“Hey, Val.” Goober said. “Not a fan of Le Petomane, I take it.”
“What?” I demanded, whirling around to face him.
“The famous French fartiste,” Goober explained, as if he were talking about Picasso to a preschooler. He wore a ragged old top hat and a crumpled, red-striped bowtie, like a down-and-out Uncle Sam.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“I most certainly am not. Le Petomane was considered royalty in his day. Highest paid performer at the Moulin Rouge. His real name was Joseph Pujol. I’m a distant relative, you know. Though I only recently discovered my latent genetic talents.”
“There’s...there’s no such thing.”
“Look it up,” Goober challenged. He stuck his nose in the air. “Oh, the tortured life of a flatulist. So few appreciate our true talent.”
“But you were belching, too!” I argued, as if that somehow disqualified him from such a high-brow profession.
“Yes. Poetic license. The prerogative of every fartiste.”
I didn’t want to stick around to see what else might come out of Goober.
“Let’s go, Tom.”
I steered Tom in the direction of the restaurant, just in time to see Jorge hobbling toward us, grabbing at his crotch. He stumbled to within a yard of me and reached for his groin again. He shifted his hips and something worked its way down the inside leg of his loose jeans. Jorge took another step and the mystery object clunked onto the sidewalk. Jorge looked down at the almost empty bottle of Mr. Dude, then back up at me with the goofy, big brown eyes of a child.
“Hi Val! Great to shee you!”
Jorge did a half-lunge, half-swan-dive at me. Tom stepped in and caught him just before he tackled me like a drunken linebacker.
“Hey buddy,” Tom whispered gently to his former partner. “Probably time for you to call it a night.”
Jorge nestled his head on Tom’s chest and cooed like a dove. Tom looked over at Goober.
“Okay if Jorge bunks with you tonight, Sir Flatulence?”
Goober grinned. “Sure. I don’t live far from here. Let me grab my tip jar.”
GOOBER’S PLACE WAS nothing like I’d imagined it. The thing was, I didn’t have to imagine it. I was my old place!
“What are you doing here!?” I demanded.
“Living,” Goober replied dryly. “Keys in the mailbox? Not the brightest move, Val. Besides, the rent isn’t due until the end of the month.”
“I know! Because I paid for it through the end of the...aarrgh! Goober! Does the landlord even know that you’re here? Oh my lord! He could come back from vacation any second!”
“Calm down,” Goober said in a patronizing tone that made me feel anything but calm. “I’ve still got some cash. And like I said, I’m working now.”
Goober poured the contents of the tip jar on the empty kitchen counter and pushed the assorted coins into piles.
“Three dollars and thirty-two cents.” He scratched the top of his bald head. “That’s like... eighty-three cents an hour.”
Tom bumbled into the apartment with his old buddy slung over his shoulder, huffing and puffing from carrying Jorge up the stairs.
“What should I do with him?” Tom panted.
He eyed the place and managed a joke.
“Nice digs. Looks familiar somehow....”
“Cut the crap, Tom!” I shrieked. Panic rose in my throat, making my voice harsher and squeakier than I’d wanted. “They can’t stay here!”
“What’s the harm, Val?” Tom asked. “The place is empty. What damage can they do?”
I had no good comeback. Dang it! I sighed.
“Okay. You win, Goober. But I want you both out of here by morning. My name is on this lease!”
“Fair enough,” Tom said. He looked Goober in the eyes. “Agreed?”
Goober slid the tip money into his pocket and shrugged.
“Agreed.”
Chapter Eight
I CRUISED BY MY OLD apartment the next morning to check on my squatters, Goober and Jorge. They were gone, just as Goober had promised, and had left the keys in the mailbox and the place in a decent state. I climbed back down the rickety wooden stairs with my broom, bucket and bottle of Ty D Bol unused.
Goober wasn’t the only one getting the boot today. Lining the alleyway by the trash bins was an odd assortment of household trappings. A gutted vacuum cleaner, a pee-stained box-springs, a murdered side chair, boxes of jumbled clothes, and grocery sacks full of dirty, broken kids’ toys. I fought the urge to investigate. During my unwilling incarceration in that tiny apartment, I’d born witness to anything and everything having been hauled over to and abandoned beside the bins in that alley. Back in my destitute days, I’d found some pretty good stuff amongst the rubble.
