Cloud Nine- When Pigs Fly Read online

  “Don’t worry. I’m still sending it over to forensics. Maybe the lab can find DNA or fingerprints on it. But I wouldn’t hold my breath. It’s not likely, given that it’s been swimming around in saltwater for who knows how long.”

  I bit my lip and frowned. “Right.”

  “Okay. I gotta go,” Tom said. He kissed me goodbye, stuck a foot out the front door, then turned around. “Oh. With the bracelet and everything, I forgot to ask you. How’d it go yesterday with J.D. and your search for Goober?”

  I tried not grimace at the thought of J.D. taking a dump in a casserole dish. I decided a short, one-word answer would suffice.

  “Crappy.”

  “Well, try not to get in too much trouble today, okay? I’ve got enough on my plate with Parsons and now the Jeen case.”

  “Jeen?”

  “That’s Norma’s last name.”

  “Oh.”

  Tom shot me a mock smug look. “Finally, something you didn’t know already. Listen, I really gotta go. Don’t forget to walk Snogs.”

  “I won’t.”

  At the sound of his name, Snogs came flying at us like a harpoon made from a dust cloth. Tom lifted him up and set him in my arms.

  “You watch out for her, you hear me, Snogs?”

  I laughed, kissed Tom again and closed the door. As the lock clicked into place, something pinged in my brain. I jerked open the door and called after Tom.

  “Hey. Wait a minute. You called him Snogs! I thought you hated that name.”

  Tom pondered my words for a moment, then winked a sea-green eye at me.

  “Huh. What do you know? I guess it kind of grew on me after all. Kind ‘a like someone else I know.”

  I RANG UP GALLWORTH & Haney and got the snotty blonde receptionist.

  “Hi. I was just calling to see if I could stop by and sign another copy of the deposition for Angela Langsbury.”

  “No,” the woman huffed. “Your services are no longer needed. Ms. Dimson has acquired everything she needs, and is, in fact, headed to court as we speak.”

  Well, la-tee-da. I guess I’m too late for her again. Too bad.

  “Well, good for her,” I said, and hung up the phone. I felt more relieved than guilty. I had one less thing on my to-do list for today, and no longer having to go to Dimson’s office lowered the dress code for the day significantly. My planned dress and heels got demoted to sandals, a jean skirt and a comfy t-shirt. As far as I was concerned, the whole thing was a win-win.

  I got dressed, grabbed my purse, and tiptoed guiltily by Snogs in his cage. As I closed the front door behind me, a glint of sunlight caught my eye. It was arcing off one of the beer cans dangling from Goober’s dreamcatcher hanging in my office window.

  I bit my lip. I knew I should have been writing. But since class had been cancelled last Thursday, I hadn’t touched my computer. Besides, right now I had a more important mission. Goober was still missing, and I needed to track him down.

  The only useful clues I had were the post office box number Freddie helped me figure out, and the address on the postcard Goober’d sent me. Goober once told me he’d been a sociology teacher, but that info was pretty much useless. It could have been a fabrication. And I had no desire to search the entire US public and private school systems on the off chance they’d hired a nutty professor with a walrus moustache. Besides, who could even say what name he would have given them.

  No. Right now, it was better to focus on the post office box clue. My plan for today was to head downtown and check it out. As I walked to my car, I waved to Nancy, who was in her front yard, jogging in place with weights in her hands.

  That woman is a grunting aerobics machine!

  “I see you’re at it again,” I called out.

  “I (grunt) want to be in top shape for the (grunt) luau pool party!” she called from across the street. “I ordered (grunt) enough flowers so everyone can get laid.”

  My brain screeched to a halt.

  What?

  “Oh,” I said. “Hawaiian leis, right.”

  I climbed into Maggie, hit the ignition, and wondered how long it had been since Nancy had gotten...a ring of flowers placed around her neck.

  “I’D LIKE TO ENQUIRE about the owner of post office box number 3799,” I said to the postman behind the service counter at the downtown post office.

  He eyed me suspiciously. “What exactly do you want to know?”

  “Uh...I’d like to know if the owner left instructions or perhaps another key? You see, I’ve...uh...lost mine.”

