Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Box Set

by Margaret Lashley

  I snorted myself awake.

  I was on the floor of my bedroom, my right cheek stuck to the pages of a Good Housekeeping magazine. A beam of morning sun filtered its way through the dust circling in the air. I blinked against the glare, then I nearly peed my pants.

  Mothman was standing right over me.

  I jolted awake like Frankenstein in a nuclear reactor.

  I screamed, scooted backward across the floor on my butt, and kicked at the creature like a deranged donkey.

  “I know I have morning breath,” Mothman said, “but I think that’s a bit of an overreaction.”

  I blinked again, then blushed. With the light no longer stabbing my eyes, Mothman had melted into Grayson.

  “What are you doing in my bedroom?” I yelled.

  “Checking on you. Your front door was open, so I came in. Why are you on the floor?” He wagged a shaming finger at me. “Don’t tell me you got into the vodka again.”

  “Shut up! Where were you last night?”

  “Excuse me? I wasn’t aware I owed you an explanation. Or are you my warden now?”

  “You should’ve been here!” I screeched. “Mothman was here! He tried to get in my bedroom window!”

  Grayson’s eyes nearly doubled in size. “What? Damn! Did you get a good look at it?”

  “Yes,” I grumbled. “And I’m okay, in case you’re interested.”

  Grayson grimaced. “Oh. Yes. Good. I’m glad.” He smiled at me for a moment, then said, “So? What did it look like?”

  “Like a moth ... man. Sort of.” I hesitated as I tried to read Grayson’s expression. He had the best poker face I’d ever seen. “And he—” I began, then changed my mind.

  “He what?” Grayson coaxed.

  “He....” I stopped and shook my head. “No. You’ll laugh at me.”

  He slapped on a solemn face. “I won’t. I promise.”

  “He ... he stole Grandma Selma’s afghan.”

  I had to hand it to him. Grayson’s effort to suppress a grin was truly valiant. He nearly swallowed his lips.

  “This afghan,” he asked with one raised eyebrow, “it wasn’t made of wool, was it?”

  “You’re such a jerk!” I yelled. I picked up a pillow from the floor and threw it at him.

  “Come on, Drex. I’m just trying to get you to lighten up.”

  “How can you joke about this of all things?”

  “Because it helps. Especially when you know the things I know.”

  I stared at him, red-faced, unable to decide if I was angry, mortified, or just plain embarrassed. “What do you know?”

  Grayson bent down and offered me a hand. “How about I fix the coffee this morning? You get cleaned up. And when you’re ready, we can talk.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  IF I’D LEARNED ONE thing in life, it was that caffeine could solve a myriad of problems. Abject terror over Mothman, however, wasn’t one of them.

  On that score, Grayson was no help, either.

  “Hope you don’t mind. I put some clothes in the wash,” he said as I hobbled into the kitchen. My knees were still wobbly from my encounter with the insectoid peeping Tom, whether it was real or I’d just imagined it.

  “Sure. No worries.” I shuffled to the counter and made myself a cup of coffee. “Why in the world would Mothman be after me?” I grumbled, and took a giant gulp.

  Grayson was sitting at the round oak table. He glanced over at the portrait of Jesus my parents had hanging on the wall. “God doesn’t send you anything that you’re not ready for, Drex. That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”

  I sneered. “Thank you, oh great Pez dispenser full of stupid clichés.”

  “Come on, Drex. You didn’t get a degree in Art Appreciation to end up managing a grease pit in the middle of nowhere. You’re ready for something bigger.”

  I looked down at my coffee. A fly was doing the backstroke in it. “Sure I am,” I said as I poured the coffee down the sink. “Because I’m smart, I’m pretty, and gosh-darn it, people like me.”

  Grayson snickered. “You’ve already told me more than once that you want out of this place. So, here it is, your big break, and you act all surprised. Hurt, even. I’m telling you now, you might as well embrace the situation like you personally ordered it, and dive in. Because you did. And you can.”

  Anger flared up inside me like a Duraflame starter packet. “Ordered this? Are you talking about Mothman, or you? Right now, if I had to choose, I’d pick Mothman. He’s a whole hell of a lot less irritating.”

