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  “I’ll carry the soup,” I said. “You carry the lizard.”

  “What about the saltines?” Earl held up a waxy paper sleeve of crackers. “You can’t have soup without saltines.”

  “You spent my last bit of my money on ... ugh!” Then I remembered the money in my pocket and lightened my mood. “Fine.” I set the bowl on a plate and tossed a handful of crackers around the edges. “Happy now?”

  Earl eyed my bulging money pocket. “I guess.”

  “Grab the lizard and follow me.”

  We crept down the hall, both of us quiet for a change. I balanced the plate and bowl precariously on one set of fingertips, like a French waiter, and tapped on the bedroom door with my free hand.

  No reply.

  I pushed the door open. The bed was empty.

  “Mr. Knickerbocker?” I called out.

  The floor-length curtains moved. Knickerbocker peeked out from behind them.

  “Uh ... I brought you some soup. And Earl here has your ... uh ... lizard.”

  Knickerbocker’s bloodshot eyes lit up at the sight of the terrarium. “Gizzard!”

  Earl shot me the look he usually reserved for customers who pull into our garage and ask if we have clean restrooms.

  “I’ll set her down right here on the bureau,” Earl said, and gingerly placed the glass terrarium on top of granny’s ancient oak chest of drawers.

  Knickerbocker took a step toward us, then loomed sideways, as if he’d just gotten off a Tilt-a-Whirl. His hand landed on the bed, catching his fall.

  “Get back in bed right now,” I said. “Eat your soup. You need to build your strength.”

  Knickerbocker smiled weakly and complied. He crawled into bed and took the bowl of soup I offered with two shaky hands.

  “Saltines. Nice touch,” he said, and slurped the soup as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  Earl ogled the small, lime-green lizard through the glass of the terrarium. “If you don’t mind me asking, Mr. K, why’re you traveling around with a lizard of the reptilian persuasion?”

  Knickerbocker looked up from his soup and shrugged. “No barking. No walking. No litter box. Gizzard only needs one thing. Crickets and fresh water.”

  “That’s two things,” I said.

  “Oh. Right,” Knickerbocker said absently. “Do you think you could get her some?”

  “Crickets or water?” I asked.

  “Both.”

  I looked over at my cousin. “Sounds like a job for you, Earl.”

  He pouted. “Why me?”

  “Because I’m heading back over to Beth-Ann’s.”

  Earl grinned. “Aw, come on, Bobbie. That wig looks fine. Besides, you don’t have to get yourself all dolled up on my account. Or is it on account of someone else?” He shot Knickerbocker a wink.

  I sneered. “It’s not about either of you.”

  I hadn’t told Earl about the case I was working with Officer Paulson, or about getting my private investigator intern certificate. I wasn’t in the mood to live either one of those personal gems down just yet.

  “Can I bring you back anything?” I asked as I walked toward the bedroom door.

  “How about a comb?” Knickerbocker said. He ran his hand over the top of his head and seemed genuinely surprised to discover he was as bald as a cue ball.

  I turned away so neither man could see my eyes roll around in their sockets.

  Great. Another weirdo man to take care of.

  Thanks, universe. That’s all I need.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ON MY WAY TO BETH-ANN’S beauty shop, I noticed four or five buzzards circling above the woods a few miles south of Point Paradise. In this rural area, lots of people dumped their trash instead of paying for pickup, so I didn’t think much of it. I drove on, intent on nailing my second interview as a P.I. intern.

  No mistakes this time, I chided myself. Beth-Ann’s a friend, but I can’t let that influence my professionalism.

  “HEY, YOU,” BETH-ANN said as she swept up a heap of black, wavy hair. “Just gave myself a trim. You need one?”

  “Ha ha. You’re a riot.” I glanced at my wig in the mirror, frowned, and gave it a quick adjustment.

  “What’s up, then?” she asked.

  “Not much.” Taking a note from my training course, I tried to act casual, in order to put the interviewee at ease. “Just searching for intelligent life. You seen any lately?”

  Beth-Ann grinned. “In Waldo? Not even a molecule. You?”

  “Nope. But I did meet a man.”

