Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 1 Read online

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just trying to help out.”

  He held a tea-soaked napkin in his hand. Good old Southern guilt washed over me like a spilt baptismal pool.

  “Oh. I’m sorry, too. Thank you,” I offered sheepishly. “That’s really nice of you.”

  “No problem,” he said. “It looks like disaster’s been averted. Anything else I can do for you two?”

  I fumbled around for something to say. Milly was no help. She sat across from me, red-faced and silent as a guilty, naughty child.

  “Um. Could you take our picture? I want one for –”

  “Sure! You two get together and I’ll peel off a shot.”

  I handed the man my cell phone and joined frozen-faced Milly on the other side of the table. The guy took a couple of snaps and handed me back the phone.

  “Thank you,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “Nope.”

  What an odd name. I expected him to return to his table, but instead, the man made his way toward the exit door. Milly and I watched him as he opened the door and stepped outside. As the glass door slowly shut behind him, he turned to us and spoke.

  “Have a nice day, ladies. I make it a policy to never get on a first-name basis with jerks.”

  AFTER MY LUNCH HUMILIATION, I figured I might as well stay in the gutter. I left red-faced Milly paying the check at Ming Ming’s and drove east on Central Avenue. I hooked a left at Third Street and drove into the alleged hangout of scar-faced Capone.

  The red brick streets of the Old Northeast neighborhood were rutted by monsoon rains and a hundred years of vehicular traffic. Maggie hated them, and so did I. To save her from damage, I parked along Second Street, a block away from Old Northeast Tavern. The place was probably Florida’s first attempt at a strip mall. Built in the 1930s, it suffered from Spanish flat-roof design and American lack of commitment. Its merengue-like stucco façade and three-story clock tower had faded to an orange-pink hue from decades of standing in the glaring, tropical sun. The five-store lineup of tiny businesses within it came and went with the tide – just like the rest of Florida’s transient population.

  The only establishment that had demonstrated any staying power against this fickle, economic outflow was a pizza joint offering pies by the slice. Being three blocks from my old apartment, I’d eaten there a few times last year when I’d been in desperate need of a pizza fix. Even though the name of the place lacked originality, Old Northeast Pizza’s pies didn’t. They were delicious. And the price was right – $2.50 for a slice as big as my head.

  As I walked along the sidewalk across the street from the strip center’s row of shabby storefronts, I spotted a guy with a chipped tooth fishing pizza crusts out of the wastebasket outside. It looked like my growing street smarts were paying off. I patted my inner Valiant Stranger on the back.

  “Hey. Are you Capone?” I called from across the brick street.

  The guy jumped and poised for takeoff like an Olympic track star. He looked my way and I saw his scar. Bingo!

  “What a ya want?” he yelled back. His voice was hard, but curious.

  “Nothing. You helped a guy load a couch onto a 4Runner about a week ago. Right?”

  Capone shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  He put a crust between his teeth and ripped off a hunk. I walked across the street as he eyed me warily like a hungry raccoon.

  “Look. I just want to know if you stuck anything in the couch. For safekeeping. While you were napping on it.”

  Capone stopped chewing the crust. He fished a cigarette butt out of his mouth, looked at it, tossed it in the trash bin and commenced to chewing again.

  “Anything like what?”

  “Like a finger? With a gold ring on it?”

  “Are you outta your mind?”

  “I’m not accusing you of cut –”

  “Lady, if I found a gold ring, do you think I’d load it onto a truck and watch it drive away?”

  He had a point. Dang it. There went my best lead.

  “Okay. Thanks Capone. Here’s five bucks for your troubles. There’s plenty more where that came from for the right information on the finger – either who lost it or who’s looking for it.”

  Capone snatched the fiver from my hand, then looked over at the pizza place. I took a step back in the direction of my car.

  “Hey lady. How am I supposed to get a hold of you? With more information, I mean?”

  Brilliant, Val. Some detective you are. I didn’t want to give another derelict my number, so I gave him Goober’s.

  “Just call this guy. You probably know him already.”

