Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 1

by Margaret Lashley

  “It wasn’t my baby.”

  “Then why is Lieutenant Jergen so sure it is?”

  “Because I let him believe it.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Please, don’t make me do this over the phone.”

  “Do what? Break up with me? Tell me about your affair?”

  “What?! No! I meant don’t make me –”

  A will stronger than mine took possession of my thumb and made it push the little red circle on my phone. The line went dead. I’d heard so many excuses in my life, I didn’t have time for one more.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I WAS HOLED UP INSIDE Chocolateers with my eyes on the door and my mouth full of chocolate. If Goober didn’t show up soon, I was going to have to go buy bigger pants. Two peanut clusters and an almond bark later, I watched him shuffle by the glass storefront. Buster the bulldog was passed out inside the patched-up, moon-lander stroller. His tongue hung out of his drooling chops like a huge, pink slug and dangled halfway down to the sidewalk.

  Goober touched his thumb to his middle finger as he passed. Everything was A-Okay. Go time. My phone rang.

  “Goober One to Goober Two. Approaching target. Out.”

  “Roger that. Good luck,” I whispered and clicked off the phone.

  “What was that?” Jack asked.

  “Looked like a guy and his dog,” I said casually.

  “Was the dog dead?”

  “I hope not.”

  Jack came and stood beside me at the front of the store. Through the shop window, between a huge, maniacal-looking stuffed bunny and big baskets of chocolate Easter goodies, we watched Goober carry out the plan. He strolled over nonchalantly and took a seat at a table adjacent to Loo and Bingo Bob. They’d arrived at Cigar Daddy’s five minutes and four chocolate-mint patties ago. I’d texted Goober the moment they’d shown up.

  Yesterday, I’d begged Goober not to wear the Burger King crown to the stakeout. He’d complied with my request, but had gone rogue and upped the ante with a hideous, dime-store false nose and eyeglasses combo. At least he’d removed the moustache. That he hadn’t needed to fake. Combined with his improvised derby hat, Goober looked like Mr. Peanut’s psychotic cousin, Looney Legume.

  “Now I’ve seen everything,” Jack said.

  How had my life lead up to this moment? I thought about my college degree. My time in Europe. My professional writing career. Like Jack, I’d seen everything, too. And like the rest of it, this moment would end up one day as mere dust in the gutter. I hoped it would be soon. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and buoyed myself with false hope.

  “Don’t you know, Jack? Dog-sitting is a growing cottage industry. Rich people getting flunkies to push their pampered pooches around in strollers seems like the next logical step.”

  “I guess anything’s possible.”

  Jack went back to work behind the counter. I put my nose to the glass and cringed as Goober leaned over the stroller and his fake nose and glasses fell to the sidewalk. He yanked them off the ground, slapped them on his face and glanced around. He looked my way and nodded. Not knowing what else to do, I nodded back. He pulled a newspaper out of the stroller, sat back down and pretended to read it, even though it was upside down. I glanced over at Loo and Bingo Bob. So far, they hadn’t noticed. They were busy yacking it up between puffs of thick, yellow smoke. I could almost smell the disgusting blend of cherry and tobacco farts through the glass.

  Goober laid the newspaper down on the table. I held my breath. He whipped out a bright-yellow funnel from his stroller and put it to his ear. I shook my head in disbelief.

  “Why didn’t you just ask them to talk into a microphone?” I muttered.

  “What did you say?” Jack asked from across the shop.

  I turned to face him. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows at me. I turned back to the window just in time to see all hell break loose. Crap!

  Loo was on his feet, yelling at Goober. I grabbed the display Easter bunny by the neck and watched in horror as Loo reared back and punched Goober in the plastic nose. Goober’s head shot sideways. The fake eyeglasses and proboscis went flying in the air. By some idiotic stroke of fate, the plastic funnel landed right on Buster’s head like a dunce cap. The bulldog woke from his beer-induced coma, lunged out of the stroller and latched his jaws squarely on Loo’s right calf. Loo kicked like a mule. Buster hung on like a bad debt.