Old habits die hard. I was rummaging through a mangled box of clothes when my phone rang. The display screen read, “Unknown Caller.” I answered it anyway.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Is this Valliant Fremden?”
Crap. The only people who used my real name were telemarketers and bill collectors.
“Who wants to know?” I said, instantly irritated.
“This is Police Officer Hans Jergen,” said the stern voice. “I repeat. Are you Valliant Fremden?”
My snotty attitude slid into dread. “Yes. What can I do for you, officer?”
“I’m assigned to your case,” he explained. “I need to interview you. When can you report to the station?”
“I already answered a bunch of questions the other day.”
“That was just a preliminary. Are you going to cooperate?”
His impersonal, threatening tone made my stomach gurgle.
“Yes. Of course. When do you want to do it?”
“Does now work for you?”
“Uh, sure. Where are you?”
“At the police station, of course.”
“Okay. Can you give me the address?”
“Good one. See you in ten minutes.” He hung up.
I clicked off my phone, still stunned by the cop’s flippant attitude. I wracked my brain. I’d driven by the police station countless times on my way to the beach. Somewhere off 1st Avenue North. I climbed into Maggie and turned the ignition. Oh, yeah. Unlucky thirteen. If I hurried, I had just enough time to get there within the ten-minute timeframe specified by Officer Jergen. From his tone, I figured I’d better make a good first impression. But somehow, I already knew I’d blown that opportunity.
SHOULD I CALL TOM? I fished my phone out of my purse in the passenger seat. I set it back down. I didn’t want to add “dialing while driving” to any potential charges already on my list. I bit my thumbnail and turned right off Fourth Street onto First Avenue North. I passed the fancy, tiled arches of the open-air post office on the corner, then drove past nine blocks of buildings that grew more neglected with each rotation of Maggie’s tires. The old Ford’s shocks groaned when I turned into the parking lot on the corner of First and Thirteenth. I groaned as I walked the gauntlet to the front door. I already felt guilty of something I couldn’t name. I frowned, pushed my way inside and walked up to the service counter.
“Hello,” I said to the round-faced lady behind the glass. If she was a cop or just a receptionist, I couldn’t say.
“I’m here to see Officer Jergen, please.”
“Which one?”
“Uh...Hans Jergen.
“Have a seat.”
I eyed the row of battered, vinyl-seated chairs butted up against the scuffed wall like a lineup of suspects. I sat in the least-victimized chair, my purse on my lap, clutched in my vice-like grip. I waited ten minutes, dread growing with each odd-looking stranger that filed in and out of the lobby. I studied them surreptitiously. Murderer? Child molester? Thief?
I’d worked myself into a state of angst by the time a guy wearing a police uniform ambled up to me. His shirt matched his ice-blue eyes.
“Are you Valliant Fremden?”
It sou
nded more like an accusation than a question.
“Yes.”
“Officer Hans Jergen. Come with me.”
“Am I...under arrest?” I asked.
He turned his icy eyes on me. “Should you be?”
“No! I...I just don’t know what’s going on here.”
“Just routine questioning. Nothing to fear – if you’re not guilty, that is.”
If his words were meant to reassure me, which I doubted, they had the opposite effect. I followed Officer Jergen into a small, eight-by-eight room with a beat-up metal table and two hard, bare-steel chairs. He motioned for me to sit in the chair furthest from the door. I grimaced. I wish I had some Ty-D-Bol to wipe the chair down. I swallowed, closed my eyes and lowered my haunches onto the seat that was still warm from the butt-cheeks of lord-only-knows who.
Officer Jergen didn’t sit. He hovered, instead, like an angry ape, supporting his body on two white-knuckled fists. They pressed down hard on the metal table like frozen punches to the gut.
“So, Ms. Fremden, I recall from the report that human remains were found in your domicile.”
“Uh. Yes. A finger to be exact.”
