Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 1 Read online

  I put the pictures back in their tidy filing space and pulled out the contents labeled 1964. There was just a single letter addressed to Miss Gladys Kinsey, postmarked December 12, 1964. I unfolded the letter and a black-and-white photo fell onto my lap. It showed an exhausted-looking girl lying in bed holding a tiny baby. The sad, desperate look in the girl’s eyes didn’t jive with it being a happy occasion. Her tired, drawn face reminded me of Glad’s – the day I found her dead on her beach lounger.

  The letter itself was written on the official stationery of a boy’s academy in Huntsville, Alabama. It read:

  My Dearest Gladys,

  I wish I could be there with you now. My parents have seen to it that I can’t. I am virtually a prisoner here. I have no money and no phone privileges. My father’s influence over the faculty here has me under tight surveillance. I’m even escorted between classes. I hope this letter reaches you. If it does, it will be because my roommate Jacob was able to smuggle it off campus and post it.

  But my worries are nothing compared to yours. I don’t know what to say, Gladys. I love you doesn’t seem to be worth much. I’m sorrier than you can know about the situation I’ve left you in. I hope you know that I would marry you today if I could. I vow one day to make up for what I’ve put you through.

  I’m hoping against hope that I will be able to get your letters, if you choose to write me. I’ll leave that up to you, Gladys. Just know that you have my love no matter what you decide. I only ask, if you do write to me, that you let me know if it’s a boy or a girl.

  Forever in my heart,

  Anthony

  HOLY MACKEREL! GLAD and Tony had a child together?

  I flipped the envelope over to check for a mailing address. It was sent to Miss Gladys Kinsey in care of Mrs. H. E. Wannabaker, Coolidge Street, Hawesville, KY. I took out a notepad and wrote down the address, along with Glad’s full name and date of birth from the newspaper announcement. I also noted a general date of birth for her baby. Sometime in the fall of 1964, most likely. The math told me Glad was no more than nineteen at the time. Back then a single girl rarely got to keep a so-called illegitimate baby. It usually became a shameful secret, shipped off to a faraway family member or an adoption agency. I hoped Mrs. Wannabaker was still alive to tell the tale. But probably not. After all, this had happened nearly a half century ago.

  Chapter Twelve

  I WOKE THE NEXT MORNING to the sound of my cellphone buzzing. It was Jamie. I already knew what she wanted, and I had been dreading the call. Still, I owed it to her to pick up. I practiced saying her name out loud a few times to kill the hangover frog in my throat.

  “Jamie, Jamie, Jamie,” I croaked, then punched the green button on my cellphone.

  “Hey Jamie,” I said.

  “Hey Val.”

  I bit my lip through about ten seconds of silence, then cracked. “You just calling to see if I’m still alive? Nice of you.”

  “Come on, Val. You know why I’m calling. You’ve gotta deliver a synopsis for your story by Monday if you want a chance at being awarded a book contract.”

  Dang. I truly was a master of self-sabotage.

  During the last few months with Glad, I’d let idleness creep into my soul and eat away most of what had remained of my tattered ambition. Uninspired and unemployed were two situations a washed-up writer like me could ill afford. Yet there I was, staring both in the face like the evil twins they were.

  I needed a lie, and I needed one quick. “You’re in luck, then. I’m working on a new idea based in Kentucky,” I said, winging it as I went along. “About a girl who had a baby back in the 1960s and had to give it away.”

  “What’s the plot line?” Jamie asked.

  “Fast forward to modern day. The illegitimate kid has grown up and is set to inherit a fortune, but first he has to be found.”

  “How did he get lost?”

  “I’m still working on that.”

  “Is that it, Val?”

  “That’s what I’ve got so far.”

  “Then you’d better get your butt in gear!” Jami coughed out a sharp, cynical laugh. “Remember, synopsis by Monday.” She hung up.

  I padded over to the kitchen and made myself a double espresso with the help of Mr. Coffee, the only truly reliable man in my life. I took a sip and thought about Jamie Diesel. She really did deserve better from me. She’d pulled some strings to get me a shot with her publisher nearly three months ago. I’d had all that time to get a storyline together and I hadn’t come up with squat. I guess Tanqueray wasn’t as inspirational as I’d thought.