  Grayson smirked. “Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.”

  “Pez hack,” I spat.

  Grayson shot me a grin I wanted to erase with an Uzi. “When the student is ready, the teacher appears, Drex. And I do believe it’s time for another lesson for the unruly pupil.”

  “What lesson?”

  I glared at him, then rolled my eyes. Did it matter? What else did I have going on?

  “I need more coffee first,” I growled.

  Grayson nodded. “Then pour yourself a gallon and come with me.”

  GRAYSON’S LATEST P.I. “lesson” had me kicking around outside in the cold mist of morning, checking the ground under my bedroom window for evidence of Mothman’s visitation last night.

  “What are we looking for?” I grumbled. “There’s no footprints. I told you, the thing was flying.”

  “Look for hairs. Detritus. Anything that looks out of place.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like that.”

  Grayson pointed upward to the boughs of a small crepe myrtle tree. Hanging about ten feet off the ground was a piece of yarn.

  My heart soared. I wasn’t crazy. “Grandma’s afghan! See? I didn’t imagine it!”

  “Hold your horses. It’s a piece of yarn in a tree, Drex. It could’ve gotten there a hundred different ways. You could have put it there, for all I know.”

  “Me?” I said with righteous indignation.

  “Sure. You could’ve tossed the blanket out the window last night in the middle of some weird, somnambulistic dream.”

  “Dirty mind!”

  “That means sleepwalking, gutter girl.”

  I scowled, folded my arms across my chest, and festered in self-recrimination. Meanwhile, Grayson found a hook-shaped stick and used it to bend the crepe myrtle branch downward to retrieve the evidence. He stuck the foot-long piece of blue yarn in a plastic baggie. Then, to my surprise, he held the baggie open, stuck his nose in, and sniffed.

  What a sicko.

  “It’s wool, all right,” Grayson said. “I can smell the difference.”

  I marched over to him and grabbed for the baggie. “Give me that!”

  “No can do.” He raised the baggie up and out of my reach. “I need to test it for DNA. Does it look like it might have come from your granny’s blanket?”

  “Maybe,” I grumbled. “It’s a bunch of colors. Now what?”

  Grayson didn’t answer. He was looking right at me, but his eyes were far away. I hoped he was pondering a solution to this whole crazy mess. Or, even better, how to get his ass out of town.

  “Interesting,” he said at last.

  “Interesting? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

  “I thought maybe this was all a coincidence. But now, well, let’s just say I’ve never been a big believer in coincidences.”

  I shot him a sour look. “What are you talking about?”

  “What’s your safe space, Drex? You know, from the test yesterday. What do you envision to keep the monsters at bay?”

  My back stiffened. “None of your business.”

  “I disagree. I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important.”

  I’d envisioned myself balled up in my grandma’s lap, sucking my thumb. Thinking about it now, my cheeks flared with heat. “It’s personal.”

  “Fine.” Grayson blew out an aggravated breath. “I think I know, anyway. I’d like to test you again. To hone your
skills some more.”

  “You might think you know me, Grayson, but you don’t know sh—” My phone rang. It was Paulson. “I better get this.”

  I turned my back to Grayson. “Hello? Paulson? Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t get by Vanderhoff’s yesterday. I was—”

  “Save it, Bobbie,” Paulson said curtly. “There’s no need for you to give me a case update. Vanderhoff’s dead.”

  “Oh, my word! What happened?”

  “Someone broke in through a window. Ripped her throat out in the middle of the night.”

  I glanced at Grayson. He was looking away, but I got the feeling he’d been listening in. He’d been gone all night. His clothes were in the washing machine. A knife-blade of fear stabbed me in the back.

  “Bobbie? Are you there?” Paulson asked.

  I took a step away from Grayson and whispered, “Yes. Should I come by?”

  “No. The FBI’s been called. Stay where you are. Is that lodger of yours still around?”

  Cold wind swept down my spine. “Yes.”

  “Be careful, Bobbie.”

  “I will.” I hung up the phone.