His ice-blue eyes were mere slits, but I could still see they harbored something just short of menace.
“Would you say this is a common occurrence in your place of residence?”
“What? No!”
“Have you been involved in any other cases of missing persons, or missing body parts?”
“No!”
“I urge you to tell the truth now, Ms. Fremden. “Any lies will be uncovered during my investigation. That won’t play well for you later.”
“I’m telling the truth. I swear!”
My words sounded weak, as if I doubted them myself. A trickle of sweat slid down my back.
“So tell me. How did this finger come to be in your possession, Ms. Fremden?”
“It wasn’t really in my possession....”
“You were the one to find it, correct?”
“Yes....”
“In your house, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then, Ms. Fremden, it was in your possession.”
“Well, if you put it that way –”
“I do. And I find it very suspicious that you would find a body part among your household furnishings. A couch, correct?”
I nodded. “But it was in the alley –”
“Yes, I’ve read your report,” he barked, cutting me off. “Still, I find it highly unusual. Very convenient that the couch was out of your jurisdiction just long enough for someone to slip in a dismembered finger.”
“Well, that’s the way...it was.” My voice faltered. I fought not to burst into tears. Did he really think I was a criminal? What a jerk!
“Who else had access to this couch at the time?”
My mind raced around aimlessly, like a headless chicken. Was I supposed to know the answer? Three cats? A possum? A sleepy bum?
“Uh...anybody who went down the alley, officer. That’s what I was trying to tell –”
“For your information, finding a finger isn’t, in itself, a crime, Ms. Fremden.” Officer Jergen’s jaw tightened to sinew. “But murder and dismemberment of a corpse is. No disfigured body has turned up as of yet. So I can’t hold you. But you best be advised, I’ve got my eye on you.”
I blinked hard and looked at the door to the tiny room.
“Can I...can I go now?”
“Like I said, I can’t hold you at present. But that could change at any moment. You’re free to go. But don’t leave town.”
I tried to stand but my knees buckled. A slight smirk curled the corner of Officer Jergen’s lips. It reminded me of my German ex, Friedrich. A sickening, helpless feeling flashed through me, followed by a surge of determined hutzpah. I wasn’t about to give this man the satisfaction of knowing he’d gotten to me. I took a deep breath and willed myself into Valliant Stranger mode. I set my jaw firm and stood up. I left ice-cold Officer Hans Jergen in that grimy little interrogation room without saying goodbye.
But then again, neither did he.
Chapter Nine
“HANS JERGEN? THAT GUY’S a jerk!” groused Tom. “He’s the cop assigned to the case?”
“Yeah.” I stepped aside to let my good cop in the front door. “And I agree. He’s a jerk, all right.”
Tom took off his gun holster. “What did he do?”
“Well, nothing specific. He just acted like a jerk. Like he already knew I was guilty. He thinks I had something to do with it – with cutting the guy’s finger off. Maybe even killing him! He said he’d be waiting for a body to turn up. And that he ‘had his eye on me, and I better not leave town.’”
“Crap.” Tom put his gun and holster on top of the refrigerator, then opened the door and pulled out a beer. “Want one?”
“Yeah. Thanks. What’s the deal with that jerk, anyway?”
“He’s the son of the Chief of Police, Franz Jergen,” Tom explained. He handed me a can of beer. “That makes him a real stickler for protocol. He’s got something to prove, even if no one else cares but him and his uptight old man.”
“Really?” I pulled the tab on the Fosters. “The attitude I got from him...well, it didn’t seem like protocol. It seemed more personal to me.”
Tom looked away and licked his lips. When he looked back at me he was biting down hard on his bottom lip. I knew what that meant. It was Tom’s “I don’t want to tell,” tell.
“What is it, Tom?” I took a sip of beer and kept an eye on his face.
Tom blew out a breath. “He and I have some bad blood together.”
“What?”
“Val, I don’t make a habit of asking you for favors, but I’m asking for one now. Just let that answer be enough, okay?”
