Chapter One
Velma
Velma's eyes flew open to find she was surrounded by darkness. As questions of what had awakened her were just beginning to form in her foggy mind, the pain hit. It came in a sudden burst. There were no waves, no build-up, just pain. She began to writhe around on the bed trying to fight it. Hoping that it would just go away of its own accord and leave her be. But she knew what she had to do. She had to stand. She had to get out of bed. But the pain held her back and her legs refused to cooperate. She spun in the bed and forced the unwilling appendages out over the floor. The pain screamed as if realizing her intent. She pushed upward with all her might, knowing that if she were unable to regain her feet, then the pain might win.
She made her feet and slowly rocked herself forward and placed her palms against the wall. She was able to straighten out her left knee and felt her calf muscle give one more protest of pain as it stretched. She was not done with the pain and would be limping through most of the morning. But the worst was over.
She hated charley horses.
A mental note was made to get bananas and water with electrolytes the next time she went to the grocery store. Then she added a mental kick in the pants to actually drink the water. Yesterday had been her twice weekly ultimate frisbee game. It was the perfect exercise for her because the constant sprinting was what she was there for and the competition gave her mind something to focus on rather than the mindless repetition of most exercises. She did have two days of running per week in her regimen but had her run down to a science using the same route along Crystal Cove's Creekside park. She knew her best times at each of several landmarks along the way. Not a fast runner by physiology, her goal was to get three miles in 21 minutes or less before her 30th birthday which was now seven months away. Her best time so far had been 21:04.
The pain in her calf abated and she opened her eyes. She immediately checked all of the windows to make sure the blinds were drawn. While it was no longer as necessary, the training of her youth stuck and she had woken too many mornings to paparazzi camera lenses trying to catch a photo of her in some private state within her bedroom. The worst published photo had been her standing in her bedroom wearing nothing but a long t-shirt which was her preferred sleeping attire. The t-shirt was actually longer than the skirt they had her wearing on the show. Her hair had been a mess and she was not wearing her glasses but the photo had begun another barrage of the 'Daphne or Velma' debates that had raged on the internet between pubescent boys after Velma's weight loss. She had never and would never admit it to anyone, but she took a tiny perverse pleasure in the fact that she won these debates 94% of the time. It was actually 93.72% but who was calculating percentages? The fact that this was the one subject on which blabbermouth Daphne would never comment did not diminish her perverse pleasure. Not even a little.
She had not seen a paparazzi in two years and did not foresee one in the future. Photographs of small-town bookstore owners did not bring much on the open market and the 'Daphne versus Velma' debate was now relegated to after the fourth round of drinks when a bunch of aging accountants were released by their wives for their monthly night on the town.
The end of her fifteen minutes of fame was fine with her. An introvert by nature, she relished her private time and could only stand so much time with other people before she began to get irritable and short-tempered. This gave her a reputation for being difficult which had been shared by the editing staff and crew and pretty much everyone except for the gang. The gang had been the one place where she could be with other people and still feel the same comfort she felt when she was alone. That was, until they had decided to become 'other people' and also make her self-conscious and uncomfortable.
And then there was Shaggy, to this day she was not sure whether she truly felt something deeply for him or just wanted to be in a couple like Fred and Daphne. But she had thrown herself into as only a young woman can and… Nope. She was not going there. If she let her thoughts head down that path, then she would be in a foul mood the rest of the day.
And she had a decision to make rather than just mentally waxing philosophic while leaning against her bedroom wall and stretching a recalcitrant muscle. She needed the answer to the question of whether it was before or after 3:00 AM? She was rooting for before 3:00 because that would mean that she would drink some water, walk around a little, stretch some more, and then climb back into her nice, warm bed. If it was after 3:00, then she was up for the day.
Pushing away from the wall, she reached down to her nightstand and picked up the phone. With one tap, it read 4:12.
"Darn it."
Yes. She said 'Darn it' and not 'Jinkies'. Catchphrases were already outdated when the show began but in her teenaged brain, she thought it would be cool to have one. So, she forced herself to start saying it in every show. If she forgot, she would add it in post-production. To her initial delight, it caught on. To her lesser delight, it stayed caught on and she had to repeat it endlessly at every public appearance or interview. When they were sitting through that ridiculous ceremony where 'Scooby Snacks' had been added to the Oxford English Dictionary in 2016, there had been discussions that Jinkies and Zoinks would follow suit. Blessedly, that day never came and she now considered the word to be an expression of her former self that she would never utter again.
She stopped her woolgathering again. Her brain was like a cluttered, old attic when she had nothing to focus it on.
She went in to make herself breakfast which consisted of a small bowl of oatmeal with raisins and nuts (no sugar), orange juice, and cold water with a twist of lemon. Not exciting but it gave her enough carbos to start her day without jeopardizing her athletic stamina. She refused to say 'figure' because she considered that a misogynistic term used by men to tie women's self-image to their physique. She was self-aware enough to realize that her self-image was tied to her physique but just because she had been brainwashed by a male-dominated society did not mean that young women of the future needed to be.
As she ate, she looked around the tiny apartment. There had been a time when she had owned a three-bedroom ranch house on 10 acres outside of town with a beautiful creek running through it. But that had been a lot of bills ago, and now she could see into every room of the small loft apartment above her bookstore from where she sat at the counter that separated her kitchenette from her living room, library, lab combination room. As always, the 'lab' caught her attention. In her previous house, the lab had been in a room of its own with special ventilation. The $15,000 she had spent on the installation of the ventilation equipment had actually dropped the resale value as the new owners had to pay to have it ripped out. Lesson learned. Now, in the apartment, the entirety of the lab was a small 2-foot by 4-foot table sitting in the corner with what remained of her laboratory equipment sitting in disarray.
When she had been forced to sell her house to keep the bookstore open, her parents had mortgaged themselves to the hilt and bought the two-story building of which the bookstore was the ground floor. As her landlords, they allowed her to convert the second floor loft space into half apartment and half remaining storage. Given that she was still one of the most famous residents of Crystal Cove, Building Codes Enforcement looked the other way since the building was not zoned residential and Velma did not have the money to hire a lawyer and request a variance. She had had enough of lawyers, anyway.
The results had been this semi-studio apartment where the separations between the main room, the bedroom, and the bathroom were partition walls that did not reach the ceiling. This was done decrease heating, ventilating, and air conditioning costs.
She cleaned her breakfast dishes, put them in a rack to dry, brushed her teeth, took a shower, and got dressed. She did not put on a baggy orange turtleneck, short red pleated skirt, knee socks, and Mary Jane shoes. Her normal work clothes now consisted of blue jeans and a t-shirt emblazoned with one of the few and underwhelming tourist destinations located in Crystal Cove (a deal she brokered with the City Government Office of Tourism – also known as the mayor's administrative assistant). She rarely wore anything other than tennis or athletic shoes since she was still amazed that she had not been crippled from all of the running she had been forced to do in the old Mary Janes.
