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  What Four

  Family Fruitcake Frenzy

  Book Four in the Val Fremden Mystery Series

  Margaret Lashley

  Copyright 2017 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

  “My cheeks hurt from laughing at the outrageously hilarious situations that Val gets into. Holidays with crazy family members, and the redneck mentality were a hoot and so very accurate. This series is my absolute favorite.”

  “In a style much like Janet Evanovich, her characters leave you laughing out loud and find you wishing to meet them.”

  “I haven't laughed this hard in a while. Val's mother and aunts are hoots. People, you've got to read this book!”

  “It doesn't get much better than this. Another crazy romp through Val land.”

  “I laughed, and cried, until tears ran down my cheeks with both. My heart swelled with joy, my gut clenched with pain. I wanted to reach into the book and hug Val like she was a long lost sister.”

  “To find a book that is both hilarious and tear jerking is somewhat of a rarity and to find an author that produces such books is just as rare. From laughing one minute to being emotional the next, this book is fantastic!!! I recommend this book and the entire series.”

  More Hilarious Val Fremden Mysteries

  by Margaret Lashley

  Absolute Zero

  Glad One

  Two Crazy

  Three Dumb

  What Four

  Five Oh

  Six Tricks

  Seven Daze

  Figure Eight

  Cloud Nine

  “If you want to know how far you’ve evolved as a person, go visit your mother.”

  Val Fremden

  Contents

  What Four

  Copyright 2017 Margaret Lashley

  Praise for the Val Fremden Series

  More Hilarious Val Fremden Mysteries

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  What’s Next for Val?

  Five Oh Excerpt

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  FOR FOLKS WHO CALLED the lower half of Florida home, the winter holidays always arrived without warning. We didn’t have harbingers like frosty mornings or falling leaves. Instead, like a maladjusted mugger, one day when we least expected it Old Saint Nick ran up beside us, kicked us in the gut, and left us reeling with dread.

  Or maybe it was just me....

  THE LAST DAY OF NOVEMBER was one of those perfect days that made St. Petersburg the envy of every tourist north of the Florida state line. The sky was a cloudless, robin’s-egg blue, the temperature was under 80 degrees, and the humidity was actually bearable for a change. There was only one fly in this perfect ointment. It was a four-letter word called “work.”

  Well, screw that.

  Instead of heading to the office, I unhooked my bra, tugged on a bathing suit, turned off my cellphone, and headed for Sunset Beach.

  I squandered my stolen morning wading the shoreline, the breeze in my hair and the sugar-white sand between my toes. Small whitecaps dotted the normally lolling surf. As a native to the Sunshine State, I knew the stronger waves meant better shelling. I peered into the clear Gulf water and reached toward a shape in the roiling break line. I pulled up a beautiful, left-handed whelk shell and smiled. It was a rare oddity, kind of like my beach combing days of late.

  Even though summer had eased into a more bearable not-quite-summer mode, the sun never relented this far south in Florida. I pressed an index finger to my shoulder and released it. A circle of white appeared on my skin, then evaporated into bright pink. I was half-cooked. I decided to pack it in for the day before I resembled the boiled-lobster tourists sprawled out in their beach chairs.

  As I slipped through the picket fence surrounding the parking lot of Caddy’s beach bar, a sudden flash of naughtiness added swagger to my steps. It cost five dollars to park at Caddy’s. But last year, when I’d been flat broke, I’d discovered that the lot attendant didn’t arrive to collect money until 8 a.m. Ever since, I’d made a point of getting there early enough to beat the fee. I grinned like a petty thief. The five bucks I’d saved could buy a lot of tonic for my Tanqueray.

  The top was down on Maggie, my 1963 Ford Falcon Sprint. I tested the red leatherette upholstery with a wet fingertip. It almost sizzled. Yow! I lay a beach towel over the bucket seat and tugged a yellow gingham sundress over my one-piece bathing suit. I settled into the seat, set my hands on the steering wheel, straightened my shoulders, and took a deep breath of salty beach air.

  Ahh! What could possibly make this day any better?

  Only one thing came to mind. I smiled and turned the ignition key. Then, just for fun, I mashed the gas pedal down. Maggie’s twin glass-pack muffler rumbled like a baritone with bronchitis. As I exited the lot, Maggie instinctively turned left toward Gulf Boulevard, the main beach drag. It cut through the middle of a thin split of land rimmed with gorgeous, white-sand beaches that were the envy of the world.

  After driving past a long string of pastel-colored, low-slung mom-and-pop hotels and junky souvenir shops, I steered Maggie right, onto Central Avenue. I hit the gas again, and in a few minutes we were in downtown St. Petersburg, the location of my favorite guilty pleasure – Chocolateers.