  “Oh. Sure, lady. Hold on.”

  The tired-looking clerk came back and slapped a form on the counter between us. “You’ll need to fill this out. In triplicate.”

  “Um...okay. I’ll just do it over there,” I said, and pointed toward the narrow strip of counter designed for patrons to rest their elbows and packages on while they waited in line.

  “Fine,” he said dryly. “It’ll probably take a couple of weeks to process the information. In the meantime, I just thought I’d let you know that falsifying federal documents is an offense punishable by fines, imprisonment, or both.”

  Something in my throat collapsed.

  “Right,” I croaked. “Thank you, sir. Is it okay if I...uh...take these with me and fill them out at home?”

  The clerk peered over his bifocals and sighed. “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

  I backed out of the post office like a wanted criminal. As soon as I made it out alive, I ran to my car, jumped in it, and called Winky.

  “What are you doing right now?” I asked.

  “Uh...usin’ the toilet.”

  “Ugh! Call me back when you’re done!”

  “Naw. It’s all over but the paperwork.” I heard a toilet flush. “What can I do you for?”

  “I want to keep an eye on the post office and see if anybody comes to check Goober’s box.”

  “You mean like a stakeout?” he asked, his voice rising at the end.

  “No.”

  “Dang.”

  “Well, I mean, yeah. Like a stakeout.”

  “When?”

  “Right now.”

  “All right!” Winky cheered. “Listen, Val, I ain’t got no car. It’s in the shop. But I can take a beach trolley. Be there in half an hour, give or take an hour.”

  “Okay,” I sighed. “I’ve got another stop to make anyway. Meet you at the post office at say, eleven o’clock?”

  “Eleven o’clock.”

  “Yes.”

  “Eleven o’clock,” Winky repeated.

  “Why do you keep saying that?”

  “‘Cause you told me to say eleven o’clock.”

  Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all....

  “Listen, Winky, why don’t we just –”

  “Hold up a second. Here you go, mister trolley man.”

  “You’re already on a trolley?”

  “Yep.”

  No turning back now.

  “Okay. See you soon.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I was parked across the street from the post office in downtown St. Pete, waiting on Winky to arrive by trolley. I was wiping the sweat from my upper lip when I spied Angela Langsbury in my rearview mirror. She was hobbling down the street, her arm in a sling, her neck in a brace. I jumped out of Maggie and ran over to check on her.

  “Geeze, Mrs. Langsbury,” I said, taking her arm. “I didn’t realize you’d gotten injured in that scuffle.”

  Langsbury stopped limping and rolled her eyes at me. “I’m not, Fremden. It was Dimson’s idea for me to wear this getup. Said it would garner sympathy with the judge.”

  “Oh.” I let go of her arm.

  “Thanks for the deposition, kid. Between these stupid props and your testimony, I got off the hook for the eighteen hundred bucks.” Langsbury chuckled to herself. “You should’ve seen Victoria’s flabbergasted face. Priceless.”

  “Uh...But I didn’t –”

  “Pretty clever of yo
u, too, saying I’d even offered Victoria an early-bird discount. Gave the whole thing a ring of authenticity.”

  How ironic, considering there was nothing authentic about it.

  Langsbury tugged at the fake neck brace. “Yeah, I’d say you got the makings of a great fiction writer, kid.”

  “Uh...thanks.”

  Dimson had forged my deposition, but I couldn’t see any reason to argue the point now. If I told Langsbury it wasn’t me, she’d no longer owe me a favor. I wasn’t ready to let that go. I might need it before all this business with her slimy brother-in-law was over. Langsbury might be off the hook with Victoria, but Timothy Amsel wasn’t off my hook. Not by a long shot.

  “Glad I could help out, Mrs. Langsbury. I was wondering, how well do you know Timothy Amsel?”

  “Better than I care too.”

  “Do you think he’s capable of doing something...uh...untoward?”

  Langsbury’s beady eyes gleamed. “Absolutely. You know something, don’t you! Tell me!”

  “You aren’t...uh...planning on moving into a nursing home or anything, are you?”

