Glad One: Starting Over is a %$#@&! (Val & Pals Book 2)

by Margaret Lashley

  I stopped and drank in the view for a moment. Then I said goodbye to the fantasy city mirage and rounded the bend at Coffee Pot Bayou. I stretched my legs on a park bench by Eighteenth Avenue, my halfway mark. As I did, a brown pelican glided past, mere inches from the water, suspended by some unknown anti-gravitational force. I smiled again and turned toward the direction of my apartment, my thoughts on a double-espresso cappuccino.

  ***

  I guess like every other material thing in this world, legal documents weren’t all that important to Glad. After looking through her treasured mementos, I had precious little to connect her with anyone but Bobby and Tony. I still wasn’t even sure of her last name. Was it her maiden name, Kinsey? Her married name, Munch? Or had she married Tony Goldrich and taken his name? I looked at my notes. Besides Thelma G. Goldrich, I had only two other names to work with: Mrs. D. B. Meyers of Tallahassee and Mrs. Harold Earl Wannabaker of Hawesville, KY. Actually, there was a third, if I counted Wallace Jonson who sold Glad the RV.

  I had to give Glad’s boxes back today, and for some reason, the thought made my heart hurt. I flopped onto my crappy couch and took a final glance through the photos in the shoeboxes. I made a mental picture of Glad in her Easter dress. Glad in a bikini next to her RV. Glad with a rose in her hair standing next to Tony at the beach.

  I couldn’t bear to look at the photo of Glad holding her baby again, so I didn’t. I wanted to remember her happy, like she was when I had known her. I put the photos back in their proper places and started to tape the boxes shut, but my apartment got all blurry and my heart began to ache like a sore tooth.

  Sorting through Glad’s lifetime of memories hit me hard. Harder even than her farewell service had. These stolen glimpses into her life had become a very private affair between me and Glad. I lined up the boxes beside me on the couch. They looked like three little coffins. Suddenly it hit me. Coffins! The contents of these boxes weren’t merely a straightforward chronological measure of years. No. Like me, Glad had segmented her time on this Earth into separate and distinct lives.

  Box one, lifetime one, spanned from 1945 to 1974. From her birth until she left Bobby. Box two, lifetime two, was a mystery that stretched from 1974 to 1986. She’d bought the Minnie Winnie in ’74 and, as far as I could tell, she’d lived the simple, quiet life of a beach bum. Box three, lifetime three, began when she hooked up with Tony again, and lasted until the day she died. A little coffin for each of her three lives.

  Should there be a fourth one for her child?

  The thought caused grief to grab me hard by the throat. I leaned over and hugged the shoeboxes to me. Huge, hot tears leapt from my eyes, hitting the boxes with hollow, drum-like thuds. This was the last time I would ever be this close to Glad. And it hurt like hell to know it.

  ***

  I’d promised the stooges I would meet them at Caddy’s an hour before Tony’s ceremony. My eyes were still puffy and I was in no mood for socializing. But I didn’t have much choice. I had to hand over Glad’s boxes to Tom. I glanced down at them in the seat next to me. I’d put them in a pretty gift bag covered with images of daisies. No garbage bag for my precious Glad.

  I hit the gas and Maggie tooled west along First Avenue North toward the beach. Along the way, I watched the eclectic parade of modest 1920s and ’30s wooden, front-porched houses and stucco Spanish revivals file past. Over the years, some had been converted to offices for lawyers, accountants and ad agencies. Most, though, were still private residences made urban by St. Pete’s rapid growth spurts. As I drove the seven miles from downtown to the beach, the economic-based facade of the structures slipped from posh to poor, then back to posh again.

  Crossing the bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway put an end to the historic architecture tour. I didn’t mind. The sparkling water lightened my mood and I blew out a calming sigh. By the time I passed Treasure Island’s kitschy pirate mascot and his booty chest full of oranges, I was feeling good enough to force a smile again.

  Decked out in a new white sundress that accentuated my slim hips and bosom, I had pulled out most of the stops to look my best today. I told myself it was out of respect for Tony, but I knew that was a lie. I pulled into the parking lot at Caddy’s and cut Maggie’s engine. Tom would be here to take the boxes, and I had to admit to myself that I’d glammed up for him. God help me, I was actually wearing foundation makeup! I hoped Tom would get here before my mascara melted. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Too late.

