Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 1 Page 10

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Jes. I think I jus’ need a beer or something.”

  Jorge didn’t wait for a reply. He turned sharply and walked back toward the beach bar, head down, shoulders slumped.

  “Okay, see you soon,” I called after him, trying not to sound sympathetic. Tom and I turned back toward the turquoise water and walked in silence along the shore for a minute.

  “He and I used to be partners, you know,” Tom said, breaking the quiet tension between us. “I’ve never seen anyone so devastated as he was when he lost his family. He’s still just a fraction of the person I used to know.”

  “A fraction. That’s sad. Tell me, where do our missing pieces go?”

  Tom stopped walking and looked me in the eyes. “That’s a darn good question. I wish I knew the answer.”

  “Me too.”

  His eyes studied my soul for a moment, then shifted back to this mortal plane. “I guess we better stick to questions we can answer, Val. What have you got for me so far?”

  “Just a bunch of jumbled up theories, mostly. With the Hawesville records missing, I’m not a hundred percent sure Glad even had a child, or, if she did, that it survived.”

  “What does your gut say?”

  “My gut?”

  “Yes. In my line of work, I’ve learned that facts can only get you so far. You’d be surprised how often it’s intuition – a gut feeling – that fills in the missing pieces, connects the dots, and solves the case.”

  I stopped walking and looked at Tom, incredulous. “Really?”

  Tom stopped, too. He turned to face me, and the wind off the gulf fluttered his golden bangs over his forehead. “Yes, really. I’m going to ask you a question, Val. Don’t think about the answer. Just let yourself kind of relax and float instead. Then say the first thing that bubbles up from your throat. Ready?”

  “Uh...I guess.”

  “Close your eyes.” He reached toward me and removed my sunglasses, then slid them into his shorts pocket. He touched his fingertips to my cheeks, then gently placed his thumbs on my eyelids to close them. Hot electricity shot through my body.

  “So Val, did Tony and Glad have a baby?”

  I shivered. “Yes,” I heard my mouth say.

  “And did it survive?”

  “Yes,” formed on my lips again.

  Spooky.

  “And is it still alive?”

  Goosebumps broke out on my arms. “Yes!”

  “Boy or girl?”

  I overthought it and the tingly feeling evaporated. My gut quit on me. I frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “No worries,” he said gently.

  I opened my eyes just in time to see Tom wink at me. He pulled my sunglasses out of his pocket and handed them back to me. They were warm from his body heat.

  “How about we head back? I don’t want to leave Jorge alone too long,” he said.

  I nodded in agreement. We turned and began the walk back toward Caddy’s. It was barely nine in the morning and the sun was already hot enough to make me sweat without exertion. At least, I thought it was the sun. I watched the sun do its diamond shimmy show with the gulf, and listened as the seagulls heckled out their gratitude for another gorgeous morning.

  For some reason, I felt so light I worried I might lift off and float away. Tom’s deep voice brought me back down to Earth.

  “So, now that we feel pretty sure they had a baby, Val, do you think Tony or Glad would have wanted to harm the child, or get rid of it?”

  My gut reaction was instant. “No! In my heart of hearts, I have to say no, Tom. The Glad I knew...I just can’t see her being capable of that. And based on Tony’s letter to her back then, I don’t think he wanted anything bad to happen to her or the baby either. You saw Tony’s house. He never let go of anything. He couldn’t even bear to throw garbage away.”

  “Fair enough, Val. But hoarding is a sign of psychological trauma. It can stem from a big loss...or a guilty conscience.”

  I thought about Tom’s words as I watched a black-backed skimmer fly by. It maneuvered so close to the water that its blood-orange bottom mandible touched the surface and made a shallow rivulet in the calm, lazy gulf.

  “I’m sure that’s true, Tom. But when they died, Glad and Tony were living together as a couple. I just can’t see her staying with a man who would take her baby from her. She always talked to me about letting go and forgiving as the way to freedom. I’m sure she could have let go of hating the people who did this to her. But I don’t think she’d subject herself to the punishment of living with one of them. She wasn’t into self-flagellation.”

  “Just self-medication.”

  I smiled and shrugged. “Hey, nobody’s perfect.”