I WOKE UP DEAD TIRED. I’d slept alone, but Tom’s secret had stayed the night and played ping-pong with my mind until nearly 3 a.m. It would’ve been so much better if he’d just told me a lie. At least then my restless mind would’ve had something to focus on. Instead, I’d found myself imagining all kinds of ridiculous scenarios. Hans Jergen slept with Tom’s ex-wife. No. Tom ran over Hans’ dog. No. Tom and Hans were once lovers. No. Hans had an affair with Tom’s dog....
I’d never thought of Tom as a man with a shady past. With his meticulously ironed clothes and smooth-shaven good looks, I’d fancied him as a kind of blond Mr. Clean, wholesome inside and out. Not knowing Tom’s “deep dark secret” ate away at my ability to think like a pitcher of Long Island iced teas.
I was in the kitchen trying to put together a grocery list, but even fortified with two huge cups of coffee, I couldn’t get past item one – Ty D Bol. I recalled the time Tom had blindsided me before, when he’d neglected to mention that his “friend” at the forensics lab was his bombshell-gorgeous ex-wife. I wondered what else he had conveniently forgotten to clue me in on.
Arrgh! There was only one way to tame the vicious gerbil running circles to nowhere inside my skull. I needed some serious chocolate therapy. The big guns. It was time for a trip to Chocolateers.
I tore the one-item list from my notebook and slipped it into my purse. I ran a brush through my wavy brown hair, locked the front door behind me and slid sideways onto the red, fake-leather bucket seat behind Maggie’s steering wheel. I turned the ignition and hit the gas. The vintage Ford’s twin glass packs rumbled like a pack of angry, ’roid-raged bears.
DOWNTOWN ST. PETE WAS the kind of gritty-yet-trendy city center that suited both the ambitious and the artistic. Gleaming glass buildings towered over tiny, single-story shopfronts straight out of Main Street, circa 1930. Cracked sidewalks and red-brick alleyways led to walls adorned with amazing, hip murals, smelly dumpsters, and drunken derelicts. Chic new vegan restaurants sprouted up next to junk shops disguised as antique dealers, both doomed to die in the toxic fog of capitalistic disinterest. Still, somehow, one thing – no, two things – seemed to always prosper in any socioeconomic environment; coff
ee houses and chocolate shops.
Addiction was never short of admirers. I was living proof. My brain worked better with a caffeine or anandamide buzz, and I was Jonesin’ for some chocolate, big time.
When I needed a coffee fix, Brew’delicious had my vote. I loved the friendly baristas at the cozy wooden bar and the homey, eclectic hodgepodge of couches and chairs where patrons could sit and sip as long as they pleased. But when it came to cocoa beans, I was pulled like a mating-season salmon toward the stream of dark, rich heaven known as Chocolateers.
Both shops were on Central Avenue. Chocolateers was closer to Beach Drive, wedged between an Irish pub and one of those new cigar bars that seemed to be popping up everywhere like pimples on a fat man’s behind. Personally, I didn’t get it. Cigar smoke was the best woman repellant ever invented. It wasn’t as if the men frequenting those places needed another reason for women to avoid them.
As I walked by Cigar Daddy’s, I was forced to pass one of their customers puffing it up at a sidewalk table. Rotund and revolting, the man could have run a comb through the hair growing out of his nose and ears. His mint-green Nehru shirt had reached maximum capacity long ago, and could no longer span the girth of his huge beer belly. As I walked by him, he nailed me in the face with a lungful of smoke that smelled like a cherry fart.
I stared at him in disgust. Really? My copywriter brain kicked in. Come and get it, ladies! Fat, greasy, ham-fisted troll – now with extra stink! I battled my way through his miserable cloud of screw you and slipped inside Chocolateers.
If there really was such a thing as Nirvana or Heaven, it had better include chocolate or I’m not going. I felt my pupils dilate as I stared at the exquisite dollops of dark- and milk-chocolate delicacies arranged in precise rows and tidy boxed sets. Like puppies at a rescue center, I wanted to take all of them home with me. But like I’ve said before, I couldn’t be trusted alone with chocolate.
“So, what’s it going to be today, Val?” asked the thin man in a white apron and chef’s hat.
Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 1 Page 30