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

by Margaret Lashley

  “You okay in there?”

  “Yes, I think so.” I hauled myself up, still clutching the towel bar in my right hand. “Where’s the finger?”

  “Apprehended. In a pickle jar. You’re safe.”

  I cracked open the bathroom door and looked up at Tom. His face was plastered with a boyish grin. I kept a firm grip on the towel bar and held it like a club behind the door, in case that hideous finger escaped from that jar.

  “You better be telling the truth! No funny stuff!”

  Tom’s face returned to normal, which for him meant devilishly handsome.

  “Scout’s honor. I never joke about evidence.”

  “Then why did you call me Miss Marple?”

  “First of all, you’re not evidence, Val, so joking with you is fair game. Secondly, you fancy yourself a detective, Valiant Stranger, but you crumple at the least little thing. Third –”

  “A finger isn’t a little thing!” I shot back. “I mean, it’s not a big thing…but…aargh! Anyway, I never said I wanted to be a detective. And I didn’t crumple!”

  “Tell that to your towel bar,” Tom quipped.

  “Very funny.”

  I dropped the bar. It clanged on the tile floor as I closed the bathroom door behind me. I tiptoed down the hall behind Tom and glanced around the living room and kitchen.

  “Is it still in the house?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “No.”

  “Okay then. Now tell me how you found it.”

  Tom and I sat on the stools at the kitchen breakfast bar. I poured us each a glass of iced tea and explained how I pulled the finger out from a crevice in the sofa.

  “With my bare hands!” I whined in horror.

  Tom studied my hands for a moment then eyed his glass of tea warily. “Better bleach your hands.”

  “I did already. Like, six times, if Ty D Bol counts.”

  Tom tried not to smile.

  “That ought to do it. How do you think the finger got in the couch?”

  “How should I know? You’re the one who hauled the mangy thing back from the alley. Were there really three cats and a possum on it?”

  Tom brushed a strand of brown, wavy hair from my forehead.

  “No. Just a bum taking a nap.”

  “What!”

  I screeched and punched Tom on the arm, nearly knocking him off the stool.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Hold on there! At the time, I didn’t think anything of it.” Tom regained his perch on the stool. “The guy couldn’t have been laying on it for more than an hour or two. He seemed okay. I gave him a fiver to help me load the sofa into my 4Runner.”

  “Was he screaming when you left?”

  “What?”

  “You know. Something like, ‘Hey mister, my finger’s in that couch!’”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  I gloated. “So who’s the crummy detective now?”

  ***

  Tom called the cops. They came to the house and one of them asked me a bunch of questions. I answered them while Tom talked to the other cop and handed over the pickle jar with the finger in it. They hauled it and the couch away as evidence. I figured that would be the end of it.

  Boy was I wrong.

  Chapter Seven

  Two days had passed since the couch had given me the finger. Then I’d gotten another one from Couches Today. When I’d called this morning to ask when to expect delivery on my new sofa, they’d basically instructed me not to hold my breath.

  I would have been ticked off, but it was Tuesday. That meant Tom would be taking me out tonight. Even though we were in the habit of spending three or four nights a week together, the cop and I still kept our separate places. We also kept a standing Tuesday-night date we’d begun when we first started seeing each other last year. I called it Taco Tuesdays. That always made Tom smile.

  It still stung a little that Tom hadn’t bought me a real birthday present. But I was trying to rise above it. After all, I’d lived through so much worse. Considering all the lousy presents I’d received over the years from my ex-husbands, that ugly-ass couch didn’t even make the top three. Those esteemed positions were held by a jar of jalapeño peppers (sole Christmas present), a cheap silver necklace with a plastic four-leaf clover (fourteenth anniversary) and a walnut press. (Really? I mean, really?) In my opinion, those beat the couch hands down in my “WTF were you thinking” rankings.

  Still, it bugged me. If I was going to stay in a good mood for Taco Tuesday, I needed a pick-me-up. I knew just where to get it. On the way home, I stopped at a funky little boutique on Corey Avenue and bought a pink floral top to wear with my black jeans tonight. Tom liked me in pink, and turning Tom on was never money wasted. As I drove back to my place, my mind was filled with visions of Tom peeling off my new blouse. I nearly hit the mailbox pulling in the driveway….

