Val & Pals Boxed Set: Volumes 1,2 & the Prequel (Val & Pals Humorous Mystery Series)

by Margaret Lashley

  Yes. I’ll just sneak down there and hide so he can’t see me! If Dominik isn’t there, or if he’s with someone else, I’ll turn around and come back before he sees me. The hotel isn’t but two or three blocks away. I can do that. Yes. That could work. But wait! What if he’s actually there? Waiting for me. All by himself? What then?

  A fresh bolt of panic shot through me. The elevator walls closed in, trapping me like an animal in a cage. I forced myself to breathe slowly and deeply. Calm down, Val. You’re a grown woman. You can do this. What’s the worst that could happen?

  The elevator doors opened and Tina stepped in.

  “Have you heard the news, Val?”

  “No. What?”

  “There’s a psycho killer on the loose in Italy.”

  ***

  I snuck out of the lobby at precisely 7:25 p.m. I wanted to avoid having to make small talk or answer nosy questions from the other volunteers. They’d be coming down to the lobby for dinner any minute. Antonio was the only one to spot me making my clandestine getaway. He discreetly wagged one eyebrow at me as I slipped out the door.

  Tina’s news about the strangler had taken me off my game, if I ever had one to begin with. I glanced around wildly as I picked my way along the cobblestone street toward the tiny kiosk Dominik had pointed toward this morning. From a distance, its windows glowed like candlelight in the fading twilight. I wore my only outfit – the white capris and black sequined top. My sexy new bra dug into my sides and the underwear kept crawling up my butt. Still, with makeup and halfway decent hair, I felt presentable enough to ante up if the deal actually went down.

  I crept along in the shadows like a private detective in a cheap novella. I hadn’t spotted Dominik yet, but flop-sweat was already dampening my pits and palms. I wasn’t sure what I hoped for more – that Dominik would be there – or that he wouldn't show.

  I found a spot to hide behind a parked car and waited. At five minutes to eight, the dreamboat fisherman with the ripped abs strolled up to the kiosk. Alone. Dressed in a silky white shirt and tight jeans, he looked like a slick, dating-site Romeo as he leaned against a corner of the kiosk and lit a cigarette. I took a deep breath and forced myself out into the open.

  “Ciao bella,” Dominik said when he spotted me. His white-toothed smile seemed to glow in the dark.

  “Buona Sera,” I replied.

  Dominik took my hand and kissed it as he had earlier in the day. I could feel the electric warmth of his body as took my arm and drew me closer to him. Without a word, he led me toward the shoreline thirty feet away. He sat on a boulder and motioned for me to sit, too. When I chose the boulder next to his, he laughed softly.

  “You pretty woman,” he said, in his Tarzan way. He got up and sat next to me, so close that our thighs touched. He smiled again and pointed at the moon. “Bella, no?”

  I looked up at the glowing orb and felt Dominik’s soft, warm lips begin to nibble on my neck. My body went limp. Dominik took my chin in his strong, rough hand and gently turned my face toward his. Before I could say anything, his mouth was on mine. I couldn’t remember ever being kissed like that. It was fantastic. And terrifying. It was fantastically terrifying!

  “Um…are you thirsty?” I asked, interrupting Dominik’s second lip-lock attempt. I was in way-way over my head and needed to catch my breath.

  “Okay,” he replied.

  I detected a bit of disappointment in his tone, and it made me squirm with indecision.

  “Si. We take drink. You want?”

  I wanted, all right. That was the whole problem. I needed time to think. Or maybe I needed not to think at all. I jumped off the boulder like a frog off a hot stove. I grabbed Dominik’s strong, lean arm and tugged him off his perch.

  We strolled arm-in-arm to the kiosk. I watched the handsome, rugged fisherman as he stood at the counter and ordered two lemon cellos. He carried the drinks back to our tiny table for two under the open-air porch. Dominik set my drink in front of me and eyed me seductively. Then he held his own drink to his lips.

  “Salute,” he offered.

  “Salute.” I forced a fake smile of confidence.

  “Smoke?” Dominik set his drink down. He fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped on it. It was empty. “I go. Cigarettes, si?” He tilted his lovely head toward the kiosk.

