Three Dumb: Wheelin' & Dealin' (A Val & Pals Humorous Mystery Book 3)

by Margaret Lashley

  I groaned and hauled myself out of bed. I searched my closet and picked out a pair of skorts and a halfway-decent t-shirt. No fancy blouse, polished pencil skirt or heels today. I tied my hair back and slipped into some flats. Why dress for success when all you are is a grub?

  The bruise on my butt was fading. And it hurt less than my sore muscles. Looking on the bright side, I figured another week of hauling files and I could go to the beach without being reported to the Florida Fish & Game Commission. Manatees were still endangered, after all.

  I climbed into Maggie and backed down the driveway. When I glanced back at the house, I nearly swallowed my gum. Sitting in the yard by the corner of the house was that damned, hideous sofa that had almost landed me in jail.

  “Winky!” I screamed his name like an obscenity. Of course, now that I needed him, he was nowhere to be found.

  Back in Greenville, where my mom lived, it would have been considered a status symbol to have upholstered furniture in your front yard. Here, not so much. I cringed in embarrassment. My mother would’ve told me I’d gotten too fancy for my britches. Why did I care what she would have said?

  I was running late. There was no time to move the couch, even if I could have on my own. I pulled onto Bimini Circle and hit the gas.

  ***

  When I got to the office, Milly’s car wasn’t there. Maggie and Mrs. Barnes’ old Lincoln Town Car were the only vehicles in the lot. I breathed a sigh of relief. At least I wouldn’t have to start the day off with another confrontation with Milly.

  I yanked open the door to Griffith & Maas. Mrs. Barnes glanced up from her desk. A look of surprise livened up her usually tired face.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Here, this is for you.”

  I walked up to the desk. Mrs. Barnes handed me a jelly donut and eyed me up and down.

  “Uh…thanks.” I took the donut from her hand and wondered where her fingers had been.

  “You earned it. You’ve worked harder than anyone else we’ve ever hired.”

  “Really?” I smiled with pride.

  “Yeah. And you even showed up for a second day of it.” She shook her head, as if she could barely believe it and muttered something indistinguishable. From the tone of it, it wasn’t complimentary.

  My smile faded. I was pretty sure the old lady had just insulted me. Mrs. Barnes dismissed my existence and grabbed a yellow pencil. She scratched at the inch-wide stripe of undyed gray hair running down the middle of her head, then turned her tired eyes to the light-green pages of an accounting workbook. She nodded in the direction of the file graveyard.

  “Best get at it.”

  I trudged to the room crammed with stray files. I set my purse down and was contemplating my escape when I noticed something unusual lying on the first heap of files. It was a pink envelope and a white, lipstick-sized box. I recognized the tiny carton immediately. It was from Chocolateers. My name was on the envelope. I tore it open. The note inside read: “There ought to be a law against best friends arguing. I’m sorry. Lunch today? Nitally’s. Noon. My treat.”

  I smiled, opened the tiny box and shoved the two chocolate covered cherries in my mouth. I poked my head out of the file room.

  “Where’s Milly?” I asked Mrs. Barnes, my words garbled by cherry cordial and dark chocolate.

  “Off to see a client this morning.”

  “Oh.”

  “Back to work!” she barked. The powdered sugar on her upper lip made her look like an ancient, coke-addicted skunk.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  I smirked to myself and went back to filing.

  ***

  “Valliant!”

  I let go of the door to Nitally’s restaurant and waved at my old friend. She was seated at a table for two.

  “Millicent!”

  It felt good to be free of the tension our spat yesterday had caused. I rushed over to Milly, and leaned over and hugged her. “Thanks for the peace offering. It was delicious.”

  “I’m glad. Sorry I didn’t support you, Val. With the stakeout, I mean. I feel like a shit. But I’ve been on so many bad dates, I kind of got cold feet. You know what I mean? Like going to the doctor’s when you know you’re going to get a big-ass shot.”

  “I get it. But it really wasn’t that bad.”

  Milly appeared shocked. “No?”

  “To be honest, the guys’ company was better than the food.”

  Milly sneered. “I’ve eaten at Garvey’s. That’s not exactly a glowing endorsement.”

