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  “Right.” Mr. Fellows closed his eyes for a second, then scribbled in his pad. “After the toupee incident, a nipple-ringed yoga instructor took you and Ms. Piddle on a cruise. A thunderstorm blew up and you three ended up spending most of the night in a driftwood lean-to on Dog Island.”

  Mr. Fellows looked up at me. I nodded in agreement. He looked down at his notepad and continued. “Upon your return, you ran into a naked man in a beekeeper’s hat. He blinded you with a flashlight and said... ahem...‘hard-bodied grubs,’ then disappeared into the bushes.”

  “Correct.”

  “You went to the lobby and received your room keys from a clerk named Monty. You showered, got in bed, and woke the next day at 5 a.m. with Ms. Piddle snoring in the bed next to yours.”

  “Yes.”

  “How was she able to get into the cottage?”

  “I left the door unlocked for her.”

  “And how do you know it was Ms. Piddle in the bed?”

  I shrugged. “Uh...I guess because, I mean, who else could it have been?”

  Mr. Fellows scribbled on his pad. “Moving on. At around 5:45 a.m., you got coffee from the breakfast room, went for a walk on the beach and read a book in a lounge chair. At 8:45 you returned to the room to find Ms. Piddle still in bed. You went to the breakfast room, saw Detective Stanley there, freaked out and left.”

  “I never said I freaked out.”

  Mr. Fellows looked up and winked. “Just seeing if you’re paying attention. It sounds like that was a good move on your part.”

  “If it was, it was the only one.”

  Mr. Fellows peered at me through his glasses for a second. I pursed my lips and sighed. “Then you returned to the beach,” he continued. “There, the porter, Brad, told you about another restaurant where you could have breakfast.”

  “Doug’s Dugout.”

  “Yes. I have it here. You headed in that direction when you were, to use your phrase, ‘body-slammed’ by a man in the surf, who knocked you down and made you aware of the tornado.”

  “It was a water spout at the time, but then it turned into a tornado.”

  “I see. Then you ran back to the resort, stepped in a hole, twisted your ankle and hobbled to cottage number 22. You searched the bed for Ms. Piddle. She wasn’t in it. Did you check the bathroom?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “The room started spinning...there wasn’t time. I needed to shut the door.”

  “The bathroom door?”

  “No. The door to the outside. The wind was howling and blowing everything around. I tried to close the door, but I couldn’t because I could only stand on one foot....”

  “And that’s when you saw the manikin leg come flying at you. It knocked you out and you woke up with a seagull waddling toward you, ready to peck your eyes out.”

  “Well, I can’t be sure if that was its intentions, but that’s what it seemed like to me.”

  “Okay. Then you called Monty. He called the EMTs. They discovered the blood in the bathroom and called the police. Jim with the bad toupee was the nearest detective available. He arrived, showed you the scene of the crime, then accused you of killing Ms. Piddle.”

  I hung my head. “Yes. He and another cop took me to the station and questioned me – without giving me a chance to call anyone. Thank goodness Tom saw them putting me in the squad car or I don’t know what would have happened.”

  “How was Tom able to get you out?”

  “He told me he showed the cops his badge when he got to the station. That’s how he was able to get in the hallway next to the interrogation room. He yelled through the wall for me to ask for an attorney. When I did, they put me in a holding cell until Tom was able to get me out. He told Detective Stanley they didn’t have enough to hold me. The guy blew a gasket. But I guess Tom was right, because...well, here I am.”

  “Like I’ve told you before, Val. You do lead the most interesting life.”

  “That’s one way to put it. So what do you think?”

  Mr. Fellows tapped his pen on his notepad. “I think a man’s vanity can be a very powerful motivator.”

  “Not about Detective Stanley. I mean about my story, Mr. Fellows. You do believe me?”

  Mr. Fellows head tilted sideways. “Well of course, Val! I have no doubt.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And I’m glad you came to me first. Because, I have to say, if I hadn’t already been involved with you in that whole debacle a while back concerning the finger you found in your sofa, I’d have never believed one person could be the innocent victim of so much insanity.”