  “Si,” I replied, and nodded cheerfully.

  I watched Dominik disappear inside the kiosk. As soon as his amazing ass was out of sight, my gut turned to jelly. I catapulted out of my chair and ran like a headless chicken all the way back to the Hotel Bella Vista. Damn you, Sunday school!

  I jerked open the door and flung myself inside.

  Antonio took one look at me, snickered, and bit his lip. He curled his index finger at me and I took a step toward him. The elegant hotel manager drew discrete circles in the air around his face, then pointed to the washroom. Italian hand signals were a language all their own. I didn’t know a single one. Clueless, I stumbled into the ladies’ room.

  One look in the mirror was all it took for me to nearly die of embarrassment. Between my sunburn, my smeared red lipstick and my smudged mascara, I looked like a circus clown after a psychotic meltdown. I locked the bathroom door and washed the whole tragic mess off my face. I watched the black goo swirl down the drain, along with my chance for a hot romance. I cleaned up the scene of the crime and slunk, red-faced, to the dining room to join the other volunteers for dinner.

  Chapter Six

  Finally, on Wednesday, a catastrophe occurred that didn’t involve me. Peter Axion, the gangly IRS accountant, went jogging early that morning and was hit by a motor scooter. He didn’t sustain any serious bodily damage, but the collision had been enough to knock whatever sense he’d had clean out of him.

  Between huge mouthfuls of buttered croissants, he’d shown off his bandaged knee to each of us as we arrived at the breakfast table. Once we were all assembled, he’d picked up a little maroon-colored journal and read aloud from it.

  “In Italy, one can never plan more than a day in advance, in fact, no more than an hour.”

  Peter paused and smiled at his own cleverness. He smacked his livery lips and continued.

  “One must always have a Plan B or C, or Plan A + (B-C/2). If one does not account for contingencies, one may end up at the Ospedale Italiano.”

  Peter was an odd duck, no doubt. But that morning I could actually relate to his advice. I finally gave up on Plan A – the hope of ever getting my suitcase of clothes. I devised a Plan B. It was time to go shopping.

  ***

  After class, I stopped at a boutique that had caught my eye as Frank and I walked by on our way back to the hotel. I was ready for new clothes, and to end Frank’s tiresome lecture on what he considered my impropriety in going on a trip with Friedrich. No wonder the man was single.

  I stared at the dresses in the shop’s display window. It was no secret that Italy was world-renowned for fashion. The village of Brindisi was no exception. Its main street was dotted with clothing shops. But I’d noticed something peculiar during my window shopping. The clothes and shoes displayed in the storefronts seemed to fall into two very distinct categories for two very distinct kinds of women.

  The first type of clothing was for the young, the beautiful, and the sexy; lacy lingerie, short skirts and fabulous shoes. The second kind was for the old, the dried-up and the dour. I’d seen the same dull head scarfs and shapeless shift dresses on several old ladies – usually as they leaned out of windows beating rugs like naughty children.

  Age-wise, I wasn’t sure if I qualified for stilettos or orthopedic shoes. But after last night’s fiasco with Dominik, I needed to choose a side and stick with it. I was in Italy, for crying out loud, and the guys here thought I was sexy, dammit. Now, I only needed to convince myself of it. I breathed in deep. You can do this, girl.

  I stepped inside the cute boutique. It wasn’t any bigger than a convenience store. With the help of a beautiful, enthusiast
ic sales woman about my age, I quickly settled on a short, sexy, coral-hued sundress. It featured a halter neckline and tied in the back with a smart little bow. I would have never dared to wear something like that in the States. But for what I had in mind here in Italy, it was perfect.

  “Bellissima, signora!” encouraged the saleswoman as I eyed myself in the mirror.

  A shot of happy-go-lucky confidence made my heart ping.

  “I guess I’m not dead yet. I’ll take it!”

  The saleswoman didn’t comprehend a word I’d said, but she understood attitude when she saw it. She shot me a thumbs up and the universal, “You go, girl!” face. Then she gave me a really sweet little round of applause. I felt like a million euros!

