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

by Margaret Lashley

  “Did you tell him you loved him?”

  “No.”

  “Think about it, Val. If you had told him that you loved him and he didn’t say it back, how would you feel?”

  Like the biggest jerk on the planet.

  ***

  Something was missing. My famous tortilla dip didn’t taste right. I stuck a finger in the concoction and then in my mouth. What was it?

  I hadn’t made the dip in let’s see…nine years! I never made it once the whole seven years I was in Germany. I’d been back two years and, to be honest, I hadn’t made the dip or cooked a damn thing the entire time. But to be fair, it wasn’t my fault. I’d grown up cooking Southern food. No respectable Southern recipe could be made for just one person. Not even two. No, I figured the minimum serving for anything I’d learned how to make was six. And those were generous portions. What was the point in all that fuss for just me?

  I stuck my finger in the half-gallon of light-green glop and tasted it again. Cumin? I hoped not. All I had in the spice cabinet was salt, pepper and, strangely, tarragon. I put a lid on the dip and shoved it in the fridge. There was no time to go to the store. Folks should be arriving any minute. I dried my hands on a dishtowel and stared at my cellphone. I’d already picked it up a dozen times, but I still hadn’t managed to call Tom.

  I grabbed the phone, took a breath, closed my eyes and punched his number.

  “Hello?”

  Shit. I’d dialed Laverne by mistake.

  “Hi Laverne. Uh…do you have cumin?”

  “I don’t think so. I went to the doctor’s last week.”

  “No. Cumin is…never mind. You coming over soon?”

  “On my way, honey, with bells on!”

  The doorbell rang. I set the phone down. The doorknob twisted and Winky peeked his freckled face through the crack.

  “Anybody home?”

  “Yeah. Come on in.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  In the backyard, the party was in full swing. I hesitated at the sliding door, the bowl of tortilla dip in one hand, a beer in the other. While the fireside festivities looked nice from afar, everything was far from nice.

  As I watched the flames in the fire pit dance, I realized the whole party had lost its meaning. I should have been celebrating my new job. But Milly wasn’t there. I should have been celebrating that my boyfriend loved me. But Tom wasn’t there. I should have been over the moon that Winky wasn’t here anymore. But he was. So, I made do. I settled for one simple reason to celebrate…

  “Is it time, yet?” Goober yelled.

  …the imminent demise of my former nemesis. Goober waved at me with a shit-brown cushion filched from the old finger-infested sofa.

  “Let it burn!” I yelled back.

  I put the dip on a folding table next to the tiki hut and set my beer next to a chair by the fire pit. I wondered if the fire’s glow made my face look as goofy and maniacal as the three cave men who were busy poking the flames with spears fashioned from palm fronds. At my instruction to ‘let it burn,’ they hooted, abandoned their spears and disappeared behind the tiki hut.

  “What’s that?” Winnie asked, then tucked a chocolate chip cookie in her mouth. I wasn’t sure if she was asking about the dip or the couch, so I gave an answer applicable to both. “It’s the grand finale.”

  “Oh!” she said, garbling the syllable. She wiped her hands on her jeans, then rubbed them together in anticipation.

  The guys emerged from behind the tiki hut, tugging and wrestling with the old couch like an unwilling captive. Once they reached the pit, they stood it on one end.

  “Ready?” Goober asked.

  “Ready!” I yelled.

  “Stand back, everybody,” Jorge commanded.

  “Let’s get this show on the road!” Winky hollered.

  “Here goes!” Goober said.

  At Goober’s command, Winky and Jorge grabbed the couch at the bottom and heaved. The sofa gained altitude sluggishly, like a flying pig, then crashed with a spectacular belly flop into the middle of the blaze. A cloud of sparks danced like fireflies in the pinkish-grey twilight.

  “Wait for me!” Laverne called from her side of the fence. She straddled the low pickets and worked her way through the bushes over to the pit. I hadn’t realized she’d gone home for a moment to retrieve Mr. Happy Banana. She beamed and lifted the sculpture up for Winky’s inspection.

  “Lemme help you with that, young lady,” he said.

