Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Box Set Read online

  “That could be critical evidence, Bobbie. I’ll get out there and collect samples.”

  “But I—”

  “Listen, Bobbie. Don’t worry. You did good. I’ll double-check the police reports for any mention of escaped prisoners. And I’ll run back over to the scene right now and bag some soil samples for evidence. Don’t go back there. We don’t want more contamination of the scene, in case this turns out to be something bigger than a dead dog.”

  “Okay. But I’d hurry if I were you. There were vultures circling.”

  Paulson sniggered. “Buzzards don’t bother me. I’ve had to fight off more than a few in my day.”

  “Grayson says their vultures.”

  “Who’s Grayson?”

  “A guy staying here while his RV gets fixed. He’s a private investigator.”

  “You don’t say. Was he there with you at the scene?”

  “Yes. He said last night’s rain washed away a lot of trace evidence.”

  “That’s not good. Listen, be careful with this guy. He may say he’s a P.I., but you never know about strangers. And with your recent concussion, you might not have the best judgment right now.”

  That niggling feeling of unease returned. “Okay. You’re right. But I already told him we’d go to dinner at El Molino’s tonight. Do you want me to ask him anything?”

  “Not that I can think of at the moment. But tell him to keep his hands to himself, okay?”

  I smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

  I clicked off the phone. I was no detective, but I was pretty sure I noted a hint of jealousy in Paulson’s voice. I kicked off my father’s boots and adjusted my wig. Hair or no hair, it was time to give that weirdo Grayson something to boggle his already warped little mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “SO THERE REALLY is a woman underneath those coveralls.”

  I stared Grayson down across a sticky, brown laminate table. We were sitting in a duct-taped-together vinyl booth inside El Molino Mexican restaurant in beautiful, downtown Waldo.

  I was sporting my sexiest top that didn’t have a grease stain on the front, and I’d slurped down just enough of a frozen margarita to have the guts to ask him some probing questions. I fired them off in rapid succession, before I lost my nerve.

  “Okay, what gives with the octopus circles on your head? That lizard in the terrarium? The dumpy RV? All that cash in your glove compartment? Your obsession with a red-eyed monster called Mothman?”

  Grayson eyed me curiously, then fired back with his own volley.

  “What’s with the woodpecker wig? Daddy’s boots? Dressing like a man? Wanting to be a P.I.?” He sat up in the booth. “I thought you were a small-town mechanic, Drex. Turns out you’re a freaking KGB interrogator!”

  I shrunk back in my seat. “Sorry.” I hiccupped. “But you have to admit, there’s a lot of really odd things about you.”

  Grayson twisted one side of his mouth and blew out a breath. “Maybe you’re right. But it’s not good to tell someone all your secrets at once. Not when you’re holding as many as I am.”

  His face changed from serious to playful as if he’d flipped a switch. He waggled his bushy eyebrows at me. “If we both spill our entire guts tonight, what will we have left to talk about on our second date?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Date? I wouldn’t bring a cockroach here on a date.”

  “Huh.” Grayson nodded thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t have taken you for someone into arthropods.”

  I shot Grayson a look, but got distracted when the waitress arrived with a stack of tacos big enough to feed a Free-Will Baptist hootenanny.

  The smell of cumin and ground beef made me salivate. I grabbed a taco off the top of the heap. Grayson followed suit right behind mine.

  “You took quite a chance, handing me back your Glock,” I said and shoved half the taco into my mouth.

  Grayson watched me like a lazy cat watches a mouse. “You might see it that way. But my whole life is about taking calculated risks ... on the right people, that is.”

  “Calculated risks?”

  He shrugged and shot me a sly grin. “While you were wincing in terror, I took the clip out of the Glock.”

  I nearly choked on my mouthful of taco. “That’s not fair!”

  “Why? You still could’ve beaten me over the head with it.”

  “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got serious trust issues?”

  Grayson burst out laughing. “All the time. How about you?”

  I suppressed a smirk and looked at the corner of the ceiling. “Maybe once. Twice ....”