  “What? No! Why would you ask that?”

  I gave the old woman the once-over. As thin, pale, and busted-up looking as she appeared, she could have been a posterchild for the Grim Reaper.

  “Amsel filed a quit-claim deed on your house.”

  “He what!” Langsbury shouted so loud she nearly fell over sideways. “I’ll kill him!”

  “I’m working on an even better plan, if you’re interested.”

  Langsbury’s thin lip curled upward. “Does it involve slow, painful suffering?”

  “Maybe. You up for it?”

  Langsbury glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then swung her bandaged arm out like a chicken and danced a jig on the sidewalk.

  “Bring it on, kid. As you can see, I’m as fit as a fiddle.”

  “HOW MUCH LONGER WE gonna sit out here in this heat?” Winky asked, and wiped his red face with the front of his threadbare t-shirt.

  “I don’t know.” I shifted my sweaty thighs in Maggie’s driver’s seat. “Until someone goes to Goober’s post office box, I guess.”

  “Lord a mighty. Look here, Val. I done got me a St. Pete swimmin’ pool.”

  I glanced over at Winky. He stuck a finger in his sweat-filled navel, causing the perspiration collected within it to spill out onto his belly.

  Okay. I’m outta here.

  “The two-hour limit on this parking spot is almost up,” I said. “Let’s go. If only there was some way of getting a note to Goober...you know, slipping one in his post office box or something. Then we could get in touch with him without having to stake out his box.”

  Winky cocked his freckled head at me like a quizzical, ginger-haired bulldog.

  “I got an idea,” he said.

  Great. I can’t wait to hear this one.

  “What?” I asked, and braced myself for the idiotic onslaught.

  “Why don’t you mail him a letter to his post office box?”

  The sharp sting of realizing my own colossal stupidity made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, despite the broiling heat.

  “Oh. Well...right, of course I could do that,” I said. “I was saving it...as a last resort.”

  “Uh-huh,” Winky said.

  Humiliation seared my burning cheeks. I glanced in the rearview mirror and nearly gasped. Not only was I officially a dingbat – the August heat and humidity had melted my makeup. I looked like Mrs. Potato Head after a five-minute stint in a microwave oven.

  “Okay. Plan B it is,” I said, and handed Winky the envelope on which I’d scribbled Langsbury’s address last night at Laverne’s. “We’ve got this other place to stake out. You know where it is?”

  Winky read the envelope. “Shore do. Take a turn down this here alley.”

  “I did as instructed and cut through the alley between First Street North and Central Avenue.

  As I cruised slowly by a fragrant dumpster, Winky hollered, “Stop the car!”

  I slammed on the brakes, but since we were only going about four miles an hour, the effect was melodramatic.

  “What?” I asked.

  “That car there.”

  I glanced at the rusty, baby-blue, 1980s-era Chevy Chevette parked up against the back of a shop wall.

  “Wow,” I deadpanned. “What a classic.”

  Winky looked at me like I was crazy. “Don’t you recognize it? That’s Goober’s car!”

  “What?” I squealed. “Oh my lord! Let’s go check it out!”

  In my mad scramble to get out of the car, my elbow mashed the horn on Maggie’s steering wheel. A second later, a head popped up in the Chevy’s front seat. It wasn’t Goober. This guy had hair.

  Frizzy, reddish-brown hair.

  A tall, skinny, beak-nosed man unfolded himself from the driver’s side door. He looked like a stink bug wearing a suit filched from a dirty-clothes hamper. Both his expression and hairdo reminded me of someone who might have recently been attacked by birds.

  Somewhere beneath all that grunge, a familiar face peeked through. My jaw hit the asphalt.

  It was my old nemesis, Ferrol Finkerman.

  “WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE you doing in Goober’s car?” I yelled at Finkerman.

  “Geeze, Fremden,” Finkerman said sourly. “Slow down. I didn’t know it was a goober car. And anyway, what, pray tell, is a goober car? An Uber without wheels?”

  “Not a goober car. Goober’s car. It belongs to our friend Goober. What are you doing with it?”

  “Nothing. I found it here and, well, you know the rules. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. I just...took up temporary residence.”