  Chocolate pusher-man Jack was there to greet me when I walked into the shop.

  He grinned at me and shook his head. “The usual, Val?”

  I nodded, and slid a wilted five-dollar bill across the glass-topped di
splay counter. Jack eyed the money, then reached into the case and retrieved two dark-brown confections the size of walnuts. He put the beautiful, hand-made chocolates onto a paper napkin and gingerly placed them on the counter. Jack’s eyes said a longing goodbye to his handiwork, then he took a step back and cringed.

  I grabbed the hand-dipped, chocolate-covered cherries and crammed them both into my mouth like a starving hobo. As I bit down, their hard shells popped inside my mouth like sweet, red grapes.

  Mmmm.

  This chocolate addict had just gotten her fix.

  AS I LEFT CHOCOLATEERS, I turned my cellphone back on. The clock registered 11 a.m. That meant I still had some time to kill before lunch. I decided to cruise along the downtown waterfront district. I was idling at the corner of 4th Avenue and Beach Drive when the inevitable happened.

  Old St. Nick got me.

  On an open stretch of grass in Straub Park, about a dozen guys in shorts and t-shirts were toiling together like ants. I stared, slack-jawed, as they pulled to standing the City of St Petersburg’s humongous artificial Christmas tree.

  It may as well have been a forty-foot-tall effigy of my mother’s scowling face.

  A chill ran down my spine despite the heat. Panic shot through me. Soon, I’d be obliged to keep a promise I’d made months ago in a moment of sniveling weakness. I’d be forced to visit my mother for the holidays.

  A horn honked behind me, startling me out of my stupor. I made a hasty left onto Beach Drive. An old, familiar knot gripped my stomach. Its name was Lucille Jolly. Lucille was my adoptive mother – a fact I’d discovered less than two years ago. Up until then, I thought she’d been the real thing. As shocked as I’d been to find out Lucille wasn’t my biological mother, the news had, in the end, left me feeling relieved.

  It meant I hadn’t come from her gene pool.

  I supposed everyone had a love-hate relationship with their mother. Since I’d only known Glad Goldrich, my true mother, for six weeks before she’d died, we’d never gotten around to the hate part. But on that score, Lucille and I’d had almost fifty years of dutiful practice.

  And in a few weeks, I would get even more.

  My brain turned to mush. My arms went leaden. I took a slow and aimless drive along North Shore Boulevard as if I’d run out of gas. To my left, sunlight danced like a billion bright diamonds on the wide expanse of Tampa Bay. To my right, the huge oaks of Vinoy Park spread their arms above manicured flowerbeds. But I couldn’t see the beauty. My eyes were clouded by impending doom. I pulled into a parking spot and blew out a huge breath.

  The mere thought of having to spend time with Lucille Jolly drained me like a used-up battery. The woman knew all my buttons and how to push them. Hell, she should’ve. She’d pretty much installed every one of them. Like a snowball in Florida, I didn’t have a chance in hell against her mysterious ability to instantly vaporize my self-esteem.

  My mood shot, I was about to head home when my cellphone rang. It was my cop boyfriend, Tom.

  “Hey you,” he said. “What ’cha doing?”

  “Thinking of running away and joining the circus.”

  Tom laughed. “Sorry, Val. You’re not weird enough.”

  “Tell that to Lucille.”

  “Uh-oh. Already getting worked up about the trip?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Val, it’s only for a few days. Family is family. You’re stuck with them, whether you like it or not.”

  I pursed my lips. Even though Tom had already met my mother, it’d been a brief encounter. He’d yet to make the acquaintance of any of my other relatives. This had not been unintentional on my part. My family was a croaker-sack full of crazy. At the best of times, they were comic relief. At the worst of times...well, that was the stuff of legends.

  And then there were...the holidays.

  The mere thought of the word caused my heart to palpitate.

  Christmas was to the Jolly clan what a full moon was to a pack of rabid werewolves. Tom had no idea the level of lunacy he was getting himself into.

  “Family is family all right,” I said. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Hey. I’m going with you. It’ll be fun.”

  I blew out a tired sigh.

  “Yeah, sure Tom. It’s gonna be a blast.”

  Chapter Two

  NEARLY TEN YEARS AGO, I’d had a thriving copy-writing business. Then I’d turned forty and totally freaked out. Convinced I’d become nothing more than an invisible cog in a pointless machine, I’d ditched my entire life and run off to Europe. In Germany, I did a seven-year stint as an ex-pat, a foreigner’s wife, and a would-be house renovator. When that fell apart two years ago, I’d returned to St. Pete as a broke ex-wife in dire need of renovation myself.

