Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Box Set Page 3

  “Mornin’,” I begrudged as a peace offering.

  “Mornin’, Sleeping Beauty. You feeling okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know you snore louder than Candy Vincent?”

  I scowled. “How do you know how loud Candy Vincent snores?”

  “Uh ... rumors.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Earl made himself a cup of coffee as I took a seat at the kitchen table. After he’d stirred in enough sugar to induce a diabetic coma, he joined me.

  “While you were out like a light last night, you got a couple of calls on your cellphone.”

  “My mom?”

  Earl glanced away. “Uh ... no. Reporters mostly. When I told them you were gonna live, they kind of lost interest.”

  “Story of my life.”

  Earl stared into his coffee mug. “Your boss at the mall called, too. He said times are tough. Had to make some layoffs. Blah, blah, blah. Bottom line, no need for you to worry about coming back in.”

  “Great. Any other good news?”

  “Some cop called. Said he met you at the mall last week. What’s his name? Paul Newman?”

  “Terry Paulson.”

  Earl smiled softly. “Yeah. You always were good with names.”

  Especially when the person looked better than Paul Newman.

  “What did he want?” I asked.

  “He said he wanted to marry you.”

  I blanched. “What?”

  Earl laughed. “Well, to use his exact words, he said he ‘had a proposal for you.’”

  My nose crinkled. “I wonder what he meant by that?”

  Earl wagged his eyebrows at me. “Maybe it’s an indecent proposal. No, wait. Maybe this guy’s opening up a new ghost-buster division. See any more haints last night?”

  I shot him a sour face. “Only the ghost of my dearly departed hair.” I ran my hand along the red stubble. “Crap. What am I gonna do? I can’t go see Detective Paulson wearing an ad for chewing tobacco on my head.”

  Earl grinned. “Don’t worry, Bobbie. While you were snoring your lungs out, I thought of something. Here. I found this in granny’s place next door.”

  Earl held out a shoebox.

  “What were you doing snooping around in Grandma Selma’s apartment?” I demanded.

  “Cool your jets. She was my granny, too.”

  “Gimme that!”

  I yanked the shoebox from Earl’s hands and lifted the lid. Inside was a short, curly wig made of blue and silver polyester fibers.

  Poor Grandma. She’d worn her best Sunday wig to the grave with her.

  I took the cheap wig out of the shoebox and held it up to the light.

  Earl snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re actually thinking about wearing that thing.”

  “No. But seeing as how I don’t have a lot of options, maybe Beth-Ann can fix it. See you later.”

  I got up from the table.

  “Where you going?” Earl demanded.

  “I’m gonna get a shower, then I’m going to see Beth-Ann. If she can work a miracle on this thing, I’ll be heading over to see Detective Paulson afterward.”

  “Do you really think you should be driving?”

  “It’s either drive myself to Beth-Ann’s or stay here and let you drive me crazy. I think I’ll take my chances on the road.”

  Earl threw up his hands. “Have it your way.”

  “I will. You’ve had it your way long enough.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.” I sucked in a deep breath and blew it out. “Earl?”

  “What?”

  “Thanks for lending me Lucky Red.”

  He shot me a suspicious look. “Yeah.”

  I grabbed the cap from the windowsill and headed down the hallway.

  “I hope Windex kills germs,” I hollered back at Earl. “I wouldn’t want to catch a staph infection from this thing.”

  Chapter Five

  “BE CAREFUL OUT THERE,” Earl said as I climbed into my father’s red Mustang. “Don’t go getting yourself lost.”

  “Not much chance of that.”

  How could I end up any further off track than Point Paradise?

  I cranked the engine. As I let the vintage muscle car idle for a minute, I stared at the flashing yellow light that marked the intersection of Norville Street and Obsidian Road. Or, as we locals called it, “The corner of nowhere and oblivion.”

  My father’s business, Robert’s Mechanics, was the only semi-viable business on the otherwise desolate crossroads. Cattycorner from it was an appliance store turned junk shop, which changed renters every six months or so. Next to that dump was another junk shop that had given up the ghost for good when it caught fire this past summer.

