Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 1

by Margaret Lashley

  “Some kind of accounting assistant.” I took my eyes off the side mirror and stared at the road ahead. I prayed we’d get stuck in traffic.

  “Sounds fancy.”

  “I dunno. I probably won’t get it. My résumé is...Oh crap! I forgot my freaking résumé!”

  “Want me to turn around?”

  “No. No time. Geeze! I am so freaking...unemployable!”

  “Aw, come on, now Val. Don’t be so hard on yourself. There’s all kind a jobs out there. You’d be surprised. I found me plenty a opportunities. Things you’d never think about.”

  I raised a skeptical eyebrow at Winky. “Like what?”

  Winky flew past a bread truck and spit a hunk of chewing tobacco out the window.

  “Well, one time I got paid 50 dollars to leave a weddin’. That there kicked off a whole new income stream for me. For the next couple a years, I crashed ever weddin’, anniversary and hootenanny I heard tell of around Hawksville. Got myself so well knowed, people’d drive up to my place and hand me a twenty note just so I wouldn’t show up at their shindig. Heck, them was good times. Didn’t even have to leave the trailer.”

  Winky beamed at me proudly, then jerked the steering wheel to the left. He took the corner so hard I had to grab the door handle to keep from ending up in his lap.

  “So why’d you quit? I mean, if the money was good, why’d you come down to Florida?”

  Winky shot me a serious look. “Val, they’s some things you don’t ask a man. That’s one of ‘em.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Not a problem. You know, Goober said up in New York City, you can make good money just standing in line for people. Rich people don’t like to wait.”

  “They don’t like their parties crashed, either.”

  “Ha ha! That’s right. Hey, speakin’ a right. Wasn’t you a writer?”

  “I was. I tried to go back to writing last year. But I couldn’t find a job at an ad agency. I did have a couple of ideas for some books, though.”

  “Oh yeah? What kind a books?”

  “Books like, How to be Happy in a Cardboard Box. Or, maybe The Art of Dumpster Diving.”

  “Well, sounds like good information to me. I’d read ‘em.”

  I shot Winky a smile. “Thanks. Pull in there. That’s the place.”

  Winky skittered into a slot and slammed on the brakes. I glanced in the side view mirror again. The wind had whipped my hair into cotton candy. It was officially big enough to come in handy as an air bag. I sighed, unlocked my seatbelt and groaned out loud as I lifted my trashy-looking butt out of the car.

  “What’s wrong with you? Sounds like the world done whipped your butt and it ain’t barely nine o’clock.”

  I turned around and shrugged. “There’s some things you don’t ask a woman, Winky. That’s one of ‘em.”

  Winky’s smile was tinged with concern. “Fair enough. I’ll be here waitin’ for ya when ya get done. Break a leg.”

  I didn’t half to. I already almost had.

  THE INTERVIEW STARTED at 9:30 a.m. It was over at 9:33.

  I hobbled, half drunk, up to the reception desk at Griffith & Maas, CPAs. An exhausted looking woman in dire need of a root touch-up glanced up at me through her smudged bifocals. Her pained expression exactly mirrored how I felt inside. I forced a smile.

  “Hi. I’m Val Fremden.”

  She gave me a quick once-over. “Look, lady. We don’t take solicitations.”

  “Oh. No. I’m here for an interview with...uh....” Crap! What was that guy’s name? “I’m here about the accounting assistant position?”

  “Oh.” The woman’s left eyebrow ticked up a notch. The rest of her pinched, haggard face remained motionless. “Yes. Ms. Fremden, did you say? I’m Mrs. Barnes. I’ll ring Mr. Maas in his office. Please take a seat.”

  While I was trying to decide whether it was worth the pain of attempting to settle my bruised butt in a chair, a man came out of an office down at the end of the hallway. He was thin, balding, and just might have come over on the Mayflower. Dressed in an unremarkable blue suit, he reminded me of Mr. Burns on The Simpsons. When he reached the end of the hallway, he looked me over with eyes that hadn’t expected much, and were therefore not disappointed.

  “This way, Ms. Fremden,” he said tiredly, without making eye contact.