The glasses remained. She had explored laser surgery but had been told that at her young age and with her level of astigmatism, her only real option was phakic intraocular lens implantation. They were five minutes into the explanation of what that was when she gave them a hard 'no'.
Her closet still contained three copies of the costume. And, thanks to the constant exercise routine, they still fit perfectly. She would put one on every time she was offered a paid speaking engagement. These were usually small store grand openings or as a guest speaker for a small business retreat. They didn't pay much and they were getting fewer. But cash was cash.
The audiences at these gatherings tended to be disappointed by the fact that the page boy hairstyle was no more. It had been another thing tied exclusively to her younger years and different life. At first, she had tried a variation but it ended up being a 'Karen' style and, with her reputation for being difficult, she didn't need to look the part. She should at least be able to sneak up on people. The next thing she had tried was to keep the bangs and let her hair grow longer. At first it would blow into her face on a windy day, so she started tying it back into a ponytail. This had been comfortable and reasonably stylish. She had kept it. And then, shortly after her 28th birthday, she had spotted the first of the tiny grey streaks making its way down through her thick, dark mane. There was no way that she was going to color her hair at the age of 28. The grey hairs responded to this decision by multiplying and now her formerly dark brown hair looked almost blond from a distance. But then, up close, it gave her the aging-hippy look. But hairstylists cost money. So, aging-hippy it was.
There was a benefit to these style changes. It was amazing how much people associated women with their hairstyles and clothing. With her present look, she could walk through the middle of a Comic-Con and no one would recognize her. Even when she was walking directly past Velma cos-players in their incredibly slutty present incarnations of her costume. What was wrong with people?
Now she had finished dressing and was ready to go. There were the beginnings of navigator's twilight beginning outside the windows and a glance at her watch showed 5:02. Still 58 minutes before she could leave this apartment, go downstairs, and then walk down the block to the diner. She went to the diner every morning but never ate there. The food wasn't very good. She went there and ordered a cup of coffee which she never finished. The diner opened at 6:00.
A common misconception was that there were pure extroverts and pure introverts. For some reason, it was in vogue now to be an introvert and the internet lists made everyone into an expert on what an introvert or an extrovert was. The lists made it seem simple: an introvert charged up with alone time and an extravert charged up with other people time. That was, of course, a ridiculous and inaccurate oversimplification. Daphne had once stunned Velma by stating that she was an introvert because after a week of group lunches and gathering with other people every evening, she usually needed some time on Sunday just to herself to recharge. Velma just stared at her after the statement but, later, in her myriad of imaginary replays, she had explained to the imaginary Daphne that every human being - even the most extraverted - needs a day to themselves every so often to recharge.
The reverse was also true. Velma preferred her privacy but she still needed some socialization – in a controlled situation. In the two years immediately following the disintegration of the gang, her name recognition had brought enough customers into the bookshop that the store provided her sufficient socialization. But it was the internet era and bookshops were on the endangered species list. Now she spent hours alone in the shop between customers. Now, her socialization requirements were met by her morning visits to the diner. She generally didn't say much. There was not a big cry of Velma! when she entered the place. There were rarely more than a handful of other customers. They said 'good morning' and she said 'good morning' back. She ordered her coffee and possibly explained something about the weather to the waitress. That was the extent of her interactions and that was socialization and that was what her therapist had said she needed. That was back when she could afford a therapist.
She pulled back out of her thoughts and found that the time had moved to 5:09 and she was still standing in her apartment and navigating within her own head. She now had 51 minutes until the diner opened which meant that she could not leave the apartment for 46 minutes. This trapped her alone with herself for another 46 minutes. And alone with her thoughts was where she very much did not wish to be. For it was within her own mind where she kept the keys that loosed her demons.
Her demons resided in an empty box on the floor next to her 'lab.' All of her high-end lab equipment had been sold for cash at pennies on the dollar. What remained was basically the same items she had when she first started out in middle school. Bunsen burner, some stands and other hardware. A reasonable array of glassware and beakers, a pH meter, some other small meters and gages, and several small bottles of miscellaneous chemicals. They were not arranged, they were piled. They were covered in dust.
A few weeks before, she had made the decision that she would never be using them again and had brought a box up from the store and placed it on the floor next to the table. She had then bent over and placed her forearm at the other end of the table ready to sweep everything into the box and out of her life. Eight square feet would instantly be cleared in her tiny living room. But the sweep never happened. She had frozen for a moment bent down over the table with her arm poised. And then she had decided that it was not the day for the sweep. She had stood, brushed the dust from her forearm, and walked back downstairs. The equipment remained. The box remained. It was a stand-off.
Now she stood next to the table and looked down into the empty box. There were some dead roaches in the bottom. Whether they had been in the box from the beginning or had lived in her apartment and made their way into the box, she did not know. Or really care. The building was old. There were roaches. There were mice. She lived with it. Today, she did not bend over the table and she did not place her forearm at the end. Because she knew that there would be no more aborts. The next time she bent over and made ready to sweep the equipment away, the sweep would happen. This part of her life would tumble from the end of the table into the box. She would pick up the box and take it to the dumpster in the alley behind the store and the garbage truck would come along and take it away. Forever.
The bottom of that box was the place that held the one demon whose mask she could never rip off. For to rip off that one particular latex façade would be to reveal something that she did not want to face.
Velma had never…
Even after the two years of therapy and the naming and understanding of all of the underlying causation, she could still never finish this sentence on the first try – even mentally. She had never muttered it aloud. Could not picture herself doing so. A deep breath. A second try.
She had never…
She was at the edge of the well, toying with stepping off and falling into its emotional depths. Her foot elevated into the air above the hole. Waiting for her conscious mind to finish the sentence.
Velma Dinkley had never gone to college.
The words were subvocalized and she waited for the familiar talons of depression to wrap themselves around her. She tried fighting them off using the usual mental arguments.
College was not as important as it used to be.
The lack of college did not change who she was.
She had been famous without it.
She was smarter and knew more than most PhDs.
And all of these statements were true. She and her therapist worked through these and then worked through what kept her from making what seemed to be the logical step of simply enrolling into college. It wasn't money, she still to this day had an open scholarship offer from Darrow University. The problem was easy to define. She had failed at the television show and she had failed at the relationship with her closest friends. The fear of failing in pursuit of her biggest dream was such that she could not face it. It was better to her to not try than to risk failure.
Easily defined. Emotionally impossible to overcome.
This left her with an identity crisis. She knew absolutely what she was not:
She was not a TV star.
She was not an internet sex kitten.
She was not a small-town bookstore owner.
She was not even a mystery solver.
What she was. She was a scholar. And a scholar went to college and got advanced degrees. And if she wasn't a scholar, then what was she?
