Scatman Dues (Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Book 6) Page 7

  Garth shrugged. “I’m not sure. I guess we’ve all got to believe in something. Uncle Randi decided to believe in not believing.”

  “Huh?” Earl’s head tilted sideways like a confused puppy.

  Grayson sat up in the banquette and rubbed his chin. “You know Garth, your uncle said something during one of his last public interviews that’s always stuck with me.”

  I snorted. “What? Don’t forget the Crazy Glue?”

  Grayson carried on, ignoring my quip. “The Amazing Randi told the reporter, and I quote, ‘I suffer from this obsession that I have something important to do.’”

  Garth grinned. “And what could be more important than proving the paranormal doesn’t exist?”

  Grayson locked eyes with Garth, then the two men spoke in unison: “Proving that it does!”

  I shook my head.

  It’s true. Great dopes do think alike.

  Grayson pulled out his cellphone. “On that note, I took—”

  Oh, no! Not the photos from last night! If Garth sees those...

  “Look,” I said to Garth. “I think it’s time you left.”

  “But I want to help,” he protested as I yanked him up off the couch.

  “You need your rest,” I said, giving him the bum’s rush out the door. “Grayson and I’ll go back to Hi-Ho this morning and check everything out.”

  “You need my help,” Garth said. “There’s a lot of unmarked trails out there. People ride dirt bikes and dune buggies on them. Horses sometimes.”

  “Thanks, but we can manage,” I said, shoving him out the door.

  Garth hung onto the doorframe like a cat on a washtub rim. “But!”

  “Look,” I said. “No offense, but if you keep hacking all over us and we get us sick, no one will be able to help your brother Jimmy.”

  Garth stopped struggling. “Sorry, Pandora. You’re right.”

  “Of course I am. Now go get some rest. And leave your flu bugs in that trailer with the rest of the arthropods.”

  “Garth,” Grayson called out. “There is one thing you can do. Keep monitoring the ham radio for any intel about missing persons or communications from Jimmy. If you hear anything, report back to us immediately. We’ll do the same.”

  Garth’s wimpy shoulders straightened. “Yes, sir, Mr. Gray.”

  I stood in the doorframe and watched Garth stumble back along the dirt driveway toward his trailer. As the chain-link gate began to close, I turned to Grayson.

  “Why’d you tell Garth that? He needs to be in bed, getting well.”

  Grayson shrugged. “A man needs to feel useful, Drex.”

  “Oh. Right.” I turned the tap on the kitchen sink and waited for the water to heat up. “I only hope he hasn’t already contaminated us.” I glanced around. “Speaking of unwanted germs, where’s Earl?”

  “In the restroom.”

  I grimaced. “Great. Let’s add a Walmart stop to today’s plans.”

  “Why?” Grayson asked.

  I sighed. “Let’s just say I’ve got a hunch we’re gonna need a bigger can of Febreze.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “What ’cha lookin’ at?” Earl asked.

  He’d emerged from the bathroom and shuffled over to the banquette where Grayson was seated. He stood beside the table like a bear in jeans, staring over Grayson’s shoulder.

  Grayson swiped the display on his cellphone. “These are pictures I took last night of the strange phenomenon we encountered.”

  “Whoa!” Earl said. “That’s purty strange, all right.”

  He grabbed the phone from Grayson and shoved it in my face. “Lookie here, Bobbie! It’s a dad-burned blue-tongued devil!”

  “What?”

  I dropped the plate I was washing, grabbed the cellphone, and slapped on my cheater glasses. The image of a ghostly, wild-eyed creature came into focus. Its tongue was the color of blueberries.

  I let out a groan. Somehow, Grayson had managed to capture a partial headshot of me in total freak-out mode.

  Great. That’s the last time I eat a blue-raspberry Tootsie Pop before a stakeout.

  I shot Earl a sneer. “Har har. Very funny.”

  He tried to snatch the phone back, but I was too quick for him. “Nothing doing,” I said, shoving it into my shirt pocket, out of his grasp.

  “Interesting,” Grayson said, tapping on his laptop keyboard. “A Google map of the vicinity around Edward Medard Park shows a veritable network of unpaved roads.”