  While Loo did the mamba with Buster, Bingo Bob scrambled to the top of the metal table. He bent over, picked up a black plastic ashtray and threw it at Buster. It hit the bulldog on his right rear flank. Buster let go of Loo and made a lunge at Bingo Bob. The jerk’s smug Elvis sneer disappeared, replaced by wild panic. He took a step backward, lost his balance, flailed his arms wildly and fell off the table. Bingo Bob landed hard on his butt on the sidewalk. His hands flew up to his throat. I couldn’t tell if he was protecting himself from Buster or he’d swallowed his stogie. The table rolled in front of him, blocking my view.

  I looked around. Goober and the stroller were gone. Someone yelled something I couldn’t make out. All at once, Laverne, Winky and Jorge came out from behind cars and corners and scattered like cockroaches. A flash of movement caught my eye. I looked down. Buster trotted by the store window dragging half a pants leg in his mouth. I gasped and took a step back.

  “You okay, Val?” Jack asked.

  I suddenly remembered where I was.

  “Oh. Sure, Jack.”

  I let loose of my stranglehold on the psychotic-faced Easter rabbit. His twisted head flopped to one side. Jack frowned at me.

  “Sorry about the rabbit.”

  I peeked out the window again. Loo and Bingo Bob had gotten to their feet. They dusted themselves off and disappeared inside Cigar Daddy’s.

  “What are you looking at?” Jack asked.

  “Nothing. Gotta go. See you next time.”

  I snuck out of Chocolateers and ran like a chocolate-fueled fool the block and a half to Maggie. I’d parked her in the alley behind The Deet, in back of Winnie’s Dodge. Winnie had stayed in the van to make sure our cars didn’t get towed. Now she was going to get a lesson in driving a getaway vehicle. I turned the corner to the alley and saw Jorge’s tattle-tail butt disappear inside the van’s side door. He’d already ratted out our plan to Tom, so I figured there was no harm in letting him tag along. I hadn’t planned on this turning into a flipping fiasco. I should have known better.

  I stopped running and huffed and puffed up to the van.

  “Everybody in?” I asked.

  “No sign of Goober,” Winnie reported.

  I looked behind the van. Laverne was in Maggie’s passenger seat, holding Buster in her lap.

  “We can’t wait for him, Winnie. I don’t want to be spotted with the attack dog.”

  “Okay,” Winnie said. “Lead the way.”

  I pulled out and drove down to Beach Drive. Winnie, Winky and Jorge followed behind us in the van. I took a left and cruised by the park to the Vinoy Hotel. I hooked a left on Fifth Avenue North and headed west toward the beach. The whole while, Laverne and I sat in silence, listening to Buster hassle and whine as I headed toward home. We were halfway to the beach when the phone rang. I put it on speaker.

  “Goober One to Goober Two.”

  “Woo hoo!”

  Laverne and I both hooted for joy, then broke out in nervous laughter.

  “What the hell’s so funny?” Goober asked. “My butt was on the line.”

  “Sorry, Goober. We’re just relieved you survived. Are you okay?”

  “Affirmative. With intelligence gathered.”

  “What?”

  “Mission accomplished. I got what we came for.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “They’re planning on burning Water Loo’s to the ground.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  INSURANCE FRAUD? Geeze! I was back to those two bad choices; call the
cops or call an attorney. I was about to stick a blind finger in the yellow pages when I heard a sharp rapping at my door. I looked out the peephole and saw a frizzy-haired man at the door and a bright-yellow Hummer in the driveway. I set my jaw to scowl and opened the door.

  “Mr. Finkerman, what are you doing here?”

  “Slow day. I came by to personally serve you with Mr. Michaels’ lawsuit myself. I thought I’d give you one last chance to pony up some cash before this crap hits the fan.”

  “Your client went to the police. The crap’s already hit the fan.”

  “What? That little son of a –”

  “How did you find my home?”

  Finkerman laughed.

