Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 1

by Margaret Lashley

  I laughed it off, but Tom didn’t.

  “I could see where that would count for something,” he said. “So what’s the W stand for? Who, what, where, when or why?”

  Tom took his gaze from the road and shot me that grin I’d begun to enjoy so much. I liked it when he joked. It was easier to breathe. Serious Tom made me nervous...in more ways than one.

  “Another mystery,” I answered. “Mom said she thought adding a W to my name would make me sound more distinguished. Trouble was, the two of them couldn’t decide on anything for the W to stand for.”

  “A distinguished redneck, huh?” Tom quipped.

  “Right. Talk about being born into irony....”

  “Well, you are pretty distinguished, if you think about it. You’re college educated. You lived in Germany. You speak the language.”

  “Danke,” I said sourly.

  “And you’re pretty redneck, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tom resurrected his horrible Southern accent. “You know how to cook vitals. You was born in Chattahoochee. And you speak the language.”

  I laughed. “It’s vittles, not vitals.”

  “See? You speak fluent redneck.”

  “And you don’t. So please, drop that horrible accent or I’m sending you back to Maryland.”

  Tom laughed. “Yes ma’am.”

  “Since you aren’t from around here, I guess you’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing redneck foreplay,” I joked.

  “Redneck foreplay?” Tom said. “You’ve got my attention. What’s that?”

  I sidled up to Tom and poked him hard on the bicep with my index finger. “Hey. You awake?”

  Tom stared at me for a second. “That’s it?”

  “Exactly.”

  Tom burst out laughing. “You’re pretty funny, Valiant.”

  “Oh! Please don’t ever call me that!”

  “Why?”

  “Just don’t.”

  “Okay, done. How about we change the subject?

  “Yes, please.”

  “I think she likes me. Your mom, I mean. She said I was good looking, ‘If you go for that sort of thing.’ ”

  “I didn’t hear her say that.”

  “Aha! So you were listening in.”

  I smirked. “Busted. But I didn’t get to hear everything. I was busy cooking vittles, you know.”

  “And they was some gosh-darn good vittles, too. That chicken is somewhere up in heaven crowing about how good you fried him up. Deeeelicious.”

  I shook my head. “What did I tell you about that accent, officer?”

  “Sorry ma’am.” Tom winked. “What do you redneck girls do with naughty boys who won’t listen?”

  I grinned.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  I LET TOM CONCENTRATE on driving as we wound our way east on I-10 through the busy section of Tallahassee. As we came out the other side, we were facing over an hour of boring highway until we hit Lake City. Winky was still sawing logs in the back, but not too loudly. However, every now and again he would let go a bout of flatulence that sent us both scrambling to roll down the windows before we asphyxiated.

  We’d just ventilated the 4Runner for the third or fourth time when a thought occurred to me.

  “Tom, when was it you had your first case? The Buckaroo Bandit?”

  “November a hundred years ago.”

  I slapped his arm playfully. “I’m serious.”

  “Twenty years ago...so...1989.”

  “Do you remember the month?”

  “Fishing season. So, May or June.”

  “Tony and Glad got married in October that same year. Tom! If that was Bobby’s skull in that Piggly Wiggly bag, that would mean he was dead before Glad and Tony got married. Their marriage would be legit. I wonder...do you think Glad knew Bobby was dead before she married Tony?”

  “Huh. There’s a thought. Or maybe Tony did. It’s pretty convenient, timing-wise. That is, if the skull really is Bobby’s.”

  “It’s his. Who else’s could it be?”

  “Okay, let’s assume it is. Jacob said he pulled Bobby’s teeth out in like, 1987, right? That leaves two years of unaccounted time before the skull was found. Anything could have happened in between. If Jacob left Bobby alone in the woods, he could have bled to death. Or Bobby could have recovered and later had a fishing accident. Or Jacob could be lying and he actually finished Bobby off himself. That way Jacob would be able to tell Tony and Glad that the coast was clear, so to speak.”

  So to speak, not sore to speak! He’s literate! Hurray!

