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

by Margaret Lashley

  Tom laughed. “You’re a feisty one! Why do you care?”

  I stopped being angry for a second and cocked my head. “I don’t know. I…I just do!”

  “Okay, fair enough. Can you stand up?”

  “I think so.”

  Tom put his hands on my waist and hoisted me to my feet. My new sundress looked like a bloody butcher’s apron. So much for my attempt at beachside glamour. I looked around and noticed the stooges sitting at a table six feet away, watching the scene intently from their front-row seats.

  “There she is, back on her feet!” said Goober, taking off his sunglasses and putting up his dukes. “Ready for round two?”

  “Val, you look like one a them there zombie brides on TV,” said Winky, shaking his head.

  Jorge shoved an elbow in Winky’s ribs. “She’s beautiful. She’s always beautiful.” He smiled at me quickly then looked down at his beer.

  “Well, compared to that other one, sure,” said Winky. “That old woman’s uglier ‘n’ a box a chicken turds.”

  I laughed in spite of myself, causing my nose to explode with fresh pain. I winced and hobbled over to join the ranks of the stooges. I grabbed a handful of paper towels from a roll on the table and handed Tom back his gooey red hanky. He took it without so much as a flinch.

  “So, where did Godzilla go?” I asked, looking around.

  “One of my guys is questioning her now,” said Tom, pointing a finger at the parking lot. “I figured it would be better if I stayed out of it.”

  I nodded and looked over at the car lot. Bulldog Woman was shaking her fat finger in a black cop’s face. The cop had his hand on his thigh. Probably where he kept his pepper spray. I secretly hoped he found grounds to hose her with it.

  “Lookit that idjit,” said Winky. “Shit, I think Tony woulda married me before he got hitched to that ol’ buffalo bag.”

  “So is she really Tony’s wife?” I asked, looking over at Tom.

  “Who knows at this point,” Tom answered. “And I’ve got some more news that doesn’t look good for the home team.”

  “What?”

  Tom reached in his breast pocket and pulled out a small notebook. He thumbed through it. “We ran Glad’s name through public marriage records and got a hit. Actually, we got two hits. Glad was married to Tony Goldrich in 1989. But before that, she was married to a guy named Bobby Munch.”

  “Yeah, we knew that,” I said, daubing my nose. No blood. Good.

  “I didn’t know it!” Winky yelled. His eyes darted suspiciously at the four of us.

  “The problem is,” Tom continued, “there’s no record of the Munch’s ever getting a divorce. So legally, Glad’s marriage to Tony isn’t valid.”

  “Crap!” I said.

  “Unless Bobby died before she married Tony,” interjected Jorge. Surprised, we all turned to face the shy Hispanic as if he were a talking cat.

  “Right! Exactly, partner!” said Tom, beaming at his old friend. “But here’s the thing, Bobby Munch was convicted of felony assault in 1975. While he was in there, the church he’d been working with added embezzlement to his charges. All together he did twelve years in Apalachicola Correctional Institution. He got out in 1987 and disappeared. He hasn’t been heard from since.”

  “So unless we can prove Glad divorced Bobby or he died before she married Tony, that bulldog bitch over there might get her paws on Tony’s estate?” asked Goober.

  “I’ve seen stranger, more unjust things happen,” said Tom.

  Goober whistled and shook his brown peanut head.

  “But none of that matters if we find Tony’s heir,” I said, touching my swollen nose tentatively. “The one in his will. Thelma G. Goldrich.”

  “That’s the other fly in this ointment,” said Tom.

  “What do you mean?”

  Tom hitched a thumb in the direction of the parking lot where Bulldog Woman was still arguing with the cop. “That woman over there with the mean right hook…her name is Thelma G. Goldrich.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  How could a day that had started out so well turn to shit so quickly? I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My nose looked like an overripe peach. My front right tooth was loose, but still hanging in there. Thankfully, my lip wasn’t busted. Count your blessings. That’s what Glad would say. God, I wish she was here to tell me what to do next!