  After handing her my credit card, I had her snip the tag off my new dress. I wore it right out of the store – and straight into the beauty salon next door. After a few minutes of pantomiming and pointing at pictures in books, I managed to get my hair shampooed and styled just like I did back home. I looked at myself in the mirror.

  “How do I look?” I asked the fashionable, thirty-something stylist.

  She shrugged. “Okay.”

  I looked at her cute, carefree hairdo. It was fun and flirty, something between a pixie cut and a shag. Like all good hairdressers, she read my mind. She led me back to the shampoo chair to start again.

  ***

  On my way out of the salon, appreciative glances from two nice-looking men made me think dirty thoughts as I clicked down the sidewalk in my cute little dress and matching coral heels. New clothes. New hairdo. I was ready for action. Now if I could only garner enough courage to pull the trigger….

  It was fascinating and frustrating at the same time. Compared to Americans, Italian men were master flirts. To be fair, they probably couldn’t help themselves. Like good old Lipton tea, they’d been steeped in a culture of adoration since birth. From what I’d seen, they’d grown up surrounded by acceptance and amore. Expressing appreciation and admiration was the normal thing to do. The fact that Italian women were smoldering, natural beauties probably didn’t hurt matters, either.

  Though I was certainly no beauty pageant winner, at least in Italy I operated on a level playing field. Here, I didn’t have to compete with the scores of fake women like Val II. These airbrushed, Botox-injected, lipo-suctioned, breast-augmented, made-up fairytale women were practically worshiped in the States. Here, they were distained. Despite the fact that I’d already seen forty come and go in the rearview mirror, I couldn’t recall ever feeling as beautiful as I did the moment I stepped out of that salon.

  ***

  It’s amazing what a difference a great outfit and a new hairdo can make. When I got back to the Hotel Bella Vista, nobody in the WOW group even recognized me! I decided to make the most of it. I sat in a black leather chair and pretended to read a newspaper while I spied on the other volunteers.

  Berta marched across the lobby in her yellow pantsuit, her nose in a travel book. I snickered to myself as she disappeared out the door. Peter limped by on his bandaged knee, heading toward the pool. Frank and Val II appeared at the glass entry doors together. Frank went to the bar and ordered a beer. The Botox queen stepped inside the rickety elevator. I glanced over to the front desk and winked at Antonio. He’d been sneaking furtive glances at me the whole while.

  He wiggled his eyebrows at me seductively. All of a sudden, his face went limp. His eyebrows scrunched together and his mouth flew open.

  “Ahhh! Signora Val! Bella! Bellissima!” he practically shouted.

  I winked at him again and grinned.

  He winked back and ran the side of his thumb down his cheek. That was one hand signal that needed no interpretation. I wasn’t accustomed to receiving attention like that. I giggled like an idiot. Then I stood up and twirled around to show off my new outfit.

  “Fantanstico!” Antonio said. “And I have a good news. We have a located your other baggage.”

  Of course. Right after I bought new clothes, grumbled the old woman I thought I’d left in a box back home. Shut up, old Val!

  The new me thought the timing was pretty spot-on. The delay had been the catalyst for a wonderfully self-indulgent afternoon – something I’d done far too seldom in my past life. My past life. It felt good to think of it that way. Yes. Stay in the dad-burn box, old Val.

  “That’s wonderful, Antonio! Where is it?”

  “Oh, Signora, your bag is not here. It is at the aeroporto in Bari,” he said, as if I should have known. “Mi dispiache, but you must a go through the customs before they will release it.”

  “Why would they let one of my bags be delivered here without going through customs, but not the other one?”

  Antonio pursed his lips and shook his head softly. “Signora Val, it is best not to think about such a things.”

  “Okay, Antonio. You’re right. Call me a taxi, per favore.”

  ***

  In Italy, it was absolutely true that decent legs and a short dress could get a woman damn near anything she pleased. I climbed into the passenger seat next to the cabbie and asked him to step on it. He took a look at my gams and hit the pedal hard. I gritted my teeth into a makeshift smile and held on for dear life as we hurtled down the highway at 160 kilometers an hour the entire way to the airport.