  “It’s Val Pal!” shouted beer-bellied Winky from his perch on a bar stool adjacent to the porch railing that framed Caddy’s beach bar. Winky was also decked out in his finest – the same blue button-up shirt he’d worn at Glad’s service, but with shorts this time. He raised his beer can in my direction and belted out an ear-piercing wolf whistle. “Nice gams, Val!”

  “Nice shirt, Winky,” I replied.

  “What, this old thing?” Winky grinned, looked down and tugged on the front of his shirt with his free hand. His inattention caused him to slosh beer down the side of his shorts.

  “Where’s cool and the gang?” I asked.

  “Huh?” Winky swatted at the wet spot on his shorts, as if that would make it go away.

  “Goober and Jorge.”

  “Oh. In the john. But Tom’s right behind you.”

  A shiver ran up my spine. I turned around and smiled and the blond cop. “Hey Tom.”

  “Hi Val.”

  Tom was dressed in a blue button-down shirt, too, but beyond that, the two men bore no resemblance whatsoever. For starters, Tom’s shirt was ironed. In St. Pete, a handsome man in an ironed shirt was almost as rare a sighting as the mythical skunk ape. I swooned a little.

  “I’ve got the boxes in the car,” I fumbled.

  “Okay. Should we make the transfer now?” Tom asked, shooting me a devilishly crooked smile.

  “Sure. I just want to step into the ladies’ room for a minute.”

  “What boxes y’all talkin’ about?” Winky hollered, already halfway to drunk town.

  “Official business,” Tom said, saving me from having to come up with a lie.

  Winky looked us up and down suspiciously. “Looks purty official to me.”

  Tom turned back to face me and raised his eyebrows an inch. I shrugged and headed toward the restrooms. The two oval mirrors that hung in the ladies’ room at Caddy’s weren’t into telling nice lies. Just my luck. My mascara had morphed into black, under-eye crescents reminiscent of an NFL quarterback’s. I cringed at the thought of Tom seeing me that way.

  “Shit!” I said, and reached for a paper towel.

  “Watch your mouth!” said a woman in the handicapped stall.

  “Sorry,” I replied.

  The door to the stall flew opened as if it had been kicked by a mule. A short woman as round as a bowling ball waddled out. She studied me for a brief second and said, “Yep, I’d say that about sums it up.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked, dabbing at my eyes and catching glimpses of her reflection in the mirror. The woman had the round head and jowly scowl of a bulldog. Her almost white hair was secured in a ponytail pulled so tight to her scalp that at first glance she appeared bald. Her long, albino locks continued to her waist, pinched tight in short sections, making the three-foot-long ponytail resemble a string of white sausages hanging over a fat, rounded shoulder.

  “Sorry. Yep, I’d say that sums up what you are.” The woman said her piece and sneered back at my reflection, her beady eyes full of menace.

  Caught off guard, my mind raced to understand. In the South, the term “sorry” was so derogatory it was almost always followed by the word, “ass.” To be called “sorry” was to be labeled as being worthless. Surely that wasn’t what I had just heard from this strange woman.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, “I….”

  “Yeah, women like you never do,” she spat. She turned her nose up like she smelled a fart. “You’re Tony’s girlfriend, aren’t you.”

 
It wasn’t a question.

  “What?”

  “I know your kind, tramp. Always lookin’ for a man to latch on to. Well, you can forget it. You ain’t gettin’ a dime of Tony’s money.”

  The woman had put her fat foot on my last nerve. “I’m not after Tony’s money. And you’d better not be either, bitch,” I said. I threw my mascara-stained paper towel in the waste bin and stormed out the door. The bowling ball bitch waddled after me.

  “I won’t be havin’ a whore like you insult me!” she screeched.

  I whipped around on my heels and was startled to see her red, bulldog face just inches from my own. “Who the hell do you think you are?” I asked.

  “I’m Tony’s wife,” were the last words I heard before her fist smashed into my face, and I felt myself falling to the floor. I’d been knocked out cold.