She was nobody.
Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she knew that she had ruined her make-up as little as it was. The time it took to repair the damage got her ready to go again at 5:50. Close enough. She left and walked down to the diner, arriving five minutes before posted opening time. They were kind enough to let her in. The coffee was already hot.
Chapter Two
Daphne and Fred
Daphne was awakened by a rap at her bedroom door and then a voice through the door, "Ms. Blake, you left word that you wished to be awakened at 8:00. That hour is now upon us."
Daphne sat up in bed and removed her sleeping mask, "Thank you, Jeeves."
"You're welcome, ma'am."
His name was not Jeeves. But the Blakes insisted on calling him that and they paid his salary. So, he answered to Jeeves. Rich people just weren't right in the head.
Daphne flopped back into her childhood bed. The mattress was deep, soft, and plush. The sheets were the finest Egyptian cotton, and the duvet was goose down and covered in a smooth lustrous silk which remained cool on the warmest nights. She pulled it all up around herself and just enjoyed being a Blake. Even if it was only for one day a week.
Daphne bathed, put on her make-up, prepared her hair, and donned her morning gown (different from her nightgown) before descending the stairs to find her entire family gathered around the breakfast room table. Even though they were spread over the ages of 26 to 32, she and her four sisters could be twins and the fact that her mother had lined this room with mirrors made the multitudinous reflections of the same bright red hair unnerving, even for Daphne.
"Delilah!" Daphne squealed as she forgot about making an appropriate 'Blake' entrance and rushed down the remaining stairs to embrace her sister without giving her a chance to get fully up from her chair. The result was that they tumbled backward and Daphne was just able to grab the back of the chair to avoid a most unladylike movement which would have ended up with her sitting on her rump on the floor. But if the show had done nothing else, it had refined her reflexes.
Daphne resumed her poise under the watchful gaze of their mother and took her seat at the table, "It's so wonderful to see you. What are you doing home?"
Delilah's smile was half-hearted, "I resigned my commission. I'm coming home to join Dad's company."
Daphne knew that she was coming late to the conversation but asked anyway, "Why? I thought you loved the Marines."
Delilah's smile was now in full wilt, "I did. They didn't love me back. I got passed over."
Daphne didn't know exactly what 'passed over' meant but from context understood that it was some form of shunning.
"I'm so sorry."
"I'm not." Barty Blake was the only male in the room and the patriarch of the Blake clan. "I'm glad that finally one of my girls has decided to follow in my footsteps and carry on the family business." This was a back-handed shot at Daphne who had turned down his offer to join the company not long before. Mr. Blake had been a self-made boy by accidentally discovering the formula for the world's longest lasting bubble bath when he was eight years old. It took a year to overcome the initial problem that it smelled like old cheese but once they had chemically solved that problem, lilac scent Blake Bubble Bath had hit the market by storm just after his ninth birthday. He had amassed his first fortune before his tenth birthday. It was the first of many and he had grown up with few memories that did not include being rich and having everyone around fawn all over him. So, he tended to be a douchebag.
With Daphne now caught up on Delilah's situation, the breakfast broke into the usual conversational chaos which constituted a mealtime in the Blake mansion. Which meant that it also followed the traditional pattern wherein the rest of the family ganged up on Daphne.
Barty started the obviously planned segue, "And now, at last, we are all under the same roof again!"
Nan, their mother and the enforcer in the pair as far as the girls were concerned, added her line, "Except for Daphne."
And there it was.
Daphne smiled as best she could and prepared for the onslaught, "Mother. I'm married…"
Dawn's voice slid in from across the table in a clearly audible whisper, "At least this week."
Daphne ignored it and continued, "I'm married and it is appropriate that I live with my husband."
Barty jumped back in, "He could live here, too. He knows that."
This brought a bark of a laugh from Dorothy.
These conversations were frequent and the one thing they all had in common was that Fred's actual name was never uttered. He was the Voldemort of the Blake household.
Daphne's smile was becoming rigid but she refused to let it go, "Yes, Father, your offers to him in that regard have been very generous."
"Of course. Since he's married to you, he's family after a fashion. Whether we like it or not."
"Dear God, Dad! Seriously?!" It was Delilah. She had always been the only one that stood with Daphne in the family. Thank goodness she was back.
Nan erupted first using the even, scolding tone that they all knew so well, "Delilah. It is lovely to have you home but you may need to recall that such language and certainly such a tone with your father is not permitted in this house."
Daphne saw Delilah's shoulders relax and her sister slightly nodded her head, "Of course, mother. Such a statement was inappropriate aimed at a member of the family. I apologize."
Everyone at the table understood the double meaning of the statement. Daphne loved her sister so much at that moment.
Fake smile time. Daphne rose, "As always the time at home has been wonderful but I'm afraid that I must be returning to my husband. He's completely helpless without me, you know." Even to herself, Daphne sounded like Vivien Leigh in Gone With the Wind. But it seemed to match the surroundings.
Her mother's smile came back just as fake, "Of course, dear. Give him our love."
"I will, Mother."
And she escaped.
A lot of what Daphne had said at the table was heat of the moment but that made it no less true. Top of this list was Fred's helplessness as regards taking care of the basics for himself such as cooking and cleaning. Breakfast could be managed. He could scramble eggs, he could make toast, and he could make coffee. He also believed that he could fry bacon. Daphne disagreed. The kitchen smoke alarm disagreed. So, with Daphne away for the night, Fred found himself standing in a chair trying to figure out which button to push to make the smoke alarm shut the heck up. The windows in the old house had not opened since years before they had moved in so the front and back door were open and the bacon was lying in the pan – black. Or, as Fred liked to call it, crispy.
With the smoke alarm now vanquished, Fred planned out the rest of his morning. First, eat his rapidly cooling breakfast. Second, kill all of the flies that had come in through the open doors. So far, it was a normal Sunday morning.
The store didn't open until noon on Sunday so he had plenty of time. It wasn't like he was the manager who needed to be there first to check everyone in. He was a floor salesman who made minimum wage plus commission. This was not as bad as it sounded when one is Fred Jones who is tall, handsome, and reasonably famous. The store was one of those huge hardware/department stores and he would hang around in the kitchen section and sell large white goods items to female customers. In white goods, it was not hard to sell over $5,000 on a good day and the commission on $5,000 was $150. This well more than doubled his income for the day. And Sunday was one of the two good days of the week. His monopolization of the white goods departments did not make him a favorite of his fellow workers who were lucky to get $50 in commission on their best days. But the manager knew that they also would miss out on a lot of the sales that Fred Jones could close.