  Jamie was the sole person who still acknowledged my professional existence when I returned from Europe seven months ago. She’d been the only one to throw me a lifeline and a chance to climb back aboard my floundering writing career. She was a writer, too, and had a desk job with a small, independent publisher in New York. She kept me up-to-date on publishers looking for novels in my genre – mysteries with a strong female lead.

  I should’ve been more grateful. I’d been pillaged by a German pirate, but I wasn’t sunk yet. With any luck, maybe I could turn Glad’s story of Blackmail Betty into a novel, and help her heir and myself at the same time.

  Double Booty. Hmmm. Not a bad working title.

  I looked over at Glad’s boxes, then back at the blank screen of my computer.

  Dear gods of irony, please let there be some way to make this work....

  When I’d crash landed back in the States, my eight-year-old laptop might as well have been a dinosaur turd. I’d crawled out on an optimistic limb and forked out six-hundred bucks on an all-in-one touch screen computer with a full-sized, real keyboard. I was an old-school, ten-finger typist. On-screen keyboards and tiny laptops were for two-finger peckers, aka, amateurs. I had everything I needed to get cooking. The call from Jamie had just turned up the heat.

  I hoped digging into Glad’s history would provide some interesting plot points. That way I could kill two tough-old birds with one last-ditch stone.

  I drained my coffee cup and flopped onto the worn-out old couch sagging against the wall in my tiny living room like a punch-drunk sailor. The unfortunate sofa had been abandoned where it stood by the woman who’d lived here before me. Looking at it now, I could hardly blame her. It was truly hideous – coffee-stain beige with poop-brown cushions that slumped over the back like lumpy, misshapen bags of garbage. Good thing my broke butt didn’t care. Actually, I was grateful. It sure beat sitting on the floor.

  The prior tenant had also left a microwave, some mismatched dishes, a worn-out, full-sized bed and a lawn table with four mismatched chairs. Arriving with nothing, I’d felt like I’d hit the jackpot. The only things I’d had to buy were a towel, a set of sheets, Mr. Coffee and a computer. Truth be told, the simple life had its charms.

  I owned next to nothing, so I had next to nothing to lose.

  I reached over and grabbed the shoebox of memories I’d been sorting through last night. The first thing I pulled out of the box was a marriage certificate dated January 3, 1965, legally joining Gladys Kinsey to Robert C. Munch in holy matrimony.

  That marriage date wasn’t more than a few weeks – a month or so tops – after poor Glad had given birth. Her parents must have wanted her gone, big time.

  The yellowed news clipping I picked up next erased that thought. Dated December 26, 1964, it was the obituary of Mr. Roy G. Kinsey and Mrs. Roy G. Kinsey. They, along with their son, Timmy L. Kinsey, had been killed December 24 in a car crash while away visiting relatives in Florida. They were survived by their only daughter, Gladys Kinsey, and Mrs. Kinsey’s cousin, Mrs. D. B. Meyers of Tallahassee.

  Poor Glad! Tragedy heaped on tragedy! A lost love. An illegitimate baby. Parents and brother dead. Left to cope alone with some woman named Mrs. Wannabaker, who probably wasn’t even a relative!

  I wracked my brain. In all our beachside talks, Glad had never mentioned a baby to me. She must have had to give it up. Or it died.

  C
ould it have been this baby – and not Tony – that was Glad’s lost love?

  Life must have been pretty bleak for Glad to run off with a man she barely knew, and so soon after giving birth. But as harsh as it was, Glad was probably lucky Bobby would have her. Back then, women with a past like Glad’s didn’t have a lot of options. Neither did women in general. Looking through those old letters and clippings made me realize that until a few decades ago, no part of a married woman’s name was used in official correspondence. Instead, her identity was overwritten by her husband’s, leaving only the tiny letter “s” in Mrs. John Doe to distinguish her from him. That wasn’t going to make tracking down Glad’s relatives any easier, and it was starting to annoy me. I decided it was time for a break.