  The old man herded me down the hallway with a wave of his mummified hand. I tried my best not to limp or groan as he led me to an office with a gold placard on the door. It read, “J. W. Maas, Senior VP.”

  “Have a seat.”

  The office was large, but felt claustrophobic due to six-foot tall stacks of files piled up along the walls. His desk and credenza were buried under a foot-deep layer of papers. Only Mr. Maas’ desk chair and a plush leather chair reserved for clients were free of clutter. I bit my lip, stifled a groan and lowered myself down onto the cushioned seat. I tugged at the hem of my dress in a vain attempt to cover my thighs. When I looked up, Mr. Maas was staring at me.

  “Your résumé?”

  So much for making a good first impression. “Uh. I forgot it. I was....”

  And then it happened. I farted. Out loud. A long, whiny fart, like a balloon slowly losing a quart of air.

  I froze for a split second, mortified. I scrambled for something to say, and raised my voice a decibel, hoping by some miracle my voice might override – no – erase my flatulent dissonance. Blasted burrito!

  “I was in a bit of a hurry this morning and...” I practically shouted at the old man.

  Oddly, Mr. Maas hadn’t even so much as flinched. I noticed he was wearing a hearing aid. Geeze! Could it be? He didn’t hear it? I lowered my voice a bit.

  “...well, I meant to bring it. I really...”

  Mr. Maas cleared his throat and looked at me with the most played-out, bone-weary eyes I’d ever seen. “Ms. Fremden, I have to say....”

  I shut my eyes and cringed. I took a deep breath and plotted my painful, humiliating getaway.

  “You’re hired.”

  I opened my eyes and did a double take. “What? You’re kidding!”

  “I am not,” he said, with a face like a knackered Basset hound.

  “But...?”

  “The last person who applied bit her toenails...during the interview.”

  “Oh.”

  “And you did come recommended. By Ms. Halbert.”

  “Um. Yes. I did.” I rallied a smidge from the shock and smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Maas. You won’t be sorry.”

  Mr. Maas’ droopy face shifted ever so slightly, as if he’d amused himself with a thought.

  “To be honest, Ms. Fremden, I’m too tired to look for anyone else. We just finished tax season. My fifty-fourth. I’m worn out. But I can’t leave for vacation until I’ve hired someone to help Ms. Barnes clean up the files. So I just did. This is your lucky day.”

  Mr. Maas pulled open a drawer and took out a manila envelope. “Take this. It has all the forms you’ll need to fill out. Give it to Ms. Barnes when you’re done. You start Monday.”

  “Wow. Thank you, Mr. Maas!”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank exhaustion. And, Ms. Fremden?”

  “Yes?”

  “Here’s a tip. On the house. Try Beano.”

  “Beano?”

  “For the...um...flatulence.”

  AFTER A LONG WALK OF shame down the short hallway back to Mrs. Barnes’ desk, I filled out the paperwork and fled before Mr. Maas had a chance to change his mind. When I stepped out into the parking lot, I found Winky busy fiddling with Maggie’s knobs.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  I opened the passenger door and eased my butt into the bucket seat.

  “It was okay, I guess. But not exactly what I’d hoped for.”

  “Huh.” Winky nodded. “Kind of like my bowel movements nowadays.”

  I looked over at him and blew out a jaded breath.

  “Yes, Winky. Exactly like that.”

  Chapter Eight
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br />   ON THE RIDE HOME, THE realization I had to show up for work at an actual job Monday morning sobered me up like a missed period after the prom. I dropped Winky at Davie’s Donuts, took the wheel and drove Maggie back to the scene of the crime to pick Milly up for lunch. On the way to Griffith & Maas, the shock of my impending employment was slowly replaced by a persistent, niggling irritation. I was hangry – hungry and angry. My butt hurt. And I hadn’t had a thing to eat all day except humble pie. Granted, it was a huge, gut-busting portion....

  I pulled up in the lot of Griffith & Maas and texted Milly. She came out the door a moment later. One look at me and she burst out laughing.

  “I thought you had an interview for an accounting assistant...not a low-budget remake of Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

  “Shut up and get in the car, Janet, before I run you over.”