  “Who is he? A cop?”

  “No. A friend of mine. Bald. Bushy moustache. He pushes a stroller sometimes?”

  “Not ringin’ any bells.”

  “He’s got a head shaped like a peanut?”

  Recognition flashed across Capone’s face.

  “Awe, yeah. You mean Bushwacker.”

  IT WAS A GORGEOUS AFTERNOON in early April, and I didn’t feel like going home. I took a nostalgic stroll by my old apartment, hoping the fresh air would clear my head and help me think. Who could have put that finger in my couch?

  Florida didn’t have seasons. Not like most people thought of them, anyway. April was the closest thing to autumn that St. Pete had to offer. It was the time of year when the live oaks shed their tired old leaves all at once. Within the span of a week or so, the huge, old trees transformed themselves almost as drastically as caterpillars turning into butterflies.

  Massive canopies of olive-green leaves died overnight and their tannish-brown carcasses rained down like snow onto lawns and cars and streets and swimming pools. Within a day or two, the shiny green leaves that had pushed the old leaves off unfurled and formed massive, neon-green umbrellas against the blue sky. Then the oaks set about sprouting male and female flowers. If pollenated, the female flowers hung tight and turned into acorns. The male flowers, or catkins, had no such chance. They released their pollen, shriveled up and came careening down to earth. Their crumbly, wormlike bodies fell by the millions and collect on sidewalks in drifts, like dust bunnies under a bed.

  I shuffled along the cracked sidewalk half covered in oak leaves and catkins, and counted my blessings that I wasn’t allergic to oak pollen. I crossed Beach Drive and breathed in the sweet fragrance of jasmine in bloom. It hung from the wrought-iron fence of one of the mansions that lined the block between Beach and Northshore Boulevard. Across the street was Northshore Park, an oasis of green grass dotted with oaks and the occasional exotic Poinciana or Jacaranda tree.

  The city park’s east side ended at a concrete seawall. I found a bench in the shade facing the wide expanse of Tampa Bay. Seagulls screamed and blue jays quarreled with each other as I sat quietly, waiting for some inspiration that would help get me off the hook for finding that horrid finger.

  How did that dwarf guy know the finger was at my place? And why on earth would he want it back so badly that he’d broken into my place?

  One thing was for sure; it had to be someone who knew the couch belonged to me. That’s the only way the dwarf could have known I had it. Unless...he or one of his buddies was in the alley when Tom and Capone loaded the couch into his 4Runner. They could have been hiding there, waiting for Capone to get off the couch so they could retrieve the finger. Yes. It could have been someone watching from the alley who followed Tom to my place.

  Geeze. If that was the case, it could have been anyone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  TOM SPENT THE NIGHT last night. He ran the sink while he was in the bathroom, driving home the fact that we were still in that tense, awkward phase all new relationships went through. We were both still clinging to the illusion that we were perfect. Even so, old habits each of us had swept under the rug were beginning to crawl their way to the surface. He left the cap off the toothpaste and the toilet seat up.

  Being on one’s best behavior was a hard act to maintain, and we were be
ginning to tire under the strain. This morning, after some half-hearted cuddling and a couple of cappuccinos, I went to the kitchen and googled the crime-related news for St. Petersburg. It had sort of become a compulsion of mine ever since my interrogation by Officer Jergen. I kept waiting to open the screen and learn that the police had made an arrest in the case. But there hadn’t been a word. Not even a report about me finding the finger. I was dying to know what was going on, but I didn’t dare mention it to Tom. Every time I’d tried, he’d shut me down. He refused to get involved.

  I closed the laptop, opened my mind to some dirty thoughts, and snuck back to the bedroom and my handsome, law-enforcement lover. As I peeked around the doorframe, my jaw hit my toes. Tom was already dressed, standing over the bed. He had my cell phone in his hand and was swiping at the screen. I nearly tripped over myself.

  “What are you doing with my phone?!”

  Tom jumped and dropped the phone like it was a chunk of lava. It landed on the bed upside down. Tom’s sea-green eyes scanned the room, searching for an alibi.