  ***

  When I regained consciousness I found myself on the restaurant’s concrete floor. Tom was on the floor with me, his back leaning up against a wall. He held my head up, and I was sprawled against his chest. His legs straddled mine as he staunched my bloody nose with a handkerchief. I’d been fantasizing about the first time in his arms. This scenario wasn’t exactly as I’d pictured it.

  “Wad happened?” I asked, wriggling and trying to look up at Tom’s face.

  “Seems the jealous wife turned up,” he said. He dabbed tenderly at my throbbing nose with the handkerchief. “Be still for a minute. You okay?”

  The hair on the top of my head stood up. “His wife? The paper sed his wife wad dead.”

  “Newspapers have been known to be inaccurate. Besides, they may have meant Glad.”

  I tried to sit up a bit more. The movement made my nose pulse with pain.

  “Be still!” Tom commanded again, then softened his voice. “Try to think of something else right now. Like maybe yourself?”

  I grabbed the handkerchief from Tom’s hand. “I’m fine. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that horrible woman get her hands on Glad’s money. It just wouldn’t be right!”

  Tom laughed. “You’re a feisty one! Why do you care?”

  I stopped being angry for a second and cocked my head. “I don’t know. I…I just do!”

  “Okay, fair enough. Can you stand up?”

  “I think so.”

  Tom put his hands on my waist and hoisted me to my feet. My new sundress looked like a bloody butcher’s apron. So much for my attempt at beachside glamour. I looked around and noticed the stooges sitting at a table six feet away, watching the scene intently from their front-row seats.

  “There she is, back on her feet!” said Goober, taking off his sunglasses and putting up his dukes. “Ready for round two?”

  “Val, you look like one a them there zombie brides on TV,” said Winky, shaking his head.

  Jorge shoved an elbow in Winky’s ribs. “She’s beautiful. She’s always beautiful.” He smiled at me quickly then looked down at his beer.

  “Well, compared to that other one, sure,” said Winky. “That old woman’s uglier ‘n’ a box a chicken turds.”

  I laughed in spite of myself, causing my nose to explode with fresh pain. I winced and hobbled over to join the ranks of the stooges. I grabbed a handful of paper towels from a roll on the table and handed Tom back his gooey red hanky. He took it without so much as a flinch.

  “So, where did Godzilla go?” I asked, looking around.

  “One of my guys is questioning her now,” said Tom, pointing a finger at the parking lot. “I figured it would be better if I stayed out of it.”

  I nodded and looked over at the car lot. Bulldog Woman was shaking her fat finger in a black cop’s face. The cop had his hand on his thigh. Probably where he kept his pepper spray. I secretly hoped he found grounds to hose her with it.

  “Lookit that idjit,” said Winky. “Shit, I think Tony woulda married me before he got hitched to that ol’ buffalo bag.”

  “So is she really Tony’s wife?” I asked, looking over at Tom.

  “Who knows at this point,” Tom answered. “And I’ve got some more news that doesn’t look good for the home team.”

  “What?”

  Tom reached in his breast pocket and pulled out a small notebook. He thumbed through it. “We ran Glad’s name through public marriage records and got a hit. Actually, we got two hits. Glad was married to Tony Goldrich in 1989. But before that, she was married to a guy named Bobby Munch.”

  “Yeah, we knew that,” I said, daubing my nose. No blood. Good.

  “I didn’t know it!” Winky yelled. His eyes darted suspiciously at the four of us.

  “The problem is,” Tom continued, “there’s no record of the Munch’s ever getting a divorce. So legally, Glad’s marriage to Tony isn’t valid.”

  “Crap!” I said.

  “Unless Bobby died before she married Tony,” interjected Jorge. Surprised, we all turned to face the shy Hispanic as if he were a talking cat.

  “Right! Exactly, partner!” said Tom, beaming at his old friend. “But here’s the thing, Bobby Munch was convicted of felony assault in 1975. While he was in there, the church he’d been working with added embezzlement to his charges. All together he did twelve years in Apalachicola Correctional Institution. He got out in 1987 and disappeared. He hasn’t been heard from since.”

