Seven Daze: Redneck Rendezvous (A Val Fremden Mystery Book 7)

by Margaret Lashley

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Val. Did you leave your sunglasses at our place?”

  “Oh. Hi Winky. Yeah, I think I did.”

  “I got ‘em here at the donut shop if you want ‘em.”

  “Great. I’m on my way.”

  Chapter Nine

  I pulled into the parking lot at Caddy’s and smugly flashed the attendant my badge.

  “What’s that?” a voice asked from beneath an orange sun visor and a bulbous nose pasted white with zinc oxide.

  “I park for free,” I said.

  “Let me see that.”

  The young guy grabbed the wallet from my hand. “That’s nothing but a toy sheriff’s badge.”

  I swiped the wallet back. “Check with your boss. I’m a donut-shop VIP. It’s in the contract.”

  He took a step back to let me pass. “Okay, lady. If you’re that desperate to save five bucks, go ahead.”

  A snooty smirk crept across my lips. I slapped my wallet closed, rumbled Maggie’s dual glasspacks for good measure, and idled into a parking spot in the crushed-shell lot next to Winky’s red Camaro. The salty aroma of the Gulf of Mexico filled my nostrils, and between wisps of waving sea oats, the sun played on the gentle waves, making the water glisten like acres of diamonds.

  I shook my head softly, lost in admiration for my little spot of heaven on earth. Sugar-white sand. Turquoise water. Near permanent sunshine. Yeah, Sunset Beach had to be one of the most gorgeous places on the planet.

  A seagull cried out in the sky above. I looked up toward the cloudless blue sky. A white squirt of bird poop splattered my windshield, putting an exclamation point on the end of my daydream.

  “Figures.”

  I cut the ignition and checked my face in the rearview mirror. Not as bad as I’d expected. I wiped a smudge of mascara from beneath my left eye and climbed out of Maggie’s red bucket seat. I smoothed the wrinkles creasing the lap of my yellow gingham sundress and flounced by the man in the orange visor, my nose in the air.

  “I know the proprietors,” I said and nodded toward Winnie and Winky’s Bait & Donut Shop.

  My impudent eyes to the sky, I didn’t see the kid’s plastic shovel sticking out of the sand. My sandal caught the handle dead center like a stirrup. My foot hopelessly entangled, I fumbled around like a lame horse until I tripped, lost my balance, and stepped down hard on the cheap shovel. It snapped in half and launched me forward, arms out like Frankenstein. I landed in the sand on my hands and knees.

  Geeze! At least I didn’t eat a dirt sandwich.

  As I contemplated my good luck, it ran out. A gust of wind blew my dress up to my waist. I cringed crimson. I hadn’t done laundry in a while and was down to my “Sunday Survival Panties.”

  In other words, my bloomers were as holy as the head nun at a moth sanctuary.

  Between the thumping sounds in my eardrums, I caught pulses of hysterical laughter emanating from the direction of the lot attendant. I scrambled to my feet, dusted myself off, and didn’t look back.

  “HEY, VAL PAL!” I HEARD Winky bellow as I walked up to the little shack formerly known as Old Joe’s Bait and Tackle.

  I grinned.

  Leave it to Winky to get half a million bucks for a place that looks as if it were cobbled together from washed-up debris. One man’s trash was Winky’s treasure.

  “Good lord a mighty, woman!” Winky said, staring at my face. “Ain’t you heard of sunscreen?”

  I shrugged. I knew the red face I sported was only temporary. “It’ll pass,” I said. “How’s biz?”

  “Fair to middlin’.” He shrugged, then laughed. “All right. Purty darn good, to be honest. In fact, Winnie’s done had to go to Davie’s to pick up more donuts. We’re fresh out.”

  I frowned. “Dang. I was hoping to score one of her famous peanut-butter bombs.”

  Winky grinned. “I knowed you was comin’ Val.” He reached underneath the counter. “Here’s your sunglasses, and a bomb. Saved you the last one.”

  “You’re the best,” I said to both him and the donut. My mouth was already salivating.

  Winky watched proudly as I sunk my teeth into the donut and enjoyed the awesome combination of peanut butter, vanilla custard and bacon. I stopped mid-chew.

  “What’s up with your teeth?” I mumbled.