  “So?” I said.

  Grayson looked up from the screen. “That could explain Jimmy’s disappearance. Some of these side roads go pretty deep into the woods, perhaps out of wifi range.”

  “Or maybe it’s like you said,” Earl replied. “He got sucked up into that porta-potty thing.”

  “Portal,” I said.

  “Hmm.” Grayson rubbed his chin. “I guess we won’t know for sure unless we get another signal blip from Garth’s phone.”

  “How do you figure that?” I asked.

  “Elementary,” Grayson said. “Another signal would prove Jimmy was still in range, and therefore still on Earth.”

  “No,” I argued, a smirk forming on my lips. “It would only prove Garth’s phone was still here.”

  Grayson’s dimple reappeared. “Fair point, Drex. But either way, we should explore the entire area today. See if we can locate him, his vehicle, or at least some tire tracks. With any luck, we should also be able to pinpoint the site of the strange phenomenon we saw last night.”

  Earl smirked. “I thought she was right over there washin’ dishes.”

  I shot my cousin a glare that could fry eggs in a cold skillet. He winced and turned to Grayson. “Uh ... what’s Jimmy drivin’, anyways?”

  Grayson chewed his lip. “An old pickup. GM, I think.”

  I shook my head. “Jimmy drives a 1966 light-blue Chevy C-10 with factory four-by-four.”

  Earl’s eyes lit up. “Sweeet!” He turned to me. “They don’t make four-wheel drives like they used to. Is it mint?”

  I laughed. “Not even close. The chassis looks like it’s been in an avalanche.”

  Earl winced. “Dang. So you reckon he’s stuck out there? He could a blown a gasket or somethin’.”

  I shrugged. “It’s possible. But from what I remember, Jimmy kept the engine in excellent working condition. You know, just in case of an apocalypse.”

  “Apocalypse?” Earl asked. “That don’t sound like no fun.”

  “Jimmy’s a doomsday prepper like his brother Garth,” I said. “That’s the whole reason he drives that old truck. No electronic ignition. You know. In case of an EMP.”

  Earl scratched his head. “Elephant making poop?”

  I closed my eyes and let out a long breath. “Electro-magnetic pulse, genius.” I looked over at Grayson, feeling quite smug I’d remembered his lecture from a couple of months ago.

  Grayson nodded at Earl. “No worries. It’s a common mistake.”

  Wha?

  “You see,” Grayson continued, “a strong-enough electromagnetic pulse, whether from a solar flare or man-made signal, would knock out every vehicle with an electronic ignition.”

  “Oh, sure. Gotcha,” Earl said.

  “Unfortunately, the fact that Jimmy’s truck has no electronics also means there’s no built-in GPS for us to track him with.”

  I frowned. “So, how are we gonna find him if Garth’s phone signal dies?”

  “What about tracking Jimmy’s own phone?” Earl asked.

  “No. He’s too smart for that,” Grayson said. “Garth told us Jimmy turned his locator off. That’s why we need to start searching for him as soon as possible. Hand me my phone, Drex. We can start our search from where we got stuck last night.”

  “And how do we find that location?” I asked, pulling the phone from my pocket.

  Earl snatched the phone from my hand and wagged it in my face.

  “Easy, Cuz. We’ll just look for your skid marks.”

>   RAINDROPS AS BIG AS grapes splatted on Bessie’s windshield as we sped down Turkey Creek Road, the truck’s tractor-sized tires whining on the wet asphalt.

  “Great,” I grumbled. “Rain. Just what we need.”

  “What you worried about, Bobbie?” Earl said. “You ain’t made of sugar.”

  I sneered at my cousin. “I was thinking of you, Earl—but not of sugar. What’s that other thing that melts in the rain?”

  Earl grunted. “Har har.”

  The sky opened up like a high-velocity carwash, reducing visibility to the split-second between wiperblade swipes.

  I frowned. “Slow down, Earl. If this keeps up, we’re never gonna be able to find where you pulled us out of the muck.”

  “Never mind that,” Grayson said. “Look for the sign.”

