“Wow. You really know how to work a room.”
“You missed introductions last week. It was like true confessions.”
“So, are you gonna stay in class? Now that you have your leads?”
“I dunno.”
“I think you should, Judy. You’re a natural-born detective.”
Judy smiled. “Really? Thanks.”
“So, what about me?”
Judy looked me up and down, uncertainty knitted her brow. “What about you?”
“You have the others pegged,” I said. “What are your conclusions about me?”
“Given your bulging jeans and loose-fitting top, I’d say you’ve been avoiding writing and pretty much eaten everything in your house that wasn’t nailed down. Thus, the trip to the grocery store.”
“Damn. You’re good.”
Judy beamed. “I try.”
I blew out a breath. “That’s it. I’m heading to the diet food section. I need to lose ten pounds.”
I took off down the aisle with Judy on my heels.
“You’re going about it all wrong,” Judy called after me. “The diet thing, I mean. It’s like selling real estate. You have to sell yourself the fantasy, not the reality.”
I stopped in front of an aisle display laden with rows of diet food bars and canned shakes.
“What do you mean, Judy?”
“You have to sell yourself on an idea for it to work for you.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Okay. Think about it this way,” Judy said, eyeballing the display. “Which idea motivates you more? Would you rather go on a diet to lose ten pounds of ugly fat, or to look like Jennifer Aniston?”
“I’ll take Jennifer.”
“Exactly my point.”
Judy grabbed a can and a packet off the shelf and held them up about even with her shoulders.
“See what I mean?” She toggled the can in her hand. “This chocolate shake is doing it right. Drink chocolate, lose weight! What’s not to like?”
“Okay.”
She waggled the packet in her other hand.
“Now, look at the kale chips. Eat nasty green globs and wish you were dead.”
I smirked. “I think I get it.”
“Good.” Judy put the can and packet back on the shelf. “Well, I better get going. I think I see a lead.”
“Oh. Okay. Good luck. See you Thursday?” I called as Judy walked away.
“Pretty sure,” she said, not looking back as she made a beeline for a woman with a Prada purse.
I loaded a dozen chocolate shakes in my cart and finished shopping.
At home, I unpacked my groceries, then opened my file labeled Five Unique Ways to Kill Someone.
Under number five, I deleted the word “Ty-D-Bol” and typed in “Kale.”
Chapter Five
“Oh, dear lord of the flies,” I whispered, and nudged Tom’s arm.
Usually annoyingly cheerful and dependable, Tom was in one of his typical good moods. He was whistling a tune as he polished the driver’s side mirror of his SUV.
Unlike me, he was making good use of his time while we waited in the driveway for Laverne. She was catching a ride with us over to Winky’s place.
I nudged Tom again, locked eyes with him, and bobbed my head discretely to the left a couple of times. Tom got my drift and shot a glance in that direction. His jaw went slack and his whistling hissed out like a punctured tire.
Laverne was picking her way across the lawn. In her liver-spotted hands, she held a red serving platter mounded with cookies.
“She’s baked again,” Tom said absently. “That explains the dead possum in the backyard.”
“Ugh,” I moaned. “I really don’t want another bowel blowout. Especially not at Winky’s place.”
“I’ve got this,” Tom said. He turned and smiled graciously at Laverne. “There you are! I’m glad you’re riding over to the cookout with us. Here, let me take that for you.”
“Thank you, honey!” Laverne beamed him a full set of dentures and handed over the potentially lethal plate of snickerdoodles.
Tom opened the back door of the SUV and held it for Laverne like a fancy chauffeur. “Please. Climb aboard, ma’am.”
Laverne grinned. “Nice to see there’s still a few gentlemen left in the world.”
She scooted her scrawny butt into the backseat. Tom closed the door, then looked across the hood and shot me an evil smirk.
I tilted my head and scrunched my eyebrows. “What’s up?” I whispered.
“Don’t worry,” Tom said. “Just get in.”
I sighed, and, for once, did as I was told.
“You excited about the party?” I asked Laverne as I climbed into the front passenger seat.
“You bet! I don’t get out much since J.D. moved in.”
