Cloud Nine- When Pigs Fly Page 8

  “Oh. Easy. You got her phone number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on in.” Laverne waved me into her living room, which was so chock-a-block with tacky Vegas memorabilia that my fingers twitched for my Hammer of Justice.

  Man, I could do some damage in here.

  “Land line or cell phone?” Laverne asked as she sashayed over to a laptop open on her dining room table.

  “Uh...I’m not sure. Land line, I think.”

  “With a land line, you can get anything. J.D taught me that, didn’t you, sugar?”

  Oh my gawd. I forgot J.D. was there!

  I whirled around and tried my darndest to look surprised. “Hi, J.D!”

  “Hello, Val,” he said through slightly pursed lips. “Nice of you to drop by.”

  I winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your...uh...plans.”

  “Not to worry!” Laverne said. “Sit down. I’ll show you how to do it.”

  I sat down in front of her computer. Laverne pushed the power button with the tip of a red lacquered nail. J.D. and I exchanged tense, silent faces as we waited for the screen to boot up. I felt like the bratty kid sister that two teenagers had been forced to take along on a hot date.

  I started to get up from the chair. “Listen, I really don’t want to bother you. This can wait.”

  “Nonsense!” Laverne said as the screen flashed to life. “Now, just enter the password.”

  “Uh...shouldn’t you do that?” I asked.

  “Why? You can do it. You need to learn how!”

  I looked at J.D. His shoulders slumped. If he hadn’t had a cocktail in his hands, I think he would have slapped his forehead.

  “Uh...you sure you want me to put in your password?” I asked Laverne.

  “Absolutely, honey.”

  “Okay. What is it?”

  Laverne leaned close to my ear and whispered, “I don’t know.”

  Really?

  “Laverne, if you don’t want me to know your password, why don’t you just type it in yourself?”

  “I trust you honey. Don’t worry about it!”

  “So, what’s the password?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I was already chomping at the bit, anxious to leave the scene of their senior-citizen love nest booty call. Laverne’s silly game was getting on my last nerve.

  “Come on, Laverne!”

  “Look, let me spell it for you, honey,” Laverne said patiently. “You ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “I-D-O-N-T-K-N-O-W.”

  It was my turn to slap my forehead. I turned to look at Laverne. “That’s either the most idiotic or most brilliant password I’ve ever heard.”

  “That’s our Laverne,” J.D. said, and raised his drink at me.

  Laverne beamed her pearly dentures at us.

  “Okay, so now what?” I asked.

  “Get on Find-a-Fool dot com and type in her phone number,” Laverne said.

  I did as instructed. “Yep. There she is. But there’s no address listed.”

  “Must be a cell phone,” J.D. said. “Does she own her place?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Go to Pinellas House dot com and input her name,” J.D. instructed.

  “Is this legal?” I asked J.D.

  “It’s all part of open source intelligence. Who are you looking for, anyway?”

  “Angela Langsbury. My murder mystery instructor.”

  J.D. groaned. I wasn’t sure if it was from the absurdity of the whole situation or if he’d been forced to eat something Laverne had cooked.

  “Bingo!” I said. “There’s the history of her buying the place, and the address.”

  I scribbled it down on a piece of paper and was about to shut down the site when something caught my eye.

  “Wait a second. It says here that two weeks ago, a quit-claim deed for the property was issued to Timothy Amsel.”

  “Who’s that?” Laverne asked.

  “Langsbury’s brother in law. That’s weird. She told me she couldn’t stand him.

  Laverne smiled at J.D. “Well, honey, people do strange things for love all the time.”

  “I’ll say,” J.D. remarked, and took a huge swig of his drink.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When I woke up Sunday morning, Tom had disappeared. But unlike Goober, Greg, and Norma, I knew where he’d gone. He’d had plans this morning to meet a buddy of his at Pass-a-Grille Beach so they could get an early start on some offshore fishing.

  That meant I had the place to myself.

  Ahhhhhh!