On the slower days, Fred lived in the hardware departments. From his years of trap building, he knew every tool and every part in the huge store by heart. Now, when asked about how to use them, his knowledge was very different from the average homeowner trying to drain a clogged sink. But he frequently held customers spellbound with a tale of how he used a roll of duct tape, three plungers, and four 10-foot sticks of 1" EMT to capture a corporate vice president masquerading as a sasquatch. Storytime did not sell much product and the manager was less pleased about that but the overall benefits of having Fred Jones on the floor outweighed the costs.
Fred's choice to work as a salesman rather than a corporate executive in Blake Industries was a central topic in the weekly all-against-one discussions at the Blake mealtimes. Daphne kept this from him. She didn't want to drive any more wedges between her husband and her family. Relations were already strained to the breaking point. Fred just knew that Daphne would come home from a night in the luxurious digs in which she had grown up itching to fight about why he wouldn't take one of her father's job offers.
His standard answer was that he wanted to stand on his own two feet. But the real answer was that it embarrassed him. He was not embarrassed to take a job from his multi-billionaire father-in-law but he was embarrassed at how badly he had failed at it. After the gang had broke up and he and Daphne had married the first time, he had taken Barty's job offer and been put in charge of a small section of a small division. Six months in that position had proven to Fred and everyone else that the only thing he would ever successfully manage was Mystery, Inc. At the end of six months, Fred had been given a promotion and a ten percent raise to sit in an office alone all day and stay out of everybody's way. And everyone knew it. If he returned to Blake Industries, that would be the job to which he would be returning.
And Daphne knew this as well as anyone. But she still yearned for a return to the life to which she was accustomed. And that did not include selling make-up for 32 hours a week to old ladies and teen-aged girls at the rapidly deteriorating shopping mall on the outskirts of town.
The fights had been epic. And this had been the key cause of the divorce – at least according to the bargain basement marriage counselor recommended by Daphne's attorney. Divorce attorneys did not get rich by recommending good marriage counselors. The divorce had gone through and they had entered the period when they were no longer husband and wife. Daphne, being Daphne, had procrastinated in getting around to the paperwork that would return her to her maiden name and the gang had received a job offer to appear as a complete group at the season opening of a small theme park in Florida. The airline seeing Fred and Daphne as husband and wife, had seated them together. With an empty middle seat both going and coming (this had been during the pandemic – yay Covid!), they had no option but to talk. During the conversations they had realized the cause of the divorce had not really been finances. In their youth, they had both had different visions of what their future together would be like. Neither one of them turned out to be true and each blamed the other. The last two hours of their conversation had been about what a realistic vision of a future for them would have been.
As they were standing at baggage claim, he had asked her out on a date. Three months later, they were married again. And this go around, the fights were a little less epic. But not much.
And worse fights were on the horizon.
Fred heard the keys jingling in the side door off the gravel driveway and Daphne popped in.
"I'm home."
She took two steps in and stopped, "Bacon?"
He dropped his head and gave her his best sheepish expression, "Bacon."
She rolled her eyes and stepped out of the heels which only a Blake would be wearing on Sunday morning before backing toward her husband, "Zip me?"
Fred reached over and brought the zipper hallway down to the point where she could easily reach it but she didn't have to hold onto the dress with one hand to keep it on. Why was it that the only dresses in the world that were still dumb enough to zip up the back were the most expensive ones? Maybe they thought that rick people had servants to unzip them. Maybe they were right. Daphne just had Fred.
Fred decided to skip asking about her visit to her parent's. Such a question usually triggered a fight. Either she would get angry or she would refer to her parent's mansion as 'home' and he would get angry.
"Do you know what I think about when you're away?"
She hadn't eaten at breakfast and began rummaging through the refrigerator. Without looking up, she answered, "Traps."
"Okay, that was a gimme. But the other thing I think about is how beautiful my wife is."
"Really? Because 94% of America thinks I don't match up to Velma."
"That's hotness not beauty. Its different. You're definitely the most beautiful. I'm pretty sure at least 51% of people would think so."
This caused her to punch him and then to put her arms around his neck and hold him close. She knew her husband. He was not complex and his efforts at steering the conversation away from anything that would start a fight were transparent. And she loved him for it.
But the fight was coming. The other big hardware/department store in Riley had offered Fred higher pay if he would work for them. His manager countered by making him full-time which meant he qualified for health insurance. Three nights previously, they had been watching a hospital show and they were in the final scene where the mother who had almost died in childbirth was holding her newborn baby. Out of nowhere, Fred had said, "You know. With the insurance, we can afford to have a baby now."
She had closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep and he had not mentioned it again. But the fight was coming.
And it might have come that day. Except that Fred's phone rang.
Scooby and Shaggy
Scooby groaned. He had forgotten to close his drapes the previous night and his window faced east. The bright morning sunlight was streaming in. His head hurt. His head hurt a lot. With his change in status to US citizen, Scooby had decided that it was more appropriate for him to have a room to himself with his own human bed. At the present time, he was not in it. Some nights he wanted to sleep in the human bed and some nights it wasn't worth the climb. So, he also had a large dog bed on the floor. He basically slept at the foot of his own bed. Which seemed within the rules of being a citizen. And a nuclear explosion of sunlight was going off in his brain.
Of the gang, Scooby had had the most to come to grips with in the last few years. The revelation that he was a 4-dimensional being created by other 4-dimensional beings in order to interact with 3-dimensional beings in a 3-dimensional universe and protect them against evil 4-dimensional beings was quite a pill to swallow.
He didn't get to speak with Velma anymore as much as he would like but there were multiple new scientists and doctors who were equally incomprehensible. So, he got to continue to receive his regular dose of bewilderment. Yet for some reason, they felt compelled to continue to try and explain things to him. Apparently, if there were such a thing as a 2-dimensional universe, it would be like a piece of paper that stretched out in two directions forever. But it would be perfectly flat. A 2-dimensional being could look around inside that piece of paper but couldn't perceive anything that was in three dimensions or could be called 'up' or 'down. So, if a 3-dimensional ball passed through a 2-dimensional universe, the beings therein would have no idea nor be able to comprehend that was a ball or that such a thing as a ball even existed. They would see a point that expanded into a line and then became a point again before disappearing. In addition, we – as 3-dimensional beings – could hold onto the ball and move it around within the 2-dimensional universe and completely control it without ever ourselves being seen within it.
It had sounded to Scooby like one of the conversations he had with Shaggy on nights when the smoke seeped out under Shaggy's door. But those conversations were not important because the smoke meant that a massive eating binge was about to happen. So, Shaggy could talk about whatever he wanted.
But, in this case, it turns out that the ball in question was Scooby Doo. And he was the 3-dimensional representation of a 4-dimensional object that was being manipulated through our 3-dimensional universe by the 4-dimensional Annunaki. So, logically he knew that he was 4-dimensional but the sliver of his mind that connected with this 3-dimensional universe could not conceive it or perceive it and he had no idea what he really looked like. He just knew that he was artificial – a construct of these Annunaki. He had been created in order to be a tool to manipulate four 3-dimensional beings into joining him in training and preparation to defend the sarcophagus.