  That fire had been the last nail in the coffin of my father’s ambition to put Robert’s Mechanics and Point Paradise on the map. He’d bought both junk places across the street for next to nothing, which was still more than they’d been worth. I tried to sell the properties to keep the garage afloat, but so far there’d been no takers. Not even a nibble.

  In a way, I was glad Dad hadn’t lived to see the junk shop across the street burn down. When I’d first come back, I’d been gung-ho on Dad’s dream to reinvigorate the tiny town. But after six months of dealing with deadbeat renters and garage customers’ rubber checks, my sentiments had taken a nosedive.

  More and more, my ambition concerning Point Paradise was to drive away and never look back. I’d even begun to fantasize about torching the place as I fled. To me, Point Paradise had become the dreary deathtrap of my dead dad’s dreams.

  I sighed, shifted the Mustang into first, and pulled out of the parking lot. I headed east on Obsidian Road toward Waldo, the nearest clump of buildings big enough to be incorporated into an actual town. That’s where my friend Beth-Ann’s beauty shop was, and Dana’s Café, where I was to meet with Detective Terry Paulson later in the afternoon—provided the wig-gig went well.

  About half a mile down Obsidian Road, I passed the only other business in Point Paradise. It was an abandoned gas station converted into a drive-thru convenience store.

  Owned by some guy from Waldo, the dive was run by Artie Jacobs, who’d lived up to his high school prediction of being least likely to succeed. Considering where we’d all come from, he had every right to be proud. Around here, there’d been a hell of a lot of competition for the title.

  I spotted Artie sitting in his chair by the cash register. Per tradition, I honked and waved. Before he could wave back, I gunned the engine and blew past him, grinning like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

  Pathetic, I know. But in a town this small and this broke, you took your cheap thrills where you could find them.

  At the end of the road, I hooked a right and headed south on US 301 toward Waldo. Feeling antsy, I lifted the ball cap and scratched my itchy scalp. Tiny stubbles of hair were already growing in. I wondered how long it would take for my auburn locks to reach ponytail length again.

  Beth-Ann would know. She was a good friend and a miracle worker when it came to hair. I hoped she still had one doozy left in her bag of tricks for me.

  I was sure as hell gonna need it.

  Chapter Six

  A FEW MILES OUTSIDE of Waldo, I passed a roadside billboard and hit the brakes out of habit. Besides being the butt of innumerable “Where’s Waldo?” jokes, the tiny town had earned itself two national distinctions—neither of which was ever brought up in polite conversation.

  Three years ago, Waldo had been designated the nation’s worst speed trap by AAA. After discovering Waldo’s seven police officers had written nearly twelve thousand speeding tickets that year, AAA had paid to erect the billboard I’d just blown past. It used to read, “Speed Trap Waldo 6 Miles” in black and yellow, the most readable color combination to the human eye.

  The billboard was abandoned now, as was the entire Waldo police force. The incident had raised such a stink that the entire department had be
en disbanded and their duties turned over to the Alachua County Sheriff’s Department.

  Two years later, the Florida Legislature gave Waldo its other national distinction by passing a law banning traffic-ticket quotas for law officers. They named it the “Waldo Bill.” As for the notoriety the town received, the rest of us were secretly jealous.

  Everything exciting always seemed to happen in Waldo.

  A rural-route school bus buzzed past me on US 301. It was most likely heading toward Hawthorne, the nearest town with a public school.

  Poor saps.

  I thought about how Beth-Ann and I had met on a bus just like it when we were sixteen. She’d climbed aboard wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt, black boots, black hair, black fingernails, black eye makeup, and black lipstick. I’d never seen anyone like her. Beth-Ann had been the first “Goth” kid at Hawthorne High—maybe the only one in all of Alachua County.

  I turned the Mustang off US 301 onto Country Lane and smiled, remembering the first words Beth-Ann had ever said to me.

  “Normal is for losers.”

  She’d given my boy’s jeans, chain wallet, and close-cropped red hair the once-over, then sat in the seat next to me and delivered that line. Then she’d offered me a bottle of black nail polish. I’d been so stunned I didn’t even try to stop her as she took my hand and painted my nails. It was my first-ever manicure.

