from my personal shipwreck. I was ready to try crossing one of those old bridges again.

  Being an admitted coward about all things relationship, right after I’d bought the figurines, I’d looked up Milly’s number and texted her a simple note asking if she wanted to meet at Nitally’s for lunch at noon. I’d gotten a one-word reply. “Okay.” Not sure what to read into those four little letters, I’d turned Maggie around and headed back toward downtown. At two minutes to twelve, I placed a trembling hand on the restaurant door. My stomach rumbled from nerves and hunger. I was either going to get a hug or an earful of obscenities. I braced myself for the worst and pushed through the restaurant door.

  “Valliant! Great to see you!” Milly hollered at me from across the restaurant as soon as I peeked in the door.

  As it turned out, the worry had been for nothing. Milly Halbert was the unsinkable Molly Brown in my Titanic boatload of former friends. The sound of her voice and the sight of her heart-shaped face sent a delicious wave of soft, warm comfort washing over me. My eyes watered with gratitude. I smiled guiltily. Milly had been the only person I’d let call me Valliant, the weird name given to me by my adoptive parents. She’d earned the privilege. Her first name was even worse than mine.

  “Millicent!” I shouted back. The sandy-blonde fashion diva winked a hazel eye at me, and, just like that, the eight years separating us vanished in the curry-scented air.

  “There ought to be a law against men wearing sandals if their toenails look like Fritos,” Milly half-whispered as I sat down in the red plastic booth opposite her.

  She grimaced and bobbed her head sideways in the direction of the man sitting at the table next to us. Against my will, I took a peek. Milly’s description was more accurate than I wanted it to be.

  “Ugh. He ought to run a diet club,” I said. “There went my appetite.”