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

by Margaret Lashley

  I closed the laptop, opened my mind to some dirty thoughts, and snuck back to the bedroom and my handsome, law-enforcement lover. As I peeked around the doorframe, my jaw hit my toes. Tom was already dressed, standing over the bed. He had my cell phone in his hand and was swiping at the screen. I nearly tripped over myself.

  “What are you doing with my phone?!”

  Tom jumped and dropped the phone like it was a chunk of lava. It landed on the bed upside down. Tom’s sea-green eyes scanned the room, searching for an alibi.

  “Nothing, Val. I thought it was mine.”

  He bit his lower lip. He was lying.

  “Oh. I didn’t know you had a pink case on your phone, too.”

  “It was dark in here. I just switched on the light.”

  “Well, then. What did you write down on that piece of paper?”

  “This?”

  Tom held the scrap up, but kept the blank side toward me.

  “Just a buddy of mine’s…uh…birthday. I mean address. I wanted to send him a birthday card.”

  “Oh.”

  Tom walked over and kissed me.

  “I’ve gotta go. Call you later today, okay?”

  I looked him in the eye, but I couldn’t read him.

  “I’m not done talking about this.”

  “Okay, but not now. I’ve got to go.”

  Tom slipped on his shoes and was out the door in under thirty seconds flat. I watched him drive away, then clicked the power button on my cellphone. The picture of me and Milly at Ming Ming’s came up. I’d told Tom about Milly last night over dinner, but I hadn’t shown him her picture. She was way too gorgeous, and probably just his type. Was it her number he’d written down?

  I needed a chocolate fix, big time.

  I set the phone down and opened my bedroom closet. I rifled blindly through the rack, searching for a sundress to slip into, but my mind couldn’t focus on the task. I stopped and let my arms drop to my sides. What the hell was Tom up to?

  I’d counted on Tom to be honest with me. I’d thought he was totally trustworthy. He’d helped me move in. Helped me renovate. I’d even given him a key to my place. What was going on? I sighed. Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe he had just been mistaken.

  The thought of losing Tom made me miss Glad even more. After she’d died, I’d discovered Glad had stored her life away in shoeboxes. I’d taken a cue from her and begun doing the same. My photos and mementos and important papers were tucked away in a dozen shoeboxes on the top shelf in my bedroom closet. I’d lined my boxes up neatly, based on type of shoe. Smaller sandal boxes were on the left, then high-heel cartons, then walking-shoe boxes to the far right. I wondered if I’d have to start a new box soon….

  I found the blue denim dress I was after. I tried to pull it out, but it was tangled on another hanger. I yanked harder, but it hung on like one of those hook-armed apes from a Barrel of Monkey. Arggh! I was on my last nerve. I jerked the hanger so hard the head snapped off and sent me tumbling ass-first to the floor with my dress in tow. Perfect.

  I was just about to snap the rest of the hanger in half when something caught my eye. I stared up into the closet from my position on the rug. The hair on the back of my neck pricked up. My tidy little collection of shoeboxes were all mixed up.

  ***

  People with overactive imaginations like mine should never be left alone too long with their untamed thoughts. We’re apt to concoct outrageous scenarios that make the truth, once revealed, nothing more than a disappointing footnote. I hoped that would be the case with Tom’s dirty little secret involving Officer Jergen – and whatever else he might be up to.

  For some reason, Tom had begun to not share things with me. This new void in his trust had reignited a familiar, unwanted, defensive edginess inside me. All my life I’d been bitten hard on the heart by men and their secrets. I didn’t want to be played for a fool again. It was high time I learned to watch my back. I made a mental note to pay closer attention to what Tom was up to.

  ***

  My arms were contorted behind my back, trying to zip up my denim sundress, when the phone rang.

  “Goober One to Goober Two.”

  Men! “Hello, Bushwacker.”

  “Crap. Who told you that?”

  “Who do you think?”

  Goober yelled, but not at me.

  “Capone, I’m gonna kick your ass!”

