Glad One_Crazy is a Relative Term

  Table of Contents

  Glad One: Crazy is a Relative Term (Sample)

  IMPORTANT TIME-DATED OFFER!!!

  Glad One

  Crazy is a Relative Term

  Book One in the Val Fremden Mystery Series

  Margaret Lashley

  IMPORTANT TIME-DATED OFFER!!!

  Dear Reader,

  Thanks for checking out Glad One! I’ve included a couple of sample chapters below. But I didn’t want you to miss out on the cool deal going on right now. For the first time ever, you can GET A FREE COPY OF THE ENTIRE BOOK on Amazon.

  Just click the Amazon link below while Glad One is being offered free for the very first time – but ONLY FROM July 4th THRU 8th! After that, it returns to its regular price of $3.99.

  So grab your copy now, and happy reading!

  Margaret

  CLICK HERE TO GET YOUR FREE COPY NOW:

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B06XTKBMWT

  Copyright 2016 Margaret Lashley

  MargaretLashley.com

  Cover Design by Melinda de Ross

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For more information, write to: Zazzy Ideas, Inc. P.O. Box 1113, St. Petersburg, FL 33731

  This book is a work of fiction. While actual places throughout Florida have been used in this book, any resemblance to persons living or dead are purely coincidental. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, the names of places have been altered.

  Praise for the Val Fremden Series

  “Hooked like a fish. OMG Margaret Lashley is the best! Val could be Stephanie Plum's double!! Phenomenal writing.”

  "If you enjoy Janet Evanovich you will love Margaret Lashley!"

  "Her characters are real and full, her situations believable, and her dialogue marvelous."

  "There’s a mystery at the heart of this book – a few of them – that will hook fans of Janet Evanovich and other comic mystery writers."

  “More twists and turns than NASCAR. Beach bums, sane and insane, abound in this high-paced accidental thriller. Sit down, buckle up, hang on for bunches of enjoyment.”

  "Margaret writes with a "smirk" of a Cheshire cat. Fantastic read.”

  "Full of twists and turns as only Margaret Lashley can write!"

  "If you like Anne George's 'Southern Sisters' don't miss

  Margaret Lashley!"

  “The characters are great – so many laugh out loud moments...”

  More Hilarious Val Fremden Mysteries

  by Margaret Lashley

  Absolute Zero

  Glad One

  Two Crazy

  Three Dumb

  What Four

  Five Oh

  Six Tricks

  Seven Daze

  “Life is a comic mystery. Might as well get busy turning some pages.”

  Val Fremden

  Chapter One

  SOME PEOPLE LEAD LIVES under a dark cloud. Others, under a lucky star. As far as I could tell, my life was under the control of a sadist brandishing a cattle prod and a whoopee cushion.

  THE PLANE FROM FRANKFURT, Germany wobbled erratically as it hit heavy turbulence just north of Orlando. My drooping head lurched forward, and I startled myself awake with a piggish snort. I shot an apologetic smile at the man wedged in the seat next to me.

  “Sorry. I must have dozed off for a second.”

  “Right. Lady, that snore of yours could put a jackhammer to shame.”

  I shrunk back in my seat and groaned. My feet hadn’t even touched the ground back in the US, and already I’d had my first rude awakening. What else should I have expected? My whole life to date had been akin to one long, never-ending, rude awakening.

  But all that was about to change.

  After all, it was New Year’s Eve.

  I glanced around at the other bleary-eyed passengers around me. They probably had their minds on fresh beginnings, too. As for me, I had no other choice. The past I’d just fled was still too raw and painful to touch. I studied the pale strip of flesh encircling my now-naked ring finger. The ghostly reminder of yet another failed attempt at love sent a hot jolt of desperation racing through my gut.

  A puff of jaded air forced its way between my pursed lips, like steam from a relief valve. I needed a good cry. But this was not the time or place for it. To distract myself, I decided to count my blessings.

