Cloud Nine- When Pigs Fly

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Cloud Nine- When Pigs Fly Page 7

by Margaret Lashley

“Wait. Where are you going?”

  “I’m taking Snoggles for a walk so we can both avoid the wrath of the un-caffeinated kraken.”

  “Ha ha.”

  Tom leaned over and kissed me on the nose.

  “Thanks for bearing the brunt of taking care of Snoggles,” he said. “Enjoy your cappuccino in peace.”

  I snuggled back into the pillows and sighed.

  “Thanks. I will.”

  I GOT OUT OF THE SHOWER to find Tom had prepared a sensible breakfast.

  Oh joy.

  It was a green smoothie and a yogurt cup topped with blueberries and banana slices. I guess my typical breakfast with Count Chocula was headed the way of dinner with Ben & Jerry.

  “Thanks,” I said, and took a sip of green goop. “Yummy.”

  “Glad you like it,” Tom said.

  “Aren’t you having any?” I asked, eyeing the olive-colored glop in my glass.

  “Already finished. Listen, after I get done with washing the cars this morning, I thought I’d stop by the grocery store and pick up the ingredients to make dinner. How does cabbage and white bean soup sound?”

  “Gaseous,” I mumbled.

  “What?”

  “Delicious. I said delicious.”

  “Good. I’m heading out. See you later this evening. Have fun with Cold Cuts and Crazy Man.”

  “Thanks.”

  After Tom left, I poured the green goo down the sink and made an effort to clean up the house. I knew Cold Cuts couldn’t care less about such things. But oddly, this morning my gut guilt-o-meter seemed to be directly gauged to how clean the toilet bowl was.

  I’D JUST USED UP THE last of the Ty D Bol when the doorbell rang. I smiled, put Snogs in his cage for the moment, and answered the door.

  “There you are,” I said. “It’s been too long!”

  “I know,” said the cute, brown-haired bohemian standing in front of me.

  Cold Cuts was dressed in a flowing, light-yellow cotton dress. It was the kind of outfit I always dreamed of wearing to the beach, but somehow ended up in shorts and a t-shirt instead. A chunky necklace of shells and driftwood hung around her slender neck.

  “You remember Freddie, don’t you?” she asked, more for Freddie’s benefit than mine.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m Val.”

  I smiled at the tall, surprisingly muscular old man standing beside Cold Cuts, holding her hand like a child. He was naked except for a pair of sweatpants, which were accessorized by a brown leather belt wrapped around his waist.

  “Hi, Freddie,” I said.

  Freddie’s wandering eyes zeroed in on mine.

  “Albert,” he said.

  I eyed him up and down. “Okay, Albert. Please, come in.”

  Freddie wandered into the house.

  “What’s with the outfit?” I asked Cold Cuts.

  She blew out a laugh. “Don’t ask. Just be glad he’s wearing something.”

  “Is his dementia worse? Does he think his name’s Albert now?”

  “Huh? Oh. No. I told him we were coming to visit Albert, your dog. It was the only way I could entice him into the car. Well, that and the promise of beanie-weenie casserole for lunch.”

  “Oh, dear. I’m afraid I don’t have any of that.”

  “Don’t worry. I brought my own supply.”

  Cold Cuts handed me a yellow, covered casserole dish. “Put this in the fridge. And don’t eat any of the stuff. I put his meds in it.”

  “Sure. Y’all make yourselves at home.”

  Freddie spotted Snogs and bolted past me, making a beeline for his cage. He crouched on his knees next to it and asked, “Is he a bad doggy?”

  “No, Freddie.”

  “Then why is he in prison?”

  “Oh. He’s not. He was just waiting for you.”

  I opened the cage and two new best friends made their acquaintances.

  “How’s he doing?” I asked Cold Cuts as the two played tug-of-war with a rubber hotdog.

  “Dementia is a terrible and strange disease, Val,” Cold Cuts said. “It’s weird. Sometimes Freddie can quote Shakespeare, and sometimes, like today, he can’t remember that shoes go on feet.”

  “Huh.” I put the casserole in the fridge. “How are you holding up?”

  “Pretty well, thanks.”