  I laid around in bed until I couldn’t stand it anymore, then I padded to the kitchen, made myself a cappuccino, and climbed up on the countertop to sneak the last twin-pack of Pop-Tarts I’d been hiding behind a flour canister in the top cupboard.

  Tom’s penchant for healthy eating had me absolutely jonesing for some junk food. I drooled as the blueberry tarts toasted, and bided my time by giving Snogs his morning overdose of cuddling. But as soon as the pastries popped up, Snogs was back on the floor and I was flopped on the couch, chewing on Pop Tarts, slurping cappuccino and scanning the pages of St. Petersburg Times.

  Ironically, the front-page news was about the paper itself. The St. Petersburg Times was merging with the paper across the bay, the Tampa Tribune. From now on, the new paper would be called the Tampa Bay Times.

  What happened to the “St. Petersburg” part? Geeze! Would the entire history of my town be erased before I was in my grave?

  “I hate change!” I grumbled to Snogs. He yipped conciliatorily, and jumped up high enough to lick my knee, which was sticking off the couch. I took a sip of cappuccino and turned the page. What I saw next soured my mood enough to curdle cream.

  It was a picture of that pig-faced Tim Amsel. And he was holding a sledgehammer – up next to a porch post at Caddy’s! The caption read, “Demolition to begin next week.”

  My jaw locked tighter than an Easter-Sunday girdle.

  “Oh, no it isn’t! Not if I can help it!” I yelled, and flung the paper onto the floor, where Snogs gladly snapped it up like it was some sort of game.

  But it wasn’t a game. Even worse, I had no idea how I could possibly fight the system, especially now that J.D. had said he couldn’t help me.

  I glanced at the clock. It was 9:06 a.m. J.D. would be here in less than an hour to go with me to interview Winky and Jorge about Goober.

  So much for my lazy Sunday.

  I jumped up, got a quick shower, slipped on a sundress and headed out to give Snogs a morning walk. As we toddled down the driveway, I noticed that J.D.’s white Mercedes was still parked at Laverne’s. A smiled began to form on my lips, but got waylaid by a nearby grunt.

  Oh no! Randolph’s loose again!

  I scanned the bushes around Laverne’s house for a chubby little pig face. I found one, but it was across the street. Nancy was out doing jumping jacks on her front lawn again.

  Good grief. I’ve created a monster...that grunts.

  “Nice day for grunt aerobics,” she called out, red-faced and breathless.

  “Every day is a good day for that,” I said cheerily, and flashed Nancy a grin.

  Hoo boy, Val. You’re getting way too much sadistic pleasure from this....

  AT 10:00 A.M. ON THE dot, J.D. appeared at my door looking dapper...and a bit sheepish.

  “Good morning, Val.”

  I eyed him up and down.

  “Hungry?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Sleepy?”

  “No.”

  “Dopey?”

  “No.”

  “Should I go on?”

  J.D. rolled his eyes. “Okay. Let’s get this over with. I spent the night with Laverne, okay?”

  I did an extremely poor job stifling a grin. “I thought you two broke up.”

  “We did.”

  “So, are you back together now?”

  “I’m not sure. She said she’s been seeing th
is guy named Randolph. What kind of idiot is named Randolph anyway?”

  “Well, a –”

  “You know, I’m not sure if Laverne invited me over to get back together or to have one last chance to poison me.”

  “Don’t tell me you ate something over there.”

  “Are you kidding? No. Well, not really. Just a piece of toast...and a fried egg. It seemed safe enough.”

  “Huh. Well, you and I have something in common, then. I think Tom’s trying to poison me, too. With a long, slow ingestion of broccoli.”

  J.D. turned his nose up. “Yuck.”

  “My sentiments exactly. So should we get going? Let’s head to Winky’s first.”

  “Good. I could use a real cup of coffee.”

  “Okay, then,” I said, pulling the door closed behind me. “The sooner we start, the sooner we can find Goober.”

  “And the sooner we start, the sooner we’ll get this over with.”

  “That’s the spirit,” I smirked. “Why don’t we take my car, J.D.? I wouldn’t want to get yours all sandy. Laverne’s always telling me how persnickety you are.”