  I stripped and turned the tap on full-blast in the vintage flamingo-pink bathtub. All the repairmen who’d tromped through the house in the past six months had advised me to tear out the old 1950s bathroom, but I just couldn’t bear the idea. I guess I felt nostalgic – not just about the architecture, but about the parents I never really knew.

  Except for a casual “hello,” I’d not once spoken to my father, Tony Goldrich. I’d seen him around Caddy’s beach bar plenty of times. But back then, I hadn’t known he was my biological father. He’d simply been the itinerant beach bum raking the sand and picking up garbage. I’d met Glad, my mom, on Sunset Beach next to Caddy’s. We’d talked a lot. Often for hours. I’d gotten to know her pretty well in those six weeks before she died.

  I squeezed a good measure of rose-scented bubble bath into the water and watched it foam into merengue-like peaks. I wondered if Glad had liked bubble baths as much as she had enjoyed a cold pint of Fosters. Or bright-red lipstick. The thought of Glad’s beef-jerky hide soaking in the pink tub made me feel at home, somehow. My decision to keep the bathroom intact had really been about holding on to a piece of them – a piece of my real family. I smiled and lowered myself into the steamy froth.

  Ten minutes later, I hauled myself, naked and pink, out of the tub. I reached absently for a towel and came back with a handful of air. I made a mental note: “Get a new towel rod.” I grabbed the towel I’d laid across the toilet seat and wrapped it around me. I fiddled with my damp hair in the mirror and looked at the small photo of Glad I’d found when I was clearing out the house. I’d taped it to the vanity mirror. I stared at her image, then at my own reflection. I liked to think I looked a bit like my mom, but I wasn’t sure.

  The photo of Glad had been taken not long before she passed at the age of 65. In it, she was smiling that crooked, red-lipstick smear of a smile, sprawled out in the sun like a frog on vacation. Her long, Slim Jim arms and legs spilled over her pink lounge chair, stuck in the sugar-white sand at Sunset Beach.

  I smiled. The photo had captured Glad perfectly, in her element, doing what she loved. She didn’t have a care in the world as she hoisted that pint-sized can of Fosters between her boney, brown fingers. I kissed the tip of my finger and touched it to her face. Then I slipped into my bra and panties and got ready for my date with Tom.

  ***

  I loved tacos, and Red Mesa Cantina in downtown St. Pete had some of the best. Tom and I parked on Beach Drive in the free, three-hour parking zone between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. It was a bit of a haul to Red Mesa from there, but it was a nice walk. And it saved money. I wasn’t destitute anymore, but those days had taught me not to needlessly throw away my cash. But even more than that, I found it hard to relax and enjoy the evening when I had to constantly think about feeding a parking meter.

  Tom and I strolled hand-in-hand past the romantic, posh and pink Vinoy Hotel, then skirted the oak-shaded park offering glimpses of yachts bobbing on the calm, harbored waters of Tampa Bay. The sky was tinging pink, and a tiny chill crept in on the early evening air. I shivered. Tom untied his sweater
from around his neck and draped it over my shoulders. He looked into my eyes like I was the only woman in the world.

  “I really like you in pink,” he whispered in my ear.

  Goosebumps popped up on back of my neck.

  “Really?”

  “But I like you even more in nothing at all.”

  A wave of electric lust shot through me. Man, it’s hard to stay mad at a man who likes me naked. Maybe that’s enough of a birthday present – him liking me in my birthday suit.

  We cut through the evening crowd in front of the Birchwood Hotel. The streetlamps kicked on. I spotted a street performer about twenty feet in front of us. I pointed at him.

  “Look, Tom! How cool!”

  The man had a deep, baritone voice. But his words sounded strangely hiccoughed and slurred. As we drew closer, I realized the man was singing the Star Spangled Banner. But it didn’t sound quite like singing, exactly. Weirdly, the performer was bent over like a quarterback waiting for a hike. My teeth clamped together and started grinding. What the? The man was belching and farting the national anthem – for tip money!