  As I crammed my toes into my work heels to face another Friday morning at the office, a thought stopped me in my tracks. Everything had come full circle. Here I was again, just a cog in the pointless accounting firm of Griffith & Maas.

  No, no, no!

  I shook my head to clear the cobwebs clogging my brain.

  I can’t let myself turn into that sad, angry, robot woman again! If I do...holy crap! That would mean I’d wasted my entire forties! Lord knows I don’t have another decade to squander!

  A scowl dug itself into my face as I stuffed my feet into my pumps. I stomped to the bathroom and made a final check of my face and hair in the mirror. One glance and I felt as deflated as a leaky balloon.

  When did I start looking like Lucille? Geeze! She’s not even my mother! This isn’t fair at all!

  I marched into the kitchen, flung open the cupboard, and took a slug of spiced rum straight from the bottle. Fortified for the day, I scrounged my car keys from between the sofa cushions, grabbed my purse, and headed out the door.

  WHEN I ARRIVED AT GRIFFITH & Maas, Milly wasn’t too happy to see me. For the past six months, my best friend had also become my boss. I’d filled the receptionist position left open when the skunk-haired, crack-addicted Mrs. Barnes had retired under “extenuating circumstances.”

  I supposed as my manager it was Milly’s job to remain somewhat at arm’s length and disgruntled with me. I understood that. But I didn’t have to like it. Even though Milly had gotten me the job in the first place, the idea that she was my superior still rubbed me in all the wrong places – like sand in the bottom of my bathing suit.

  “Missed you yesterday,” Milly said as I walked in the door. Her voice was more accusatory than concerned. “Were you sick?”

  “In a way, yeah.” I dropped my purse on my desk and copped an attitude. “Look, Milly. I was all caught up with the filing and scheduling. And you didn’t have any appointments yesterday. So I took a mental health day.”

  Milly scowled. “Val, would it have killed you to check with me first?”

  I scrunched my eyebrows together and shrugged. “Yeah, maybe.”

  Milly sighed, weary of my crap. “Listen. I know getting back in the workforce has been an adjustment for you, Val. But I need you to follow some rules. Color inside the lines once in a while. I thought I had you trained better.”

  A red-hot shot of rebellion raced through me. “Trained me?”

  “You know what I mean. Val, this ‘free-spirit’ bull crap is starting to wear thin.”

  I knew Milly was right. And it made me even madder. I should have been grateful. She’d put herself out on a limb with Mr. Maas when she’d recommended me as her personal assistant. To be fair, I did have fleeting moments of gratitude. But for the most part, I just felt trapped. Even so, I had no one to blame for my ensnarement but myself. It wasn’t as if Milly had kidnapped me, stolen my money and chained me to a desk, after all. I’d managed to screw up my life without her assistance.

  “Sorry, Milly. You’re right,” I said with a tad less sarcasm. “I promise to schedule all my future crises beforehand.”

  Milly shot me a hurt, angry glance. She turned to leave. I felt like a crap.

  “Milly?”
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  She turned around, exasperated. “What?”

  “I didn’t mean that like it sounded. I’m serious. I’ll try to be more responsible.”

  Milly smiled, but her eyes didn’t brighten. “Thanks.”

  “You going out with Vance tonight?” I asked.

  The mention of her new boyfriend made Milly’s face light up.

  She looked me up and down, uncertainty twisting her tentative smile. “Yes. Now, get to work, will you?”

  I saluted. “Yes ma’am. You can count on me.”

  Chapter Three

  TWO WEEKS HAD PASSED since St. Pete’s forty-foot Christmas tree had sapped away most of my will to live. On the bright side, I’d finally found something to appreciate about my menial job. It offered temporary distraction from my obsessive thoughts about something even worse – the impending holiday hoedown in Hicksville, also known as Christmas at my mother’s place.

  “Do you like fruitcake?” I asked Tom.

  He was leaning against the frame of my front door, looking just as I always pictured him in my daydreams. His crisp, white shirt was rolled up to his elbows. It seemed to glow in contrast to his golden-tan skin. Tom’s fresh-pressed blue jeans were snug in all the right places, held up with a simple leather belt. And his sea-green eyes were twinkling like they often did, making promises I knew Tom was very good at keeping.

  Tom’s forehead furrowed with curiosity. He brushed his blond bangs from his forehead and shot me a crooked smile. Like magic, deep dimples appeared on either side of his lean, handsome face.

  “I like you, Val,” he teased. “Does that count?”

  I crinkled my nose and punched him on the arm.

  “Ha ha. Very funny.” I grabbed Tom’s hand and pulled him inside. “Come in for a minute. I want you to try something.”

  “Sure, I’m up for anything,” he teased.