  I was back at my apartment. I’d missed Tony’s memorial service. I figured I was more of a sideshow than a help with my big fat nose and bloody dress. But more than that, I couldn’t bear the sight of that smirking Bulldog Woman’s face for another second. After the cops were done with her, she’d made a beeline right toward me. Goober and Jorge had kept her at bay long enough for Tom to walk me out to my car so I could make my escape. Following Tom’s advice, I had decided not to press charges…for now. Maybe she’d wanted to thank me. But from the evil, self-satisfied grin on her face, I doubted it.

  I was alone again, without even so much as Glad’s boxes to keep me company. When I’d handed them over to Tom, my heart had begun to throb worse than my nose. Tom wanted to drive me home but I’d insisted on going alone. To tell the truth, at that moment I’d felt ready to burst into a million pieces. A torrent of emotions swirled in me like a tropical storm. Sadness. Anger. Embarrassment. Fear. I wasn’t sure which would get me first, but I knew a good cry was coming down on me like a bad case of swine flu. I managed to make it home and inside the door of my apartment before the flood hit. Then I just let the dam burst. I fell face-first onto my ratty old couch and cried until I passed out.

  ***

  In its wake, the crying jag left me completely drained. Busted nose. Broken dreams. Ruined dress bought with money I couldn’t afford to waste. Worst of all, I’d been made a fool of in front of just about everybody who meant a damn to me. And I could count those people on one hand. I was examining my broken face and wiping my eyes for the three-hundredth time when my phone buzzed. It was Tom. I debated whether to answer. Then I figured, what the hell. Time wasn’t going to heal this wound anytime soon.

  “Hi Tom.”

  “Hey, Victory Val.”

  “Ha ha,” I said, unamused.

  “You made it home okay, I see.”

  “Yes. You should have seen the looks I got. A woman in a convertible wearing a bloody white dress. Some idiot actually asked me if I was going to a Halloween party. It’s July, for crying out loud.”

  “I’ve learned to never underestimate the stupidity of the general public.”

  I snickered, then winced from the pain shooting through my nose.

  “Okay, enough of that. I thought you could use some good news, Val.”

  “That would be brilliant.”

  “It turns out Bulldog Breath is not Thelma G. Goldrich. She’s G. Thelma Goldrich.”

  “So?”

  “That may be enough to delay her claim on Tony’s estate.”

  “Oh,” I said without enthusiasm.

  “I know it’s not much, but it could buy us some time with the lawyers. Especially if we can come up with a reasonable doubt that Tony’s house and stuff really belongs to someone else.”

  “How much time?”

  “I don’t know. But we have to do something fast. I caught her snooping around Tony’s house when I went to put the boxes back.”

  I felt my blood pressure rise and pound on my nose. “What!”

  “I was in uniform. I don’t think she recognized me. I told her the house was under surveillance and that no one was allowed on the property without a court order.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Technically, no.”

  “You lied?”

  “It was for a good cause. Besides, it is kind of true. If there is another heir, she has no business poking around the place. I’m really starting to dislike this woman as much as you, Val. She’s no Miss Congeniality, but why do you seem so sure she isn’t Tony’s real heir?”

  “Tom, you saw her in action! I can
’t imagine Tony leaving that woman a pile of his own shit, much less his estate! If I was him, I’d have burned the place down before I gave it to her!”

  “Since you put it so eloquently, I’ll concede your point, Val. But the slight name difference could have just been a clerical error. Do you really think Glad and Tony’s child could be this mysterious Thelma G. Goldrich?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Let’s just say I have a gut feeling.”

  I heard Tom blow a sharp breath through his nose. “I guess that just leaves one option.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’ve got to find Thelma G. Goldrich, and fast.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. Got any ideas?”

  Tom laughed. “We can start with the three hits that came up on the DMV.”

  “But Tom, if Glad’s baby was adopted, it might not even have that name.”

  “I know, Val. But it’s all we’ve got at the moment. It’s still possible that one of them is the heir. We might as well start with the obvious and rule things out from there. And, like I said, if we’re going to put Bulldog Woman on a leash, we need to throw a bone into the works and pronto.”