When he really thought about it. It all sort of pissed him off. But that was beyond his control. He was who he was. On the brighter side, had he been a normal Great Dane, his life expectancy would have been 9 to 11 years. Having self-awareness and knowing he was going to die 60 years before his friends had been a dark undertone of the original shows that they never spoke of. And he had to stay away from the internet where it was discussed endlessly. But staying away from the internet was not a problem. He had no fingers and could push a mouse around a little but it was nothing other than a frustrating exercise. And voice recognition software? Think about it. But it turned out that the opposite and equally depressing reality was true.
The Annunaki maintained him and manipulated him to interact with Shaggy, Velma, Daphne, and Fred. They would create no other like him until his time was done and his time would not be done until the last of his friends had died. So, he would be destined to watch all of his friends die before being snuffed out himself.
While Professor Pericles had proven that even the Annunaki could be fooled, he had become a minion of evil in the process. Scooby was left with two alternatives: accept that he was the only one of his kind in the entire universe or sacrifice his soul. Loneliness versus the destruction of everything he believed in – including his friends. He had no option.
Scooby's designation as a citizen had created some legal quandaries. Pretty much every state had laws against, um… against, um… making whoopie with livestock, shall we say? What to do when you have a citizen who is, himself, a dog? Legal minds were brought to bear on the issue and discussions were televised from 47 of the 50 state legislatures. It was humiliating and Scooby banned the broadcast of CSPAN into any room he was in during that period.
Anyway, it was unnecessary. Scooby had never had an infatuation with a dog. It just never felt right. The brief such relationships that occurred throughout the series and especially the one with Nova were completely scripted in an effort to give Scooby some opportunities to expand his acting abilities. Even when he thought he was a dog who could talk, the idea of making love with a regular dog gave him the heebie-jeebies. When he found out what he really was, it was completely off the table. In terms of romance, it was impossible to be more alone in this universe than was Scooby Doo.
And that is a story that, when told at a bar, gets one lots of free drinks.
Which brings things back to Scooby's headache.
Last night had been a monster. It had started with Shaggy having a smoke-under-the-door evening. Followed by a food run. Followed by another food run. Followed by a third food run. And then, as they were walking back from the all-night Mini-Mart, Shaggy had decided they should drop into the little bar near their condo. The story had been told and drinks had been offered and accepted. How they got home was not clear.
But now it was morning and the sun was a cruel god burning out his eyes and brain. Scooby dragged himself to his feet and tried to undo the clasp which held open the curtains. But he didn't have a thumb. This got so old. Everything required thumbs or at least dexterous fingers to operate. Could he use a phone? No. Turn on a television? No. Operate a computer? Only by typing with two claws. And now. All he wanted to do was close the drapes. He would not suffer alone.
"Raggy!"
He got up and made his way to the door. The doorknob and lock had been removed and a paw-friendly handle had been placed about 30 inches above the ground. He could stay on his back two legs for long periods of time, if needed, but it wasn't really comfortable and the fittings in the condo were set for operation at his four-footed height.
This got him into the hallway and he stepped down to Shaggy's door. Here he did raise up on his back legs so he could pound on the door with his paw. He was not going to scratch at the door. He was a citizen, after all.
"Raggy!"
The door opened and Shaggy appeared wearing his white Oxford work shirt from the night before, boxer shorts, and black socks.
"What?"
"Right roo right."
Shaggy blinked once and then twice, "Right roo right? Oh! Lights too bright. I gotcha. Why don't you close your curtains."
Sometimes being a dog assisted in communication. Scooby growled. A good deep-throated Call of the Wild growl.
Shaggy recognized the I-have-no-thumbs-you-dumbass growl and followed Scooby into the next room where he undid the clasps and shut the curtains.
"Why don't we just leave these closed?"
"Reah, rhy ron't re?" For someone with limited facial expressivity and tone control, Scooby did sarcasm very well.
Shaggy suddenly stood, "Excuse me just one moment, pal." And headed for the door.
"Are roo roing to row up?"
Shaggy stood at the door and pulled his shoulders back to best posture, "Yes. I am going to throw up. I will see you in a few moments. Good morning."
And then he left.
'I will see you in a few moments' meant food. In all honesty, most phrases shared by Shaggy and Scooby meant food in one form or other. But that didn't change the fact that food was imminent. This meant that it was time to wake up and go to the kitchen. During the years of the show, they had made Scooby several pairs of sunglasses which were made for his head and ears and a wooden rack which he could use to put them on and take them off. This was a sunglasses-indoors type of morning. He padded into his favorite room in the house – the kitchen. His claws made a tick-tick-ticking sound on the tile that reminded him that they needed to be trimmed. This was yet another thing he could not do for himself. But Shaggy had been doing it since he was a puppy and it was something of a bonding time between them. With anyone else it would just be one more indignity heaped on all of the others.
But, as always as he entered this room, his mind became keenly focused on the refrigerator. Scooby opened the door to the fridge and then sat down on the floor to take a survey. From observation, there was little doubt that a bomb of some kind had gone off in this refrigerator. Memories of the previous night began to seep back into his consciousness. Things had not gone well for the fridge when they had gotten back from the bar. Things had been done to it. Heinous things. And the food was all gone. As his memories came more and more clear, he knew that he would not even open the pantry door. He just didn't want to know.
Shaggy came into the room. He was wearing pants now which was always an improvement.
"Hey Scoob. Where's breakfast?"
"Rare is ro 'reakfast."
"No breakfast? Oh. Yeah. I seem to remember…"
Scooby interrupted, "Ron't say it. Ron't even rink it."
Shaggy nodded, "Well I guess we can just eat at the restaurant."
"Arainst rhe rules." Scooby reminded.
"Oh yeah." When the restaurant had first opened, the jokes about Scooby and Shaggy eating up all of the profits had been funny. They had remained funny as their name recognition had made the restaurant a huge success and fostered a bank-sponsored growth plan which included four more and then another four for a total of ten. It had gotten less funny as this expansion spread them too thin. Three restaurant managers had been caught stealing and fired but that didn't bring the money back. And then Covid had hit and ten restaurants had turned to eight, then five, and then three, and then back to one. Shaggy had driven to each closing restaurant and told every employee personally. Paying out severance packages which were required neither by employment contracts nor state law had wiped out his personal savings. Government programs which were hailed as ways for small business owners to stay in business during the pandemic were nothing but loans. The restaurant business was a high-turnover, low profit-margin business. There were few things harder than maintaining a profit with a restaurant. Adding an unplanned loan on top of the normal hardships? The math didn't work. It would never work.
But he was not going to lose his first and now last restaurant. He took no salary and he and Scooby lived off of Scooby's research payments from the Government. And the rule had been made that neither he nor Scooby could eat at the restaurant. It could not afford the loss of food.
