Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Box Set

by Margaret Lashley

  And for some reason, I loved him all the more for it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I WAS STANDING AMID the towering eyeglass racks in Walmart trying on “cheater” specs. Amidst the jumble, I found a pair of 2.5 magnification lenses in pink frames. I tried them on, but when I looked through them, all I could see was colorful donuts dancing in the air.

  Weird.

  I looked down. Slices of pepperoni pizza wiggled in a bright yellow background above a pair of red, leopard-spotted tennis shoes.

  This can’t be right. Am I having another hallucination?

  I took off the glasses and rubbed my eyes.

  “You gonna keep those?” a man asked.

  My eyes blinked open.

  I blinked again.

  It hadn’t been a hallucination after all. Suddenly, I realized that having 20-20 vision wasn’t always an asset.

  A short, pudgy, sweaty man in his late thirties was eyeing the glasses in my hands, licking his lips. The fabric of his shirt was imprinted with life-sized donuts—his pants likewise with pizza slices.

  I couldn’t decide whether I felt hungry or nauseated.

  “Well?” the man asked.

  “Uh ... no.” I held out the glasses. “You can have them. They’re a bit too strong for me.”

  He grabbed them from my hand. “Thanks. You’re lucky. My eyesight is terrible.”

  Well, that’d be one explanation for that outfit.

  “It sucks getting older,” I said, and reached for a pink pair with 1.5 magnification.

  “I know that’s right.” The man looked in my cart. “I see you picked a wig from the new Lucy Goosy line. Good choice.”

  I suddenly lost confidence in my prospective coiffure selection. I eyed the wig dubiously as the man plucked a dozen pairs of glasses from the racks.

  “Why all the eyeglasses?” I asked.

  He shrugged, causing the donuts on his shirt to undulate. “Buy one, get one sale. If all hell breaks loose, there won’t be any glasses anymore.”

  There won’t be any donut shirts, either. At least, I hope not.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you a prepper?”

  The man glanced around, then whispered, “Yes. You?”

  “Yes.”

  He gave me the once-over. “I haven’t seen you at any of the meetings.”

  “I’m new in town.”

  “Oh. Well, listen. A couple of us are meeting at Blarney’s tonight. You know the place?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Stop by. Introduce yourself. We’ll be there around seven.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  He smiled. “The guys will like you. They’re always on the lookout for breeding stock.”

  My back stiffened. What was that supposed to mean?

  I was about to give donut dude a piece of my breeding stock mind when Grayson walked up. He eyed my cart full of cheap clothes, toiletries, Tootsie Pops and Cheetos.

  He grinned. “All that scat cash burning a hole in your pocket?”

  I glared at donut man and pasted on a fake smile. “Awe, you know me, honey.” I gave Grayson a peck on the cheek. Pizza man’s hopeful face collapsed like punched dough.

  “Well, I better get going,” he said. “Nice chatting with you.”

  “Yes,” I said, too enthusiastically. “See you tonight!”

  As the guy wheeled his cart away, Grayson turned to me. “I had no idea you’re such a tease, honey.”

  I dropped the girlfriend charade. “Tactical diversion. Pizza Pants invited us to a prepper meeting tonight.”

  Grayson snorted. “He’s a prepper? What kind of camouflage is that? In case he’s attacked by a horde of health-food zombies?”

  I shook my head. “I just pray the fabric’s not scratch-n-sniff.”

  Grayson guffawed. “Well, honey, looks like we’ve got ourselves a hot date tonight.”

  “Hot date?”

  “A ménage á trois—with chocolate sprinkles.”

  “You have one sick sense of humor, Grayson.”

  He grinned. “You love it. Admit it, B.H.”

  “B.H.?”

  “Breeding hips.”

  Crap. He’d heard our conversation after all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ONE STEP INSIDE THE hotel room and my nostrils shriveled.

  I turned to Grayson. “Ugh! This place reeks! I thought I told you to ask for a non-smoking room.”