  “She is?”

  “Yeah.”

  J.D. grimaced. “Oh, crap.”

  “HOWDY, Y’ALL,” WINKY called to us through the service window as we walked up to the little concrete bunker known as Winnie and Winky’s Bait & Donut Shop.

  J.D. and I picked out the most reliable-looking table and chairs from amongst a handful of offerings that all appeared to have been rescued from a dumpster at some point. A minute or so later, Winky was at our sides, serving us hot, fresh coffee in Styrofoam cups.

  “What happened to the ceramic mugs?” I asked.

  “Shhh! They’s all busted,” Winky whispered, and shifted his eyes toward the shack. “You ain’t the only one around here likes to smash things to smithereens.”

  “Hey Val and J.D.!” Winnie called from the service window. She shot Winky a look that made him jump like a scalded cat. “Y’all want a peanut-butter bomb?”

  “Sure, make it two,” I said, before J.D. could object.

  “You’ve got to try one,” I said to J.D. as he stared at me with a skeptical look on his face. “They’re filled with custard crème and topped with peanut butter icing sprinkled with bacon bits. You haven’t lived until you’ve had one.”

  “Yes,” J.D. deadpanned. “I’m sure that my life up to now has just been a pointless sham.”

  “I’ll fetch ‘em,” Winky said. “But I got to tell you, not ever’thang’s hunky-dory here at the shop.”

  “You mean the proposed constr –” I began.

  “Me an’ Winnie’s on the outs about the weddin’,” Winky said, cutting me off.

  “Oh. Why?” I asked.

  “She wants to have a bunch a corny gay men at the reception. I mean, I got nothin’ against any kind a folks, but I don’t want no pure strangers at our shindig. I want it to be for friends and family only, you know what I mean?”

  “I can understand that,” I said.

  “Val, talk some sense into her, would ya?” Winky pleaded.

  “Uh...okay. Send her out with the donuts and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Here you go, on the house,” Winnie said as she set the peanut-butter bombs on the table.

  J.D. carefully picked one up employing a dainty pinch of his fingers. He sniffed it. He took a tentative nibble. The whites of his eyes doubled. He took a huge bite.

  “Dear lord in heaven,” he said, and looked up at Winnie’s beaming face. “Do you have any more of these? I’ll take all you’ve got left – in a to-go bag.”

  Winnie laughed. “Sure thing, J.D. Glad you like ‘em!”

  “Like them? No,” J.D. said. “I’m in love.”

  I grinned at the fastidious little attorney. J.D. was acting totally out of character. Maybe he actually was loosening up. Winnie turned to leave. I grabbed her arm.

  “Winnie, what’s with the corny gay men?” I asked.

  “Corny gay men?”

  “Winky said you want them at the reception.”

  “He said what?” Winnie’s cute button nose crinkled like a pug’s. A second later, her face smoothed out again. She shook her head. “That ding-dong. I didn’t say corny gay men. I said Cornish game hens. You know, them fancy little chickens you serve whole?”

  I held back a smirk. It wasn’t easy.

  “Oh. Sure,” I said. “Well, maybe you should explain that to him before he calls off the wedding on account of it.”

  “Oh, he’s not calling off this wedding,” Winnie said. “Over my dead body!” Winnie stomped off into the shack, bellowing Winky’s name.

  “I wish all the world’s problems were that easy to solve,” J.D. said. “You going to eat yours?”

  J.D.’s donut was gone.

  “I most certainly am,” I said, and swatted at J.D.’s hand. “Keep your mitts off!”

  “Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he said, as Winky came stumbling out of the shop.

  “Thanks for settin’ Winnie straight on that one, Val. I don’t know what you said, but it worked. She just told me she’d cancel them Cornish fellers if she could serve midget chickens for the reception dinner.” Winky glanced over at J.D. “No offense intended.”

  J.D. grinned and shook his head. “None taken.” He took a sip of coffee and cleared his throat. “So, why don’t we get down to business. Winky, do you recall anything strange about Goober’s actions in the days prior to his disappearance?”