  “How about a toast, then?” Grayson said. “To paranoia. Mother Nature’s bodyguard.”

  I reached for my margarita. Grayson raised his mug of beer and winced.

  I flinched in empathy. “Does your shoulder still hurt?”

  “A bit. But that’s to be expected. I should be dead. What did you do to stop the poison?”

  “Poison?”

  Grayson’s eyes lost their playful edge for a millisecond. “I meant infection.”

  “Oh. Nothing. Just rubbed it with alcohol.”

  “Huh. Who would have thought something that simple could cure a Mothman bite?”

  I studied his twinkling eyes and smirking face. It was impossible to tell if Grayson was teasing me or not. I really hated that I couldn’t read him. After all those years sizing people up at Blanchard’s antique auctions, I thought I could read anyone.

  There went that theory.

  I raised my glass. “Like I said, you and Earl are gonna get along like gangbusters. Cheers.”

  Our glasses clinked together, and our eyes remained locked as we each took a sip. I looked away first, and set my margarita on the table.

  “Are you ever going to answer my questions?” I asked.

  Grayson’s left eyebrow shot up like Spock’s. “Sure. Pick one. I’ll answer one. Fair enough?”

  “Better than nothing, I guess.” I thought about it for a moment. “So, all that money in your glove compartment. Did you make it as a private investigator?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  Grayson shook his head. “Nope. That’s another question.”

  “Argh!”

  He smirked. “My turn. Why are you wearing that wig?”

  “They shaved my head in the hospital.”

  Grayson took off his fedora, revealing his pale scalp. His bald dome appeared dark gray from the short stubble covering it like a five o’clock shadow.

  “Finally. A point of commonality,” he said.

  “Commonality? You mean the hospital or the head shave?”

  Grayson put his hat back on. “No more questions.”

  I frowned. “What are we gonna talk about then?”

  Grayson smiled sinisterly. “Tell you what. How about a dare?”

  “A dare?” I took another slurp of margarita to prepare myself.

  “Yes. You show me your bald head, and I’ll tell you about my lizard.”

  I nearly spewed my drink. “Your flirting skills suck, you know that?”

  Grayson half grinned, half grimaced. “Sorry. I meant it as a joke.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “Still, no deal. You’re not seeing my bald head.”

  “Okay. Tell me why you dress like a man.”

  “Nope.” I shot him a smug look. “That’s another question.”

  Grayson studied me for a moment. “Answer it, and I’ll tell you about how I earn my money.”

  Finally, there was a man in front of me with an offer I actually didn’t want to refuse. I took another slug of margarita—this time for courage.

  “I was supposed to be a boy.”

  Grayson blanched. “What?”

  I blew out a sigh 37 years in the making. “I was supposed to be Robert Drex, Jr. But somewhere in transit, I got my wires crossed and the plumbing wrong. My sonogram ‘penis’ turned out to be the extended middle finger of my left hand.”

  Grayson sat back
, his eyes dancing with intrigue. “No way.”

  “No. No penis. My parents had to add an “A” to the name they’d planned to put on my birth certificate. That sonogram was the end of dear Robert and beginning of me, Roberta—a very poor substitute, indeed.”

  I took another slurp of margarita and shrugged with resignation. “But hey, what kid hasn’t disappointed their parents, right? I just decided to get it over with extra early.”

  Grayson shook his head. “Did they make you pretend to be a guy, too?”

  I scowled. “No. But as a kid, I hung out in the service bay with my Dad, mostly. Until I hit puberty, that is. Then my father made me get out and stay out. Mom and Grandma Selma tried to make me into a girl, but by then, I was eleven. It was too late.”

  “Huh,” Grayson said.

  I fortified myself with another slug of margarita. “You wanna know something?”

  “What?”

  I glanced around, then flinched. “I’ve never actually worn a dress. My poor mother couldn’t make me. Not even on prom night. It just felt ... weird, you know?”

  Grayson’s face took on a studios appearance, like a doctor handing out a diagnosis. “Perhaps you’d already passed some critical stage of development, beyond which you couldn’t embrace pantyhose.”