  A distant voice called back, “Not if I kick yours first!”

  “Goober! Calm down. Why are you calling?”

  “I got Capone here. He says he knows who belongs to that finger you found.”

  “Who?”

  “He won’t say without pay.”

  “How much does he want?”

  “Your standard rate. A fiver.”

  “Well, give it to him. I’ll pay you back.”

  “I don’t carry that kind of money around on me. I could get bushwack…shit! I could get robbed.”

  “Okay. Tell him to stay there. I’ll be right over.”

  I hung up, grabbed my purse and ran out the door. I jumped in Maggie and made a beeline down Gulf Boulevard. I hooked a right on First Avenue South, the main drag to downtown. Then I realized I didn’t know where I was going. I hadn’t asked Goober where he was. Shit!

  I swallowed my pride and clicked redial. Goober answered in a smart-alecky tone.

  “Goober One to Goober Two. Forget something, Goober Two?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “The pizza place where you met him last time. Capone only agreed to wait if you added a slice of pepperoni to the ante. I made an executive decision.”

  “Okay. Good work, Goober One.”

  I could hear him smile over the phone.

  “You’re welcome, Goober Two.”

  I clicked off the phone and saw flashing blue lights headed in my direction. Aww shit! Just what I need. Another cop on my ass.

  I pulled over. A policeman climbed out of his car. It was Officer Jergen. Double shit!

  “Ma’am, you know you were going forty-five in a thirty-five? Oh. It’s you.”

  “Yes. Hello Officer Jergen. Nice day, huh?”

  “It was. License and registration.”

  I handed them over.

  “Val Fremden. You know Fremden means stranger in German, don’t you?”

  “I’ve been told, yes. I take it you’re German?”

  “American with German ancestry.”

  “Oh.”

  “Any more problems? Break-ins, I mean?”

  “No, but I’m working some leads, trying to find out whose finger it was.”

  “Are you a detective?”

  “No. Not exactly.”

  “Then do all of us in law enforcement a favor, Ms. Fremden. Don’t go messing in police business. You could end up in more trouble than you already are. Take my advice and leave it to us to handle your case. I suggest you drop whatever it is you’re doing.”

  I shot him my best smile.

  “I will if you will.”

  He looked down and started writing in his ticket book.

  “Nice try.”

  ***

  By the time I arrived with my $128 speeding ticket in tow, the guys had finished their slices and were being held for ransom by the young guy working the place.

  “There she is!” Goober shouted and pointed at me. “That’s her over there!”

  I walked across the brick street to the open door of Old Northeast Pizza. A brawny young man with a man bun and more tattoos than a Navy base eyed me doubtfully.

  “These two belong to you?” he asked.

  I grimaced. “Yes.”

  “Good thing. Another minute and I was gonna call the cops. Last time I give out a slice up front.”

  “Sorry for the inconvenience. What do I owe you?”

  “Seven bucks even. They both got the lunch special – a slice and a soda.”

  I handed the man a ten dollar bill.

  “Keep the change. Sorry for the tr
ouble.”

  The young man’s tough-guy façade melted like butter in a microwave.

  “Hey, thanks! Well, all right then! You guys are good by me. Go ahead and untie ‘em.”

  Goober and Capone both reached down and began to unkink the wad of knots in their shoelaces that bound their feet together. I tried not to smirk.

  “So, Capone. Who’s the guy with the finger?” I asked.

  Capone stopped untying his laces and looked up.

  “You mean without the finger.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let me see the money.”

  Five dollars? What is this? L.A. Vice meets Candid Camera? I fished a five out of my wallet and handed it over.

  “Name’s Mickie Harden. We call him Hard-on.”

  Goober slapped Capone in the back of the head.

  “This here’s a lady, Capone. Mind your manners.”

  I smiled at Goober. “Do you know where we can find him?”

  Capone hooked a thumb in Goober’s direction.

  “You might better ask Bushwacker here. Hard-on used to play guitar for tips downtown. After his little ‘accident,’ Bushwacker here took over his spot. He’s the only one I seen that gained something outta Mickie not being able to play no more.”