  “Juanita’s Casa del Tacos?” I asked, reading a giant billboard as we passed by at fifteen miles an hour.

  “I meant the sign for Edward Medard Park,” Grayson said. “I think it’s just up ahead on the right.”

  Sure enough, the forest-green-and-brown sign for the state park appeared at the edge of the woods like a soggy beacon in the gray monsoon. Directly across the street on the left, above the door of what appeared to be a repurposed gas station, a neon sombrero blinked like an acid-flashback from a trip long ago and far away.

  Eat here and get gas...

  Grayson frowned and pursed his lips. “I’m making an executive decision. Earl, take a left into Juanita’s parking lot. We’ll grab a snack and wait until the rain eases up.”

  “Tacos?” I shot Grayson a sideways glance. “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

  Grayson adjusted his fedora and sat up a bit straighter. “No. Just a fortunate coincidence.”

  I shook my head. “You’re lying, Grayson.”

  Grayson glanced over at me. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I know you. And you don’t believe in coincidences.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It had been exactly twenty-seven hours since Grayson last pulled over for tacos. I glanced up at the neon sombrero and resigned myself to impending heartburn. It wasn’t even Tuesday, for crying out loud.

  “Good thing you’ve got your priorities in order,” I said, yanking open the door to Juanita's Casa del Tacos. “We fill our guts with chips and salsa while Jimmy’s tire impressions get washed away in a monsoon.”

  “The rain’s already done its damage,” Grayson said slipping past me and into a booth by the fogged-up front window. “Besides, scientific evidence supports better brain function with proper nutrition.”

  I stifled an eye roll and scooted in across from him. “I don’t think tacos count as one of the four basic food groups.”

  “They do around here,” a plump, middle-aged woman said with a laugh.

  She swiped at her dark-brown bangs as she shuffled up to us, then paused to shift the gum she was cracking to one side of her mouth before she spoke again. “So, y’all know what you want?”

  “Let’s keep it simple,” Grayson said before Earl or I could speak. He nodded to a chalkboard sandwich board propped up by the front door like a “wet floor” sign. “We’ll have today’s special, the Familia Grande Taco Extravaganza.”

  Our server’s left eyebrow flat-lined. “For just the three of you? Normally, that feeds a family of five.”

  “I hope it’s enough,” I quipped. “These two count as two people each. Maybe three.”

  The waitress laughed. “Sounds like y’all got yourselves a big appetite. Any big plans to go with it?”

  “Yep,” Earl said, grinning proudly. “We’re on a case.”

  The woman grin skipped a beat. “A case? You guys cops?”

  Earl smiled smugly. “No ma’am. Detectives. We’re lookin’ for us a fella went missing in the ol’ Hi-Ho out yonder.”

  “Earl!” I hissed, and kicked him under the table

  The waitress studied us for a moment. “I see. Anything to drink with that?”

  “Three Dr Peppers,” I said, smiling up at her weakly.

  “I’ll get your order in,” she said, and headed for the kitchen.

  “Did you see that reaction?” Grayson said. “Something’s up with her.”

  I shook my head. “I wouldn’t read much into it. Earl has a negative effect on women.”

  “Perhaps,” Grayson said. “But I believe she knows something.”

  “What?” I quipped. “That Earl’s full of crap? Every gal with half a brain knows that.”

  Grayson’s jaw tensed. “I meant about the disappearances.”

  “Shh,” I whispered. “Here she comes. Earl, keep your trap shut!”

  Earl frowned. “What’d I do?”

  “Here you go,” the waitress said. “Three Dr Peppers.” She unloaded a trio of quart-sized, red-plastic glasses from her tray, then lingered as we each grabbed a drink.

  “Uh ... y’all need straws?” she asked, poking three paper-wrapped straws at us.

  “No,” I said. “We’re fine.”

  “Uh ... okay.” she said, tucking them back into her apron pocket. “This fellow you’re looking for. His name isn’t Wade, is it?”

  “No,” Grayson said. “Why would—”

  “It’s Jimmy!” Earl said, earning him another kick in the shin from me.

  “Why do you ask?” Grayson said to the waitress.