  I grimaced. “So you think I’m crazy?”

  Mr. Fellows smiled and shook his head. “No, Val. I think your life is crazy. And what’s transpired this time is much more serious than I’m qualified to deal with. As you know, I’m an estate attorney, not a defense attorney. Do you have anyone else you can call to help with your legal representation? Someone familiar with your...uh...typical life events?”

  I blew out a breath. “I think I do know someone. I just wonder if he’ll remember me.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  As instructed, Mr. Fellows dumped the contents of my nightstand drawer onto the coffee table beside the sofa. Amongst the tissues, nail polish and pens, a few personal items tumbled out onto the wooden table, making me wish I’d thought my plan through a little better beforehand.

  “Um...over there,” I instructed from my position on the couch. I mentally weighed the pain of my sprained ankle with the excruciating embarrassment I felt at the moment.

  “Where?” Mr. Fellows asked as he hovered over the pile of stuff scattered onto the table.

  “Next to the pink thing,” I pointed. “That yellow scrap from a phonebook.”

  Mr. Fellows’ expression said he’d have preferred to have been wearing rubber gloves. He picked up the scrap of paper from amongst my unmentionables. “This?” he asked.

  “Yes. That’s it. That’s the number for Bernard Charles.”

  Mr. Fellows studied the paper with a pinched face. “It’s an old Yellow Pages ad. This says Charles is just a general attorney at law. You’re going to need a defense attorney. Someone with enough experience to get you out of this mess.”

  “That ad is like...I dunno, thirty years old, Mr. Fellows. I found it when I was cleaning the junk out of this place. Mr. Charles has the experience, believe me. And he’s no ordinary attorney. He’s like some secret government agent or something.”

  “CIA or FBI?” Mr. Fellows asked, and handed me the torn slip of paper.

  “I don’t know. And I have a feeling I’m better off not knowing – if you know what I mean.”

  “I see. Should I leave the room while you make the call?”

  “No. Don’t be silly.” I punched in the number. It didn’t ring. Instead, there was a simple recording. “Leave a message,” the electronic voice-mail said, then a quick tone sounded. “Um...Mr. Charles. It’s Val Fremden. I hate to bother you, but I need your help. Please call me as soon as possible. Uh...thank you. I’m the one with the finger....uh...goodbye.”

  Mr. Fellows looked at me dubiously. “I guess that’s all we can do for now. Should I clean this up?” he waved a hand across the coffee table. I nearly fell off the couch in my haste to answer him.

  “Oh! No! Thanks, I’ll do it.”

  “Okay then. I suppose I’ll be going. But I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome, young lady,” Mr. Fellows said as he was reaching for the doorknob.

  The phone rang. “It’s Tom,” I said. “Hold on. He might have something important to say.”

  Mr. Fellows turned waited as I punched the speaker button on the phone.

  “Hi Tom. Mr. Fellows is here. He was just about to leave.”

  “Okay. Listen Val. Did you meet anyone at the resort named Freddie?”

  “No. I don’t think so. Why?”

  “I don’t kn
ow. It may be nothing. But I thought I overheard a maid at the resort saying, “Freddie’s done it again.”

  “I dunno, Tom. Maybe it’s that weird guy in the beekeeper’s hat.”

  “Come on, Val. Think harder. This is getting more serious by the minute.”

  My stomach flopped. “Why? What’s happened?”

  “I didn’t want to tell you over the phone, but the CSI team found a chunk of...something...washed up on the shore. They said it appears to be human.”

  “Like a finger?”

  “No. Something more...uh...vital.”

  “Oh, Tom!”

  “I know. But it’s nothing conclusive. And Val, I just heard from my buddy at the DMV. He ran a search for Penelope Piddle. There’s no one in the database that matches that name.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Could she have given you a false name?”

  “No. I can’t believe that. Geeze! Call Milly, Tom. Vance’s sister, Annie. She has the records for Date Busters. Maybe I got the name wrong.”