  “Nothing, Val. I thought it was mine.”

  He bit his lower lip. He was lying.

  “Oh. I didn’t know you had a pink case on your phone, too.”

  “It was dark in here. I just switched on the light.”

  “Well, then. What did you write down on that piece of paper?”

  “This?”

  Tom held the scrap up, but kept the blank side toward me.

  “Just a buddy of mine’s...uh...birthday. I mean address. I wanted to send him a birthday card.”

  “Oh.”

  Tom walked over and kissed me.

  “I’ve gotta go. Call you later today, okay?”

  I looked him in the eye, but I couldn’t read him.

  “I’m not done talking about this.”

  “Okay, but not now. I’ve got to go.”

  Tom slipped on his shoes and was out the door in under thirty seconds flat. I watched him drive away, then clicked the power button on my cellphone. The picture of me and Milly at Ming Ming’s came up. I’d told Tom about Milly last night over dinner, but I hadn’t shown him her picture. She was way too gorgeous, and probably just his type. Was it her number he’d written down?

  I needed a chocolate fix, big time.

  I set the phone down and opened my bedroom closet. I rifled blindly through the rack, searching for a sundress to slip into, but my mind couldn’t focus on the task. I stopped and let my arms drop to my sides. What the hell was Tom up to?

  I’d counted on Tom to be honest with me. I’d thought he was totally trustworthy. He’d helped me move in. Helped me renovate. I’d even given him a key to my place. What was going on? I sighed. Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe he had just been mistaken.

  The thought of losing Tom made me miss Glad even more. After she’d died, I’d discovered Glad had stored her life away in shoeboxes. I’d taken a cue from her and begun doing the same. My photos and mementos and important papers were tucked away in a dozen shoeboxes on the top shelf in my bedroom closet. I’d lined my boxes up neatly, based on type of shoe. Smaller sandal boxes were on the left, then high-heel cartons, then walking-shoe boxes to the far right. I wondered if I’d have to start a new box soon....

  I found the blue denim dress I was after. I tried to pull it out, but it was tangled on another hanger. I yanked harder, but it hung on like one of those hook-armed apes from a Barrel of Monkey. Arggh! I was on my last nerve. I jerked the hanger so hard the head snapped off and sent me tumbling butt-first to the floor with my dress in tow. Perfect.

  I was just about to snap the rest of the hanger in half when something caught my eye. I stared up into the closet from my position on the rug. The hair on the back of my neck pricked up. My tidy little collection of shoeboxes were all mixed up.

  PEOPLE WITH OVERACTIVE imaginations like mine should never be left alone too long with their untamed thoughts. We’re apt to concoct outrageous scenarios that make the truth, once revealed, nothing more than a disappointing footnote. I hoped that would be the case with Tom’s dirty little secret involving Officer Jergen – and whatever else he might be up to.

  For some reason, Tom had begun to not share things with me. This new void in his trust had reignited a familiar, unwanted, defensive edginess inside me. All my life I’d been bitten hard on the heart by men and their secrets. I didn’t want to be played for a fool again. It was high time I learned to watch my back. I made a mental note to pay closer attention to what Tom was up to.

  MY ARMS WERE CONTORTED behind my back, trying to zip up my denim sundress, when the phone rang.

  “Goober One to Goober Two.”

  Men! “Hello, Bushwacker.”

  “Crap. Who told you that?”

  “Who do you think?”

  Goober yelled, but not at me.

  “Capone, I’m gonna kick your butt!”

  A distant voice called back, “Not if I kick yours first!”

  “Goober! Calm down. Why are you calling?”

  “I got Capone here. He says he knows who belongs to that finger you found.”

  “Who?”

  “He won’t say without pay.”

  “How much does he want?”

  “Your standard rate. A fiver.”

  “Well, give it to him. I’ll pay you back.”

  “I don’t carry that kind of money around on me. I could get bushwack...crap! I could get robbed.”

  “Okay. Tell him to stay there. I’ll be right over.”