  “And the Sunset Sail-Away?”

  “The resort is going gangbusters. That’s why Bill couldn’t make it. Too much work to do. We couldn’t leave it all to the help.”

  “Is he still doing the yoga lessons?”

  “Yes. And the sunset sails, too. They’re his favorite part of the job.”

  “I could imagine running a beach resort would be fun, but overwhelming.”

  “Sometimes, yeah. The work is unending. You never get it all done. You just give up for the day. But the people who come there remind me that I live in paradise, you know? They come for a quick vacation. I get to live there. When you think about it, Val, we’re truly blessed.”

  “I can’t argue with that. So, where do you want to go for lunch?”

  Cold Cuts’ eyes glanced over at Freddie. “Oh. I can’t take him anywhere in public. Not in that getup, anyway.”

  “Then how about pizza delivery?”

  “Sounds great. Pepperoni?”

  I grabbed my cellphone and hit speed dial.

  “One pepperoni pizza in paradise coming up!”

  “THEY MAKE A GOOD PAIR,” I said and opened the pizza box. I took out a slice and nodded toward Freddie and Snogs, who were chasing each other around the dining room table.

  “Yeah, they do. Kind of like us back in our Date Buster days.”

  “Oh, lord!” I said and nearly choked on a mouthful of pizza. “I remember Milly telling me about the first time she ever saw you. You were dressed like some rock-and-roll roadie in that rainbow Mohawk wig. Remember? Those fake piercings all over your face?”

  “Oh...geeze,” Cold Cuts said. “Scary Kerry. How could I forget?”

  “Milly said you made the horrible guy she was out on a date with disappear like magic. I remember thinking, whoever that woman is, I want to know her secret!”

  “And now you do.”

  “Which is?”

  Cold Cuts grinned and flicked her long, brown locks to the backside of her shoulders. “Don’t take crap off of anyone, of course.”

  I laughed. “Ahh...the secret to a long and happy life finally revealed.”

  Cold Cuts jabbed a pointy piece of pizza at me. “And don’t you forget it! Oh! That reminds me. Any news about Goober?”

  “No. But I did find something that might be a clue. I’ve shown it to Tom, Winky and J.D., but nobody seems to be able to figure it out.”

  “Sounds intriguing. I love puzzles. Let me have a crack at it.”

  “Okay.”

  I padded to the desk in my home office and retrieved the slip of paper I’d found in the Skoal tin. As I stepped back into the hallway, I was nearly bowled over by Freddie. He was scooting along on his hands and knees with the rubber hotdog in his mouth. Snogs was hot on his heels.

  “I think somebody’s hungry,” I said to Cold Cuts.

  She looked over at Freddie gnawing on the plastic weenie. “I think you’re right.”

  “Here,” I said. “Have a look at this while I warm up Freddie’s lunch.”

  I handed Cold Cuts the enigmatic clue.

  “Pobble?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  I took the casserole dish from the fridge and popped it in the microwave.

  “Is it a name?” Cold Cuts called from the sofa.

  “I don’t know. Could be.”

  “How about a place? Like Pobble Beach?”

  “I think that’s Pebble Beach.”

  “I know. I was just brainstorming.”

  “Brain storm?” I heard Freddie ask. He dropped the rubber hotdog and looked out the window. “I don’t see any brains.”

  The buzzer on the microwave dinged, saving me from making
an inappropriate comment. I poured the beanie-weenie into a bowl and carried it over to Freddie.

  “Here, let me,” Cold Cuts said, and took the bowl.

  She sat beside Freddie on the couch. As she patiently helped him with his lunch, I decided to take Snogs for a potty break.

  “Snogs!” I called. He didn’t answer.

  “He’s here. Under the couch,” Cold Cuts said.

  I got on my hands and knees. Snogs was busy chewing away at something.

  “What have you got there?” I asked.

  Snogs spit out his treasure.

  It was the little slip of paper from the Skoal tin.

  “Snogs, no!” I cried.

  I scooped up the soggy mess, which had been reduced to three gluey lumps.

  “What is it?” Cold Cuts asked.

  “Oh. He got ahold of the clue.”