  Winky grinned and puffed out his barrel chest. “Noticed, eh? I done got me a partial.”

  He reached a freckled hand into his mouth and pulled out a pink-plastic and metal doohickey with a fake molar on either end. He held it up to the sunlight for me to examine as if it were the Crown Jewels of Redeckingham.

  My mouthful of donut lost its flavor. “That’s nice,” I muttered. “You can put it back, now.”

  Winky popped his dentures back in his mouth and smiled. “They look all natural-like, don’t ya think?”

  “Sure do.” I grabbed my sunglasses. “Thanks for the donut.”

  “Any time, Val pal.”

  “And thanks for bringing my sunglasses over here to the beach. That was really sweet of you.”

  “T’wern’t nothin’.”

  I turned to leave, then a thought spun me back around. “Oh. Winky, I looked up your place online. Shell Hammock? It looks really nice.”

  “Don’t it, though?” Winky scratched his belly proudly. “Oh! That reminds, me. This here’s for you.” He reached under the counter again and pulled out a key.

  “What’s this?”

  “Why, it’s the key to my place at Shell Hammock, a’course. I made a set fer ever’body. You and Tom is welcome to go for a visit any old time you feel like it.”

  I stared at the key, stunned at Winky’s generosity. “Geeze. Thanks.” He dropped the key into my open hand. “By the way, tell Winnie I’m sorry I missed her.”

  “Will do.”

  I glanced around at the shack again, a tad more impressed. Winky fit this ramshackle old place like a hotdog fit a bun. Anyone else would have dozed the thing. But he was the perfect proprietor for it. In fact, he looked born to play that exact role.

  “I just wanted to say, Winky, you’ve got a really cool place here. I’m happy for you.”

  Winky’s freckled face went slack. “Shucks, Val. Compared to J.D.’s place, this ain’t nothin’ but a hole in the wall.”

  My lips twisted sideways. “J.D.’s place? Where is it, anyway?”

  “Right yonder.” Winky pointed a finger at some sand dunes. Beyond them sat a boxy, un-beachy, totally out-of-place McMansion the color of pumpkin puke.

  “That’s J.D.’s place?” I said, aghast. “How did I not know that?”

  “J.D.’s a modest little feller,” Winky said. “He don’t go ‘round braggin’.”

  I studied Winky and smiled. Besides some badly needed clothing, shelter and teeth, his new-found fortune hadn’t changed him one bit. Thank goodness for that.

  Winky swung a swatter and ended the short life of a fly crawling across the counter. “You know, Val, we business-man types don’t go in fer garish displays a wealth.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “We wouldn’t want that.”

  EVEN AT FIFTEEN MILES an hour, the drive home was passing too quickly. I turned up the radio volume to ‘deafen’ and cruised down Gulf Boulevard slow enough to make the guy’s face behind me turn as red as a baboon’s behind. I eased off the gas and watched a sunburned tourist hobble down the molten sidewalk in ill-fitting, cheap flip-flops.

  Even as paradise loomed all around me, my gut clenched with doom at what awaited me at home.

  A blank computer screen.

  WHEN I FINALLY PULLED up to my house, Laverne was in her front yard, talking to a bubbly washtub full of garden gnomes. I shook my head. That old woman really had a thing for short, German men. I parked and walked over under the pretenses of investigating for potential story inspiration. I tried to convince myself I wasn’t stalling, but by now, even I was no longer buying my own bull. Anything seemed more compelling than writing. If Laverne had been ou
t there clipping her toenails, I’d have still gone over.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “These little guys needed a bath,” Laverne said. She wiped sweat from her brow with a kerchief. “I love my little nomads.”

  “Gnomes.”

  “Sure. They all have names. This one’s Jed.” Laverne held up a fat little figure with a red stocking cap and a shovel over one shoulder.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Huh?” Laverne cocked her horsey head like a curious puppy. “How’s the writin –”

  “Don’t ask,” I blurted angrily.

  Laverne shrunk back a bit.

  “Sorry. It’s going slower than I’d hoped.”

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that.” Laverne scrubbed Jed’s face with a brush. “Maybe you need to clean the dust out of your eyes.” Laverne held up Jed for my inspection. His expression looked surprisingly crazed.

  I recoiled slightly. “What do you mean?”