  I laughed, relieved he hadn’t judged me as some kind of freak. “Yeah. Maybe. Now, I guess I’m doomed to live out the rest of my life in jeans.”

  Grayson smiled. “Well, at least you didn’t say mechanic’s coveralls.”

  “Oh, hell no!” I shook my tipsy head and sloshed my drink all over the table. “This whole situation is ... is ... well. Crap. I don’t know what it is.”

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “What’s stopping you from just ditching this place and leaving?”

  I sighed and slumped further into the booth. “Look. When my father died, I had to take over his auto repair shop. I wanted to save his legacy,”

  “His legacy?”

  I scowled. “Okay, I wanted to prove I was every bit as good a mechanic as Earl, okay? I sunk my life savings into that god-forsaken garage. And what did I get in return? Broke! That’s what!” I shook my head. “That place is a freaking money pit. Earl won.”

  Grayson eyed me curiously. “Earl won?”

  “He gets a paycheck, and I’m stuck paying the bills. You want to know why I tromp around in my dead father’s shoes?”

  I didn’t wait for Grayson to answer.

  “Because I can’t afford to buy my own stupid pair of steel-toed boots! That’s why!”

  Grayson nodded solemnly. Then he smirked mischievously. “So, tell me Drex. What were you doing before you became the world’s surliest mechanic?”

  For some reason I couldn’t explain, I burst out laughing and I couldn’t stop.

  I laughed until I snorted. Then, I laughed at my snorting. I laughed at my pain. I laughed at my stupidity. I laughed at the utter absurdity of my life. I laughed at the utter absurdity of Nick Grayson, the bald, fedora-wearing P.I. with two navels.

  God, it feels good to laugh.

  The waitress came over with another round of drinks.

  “Ah,” Grayson said. “Just what we need. Reinforcements.”

  He grabbed his bottle of beer, then gently placed my margarita on the table in front of me.

  “Please, go on,” he said, and smiled at me encouragingly. “Tell me all about your life before becoming a grease monkey.”

  He raised his beer bottle. I met it with my margarita.

  “I was an antiques dealer,” I said, then took a sip. “With my fiancé. Correction ... ex-fiancé. Carl Blanders.” I set the drink down and shrugged. “It was a good gig, actually. Until he went and traded me in for someone with a higher Blue Book value.”

  “Ouch.”

  I sighed. “Yeah. But that’s another story. Let’s just say that for now, I’m stuck doing what I’m doing until I can come up with something better.”

  “Like becoming a private investigator?”

  I studied Grayson a moment to see if he was mocking me. He wasn’t. “Yeah.”

  “You know, I think you may have the makings of a good one, Red.”

  My back bristled. “Listen, Grayson. Call me a boy if you want. Call me a jackass. Call me crazy, for all I care. But like I told you before, don’t call me Red. Do it again and I just might take a socket wrench to your carburetor ... if you catch my drift.”

  “I get it,” Grayson said, holding up his hands. “Deal.”

  “Deal?” a familiar voice sounded to my right. “What kind of deal are you two making?”

  I looked over to see Officer Paulson stomping up to the end of the booth. He glared at us, his ice-blue eyes nearly hidden behind angry, narrow slits.

  “There’s no deal, Paulson,” I said. “We’re just exchanging information.”

  Paulson eyed me, then Grayson. “I thought I told you not to discuss the case, Bobbie.”

  Grayson met his stare. “I assure you, we weren’t talking about any case. You must be Detective Paulson. I’m Nick Grayson.”

  Grayson stood and held his hand out. Paulson shook it, but only after waiting a beat.

  “What are you doing in Point Paradise, Mr. Grayson?” Paulson asked.

  “Just a little sightseeing.” Grayson looked at me and winked. “You have to admit she’s quite a sight. Am I right?”

  Paulson’s face flushed. The tendons in his neck tightened. “Ms. Drex here is a treasure, Mr. Grayson. And folks around here ... well, we like to keep a close eye on our valuables.”