  Milly opened the passenger door and climbed in. “Hey...why didn’t you come say ‘hi’ to me after your interview? I was so swamped I lost track of the time.”

  “Oh...I didn’t want to disturb you,” I lied, trying not to embarrass myself all over again. “I know you’re busy. And I didn’t want to look like a suck-up.”

  Milly smiled. Her emerald eyes sparkled with excited anticipation.

  “So? Did you get the job?”

  I turned to face her, surprised. “Mr. Maas didn’t tell you?”

  “No. In fact, I haven’t seen him this morning. He must have taken off right after your interview.”

  I bet he did. “He did mention he was going on vacation soon.”

  Milly nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes. So, did you get it?”

  I cringed, uncertain how I felt about the whole thing. “Yeah.”

  Milly raised her arms in victory. “Yes! Now I won’t be the only live body on the set of Dead Accountants Walking!”

  “SO, ARE YOU AND COLD Cuts best friends now?” Milly asked, then wiped her face with a napkin. We were chowing down on cheeseburgers at a little dive called El Cap’s.

  “No. I just met her the one time.”

  “Oh. I thought maybe she’d dressed you this morning.”

  “Ha ha,”

  I curled my lip, but Milly was too preoccupied to notice.

  “Oooo...look at him!” Milly said. Her eyes shifted to the right. I glanced over and saw a man that made Brad Pitt look like Burgess Meredith. He sauntered by our table in his tight jeans, oblivious to our wanton stares.

  “Wipe your face again, Milly.”

  She grabbed her napkin and looked at me self-consciously. “Mustard?”

  “Drool.”

  “Very funny.” Milly’s smirk drooped into a frown. “Did you see that? I don’t think he even noticed us. Are we getting old, Val?”

  “Yes,” I answered dryly.

  Milly shot me a stern look. “Speak for yourself. You’re in that hideous getup. I...I’m all dressed for work. I don’t have any excuse.”

  “Excuse? For what?”

  “For not being seen. For being ignored.”

  “Milly, stop it. You’re gorgeous. Maybe he’s gay.”

  Milly brightened up a smidge and eyeballed the guy. “Yeah. That’s probably it.”

  But she didn’t sound convinced. Her eyes looked distant. It was time to change the topic.

  “Cold Cuts has my mom’s RV. I’m nearly positive.”

  “What?” Milly’s attention came back to the conversation. “Oh. Yes. You mentioned that on the phone. You think you saw her driving away in it?”

  “Yeah. I’m pretty positive. The lady was blonde, and she wore these tacky, white, heart-shaped sunglasses with starfish on them. I mean, what are the odds?”

  “Like these?” Milly fished around in her purse and produced a pair of sunglasses matching those I’d just described.

  “Uh. Yeah.”

  “On sale at Target for three bucks. They had barrels full of them.”

  “Oh.” My heart sank a little. “But still, the blonde hair and all.”

  “Yeah, only me and half the other women in here.”

  I looked around. Milly was right. Still, my gut told me it was Cold Cuts I saw driving that RV.... It had to be, didn’t it?

  “So what did you two talk about?” Milly asked, then tucked the last bite of her cheeseburger into her mouth. “Anything profound or earth-shattering?”

  “Actually, yes. Profound, I mean. She said something I can’t quit thinking about.”

  “What?”

  “She said that life is too short to play one role for a whole lifetime. Milly, I’ve played a lot of roles in my life, but I’ve never felt like the star. I guess the closest I ever felt to playing my real self was when I was in Italy. Before I met Friedrich. When I was totally free.”

  “You didn’t have to play a role then. No one you knew was watching.”

  Milly’s words struck a chord. “Yes. That’s it. Why do we change how we act when we think someone’s watching?”

  Milly gazed wistfully at the handsome man who’d payed us no mind. “I dunno. Because we think our normal behavior isn’t good enough? That what we’re doing is somehow inadequate? Wrong, even?”

  “Milly, you’re a genius. Yes. I think that’s it exactly. My mom –”

  “Lucille or Glad?”

  I grimaced. “Lucille. She made me feel like that my whole life. Inadequate. Everything I ever did was to please her or appease her. It became a...survival mechanism. If I learned anything from Lucille Jolly it was this: ‘If mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.’”