  One decimated pocketbook. Two cottage-cheese thighs. Three maladjusted ex-husbands.... Crap!

  Whoever was running the show up there had a wicked sense of humor – and I was getting darn tired of being the punchline. I scrounged around for my powder compact and opened it, intent on repairing my makeup after the nine-hour flight. One glance in the mirror at my worn-out face made me snap it shut.

  Why bother?

  In forty-five years, I’d accumulated a good portion of wrinkles, a fair amount of belly fat, and, apparently, precious little wisdom. These questionable assets, along with $5,726 and a suitcase full of inappropriate clothes, were all I had left to launch my latest life makeover. I slumped back into my seat. I was bone-dragging tired. Even so, a wry grin snuck across my lips, like a stolen kiss from a stranger.

  I was not defeated. Not yet, anyway.

  The way I saw it, I still had two viable options. One, I could finally learn to laugh at myself. Or two, I could drink myself into oblivion.

  I fished around the bottom of my purse for a coin to determine my fate. I flipped a tarnished nickel into the air. It did a triple gainer, plunged into my coffee cup, and splashed a nasty brown stain onto the crotch of my white stretch pants.

  Awesome. Let the festivities begin.

  MY LAST LIFE MAKEOVER had begun a little over seven years ago, and had turned out to be a spectacular, downward spiral akin to diving off a cliff with a bowling ball in my pants. Drowning in dullness and fueled by movie-inspired stupidity, I’d ditched a tiresome marriage and lucrative writing career, sold all my belongings, and took off for Europe.

  In Italy, I’d met a German and fell in love with the idea of life with a stranger in a strange land. Things had been great for a while. But then the shiny wore off and the cracks showed up...like they always did.

  On my arrival back in St. Petersburg, Florida, I’d quickly discovered that seven wasn’t such a lucky number. In fact, seven years abroad had been just exactly long enough for my entire credit history to be erased – just like most of my money. I’d gotten off the plane in Tampa with no driver’s license. No place to live. No credit card. No phone. No job. And, worst of all, no friends.

  Incredibly, I’d somehow managed to become a foreigner in my own homeland.

  As a lifelong lover of irony, I’d had to shake my head in wonder at my own warped ingenuity.

  How many other people on the planet could claim such a monumental screw-up?

  Over the next few weeks, my solo climb back aboard the American dream had required counting pennies and swallowing more than just pride. After that, I’d had to scrounge around for a ti
re jack and lower my expectations to half a notch above gutter level. That’s how I ended up in a “no credit check” hovel of an apartment, living a “no foreseeable future” scrabble of a life.

  A few months into what I’d sarcastically dubbed “my adjustment period,” I’d been contemplating a Smith & Wesson retirement plan when something unforeseeable happened.

  I met an old woman named Glad.

  I’d been in desperate need of a life coach. Glad had fit the bill perfectly. The fact that she was a crazy, homeless woman had been the icing on the cake.

  I could afford her fees.

  Chapter Two

  St. Petersburg only had two seasons – summer and not-summer-yet. It was not-summer-yet, but just barely. I first met Glad on May 10, 2009. I remember because I was trying to make the most of “the end of days.” I called the first two weeks of May that because anybody with any sense (translation, not a tourist or a transplant), didn’t venture out in the Florida sun between 10 a.m. and 5 p.m. from the middle of May to the end of October. Not if they could help it, that was. And with no job at the time, I could help it.

  As usual, I was determined to get to Sunset Beach early that Sunday. Not just to beat the heat, but the five-dollar parking fee as well. If I got there before the lot attendant, I could sneak into the lot at Caddy’s, my favorite beach bar.

  Sunset Beach was attractive to me for three reasons. One, it was gorgeous – sugar-white sand and water the color of a fresh robin’s egg. Two, the tourists hadn’t discovered it yet. And three, it was the only local strip of beach that allowed open containers (aka BYOB alcohol). Caddy’s bar sat right on gorgeous Sunset Beach, sandwiched between a patch of virgin sand dunes and a recently erected, three-story McMansion the color of pumpkin puke.