  Goober glanced up at me. “I don’t know the guy, Val.”

  “Sure you don’t,” sneered Capone.

  “Hey! Capone! Play nice,” I said. “Can you get word to Hard…to Mickie? Tell him that I’d like to talk to him?”

  “Maybe. For the right price.”

  “Can you get him here for fifty bucks?”

  “Lady, for fifty bucks, I can get you the pope.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I was some kind of hapless weirdo. I lived in two parallel, yet diametrically opposed dimensions. On one plane of existence, I was just good-old Val Fremden, your typical, late-forties, Caucasian woman. Southern. Brown hair. Average build. College grad. Nothing remarkable about my appearance or intellect. On another plane, I was my alter-ego, Valliant Stranger, an aspiring, bumbling gumshoe wannabe with a cadre of known associates I quite often wished I didn’t know. In the weird, twilight space in between, where these two dimensions collided, lived Glad’s daughter, Thelma Gladys Goldrich – the universe’s favorite victim of circumstances.

  Why in the world did that finger have to end up in my couch?

  I pondered this question and a few more over a Tanqueray and tonic. Was Capone telling the truth? Was the finger Mickie’s? If it was the guitar player’s digit, I was off the hook for potential homicide. But if Capone was truthful about about Mickie, did that mean he was right about Goober, too? Did Goober know more than he was telling? Had Goober actually cut off Mickie’s finger? No. I couldn’t believe that. At least I didn’t want to believe that I could believe that. And now, to top it all off, Tom was acting suspicious. He was the one who’d hauled that ugly-ass couch into my house in the first place. Why would he have done that if he wasn’t in on this whole scheme, too?

  Geeze! Could things get any more complicated?

  The phone rang. “Unknown Caller.” I took a slug of TNT and clicked the green button.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Valiant Fremden?”

  My mood went from bad to worse

  “Yes, Officer Jergen.”

  “I’m calling to inform you we found the body.”

  I sat bolt upright, suddenly cold sober.

  “What?”

  “A body has been found in a dumpster near downtown. It’s been deceased for about three weeks, and is missing most of its fingers. It looks like a match. And a possible homicide. Is there anything you would like to add to your statement now, or do I have to call you in for questioning?”

  “I told you already. I didn’t do it. What about the dwarf? The fingerprints?”

  “Analysis of the fingerprints taken at your house yielded no foreign prints. I assume Officer Thomas Foreman was there earlier, assisting with the removal of the finger. That’s why his prints were found. Or do you have another explanation?”

  “No. No other explanation.”

  “Uh huh. I thought as much. I’ll be in touch. Don’t leave town.”

  Officer Jergen clicked off the phone. I poured another drink and picked through my DVDs. I pulled out Sense & Sensibility.

  “You were right about men, Jane. They’re complicated.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I guess fifty bucks went a long way in the world of the down and out. I’d just finished googling the news and pulling the rest of my hair out when the phone rang.

  “Goober One to Goober Two.”

  “Hey, Goober.”

  “Got Capone and Mickie here behind The Deet. I can hold ‘em if you pay for a pint.”

  “Yes! Sure! Great work, Goober. I’ll be right there.”

  I clicked off the phone and scurried around like a deranged rat. I yanked a clean shirt from the closet and buttoned it, then played hide-and-seek with the house for my favorite jeans. I found them in the dirty-clothes pile. Crap. I glanced around to make sure my mother up in Greenville wasn’t looking. I grabbed the dirty jeans out of the heap and pulled them on. I inched into some flip-flops and was out the door in under a minute.

  I was cruising down Gulf when my phone rang again.

  “Ms. Fremden? This is attorney Marvin Hemingway.”

  “Uh…yes?”

  “Mr. Fellows said you needed representation on a defense case?”

  “Oh! Yes. But no. Not anymore. I think I’ve got this covered.”

  “Yes. Right. Well, keep me in mind –”

  “Look, I’m driving. Thanks for the call, but I’ve got to go. Goodbye.”