  “Now you’re being eloquent yourself.”

  “What can I say, you bring out the best in me.”

  A tingly feeling shot through me. Tom and I were flirting! It was time to slide into my usual motif operandi and set about sabotaging myself.

  “That’s a first!” I snorted.

  “I guess you just never barked up the right tree before.”

  “So now I’m a dog, too?” Shut the hell up, Val!

  “That’s not what I meant….”

  Time to go in for the kill. “All right, enough with the canine crap. How do we get these other Thelmas into the catfight?”

  “So now we’re into cats, are we?”

  “Meow.” God, I’m such an ass!

  “I’d say we need to call these women and tell them they may be heir to a fortune. Whether it’s true or not, who knows. But that ought to get their attention.”

  That last comment did it. He’s back to business. Satisfied with yourself? Shit. “I guess all we need now are the phone numbers.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Call me when you’ve got them, Tom. I’ll do the dirty work.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Tom? Thank you for your help. I mean it.”

  “My pleasure, Val. Sleep on your back tonight. Goodnight.”

  What? Oh yeah. I’d forgotten all about my busted nose.

  “Okay. Roger that. Goodnight, Tom.” Roger that? I am such an ass!

  Chapter Sixteen

  I woke up the next morning with the left side of my face stuck to my pillow. Startled, I sat up with a jerk. The pillow came up with me. Horrified, I ripped the pillow from my face without thinking. A flood of pain washed over me, carrying with it the grisly memories of yesterday like dead fish on the tide. Oh yeah. Busted nose. I’m damaged goods.

  “Shit!”

  I winced and stumbled to the bathroom mirror for a look. During the night blood had drained from my nostrils down the left side of my face, leaving two paths like dark-brown slug trails that crossed my cheek and disappeared into my matted hair. Ugh! Otherwise, I felt okay. My tooth was still hanging in there, so I figured there was nothing wrong that a good hot shower couldn’t solve. I reached for the shower dial, turned it all the way to the left and waited for steam to fill the air.

  ***

  I’d just stepped out of the shower and was toweling off when the phone starting ringing. I checked the number and cringed. Jamie. I took a deep breath and clicked the green answer button.

  “Hi Jamie!” I said, in a tone ridiculously cheerful for a naked woman of my age. “You’re up early!”

  “Hi Val. Just a wake-up call.”

  “I’m awake,” I said more seriously. I wrapped a towel around my torso.

  “This is a wake-up call that your chance at a career is going down the crapper, girl! You need to submit that story outline by Monday. And it better be good.”

  “Okay, I promise.”

  “I’m holding you to it,” Jamie said in a tone that smacked of mistrust with a hint of friendly camaraderie. “Call me tonight. Give me a rough outline. Let me sleep tonight without taking a Xanax.”

  Jamie had a knack for making me feel loved and guilty at the same time. “Okay,” I acquiesced. Today. Tomorrow. What difference would it make? Squat was squat.

  “Call me at six. Sharp!”

  “Okay, okay! Talk to you then.” I clicked off the phone and felt a trickle run down my back. Was it shower water or sweat? When the heat was on this high, it was hard to tell.

  I walked back into the bathroom. The mirror reminded me that I was probably better off not being seen in public. My nose was as big as a plum. A bum with a plum.

  “Just call me plum bum,” I said to my reflection. Neither of us looked amused.

  I got dressed, plugged in the computer and had a conjugal visit with old reliable, Mr. Coffee. I was steaming the milk when it frothed over and scalded my hand. “Shit! You too?” I bitched at the appliance. He just sat there like an inanimate object, as if he had nothing to do with my sour mood. “Typical man!”

  I spooned the milk foam over the espresso and took a sip. My sour mood sweetened on contact. “Mmmm! I forgive you,” I whispered to my old buddy. From his blank stare I got the feeling Mr. Coffee really didn’t give a crap one way or the other. But I knew that Jamie did. I had to do right by her. I logged onto my computer and opened a new file. I called it Double Booty, since I had absolutely, positively no other ideas. I needed five hundred words for the book synopsis. Only four hundred and ninety-eight more to go….

