“The newspaper article said that one person was named as sole heir. Thelma G. Goldrich.”
“What’s the “G” stand for?”
“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Ah,” Tom said. He nodded and turned toward me with a wry smile on his lips. “I’ll see what I can do. You going to Tony’s ceremony tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you there, then.”
As we approached Caddy’s, I saw Jorge at a picnic table drinking beer and talking to himself. As we got closer, I realized that he was actually conversing with a couple of brown lizards. They’re the descendants of stowaways that arrived from Cuba decades ago without their papers. These little guys quickly made themselves at home and now counted in their millions from Tampa southward – just another subset of Florida’s burgeoning transplant population. The little lizards looked like miniature dinosaurs as they perched on the table, licking precious moisture from a forgotten chunk of watermelon.
“Hey Jorge,” I said.
He looked up from the lizards and smiled. “Nature!”
“I think I’ll have a beer with my buddy,” said Tom, secreting me a sympathetic glance. “Care to join us?”
“No thanks. I’ve got work to do. Shoeboxes and all. What time is the ceremony tomorrow for Tony?”
“Shix aclack,” said Jorge, supporting his drunken head with one hand.
“Okay, then. You guys have fun.” I mouthed the words, “thank you,” to Tom. He just smiled at me and shrugged.
“See you tomorrow,” he said.
***
I stepped out of the shower and slathered some coconut oil moisturizer on my sunburned shoulders. Without a minimum of SPF 25 sunscreen, the sun’s intense rays had turned my olive tan to ripe pink in under an hour. I grabbed the last beer out of the fridge, then cut apart each of the circles of opaque plastic that had held the six cans together. I read somewhere that those things floated, and could loop around the necks of birds and turtles, choking them to death. More bad karma was something I didn’t want or need. I tossed the cut-up plastic in the recycling bin.
It was time to get to work. I flopped on the couch and peeled back the tape on the second shoebox labeled 1974 to 1985. It was empty. Weird. Why was the stuff for those years missing? With no answers at hand, I turned my attention to the box Jorge had been looking through in the bedroom at Tony’s place. It was labeled 1986 to 2009.
The first thing under 1986 was a dried-up pink rose taped together with some brown, crumbly baby’s breath. In better days, it had been either a corsage or a boutonniere. Next was a photo of an older, happy Glad in a long, pastel, Hawaiian-print dress. Tony stood next to her, looking proud in white pants and a Hawaiian shirt that matched Glad’s dress. Both were barefoot, standing in sand at a beach. Then I noticed a pink rose in Glad’s hair. This had obviously been a special occasion for them. A wedding, perhaps? Or maybe someone else’s? The back read simply, October 7, 1989.
The rest of the box was full of vacation mementos and photos. Snapshots of Tony and Glad together, looking happy somewhere in the Southwest. One on a ferry. One in front of a giant redwood tree. The photos of them in Hawaii in 1998 that Jorge had spoken about. The little yellow and blue drink umbrellas. A Route 66 refrigerator magnet. A cruise ship luggage tag. A paper napkin from a restaurant in Oregon.
Strangely, not a single picture had anyone else in it besides Glad and Tony. Didn’t they have any friends or relatives? Or did they keep their relationship a secret from everyone? Maybe it was just a coincidence, and these were just normal “couples” pictures. They were mostly travel photos, after all.
I was putting the photographs back in the shoebox when a green glint from the bottom of the box caught my eye. I turned the box over and a little piece of jewelry about a half inch long fell into my hand. It was a silver oval about the size and shape of a pinkie nail. Tiny green stones dotted the entire front surface of the oval. From the rough edge I could tell it must have broken off a larger piece. A brooch or a necklace charm, perhaps. One thing for sure, though. If it was in this box, it must have meant something important to Glad. Why else would she have held on to it? Or could it have been just another travel memento?
The phone rang. It was Tom. “Hey Val. Any luck with the marriage certificate?”
“No. Just the one for Bobby. But I think there’s plenty of evidence to show that Glad and Tony had been together for more than seven years. Probably since the late 1980s.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“Photos, mostly. One even looks like it could be an informal wedding. On a beach in 1989.”