  I clicked off the phone and headed east on First Avenue South. I hit the gas, then caught sight of something sticking out of the glovebox. It was the corner of that blasted speeding ticket. I eased off the gas and prayed for the lights to stay green. Of course, I hit every red after that.

  I was waiting for another light to turn green when my favorite radio show came on. The folks at WTFM, “That’s For Me” radio had a hilarious program that replayed drunk-dialing disasters, messed-up phone-ins to the station, and inane, inebriated messages left on people’s answering machines.

  “Jack Hammer here! It’s nine o’clock, friends and fiends! You know what that means – it’s time to get down and dirty with the latest edition of Blurs & Slurs.”

  I turned up the dial. A drunk guy was stammering out a sentence between hiccups.

  “Hello?…(hic)…Is this the…(hic)…What The (bleep) Station?”

  “Yes sir. It certainly is. What can we do you for today?”

  “I gotta…(hic)…boner to pick with you guys.”

  “Sorry sir. We don’t play that way.”

  “Huh? I thought…(hic)…you played anything.”

  “What would you like us to play, sir?”

  “I forget. Hey, is this the…(hic)…International House of Pan-crakes?”

  “Oh, yes it is! What would you like to order?”

  “Bacon. Kevin likes lots of bacon. And Jack Dan –”

  I found a parking spot a block from The Deet and switched off the ignition.

  “What a dope,” I said to the radio.

  I fed the meter with quarters I’d saved from when I used to have to go to a laundromat. Thank god I didn’t have to face that sweaty social humiliation anymore. I walked to the alley behind The Deet. Goober, Capone, and a tall, skinny guy with red frizzy hair were passing around a pint of Mad Dog and bickering like three wet hens. It was as if I hadn’t turned the radio off – it was Blurs & Slurs live and in color.

  “You already had four swigs. It’s my turn,” Capone bellowed at Goober.

  “I didn’t realize you could count to four, Capone.”

  “Hand me that bottle,” said the third guy.

  The red-headed guy reached for the bottle of whiskey with his right hand. His left hand was covered in a dirty bandage. He and Goober p
layed tug-of-war for the pint of rotgut. I interrupted their game.

  “Goober? What’s going on?”

  Goober let go of the bottle, sending the frizzy-haired dude careening against the wall of a building. He dropped the whiskey bottle. It shattered on the red bricks.

  “Now look what you’ve done, numbskull!” Capone groused. “You can’t do nothin’ right!”

  Frizzy hair reared back his bandaged hand and was about to whack Capone in the face with it when Goober grabbed his arm.

  “All right, gentlemen! Calm down.”

  Oddly enough, at Goober’s command, the two men straightened up like schoolboys headed for a paddling. I was impressed.

  “Ma’am, this here’s Mickie,” Capone said. “He’s the one missin’ the finger. You got the money?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But first I need some information.”

  “Show me the money, first,” Capone said.

  I sighed. “Sure.”

  I pulled out two twenties and a ten from my wallet and waved them in the air. Capone’s eyes followed them like a kitten watching a feather on a string.

  “Okay,” he said.

  I turned to Mickie. “How did you lose the finger?”

  “Uh…on a saw. I was working construction.”

  “Okay. How did it get into the couch?”

  Mickie looked over at Capone.

  “What’s she talking about? What couch?”

  Goober stepped up to Mickie.

  “Let’s see it,” he demanded.

  Capone and Mickie glanced at each other again.

  “See what?” Mickie asked.

  “Take off the bandage,” Goober said. “Let’s see it.”

  “I don’t wanna,” Mickey said. “It’s…uh…unsanctified.”

  “Unsanitary, you idiot!” Capone yelled.

  Capone backhanded Mickie’s bicep. Goober lost his patience.

  “Do it now, or I’m gonna knock both of you out cold!”

  I’d never seen peanut head truly angry before. It scared me. If they start a brawl, what the hell am I going to do? I took a step back.