  “What’s up?” Grayson asked.

  I turned to face him and tried to smile, but it wouldn’t stick. “Nothing. Beth-Ann’s cat had kittens is all. I’m going to go over there to, you know, help out with the delivery.”

  “I love kittens. Can I come?”

  Grayson took a step toward me. I took a step back.

  “Well,” I fumbled, “I’m gonna get my eyebrows tweezed, too. So why don’t you hang around here? Talk to Earl. He told me your RV should be ready soon. Maybe today, even.”

  Grayson eyed me like he wasn’t buying it. “What’s really going on?”

  I looked away. “Nothing. I just need some girl time, okay?”

  Grayson shot me a dubious look. “Okay.”

  I wanted to run, to get the hell away from Grayson. But I willed myself not to. Instead, I channeled my fear into enough energy to march back up the stairs to my apartment without falling on my face.

  As I headed down the hall to my bedroom, the sound of the washing machine made me stop in my tracks. I looked around to make sure Grayson wasn’t behind me, then I carefully opened the bi-fold doors to the closet housing the washer and dryer. I lifted the lid on the washing machine and peeked inside. The water around the clothes in the drum was tinged dark pink.

  “What are you doing?” Grayson’s voice rang out behind me. I dropped the lid on my finger.

  “Ah ... uh ... nothing,” I said, my finger pulsing with pain. I tried the lame smile again, but even I wasn’t buying it. “I just wanted to see if there was room in the washer for, you know, a few of my unmentionables.”

  Grayson smiled. “Sure.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he quipped. “Get it?”

  I laughed, but this time his humor was totally lost on me.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  AS I PULLED OUT OF the parking lot, I caught Grayson eyeing me from the upstairs window of my grandmother’s apartment. Something creepy crawled down my neck and over my shoulders.

  Great. Thanks to him, not even my own home feels safe anymore.

  I hit the gas and headed in the direction of Cherry Manor. Despite Officer Paulson’s instructions to stay clear, I felt compelled to check on Mrs. Vanderhoff. I’d known her since I was a kid.

  Suddenly, I had an epiphany. I was driving my dead father’s car, wearing his coveralls and boots, and atop my head was some random stranger’s wig Beth-Ann had fished out of an Amazon box.

  Is any part of my life something I actually chose for myself?

  I did a mental inventory and couldn’t come up with a single thing. I was working a hand-me-down job, living a hand-me-down life. My grandmother was gone. My father was gone. My mother was gone. And now, Mrs. Vanderhoff was gone. Point Paradise was slipping away, despite my attempt to resurrect it.

  Maybe it’s time to just let it go ....

  The pine trees ticked by on either side of the road. Never again would I be a little tomboy stalking dolls in the woods with a BB gun. Never again would I get another warm, White Shoulders-scented hug from my Grandma Selma. Never again would I help my dad change an oil filter. Or hear my mother chide me about how dirty I’d gotten my clothes.

  Clothes.

  Grayson’s bloody laundry was churning in my washing machine. Was he getting rid of evidence, or just skid marks?

  He might be a murderer. He might be a saint. But either way, Grayson had been right. I had wished for change. Big change. A whole new life kind of change.

  I’d yearned for something more interesting—more exciting than changing dead spark plugs. But tracking down Mothman? Had someone upstairs heard my prayers wrong?

  Again?

  I blew out a sigh. As aggravating as he was, at least I still had Earl.

  Yippee.

  I hit the gas, wishing I could outrun a past I no longer wanted. But what else was out there? Only a future I couldn’t see. Still, one thing was for sure. Wherever I ended up, that stupid twin inside my head was along for the ride.

  Thanks to it, my life was never going to be the same.

  Grayson was right. I should’ve been a lot more careful about what I’d wished for.

  Chapter Fifty

  I PULLED UP IN FRONT of Vanderhoff’s modest little block home. It had been plain before. But somehow, today it seemed even plainer, now that her life had gone out of it.

  Paulson’s car was out front. A blue Toyota Corolla. I made a mental note of it, then walked up to the front door and rapped my knuckles on the wood paneling. Paulson’s face appeared in the small window.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked as he opened the front door a crack.