"So, Scoob old buddy old pal, I guess that means…"
"Rast Rood!"
"You betcha. As if food isn't good enough, they make it fast."
"Ret its rot rast enough to reep up rith us!"
"I won't take that bet. And get a move on, we have the morning delivery scheduled at the restaurant in thirty minutes."
The Mystery
Fred's phone was across the room, he walked to it and picked it up. He had not been able to afford to change phones in some time and the name that displayed on the screen startled him for a moment. Then he answered.
"Hello?"
"Hi Fred, this is Clive Matthews from CBS."
Clive Matthews was 'the corporate executive.' As in 'the corporate executive who made them switch to the one-hour format in the second season,' and 'the corporate executive who made them have guest stars in the second season,' and 'the corporate executive who had forced Scrappy Doo on them.' The gang had always been convinced that Clive was either stupid, incompetent, or had been trying to destroy the show from the beginning. And, lastly, Clive had been the one insisting on mini-skirts for Daphne and Velma. Pants were much more functional and appropriate.
"Yes Clive. I saw your name on the screen. What do you want?"
At Fred's saying the name 'Clive,' Daphne immediately walked over and mouthed the name 'Clive Matthews?'
Fred nodded and hit the speaker button so Daphne could listen in.
"Fred, we have a mystery here."
"We're kind of out of the mystery business, Clive."
Daphne couldn't hold back, "And you're a big part of why."
"Hello, Daphne."
"Hello Clive." Her voice was frosted with a side of even colder. Fred remembered it from the divorce proceedings. Bad vibes.
Fred jumped back in. "I'm not sure if we're able to help you out, Clive. I'm not sure if we want to."
But Clive was nothing if not a television executive. He cut to the chase, "$10,000 apiece just for trying. Another $10,000 each if you succeed. But this one requires the whole crew."
"Why don't you just go to the police?"
"They won't touch it."
"Why not?"
"You'll have to accept the job to find out."
Daphne knew her husband was being played. Clive knew him well enough to dangle a mystery. The bug had never left Fred.
She blurted out, "Clive stop the crap."
"Okay, here it is. No crap. $10,000 each for just flying out here, signing NDAs and hearing what the case is all about. That's guaranteed. $5,000 more each if you take the case. And then $15,000 more each if you solve it."
Daphne continued, "An NDA. So, this won't be filmed. It's not for some show or reunion special?"
"No. No one will ever hear about this. Ever."
Daphne's mouth dropped open. Spending that kind of money without expecting content on the back end? That was not Clive. There was some form of game being played here.
"Clive. We've known you a long time. There are trust issues. Severe trust issues."
"Daphne…" The pause after her name stretched out. Finally, a word was added. "Please."
Fred noted the movement of Daphne's face flying up from the phone to look at him. He raised his eyes and looked into hers. She looked… stricken. Something in Clive's tone had struck a chord.
Daphne was not going to speak any more. Fred took back over, "Clive, what about expenses?"
"All covered including travel to and from Crystal Cove."
"I have to talk it over with the rest of the gang. I'll let you know later today."
"Thank you, Fred. That's all I can ask."
They hung up.
Daphne looked incredulous, "A please and a thank you in the same conversation? I don't remember ever hearing a please and a thank you from that man in the same year. And you know what's weirder?"
"What?"
"The please was sincere. I mean, like, really sincere."
"So, what do we do?" Fred had learned through the divorce process about letting Daphne have a say. He had learned in his time at her father's company that his ideas – when not specific to mystery solving - were frequently terrible. Two good reasons to ask for her opinion.
"We call the others."
"You mean we call Velma."
She shook her head violently, "No. I mean you call Velma. This cannot come from me."
Fred typed V and E into his phone and Velma's name popped up. The little green button lit up. "Call." Fred stared at it for a moment. He didn't call Velma often and he hoped that he would catch her in a good mood. He couldn't remember the last time that he did.
Velma was standing in the store. Technically, she was not open. It was Sunday morning and Crystal Cove still had blue laws. If she opened before noon on Sunday, it could be a $100 fine. But she wasn't open. She was there. And the door was unlocked. But there was no 'Open' sign on the door. Of course, there was no 'Closed' sign, either. It had come loose from the door and drifted on the wind currents to behind the counter. So, if some hapless passersby were in need of assistance, who was she to say 'no?' She had no control over what kind of assistance a hapless passerby might need. It could be a book selection emergency. People can die from those. And why was she wearing this stupid t-shirt for Darrow Falls if the Mayor's secretary didn't give her a pass every now and then? So far, it had worked out for everyone. Unless they went to Darrow Falls. It was water flowing over one rock and dropping about three feet to another rock. And it was a creek that was about seven feet wide.
She considered it her own personal protest in favor of separation of church and state. Who under the age of fifty actually went to church anymore? And why was it the Government's business to restrict the activities of people who chose not to go. She was feeling pretty righteous. She would feel even more righteous if she could sell a couple of books.
Or even some of the souvenirs. She hated the souvenirs and had refused to sell them at first but people had continually seemed disappointed to not find souvenirs in Velma Dinkley's bookshop. It was only reasonable, all of the souvenirs sold in Crystal Cove featured Mystery Inc. (alias the Scooby Gang.). But she had stuck by her guns and carried none until her mother had picked up her lease and made the selling of souvenirs a requirement. And now there was a full shelf filled with the books about the gang. The five autobiographies – four ghost-written and one (hers) actually written by her. Well, written by her and a myriad of editors that had changed nearly every word. But at least they had started with a complete work that she had written herself. The other four had never sat for a minute typing any of their own stories. Disappointingly, she had only outsold Fred. Everyone knew that Scooby's would sell the most. And she had expected Daphne's father to buy a 100,000 or so copies to avoid damage to his daughter's ego. But to be outsold by Shaggy? That stung. But, of course, his had included recipes and coupons. It was hard to beat free food.
Her phone rang, the screen told her it was Fred. It probably meant they had a gig at a store opening somewhere. A little extra money would be pretty good right now.
"Hi Fred."
"Hi Velma. How are you?"
Well that certainly was very stilted. She responded in kind, "I am fine, Thank you Fred. How are you?"
Fred paused. Then, "Yeah, uh… sorry. Velma, there's a mystery."
"Up yours, Fred."
"Don't hang up. This one pays."
"Up yours less, Fred."
"If we solve it, the fee is $30,000 each."
"You have my attention. What's the catch?"
The pause was long. This was going to be good.
"It's for Clive Matthews."
"Up yours twice and three times on Sunday, Fred." She said his name as if it were an insult. And then she hung up.
Her phone began to ring again immediately in her hand. $30,000. That would pay off her delinquent utility bills, her unsecured note to the bank with the enormous interest rate, and bring her up to date with her mother on rent. And still have a little left over for a rainy day.