“Interesting. It’ll take a few days to check public marriage records. In the meantime, I ran the name Thelma G. Goldrich through the DMV database.”
“Yeah? And?”
“I got three hits.”
“Any in Kentucky?”
“No.”
“Any born between 1963 and 1965?”
“Yes. All three, actually. But Val, we don’t even know if this Thelma person named in the will is Glad’s child. Tony could have left his estate to anyone. It’s more likely Thelma G. Goldrich is a niece or a cousin of Tony’s, not their long lost love child.”
“Crap. You’re right,” I said, deflated. “I really hadn’t considered that. I guess I was just hoping that it could be that simple.”
“If it was, don’t you think Glad and Tony would have found her themselves?”
“Maybe they did. Maybe…. Hey! You said her!”
“What?”
“You said they would have found her themselves.”
“Yeah. I guess I did.”
“Does that mean you think their child is a girl?”
“One better. It means my gut is telling me she is. See? There I go again. She.”
“I hope you’re right, Tom. I’d like their child to be a girl. A woman just like Glad. The world could use more people like her.”
“I didn’t know Glad myself, Val. But if you vouch for her, that’s good enough for me. See you tomorrow, then?”
“Yes, tomorrow. Goodnight Tom.”
“Goodnight Val.”
I hung up the phone and drifted off to sleep on the couch, the gentle whisper of Tom’s “Goodnight Val,” tickling my ear and making my lips curl upward.
Chapter Fourteen
Garbage man Tony’s memorial was being held at Caddy’s in the afternoon, and I didn’t want to drive out to Sunset Beach twice. Shabby Maggie sucked down the juice like a remorseful bride – about 12 miles to a gallon – on a good day, going downhill. So I decided to trade a beach stroll for my alternate walking route, the downtown waterfront. I stepped outside at 6 a.m. sharp. The air was already as wet and stale as a day-old puddle of beer. Not a flicker of a breeze. The moist air clung to my body thick and soggy, like a wet hamburger bun.
I resigned myself to becoming drenched in sweat and power-walked along the sidewalk skirting Beach Drive. At Seventh Avenue I crossed the street by the Episcopal Church and headed east toward Tampa Bay. Immediately, my nose was assaulted by the smell of shit from the dog park, still a full city block away. It hung in the air like a portent of some giant pile of crap to come.
When I reached the waterfront and saw the sky over the bay, I knew this sunrise was going to be something special. An inverted pyramid of creamy white shone like a searchlight from the water’s horizon line. Reaching heavenward, the off-white cone widened to encompass half the sky before it dissipated into the misty blue of the stratosphere. A zigzag of blue-grey clouds flanked the right side of the conical beam of light, stair-stepping upward like seats in a theater. And in the center, rectangular clouds of differing heights formed skyscrapers in a mock cityscape backdrop. The overall visual effect was one of a city rising from beneath a spotlight under the sea. Amazing! As I walked along the open water, the sun began to rise behind the blue-grey cloud-buildings, backlighting them with a molten orange crust of fire. My mood lifted, as i
f a fantastic stage was being set for a fabulous day to come.
I stopped and drank in the view for a moment. Then I said goodbye to the fantasy city mirage and rounded the bend at Coffee Pot Bayou. I stretched my legs on a park bench by Eighteenth Avenue, my halfway mark. As I did, a brown pelican glided past, mere inches from the water, suspended by some unknown anti-gravitational force. I smiled again and turned toward the direction of my apartment, my thoughts on a double-espresso cappuccino.
***
I guess like every other material thing in this world, legal documents weren’t all that important to Glad. After looking through her treasured mementos, I had precious little to connect her with anyone but Bobby and Tony. I still wasn’t even sure of her last name. Was it her maiden name, Kinsey? Her married name, Munch? Or had she married Tony Goldrich and taken his name? I looked at my notes. Besides Thelma G. Goldrich, I had only two other names to work with: Mrs. D. B. Meyers of Tallahassee and Mrs. Harold Earl Wannabaker of Hawesville, KY. Actually, there was a third, if I counted Wallace Jonson who sold Glad the RV.