  “Oh no! I’m sorry. It must have fallen from the coffee table. Val, I’m –”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s okay. I’ll just set the pieces on the windowsill to dry out.”

  “Pieces?” Cold Cuts asked. “Gee. I should have put it somewhere out of reach.”

  “It’s okay. You hear me? Just take care of Freddie. You’ve got enough to worry about.”

  “Okay. Still, I’m sorry.”

  I walked into the kitchen and smoothed out the three miniscule, soggy blobs of paper on the sunny window sill. When I turned around, Freddie was standing right behind me.

  He stared over my shoulder. Then he opened his mouth. A slice of hotdog fell out, and he said, “Post office box.”

  “What’s he talking about?” I asked Cold Cuts.

  “I don’t know,” she answered. Cold Cuts joined us in the kitchen, carrying the empty casserole dish.

  Freddie pointed to the window. “Post office box,” he repeated.

  “There’s no mailbox in the backyard, Freddie,” I said.

  “Post office box,” he said insistently, and pointed at the windowsill.

  I glanced at the scraps of wet paper and did a double-take. Separated, the three pieces individual read: PO 99 37. Something squirmed inside my brain.

  “Sorry about that,” Cold Cuts said, and took Freddie by the hand. “He just spouts off random stuff sometimes.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I think he just gave me an idea.”

  “What?”

  “The last time I saw Goober was downtown at the post office. I wonder. Could he have left me a note in his post office box?”

  “Well?” Cold Cuts asked. “What are we waiting for?”

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Cold Cuts’ van pulled up in front of the open-air post office on First Avenue North and Fourth Street in downtown St. Petersburg.

  My gut flopped in anticipation as I stared through the van’s window at row upon row of small, black post office boxes. They were all tucked away from the weather beneath the twenty-foot-high ceiling of the post office’s open porch. The one-of-a-kind porch was supported by beautiful, arched columns decorated with Spanish-looking tilework. It was a rather auspicious-looking place to search for clues to a rather inauspicious-looking man.

  “You go run and check it out,” Cold Cuts said from the driver’s seat. “I’ll stay here with Freddie.”

  “Okay.”

  I opened the van door and sprinted up to the black boxes. At first glance, it was overwhelming. There seemed to be thousands of them. Each box was no bigger than a slice of bread. Adorning every single one was a number and a brass lock.

  I glanced over at the very last one. It was number four thousand. That meant the box number couldn’t be 9937. It had to be 3799. Yes! I ran over to the box and stared at it.

  Crap! Now what?

  I looked over at Cold Cuts and motioned toward the lobby. She nodded. I sprinted to the door and tried to yank it open. It wouldn’t budge. A sign on the window informed me that Saturday hours of operation were from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. I checked my watch. It was five after one.

  Crap on a cracker!

  “It’s closed,” I said to Cold Cuts as I climbed into the van. “I guess it’ll have to wait until Monday.”

  “YOU SURE YOU CAN’T come in?” I asked Cold Cuts as we sat in the van in my driveway.

  “Yes. We’ve got to get back. Freddie doesn’t like being gone from home too long.”

  I looked in the backseat. Freddie was sitting on his hands like a naughty kid waiting to see the principal. “I understand.” I leaned in for a hug. “See you again soon. It was great catching up.”

  I waved goodbye, and as the van made its way down the street I realized that some things never changed. Cold Cuts was still the same fun-loving, brave-hearted woman she always had been, ever ready for a laugh and whatever adventure came her way.

  I sighed as she and Freddie disappeared out of view, only to be replaced by the sight of a sweaty, Spandex-clad Nancy doing grunt aerobics in her front yard.

  “Who was that?” she asked in between grunts.

  “Some old friends,” I said.

  “You want to form a grunt aerobics club?” she asked.

  “Not today.”

  I made a hasty retreat inside. When I walked into the kitchen, I saw Cold Cuts’ yellow casserole dish.

  Dang it!

  I grabbed my phone and gave her a ring.

  “Cold Cuts! You forgot your dish.”

  “Huh? Freddie, stop that! Sorry. The dish? Just keep it for now. I’ll see you again soon. Come down and see me in Sarasota, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I gotta go. Freddie, stop that!”