  Beth-Ann’s face shifted from studied indifference to juicy-gossip intrigue. “Really?” She leaned on her broom handle. “Spill it, girl!”

  I shrugged. “Not much to tell yet. He came into town today with a busted RV. He’s boarding in Grandma’s apartment for a few days.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “William Knickerbocker.”

  Beth-Ann rolled her huge, violet eyes. “Ugh! I hope he’s cuter than he sounds.”

  “Meh. Not really. Kind of skinny. Bald. Not my type.”

  Beth-Ann’s shoulders slumped. “Figures. Not even potential as a new client.” She bent over and scooped the hair up into a dustpan. “So what else is up?”

  I puffed out my chest a little. It went unnoticed due to my oversized coveralls. “Paulson gave me a case to work on.”

  Beth-Ann’s eyes twinkled with interest. “The sexy detexy? He gave you a real case? Tell me every juicy detail!”

  “Well, that’s kind of why I’m here. The case involves old lady Vanderhoff. She says she’s been getting weird phone calls. ”

  “Vanderhoff?” Beth-Ann crinkled her nose. “Oh, geez, Bobbie. Paulson’s playing you! Can’t you see that? He probably wants to get you somewhere dark and secluded so he can get in your pants.”

  I grinned. “Jealous?”

  Beth-Ann sneered. “Damned straight.” She sighed, then laughed. “Vanderhoff’s crazy. Remember that time she saw Jesus’ face in a potato chip?”

  I pursed my lips to a bloodless line. “Ruffles, no less. Don’t remind me. Earl grabbed it out of her hand and ate it.”

  We locked eyes and both said, “Ruffles have religion.”

  We laughed a moment, then Beth-Ann shook her head. “Ruined that poor woman’s chance at a National Enquirer spotlight. You know she still talks about it?”

  “No!”

  “Yep. Every time she comes in, near about.”

  I grinned, then cleared my throat, straightened my shoulders, and shifted into professional P.I. mode. “Seriously, Beth-Ann. What would Paulson have to gain by sending me on a wild goose chase with Vanderhoff?”

  “What does any guy get out of torturing a woman?” Beth-Ann scowled for a second, then smirked at me. “I can’t believe you’re gonna be a detective! Tell me. How much is he paying you for the case?”

  I bit my lip. “If I figure out who’s behind the calls, I get twenty bucks.”

  “Twenty bucks? Geez. What a tightwad. And if you don’t?”

  “I have to take Paulson to dinner.”

  Beth-Ann shook her head. “And you don’t think that’s you getting played? Sorry girl, but license or not, you’re no Magnum P.I.”

  I sighed and drummed my grease-stained nails on a washbasin. “I went to her house last night.”

  “Whose house?”

  “Old lady Vanderhoff’s.”

  Beth-Ann’s face went paler, if that was possible. “Wait a minute. You went inside?”

  “Yeah.”

  She grabbed my forearm. “What was it like? Were there balls of tinfoil as big as beanbag chairs? Empty Cool Whip containers stacked to the ceiling? Real children’s skeletons in her closet?”

  “No. Actually, it looked relatively normal. Except for the dolls.”

  “Dolls?” Beth-Ann recoiled and dropped my arm. “Yuck!”

  “I know. There were tons of them. Totally creepy.”

  “Did you find out anything?”

  “Only th
at she’s even crazier than I thought. She told me a robot told her to steal bananas.”

  Beth-Ann’s eyes narrowed. “That’s got your cousin Earl’s name written all over it, Bobbie. I bet he put her up to it. To get back at you for leaving that rotten can of sardines under Bessie’s driver’s seat on his birthday.”

  My lips twisted over to one side of my face. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Beth-Ann laughed. “Maybe you should have, detective.”

  “Okay. Maybe you’re right. Still, just in case, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “Sure.”

  I pulled a notepad and pen from my coveralls. Beth-Ann smirked, but only for a flash, then slapped on a semi-serious expression.

  “When did Vanderhoff come in here last?” I asked.

  “On Wednesday a week ago. Her bi-weekly wash and set.”

  I scribbled it down. “Did you use any new dyes or shampoos on her that might have caused a reaction?”