  Winky grabbed the ceramic figure from Laverne’s proud clutches and flung it into the fire. Blue flames shot up, illuminating Laverne’s shocked face. A sudden volley of firecracker-like pops rang out, startling me and flushing a mallard from the cattails by the water.

  Immobilized by surprise, I watched as the duck zigzagged across the yard like a stray bullet, flapping its wings and honking hysterically. It got airborne, but barely cleared Jorge’s head before crash-landing in the bowl of tortilla dip. A moment later, it took off again, its yellow webbed feet plastered with green goo.

  Goober dove for the tiki hut. Winnie and Winky took refuge behind the lounge chairs. With everyone scrambling for cover like a drug raid, the poor duck, weighed down with dip, made an emergency landing on the highest stable point it could find. Laverne’s head. Rendered catatonic at the demise of Mr. Happy Banana, she hadn’t even tried to get out of the way.

  The duck roosted on her noggin and quacked up a storm until Jorge got brave enough to shoo it off with a spear. We all watched from our battle stations as it flew low, like a B-1 bomber, across the yard and splashed down in the waterway, complaining indignantly the entire way.

  “Waaahooo!” Winky yelled. “If that ain’t the funniest damn thing I ever did see! Looks like you just got yourself dipped, Laverne!”

  Laverne blinked and closed her gaping mouth. She scowled, picked up the last unburned sofa cushion and whacked Winky in the face with it. He fell over backward, hit the buffet table and ended up with coleslaw in his lap. Laverne marched past me into the house, her pride in shambles. I glared at Winky then followed her to the kitchen. Her face was hidden behind a cabinet door as she rifled through the shelves.

  “Laverne, Winky didn’t realize it was art.”

  Laverne slammed a cabinet door, revealing the sorry state of her affairs. Her usually carefully coiffed strawberry curls looked like a rancid bowl of pesto linguine. I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

  Laverne pouted. “I know he didn’t. But nobody does. You got any scotch?”

  “Scotch? Gross! No. But I can make you a TNT.”

  Laverne sighed. “Okay.”

  I handed her a dishcloth. Here. You might want to wipe your…uh….”

  I bit my lip harder. Laverne smirked and snatched the cloth from my hand.

  “That bad, huh? Ever since I’ve met you Val, my luck has changed.”

  I grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

  Laverne’s face registered surprise. Then she laughed. “No. I mean for the better, honey. Tell me, how many women my age can say they spent the evening burning crime evidence and providing a landing strip for a lunatic duck? I feel…alive again. Thanks to you.”

  I sniffed back a sudden hotness in my nose and handed Laverne the TNT. “I gotta say, Laverne, you never cease to surprise me.”

  Laverne took the glass and raised a toast. “Or you, me.”

  My cellphone buzzed. I glanced down at it on the kitchen counter, then looked back at Laverne. She wiped her hair with the dishtowel and eyed me curiously.

  “It’s a text from Cold Cuts,” I explained. “She can’t make it. Has to work. I was really hoping to talk to her.”

  “Oh. Well, then. Don’t take no for an answer. Set something else up with her.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah.”

  Laverne fashioned the dishtowel into a turban and stared at me. “I mean now.”

  “I…I’m meeting Milly for breakfast…I guess I could invite her along.”

  “Well, there you go.”
<
br />   ***

  I sat alone, watching the last embers in the fire pit glow like chunks of molten lava. I’d just witnessed an era go up in flames. The guys and me – none of us were homeless anymore. And against all odds, I’d found a job. Laverne felt alive again. Milly had a date good enough to warrant keeping clear of tonight’s festival of fools. And I had my house all to myself again. I guess we were all making progress.

  I sat back in the chair and swirled my third TNT, then drew the glass to my mouth to take a sip. A huge, brown moth chose that exact moment to do a cannon ball in my alcohol. I was so startled I flung the drink into the grass. Really? I sighed and muttered to myself.

  “Could something normal happen to me just once?”

  “What would be the fun in that?” a deep voice said behind me.

  I nearly came out of my skin. I whirled around to find Tom standing under the moon, his blond hair glowing like a Greek god.

  “Am I too late?” he asked.