  She clicked off the phone. I thought about what Tom had said about taking time off after the Caddy’s case to help me hunt for Goober. If I found him myself, we could take that time for a vacation down at the Sunset Sail-Away Resort instead.

  I made a wish, and as a talisman to seal the deal, I put Cold Cuts’ casserole dish in the trunk of my car. That way, I wouldn’t forget it when we headed down to see them soon. As I closed the trunk, I spotted J.D.’s white Mercedes pull up in Laverne’s driveway.

  I smiled and hoped the talisman would work for them, too, and the unlikely pair would find a way to reconcile their irreconcilable differences after all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I made sure the bottle I grabbed out of the fridge was a beer, and popped it open. Then I flopped on a bar stool and watched the show. Tom was standing at the kitchen counter, chopping broccoli like a mad teppanyaki master.

  “What’d that broccoli ever do to you?” I asked.

  “Huh? Oh. Just taking out a little frustration.”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  Tom blew out a breath and set his knife down.

  “Greg Parsons became an official missing person case today.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s not it. I told my boss yesterday about Amsel’s connection to the guy who went missing in Boca. Well, I got a call from him today saying to leave Amsel out of the investigation and to focus on other suspects.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t say outright, but I think the mayor’s putting pressure on him. Seems that our mayor’s a big fan of the Randy Towers project and doesn’t want any ‘undue bad press’ effecting its ‘forward movement.’”

  “That’s not fair. Isn’t Amsel your main suspect?”

  “Well, no. He’s one of them. But the main focus of attention right now is his head waitress, Norma. She’s involved in this somehow. But whether she’s the perpetrator or a victim, we just don’t know at this point.”

  “Does this mean Amsel’s totally out of the investigation?”

  “No. We’re just supposed to focus on finding other ‘more viable’ suspects first.”

  “Who’s more viable than Amsel?”

  “That’s what we’re supposed to get off our duffs and find out,” Tom said sourly. “I dunno, Val. I’ve got a bad feeling about Amsel, given his shady past.”

  “Then you should pursue it. You taught me on
ce that your gut has better instincts than your brain. You told me gut instinct solves more cases than anything else.”

  “I know. And I still agree with that, Val. But as of right now, when it comes to Amsel, my hands are kind of tied.”

  I shot Tom a sympathetic frown.

  Well, my hands aren’t.

  AFTER DINNER, WHILE Tom took Snogs for an evening walk to let off steam and broccoli-induced gas, I gave old lady Lansgbury a call. Last time we talked, she’d told me Amsel was her brother in law, and he was staying with her. If I knew her address, I could tail him. The trouble was, I couldn’t think of a very good reason to ask for her address.

  “Yello?” Langsbury croaked into the phone.

  “Hi. Uh...Mrs. Langsbury? It’s Val. I ran into a snag with the deposition Ms. Dimson prepared.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I took it with me to read over, but someone stole the folder from my car. I thought I might drop by tomorrow and get another copy from you?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Oh. Uh...do you know where I could get one?”

  “Geeze, Val. It isn’t some big mystery. Call Dimson.”

  “Oh. Sure,” I laughed weakly. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m wondering.”

  “Sorry to bother you. Have a nice weekend!”

  I clicked off the phone before I humiliated myself any further. I could’ve asked Tom to look up her address, but then he’d have gotten suspicious. I glanced at the clock. I figured I still had around ten minutes before he’d be back with Snogs.

  I made a split decision – and split – over to Laverne’s.

  When I rapped on her front door, Laverne opened it clad in a gold lame lounging outfit I’d only ever seen the likes of in a vintage James Bond movie. She held a glass of champagne in her right hand.

  “Hiya, honey! What’s up?”

  “Hi, Laverne. Could you do me a favor? My teacher’s retiring and I wanted to get her a gift. Do you know how could I get her address?”

  Laverne’s horsey head cocked sideways. “Well, just go to a dress store, sugar.”

  “Not a d –” I stuttered. “I mean...I need to find the address where she lives, Laverne. To have the gift delivered.”

 

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