  “Get yourself a fresh perspective, honey. Hey, why don’t you go on that writer’s retreat you’ve been talking about?”

  “I’m not made of money – like J.D.,” I grumbled. “I just saw his place on the beach.”

  Laverne studied me with her bulgy pug eyes. Her left eyebrow angled upward. “Ugly as homemade sin, am I right?”

  My own eyebrows crept up slightly. “Uh...yeah.”

  Laverne grinned and dunked Jed underwater and held him there like a wanton serial killer. “Our places are so much nicer, don’t you think?”

  I looked at her house, then mine. The knot in my stomach eased. “You’re right, Laverne. Our places have character. You know, now that I’m thinking about it, even Winky’s trailer has more soul than J.D.’s slapped-together box on the beach.”

  Laverne exposed her full set of dentures to the midday sun. “There you go.’” She pulled Jed from the water. I sucked in a sympathetic breath.

  “Laverne, did you know Winky has another place? A little trailer-cabin thing in the woods. He just gave me the key and said I could go any time.”

  “Well, there you have it!” Laverne said, and set Jed in the grass to dry. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Huh?”

  “There’s your writer’s retreat, Val.”

  My jaw went slack. “Oh my word. You’re right, Laverne. Thanks for the idea.”

  “My pleasure, honey.” Laverne fished around in the tub, grabbed a gnome pushing a wheelbarrow, and began to briskly scrub his butt.

  I STARED AT MY COMPUTER screen. My wrist was red and my jelly-bean jar was half empty. Apparently, inspiration only came when it darn well felt like it.

  “Screw it,” I muttered and reached for my phone.

  I called Winky and booked his place at Shell Hammock. Then I started packing my bags. I was almost done when Tom came through the front door.

  “Val? You home?” he called out.

  I padded down the hall to meet him. “I’m here. But not for long.”

  Tom kissed me before the second half of my greeting registered. He looked at me sideways. “Not long? What are you talking about?”

  I blew out a breath. “I’m frustrated, Tom. For some reason, I’m just not able to write at home. There are too many... distractions.”

  “You mean like me?”

  My mouth twisted to one side. “I wish I could blame it on you. But you’re not even home while I should be writing.”

  Tom’s brow furrowed. “Then what is it?”

  I thought about telling Tom about the evil pickles in the fridge. Or the jelly beans that kept jumping into my mouth. But I really saw no point in giving him any more reasons to question my sanity.

  “I need a change of scenery. For inspiration.”

  “You mean that writer’s retreat thing?”

  “No. Something better. Come here. I’ll show you.”

  I led Tom into my office and googled Shell Hammock. “Winky has a place here. He said we can go anytime.”

  “Wow. This place looks great,” Tom said as I flipped through the pictures. I could tell he was impressed, especially when he saw the sign for the blueberry pancake breakfast. “But how will it be any different from being here?”

  “I dunno,” I whined. “Maybe it’ll make me feel like a real writer. And if I’m going to take a writer’s retreat, I need to do it now.”

  “Why?”

  “I had lunch with Milly today. She said our puppy will be ready to come home in two weeks. So if I’m gonna do this, now’s the time.”

  “What about your writing class?” Tom asked.

  “I can get the notes from Judy.” I sounded like a kid whining for a new bicycle. “I’ve got this week’s assignment done. Actually, I’ve got six unusual ways to kill someone. And I peeked ahead at next assignment. It’s to tail someone. And I’m already working on that, too, sort of....”

  Tom’s left eyebrow arched. “Really? You’ve been tailing someone?”

  I smirked. “It’s not you.”

  “Oh. Too bad.” Tom pulled me to him. “How about I tail you?”

  I shook my head. “You really do need to work on your jokes.”

  “Who’s joking?” Tom whispered, and nibbled my neck. “Tell me. Does this ‘tailing’ involve undercover work?”

  A rush of desire swept through me. I wrapped my arms around Tom and whispered, “I certainly hope so.”

  Chapter Ten

  As I watched Tom’s SUV disappear down the drive, my body actually quivered with excitement. Soon, I’d be heading out on my very first writer’s retreat! I wasn’t merely some middle-aged woman escaping to a trailer park in the woods. I was Valiant Stranger – private detective, budding novelist, and...undercover spy. Oh, yeah! And I was on special assignment to infiltrate a gang of unsuspecting, lake-loving country folks....