  “Nope. Normal stuff. And no color that week. Just the wash and set.”

  “So she was here for how long?”

  “From two in the afternoon to quarter past three.”

  I looked up at Beth-Ann. “That’s pretty precise.”

  “I’ve been doing her hair for fifteen years, Bobbie. I’ve got that baby down to a science.”

  “Okay. Did she happen to sit under a hairdryer?”

  “Of course. With a headful of curlers. You know the routine.”

  “I mean ... for maybe longer than usual?”

  “Nope. I had another appointment right after. Nosy Nellie Parker at three-thirty. I had to keep on schedule or Nellie’d blab all over Alachua County about how my standards were slipping.”

  “That’s the hairdryer, right?” I pointed to a chrome and purple chair that appeared to have been transported straight from the set of a low-budget, sci-fi movie.

  Beth-Ann eyed me like I’d lost it. “Yes. It’s the only one I’ve got. You and Carl sold it to me, remember?”

  “Of course.” I walked over to check it out. Of all the things in Beth-Ann’s kitschy 1950s-vibe shop, her hair-drying chair was my favorite.

  Sleek, low-slung, and boxy, the chair was upholstered in a light-lavender vinyl with a starburst pattern. Tubular chrome pipes served as its spindly-looking arms and legs.

  But the part I liked best was the dryer head itself. The conical-shaped dome of stainless steel was the size and shape of the business end of a ballistic missile. It always made me think of a helmet left behind by an egg-headed alien.

  I looked around for a manufacturer’s tag. “What’s the chair called again?”

  “The Atomic Purple Salon Chair,” Beth-Ann said. “Circa 1950-something. But I call her ‘Girlie.’”

  I grunted and scribbled it down on a notepad. I was about to leave when I noticed an earwig crawl out of one of the holes in the chrome dryer head.

  “Anything else?” Beth-Ann asked. “Hate to give you the bum’s rush, Bobbie, but I’ve got a perm coming in any second.”

  “No, that’s it for now.” I walked toward the door. “Thanks. You might want to spray for bugs. See you next week?”

  “Bugs?” Beth-Ann scowled, then she zeroed in on a spot above my eyes. “Hey, you could use a brow wax.”

  “I think I’ll hold onto all the hair I have left for right now.” I opened the side door, hesitated, then turned around. Beth-Ann was bending over her dustpan.

  “Hey, Beth-Ann?”

  She looked up. I bit my lip, then blurted out what I wanted to ask before I lost my nerve.

  “Do you believe in Sasquatch?”

  Beth-Ann grinned slyly. “Did Earl put you up to this?”

  When I didn’t grin back, she straightened up to standing. “Wait. Are you serious?”

  I shrugged and chewed my bottom lip. Then decided to laugh it off.

  “Naw. I was just kidding around.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  ON THE WAY BACK TO the garage, I wondered whether Beth-Ann was the most reliable source to confer with about the existence of hairy, ape-like creatures. Sure, she was non-judgmental. And a great hairstylist. People came from all over to get their hair done by her. But thinking about it now, maybe she was a little too open-minded.

  A few weeks ago, after attending some kind of New-Age meetup, she’d advised me not to pray using negative words. She’d said that God couldn’t hear “no” or “don’t.” So if someone prayed, “I don’t want to be poor,” all God heard was “I want to be poor,” and so he granted their wish.

  I was actually beginning to think there was something to it.

  Ever since Carl Blanders dumped me, I’d been praying, “I don’t want another no-good man in my life.” Perhaps that double negative had been too confusing for the Creator of the Known Universe to figure out. Why else would another oddball loser wash up on my doorstep after I’d distinctly prayed for the exact opposite?

  But then again, God had made up for it by delivering Terry Paulson to Point Paradise. The thought of his blue eyes and boyish grin made me want to call him up and flirt with him over the phone.

  What the heck.

  I pulled out my cellphone to call him. I figured I’d use the pretense of giving him a case update. But what did I have to report? That the brain-scrambling hairdryer in question turned out to be Atomic Purple? I frowned, nixed the idea, shoved my phone in my pocket, and turned the radio up.