  “So unless we can prove Glad divorced Bobby or he died before she married Tony, that bulldog bitch over there might get her paws on Tony’s estate?” asked Goober.

  “I’ve seen stranger, more unjust things happen,” said Tom.

  Goober whistled and shook his brown peanut head.

  “But none of that matters if we find Tony’s heir,” I said, touching my swollen nose tentatively. “The one in his will. Thelma G. Goldrich.”

  “That’s the other fly in this ointment,” said Tom.

  “What do you mean?”

  Tom hitched a thumb in the direction of the parking lot where Bulldog Woman was still arguing with the cop. “That woman over there with the mean right hook…her name is Thelma G. Goldrich.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  How could a day that had started out so well turn to shit so quickly? I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My nose looked like an overripe peach. My front right tooth was loose, but still hanging in there. Thankfully, my lip wasn’t busted. Count your blessings. That’s what Glad would say. God, I wish she was here to tell me what to do next!

  I was back at my apartment. I’d missed Tony’s memorial service. I figured I was more of a sideshow than a help with my big fat nose and bloody dress. But more than that, I couldn’t bear the sight of that smirking Bulldog Woman’s face for another second. After the cops were done with her, she’d made a beeline right toward me. Goober and Jorge had kept her at bay long enough for Tom to walk me out to my car so I could make my escape. Following Tom’s advice, I had decided not to press charges…for now. Maybe she’d wanted to thank me. But from the evil, self-satisfied grin on her face, I doubted it.

  I was alone again, without even so much as Glad’s boxes to keep me company. When I’d handed them over to Tom, my heart had begun to throb worse than my nose. Tom wanted to drive me home but I’d insisted on going alone. To tell the truth, at that moment I’d felt ready to burst into a million pieces. A torrent of emotions swirled in me like a tropical storm. Sadness. Anger. Embarrassment. Fear. I wasn’t sure which would get me first, but I knew a good cry was coming down on me like a bad case of swine flu. I managed to make it home and inside the door of my apartment before the flood hit. Then I just let the dam burst. I fell face-first onto my ratty old couch and cried until I passed out.

  ***

  In its wake, the crying jag left me completely drained. Busted nose. Broken dreams. Ruined dress bought with money I couldn’t afford to waste. Worst of all, I’d been made a fool of in front of just about everybody who meant a damn to me. And I could count those people on one hand. I was examining my broken face and wiping my eyes for the three-hundredth time whe
n my phone buzzed. It was Tom. I debated whether to answer. Then I figured, what the hell. Time wasn’t going to heal this wound anytime soon.

  “Hi Tom.”

  “Hey, Victory Val.”

  “Ha ha,” I said, unamused.

  “You made it home okay, I see.”

  “Yes. You should have seen the looks I got. A woman in a convertible wearing a bloody white dress. Some idiot actually asked me if I was going to a Halloween party. It’s July, for crying out loud.”

  “I’ve learned to never underestimate the stupidity of the general public.”

  I snickered, then winced from the pain shooting through my nose.

  “Okay, enough of that. I thought you could use some good news, Val.”

  “That would be brilliant.”

  “It turns out Bulldog Breath is not Thelma G. Goldrich. She’s G. Thelma Goldrich.”

  “So?”

  “That may be enough to delay her claim on Tony’s estate.”

  “Oh,” I said without enthusiasm.

  “I know it’s not much, but it could buy us some time with the lawyers. Especially if we can come up with a reasonable doubt that Tony’s house and stuff really belongs to someone else.”

  “How much time?”

  “I don’t know. But we have to do something fast. I caught her snooping around Tony’s house when I went to put the boxes back.”

  I felt my blood pressure rise and pound on my nose. “What!”

  “I was in uniform. I don’t think she recognized me. I told her the house was under surveillance and that no one was allowed on the property without a court order.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Technically, no.”

  “You lied?”

  “It was for a good cause. Besides, it is kind of true. If there is another heir, she has no business poking around the place. I’m really starting to dislike this woman as much as you, Val. She’s no Miss Congeniality, but why do you seem so sure she isn’t Tony’s real heir?”