  Bring it on!

  I crammed a pair of binoculars in my duffle bag along with my laptop. My body quivered again.

  Wow! I have a whole week ahead of me. Seven days to hone my detective skills, do as I darn well please, and, hopefully, peck out a short story worth sharing with old lady Langsbury’s writing class next week.

  I drained my cappuccino cup and headed for the shower.

  After a leisurely breakfast of two blueberry Pop-Tarts and a quick peek on the internet at the latest spy gadgets, I slung my suitcase and duffle bag into Maggie’s trunk and slammed it shut. All I had left to do was lock the front door and leave. I grabbed my purse off the driver’s seat and rifled through it for my keys. In the process, I pulled out a lipstick, hand lotion and a pack of corn nuts I’d lifted from Winky’s the other night.

  No keys.

  Geeze! I just had them! I yanked out a bunch of papers clogging up my purse. They were the envelopes I’d fished out of the trash in front of the post office yesterday.

  Oh yeah...

  “Making your getaway, I see!” Laverne’s voice rang out.

  I jerked my head to the left. The faded Vegas showgirl was making a beeline for me across the lawn. In her hand was a plastic container.

  “I brought you some snacks for your trip!” she beamed. “The last of the snickerdoodles!”

  “Oh. Wow. You shouldn’t have,” I said. I forced a smile and crammed the envelopes back in my purse. “Thanks, Laverne. But I’ve really got to get going if I want to miss the rush hour traffic.”

  Laverne handed me the container of cookies. “So, what are you waiting for?”

  A glint of something shiny made me look down. Laverne was wearing gold high heels. Really? On a random Tuesday morning? For walking across a lawn? “Uh...I can’t find my keys.”

  Laverne cocked her horsey head and pointed a red lacquered fingernail toward Maggie’s rear end. “They’re hanging in the trunk lock, honey.”

  Heat thrummed my cheeks. “Oh. Thanks.”

  I hung my head, did “the walk of shame” to the trunk and yanked the keys from the lock.

  “Have a good trip,” Laverne offered as I slid my
butt into the seat.

  “Thanks,” I muttered, and forced a smile.

  As I pulled out and waved goodbye to Laverne, I felt the rest of my confidence fall away like a dead bug on the windshield. It tumbled into the gutter along the side of the road.

  Geeze. What kind of detective am I? Already done in by my own ineptitude...

  I glanced at the plastic container of cookies in the passenger seat.

  ...and I can’t even outrun an old lady in stilettos armed with malicious baked goods.

  I ADJUSTED THE REARVIEW mirror and tried again to smile. I was making good time crossing the Howard Frankland Bridge. At least I had that going for me. Interstate 275 was the main artery connecting St. Petersburg to Tampa, and was notorious for major traffic snarls. But by leaving at 10:00 a.m., I’d timed it just right. Morning rush-hour was winding down and the lunch rush had yet to begin.

  The wind had whipped up whitecaps on the open expanse of Tampa Bay. But the breeze wasn’t refreshing – not even at seventy miles an hour with the top down. June was nipping at our heels. And with it came the long, steamy, dog-days of summer. The air, as hot and wet and unappealing as a hassling hound’s breath, was here to stay for a good long while.

  I sighed and resigned myself to it. For the next five months, I’d have to grin and bear the claustrophobic feeling of sunscreen slathered all over my skin, and the tickling annoyance of sweat perpetually trickling down my back.

  Fabulous.

  As I crossed the high point in the middle of the Howard Frankland Bridge, I pulled off my sunhat and let my hair blow wild and free. The wind seemed to loosen some of my doubts as well, and I allowed myself to smile.

  THE GREY, SPIKEY BUILDINGS of downtown Tampa faded in the hot haze as I pulled onto I-4 and headed east. If I stayed on I-4 long enough, I’d end up at Disney World. When I was a kid, I remembered the land between Tampa and Orlando had been blanketed with mile after mile of citrus groves. At blossom time, their sweet, honey-like fragrance would waft through the air for miles. But as I buzzed by the same stretch of land today, the orange trees were nowhere to be found. They’d been replaced by truck stops, RV dealerships and other assorted industrial blights.