  In stunning contrast to the prissy new house, Caddy’s was pure, relaxed, old-school Florida. To be honest, it wasn’t much more than an old beach shack with a front porch and a rooftop deck scabbed onto it with bent nails and duct tape. The bottom floor facing the Gulf didn’t even have an exterior wall. If it rained hard or the temperature dropped below sixty-five degrees, the easy-going folks at Caddy’s would unfurl plastic flaps like tent windows against the inclement weather.

  But on good days, which were most days, there’d be nothing between Caddy’s tipsy patrons and the turquoise Gulf of Mexico but a hundred feet of squeaky, blindingly white sand. Caddy’s fit right in with its laid-back vibe, good food, live music, and full liquor bar. Being a native Floridian, I appreciated that it wasn’t a tiki bar. After all, this was not freaking Hawaii.

  When I got to the beach that Sunday morning, I’d planned on getting in a stroll before the humidity turned the air to soup and the sun heated that soup to steam. I even thought about splurging for breakfast at one of Caddy’s picnic tables on the beach afterward. But, being a loner and on a budget as tight as last year’s jeans, I decided against it.

  I got lucky and pulled into the lot in time to avoid the attendant. I slipped off my flip-flops and shorts and put them on the floorboard of Shabby Maggie, my 1963 Ford Falcon Sprint convertible.

  Maggie was the perfect car for me. Modern vehicles all looked the same. I couldn’t have told a Prius from a Pontiac to save my life. But older cars like Maggie had style. With her curvy, Batmobile rear-end, cherry-red upholstery and Wimbledon-white exterior, Maggie was a classic beauty. All the nicks and dents and faded spots reminded her she’d seen better days. Boy, could I relate.

  As I reached into the backseat for my beach bag and chair, a loud wolf whistle rang out over the rumble of a diesel engine. I didn’t waste the energy to look up. Instead, my head shook in sympathy for the desperate soul who’d found the sight of my flabby butt in bathing suit worth that much effort. I snorted a laugh, hoisted my beach chair under one arm, hooked my bag over the other, and picked my way across the crushed-shell parking lot.

  It was Mother’s Day. Not being a mother myself, or having one I was keen to celebrate, I planned to let the day go by as unnoticed as possible.

  As I reached the white picket fence leading out to the beach, I spied an old woman lying on a lounger a good fifty feet from the shoreline. I’d seen her there countless times over the last few months. She was a wiry, leather-skinned old bat who, had I met on the street, I’d have labeled a bag lady. But there at the beach she fit right in.

  Maybe stripping down to a bathing suit somehow leveled the playing field.

  From outward appearances, the old woman reminded me a lot of my friend Berta, a crusty old psychologist from New York. We’d shared some laughs together in Italy, and she’d helped me get through some tough times in Germany. Before she’d died, Berta had warned me about making friends with strangers. I hadn’t heeded her advice then, but I was trying to now. Heaven knew I couldn’t afford another disastrous mistake.*

  The old woman always set up camp near the same wispy clump of sea oats, so it had been easy to avoid her so far. That Sunday, however, my luck finally ran out. The wind blew sand in my eye, and as I fumbled along trying to get it out, I wandered blindly within earshot of her.

  “Nice toe rings,” she croaked in a scarred, toady voice that perfectly matched her appearance.

  Sprawled out on a pink, plastic beach lounger, she reminded me of one of those dried-up frogs you can still find now and then in politically incorrect souvenir shops.

  I was running on just one cup of coffee that morning, so it took a moment to realize she was talking to me. I sighed and wiped my eye again.

  “Thanks.”

  I turned to take a step toward the water, but the old woman wasn’t having it.

  “Wanna beer?”

  She grinned at me from under a pink Gilligan hat. Her oversized dentures looked clownish, wedged between two wide smears of bright-red lipstick.