  I looked over at Tom. He seemed even more handsome somehow. I forced my mind back to the case at hand.

  “Maybe Glad didn’t know anything about what Jacob did,” I speculated. “But if she didn’t, why would she marry Tony if she knew she was still married to Bobby?”

  “People do it all the time, Val. It’s just a piece of paper until you mail it in. Even then, different states, different names. Cross-checking public records has its limitations.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “You sound like your m....”

  The stone-cold look on my face froze Tom’s mouth mid-word. He fumbled for a recovery. “I mean...it sounds like you haven’t been to your mom’s in a while.”

  “Yeah. Like she said, I’m a stranger now. And I keep getting stranger.”

  “Jolly to Fremden. Think about it, Val. You went from being happy – Jolly – to being a stranger, Fremden. I hope you didn’t become a stranger to being jolly along the way.”

  “Me too.”

  I sighed and sat back in my chair.

  How poetic. And apropos.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  WE GOT LUCKY AND WINKY slept all the way to Tampa, giving Tom and me a chance to get a little more personal with our conversation, and to sneak in that second kiss. The touch of his lips on mine was worth both the wait and the guilt I’d felt over drugging Winky with Dramamine – again. The poor guy was still a bit groggy when we arrived back at my apartment. Jorge was there, sitting in his old grey-and-bondo Buick, dutifully staking out the squirrels and other varmints loitering around my street.

  He spied Tom’s 4Runner and jumped out of his vehicle. As we emerged, he greeted us with handshakes and Old Spice-scented hugs.

  “Hola, guys! Como estas?”

  “No, she wat’n in no coma, mister,” grumbled Winky as he climbed out of the backseat. He rubbed his head and stumbled over to Jorge’s Buick. “She was just crazy. That’s all.” He shot us a bleary-eyed stare. “Y’all don’t mind me. I’m gonna go take a nap.” Winky crawled into the backseat of Jorge’s car. His head disappeared behind the front seat.

  Jorge looked quizzically at Tom and me. We both shrugged. Jorge smiled and shrugged too, then presented me with my apartment key as if he were handing over the crown jewels. What he said next was really good news. He and Goober had located the whereabouts of Bulldog Thelma’s secret lair.

  “So, where is it?” Tom asked Jorge.

  “This woman, she’s staying at the Landmark Motel over by Mirror Lake. She’s not alone. There’s some old gringo guy with her.”

  “Señor Blanco?”

  “Jes. Everything blanco. White shirt, white belt, white shoes.” Jorge touched his chest, then waist, then shins as he talked, as if doing some type of show-and-tell calisthenics routine.

  “Did they come by here again?”

  “No. But Goober called about a half an hour ago and said they were back at Tony’s place again. They tried the front door and then walked around back. He said they were back there for a long time, and he was tired of waiting. He said he was going to sneak a peek behind the back corner of the house. I could hear the Bulldog giving old Blanco hell, and then Goober tried to tell me something, but he was whispering too low. I couldn’t make out what he said. Then he hung up. You’re gonna have to get the rest of the story from him.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “P
robably still in front of Tony’s. He told me he ran out of gas.”

  “Okay. Good work, partner.” Tom patted Jorge on the shoulder. “Thanks for taking Winky home, too. You did great.”

  Jorge beamed. Tom turned to face me.

  “Val, I’m going to head over to Tony’s. I’ve got a spare gas can in the back of the 4Runner.”

  “I’m going with you,” I said.

  Tom smiled.

  “No argument here.”

  IT WAS ALMOST 3 P.M. when we turned onto Bimini Circle. Goober’s car was parked about four houses down from Tony’s. The Dodge was empty except for about four million mangled Marlboro cigarette butts. They spilled like a jumbled waterfall out of the ashtray and onto the floorboards. There was no sign of the white Prius. We drove on to the house and pulled up in the driveway. Still no Goober. Tom tried him on his cellphone. No answer. But we did hear a faint ringing coming from the backyard. It was the theme from Superman.

  It was Goober’s ringtone, of course.

  I snickered. But the look on Tom’s face caused my mood to switch over to worry.