  “I thought I might be able to help.”

  “It’s pretty gruesome.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In her bed.”

  Paulson opened the door wider. His hands had blood on them. He noticed that I noticed.

  “It’s awful, Bobbie.” He turned, and I followed him into Vanderhoff’s kitchen. “I covered her with the bedsheets. I couldn’t bear for someone to see her like that...all exposed and everything.”

  Paulson’s voice cracked as he washed his hands in the sink. I noticed my business card on the refrigerator. My heart pinged.

  Poor Mrs. Vanderhoff. Oh, geez! Poor ME! If the FBI finds my bogus P.I. card, I’m toast!

  While Paulson had his back to me, I peeled my business card from the fridge. The magnet came to, glued to the card by some sticky substance I didn’t have the time or desire to discern at the moment. I jammed them both in my pocket right before Paulson turned around.

  He reached for the dishtowel hanging off the refrigerator door. His eyes were filled with tears. I patted him on the back. He nearly broke down. “How could something like this happen?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe you were right about seeing that convict in the woods after all.” Paulson sniffed back tears. “Thanks for coming by, but you should go now. This may be the work of a serial killer. Like I told you before. The FBI’s been notified. They should be here any minute now. I don’t want you to get hung up in all this. I had no idea it would turn out like ....” His voice trailed off.

  I winced. He looked devastated. “Okay,” I said, and patted him on the shoulder. “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes.” Paulson looked me in the eyes, an apologetic expression twisting his handsome face. “I know it’s unprofessional to cry. But I’ve just never seen anything like this.”

  “I understand. Nobody expects much to happen here in Point Paradise.”

  As Paulson ushered me to the door, a thought crossed my mind. Should I retrieve the tele-bug device Grayson had stashed under Vanderhoff’s couch cushion? For a second, I considered telling Paulson about it. But with Vanderhoff dead in the next room and the FBI on their way, every fiber of my being wan
ted to get the hell out of there. This whole thing was way out of my league. Besides, who was I to point the finger at Grayson? What if it really was the Mothman who did it?

  Mothman? Cripes! I really do need a shrink.

  I decided to keep my trap shut and let the FBI do their own investigation. They’d find the tele-bug soon enough. And if Grayson was guilty, he’d be found out. To borrow one of Grayson’s pez-hack clichés, let the chips fall where they may.

  Paulson ushered me out the front door. “I guess that means our little wager is off.”

  “Wager?” I asked.

  “Twenty bucks or dinner. For figuring out the phone calls.”

  “Oh. Right,” I said absently. “Yes. You’re off the hook.”

  “That’s too bad.” Paulson gave me a sad smile and closed the door.

  I walked to the Mustang and climbed in. As I turned the ignition, something about Paulson and men in general got under my skin like a swarm of chiggers.

  Guys. Do they ever stop thinking about sex?

  A tap on the passenger door window made me flinch. It was Nancy Parker, the dog-walking neighbor lady I’d seen last time I was here with Grayson.

  “What’s happening at Mrs. Vanderhoff’s?” she asked. “Did she find a buyer?”

  “I don’t think she’s looking for one, Mrs. Parker. She’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Parker’s face registered delight for a second, then shifted into the furrowed-brow concern of a decent, law-abiding citizen. “That’s too bad.” She looked down at her dog. “Well, Doodles, I guess we won’t be seeing any more of Popeye.”

  “Who’s Popeye?” I asked.

  Parker made a sour face. “Vanderhoff’s mangy, one-eyed mutt. He’s the terror of the neighborhood. Always digging out from under the fence and trying to do his business with my poor Doodles. I can’t say I’ll miss him.”

  “Or poor Mrs. Vanderhoff?” I asked sarcastically.

  “Well, to be honest, no.”

  For the umpteenth time, I tried to roll up my broken driver’s side window, and for the umpteenth time, I grimaced at my own stupidity. I shifted into first, and, just to prove I was honest as well, I did what I told Grayson I was going to do.