She muttered under her breath, "For what does it profit a woman to gain a respite from bills and forfeit her soul? Maybe more people should go to church."
She answered the phone, "What part of 'up yours' did you not understand, Fred?".
At this point she knew that she was going to give in, but she was going to make them beg a little.
"Velma, at least come by the house tonight and lets all discuss it. My shift ends at 8:00. Can you come by at 9:00?"
It was Velma's turn to create the pause. She milked it. "I suppose."
"Great. We'll see you then."
Velma placed the phone back under the counter. A noise from the front of the store startled her and she looked up to see nothing. Just the wind rattling at the aged door. No customers. No income. $30,000 was a pretty solid temptation with Clive Matthews cast as the serpent.
They were almost to the restaurant when Shaggy's phone rang.
"How do the phone gods always know when I'm driving?"
The car swerved slightly as he fished the phone out of his pocket. It was illegal to answer the phone while driving in Crystal Cove. He handed the phone over to Scooby.
"Scoob, could you answer this for me?"
Scooby took the phone and fumbled it down between the seat and the armrest. He looked at Shaggy, "Ro rumbs, rarole."
Shaggy let that slide and the phone continued to ring. Scooby shuffled around in his seat which was difficult with the seatbelt and then took his tail in his paw and used the tip of the tail to push the phone out from between the seat and onto the passenger side floor. He couldn't grasp it to pick it up but he was able to touch it.
"Rerro?"
"Hi Scoob, this is Fred. Is Shaggy there?"
"Raggy is 'riving and ran't ralk on rhe rhone. Raggy is a ronscienscious ritizen." Once you find out that you are an artificial construct from a 4th dimension, the idea that the NSA might be listening in on cell phone conversations became much less implausible.
"Okay Scooby, I'm glad that Shaggy is a conscientious citizen. There's a new mystery and we would like for you and Shaggy to come by the house tonight at 9:00 and see if you are interested. It pays."
"Roney?"
"Yes. $10,000 dollars minimum each and up to $30,000 maximum each."
"Reach?"
"Yes. Each."
Shaggy leaned over, "Will Velma be there?"
Scooby Doo interjected, "Rat ras rot Raggy. Rit ras rirds. Rill Relma re rare?"
"Yes. Velma has agreed to talk about it. She'll be here."
Shaggy nodded.
"Rokay. Re'll re rare, roo."
"Good. I'll see you two tonight."
"Rye rye."
Sunday was usually a dead night anyway. They could probably close up the restaurant a little early.
Fred spent the rest of the day distracted. He lost a couple of easy sales when his brain just drifted off. He ended up logging in commissions of $84 on the night which was double the next best floor person. He could live with that for an off night. His biggest sale of the night was yet to come.
Unfortunately, Shaggy had been correct and the night at the restaurant was deader than dead. He ended up sending everyone home at 7:30 and he and Scooby Doo were on their way home 45 minutes later. The back seat of their car contained all of the food that had hit its 'serve by' date. So, the condo refrigerator and pantry would be restocked but the restaurant had had another very bad week. Scooby did the books since for some reason a talking dog was better at math than was Shaggy and the math said that four more weeks like this and the doors would close.
Velma actually considered wearing the old costume over to Fred and Daphne's. Maybe even hike the skirt up an inch or two just to try and make the point of how stupid it was to think they could somehow recapture their youth by pretending that they were those people again. She was not sure that they had really ever been those people in the first place.
The idea of playing dress-up never really caught traction with her. It was way too dramatic. So, at 8:45, she remained in her work jeans and t-shirt and went to the alley where her car was parked. Her car was her mother's old Beetle which she had bought when her mother had bought a newer car. It still managed to run even though the heater didn't work and it had never had air conditioning. But everything worked well enough for the ten-minute drive to Daphne and Fred's. She parked in the lawn just off their driveway. She wasn't worried about damaging the lawn. Lawn was just a nice word for dry dirt and weeds. But it was mowed.
She turned the engine off but left the lights on for a moment. They were shining directly into the back of the Mystery Machine. In the harsh glow of her headlights, she could see the dents, scratches, and rust that attested to the age and maintenance of the vehicle. Technically, it belonged to all of them as they were all equal partners in the production company they had formed when CBS had turned them loose. Every so often, someone would be willing a pay a few dollars to have the Mystery Machine parked at their car show, convention, or place of business for a few days. The revenues from that were enough to keep it running but not enough for a new custom paint job.
As she walked from her car, she knew that the unwritten rule was that friends came to the side door and all others came to the front. She stopped where the walk led off toward the front door and debated. There was a lot of water under the bridge and a lot of messy baggage. But, if these weren't her friends, then she didn't have any. She continued on to the side door.
Shaggy and Scooby arrived right on time and parked along the street. They saw Velma walking up the driveway. Shaggy's eyes rested on her as she walked into the light beaming off the corner of their house. She still looked good. Really good. He, on the other hand, was beginning to see the end of the dynamic metabolism that had fueled his massive eating binges and was now sporting the beginnings of a real spare tire around his midsection. But there was a lot more than ten pounds standing in the way of his rekindling anything with Velma.
Shaggy was always a little nervous when getting together with the gang. It was not like one of their made-for-tv movies where they played themselves after some fall-out and they hadn't spoken in years. They saw each other pretty regularly. It wasn't a very big town. He and Scooby had bought the refrigerator from Fred. Then there were the appearances. People rarely paid for all five of them but sometimes they did. And they had all been at Fred and Daphne's first wedding. Velma had even sat with he and Scooby and hung around with them throughout. He knew her well enough to know that she was clinging to them to avoid awkwardly standing in a corner by herself or fending off drunken male revelers during the reception. He had asked her to dance and she had said no. But she had said no to several others and stayed at the table until enough time had passed that she could politely say goodbye to Daphne and leave.
The divorce really hadn't included a communal gathering and wedding number two had been something of a spontaneous Las Vegas thing. The very last time that the five of them had been in a room together was a few months ago at some rich kids' bar mitzvah in upstate New York. Fred had driven the Mystery Machine across most of the country to get it there breaking down twice along the way. The rest of them had been flown in. The rich kid had no clue who they were and was a spoiled brat about it. The remainder of the 13 and 14-year-old boys in the room had buzzed around Velma and Daphne through the event and they had ended up making some new fans by giving the boys turns dancing with them. Contrary to every comedy movie ever made about such a circumstance, all of the young men had been extremely nervous when they placed their arms around the girls' waists and rigidly swayed side to side through the dance without moving another muscle. Perfect little gentlemen. And the gang had pocketed some cash and gone home. And then every penny of the payday went to repairs to the van and towing costs.
But that was then and this was now. If Velma was even talking about solving a mystery with the gang, this was worth listening in.