“Right.” I watched Tom as he went around to the back of the SUV, opened the hatchback and closed it again.
“Here we go,” he said, and climbed into the driver’s seat.
My stomach gurgled like an angry bobcat. Tom laughed and turned the key in the ignition.
“This ought to be fun,” he said, and backed slowly out of the drive.
“I can’t wait to see Winky’s place,” Laverne chirped from the back seat. “I heard he’s got his own swimming pool!”
“Wow!” I shook my head. “Imagine that. A few weeks ago he didn’t even have his own shirt.”
“Life can be unpredictable,” Tom said, and turned onto Bimini Circle.
We rode in contented silence for a while as the silver 4Runner thrummed steadily along under Tom’s guidance. But about a mile or so down the road, Tom suddenly turned the steering wheel sharply to the left and hit the brakes. I got a close-up view of the dashboard as the SUV first swerved, then lurched to a stop.
“Sorry about that!” Tom said, and winked at me. “Everybody okay?”
“I think so,” Laverne said, patting down her strawberry-gold curls. “What happened?”
“I thought I saw a possum about to meet his maker,” Tom replied, watching Laverne through the rearview mirror. “Had to swerve to miss him.”
Tom locked eyes with me and grinned like a fox. “Look,” he whispered, and nodded toward my side-view mirror.
I peeked just in time to see the reflection of a red plastic plate tumbling down the road behind us like a renegade hubcap.
“Poor little critter,” Laverne said. “Did you miss him?”
“Yes,” Tom said, and shifted into drive. “But it was a close call.”
I looked back at Laverne. She was smiling brightly. I squeezed Tom’s thigh and smirked.
“Yep,” I said. “That was a close call, indeed.”
WITH OUR DEADLY CARGO dutifully jettisoned, Tom’s SUV headed north along Gulf Boulevard past rows of pastel-hued mom-and-pop hotels built during decades that seemed more innocent and less commercial than today. Tucked between the cheerful, homey motels were small shops selling beachwear and souvenirs, as well as a handful of restaurants with names like Grouper’s and Barnacle Bill’s, focused not so much on cuisine as on gimmicks to lure the tourists in.
It was nearly six o’clock. The sky over the Gulf of Mexico was just starting to tinge pink like a slow-boiling shrimp. Tom hooked a right at the Thunderbird Hotel and headed east. We crossed a pair of small bridges traversing the Intracoastal Waterway, leaving behind the sandy strip island and entering the mainland of Pinellas County.
As we did, everything beachy and touristy disappeared, as if the Gulf waters had been only a mirage. In place of surf-shops and beach stands, a hodge-podge of dry cleaners, banks, grocery stores and thrift shops sprouted up like toadstools. Except for the tell-tale palm trees, you could have been forgiven for thinking you were in Georgia, or D.C., or pretty much anywhere else in the good old US of A. Until you rolled down the window, that is, and got blasted by heat normally found only inside a pizza oven.
I suppose the summer heat and humidity were the only thing
s that had kept St. Petersburg from turning into Lower New York City. That and a distinct lack of space for urban sprawl.
Pinellas County itself was comprised mostly of a bloated peninsula that stuck out of Florida’s west coast and into the Gulf of Mexico like a bratty kid’s swollen tongue. Bordered on three sides by water, it stretched along the coastline northward, from its southern tip, St. Petersburg, to its northern boundary, the Greek-themed town of Tarpon Springs.
The Pinellas beach towns lucky enough to stick their toes in the Gulf had enjoyed the glamour, acclaim and “progress” that tourist dollars inevitably wrought.
The opposite fate had befallen their land-locked cousins.
These turf-town communities had remained virtually ignored for decades, left to play a second fiddle so distant that it might as well have been in an orchestra on the moon. And no place played that second fiddle better than the township of Pinellas Park. An oasis of local yokels and rednecks surrounded by a desert of tourists and transplants, it was, naturally, where Winky had chosen to set up his new home-sweet-home.