  I snorted, then grabbed Milly’s hand. “Do the next stakeout with me, please?”

  Milly looked unconvinced.

  “I was thinking Saturday night.”

  Milly clicked to attention like we were in a board meeting. “No. Statistically, most bad dates happen on Wednesdays and Thursdays. Friday and Saturday are reserved for the A list.”

  “Where do you get all this stuff?”

  Milly shot me a look of disbelief. “Date Data dot com, of course.”

  I hid my abject ignorance behind a feigned recollection. “Oh, yes. Of course. So…Wednesdays and Thursdays. Can you do it tomorrow?”

  “No. But I could on Thursday.”

  “Tomorrow isn’t Thursday?”

  “Ha ha. Don’t you wish.”

  Yes. I certainly did. I thought I’d worked at least three days by now. I sat back in the chair, disarmed by disappointment.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. So we’re on for Thursday?”

  “Yes. But you have to do me a favor in return.”

  “What? Anything.”

  “You have to come with me to my Ladies’ Networking Meetup on Sunday.”

  “Argghh. I hate those things.”

  Milly shrugged. “No meetup, no date.”

  “Crap. Okay. Are you going back to the office this afternoon?”

  “Yeah. Why? Are you afraid to be alone with Battle-Ax Barnes?”

  “You know, she was actually nice to me this morning. She gave me a donut.”

  “And you’re still alive? Lucky you. Don’t let her fool you. Mrs. Barnes plays both sides of the fence.”

  “She’s bisexual?”

  Milly chewed on the thought and spit it out in disgust.

  “Eww. Well, I suppose it’s possible. But I was talking about her being a snitch. She reports everything back to Mr. Maas. You can best believe that.”

  “Oh. Whatever happened to Griffith?”

  “I think he ate one too many jelly donuts.”

  I smirked. Milly’s eyes scanned the room.

  “Look at that guy, Val. There ought to be a law against fat men in biker shorts.”

  ***

  On the way home from work I spotted Winnie’s van in the parking lot of Davie’s Donuts. I hit the brakes and pulled in. I needed to find out what was going on with the couch. I hoped the reason Winky had left it in my yard this morning was because he and Winnie were moving on. Probably to Jorge’s. But it didn’t matter so much where. Just when. If I had to hear another euphemism for taking a dump, I was going to lose it.

  I stepped inside the small shop. The aroma of coffee and vanilla made my mouth water.

  “Hey, Val Pal!”

  Winky greeted me from his perch on one of the twenty or so shiny chrome bar stools surrounding the 1950s-themed dining counter. For 5:30 on a Tuesday afternoon, the place was doing a respectable amount of business. The counter was full except for the stool next to Winky. On the other side of the empty seat was a fat cop eating a donut and drinking coffee. How apropos. I slid onto the empty stool between Winky and the portly policeman.

  Winnie’s slits for eyes peeked out of a porthole in the stainless steel door leading to the kitchen. She emerged a second later wearing a black shirt and skirt covered by a white apron emblazoned with Davie’s Donuts, Better by the Dozen. Twelve maniacal donuts danced around the red trimmed edges of her apron. I noticed the trim perfectly matched Winnie’s red glasses. Her outfit and
her black bob hairdo made me think of Minnie Mouse – if she was a plump, Asian soda jerk.

  Winnie smiled at me and absently plopped a plate of donuts and sandwiches in front of Winky. They were all cut into bite-sized pieces as if for a child. Winky beamed proudly.

  “See there, Val? My gal treats me right.”

  Winnie leaned her chubby body over the counter. She cupped her hand over her mouth and whispered in my ear.

  “I make ‘em out a customers’ leftovers. You want a plate?”

  Winnie withdrew her hand. Her ample torso returned to the other side of the counter.

  “No thanks, Winnie. I just ate. I’ll take some coffee, though.”

  “Coming right up.”

  I turned to Winky. He’d already scarfed down half the food on the plate.

  “Why’d you leave the couch in my front yard?”

  Winky wiped his face with a napkin and took a dainty sip of coffee.

  “Winnie and me’s found ourselves other accommodations.”

  “Oh. That’s great!” I said, trying not to sound as elated as I felt. “Chez Jorge?”