  Tom burst out laughing. I punched Tom on the arm.

  “Don’t laugh! That’s horrible! It’s disrespectful!”

  Tom put his arm around me and tried to hold me back, but I was hell-bent on giving the offensive jerk a piece of my mind. I marched up to him – too close to him – and the guy broke wind in my face. A second later my purse found its mark on the man’s backside with a dull thwack. He whirled around. Our eyes locked. My mind did a double-take and my mouth fell open like a wallet at a strip club.

  It was Goober.

  My anger evaporated in the roasting heat of social embarrassment. My neck, moments before chilled to goosebumps by Tom, turned scarlet-hot with shame. I tugged at Tom’s arm, trying to escape. I wanted to take him – and any lingering chance of a nice evening – along with me. But it was too late.

  “Hey, Val.” Goober said. “Not a fan of Le Petomane, I take it.”

  “What?” I demanded, whirling around to face him.

  “The famous French fartiste,” Goober explained, as if he were talking about Picasso to a preschooler. He wore a ragged old top hat and a crumpled, red-striped bowtie, like a down-and-out Uncle Sam.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  “I most certainly am not. Le Petomane was considered damn near royalty in his day. Highest paid performer at the Moulin Rouge. His real name was Joseph Pujol. I’m a distant relative, you know. Though I only recently discovered my latent genetic talents.”

  “There’s…there’s no such thing.”

  “Look it up,” Goober challenged. He stuck his nose in the air. “Oh, the tortured life of a flatulist. So few appreciate our true talent.”

  “But you were belching, too!” I argued, as if that somehow disqualified him from such a high-brow profession.

  “Yes. Poetic license. The prerogative of every fartiste.”

  I didn’t want to stick around to see what else might come out of Goober.

  “Let’s go, Tom.”

  I steered Tom in the direction of the restaurant, just in time to see Jorge hobbling toward us, grabbing at his crotch. He stumbled to within a yard of me and reached for his groin again. He shifted his hips and something worked its way down the inside leg of his loose jeans. Jorge took another step and the mystery object clunked onto the sidewalk. Jorge looked down at the almost empty bottle of Mr. Dude, then back up at me with the goofy, big brown eyes of a child.

  “Hi Val! Great to shee you!”

  Jorge did a half-lunge, half-swan-dive at me. Tom stepped in and caught him just before he tackled me like a shit-faced linebacker.

  “Hey buddy,” Tom whispered gently to his former partner. “Probably time for you to call it a night.”

  Jorge nestled his head on Tom’s chest and cooed like a dove. Tom looked over at Goober.

  “Okay if Jorge bunks with you tonight, Sir Flatulence?”

  Goober grinned. “Sure. I don’t live far from here. Let me grab my tip jar.”

  ***

  Goober’s place was nothing like I’d imagined it. The thing was, I didn’t have to imagine it. I was my old place!

  “What are you doing here!?” I demanded.

  “Living,” Goober replied dryly. “Keys in the mailbox? Not the brightest move, Val. Besides, the rent isn’t due until the end of the month.”

  “I know! Because I paid for it through the end of the…aarrgh! Goober! Does the landlord even know that you’re here? Oh my god! He could come back from vacation any second!”

  “Calm down,” Goober said in a patronizing tone that made me feel anything but calm. “I’ve still got some cash. And like I said, I’m working now.”

  Goober poured the contents of the tip jar on the empty kitchen counter and pushed the assorted coins into piles.

  “Three dollars and thirty-two cents.” He scratched the top of his bald head. “That’s like… eighty-three cents an hour.”

  Tom bumbled into the apartment with his old buddy slung over his shoulder, huffing and puffing from carrying Jorge up the stairs.

  “What should I do with him?” Tom panted.

  He eyed the place and managed a joke.

  “Nice digs. Looks familiar somehow….”

  “Cut the crap, Tom!” I shrieked. Panic rose in my throat, making my voice harsher and squeakier than I’d wanted. “They can’t stay here!”