  Before I could say a word, Tom raced around the side of the house. I followed, picking my way through the gravel as quickly as I could in silly sandals. As I rounded the corner, I saw Tom kneeling beside Goober. He was splayed out on the back landing, his phone a few feet from his right hand. I was about to laugh with relief when I spied a huge red knot in the middle of Goober’s forehead.

  “Goober, buddy, wake up,” Tom said. He shook Goober gently by the shoulders.

  “Hmmm?” Goober groaned and tried to sit up.

  “You okay? What happened?”

  Goober touched his forehead and winced. “I don’t know.” His eyes focused first on Tom, then on me. A grin crept over his pale face. “I guess I OD’ed on Screwitol.”

  I smiled and breathed a sigh of relief.

  At least his sense of humor was still intact.

  “Looks like the back door’s been jimmied open,” said Tom. “Val, stay with Goober.”

  “I’m going with you,” I said.

  “You keep saying that.”

  “I’ve been in the house before.”

  “I’ve been in, too, Val. DNA samples, remember?”

  “Yeah. But I went through Glad’s personal stuff. I think I’d notice if more than a few toenail clippings were missing.”

  Tom studied me for a moment. “Fair enough.”

  Tom propped Goober up against the outside wall. I got him a glass of water from the kitchen, then scrounged around in my purse for an aspirin. The best I could come up with was Extra-Strength Midol. I thought twice before handing the tablet to Goober.

  Goober examined the pill and snorted. “Perfect. You know, Val –”

  “Careful. I can make that knot a matching set.”

  Goober flinched, then acquiesced. “I was just going to say that you’re a really sweet lady.”

  I looked at Goober and his swollen forehead and remembered he’d been injured in the line of duty...for me. “And you’re a nice man. I’m just not in the mood for a joke right now.”

  “Maybe you need this more than me.” Goober held out the Midol tablet.

  I shook my fist at him and laughed despite myself.

  THE HOUSE HAD BEEN ransacked. Drawers had been pulled out. Papers were strewn everywhere. The unknowledgeable might have not noticed the disarray, given the normal state of Tony’s hoarder house. But I knew better. When I made it through the garbage-lined hallway to the bedroom, I saw Glad’s three shoeboxes had been dumped out on the bed. The sight hit me hard in the gut. It was pretty obvious who the perpetrators were. But as far as I could tell, nothing was missing from them.

  “What do you think they were looking for?” Tom asked.

  “I was about to ask you the same question. Maybe the marriage certificate?”

  “Maybe.”

  I sorted through the papers and mementos strewn all over the bed. Something was missing!

  “The picture of Glad and Tony on the beach is gone, Tom. Tony’s letter to Glad from boarding school, too. Crap! So is the picture of Glad with her baby!”

  “How about cash? Jewelry?” Tom asked.

  My mind flashed to the little green rhinestone oval. It was still in my travel bag. I pictured Glad on the beach, and thought of something else.

  “Glad used to wear a lot of rings. I think she had them on when they took her to the morgue. Where would they be now?”

  “Probably still there. When you signed for her, did they give you a bag with her personal effects?”

  “No. I never thought to ask.”

  “Maybe you should go check it out.”

  I nodded. “I will tomorr –”

  I was stopped short by the sound of Goober’s voice from outside. He was yelling a stream of obscenities. Tom and I locked eyes, then dashed toward the hallway. Tom grabbed my hand and we pushed and pulled our bodies through the narrow passage clogged with newspapers and magazines. Finally, the garbage pile opened up. We’d made it to the kitchen. Tom flung open the back door. We practically tumbled over each other into the backyard.

  “Gaul-dang pile of junk! Let me loose!”

  I could hear Goober, but I couldn’t see him. It was like trying to find a chirping cricket in a junkyard.

  My eyes scanned across the sea of junked appliances and furniture heaped in the backyard. Finally, Goober flailed one of his long, baboon arms and I spotted him. He was twisted backward around a deep freezer, his belt loop hung up on the handle. Tom hurtled over a pile of rusty lawn furniture to reach him, and worked Goober loose from the Frigidaire’s rusty grasp.