I had to give Glad’s boxes back today, and for some reason, the thought made my heart hurt. I flopped onto my crappy couch and took a final glance through the photos in the shoeboxes. I made a mental picture of Glad in her Easter dress. Glad in a bikini next to her RV. Glad with a rose in her hair standing next to Tony at the beach.
I couldn’t bear to look at the photo of Glad holding her baby again, so I didn’t. I wanted to remember her happy, like she was when I had known her. I put the photos back in their proper places and started to tape the boxes shut, but my apartment got all blurry and my heart began to ache like a sore tooth.
Sorting through Glad’s lifetime of memories hit me hard. Harder even than her farewell service had. These stolen glimpses into her life had become a very private affair between me and Glad. I lined up the boxes beside me on the couch. They looked like three little coffins. Suddenly it hit me. Coffins! The contents of these boxes weren’t merely a straightforward chronological measure of years. No. Like me, Glad had segmented her time on this Earth into separate and distinct lives.
Box one, lifetime one, spanned from 1945 to 1974. From her birth until she left Bobby. Box two, lifetime two, was a mystery that stretched from 1974 to 1986. She’d bought the Minnie Winnie in ’74 and, as far as I could tell, she’d lived the simple, quiet life of a beach bum. Box three, lifetime three, began when she hooked up with Tony again, and lasted until the day she died. A little coffin for each of her three lives.
Should there be a fourth one for her child?
The thought caused grief to grab me hard by the throat. I leaned over and hugged the shoeboxes to me. Huge, hot tears leapt from my eyes, hitting the boxes with hollow, drum-like thuds. This was the last time I would ever be this close to Glad. And it hurt like hell to know it.
***
I’d promised the stooges I would meet them at Caddy’s an hour before Tony’s ceremony. My eyes were still puffy and I was in no mood for socializing. But I didn’t have much choice. I had to hand over Glad’s boxes to Tom. I glanced down at them in the seat next to me. I’d put them in a pretty gift bag covered with images of daisies. No garbage bag for my precious Glad.
I hit the gas and Maggie tooled west along First Avenue North toward the beach. Along the way, I watched the eclectic parade of modest 1920s and ’30s wooden, front-porched houses and stucco Spanish revivals file past. Over the years, some had been converted to offices for lawyers, accountants and ad agencies. Most, though, were still private residences made urban by St. Pete’s rapid growth spurts. As I drove the seven miles from downtown to the beach, the economic-based facade of the structures slipped from posh to poor, then back to posh again.
Crossing the bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway put an end to the historic architecture tour. I didn’t mind. The sparkling water lightened my mood and I blew out a calming sigh. By the time I passed Treasure Island’s kitschy pirate mascot and his booty chest full of oranges, I was feeling good enough to force a smile again.
Decked out in a new white sundress that accentuated my slim hips and bosom, I had pulled out most of the stops to look my best today. I told myself it was out of respect for Tony, but I knew that was a lie. I pulled into the parking lot at Caddy’s and cut Maggie’s engine. Tom would be here to take the boxes, and I had to admit to myself that I’d glammed up for him. God help me, I was actually wearing foundation makeup! I hoped Tom would get here before my mascara melted. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Too late.
“It’s Val Pal!” shouted beer-bellied Winky from his perch on a bar stool adjacent to the porch railing that framed Caddy’s beach bar. Winky was also decked out in his finest – the same blue button-up shirt he’d worn at Glad’s service, but with shorts this time. He raised his beer can in my direction and belted out an ear-piercing wolf whistle. “Nice gams, Val!”
“Nice shirt, Winky,” I replied.
“What, this old thing?” Winky grinned, looked down and tugged on the front of his shirt with his free hand. His inattention caused him to slosh beer down the side of his shorts.
“Where’s cool and the gang?” I asked.
“Huh?” Winky swatted at the wet spot on his shorts, as if that would make it go away.
“Goober and Jorge.”
“Oh. In the john. But Tom’s right behind you.”
A shiver ran up my spine. I turned around and smiled and the blond cop. “Hey Tom.”
“Hi Val.”