  She glanced out the window, then back toward the kitchen. Then she leaned over and whispered, “Your friend Jimmy ain’t the first to go missing from the old Hi-Ho.”

  “No?” Grayson said. “Who else is missing?”

  The waitress chewed her lip. “I can’t say for sure. But you know, usually by this time a day we’re half full up with customers. Over the past week or so, a bunch of our regulars have quit showing up.”

  My upper lip hooked skyward. “Uh ... how often do you change the grease?”

  Grayson shot me a look, then turned back to the waitress. “These regular customers. Did they have anything in common?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “They ate here.”

  Grayson took a breath. “I mean besides that.”

  “Oh. Well, they liked to hunt and fish around here.”

  “In the Hi-Ho?” I asked.

  “Well, yeah,” she said. “I mean, it’s right across the street.”

  “Have you heard any stories of strange phenomena going on in the park?” Grayson asked.

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “Like a port-a-potty from outer space,” Earl blurted.

  I kicked him again. “Hush!”

  The waitress’ drawn-on eyebrows raised like McDonald’s arches. She glanced around the empty restaurant again, then leaned over our table. “Just old Indian legends and whatnot,” she said. “They say that place is an ancient Native American burial ground.”

  “Technically, this whole country is,” Grayson said dryly. “Anything else?”

  “Just what my cousin Wade told me,” she said. “He said he saw some weird lights out there last weekend. He was gonna check it out and let me know what he found out. But he didn’t come back. I haven’t seen him since. I’m afraid something bad’s happened to him.”

  “Thelma!” a man’s voice yelled from the kitchen.

  The waitress froze like a deer in the headlights.

  “Order up!” the cook yelled.

  Thelma turned and left without a word.

  “Interesting, Grayson said, watching her leave. “Sounds like a lot of people are going into the Hi-Ho, but not all of them are coming out.”

  “What you think’s the culprit causing it?” Earl asked.

  I picked up greasy fork and grimaced. “I can’t speak for the rest, but I’ve got an idea.”

  Grayson locked eyes with me. “Fluctuations in electromagnetic frequencies?”

  I wiped the fork with a napkin. “Nope. Botulism.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Ugh,” Earl groaned and rubbed his belly. “I done et m
e so many tacos I think I sprung a gut.”

  “Crapulence,” Grayson said.

  “You think it’ll help?” Earl asked, reaching for his Dr Pepper.

  Grayson’s eyebrows inched a little closer together. “Crapulence is the term for that sick feeling you get after eating or drinking too much.”

  “Oh,” Earl said, patting his swollen belly. “Well, lemme tell you, Mr. G., I got me a crap-load of crapulence goin’ on in here.”

  “Thanks for that imagery,” I said, and tossed my paper napkin over my half-eaten taco.

  “Speakin’ a crap, where’s the john around here?” Earl asked.

  “By the front door,” Grayson said.

  Earl wiggled his bear-sized body out of the booth. “I’ll be back.”

  I sneered up at him. “Thanks for the warning.”

  As Earl waddled in the direction of the men’s room, Grayson called out, “Be sure to do a courtesy flush.”

  I snorted. “In his case it’s more like a mercy flush.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  I smirked. “Because otherwise, it’s not survivable.”

  Grayson’s brow furrowed. He pushed away his empty plate and studied me with his mesmerizing green peepers. “A lot of things survive being flushed, Drex. Rats. Alligators. Aquarium fish. It’s not the flush, but the toxic sewer fumes that kill.”

  “My point exactly,” I said. “Anyway, while numb-nuts is in the can, tell me something. What did you mean when you said fluctuating electronic magnet thingies could be the cause of people disappearing around here?”

  “Electromagnetic fluctuations,” Grayson said. “It’s one of the theories being put forth by a former police detective named Dave Paulides.”

  “What’s he got to do with this?”

  “Well, for the past twenty years, Paulides has been investigating cases involving thousands of people who’ve vanished from state parks around the US.”

  I choked on my Dr Pepper. “Thousands? Vanished?”

  Grayson nodded. “Yes. Without a trace.”

  “But anything could’ve happened,” I argued. “Bears. Serial killers. Dumb luck.”