  I hung up, grabbed my purse and ran out the door. I jumped in Maggie and made a beeline down Gulf Boulevard. I hooked a right on First Avenue South, the main drag to downtown. Then I realized I didn’t know where I was going. I hadn’t asked Goober where he was. Dang it!

  I swallowed my pride and clicked redial. Goober answered in a smart-alecky tone.

  “Goober One to Goober Two. Forget something, Goober Two?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “The pizza place where you met him last time. Capone only agreed to wait if you added a slice of pepperoni to the ante. I made an executive decision.”

  “Okay. Good work, Goober One.”

  I could hear him smile over the phone.

  “You’re welcome, Goober Two.”

  I clicked off the phone and saw flashing blue lights headed in my direction. Aww crap! Just what I need. Another cop on my butt.

  I pulled over. A policeman climbed out of his car. It was Officer Jergen. Double dang it!

  “Ma’am, you know you were going forty-five in a thirty-five? Oh. It’s you.”

  “Yes. Hello Officer Jergen. Nice day, huh?”

  “It was. License and registration.”

  I handed them over.

  “Val Fremden. You know Fremden means stranger in German, don’t you?”

  “I’ve been told, yes. I take it you’re German?”

  “American with German ancestry.”

  “Oh.”

  “Any more problems? Break-ins, I mean?”

  “No, but I’m working some leads, trying to find out whose finger it was.”

  “Are you a detective?”

  “No. Not exactly.”

  “Then do all of us in law enforcement a favor, Ms. Fremden. Don’t go messing in police business. You could end up in more trouble than you already are. Take my advice and leave it to us to handle your case. I suggest you drop whatever it is you’re doing.”

  I shot him my best smile.

  “I will if you will.”

  He looked down and started writing in his ticket book.

  “Nice try.”

  BY THE TIME I ARRIVED with my $128 speeding ticket in tow, the guys had finished their slices and were being held for ransom by the young guy working the place.

  “There she is!” Goober shouted and pointed at me. “That’s her over there!”

  I walked across the brick street to the open door of Old Northeast Pizza. A brawny young man with a man bun and more tattoos than
a Navy base eyed me doubtfully.

  “These two belong to you?” he asked.

  I grimaced. “Yes.”

  “Good thing. Another minute and I was gonna call the cops. Last time I give out a slice up front.”

  “Sorry for the inconvenience. What do I owe you?”

  “Seven bucks even. They both got the lunch special – a slice and a soda.”

  I handed the man a ten dollar bill.

  “Keep the change. Sorry for the trouble.”

  The young man’s tough-guy façade melted like butter in a microwave.

  “Hey, thanks! Well, all right then! You guys are good by me. Go ahead and untie ‘em.”

  Goober and Capone both reached down and began to unkink the wad of knots in their shoelaces that bound their feet together. I tried not to smirk.

  “So, Capone. Who’s the guy with the finger?” I asked.

  Capone stopped untying his laces and looked up.

  “You mean without the finger.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let me see the money.”

  Five dollars? What is this? L.A. Vice meets Candid Camera? I fished a five out of my wallet and handed it over.

  “Name’s Mickie Harden. We call him Hard-on.”

  Goober slapped Capone in the back of the head.

  “This here’s a lady, Capone. Mind your manners.”

  I smiled at Goober. “Do you know where we can find him?”

  Capone hooked a thumb in Goober’s direction.

  “You might better ask Bushwacker here. Hard-on used to play guitar for tips downtown. After his little ‘accident,’ Bushwacker here took over his spot. He’s the only one I seen that gained something outta Mickie not being able to play no more.”

  Goober glanced up at me. “I don’t know the guy, Val.”

  “Sure you don’t,” Capone sneered.

  “Hey! Capone! Play nice,” I said. “Can you get word to Hard...to Mickie? Tell him that I’d like to talk to him?”

  “Maybe. For the right price.”

  “Can you get him here for fifty bucks?”

  “Lady, for fifty bucks, I can get you the pope.”