  “What’s the harm, Val?” Tom asked. “The place is empty. What damage can they do?”

  I had no good comeback. Dammit! I sighed.

  “Okay. You win, Goober. But I want you both out of here by morning. My name is on this lease!”

  “Fair enough,” Tom said. He looked Goober in the eyes. “Agreed?”

  Goober slid the tip money into his pocket and shrugged.

  “Agreed.”

  Chapter Eight

  I cruised by my old apartment the next morning to check on my squatters, Goober and Jorge. They were gone, just as Goober had promised, and had left the keys in the mailbox and the place in a decent state. I climbed back down the rickety wooden stairs with my broom, bucket and bottle of Ty D Bol unused.

  Goober wasn’t the only one getting the boot today. Lining the alleyway by the trash bins was an odd assortment of household trappings. A gutted vacuum cleaner, a pee-stained box-springs, a murdered side chair, boxes of jumbled clothes, and grocery sacks full of dirty, broken kids’ toys. I fought the urge to investigate. During my unwilling incarceration in that tiny apartment, I’d borne witness to anything and everything having been hauled over to and abandoned beside the bins in that alley. Back in my destitute days, I’d found some pretty good stuff amongst the rubble.

  Old habits die hard. I was rummaging through a mangled box of clothes when my phone rang. The display screen read, “Unknown Caller.” I answered it anyway.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. Is this Valliant Fremden?”

  Shit. The only people who used my real name were telemarketers and bill collectors.

  “Who wants to know?” I said, instantly irritated.

  “This is Police Officer Hans Jergen,” said the stern voice. “I repeat. Are you Valliant Fremden?”

  My snotty attitude slid into dread. “Yes. What can I do for you, officer?”

  “I’m assigned to your case,” he explained. “I need to interview you. When can you report to the station?”

  “I already answered a bunch of questions the other day.”

  “That was just a preliminary. Are you going to cooperate?”

  His impersonal, threatening tone made my stomach gurgle.

  “Yes. Of course. When do you want to do it?”

  “Does now work for you?”

  “Uh, sure. Where are you?”

  “At the police station, of course.”

  “Okay. Can you give me the address?”

  “Good one. See you in ten minutes.” He hung up.

  I clicked
off my phone, still stunned by the cop’s flippant attitude. I wracked my brain. I’d driven by the police station countless times on my way to the beach. Somewhere off 1st Avenue North. I climbed into Maggie and turned the ignition. Oh, yeah. Unlucky thirteen. If I hurried, I had just enough time to get there within the ten-minute timeframe specified by Officer Jergen. From his tone, I figured I’d better make a good first impression. But somehow, I already knew I’d blown that opportunity.

  ***

  Should I call Tom? I fished my phone out of my purse in the passenger seat. I set it back down. I didn’t want to add “dialing while driving” to any potential charges already on my list. I bit my thumbnail and turned right off Fourth Street onto First Avenue North. I passed the fancy, tiled arches of the open-air post office on the corner, then drove past nine blocks of buildings that grew more neglected with each rotation of Maggie’s tires. The old Ford’s shocks groaned when I turned into the parking lot on the corner of First and Thirteenth. I groaned as I walked the gauntlet to the front door. I already felt guilty of something I couldn’t name. I frowned, pushed my way inside and walked up to the service counter.

  “Hello,” I said to the round-faced lady behind the glass. If she a cop or just a receptionist, I couldn’t say.

  “I’m here to see Officer Jergen, please.”

  “Which one?”

  “Uh…Hans Jergen.

  “Have a seat.”

  I eyed the row of battered, vinyl-seated chairs butted up against the scuffed wall like a lineup of suspects. I sat in the least-victimized chair, my purse on my lap, clutched in my vice-like grip. I waited ten minutes, dread growing with each odd-looking stranger that filed in and out of the lobby. I studied them surreptitiously. Murderer? Child molester? Thief?

  I’d worked myself into a state of angst by the time a guy wearing a police uniform ambled up to me. His shirt matched his ice-blue eyes.

  “Are you Valliant Fremden?”

  It sounded more like an accusation than a question.

  “Yes.”