  I PULLED INTO THE PARKING lot at Water Loo’s at 10:15 a.m. Through the glass I could see the shiny melon heads of the three stooges bobbing around in the brown corner booth. It was already over ninety degrees and as humid as a sauna in Botswana. Sweat trickled down my back as I trudged across the parking lot and up to the greasy entrance door. As I reached for the handle, something in my mind clicked awake as if from a dream.

  How did I get here?

  I’d driven Maggie as if I’d been on autopilot...maybe even against my own will. I kicked at the pile of cigarette butts loitering around the front door.

  What am I doing here at this horrible place full of lost souls and derelicts?

  I took a deep breath and wondered how my life had sunk to this moment. Worse still, I worried if I might look back at some point in the future and call this the good old days. A thread of panic stitched my throat tight.

  God, if that’s true, kill me now.

  I swallowed hard, opened the door and stepped inside.

  “Val Pal!” shouted freckle-face Winky. His face beamed at the sight of me coming through the door.

  I grimaced something I hoped resembled a grin.

  Welcome aboard the SS Sphincterville. Bend over and crack a smile....

  “Hey guys,” I said with all the fake enthusiasm I could muster. I slunk into the booth next to Winky. I tried to maintain a bit of space between us, but he reached over and gave me a one-armed bear hug. Suddenly my face was an inch from a curly muff of ginger armpit hair. It stuck out of the armhole of his sleeveless tank top like Bozo the peeping Tom.

  I held my breath and struggled in vain to get free.

  “Always glad to see the Val Pal!” he chortled, squeezing me tighter. I was beginning to worry I might asphyxiate when he finally eased up on his grip.

  “Yeah, always a pleasure,” I said as I recoiled from his headlock. I was anxious to report my findings to Goober and Jorge, but as we were keeping things secret from Winky, I needed him out of the way. I spotted my chance sulking over by the register. “Hey Winky, could you go ask the waitress to get me a cup of coffee?”

  Winky jumped at the chance to speak with Winnie. I got up and let him out of the booth, then slid over next to Jorge. We waited for Winky to get out of earshot.

  “So what’d you find out?” asked Goober, a spoon clicking away in his mouth.

  “You’re not going to believe it, but I think Tony and Glad had a baby together.”

  Jorge, who had been sitting silent as a stone, suddenly burst to life. “A little muchacha! Or is it a muchacho?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I said. “And that baby would have to be in its mid-forties now.”

  Goober stopped clicking his lollipop spoon and straightened his back. “Wow. That means there may actually be somebody to claim Tony’s will.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “So Glad and Tony had a baby. But that’s not all I found out. I’m not sure she kept it. Long story short, Tony got sent off to some boy’s military school or something. Glad’s parents died in a car crash not long afterward. A couple of weeks, maybe a month after the crash Glad married a preacher named Bobby Munch and left town.”

  “What happened to the kid?” Goober asked.

  “I don’t know. She could have given it up for adoption. Her family may have taken it to live with relatives. It could have died for all I know. But I hope not.”

  “Via con Dios!” exhaled Jorge. “Poor, poor Glad. We have to find that kid. Her kid.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” I confessed. “I’ve got Glad’s birth date and a few names of people that could be friends or relatives. I was thinking you could get your friend Lieutenant Foreman to run some stuff for us through the police computers. What do you say?”

  “Jes, of course!”

  “Great!” I pushed my notes across the table toward him. I glanced around for Winky and saw a fly buzz around Goober’s bald head. He swatted at it absentmindedly, nearly backhanding Winnie the waitress as she came up from behind, trailed by lovesick Winky. She slammed a cup of coffee on the table in front of me, shot me a witchy look and left. Winky snorted out a laugh and climbed back into the booth, sandwiching me between him and Jorge.

  “What’s up with her?” I asked Winky.

  “She’s yell us,” said Jorge, cocking his head toward Winky.

  “Yell us? What the blazes you talkin’ about?” demanded Winky.

  “Jealous, you idiot,” said Goober. “You just gave our lady friend here a hug. Winnie didn’t like that. Better watch out you don’t get any special sauce in your coffee, Val.”

  I looked down at my coffee. A line of fine bubbles swam around the edge of the cup. Maybe it was always like that. Maybe not. I didn’t feel like taking the chance. I shoved the cup away, causing the guys to roar with laughter.