Tom was dressed in a blue button-down shirt, too, but beyond that, the two men bore no resemblance whatsoever. For starters, Tom’s shirt was ironed. In St. Pete, a handsome man in an ironed shirt was almost as rare a sighting as the mythical skunk ape. I swooned a little.
“I’ve got the boxes in the car,” I fumbled.
“Okay. Should we make the transfer now?” Tom asked, shooting me a devilishly crooked smile.
“Sure. I just want to step into the ladies’ room for a minute.”
“What boxes y’all talkin’ about?” Winky hollered, already halfway to drunk town.
“Official business,” Tom said, saving me from having to come up with a lie.
Winky looked us up and down suspiciously. “Looks purty official to me.”
Tom turned back to face me and raised his eyebrows an inch. I shrugged and headed toward the restrooms. The two oval mirrors that hung in the ladies’ room at Caddy’s weren’t into telling nice lies. Just my luck. My mascara had morphed into black, under-eye crescents reminiscent of an NFL quarterback’s. I cringed at the thought of Tom seeing me that way.
“Shit!” I said, and reached for a paper towel.
“Watch your mouth!” said a woman in the handicapped stall.
“Sorry,” I replied.
The door to the stall flew opened as if it had been kicked by a mule. A short woman as round as a bowling ball waddled out. She studied me for a brief second and said, “Yep, I’d say that about sums it up.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, dabbing at my eyes and catching glimpses of her reflection in the mirror. The woman had the round head and jowly scowl of a bulldog. Her almost white hair was secured in a ponytail pulled so tight to her scalp that at first glance she appeared bald. Her long, albino locks continued to her waist, pinched tight in short sections, making the three-foot-long ponytail resemble a string of white sausages hanging over a fat, rounded shoulder.
“Sorry. Yep, I’d say that sums up what you are.” The woman said her piece and sneered back at my reflection, her beady eyes full of menace.
Caught off guard, my mind raced to understand. In the South, the term “sorry” was so derogatory it was almost always followed by the word, “ass.” To be called “sorry” was to be labeled as being worthless. Surely that wasn’t what I had just heard from this strange woman.
“I don’t understand,” I said, “I….”
“Yeah, women like you never do,” she spat. She turned her nose up like she smelled a fart. “You�
�re Tony’s girlfriend, aren’t you.”
It wasn’t a question.
“What?”
“I know your kind, tramp. Always lookin’ for a man to latch on to. Well, you can forget it. You ain’t gettin’ a dime of Tony’s money.”
The woman had put her fat foot on my last nerve. “I’m not after Tony’s money. And you’d better not be either, bitch,” I said. I threw my mascara-stained paper towel in the waste bin and stormed out the door. The bowling ball bitch waddled after me.
“I won’t be havin’ a whore like you insult me!” she screeched.
I whipped around on my heels and was startled to see her red, bulldog face just inches from my own. “Who the hell do you think you are?” I asked.
“I’m Tony’s wife,” were the last words I heard before her fist smashed into my face, and I felt myself falling to the floor. I’d been knocked out cold.
***
When I regained consciousness I found myself on the restaurant’s concrete floor. Tom was on the floor with me, his back leaning up against a wall. He held my head up, and I was sprawled against his chest. His legs straddled mine as he staunched my bloody nose with a handkerchief. I’d been fantasizing about the first time in his arms. This scenario wasn’t exactly as I’d pictured it.
“Wad happened?” I asked, wriggling and trying to look up at Tom’s face.
“Seems the jealous wife turned up,” he said. He dabbed tenderly at my throbbing nose with the handkerchief. “Be still for a minute. You okay?”
The hair on the top of my head stood up. “His wife? The paper sed his wife wad dead.”
“Newspapers have been known to be inaccurate. Besides, they may have meant Glad.”
I tried to sit up a bit more. The movement made my nose pulse with pain.
“Be still!” Tom commanded again, then softened his voice. “Try to think of something else right now. Like maybe yourself?”
I grabbed the handkerchief from Tom’s hand. “I’m fine. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that horrible woman get her hands on Glad’s money. It just wouldn’t be right!”
Val & Pals Boxed Set: Volumes 1,2 & the Prequel (Val & Pals Humorous Mystery Series) Page 35