  “Hmmm. Lemme thank,” he said. Winky turned a chair backwards and pulled it up to the table. He straddled it, laid his forearms across the top of the backrest, and nested his freckled face on top of his arms.

  “You know, old Goober always did act a bit odd. Always comin’ up with them schemes and stuff. You know? Like that pet crematorium gig. Remember?”

  “How could I forget?” I said. “But I think what J.D. means is, did Goober ever tell you anything weird, like he had to leave town because someone was after him? Something like that?”

  “Naw. Not really. He never had no visitors. Not even no bill collectors nor nothin’. I think there must a been good money in what he done for a livin’.”

  The check for ten grand. Winky knows something about it!

  “Really?” I asked. “What did he do for a living?”

  “Val, you know yourself. Goober was a natural-born fartiste.”

  My face collapsed like a two-dollar beach chair.

  “Okay,” I said, my hopes fading. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. I always wondered. How does a feller learn how to fart at will? I been practicin’ all my life and never figured it out.”

  “I think our work here is done,” J.D. said. He stood up so quickly his chair fell backward onto the concrete floor.

  “All righty, then,” Winky said. “But looks like their work’s just gettin’ started.”

  Winky nodded toward the beach. I turned in that direction and spotted two men carrying a big sign nailed to two fence posts. On the sign was an image of an ugly, boxy condo tower and the words, “Future Home of Randy Towers, brought to you by Progress Inc.”

  My jaw dropped as the men leaned the sign against the side of Caddy’s beach bar and went inside. My fingers twitched for my Hammer of Justice. Good thing I didn’t have it on me. I’d never find Goober if I was behind bars.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  “Just let me get the donuts first,” J.D. said. He walked over to the service window with a twenty dollar bill, but couldn’t reach the counter.

  “No one ever thinks of the little people,” he said sourly.

  “Winnie!” I called out. “We’re ready for the donuts.”

  She appeared in the window. I grabbed the twenty from J.D. and handed it to her

  “This is too much,” she said.

  “Then you’re charging too little,” J.D. said.

  Winnie stuck her head out the service window, spotted J.D. and beamed
a proud smile at him. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome,” J.D. said, and patted the sack in his hand. “These are delicious.”

  Winnie and Winky waved at us the entire time as we made our way across the sand to the parking lot.

  “Odd,” J.D. said. “Winky didn’t seem bothered at all about his place being slated for demolition.”

  “No. He’s not much for worrying.”

  “Takes it all philosophically, huh?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that. The only philosophical question I’ve ever heard him pondered is, ‘What would happen if the whole world farted at once?’”

  J.D. laughed so hard he farted himself.

  “Excuse me,” he said, his face as red as a beet. “I should have known better than to eat breakfast at Laverne’s.”

  Chapter Fiveteen

  “How far is it to Jorge’s place?” J.D. asked.

  “Another ten minutes, give or take a traffic light,” I said. “Why? You in a hurry?”

  “No. I’m okay.”

  I glanced over at him in the passenger seat. “You look sweaty. Should I put the top up and turn on the AC?”

  “I’m fine. I’m curious. Why couldn’t Jorge have met us at Winky’s donut establishment?”

  “He offered to. But Goober used to live at Jorge’s place. I was thinking we could check out his old room for clues.”

  “Oh. That makes sense.”

  I turned off Central Avenue onto Thirty-Fourth Street, also known as U.S. 19. We tooled past a few miles of ugly strip centers and chain stores. When I hit a pothole right past the Toyota dealership, J.D. groaned.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  I sped through the green light and maneuvered onto the fancy new stretch of US 19. Like an interstate overpass, the new road bypassed the next fifteen miles of strip centers all the way to Palm Harbor. We weren’t going the entire distance, but for J.D. it was still a trip too far.

  “I’m not gonna make it, Val,” J.D. said.

  I looked over at him. He was the color of cream of broccoli soup. Sweat stained the pits of his once crisp, pink Polo shirt.

  “Geeze, J.D.! Are you having a heart attack? Don’t die on me!”