  “You and Winnie have been flirting around for months. When you gonna seal the deal?” joked Jorge, reaching around me and jabbing Winky with an index finger.

  Winky waved a chubby fist at Jorge, his fat fingers an inch from my face. “I’m gonna seal your deal right now!” Winky’s face was bright red, but his anger seemed feigned.

  Poor little Winky was actually embarrassed! Redneck puppy love.

  “All right already,” I crabbed. Keeping these guys on track was harder than getting a bucket of bait worms to form a straight line and do the conga. I was about to ask Winky to get me another cup of coffee when he spotted the note I’d given Jorge. He grabbed it out of his hands like a grade-school bully.

  “Ha ha! Gotcha,” Winky sneered as he studied the paper. He inhaled, then blew out a whistle. “Hawesville, Kentucky, huh? I got a cousin up in them there parts.”

  “I didn’t know you could read, Winky,” I said. The comment garnered a snicker from Goober and Jorge.

  “Like I said before, Val. Still waters.” Winky tapped an index finger on his fat, buzz-cut noggin, never looking up from the note. “Woo hoo. Born in 1945. Glad what’n no spring chicken, that’s for sure.”

  “None of us are,” interjected Goober. “Have some respect for a lady.”

  “What lady?” Winky said, craning his head like a tortoise in an exaggerated search the vicinity.

  “I’m talking about Glad, you twit,” said Goober. He shook his bald head at me as he pointed a thumb at Winky. Then he remembered I was a woman, and hastily said, “And Val here, too.”

  “My deepest apologies to ladies both present and passed,” Winky said melodramatically, bowing his head in mock respect.

  “I thing it’s time for a toast,” said Jorge, snatching the paper back from Winky.

  “A toast!” echoed Goober and Winky.

  I knew what came next. And despite all the crap going on in my life, I let the thought of Glad make me smile.

  Chapter Thirteen

  WHEN I PEELED OUT OF the Water Loo’s parking lot, the sky looked as if the gods had gotten drunk and spilled merlot all over the place. Dark reddish-purple smears surfed their way across the horizon eastward from the gulf. I could already smell that familiar hint of metal and muck in the thickening air. I knew what that meant. I had about fifteen minutes to get home before the weather hit – and hard. I mashed the gas pedal. Maggie’s V8 engine roared deep and steady, li
ke Barry White imitating a lion’s roar. I swung wide and turned off Gulf Boulevard onto First Avenue South, hoping the synchronized lights would give me a straight shot to Third Street, then home.

  Summer storms in Florida always started out with a smattering of big, fat raindrops. They ended with torrential sheets of water being blown to bits by schizoid winds whipping first one way then the other. Our tropical storms rarely lasted more than half an hour, so they didn’t have any time to waste. In a matter of minutes you could count on at least a half-dozen lightning strikes cracking the ground, each one always just a bit too close for comfort.

  I was on ThirdStreet and almost to the alley when the first tablespoon-sized drops battered the windshield. By the time I parked a minute later, I had the choice of waiting it out in the Sprint or getting soaked to the bone. A solid torrent of water turned the visibility to zero. I was reaching for the door handle when lightning struck nearby, filling the liquid air with a crackling blue-white light reminiscent of an old-time flash bulb. A kinetic boom of thunder came two seconds later, and echoed a long, trailing rumble that rattled Maggie’s windows and my back molars.

  As I sat waiting out the rain, I recalled reading somewhere that a car was the safest place to be in a thunderstorm. There was something about the rubber wheels grounding the car against electrical charge....

  Well, screw that!

  Upstairs in my apartment, my new computer was still plugged in. If it got toasted by lightning I may as well be dead, too.

  I jumped out of the car and slammed the door behind me. Instantly, I was soaked to the skin in the deluge. I scrambled up the rickety stairs, fighting a vertical, monsoon-strength current. As I reached the top of the landing, I slipped and nearly did a split. Like a scene from a Charlie Chaplin movie, I grabbed ahold of a pole, pulled my legs back together and skittered to the small porch sheltering the front door.