  “But some are more perfect than others.” Tom’s hypnotic green eyes slowly traced my body, beginning with my toes. When they reached my face, they settled in for a long look into my brown eyes, making me sweat a little more. Tom seemed to sense my discomfort and abruptly switched gears. “So, have you found a marriage certificate for Tony and Glad in all that shoebox stuff?”

  “No. Not yet. Is that important?”

  “For inheritance rights it is. But if they lived together for more than seven years in Florida, she could be considered his common-law wife whether they were married or not.”

  “For some reason they kept their relationship secret, Tom. From the people at Caddy’s, anyway. I don’t know if anybody else knew they were together. Could you check public records for a marriage certificate?”

  “Sure.”

  “In the meantime, I’ll check the shoebox files. If I can’t find a certificate, maybe there’ll be wedding pictures, or something else that might prove how long they lived together.”

  “Okay. But make it quick, Val. We need to return all that stuff to Tony’s house by tomorrow.”

  “Why tomorrow?”

  “Tony’s memorial service is tomorrow. So far, nobody’s turned up to make a claim on his estate. But that could change at any moment. I think it would be prudent to have everything back in its proper place. It’s my neck on the line, you know.”

  “Yes. I know. And I’m grateful, Tom.”

  I smiled at him softly. He returned the favor.

  “You think Tony’s relatives might show up at his house?” I asked.

  “It could happen. Usually, the only ones that snoop around the property are the ones named in the will. Or ones who hope they are.”

  “The newspaper article said that one person was named as sole heir. Thelma G. Goldrich.”

  “What’s the “G” stand for?”

  My eyebrows scrunched together. “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “Ah.” Tom nodded and turned toward me with a wry smile on his lips. “I’ll see what I can do. You going to Tony’s ceremony tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll see you there, then.”

  “Okay.”

  As we approached Caddy’s, Jorge was at a picnic table drinking beer and talking to himself. As we drew closer, I realized that he was actually conversing with a couple of brown lizards, another subset of Florida’s burgeoning transplant population. Descendants of stowaways that arrived from Cuba decades ago without their papers, the little reptiles had quickly made themselves at home, and now counted in their millions from Tampa southward.

  The little lizards looked like miniature dinosaurs as they perched on the table, licking precious moisture from a forgotten chunk of watermelon.

  “Hey Jorge,” I said.

  He looked up from the lizards and smiled. “Nature, Val!”

  “I think I’ll have a beer with my buddy,” Tom said, secreting me a sympathetic glance. “Care to join us?”

  “No thanks. I’ve got work to do. Shoeboxes and all. What time is the ceremony tomorrow for Tony?”

  “Shix aclack,” Jorge slurred, his drunken head cocked sideways, supported by the palm of his hand.

  “Okay, then. You guy
s have fun.”

  I mouthed the words, “thank you,” to Tom. He just smiled at me and shrugged.

  “See you tomorrow,” was all he said.

  I STEPPED OUT OF THE shower and slathered some coconut oil moisturizer on my sunburned shoulders. Without the protection of a strong sunscreen, the sun’s intense rays had turned my olive tan to ripe pink in under an hour. I grabbed the last beer out of the fridge, then cut apart each of the circles of opaque plastic that had held the six cans together. I read somewhere that those things floated, and could loop around the necks of birds and turtles, choking them to death. More bad karma was something I didn’t want or need.

  I tossed the cut-up plastic into the recycling bin. It was time to get to work.

  I flopped on the couch and peeled back the tape on the second shoebox labeled 1974 to 1985. It was empty.

  Weird. Why was the stuff for those years missing?

  With no answers at hand, I turned my attention to the box Jorge had been looking through in the bedroom at Tony’s place. It was labeled 1986 to 2009.

  The first thing under 1986 was a dried-up pink rose, taped together with some brown, crumbly baby’s breath. In better days, it had been either a corsage or a boutonniere. Next was a photo of an older, happy Glad in a long, pastel, Hawaiian-print dress. Tony stood next to her, looking proud in white pants and a Hawaiian shirt that matched Glad’s dress. Both were barefoot, standing in sand at a beach. Then I noticed a pink rose in Glad’s hair. This had obviously been a special occasion for them. A wedding, perhaps? Or maybe someone else’s? The back read simply, October 7, 1989.