  “No. Am I?”

  Tom took my hand and pulled me out of the chair.

  “You know why it’s illegal to burn a chest of drawers?” he asked, then pulled me to him.

  I showed him a crooked smile. “No. Why?”

  Tom took my hand and swayed me to his own, unique rhythm, then whispered in my ear. “Because that would be a bonfire of the vanity.”

  I rolled my eyes, then snickered despite myself. Tom swirled me around in the moonlight, then dipped me. When he brought me up, he kissed me lightly on the nose, a little less lightly on the lips.

  It would have been the perfect time to tell Tom that I loved him. I mean, how could I not love a guy with the balls to tell such horrifically bad jokes with a straight face?

  But even though our actions spoke louder, those three little words went unsaid.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I woke up Saturday morning with a cop in my bed and thoughts of Capone in my head. Tom was sprawled out on his stomach beside me. I nudged him on the shoulder.

  “You’ve gotta get out of here.”

  “What?” Tom groused. He squinted his sleepy eyes and stuck out his lower lip. “Was I that lousy a lay?”

  I laughed out loud and playfully kissed him on the cheek. “No. I’ve got breakfast plans with Milly.”

  “Oh. You didn’t mention it.”

  “I just did.”

  Tom sat up on one elbow, revealing his smooth, tanned chest. “I thought we said no secrets.”

  “You said no secrets. Besides, that’s not a secret. It’s a…it’s breakfast.”

  Tom shot me a sexy grin. “In that case, can I have mine first? I like to eat and run.”

  He tugged on my gown strap. I pulled it back up.

  “You are full of one-liners this morning.”

  Tom smirked. “Thanks.”

  I shifted my legs and climbed out of bed. “I didn’t say they were good.”

  ***

  “Millicent!”

  “Valiant!”

  I walked over to the table where my best friend was busy drinking coffee and checking her cellphone. Milly tore her eyes away from the screen to greet me. Her shining green eyes darted around the restaurant, then back to me.

  “How do you like the place, Val?”

  I glanced around. The place couldn’t have been more generic if it had been called Restaurant X. “Not bad. But I don’t see what’s so special about this place that you come here every Saturday morning.”

  Milly gave me a knowing nod. “Wait until you try the omelet. You’ll be hooked.”

  “Well, the place is called The Omulette. I hope the chef can cook better than he can spell.”

  “Ha ha. What’s your favorite breakfast place, Miss Smarty Pants?”

  “My bed.”

  Milly rolled her eyes. “I wish.”

  “No dice last night?”

  “Not even a roll.”

  “Bummer. But I still want juicy details. Who, what, where and when.”

  “Okay, but don’t laugh.”

  “Why would I laugh?”

  “The guy’s name was Hardy.”

  I stifled a smirk and pushed back the urge to ask how hardy he was. “Okay.”

  “Hardy Peacheater.”

  I bit my lip for ten seconds. “Go on.”

  “He took me out dancing.”

  I willed my face to stone. “Was it a ball?”

  Milly eyed me suspiciously. “No. Country music.”

  I crinkled my nose. “Milly! I thought you hated country music.”

  “I did, but –”

  “I see you two travel in pairs.”

  Milly and I froze, then looked up toward the voice. Standing before us was a woman in a dowdy brown dress. She wore a pair of tortoiseshell bifocals on her plain, unmade face. Her mousy red hair was pulled up in a careless, frizzy bun. At first, I thought it was our waitress. Then I realized it wasn’t.

  “Hi, Cold Cuts,” I said.

  The woman frowned. “Damn.”

  Milly’s mouth fell open. “Is that really you?”

  Cold Cuts shrugged. “Guilty as charged. Val, how did you know it was me?”

  “The ring. I’ve seen you wear it before.”

  “Oh.”

  I turned to face Milly. “I meant to mention it. I invited Cold Cuts to join us.”

  Milly looked a bit put out. She didn’t like to share the stage. Especially when she had a juicy role to act out. She scooted over begrudgingly.

  “Oh. Sure. Have a seat.”

  Cold Cuts slid into the booth beside her. Milly smiled thinly. “So tell us, Cold Cuts. How did you get that name? Let me guess. Because you cut men off cold?”