He and Scooby had had plenty of time to wash off and rinse the kitchen smells away. Summer was good because it was warm and Scooby could bathe under the garden hose in the parking lot. Shaggy assisted and stepped out of the way when it came time for the big shake. In the winter, the big shake occurred in the bathroom and it was a mess. In a one bath condo, that was a big deal. The thought of wearing his old costume had never crossed Shaggy's mind and he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and flip flops. The shirt billowed a little bit and covered the spare tire. Scooby, of course, sported his usual fur. Human clothes were stupid and uncomfortable.
They, too, knocked at the side door and were almost instantly greeted by Daphne that hugged each in turn.
"Scooby, are you wearing cologne?"
"Rits Reau de Rohnson and Rohnson." Scooby sniggered at his joke as was his trademark.
Fred stood next to the refrigerator as they entered the kitchen, "Hey guys. Either of you want a beer?"
Shaggy raised a finger and then remembered his morning on the bathroom floor. He gave the taste of beer a thought and his stomach sent a warning twinge.
"No, thank you Fred. Got anything softer?"
"Coke?"
"Sounds good. Scooby?"
"Rust rater, rease. Rin a rowl."
Scooby was able to drink out of bottles but it was difficult and he preferred drinking from a bowl on the floor. There were very few people that he would allow to see him drink this way. And they were all in this room.
Coke in hand, Shaggy turned into the living room and saw Velma. She was seated on the front edge of the couch with her knees at precisely 90-degree angles and squeezed tightly together. Her hands were resting rigidly in her lap and her shoulders were pushing themselves up toward her ears. She was the poster child for tension.
And up close and in better lighting, she looked even better than she had from the car. Maybe someone should tell her that the form-fitting jeans she now wore were much more distracting than the mini-skirt had ever been. Her hair was longer than the last time he had seen her and pulled back into a pony tail. It looked good. Everything about her looked good. Something caught his eye.
"Hi Velma. Are you streaking your hair?"
She barely moved, "No. The winds of time are doing it for me."
"Huh?"
"It's grey. Those are grey hairs."
"Well… it looks really good."
"Thanks."
Shaggy sat in a chair across the small room from the couch and Scooby came over (soundlessly – claws had been clipped) and sat on the floor next to him. Scooby leaned over and whispered, "Rooth roove, Rex-Rax."
Shaggy whispered back, "Thanks Scoob. I know you always have my back."
"Ron't relp. It's rhe front rhere rour mouth is."
Daphne entered the room, "Well, Velma is sitting as tense as a cat at a dog show and Shaggy has said something stupid. I think we've got the preliminaries out of the way and can get on with business."
She sat next to Velma and Fred sat at the other end of the sofa. There was no change in Velma's body language to indicate whether a friend or foe had just sat next to her. She remained frozen.
But she spoke first, "Clive Matthews. Explain to me why we're trusting him."
Shaggy responded immediately, "I can think of 30,000 reasons."
Scooby confirmed, "Reah, rirty rousand."
'How much of that is guaranteed?"
Daphne answered, "We get ten thousand plus expenses each just for going to Los Angeles. Then five thousand more for taking the case. Then another fifteen thousand if we solve it."
"So, ten thousand guaranteed even if we don't take the case."
"Right."
"What's the catch?"
"We don't know yet."
"But its Clive. So, there is a catch."
"Yes. We all know that."
Velma remained wary and looked at Fred when she asked this question, "How are we planning to get there?"
Fred knew the question was for him, "I was kind of thinking that maybe we could take the Mystery Machine for one last outing."
Velma waited patiently for Fred to finish before responding, "And I was kind of thinking hell no."
Shaggy stepped in, "Fred, why would we want to get all jammed together in the old van when someone is willing to fork over for airplane tickets and limos?"
Daphne put her arm around her husband and kissed him on the shoulder, "Does the air conditioning even work, Freddy?"
"It works okay above 40 miles per hour. It kind of blows out hot air slower than that."
Velma repeated this for emphasis, "It kind of blows out hot air in the middle of summer in Los Angeles."
Fred tried not to let his disappointment show. He failed. "Okay, no Mystery Machine. So, are we a go?"
Velma looked at Fred. "I'm not at all comfortable with this but I'm pretty sure you all know that I am not in great shape financially. I need to establish one deal breaker. I'm not going to go prancing around in that stupid skirt and those stupid shoes for his jollies."
Daphne reached over and put a hand on Velma's knee. The movement had been repeated hundreds of times through the years and Velma at first accepted it but then seemed to realize and stiffened. Daphne removed her hand but spoke, "I don't think it's like that."
"How do we know it's not like that?"
Fred pulled out his phone and put it on the table, "He's expecting our call. You can ask him yourself."
Velma nodded, "Make the call."
Fred tapped the screen twice and the ringing started.
Clive answered himself, "Hello Fred. Are you going to be able to help me?"
"We have some questions."
"Is everyone there?"
"Everyone's here."
"Including Velma?"
"Hello Clive." It was amazing how much animosity could be packed into those two words.
"Hello Velma. Always a pleasure. I assume that the questions are from you?"
"Yes. I have a few. First, there will be a signed contract by both parties before we ever leave Crystal Cove."
"No problem."
"And the initial ten thousand dollars is paid into our accounts before we leave."
"I would assume that would occur upon your arrival here."
"I think you need to assume differently."
"We can do that. Okay."
"And there will be no stipulations in the contract regarding clothing, make-up, or personal appearances of any kind. We are there to solve a mystery. Nothing else."
"Sure, I don't care what you people wear."
Scooby piped in, "Ray rhat row?
A note of exasperation entered Clive's voice, "Rogers, I never could understand that dog. What did he say?"
"He said what the rest of us thought. Since when do you not care what Daphne and Velma wear?"
"Since… never mind. Everyone there is okay signing an NDA."
Velma turned to Daphne, "NDA?"
Clive's exasperated tone increased, "Didn't they tell you? Yes. An NDA is required for this one. Is that acceptable?"
Velma continued to look at Daphne, who shrugged. There was silence for a moment as Velma thought.
"Two conditions. First, you send the NDA at least twelve hours before we leave so we can review it. Second, you also sign an NDA that we will send you by 9:00 tomorrow morning."
"I'll have to look at it but agreed in principle. How soon can you get here?"
Fred took over, "How soon do you want us?"
"I'll have the NDAs in your inboxes within fifteen minutes, the money in your accounts by noon tomorrow and have you tickets out of Riley Airport for 5:00 PM tomorrow afternoon. Arriving here at 6:00 PM. Can you make that work?"
Fred looked around to see four jaws dropped open. Finally Shaggy nodded. Then Scooby. Then Daphne. All eyes locked on Velma until she looked at each one in turn and also nodded.
Fred gave the final nod, "We can do that."
"Good. I'll see you tomorrow night." He hung up.
There was a moment of silence around the room broken by Daphne.
"Well, that just happened."