  The rest of the box was full of vacation mementos and photos. Snapshots of Tony and Glad together, looking happy somewhere in the Southwest. One on a ferry. One in front of a giant redwood tree. The photos of them in Hawaii in 1998 that Jorge had spoken about. The little yellow and blue drink umbrellas. A Route 66 refrigerator magnet. A cruise ship luggage tag. A paper napkin from a restaurant in Oregon.

  Strangely, not a single picture had anyone else in it besides Glad and Tony. Didn’t they have any friends or relatives? Or did they keep their relationship a secret from everyone? Maybe it was just a coincidence, and these were just normal “couples” pictures. They were mostly travel photos, after all.

  I was putting the photographs back in the shoebox when a green glint from the bottom of the box caught my eye. I turned the box over. A little piece of jewelry about a half-inch long fell into my hand. It was a silver oval about the size and shape of a pinkie nail. Tiny green stones dotted the entire front surface of the oval. From a rough edge, I could tell it must have broken off a larger piece. A brooch or a necklace charm, perhaps? I couldn’t be sure. But it was in the box, so it must have meant something important to Glad. Why else would she have held on to it? Unless perhaps it was just another travel memento....

  The phone rang. It was Tom. “Hey Val. Any luck with the marriage certificate?”

  “No. Just the one for Bobby. But I think there’s plenty of evidence to show that Glad and Tony had been together for more than seven years. Probably since the late 1980s.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “Photos, mostly. One even looks like it could be an informal wedding. On a beach in 1989.”

  “Interesting. It’ll take a few days to check public marriage records. In the meantime, I ran the name Thelma G. Goldrich through the DMV database.”

  “Yeah? And?”

  “I got three hits.”

  “Any in Kentucky?”

  “No.”

  “Any born between 1963 and 1965?”

  “Yes. All three, actually. But Val, we don’t even know if this Thelma person named in the will is Glad’s child. Tony could have left his estate to anyone. It’s more likely Thelma G. Goldrich is a niece or a cousin of Tony’s, not their long-lost love child.”

  “Crap. You’re right,” I said, suddenly deflated. “I really hadn’t considered that. I guess I was just hoping that it would be that simple.”

  “If it was, don’t you think Glad and Tony would have found her themselves?”

  “Maybe they did. Maybe.... Hey! You said her!”

  “What?”

  “You said they would have found her themselves.”

  “Yeah. I guess I did.”

  “Does that mean you think their child is a girl?”

  “One better. It means my gut is telling me she is. See? There I go again. She.”

  “I hope you’re right, Tom. I’d like their child to be a girl. A woman just like Glad. The world could use more people like her.”

  “I didn’t know Glad myself, Val. But if you vouch for her, that’s good enough for me. See you tomorrow, then?”

  “Yes, tomorrow. Goodnight Tom.”

  “Goodnight Val.”

  I hung up the phone and drifted off to sleep on the couch, the gentle whisper of Tom’s “Goodnight Val,” tickling my ear and making my lips curl upward.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE MEMORIAL FOR “GARBAGE man” Tony was to be held at Caddy’s that afternoon, so I skipped my morning beach ritual. I couldn’t afford the double sun exposure – or the double drive out to Sunset Beach. Shabby Maggie sucked down the go-juice to the tune of twelve miles to a gallon – on a good day, going downhill. So I traded a beach stroll for my alternate walking route, the downtown waterfront.

  I stepped outside at 6 a.m. sharp. The air was already as wet and stale as a day-old puddle of beer. Not a flicker of a breeze. The moist air clung to my body thick and soggy, like a wet hamburger bun.

  I resigned myself to becoming drenched in sweat and power-walked along the sidewalk skirting Beach Drive. At Seventh Avenue, I crossed the street by the Episcopal Church and headed east toward Tampa Bay. Immediately, my nose was assaulted by the smell of crap from the dog park, still a full city block away. It hung in the air like a portent of some giant pile of crap to come.