  “You’re living in it?”

  Finkerman shrugged. “Well, everybody’s gotta live somewhere.”

  “I lived in the bed of a pick ‘em up truck for three months,” Winky said. “Had a topper and everything!”

  “Sweet,” Finkerman deadpanned.

  “Why are you living in a car?” I asked.

  “Funny story,” Finkerman said. He tried to laugh, but it came out more like a wheeze. “I got in a little hot water over that whole overdue library book thing. My idiot nephew Fargo, you remember him?”

  “Yes.”

  “He sent one of my letters to the wife of a circuit judge. Come to find out you were right, Fremden. Soliciting a fee to make a fake legal problem go away qualifies as extortion. Who knew?”

  “You should have, that’s who. You’re an attorney, after all!”

  “Not anymore. I kind of got, well...disbarred.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry none,” Winky said. “When I lost my job, I got disbarred to, but I cheered up directly.”

  “Winky, that’s despaired...and I don’t think you used quite the right syntax.”

  “Sin tax?” Winky asked. “There’s a tax on sin now?”

  “Only in Georgia and parts of Tennessee,” Finkerman quipped.

  “Well, at least you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” I said. “How long have you been...uh...living in the Chevy?”

  “Since Thursday. They repo’d my Hummer.”

  “Yeah. I think I saw that go down.” I didn’t bother to hide the grin creeping across my face. “So, what will you do now?”

  “Not sure,” Finkerman said. “At the moment, my options are rather slim. I need to lay low...bill collectors and all. Still, you can’t get blood out of a turnip.”

  “Or integrity out of a Finkerman,” I said.

  “When’s this Goober guy getting back?” Finkerman asked. “I could stay here and ‘guard’ his vehicle while he’s gone. For a small fee, of course.”

  I shook my head. “You never know when to quit, do you?”

  Winky tugged on my sleeve. “Val, I think he just said he did. You know, quit. Attorneyin’ and all.”

  I held in a sigh. “Right.”

  I walked over and peeked inside the Chevette. It was full to the brim with clothes
, blankets, food wrappers and whatever else, I didn’t want to know. If Goober’s Chevy had held any clues to his whereabouts, they’d been buried or obliterated by Finkerman’s unsanctioned inhabitation.

  “I think we should take the Chevy back to my place,” I said.

  “I’ve got a set a spare tires at the donut shack,” Winky said. “You could take me to get ‘em.”

  “Don’t bother,” Finkerman said. “It’s not going anywhere.” He lifted the hood and held it open for our inspection. “Take a look.”

  “Dang,” Winky said. “Looks like they done got the battery, the distributor cap, and a few other hoozy-whatsits.”

  Finkerman let go and the hood slammed shut. “So, what do you think of my gracious offer to guard this little beauty for you?”

  “Not much,” I said. “You already let them steal the tires and engine right out from under you.”

  “Technically, they stole the engine right out from in front of me. Actually, it was like that when I got here. Otherwise, I’d have hotwired the thing and driven somewhere that didn’t offer the aromatic allure of week-old dumpster.”

  I pondered my options. They were pretty slim.

  “Okay,” I said. “I guess it won’t hurt if you stay another night or two. But don’t leave without telling me. I may want to search the vehicle. I’ll need you to sort out what junk is yours and which is Goober’s.”

  “Not a problem,” Finkerman said, and held out a thin, insectoid hand. “You owe me for five days service.”

  “What?” I practically screeched.

  “Like I said, I’ve been guarding the car since Thursday.”

  “Five days. This ought to cover it.” I handed Finkerman a fiver.

  He took it and tucked it inside his rumpled suit jacket. “Your graciousness knows no bounds, Fremden.”

  “Neither does your gall, Finkerman. Come on, Winky, let’s go.”

  “Nice seeing you,” Finkerman quipped as we walked away.

  “Why do you think Goober left his car there?” I asked Winky as we climbed into Maggie.

  “I don’t rightly know. But they wasn’t any parking tickets on it. Maybe it’s a kind ‘a secret spot. You know, one that don’t get checked by the police.”