Tom turned off US 19 at the Pinellas Park exit and took a left. Immediately, the view was blighted with deep-discount stores, fast-food restaurants and auto repair shops. Each proudly vied for our attention with garish lights and grammatically incorrect signs. After dodging a rusty red pick-up that nearly rammed us on its hell-bent journey to Walmart, Tom turned off 19 and onto a road sandwiched between two strip centers as tired and uninspired as a long-term life insurance salesman.
To my surprise, just one building in from US 19, the neighborhood turned residential. Its modest homes were proudly working class. Yards were un-landscaped but tidy – despite the occasional vehicle or two that hadn’t moved since the turn of the millennium.
A few blocks further down the road, the yards got bigger, but the houses remained modest. We drove past a series of acre-sized plots surrounded by chain-link fences. Most were pocked with disused RVs, flower beds lined with old tires and the random mongrel dog or three.
I knew we had to be getting close when I saw the first family-pack of ATV’s parked under a tin-roofed shed. That was the unquestionable signature of a well-to-do hillbilly if there ever was one.
“This is it,” Tom said, and pulled into the open gate of a chain-link fence bordering a grassy, green acre.
I smiled. True to his word, Winky had gotten himself a brand-new doublewide trailer. Even in the fading light, it shone like an aluminum-clad beacon amongst his neighbors’ slightly more aged residences.
Tom parked the SUV in the dirt driveway next to an equally shiny new red Camaro. Winky had bought it at Hopkins Chevrolet. I could tell because he’d modified the complimentary vanity plate. By removing the K and S, he’d turned “Hopkins” into “Hop in.”
“Here we go,” I said, grinning before I even climbed out of the car. I’d barely slammed the SUV door shut when the front door of Winky’s trailer flew open as if it’d been kicked out by a SWAT team.
“Welcome to our humble abode,” the pudgy, freckle-covered redneck hollered. “Wooo hoooo! Glad y’all made it!”
Winky looked so ready to explode with unabashed pride that I cringed involuntarily. I grinned and took him by the hand.
“Nice duds,” I said, and meant it. To my utter amazement, Winky had on clean cargo shorts and a t-shirt with no stains or holes anywhere to be found. The shirt even had both sleeves still attached. I secretly worried that perhaps his money had gone to his head....
“What? This old thang?” Winky said and scratched his belly, dislodging my concerns along with the lint ball that had been inhabiting his navel. “Y’all come on in!”
“I’ll get the food,” Tom said as he helped Laverne climb out of the SUV. “I’ve been here already, so why don’t you two ladies go enjoy the tour?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Laverne said. “Thanks, Tom. Now keep your mitts off those cookies until you’ve had your dinner,” she scolded playfully.
“I promise,” Tom said and looked at me. “Cross my heart and hope not to die.”
THE SMELL OF PLASTIC and formaldehyde emanating from the shiny new doublewide trailer burned my eyes, but not nearly as bad as the décor. I blinked twice to stop the stinging. Nope. The couch still didn’t look any better.
“I paid extry for the stain proofin’,” Winky said proudly.
“You don’t say,” I coughed, too stunned to cobble a real sentence together. Given the sofa’s hideous upholstery, a swirling pattern of orange, red and brown akin to vomit caught in a tornado, a stain didn’t have a chance against it. In fact, I would have bet good money someone could have been stabbed to death on that couch and the cops wouldn’t even notice.
I made a mental note to add that to my list for my writing class when I got home.
“Well, I have to say, the couch goes perfectly with the lamps,” I said, trying not to stare. Perched on a side table at one end of the sofa stood a lamp made out of a stuffed raccoon. Its claw-like hands had been fashioned to hold a small, round object, the purpose of which I found myself harboring zero curiosity over. The other lamp – it pained me to say – was ET the extraterrestrial, sitting in what looked to be an empty pie tin.
“Huh. I didn’t know they made shag carpet anymore,” Laverne said to Winky, allowing me a moment to compose myself.
“Orange is...a bold color,” I fumbled.
“Thanky,” Winky said, and hitched his thumbs in his pockets. “You know, I had it special ordered. All this stuff, really.”
