Two Crazy: Fickle Finger of Fate (A Val & Pals Humorous Mystery Book 2) by Margaret Lashley

Author:Margaret Lashley [Lashley, Margaret]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Zazzy Ideas, Inc.
Published: 2017-05-18T04:00:00+00:00

Laverne and I tooled back down Gulf and hung a left on 107th. We crossed the bridge spanning the Intracoastal and skirted through the tiny community of Treasure Island. A few blocks later we were on the mainland. We passed by Ming-Ming’s on our way to 34th street.

“There’s the scene of the crime.” I nodded toward the restaurant as we drove by. “That’s where I saw Tom and Milly together.”

“You know, back in Vegas, at the casino buffets I tried every food under the sun. I never could warm up to sushi.”

“Yeah. I’m starting to lose my appetite for it as well.”

“Now don’t you go and do that.”

“Do what?”

“Let a man spoil something for you. Honey, if I did that, I’d be down to drive-through donuts and coffee.”

“But Laverne, how do you separate the two – I mean, Ming-Ming’s was our place.”

“You know for sure he’s cheating?”

“No. But come on. Milly’s gorgeous. So is Tom. They’d make the perfect pair.”

“There’s a lot of beauty in imperfection, sugar. It makes you real. Bing told me that.”

“Bing Cr…? Never mind. What’s the address of the salon?”

“Uh…let’s see.”

Laverne fumbled around in her purse and finally pulled out a card. I hung a left onto 34th Street.

“Card says it’s 2330 34th Street. Why?”

“Well, odd numbers are on one side of the road, even on the other.”

“Oh. I never knew that. But zero – it’s not even or odd, is it?”

I started to answer, then my face went slack.

“I never thought about it. I guess you’re right, Laverne. Let’s just call it even.”

“Ooops! There it is, sugar. You just passed it.”

“Crap. I’ll turn around.”

“I’m not in any hurry, honey. Tell me, how old is this Pops guy, anyway?”

“Probably older than you. But his wife is younger.”

“Just my luck.”

“Still want to come along for the ride?”

“Sure.”

I cruised past 22nd Avenue and took a right. A few blocks down, I took another right. A neighborhood of small, run-down 1950s block houses just like mine came into view. But, as Florida realtors were fond of saying, “location location location.” Without the waterfront venue, the value of these homes was about a tenth of what mine was worth.

It was one of those neighborhoods where nobody minded a couple of extra vehicles parked up in the yard. Concrete blocks instead of tires were also acceptable, and once the weeds had half-covered them, abandoned appliances were considered garden sculptures. Despite the obvious signs of neglect, the little community tugged at my heartstrings. It reminded me of my mom’s place up in Greenville – minus the bass boats, ATVs and chickens running loose.

I pulled up on the street in front of Pops’ house. Painted seafoam green with teal trim, it was easy to spot. Pops was out in the yard polishing the chrome on a 1970s-era gold-colored Cadillac. His black arms glistened in the sun, and looked surprisingly muscular for a man pushing eighty. If his hair hadn’t been pure white, I’d have placed him in his late fifties.

“Well now, there she is!”

Pops waved his dirty polish rag at me.

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