  Horns honked and middle fingers jabbed at us from steamy car windows. That cab driver wove his way through traffic like a Turkish rug maker, putting Vittorio to shame. When he slammed on the brakes in front of the airport entrance, I jumped out of the cab in my coral halter dress and stilettos and raced up to the customs counter, my paperwork in my hot little hand.

  That’s when my wild ride came to a screeching halt. That same sullen-faced clerk from Saturday was at the window again. She frowned at my forms and pointed for me to take a seat against the wall. I could almost hear the brakes squealing. I walked over to the row of empty chairs, but I couldn’t sit down. The kamikaze ride there had pumped me full of adrenaline like a hound on a coon hunt.

  It must have been a slow day, or maybe I was being rewarded for following the Sunday-school rules last night with Dominik. I hadn’t been waiting more than a minute when that the sour-faced clerk wheeled out a blue suitcase with my green luggage tag on the handle.

  “Signora, this your baggage?”

  “Si, Signora. It is.”

  “Benvenuto a Italia.”

  “Gratzie.” Yes. Welcome to Italy, indeed.

  The cabbie’s face registered surprised relief as I scurried toward him, dragging my case. He threw my bag in the trunk and hustled me into the taxi as if the paparazzi were hot on our heels. Before I knew it, I was back at the hotel. The one-way trip that had taken an hour and a half when I’d arrived a week ago with Vittorio had been accomplished by this speed demon, round trip, in just under two. I wasn’t even late for dinner.

  I wheeled my precious suitcase into the dining room as if it contained the entire Jeff Foxworthy Golden Anniversary DVD collection. The other volunteers had told me they would throw a party to celebrate when my bags finally arrived. But they didn’t even offer up a toast with the free wine that came with our dinner.

  Oh well. Tutto va bene. It was all good. I had my luggage!

  ***

  After supper, I rolled my bag into the lobby and ran, quite literally, into Friedrich. I’d been looking back, admiring my long-lost suitcase, and had walked head-on into him. The German stopped and eyed me curiously.

  “Val? That is you, ja? I did not know you.”

  “Yeah, I got my hair done –”

  “You are all puffed up now! And your baggage arrived. Goot. Berry goot.”

  “Yeah. Now you won’t have to see me in my awful brown skirt ever again.”

  “It was not so bad. Let us take a drink together. To celebrate!”

  “Sure. Why not.”

  “Why not? You don’t want?”

  “Oh, no.” I tried to explain. “Why not means…oh, forget it. I mean, yes, I do want.” />
  Friedrich studied me curiously, like I was a lab rat with an interesting tumor.

  “Follow me.”

  He led me across the lobby to the coffee counter that, by night, transformed into a pretty decent-looking cocktail bar. The blue haze that emanated from the ceiling spotlights was almost invisible during the day, but at night it created a completely different, club-like atmosphere. Giuseppe, the breakfast waiter, was behind the bar dressed in his typical penguin suit. He raised a seductive eyebrow at me.

  “Buona sera, Giuseppe,” I said.

  Surprise registered on his face for a millisecond, then his stoic, professional veneer closed over his features again.

  “You look a very nice, Signora Val,” Giuseppe said without making eye contact.

  “Gratzie,” I giggled.

  Friedrich turned and spoke to Giuseppe in what sounded like perfect, beautiful Italian. Whatever the two men discussed, it seemed to involve a lot more words than required for a simple drink order. When their conversation ended, Friedrich glanced at me, then back to Giuseppe. We both watched as the waiter placed two small shot glasses on the counter and poured a foul-looking, brown liquid into them.

  “This is an Amaro, a digestive,” Friedrich explained. He handed me a glass. “Drink it slowly.”

  I held the glass to my nose and sniffed. It smelled like medicine. I took a sip. It tasted like Aunt Patsy’s homemade kerosene pickles. Yuck!

  “This must be an acquired taste.”

  “Yes, perhaps it is,” said Friedrich. “You don’t have to drink if you don’t want.”

  “Thanks.” I set the glass on the counter. “I’ll give it another try in a minute.”

  My comment seemed to amuse Friedrich. He smiled and patted a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. “Shall we go outside?”

  “Sure.”