  Winky looked at me like I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had.

  “Jorge ain’t a ‘she.’”

  “I meant…look. Are you moving in with Jorge?”

  “Yep. Done did it last night.”

  I felt my stomach relax. “That’s great. Good for you. But I need you to help me move that couch to the backyard.”

  “Sure. You gonna have that bonfire with it?”

  “Uh…why not. Friday night okay with you?”

  “Hot dog, yeah!”

  Winnie came back with my coffee and another plate of hand-me-down hors d’oeuvres.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “We just got ourselves invited to a bonfire party,” Winky beamed. He popped a chunk of donut in his mouth. I flinched internally at the trace of red lipstick on it.

  “That’s right,” I said too loudly. “Bonfire Friday. And the next stakeout at Garvey’s is Thursday night at 6:30 sharp. Can you two make it?”

  “Sure!” Winnie said. “Can I bring anything to the bonfire party?”

  “Oh, no.” I eyed Winky’s rapidly disappearing secondhand smorgasbord. “Nothing at all. Your help with the stakeout is contribution enough.”

  ***

  I was tooling down Gulf Boulevard with the top down, humming and pleased with myself. The sun was shining and everything was going according to plan. By the end of the week I’d be rid of Winky and the couch, I would have found Cold Cuts, and I’d have put Glad and her Mr. Peanut piggybank back on my mantle.

  I smiled and hit the gas on Maggie. Nothing happened. I mashed the pedal again. The old car sputtered and died. I coasted to the side of the road and put her in park. A second later, I saw blue lights flashing in my rearview mirror. I figured this could go either way.

  A uniformed cop in a beige fedora and sunglasses climbed out of his patrol car. I watched in the side mirror as he walked up to the car.

  “Ma’am, you can’t park here.”

  “I know, officer. My car just died.”

  “Try to start it again.”

  I turned the ignition and pumped the gas. Nothing happened.

  “Hmm. Could it be out of gas, Ms. Fremden?”

  My head involuntarily jerked to the left. “Do I know you?”

  The man answered my question by lowering his sunglasses on his nose. It was Lt. Hans Jergen – the smug son of the Chief of Police, Franz Jergen. The same jerk who’d given Tom a hard time over a misunderstanding about his sister. A misunderstanding that Tom didn’t want cleared up, even though it made Tom look like a heel in Jergen’s eyes.

  “Oh. Lieutenant Jergen,” I said stiffly. “Hello. Thanks for returning the couch to me. I was desperate to get it back. Can I have the finger, too?”

  “Look, Ms. Fremden. It was nothing personal. It’s standard procedure. Just returning no longer needed evidence.”

  “With a snarky note?”

  “Interpret it however you want.” Lt. Jergen fingered the rubber service baton hanging off his belt.

  “You’re not going to hit me with that, are you?”

  Lt. Jergen took a step back. “What? With this? No. Look, have you got a gas can?”

  “No.”

  “Then come with me.”

  I eyed him warily. “Am I under arrest?”

  “No. I’m giving you a ride to the nearest gas station.”

  “Oh. Let me grab my purse.”

  I sat in silence in the back of Lt. Jergen’s police car and looked out the window. At a traffic light, a young girl in the car beside me shook her head at me scornfully. Horrified, I tried to use gestures to explain, through the window, that I wasn’t a convict. My efforts resulted in a view of her bubble-gum pink tongue. I scooted to the middle of the backseat and kept away from the windows.

  Lt. Jergen pulled his cruiser into a gas station. I tried to get out, but the doors were locked…and…to my horror…had no handles. Jergen smirked at my frightened face, then opened the door. I stuck my chin up and got out. To ease the embarrassed awkwardness, I tried to strike up a conversation as he pumped gas into a red, plastic fuel can.

  “You know, Tom’s not a bad guy,” I said.

  Jergen shot me a sideways glance. “Yeah? Well, neither am I.”

  “If you only knew….”

  “Knew what?”

  He waited impatiently for words I couldn’t say.

  “Yeah. I thought so,” he sneered. “Look, I’m running inside for a minute.”

  “Okay. Here’s a five for the gas.”