  Cold Cuts smirked good-naturedly. “That, and I adore salami.”

  “Well, they don’t have salami here.”

  I shot Milly a look. She sighed and softened her tone. “But they do make a nice cheese omelet.”

  “Oh yeah?” Cold Cuts asked. “You’ve been here before?”

  Milly beamed proudly. “Every Saturday for the last…I dunno…five years or so.”

  A wormy-looking waiter in his late thirties with a soul patch and a 20-inch waist dragged himself over to our table. He pulled an order pad from the back pocket of his size-zero pants and stared at it blankly as he spoke.

  “What’ll it be?”

  “I’ll have the Saturday-morning special,” Milly said politely.

  “What’s that?” Cold Cuts asked.

  The waiter sighed heavily. “Cheese omelet, toast, orange juice and coffee.”

  “Sounds good. Make it two,” Cold Cuts said and closed her menu.

  “Make it three,” I said.

  The waiter gave a quick nod of his head and ambled away. I would have killed for an ass his size.

  “I get the same thing every time,” Milly said. “It’s so good.”

  Cold Cuts studied Milly for a moment, then looked back at the waiter. “So, is that guy new?”

  “Jackson? No. He’s been here for years. Why?”

  “He didn’t seem to recognize you at all. And he didn’t know your order, either.”

  “Oh, that. That’s the ‘woman of a certain age’ curse, Cold Cuts. Val and I call it ‘The Cloak of Invisibility.’ You’re too young, but you’ll get yours one day.”

  Cold Cuts crinkled her nose. “What are you talking about?”

  Milly shot me a knowing smirk. “I’m impervious to attention. Nobody notices me. At least, nobody I want to notice.”

  Cold Cuts looked over at me. “You, too?”

  “Yeah. It happens all the time.”

  The waiter returned with two more coffees and a stack of paper napkins big enough to thwart an oncoming tsunami. Cold Cuts studied him as he unceremoniously dumped the items from his tray.

  “Hey buddy. See my friends here?”

  Jackson glanced dully at me and Milly, then over to Cold Cuts. We were as interesting to him as drying paint.

  “Listen to me. These two are not –” />
  I kicked Cold Cuts under the table. She glanced at me, then at Milly. She picked up on Milly’s look of dread and switched her attitude in the blink of an eye.

  “– ones to waste napkins.”

  Cold Cuts grabbed half the napkins and handed them back to the waiter. “Take these back with you.”

  “Your wish is my command,” Jackson replied robotically. With the speed of a paralytic sloth, he placed the napkins on his tray and headed to the kitchen. When he was out of earshot, I scolded Cold Cuts.

  “What are you doing? Drop it!”

  “Are you serious? You guys don’t care?”

  “It’s not exactly something you can fight.”

  Cold Cuts bared her teeth in disgust. “When did you know you had this…cloak of…?”

  “Invisibility,” I said dryly.

  “I remember exactly,” Milly said. “It was like, ten months ago. I was leaving a restaurant after a horrible MatchMate date.”

  “Of course,” I interjected. Milly smirked and continued.

  “I couldn’t find my phone. So I talked to the maître de about it. You know, I described my phone, left my name and address. Anyway, I went to my car and my phone was ringing. It had fallen under the seat.”

  Cold Cuts folded her arms. “Yeah, so?”

  “So I went back inside the restaurant to tell the guy. You know what he said?”

  “What?”

  “Good evening, ma’am. May I help you?”

  Cold Cuts’ mouth fell open. “Oh no he didn’t! Ouch!”

  “Yes. Me, Ms. Milly Halbert. Gone less than a minute and completely erased from his memory banks. That’s the day I knew I’d gotten my cloak.”

  Cold Cuts turned to me. “And you?”

  I shrugged. “I dunno when it started, exactly. But like I said, it happens all the time.”

  Cold Cuts shook her head. “Unbelievable!”

  The thoughtless waiter returned. He slapped an omelet in front of Cold Cuts and me, then placed a plate of fried eggs and grits on the table in front of Milly. Cold Cuts nearly lost it.