  I was a couple miles away from Point Paradise when I saw the buzzards again. I realized they were circling the same area where Knickerbocker had his accident. Curious, I pulled over. As soon as I opened the door, I could smell the unmistakable odor of rotting meat.

  Too late for venison barbeque. But no doubt about it. Knickerbocker most certainly hit something ....

  With no obvious trail in the sawgrass, I followed my nose into the woods. About fifty feet into the pines, I saw a whitish-yellow lump in the leaves, up next to a pile of brush. As I got closer, I could see it was the corpse of a short-haired, mixed-breed dog. Its body was intact. Its jaws appeared to be covered in coagulated blood. Flies buzzed around it in noisy clouds.

  Gross. Well, that solves that mystery.

  I turned around to head back to the car.

  My knees went wobbly. I nearly fell down.

  Leaning up against a pine tree was another dead body. Only this one was human. Dressed in a pair of orange prison overalls, I couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. The person’s throat and face had been pretty much ripped to shreds.

  Paranoia swept over me like an arctic blast. Is the killer still here? Watching me?

  My body began to shake uncontrollably.

  I have to get out of here!

  But my legs didn’t seem to get the magnitude of the situation. They were stuck, frozen in place.

  A fly buzzed around my face, then lit on my cheek. I swatted it away, horrified at the thought of where it had last landed. Nausea and dizziness flooded my senses, as if I’d suddenly become aware of the Earth spinning on its axis.

  Get. The. Hell. Out. Of. Here!

  With every ounce of willpower I could muster, I got my stiff, paralytic legs take a step toward the road. The second step wasn’t any easier. As I attempted a third, a tree branch cracked behind me.

  A hot surge of adrenaline raced through my veins, startling me out of my stupor. My legs unlocked, finally joining the rescue team.

  I took off, pounding my way through the underbrush on coltish, half-numb legs. As I came to the road clearing, my father’s red Mustang shone like a blazing beacon in a raging sea. I jumped in, rolled up the windows, and locked both doors—three times.

  Shivering with shock, rational thought eluded me. I knew a corpse couldn’t chase me. Still, I kept waiting for it to appear out of the scrub. Every molecule inside me was screaming for me to get the hell out of there and never look back.

  But running wasn’t an option.

  I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. If I was
going to do this P.I. thing, I had to suck it up and grow a pair. Besides, my shaking hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t get the key in the ignition anyway.

  I sat in the car trembling like a wet Chihuahua in the snow for a full ten minutes. Finally, my hands calmed down to a jitter. I reached into a pocket for my cellphone.

  “Paulson? It’s Drex.”

  “How’s my favorite P.I. in training?” he joked.

  “I found a dead body.”

  “What! Where?”

  “On Obsidian Road. About two and a half miles south of the intersection.”

  I waited for a response. None came.

  “What should I do?” I asked.

  “Hold on. I’m thinking. Don’t tell anyone. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  OFFICER PAULSON ARRIVED nearly an hour later. I was kind of grateful it took him that long. I was still a bit shaky when he pulled up beside me on the side of the road. My legs felt wobbly as I climbed out of the Mustang. I leaned against it for support.

  “Sorry. I was out on a case on the other side of Waldo,” he said as he got out of his car. “You okay?”

  “No. It was horrible. Whoever it is ... they’re all mangled up. Probably by the dog.”

  “There’s a dog?”

  “Yes. It’s dead, too.”

  “Show me.”

  I hesitated. “Do I have to?”

  “No. But do you want to be a detective or not?”

  I shook my head. “I dunno.”

  His expression softened. “Wait here, then. Where is it?”

  “Straight ahead. You can’t miss it. Follow the trail I made in the sawgrass.” As I ran like a headless chicken-shit through the woods.

  “Got it.” Paulson disappeared into the pines. He returned about fifteen minutes later.

  “Sorry, Drex. But I can’t find anything. I’m going to need your help after all.”

  I nodded. “Follow me.”

  RELUCTANTLY, I LED Paulson through the tangled undergrowth of wiregrass and palmettos to the horrific scene. I pointed a finger at the canine’s corpse about twenty feet away. “There’s the dog over there.”