  I bit my lip and glanced down at my fingernails. I could use a manicure now, actually. But it would be a waste of money I didn’t have. Besides, there was no point. Carburetors didn’t care if you had soft cuticles.

  I pulled the Mustang up to a little wooden cottage and cut the ignition. Beth-Ann worked out of her house. She’d converted the detached garage into a beautician studio. A hand-painted sign hanging over the garage door read, “Beth-Ann’s Beauty Parlor. Yes, I Know It’s A Garage.”

  I walked around the corner of the garage and down the footpath lined with pavers. The side entry door was ajar. I pushed it open the rest of the way.

  A chalk-pale face looked up from sweeping the floor. Still sporting black hair, black lipstick, and thick eyeliner, Beth-Ann wasn’t about to give up her Goth dream anytime soon.

  “Holy crap!” Beth-Ann said as I took off the Redman cap and gave her a gander at my red monk’s ring. “Did you get attacked by a psychotic clown or something?”

  “No. Just shot between the eyes.” I flounced onto her salon chair.

  “I heard about the shooting, Bobbie. Good thing you’ve got a thick skull.”

  I whirled around in the chair. “Really? You, too? I’m fine, by the way.”

  She rested her hands on my shoulders and winked at me. “I know that, Bobbie. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be teasing you.”

  I shot her a tight smile. “Speaking of teasing ....” I pulled the wig out of the shoebox. “Can you do something with this?”

  Beth-Ann’s face puckered like she’d smelled a fart. “Geez, Bobbie. I’m a beautician, not a magician.”

  I let out a sigh. “Okay. It was worth a shot.” I got up out of the chair and took a step toward the door.

  “Wait!” Beth-Ann said. “Let me check my wig box. I think I’ve got something in there you could use.”

  “You’ve got a wig box?”

  Beth-Ann opened a cabinet and pulled out a cardboard box.

  “Yeah. You know. Donations. Leave-behinds. Hey, it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind—and her hairstyle.” She glanced at my head and winced. “You of all people should know that.”

  She rifled through an old Amazon box that appeared to be harboring the dehydrated husks of an entire generation of tribbles.

  “Aha! Here it is!” Beth-Ann held up a bright-red wig. “Sit back down, sister.”

  With no better option springing to mind, I flopped back into the barber chair. Beth-Ann stretched the wig out like a shower cap and placed it over my semi-bald dome. She tugged it left and right, and spun me around for a gander in the mirror.

  “Ta da!”

  I gulped. I’d gone from Kentucky Waterfall Woman to Sharon Osborne on a bender in under thirty seconds. Combined with my garage coveralls, the look was perfect—if I wanted to masquerade as Woody Woodpecker working the night shift at a Texaco.

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  “Hey, beggars can’t be choosers.”

  I blew out a breath. “How much is it?”

  “For you? Nothing. Compliments of the house.”

  “That’s some compliment.”

  Beth-Ann shrugged. “If you’d rather go on looking like a redneck Franciscan monk, be my guest.”

  I sighed. “You’re right. What the hell.”

  “I’ve also got a clothes box, in case you ever decide to change out of those mechanic’s coveralls. I haven’t seen you in anything else since you came back, Bobbie. Why are you always wearing them, anyway? Some kind of sick penance?”

  “I run a mechanic’s garage, in case you forgot.”

  “I know. But not 24-7. Your life isn’t over, you know.”

  I scowled. “You sure about that?”

  “Yes.” Beth-Ann shot me a look. “What happened to you? You used to actually like other humans.”

  “Sorry. It’s just that ... I dunno. Carl did a number on me. And that whole thing with Earl. What is it with guys? They think they run the universe.”

  Beth-Ann shot me a sympathetic smile. “Guys only have the power we give them. Just like everything else in life. So, when are you going to get your life out of that greasy garage and back in the sassy saddle with me?”

  I smirked. “Soon.” I turned to go, then hesitated. “Hey. Any chance you can do something with my face?”