  “It’s Sunday, you know. They ain’t servin’ booze ’til ’leven today.”

  Her salty-sweet Southern accent had a familiar ring. I’d spent three decades trying to rid myself of one just like it. She tilted her head and motioned toward a small cooler nestled in the sand beside her. I shook my head.

  “No thanks. I’m good.”

  I forced a smile and gave her a quick once-over. The old lady was one shade up from mahogany and as wrinkled as a linen pantsuit after a high-stakes game of Twister. Her arms and legs looked like four Slim Jims sticking out of a neon green bathing suit. It was the kind of simple, one-piece suit women over forty wore. One that supported the boobs and hid the belly.

  I was grateful for her modesty.

  Freckles and white spots covered the old woman’s dark-brown arms and legs. The Florida sun hadn’t been kind. She could have been fifty-five or ninety-five. With hard-core beach bums, it was impossible to tell. But given the full-on dentures, I placed her in her late sixties – at the youngest.

  “Okie dokie then, have it your way,” Slim Jim said.

  She watched me carefully from behind black, bug-eyed sunglasses. Her gaze never shifted as she reached instinctively into the cooler, pulled out a can, then cracked the tab on a family-size Fosters. I seized the opportunity and turned to take another step toward the water. That’s when I thought I heard her say, “Screw you, kiddo.”

  I whirled around to face her.

  “What?” I asked, thinking I must have heard her wrong.

  “Screw you, kiddo!” she repeated, flashing her denture-cream smile.

  She hoisted up the pint-sized beer between her boney fingers, causing half a pound of costume jewelry to cascade toward her elbows and twinkle in the glaring sunlight.

  Uncertain if the woman was a witch or a comedian, I tilted my head and cautiously mirrored her ear-to-ear grin. “That’s what I thought you said,” I replied. “Well, screw you, too.”

  “Love it!” she shot back. “Where you from?”

  I let go of my grip on my fake grin. “Someplace you’ve never heard of.” I turned and took a getaway step toward the shore.

  “Try me.”

  I sighed and t
urned back to face her. “Greenville, Florida, okay?”

  “No kiddin’! I know exactly where that is.”

  My mouth fell open. “You and three other people. How on earth do you know about Greenville?”

  “Well, kiddo, that’s a long story. Used to travel around a lot. I think I’ve been to every two-bit town east of the Mississippi. Sit down and I’ll tell you about it. You don’t look like you’re in no hurry, now. Are you?”

  I thought about taking off running, but the heat had zapped my will to flee. Besides, it would have been rude, even for me. So I plopped my bag onto the powdered-sugar sand, unfolded my chair and sat my flabby butt down.

  So much for a walk. Maybe tomorrow.

  SHE TOLD ME HER NAME was Gladys, a dirt-poor Kentucky girl who’d escaped a life of farm labor by marrying a traveling revival preacher named Bobby.

  “I used Bobby the way he used the Lord – as a ticket out of Nowheresville,” she said with a cackle. “After the weddin’ I spent the better part of a decade traveling the country with Bobby, pitching revival tents and per-tendin’ to be the perfect wife. Pious Patty, I called myself.”

  “Why?” I asked, more out of Southern hospitality than curiosity.

  Gladys shrugged and fortified herself with a slug of beer.

  “I had to do somethin’ to cope with those dang church people and their mindless jabber over endless, Sunday-go-to-eatin’ buffets of tuna casserole, squash casserole, green-bean casserole and some kind of godawful dessert casserole they called a trifle.”

  The old woman explained that back then, staying overnight in random parishioners’ homes was part and parcel to the life of a traveling preacher and his wife.

  “Even over the dad-burn tedium of pot ‘piss out of luck’ dinners, I dreaded havin’ to stay in other people’s houses,” she said. “After a while, I just stashed myself away and per-tended to be what others expected. It was just easier that a way.”