“You’re kidding,” Laverne muttered. Her pug eyes looked as big as boiled eggs as she stared warily at the raccoon lighting fixture. “What were you...uh...was your inspiration?”
Winky grinned like a hillbilly with a jug full of corn liquor.
“Home,” he said. “You see, I showed the fellers down at Fred’s Furniture pictures of my mom’s place back in Kentucky. I had ‘em recreate it best they could. The whole place is like this. ‘Cept for the kitchen. That’s Winnie’s domain.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, I tell you what, it really is something.”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!” Winky said. “Come in here, y’all, and I’ll show you my pride and joy.”
Laverne and I exchanged doomed glanced, then followed Winky dutifully down a step into a sunken living room off the main trailer. The 1970s time-warp continued. On the far wall, covered with dark-brown wood paneling, an off-centered hodge-podge collection of framed sports figures hung like offerings in a thrift shop. Below them were three white, waist-high, glass-topped coolers like the ones I’d seen in convenience stores.
“Go ahead, gals,” Winky offered. “They’s unlocked and loaded!”
Laverne and I made our way cautiously toward the coolers and peered through their clear, sliding lids. One was full of Pabst Blue Ribbon. The other two were filled to the gills with bottles of Mountain Dew and Yoo Hoo chocolate-flavored drinks.
“Thanks, Winky,” I said and slid open the beer cooler. Laverne and I each grabbed a can.
“Yeppers. This here’s my man cave,” Winky said, hooking his fingers in his belt loops and thrusting out his barrel chest.
“You want one?” I asked.
“Don’t mind if I do.” He took the beer, cracked open the tab and walked to a door beside the coolers. He opened it to reveal a pantry stuffed to the brim with beef jerky, corn nuts, pork rinds and moon pies – the four basic redneck food groups.
“Help yoreself,” he said. “And looky here.”
Winky waved his right arm at a wall like a used car salesman pimping the “deal of the day.”
“I had this here entertainment center built custom to hold my new sixty-five-inch, big-screen TV,” Winky boasted. “And, a course, my entire NASCAR Big Gulp collection.”
I’d never seen so many plastic cups in one place, much less lined up on shelves like bowling trophies.
“I got ‘em all, ‘ceptin’ Dale Earnhardt.”
“Impressive,” I offe
red.
Winky nodded and motioned toward a half-dozen easy-chairs clad in brown corduroy.
“Each a these babies is decked out with cup-holders, massage action, and built-in TV trays,” Winky gushed. “This here’s my home theater. Ain’t she somethin’?”
“She’s something, all right,” Laverne said.
“Y’all just grab a seat and relax,” Winky said and picked up a TV remote. “I think Duck Dynasty’s about to come on.”
My mouth was still hanging open when Goober nudged me from behind.
“Breathtaking, wouldn’t you say?” he whispered.
I turned and eyed my peanut-headed friend. “I’ll give Winky this. He certainly has left me at a loss for words.”
Chapter Six
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” Goober said. His eyes danced in the moonlight beneath a pair of caterpillar eyebrows. He’d trailed behind me as I’d escaped out the back door of Winky’s tin-can condo before Duck Dynasty came on and I was forced to watch the shenanigans of even more wealthy rednecks.
The wooden porch we stood on afforded a good view of the humongous back yard. A sprinkling of lightning bugs blinked flashes of reddish-yellow in the dusky sky, making me realize I hadn’t seen a firefly in ages.
Across the wide expanse of lawn, Jorge and Sherryl were talking to Winnie beside a folding table laden with food. A glance to the left made me smile. Winky had outfitted his little chunk of country paradise with a tiki hut just like mine. He’d also pimped his place with a massive outdoor grille, a fire pit, and, just as Laverne had said, a swimming pool. An above-ground one – with a fancy, redwood deck.
“No, I’m not jealous, Goober,” I answered. “I’m glad for Winky. I was just desperate for a breath of fresh air. His place has that new-car smell. I don’t need to be inhaling any more chemical fumes. I’ve got enough brain damage as it is.”
“Roger that,” Goober said. “I’d say from the looks of it, we all have.”
Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 3 Page 4