  But staring at the blank screen made me itchy, as always. I needed a break. I checked the freezer. The Tanqueray bottle was as empty as I was. But I knew where I could get a pocket flask really cheap….

  ***

  I climbed aboard Shaggy Maggie and she flew west on First Avenue North, like a homing pigeon, toward Water Loo’s. I didn’t even try to stop her. Screw it. I had to admit it. I wanted some company. I missed Glad something awful. So what if the only people in my life happen to be dumpster divers. What’s the big deal?

  On the drive over I rationalized that I was going there to conduct research. I would turn this coffee break into a working meeting. Yes, I would pump the stooges for theories about Thelma G. Goldrich. Hopefully they could give me some ideas, crazy or otherwise, that I could use in my book outline. God knew, at this point I had nothing to lose.

  As I drove into the lot, I could see the gang was all there, safely huddled together in their greasy brown corner of the world. I opened the glass door and stepped inside. The lukewarm air wheezing from the asthmatic wall-unit air conditioner was thick with the aroma of burnt coffee and desperation. The sour smell wasn’t as overpowering as usual. Maybe it was growing on me.

  Winnie the waitress squinted at me through her red, cat-eye glasses as I entered. She saw my nose and her face softened perceptibly. She served me a milder-than-usual look of disgust. I must be moving up in her world. I flashed her a red-nosed smile and wondered how it could be that a girl half my age would even think of being jealous of me. Sure, she was a little plump. But she was also cute and stylish in her own funky way. Then I remembered. Of course! The age-old female Achilles’ heel: low self-esteem. The insidiously feminine plague. It continued to knock down women around the globe. Most men seemed to have developed an immunity to it, either through mama’s love, work achievement, self-delusion or sheer stupidity. Lucky them.

  I glanced around the restaurant. Water Loo’s was nearly empty, save one old man at the bar and three lunatics in the corner booth. All three stooges were present and at full attention, waving and smiling at me. I smiled and waved back. As I did, I felt something inside me relax and go slack. I think it was the tattered remnants of my ambition.

  As I picked my way around s
ticky tables and crusty linoleum stains, I studied Winky, Jorge and Goober. Each looked genuinely…what’s the word for it…content. Screw me. It never failed to surprise me that a man could be fat, bald, ugly, broke, missing teeth or other body parts, lack personality, charm and erectile function and still think he’s god’s gift to womankind. The male capacity for self-delusion almost made me wish I had a pair. Almost.

  “Do you guys live here?” I teased. My simple joke caused the stooges’ smiles to evaporate into thoughtful, blank stares. Apparently, my lame attempt at humor was a serious inquiry to the downtrodden. A red flash of heat swarmed across my face, and for a couple of seconds I felt the full force of the enormous social gulf between us. I was here by choice. Perhaps they were here because they had nowhere else to go.

  Red-faced and humbled, I set my jaw to lockdown and slid into the booth next to Winky. He reached over to give me one of his signature, headlock-to-the-armpit-muff hugs. I managed to block his attempt with a defensive Karate-style chop to his freckled forearm.

  “Hey, not cool, Val Pal,” Winky sulked, looking genuinely hurt.

  “Gotta protect the old schnoz, Winky,” I said, reminding him of the obvious.

  “Oh yeah, sorry ’bout that.” His face brightened as he studied mine. “She’s a real beaut!”

  “Thanks.”

  “To answer your question, Val, no, we don’t live here,” said Goober. He removed his mirrored aviator shades. “But Winky here might if he ever gets the balls to put the moves on Winnie.”

  “Shut your pie hole!” Winky bellowed. His bright mood evaporated. He slumped into the booth and stared at his coffee mug.

  “You’re a grumpy one today, bud. Somebody piss down your tent hole again?” Goober punched Winky good-naturedly on the arm. Winky swatted Goober’s hand away.

  “Wait. You guys live in tents?” I asked.

  “Just me and Winky,” Goober answered. “Jorge over there’s got it good. His mamasita lets him live in the garage at her house.”