  “You’re kidding, right? This is the internet age, grandma. Give anyone half a name or most of a phone number, and you can find where they’re hiding, even if it’s on Mars.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you going to let me in? We can either discuss terms now, or at the courthouse.”

  I opened the door wide enough to let him pass.

  “You know I didn’t do it.”

  “Yeah, well. Boo hoo. Somebody’s got to pay my rent.”

  “What if I could get you a bigger fish to fry?”

  Finkerman looked around my place. I watched his high hopes fade to middle class.

  “What kind of fish?”

  “A million-dollar fish.”

  Finkerman’s lips curled upward.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I know who cut off Mickie’s finger. It was Loo...of Water Loo’s Restaurant.”

  “All right. So, this Loo. Has he got more money than you?”

  “Don’t you want to hear the story of why I think he did it?”

  “Irrelevant. Unless he’s got more money than you. I don’t ask my questions willy-nilly, Ms. Fremden. Priority one is to crack the biggest nest egg.”

  “Wow. At least you’re honest about it.”

  “No point beating around a bush if it’s full of deadbeat birds. So, is this Water Loo’s place worth a million? Fine dining, perhaps?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “So where’s the million dollars? Land? Building value?”

  “No. It’s more like...a million dollars in insurance coverage.”

  “Worth nothing unless the place is destroyed.”

  “But that’s just it. The restaurant is a month away from foreclosure. A friend of mine heard Loo talking about torching the place for the payoff.”

  Finkerman scowled, then smiled wryly.

  “Ah. Good old insurance fraud. The last bastion of a broke scoundrel. There’s good money in it, if you can pull it off.”

  “So you’ll consider dropping me for Loo?”

  “Where’s your proof. Do you have his computer with the plan outlined on it?”

  “No.”

  “Notes in his handwriting?”

  “No.”

  “Video?”

  “No.”

  Finkerman shook his head.

  “A tape recording, then?”

  “No. Just the word of my friend.”

  Finkerman blew out a disappointed breath.

  “Is this person of upstanding character? Would a jury believe him or her?”

  I pictured Goober with his Burger King crown. Crap! “Not exactly. What other kind of evidence would work?”

  Finkerman scowled again.

  “You’ve got nothing then, I take it.”

  “Not at the moment. But with your help, maybe we could get it on tape. I know a waitress at the restaurant. She could help.”

  Finkerman looked around my place again.

  “Can’t you even afford a couch?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “Okay. I’ll give you a bug and two days.”

  “A bug?”

  “A micro-sized recorder, Ms. Fremden. Smaller than a pack of gum. Here, look.”

  Finkerman reached in his pocket and pulled out a device that looked like a computer thumb drive.

  “This little baby is the spy’s dream come true. Looks like a thumb drive, but it’s eight gigabytes of video and audio surveillance. Motion activated, too. Brilliant.”

  “What should I do with it?”

  “Plant it where you can catch them talking. Where do they congregate? Conduct business? Chew the fat?”

  “Uh...at the restaurant. They sit in a corner booth, mostly.”

  “Perfect. Just put it on the table. Inside a salt shaker is best. Doesn’t mess up the lens, usually. It’ll come on automatically when it detects motion or sound. Record something incriminating and bring it back to me.”

  Finkerman handed me the device. It really did look just like a thumb drive.

  “That’s amazing.”

  “I’ve always got one running. In my line of work, I never know when some juicy bit of news will spill. You really do need to get into the twenty-first century, Ms. Fremden.”

  AFTER FINKERMAN LEFT, I went out in the backyard and stared out at the water. Even if I was lucky enough to get Loo on tape plotting arson to commit insurance fraud, given Finkerman’s integrity, it might end up doing zilch to get me off the hook about the finger. It was a longshot that Loo would mention it anyway. Why would he bother talking about cutting off a finger when he had a new, million-dollar scheme to plot out?

  Crap! How did that finger get from Mickie, to Loo, then to my couch? What if it wasn’t Mickie’s finger at all? What if the DNA came back positive on the dumpster guy? I didn’t know squat about him. Maybe I should find out what I can....