  Beth-Ann stared at the scabby crater between my eyes.

  “Like I said, Bobbie. I’m a beautician, not a magician.”

  She eyed my deflated face and winked. “Aww, come on. Have a seat. Lemme see what I can do.”

  Chapter Seven

  I GAVE MY SPIKEY RED wig a quick tug, ponied up a bit of feminine chutzpa, and sauntered into Dana’s Café.

  I’d come to meet Detective Terry Paulson about a proposal. Part of me hoped my cousin Earl had been right, and the proposal would be an indecent one. Pathetic as it was, this meeting was the closest thing I’d had to a date since Artie had asked me for a lift when his car broke down.

  Not wanting to appear desperate or overeager, I’d turned down Beth-Ann’s offer of more alluring attire and stuck with my usual outfit—my dad’s fraying coveralls and oversized work boots. The problem was, the heavy boots made it impossible to pull off an actual saunter. Instead, I tripped over the threshold and stumbled into the coffee shop like a drunken hobo.

  Paulson watched it all from a table for two.

  Despite my cheeks burning with humiliation, my heart leaped at the sight of him in uniform, just as it had when I’d met him for the first time at the mall last week.

  I shot Paulson a smile, swiped habitually at my auburn bangs, and froze for a second when I realized they were no longer there. In their place was a bandage the size of a monkey diaper.

  “Well, look at you,” Detective Paulson said in a voice that lilted with flirtation. “I have to say, I liked your hair longer. What’d you do? Get shot in the head or something?”

  I couldn’t decide whether to kiss him or kick him in the groin, so I smiled. “Very funny.”

  Paulson’s smirk faded. His brow furrowed. “I heard the news. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help when it happened.”

  I pursed my lips and shrugged. “No worries. Gainesville’s way out of your jurisdiction anyway.”

  Paulson winced. “True. But what I meant to say is that I’m glad you’re okay. You’re not going back to that job at the mall, are you?”

  I shook my head. “No. You take one lousy bullet between the eyes, and they throw you out like last month’s fryer grease. My manager called this morning. I’ve been laid off.”

  “Ouch. I thought you looked upset. Is that wha
t’s bugging you?”

  Ugh! Every time I heard someone ask, “What’s bugging you?” I thought of some flea-infested rodent ... or Carl Blanders, my ex, which, in my book, was pretty much the same thing. But at the moment, it was Detective Paulson who was getting under my skin. I wanted to slap his smug, irritatingly attractive face—then roll around in the hay with him. But not actually roll around in the hay. Being naked in a pile of dirty, pokey, dried-up stems of grass sounded itchy—and downright uncomfortable.

  I looked up from my wandering thoughts. Paulson was studying me with a pair of laser-beam eyes the color of glacier shards.

  “Uh ... no,” I said. “Nothing’s bugging me. I just hate that expression.”

  “Well, in this case, the term ‘buggy’ fits.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have a seat.” Paulson half-stood and gestured for me to sit.

  “I prefer to stand.” I curled my hands into fists to hide the motor oil under my fingernails. I didn’t want to get too near Paulson. There was no need for him to discover my signature cologne was Quaker State.

  “Have it your way.” Paulson leaned back in his chair. “After Jack Barker, uh ... left, I found a report involving Mildred Vanderhoff. Apparently, the old gal’s gone off her rocker.”

  “You must be new in town,” I quipped, then remembered that Paulson was. In fact, it was rather miraculous there was a police officer there in Waldo at all.

  Three years had passed since Waldo’s infamous speed-trap debacle. Four months ago, the town had finally been reissued its first dedicated police officer, Jack Barker.

  At fifty-three years of age and three-hundred pounds, it wasn’t exactly surprising when Barker had suffered a heart attack. Two weeks ago, they’d hauled him out of this very café and up to Gainesville for treatment. I’d heard a rumor that Artie had been at the scene, and had finished Barker’s half-eaten donut.

  The official story was that Officer Barker was on sick leave, recovering. But we all knew he was at a gastric bypass clinic getting his colon resected. Detective Paulson had been assigned to fill in during the interim, while Barker whittled down his waistline.