  “They got in the RV, too,” Goober said, exasperated.

  Tom helped me climb over the deep freezer and we both peered inside Glad’s old Minnie Winnie. It looked like a tornado had picked up a ton of garbage and flung it around inside. The sickly sweet smell of air freshener failed to mask the funk emanating from the abandoned RV. A greenish-brown film covered the upholstery, and there was ample evidence that when Glad moved out, mice and other unknown squatters had moved in.

  “There’s a new can of air freshener on the table. They must have sprayed it,” Tom said.

  “I can’t blame them.” I felt like retching.

  Tom climbed inside the Minnie Winnie and scrounged around in an open kitchen drawer. He pulled out a set of tongs and picked up the aerosol can with them. “Fingerprint evidence.”

  Tom brushed by me with the can.

  After he stepped out the door, I climbed in. That’s when I finally noticed the overwhelmingly obvious. Every inch of wall space in the RV was covered in cut-out pictures and stickers and drawings of dragonflies. It was a never-ending, dizzying decoupage of fairy-like insects. I stood, open-mouthed, in awe of the mad, hypnotic splendor of Glad’s artwork.

  Goober stuck his head in the Minnie Winnie and sniffed.

  “Who farted flowers?”

  “He said this place was covered in butterflies,” I muttered.

  “Who?”

  “Jacob.”

  “Who the heck is Jacob?”

  “Señor Blanco.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “Yes. He said Glad’s RV was covered in butterflies.”

  “Butterflies, dragonflies. What’s the difference?”

  I shook my head at the indifference of the male species.

  “Men!”

  Goober returned my sneer with his own.

  “Women!”

  TOM DROPPED THE CAN of air freshener in an evidence bag and drove us down to where Goober’s car sat on the side of the road like an abandoned cigarette coffin. Tom emptied the five-gallon gas can into the Dodge’s tank and handed Goober some money for his efforts.

  “Negatory,” he said, and shoved Tom’s hand away.

  “Take it. You earned it,” Tom insisted.

  “I don’t take money for helping friends.”

  “Then let me buy you dinner.”

  “Tha
t I’ll do. As long as it includes a beer.”

  “Of course.”

  “Or two,” Goober added quickly.

  “Don’t push your luck,” Tom joked. “How about the Sea Hag?”

  Goober looked over at me. “I guess she can come, too.”

  The guys burst out laughing.

  “Very funny,” I said, and punched Goober on the arm.

  Sea Hags was the name of a popular restaurant in St. Pete Beach. If it were any more casual it wouldn’t have had a roof. Nestled nearly under a causeway on Blind Pass Road, Sea Hags was a great place to kick back and have a few cold ones. Best of all, it was close by. In less than ten minutes, the three of us were sitting at a wooden table throwing back a beer.

  “So, how’d you get the knot on your noggin, Goober?” Tom asked, then took a sip from his mug of beer.

  Goober touched the red knot on his forehead and seemed surprised by its size.

  “Actually, I don’t remember. I was talking to Jorge on the phone, and all of a sudden I blacked out. I don’t know if I fell over or got whacked.”

  “That’s not unusual. To not remember, I mean,” Tom said, switching to his cop voice. “People with concussions often forget the last few minutes before they sustained their injury. Those missing minutes will probably never come back. They get erased like an Etch-a-Sketch.”

  Goober touched the knot on his forehead again. It looked mean and angry, as if a horn was trying to break through.

  “I’ve lived through worse. Thanks for the Midol, Val. It actually helped.”

  I nodded, relieved he was okay. “Anytime.”

  “Good thing you didn’t give him aspirin,” Tom interjected. “It’s a blood thinner. Could have made any internal bleeding even worse.”

  A pang of guilt shot through me. “Oh. I didn’t know.”

  “It’s all good,” Tom said reassuringly.

  Under the table, I felt his hand give my knee a light squeeze. My feelings of inadequacy melted under the electric heat that shot through my body. Tom didn’t appear to notice. Instead, he shifted his attention back to Goober.