  Grayson nodded. “Well, I can—”

  “You two have a nice evening,” Paulson said, cutting Grayson off. He turned to me. “Bobbie, give me a call tomorrow. I want a full report on you-know-who.”

  Paulson turned on his heels and marched out of the restaurant.

  “Is ‘you-know-who’ perhaps ‘little-old-me’?” Grayson asked, batting his eyelashes.

  I didn’t answer, because I really didn’t know.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  AT MIDNIGHT, THE OLD landline to my parent’s business started ringing.

  It’d been in continuous service since they’d opened Robert’s Mechanics three decades ago. I hadn’t had the heart to disconnect the number, since their old-time customers still used it from time to time. It hadn’t rung in weeks. But now that I only had two hours sleep on a three-margarita hangover, it wouldn’t shut the hell up.

  The fourth time it started ringing, I was too boiling mad to stop myself from answering it.

  “What?” I yelled into the phone.

  “Beep-beep-beep.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Beep-beep-beep.”

  “I’m hanging up, now, jackass.”

  “We’re watching,” a robotic voice said.

  “Who’s watching?” I demanded.

  There was no reply.

  The line went dead.

  Great. Mrs. Vanderhoff’s somehow managed to get me on robocop’s telemarketing list.

  I slammed the phone down and crawled back into bed. Then that tingly ice spider crawled up my spine and made a nest in my hair.

  I got back up to make sure my front door was locked. It wasn’t. I set the lock, then I fumbled around for something to defend myself against a killer robot.

  Gun? Don’t have one. Knife? No. I can’t stand the sound of metal on metal.

  I spotted the flyswatter on my kitchen counter. I scowled.

  Better than nothing, I guess.

  I picked it up and went back to bed.

  I AWOKE TO THE SOUND of someone banging around in the service bay downstairs. Even when you’re expecting it, Monday morning always comes too early.

  Unless, of course, you’re an annoying early-bird like my cousin Earl.

  I got up and fumbled around aimlessly for a minute, trying to decide whether or not to tell someone about my weird phone call last night. Lord knows I couldn’t tell Earl. He’d have a field day with it. I co
uldn’t tell Paulson, either. He was already on the verge of having me psychoanalyzed.

  Not that I cared that much. But if I got labeled as crazy ... well, there’d go my P.I. gig.

  I padded to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. It was still perking when a knock sounded at my front door.

  I figured Earl must’ve been here for hours and already gone through the coffee thermos he brought with him every day.

  “Come in,” I called out.

  “Can’t. It’s locked.”

  Oh yeah.

  I shuffled down the hall in my dad’s old T-shirt and sweatpants. Not ready for a dose of Earl-style humiliation, I slapped on my Woody Woodpecker wig before I cracked open the door.

  “What do you want, Earl?” I hissed.

  It wasn’t Earl.

  “Uh ... just hoping to get a cup of that coffee I smell?” Grayson averted his eyes, but only after he’d gotten a good look at me in all my morning glory.

  Great.

  “Gimme a minute, for cripe’s sake!” I yelled, and slammed the door.

  I groaned at my reflection in the hallway mirror, then readjusted my wig and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I stared at my saggy sweatpants and lost all hope.

  I opened the door. “Sorry. You kind of caught me off guard.”

  Dressed neatly in his typical attire of black t-shirt, black jeans, black fedora, and black shoes, Grayson looked like a member of the wardrobe SWAT team here to bust me for non-compliance.

  “Not a morning person, are we?” he asked, then smiled at me cheerfully.

  My eyes narrowed. “You want some coffee or not?”

  “Yes. Please. Might I add, you look dapper this morning.”

  I scowled. “Dapper is a masculine descriptive.”

  “Well, those are men’s clothes, aren’t they? I swear, do you own anything actually manufactured for the female anatomy?”

  I slammed the coffee cup on the table. “Jeans. You saw ’em last night. What are you doing up so early, anyway?”

  “Call me The Princess and the Pea, but it’s hard to sleep through the whine of a pneumatic drill.”

  I winced. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that. But the good news is, that means Earl’s busy fixing your RV.”