  When I reached the water and saw the sky over the bay, I knew this morning’s sunrise was going to be something special. An inverted pyramid of creamy white shone like a searchlight from the water’s horizon line. Reaching heavenward, the off-white cone widened to encompass half the sky before it dissipated into the misty blue of the stratosphere. In the center, rectangular clouds of differing heights formed skyscrapers in a mock cityscape backdrop. The overall effect was one of a city rising from beneath a spotlight under the sea.

  Amazing!

  As I walked along the open water, the sun began to rise behind the blue-grey cloud-buildings, backlighting them with a molten orange crust of fire. It was as if a fantastic stage was being set for a fabulous day to come.

  I stopped and drank in the view for a moment, then rounded the bend at Coffee Pot Bayou. I stretched my legs on a park bench by Eighteenth Avenue, my halfway mark. As I did, a brown pelican glided past, mere inches from the water, suspended by some unknown anti-gravitational force. I smiled again and turned toward the direction of my apartment, my thoughts on Glad...and a double-espresso cappuccino.

  I GUESS LIKE EVERY other material thing in this world, legal documents didn’t hold much weight with Glad. After looking through her treasured mementos, I had precious little to connect her with anyone but Bobby and Tony. I still wasn’t even sure of her last name. Was it her maiden name, Kinsey? Her married name, Munch? Or had she married Tony Goldrich and taken his name? I looked at my notes. Besides Thelma G. Goldrich, I had only two other names to work with: Mrs. D. B. Meyers of Tallahassee and Mrs. Harold Earl Wannabaker of Hawesville, KY. Actually, there was a third, if I counted Wallace Jonson who sold Glad the RV.

  Time was running out. I had to give Glad’s boxes back today, and the thought made my heart hurt. I flopped onto my crappy couch and took a final glance through the photos in the shoeboxes. I made a mental picture of Glad in her Easter dress. Glad in a bikini next to her RV. Glad with a rose in her hair standing next to Tony at the beach.

  I couldn’t bear to look at the photo of Glad holding her baby again, s
o I didn’t. I wanted to remember her happy, like she was when I had known her. I put the photos back in their proper places and started to tape the boxes shut, but my apartment got all blurry and my heart began to ache like a sore tooth.

  Sorting through Glad’s lifetime of memories had hit me hard. Harder, even, than her farewell service had. The stolen glimpses into her life had become a very private affair between me and Glad. I lined up the boxes beside me on the couch. They looked like three little coffins. I sucked in a breath.

  Coffins! Oh my word! The contents of these boxes aren’t just a chronological measure of years. No. Like me, Glad had segmented her time on this Earth into separate and distinct lives!

  Box one, lifetime one, spanned from 1945 to 1974. From her birth until she left Bobby. Box two, lifetime two, was a mystery that stretched from 1974 to 1986. She’d bought the Minnie Winnie in ’74 and, as far as I could tell, she’d lived the simple, quiet life of a beach bum. Box three, lifetime three, began when she hooked up with Tony again, and lasted until the day she died. A little coffin for each of her three lives.

  Should there be a fourth one for her child?

  The grievous thought grabbed me by the throat and squeezed. I hugged the shoeboxes to me like long, lost children. Huge, hot tears leapt from my eyes, hitting the boxes with hollow, drum-like thuds.

  This was the last time I would ever be this close to Glad. And it hurt like hell to know it.

  I’D PROMISED THE STOOGES I would meet them at Caddy’s an hour before Tony’s ceremony. My eyes were still puffy and I was in no mood for socializing. But I didn’t have much choice. I had to hand over Glad’s boxes to Tom. I’d put them in a pretty gift bag covered with images of daisies.

  No garbage bag this time for my precious Glad.

  I hit the gas and Maggie hummed west along First Avenue North toward the beach. Along the way, I watched the eclectic parade of modest homes file past, mostly wooden cottages with open front porches and a few stucco Spanish revivals thrown in the mix. Over the years, some had been converted to offices for lawyers, accountants and ad agencies. Most, though, were still private residences made urban by St. Pete’s rapid growth spurts. As I drove the seven miles from downtown to the beach, the facades of the structures slipped from posh to poor, then back to posh again.