  “Okay. I’ll get on that. Anything new on your end?”

  “No, but we’ve...uh...put some calls out.”

  “Roger that,” Tom said. “I’ll see you later this evening.”

  “Okay. Be careful.”

  “I will.” Tom clicked off the phone.

  “This just keeps getting worse and worse,” I said to Mr. Fellows.

  “Hopefully, that’s the end of the surprises,” he said. “Sorry to ask, but do you mind if I use your restroom before I go?”

  My mind flashed back to the horrific results from the last time I answered that question. I shuddered. “Sure. No problem. You know where it is.” I flopped back into the couch, suddenly exhausted. I figured it must be close to midnight, but the clock on the wall said 7:43 p.m. A light tapping on the sliding glass door to my backyard made me look up. Laverne was at the door, waving. I motioned for her to come in.

  “I was just watering your plants and saw you on the couch,” Laverne said, sticking her head in the door. “What are you doing back here, honey? I thought you were on vacation.”

  “There’s been an accident,” I said.

  “Oh no! I see your foot’s all bandaged up. What happened?” She asked as she walked over for a better look at my foot.

  “Hello, Ms. Cowens,” Mr. Fellows said.

  Laverne jumped like a startled cat. “JD! What are you doing here?”

  “Helping out our gal Val. She’s in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Laverne asked.

  “Big trouble,” I said. “It’s Cold Cuts, Laverne. She went down to the resort with me yesterday. And now...she’s disappeared.” My voice cracked. Tears filled my eyes. “I’ve been accused of – sob! – murdering her!”

  Laverne gasped in horror. Her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Val!” she cried, and ran out the back door.

  “Poor Laverne!” I sobbed. “I didn’t mean to upset her.”

  “Don’t worry,” Mr. Fellows said. “I’ll go see about her.”

  AFTER MR. FELLOWS LEFT, I crawled to the kitchen, grabbed the dusting mop and employed it as a makeshift cane so I could hobble to the bathroom and back. By the time I’d managed it, I was spent. I flopped back on the couch just as the phone rang again. The led screen read, “Unknown Caller.” I picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Fremden?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bernard Charles, at your service.”

  “You remember me!”

  “Of course. How could I forget? Your information about the dirty dog track dealings was invaluable. I owe you one.”

  “Well, I’m awfully glad you feel that way, because I need a favor. A big one. I’m being accused of homicide – of killing a friend of mine. She’s missing, and I need you to help me find her.” I took a deep breath and prepared to tell all the gory details of my story for the fifth time today, but Mr. Charles spoke before I could say another word.

  “No need to explain, Ms. Fremden. I know all about it.”

  “What? How?”

  “Let’s just say, we’ve kind of kept tabs on you since you first blipped onto our radar screen.”

  “Oh,” I said. A sudden chill ran down my spine. Well, that’s not creepy at all....

  “Are you still there?” Mr. Charles asked.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. But you haven’t...bugged my house, have you?”

  “Certainly not,” Mr. Charles laughed. “But we keep a thumb on the pulse of police activities. Monitor police radios and whatnot.”

  “Oh.” “Whatnot” indeed.

  “When you called an hour ago, I did a little research before I called back. I don’t generally get involved personally with homicide cases unless I’m certain of the innocence of the accused.”

  “Then you believe me?”

  “I read the police report. Even I don’t have an imagination that good.”

  “I know it all sounds ridiculous, but I –”

  “No need to go on, Ms. Fremden. What I need right now is for you to tell me everything you know about this friend of yours. The one you’ve been charged with murdering.”

  “Where should I start?”

  “Name. General physical description. Any known aliases or associates.”

  “Her name is...well, I thought it was Penelope Piddle. But I may have gotten that wrong. Tom’s working on it. She goes by the nickname Cold Cuts.”

  “Well, that’s original.”

  “Yeah. It’s a long story.”

  “And physical attributes?”

  “She’s female, around thirty years old, and about five-feet five inches tall.”

  “Race? Hair and eye color?”