  Jergen took the money, put the fuel can in the trunk and disappeared in the store. All of a sudden, I realized I needed to pee. I left the cruiser, went inside and followed the restroom sign leading to the back left corner of the store. I yanked open the door and got the shock of my life. Standing before me was Lt. Jergen, his pants to his knees, offering me an unobstructed view of his “personal baton.”

  He screamed and slammed the door. But not before I got an eyeful. Or, to be more accurate, a thimble full.

  That explained a lot about Lt. Jergen.

  Chapter Fourteen

  By late morning Wednesday, the BMW-sized heap of files in my cell at Griffith & Maas had eroded to the size of a VW Beetle. As piles got sorted and filed away in cabinets, I began to unearth things that had gotten lost amid the giant mass of paperwork. So far, I’d found three writing pens, a desiccated mouse carcass, and, oddly, a dental retainer. But the most interesting discovery occurred when I reached down to pick up the last stack of files before lunch. It was the name on top that caught my eye. The file was labeled H.F. JERGEN.

  OMG! Could it be Hans Jergen’s file? I’ve already seen his private parts. What would it hurt to take a peek at his private papers?

  I looked down the hallway to make sure no one was watching. The door to Milly’s office was closed. Mrs. Barnes wasn’t at her desk. The old lady was probably on one of her many cigarette breaks. That woman smoked more than the grease fire that had burned down Water Loo’s.

  I opened the file. It belonged to Hans Franz Jergen, all right. Hans’ tax return for last year was right on top. I looked at the bottom sum. Damn. Police work was more profitable than I thought.

  On closer inspection, I found that most of his income hadn’t come from his salary, but from stockholder distributions from a company called Pet Patrol. I flipped to the second page. Besides being a cop, Jergen was the CEO of Pet Patrol, Inc.

  Funny. Jergen didn’t seem like the kind of person a dog would like.

  I heard the front door open. It was Mrs. Barnes hacking up a lung on her way back to her desk. I shut the file just as her head peeked around the corner.

  “Taking an early lunch, Val. Got a doctor’s appointment. Milly’s keeping down the fort. Should be back by two.”

  “Okay. Hope it’s nothing serious,” I said in a cheerful tone that I hoped hid my nervousness.


  “Yeah. Too late for that,” she said dryly and turned to leave. It was then that I noticed that Mrs. Barnes’ skunk-striped hair, which was all neat and tidy in the front, was matted and flat in the back. I guess she’d forgotten to comb it after getting out of bed. I watched her disappeared from the doorframe. A minute later, the front door opened and closed again.

  I couldn’t help myself. I reopened Jergen’s file. I wanted his address. It might come in handy if I decided to set that old couch on fire and throw it in his yard. I envisioned it my mind – the first “drive-by sofa-ing.”

  I placed the first page of his tax return on the copy machine and hit start. I heard Milly’s office door open. I snatched the file out of the copier, slapped it in the folder and flung it on the heap.

  “What ’cha doin’?” Milly asked from the doorway.

  “Nothing. I was –”

  “I’m bored. You busy for lunch?”

  “Oh. No. I mean –”

  My phone rang and startled the guilty hell out of me. “Hold on,” I said to Milly, then grabbed the phone. “It’s Tom.”

  Milly nodded. “Tell him I said, ‘hi.’” She headed down the hall to her office.

  “What’s up, Tom?”

  “Just wondering if you can meet me for lunch.”

  “Oh. Sorry, but Milly just asked me.”

  “Aren’t you Miss Popular.”

  “How about drinks after work? My place around 5:30 or 6?”

  “Even better. Okay.”

  “It’s a date then.” I hung up and went back to Milly’s office.

  “What did Tom want?”

  “To go to lunch. But I told him I had plans with you.”

  Milly grinned, then scrunched her nose. “He wasn’t mad?”

  “No. Why should he be?”

  Milly sighed. “You know, there ought to be a law against boyfriends like Tom. He’s smart, reasonable, says he loves you, and he’s got a tight ass. He sets the bar pretty high compared to the lowlifes left loitering around for the rest of us to haggle over. There’s not many like him. In fact, you might have landed yourself the last decent bachelor out there, Val. Yes. You’ve quite probably doomed me to spinsterhood.”