  I took a long shot and called a guy I knew at the county morgue. He’d helped me claim Glad’s body last year. I was hoping that maybe he would do me another favor. It was worth a try.

  “Hello, could I speak with Mr. Darren Dudley?”

  “Who’s calling, please.”

  “Um...Val Fremden?”

  “Valiant Stranger! Is that you?”

  “Yes. You remember me?”

  “How could I forget? The one that got away.”

  “Not easy in your line of work.”

  “Ha ha! Stop with that awesome sense of humor of yours. Don’t make me miss you more.”

  “You miss me?”

  “You were the best date I’ve had in years.”

  “Out of how many?”

  “Do relatives count?”

  “They do where I come from.”

  “Stop it! You’re too much!”

  “I can’t believe you remember me, Darren. I’m sorry to call asking for another favor, but I could really use your help.”

  “Uh oh. Here it comes. What’s up?”

  “It’s just that...well...I’m in a bit of a pickle. Did you happen to see a guy come in that was missing a couple of fingers?”

  “You talking about the dumpster guy?”

  “Yes. It’s a long story, but I found a finger with a ring on it. The initials were either HM or WH. I heard the guy’s name was Warren Harris. Can you confirm that?”

  “Yeah. I’m pretty positive that’s the guy.”

  “How come?”

  “His name was tattooed across his back.”

  “Oh.”

  “Was he missing an index finger?”

  “He was missing every finger except his thumbs.”

  “Oh my gawd! How did that happen?”

  “My theory? He was dumpster diving. He rigged the lid open, but when he went to haul himself out, he knocked the lid closed. It landed on his hands and cut his fingers to the bone.”

  “Did that kill him?”

  “Probably got knocked out when the lid hit. Concussion, loss of blood most likely.”

  “Did they find his other fingers?”

  “Nope. Inside the bellies of a few stray dogs and cats, most likely.”

  “Yuck. The finger I found was wrapped in a cloth. Probably not his, then.”

  “Where’d you find it?”

  “In an alley. I mean, in a couch that was in an alley.”

&
nbsp; “I won’t ask what you were doing on a couch in an alley.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hmmm. Wrapped in a cloth, huh? It still could be this guy’s finger. You know, people like macabre souvenirs. Maybe someone picked it up, held onto it until it started to stink, then ditched it in the couch. Where was the couch?”

  “In the alley between Sixth and Seventh avenues.”

  “Hmm. Let me look. Yeah. His toe tag says “found in dumpster off of Ninth Avenue and Second Street. That’s pretty close by, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But Darren, are you...I mean...you’re looking at his body right now?”

  “Yeah. Just wanted to be sure about the tattoo. Wanna go out again? Give it another try?”

  “Thanks, but....”

  “You still seeing that cop?”

  “I was until recently.”

  “Then let’s go out. Take it slow. If it’s just friendship, so be it.”

  “Why would you want to go out with me again?”

  “Because you, Valiant Stranger, are the most interesting woman I’ve ever met.”

  “It’s easy to compete with cadavers.”

  “Ha ha! Come on, what do you say?”

  “I’m kind of in a jam right now. I’ll call you when I’m up for it.”

  “Fair enough. Good luck. Call me anytime, okay?”

  “Okay. Thanks, Darren.”

  I clicked off the phone and washed my hands. I grabbed my purse and headed for the door. I was going to need some more figurines.

  Chapter Thirty

  “DID YOU BRING THE SALT shaker?”

  “Oh crap. I’m sorry, Val. I knew I was forgetting something.”

  Winnie’s features scrunched together and her head drooped. We were inside her van, parked in my driveway. It was 6:30 a.m. We were going over our scheme to catch Loo’s arson plan, on tape this time. As I held the recording device in my hand and explained it to Winnie, I felt a little like James Bond – if he had boobs, trepidation, PMS and a conscience, that is.

  “It’s all set to automatically record. You don’t have to do a thing. Just get it in the salt shaker. Do you think it will fit?”

  I handed Winnie the micro recorder. She laid it along the length of her index finger and nodded confidently.