  Milly shook her head. “Lucille. Yes. There ought to be a law against moms like her.”

  I shrugged. “I mean, she wasn’t Attila the Hun or anything. She was just...well, anyway, I survived. You know, she still makes me feel like everything I do is wrong.”

  “Well, it’s not, Val. You found me. And your real mom, Glad. And Tom. Nothing wrong with that.”

  I shrugged. “True. But as they say, even a busted clock is right two times a day.”

  Milly’s face grew stern. “Val, you’re not busted. Do you hear me?”

  “Well, I know I’m not quite right. Some things that look so easy for other people seem like an impossible dream to me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know how to describe it exactly, Milly. I guess...it’s just that...well, I got so good at stuffing myself away to please my mom, I never learned how to be true to myself, you know? I don’t know how to be my real self when I’m in a relationship. I think three failed marriages proves that.”

  “How are those your fault?”

  “I don’t know. I just...compromised myself away to nothing, Milly. And it’s not like they even asked me to. I guess I felt responsible to please them more than I did to please my own self. So I just abandoned my dreams and desires and did what they wanted. And all three times, I ended up resenting the hell out of them, just like with my mom, when it was actually my own fault all along.”

  “Excuse me? Those men weren’t blameless! And your mother certainly isn’t! Sometimes, Val, it’s just time to...let go. That doesn’t mean it was all your fault. Or that everything was bad...or wrong. Look, you can have a real relationship. You’re your true self with me, aren’t you?”

  I thought about it for a second. “Yes.”

  Milly cocked her head and smiled tenderly. “So see, you’re not a hopeless cause.”

  I smiled gratefully at my friend. “Maybe you’re right. Thanks, Milly. I owe you lunch.”

  Milly straightened her head and winked at me. “Darn straight you do.”

  I grinned, then looked at her with pleading, puppy-dog eyes. “Milly, I wanted to ask a favor.”

  “I know. We can go shopping for work clothes this weekend.”

  “Huh? Oh. Yes, thanks. But –”

  “That wasn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “So, what do you need?”

  “I want to find Cold Cuts. I have this idea. Could you help?”


  “Sure. What can I do?”

  “Well, you know how she comes to the need of damsels in distress?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was thinking you could be the damsel.”

  “Huh?”

  “You could go out on a bad date – as a setup. Hopefully, Cold Cuts would show up to rescue you. I’d wait in the wings and nab her.”

  “Oh, Val. Not another MatchMate date.”

  I gave her the puppy dog eyes again. She cringed. “Please, no.”

  “Okay, then. I do know a few guys who could be your fake dates.”

  Milly sat back in her chair and looked at me sideways. “You don’t mean...”

  I smiled devilishly.

  “Oh no. Come on, Val! Are you serious?”

  “They’re available. They’re harmless. And they work for food.”

  Milly pursed her lips. “Winky is off the table.”

  “Okay.”

  Milly scrunched her eyebrows. “Jorge is usually under the table....”

  “True.”

  “That leaves...oh dear lord...Goober.”

  “He is the one most likely to remain coherent.”

  Milly rolled her eyes and sighed. “You owe me big time for this, Valliant.”

  “I knew I could count on you, Millicent.”

  Chapter Nine

  “CAN I USE YOUR CRAPPER? Been prairie-doggin’ it for the last hour and a half. Startin’ to feel like one a them there Whack-a-Mole machines.”

  My face grimaced involuntarily. I unlocked the sliding glass door and let Winky inside. His stray-dog act at my backdoor the past couple of days had put a distasteful glitch in my morning routine – akin to finding a cockroach in my cornflakes.

  “Come on in.”

  Winky sprinted down the hallway. I shuffled over to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. I’d temporarily switched from cappuccinos. I didn’t want the pleasure of sipping them to become mingled with memories of Winky’s disgusting defecation analogies.

  I heard the toilet flush and poured two cups of joe. Thank goodness for Ty-D-Bol.

  Winky appeared in the living room, adjusting the waistline of his cargo shorts. “That there coffee smells like heaven in a cup.”