  “She’s brunette. Brown-eyed. Caucasian.”

  “Known associates?”

  “I dunno. But she was getting pretty friendly with a guy at the resort.”

  “How friendly?”

  “As friendly as a person can get.”

  “I see. And this person’s name?”

  “Bill Robo. He works at the resort.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Anything that needs doing, apparently.”

  “How about vehicles. Do you know what either one was driving?”

  “Yes. Cold Cuts – I mean Penelope drives a 1966 Minnie Winnie RV. White and blue. Florida plates.”

  “Given the uncertainty over the names, that’s pretty specific. It should prove helpful.”

  “I hope so. But the police say it’s gone missing from the resort parking lot. It’s the Sunset Sailawa –”

  “Yes. I’ve got that information.”

  “Wait a minute. You said names, not name.”

  “Yes. We’ve done a preliminary search on Bill Robo. It’s looking like it might be an alias.”

  The air went out of me like a punctured tire. “Oh.”

  “Tell me, Ms. Fremden. Do you know anything about this ‘hard-bodied grub’ nonsense?”

  I felt as useless as humanly possible. “Not a thing.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps it’s some kind of code. Okay then. That’s all for now. I’ve got my team already working on it, Ms. Fremden. In the meantime, the best advice I can give you is to stay out of the fray...and cooperate with the authorities without incriminating yourself.”

  “If I knew how to do that, Mr. Charles, I wouldn’t have bothered you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was dark out when I woke up on the couch. The phone was ringing. I leaned over and grabbed the receiver. My ankle protested in pain.

  “Hello?” I said, my voice groggy with sleep.

  “Val, it’s Milly. Tom called and told me the horrible news. How are you?”

  I shifted to sitting up. “As well as can be expected, I guess.”

  “Listen, I just spoke with Annie. She checked her files. Cold Cuts’ name is Piddleton, not Piddle. I wanted you to know right away.”

  Suddenly, I was wide awake. “Geeze! I’m so glad you did
, Milly. Have you told Tom?”

  “Not yet. Should I?”

  “Yes, if you don’t mind. I’ve got to let a few other people know.”

  “Okay. Will do. So how are you holding up? Do you need anything?”

  “I’m okay. And Tom should be here soon. But thanks for asking. How are things with you and Vance?”

  “Fine. Don’t worry about us.”

  “Listen, let’s talk tomorrow. I really need to get this news to someone.”

  “All right. And Val?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m really sorry about all this. I hope Cold Cuts is all right.”

  “Thanks, Milly. Me, too.”

  I hung up the phone and dialed Bernard Charles. After listening to the mechanical recording, I left a message about Cold Cuts’ real name. When I hung up the phone, I felt drained of energy, and nearly empty of hope.

  Cold Cuts, where are you?

  “VAL.”

  I opened my swollen, sleepy eyes. The room was pitch black. “Tom?”

  “Yes. It’s me. I didn’t want to scare you. I’m going to turn on a light.”

  “Okay.”

  He flipped the switch on the side table lamp, sending white volts shooting through my retinas like lightning bolts.

  “I don’t know who looks worse. You or me,” he joked half-heartedly.

  I blinked and squinted as my eyes adjusted to the light. Tom, usually clean, crisp and tidy, looked as if he’d just climbed out of a dumpster after losing a wrestling match with a raccoon.

  “Geeze. I hope it’s you,” I said. “What happened?”

  “Nothing worth explaining,” he said, then swiped a hand across the coffee table to clear off a space to sit. He sat, grunted, then lifted a butt cheek and pulled something out from under him. “What’s this?” he teased, and waggled the pink thing that usually hid out in my nightstand drawer. “You been having fun without me?”

  I tried to laugh, but choked instead. “Oh Tom! Please tell me you have good news.”

  Tom bit his lip. “I wish I did. As you know, Milly called me with Cold Cuts’ real name. We ran it through the DMV database and got the plates for the RV. It’s not much, but at least it’s a start. And no actual body has turned up. So there’s hope she’s still alive.”