  Grayson plopped a small duffle bag onto one of the saggy twin beds. “I did.”

  I followed the worn trail in the nicotine-colored carpeting to the bathroom. The cheap laminate countertop and bathtub rim were pockmarked with amber cigarette burns. I stomped back into the main room. “Then who’s the chain-smoker? The maid?”

  “Actually, I think she died of emphysema a while back.” Grayson pulled back the comforter on one of the beds. The threadbare sheets were rumpled and dirty. “Nobody’s changed these since the Nixon administration.”

  My mouth puckered. “Gross. And I thought Jenkins’ cabin was bad. Listen. I’m gonna get a shower, but I’m not touching either of those beds.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I thought about the small lizard Grayson kept in a terrarium on the windowsill above the RV’s banquette table. “Don’t even think about bringing poor Gizzard in here.”

  Grayson’s nose wrinkled. “I wouldn’t. I have too much respect for the reptilia phylum.”

  I cocked my head and shot him a side-eyed sneer. “But not too much respect for me, apparently.”

  “Your habitat isn’t under threat by Cuban invaders.”

  “It is if you count Miami.” I glanced back into the ratty room and got the willies.

  No self-respecting cockroach would stay in this place.

  I couldn’t bring myself to shower in the RV. It just seemed too—up close and personal. After that romp in the woods, my Secret was out.

  I clamped my molars, grabbed my duffle, and marched into the bathroom. Both the countertop and floor were too disgusting to set the bag down on, so I hung it on the doorknob.

  After locking the door, I pulled back the shower curtain, revealing what could only be described as a laboratory experiment gone horribly awry. I blew out a sigh and unbuttoned my jeans. A thought made me quickly refastened them.

  I jerked open the bathroom door and yelled at Grayson.

  “Is this a setup to make me want to stay in the RV? There’s not even any toilet paper in here, for crying out loud!”

  Grayson grinned. He was lying atop a bath towel he’d laid over the dirty bedspread. “Hey. You want toilet paper, lady, you’ve got to pay more than sixty-eight bucks a night.”

  I chewed my lip. “What am I supposed to ... you know, take care of my business with? A pillowcase?”

  Grayson nodded toward the other bed. “I think someone already beat you to that idea.”

  I tried not to look. Failing at that, I closed my disgusted eyes and sucked in a deep breath. On the exhale, something hit me square in the gut.

  I gasped and opened my eyes just as Grayson’s football-sized travel bag tumbled to the floor in front of me.

  “My emergency kit,” he said. “Never leave home without it.”

  With the weight of my biological emergency pressing down on my bladder, I didn’t bother to complain about being used for target practice. “What’s in there?”

  “Spray bleach. Disinfectant wipes. Toilet tissue. Rubber booties.”

  “Booties? Again? What is it with you and booties?”

  “Hey. You get off on toenail fungus, be my guest.”

  “Gawd, Grayson! What are we doing in this dump?”

  “Trying to stay on budget. Now you know why I camp in RV parks and Walmart lots. The bathroom facilities are much nicer. And cleaner.”

  I did the math. Staying in decent hotels would cost over four grand a month.

  “Fine.” I skulked back into the bathroom with Grayson’s emergency kit.


  As I showered in booties amongst a live studio audience of assorted flora and fauna, my lousy couch-bed in the RV slowly transformed into the penthouse suite at the Ritz-Carlton.

  Grayson was a diabolical genius.

  Either that, or he was pathologically cheap.

  “NICE JOB ON THE BATHROOM,” Grayson said as he emerged showered and dressed in black jeans and booties.

  I finished putting on lipstick in the vanity mirror while he pulled a black T-shirt over his muscular chest.

  “Yeah. You owe me dinner for that one.”

  Grayson smiled and nodded. “Fair enough. Nice wig, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” I adjusted the shoulder-length, bob-cut I’d bought at Walmart. I wasn’t sure if the auburn color clashed with my new pink blouse or not, and I didn’t care. It was better than looking like a redneck tranny.

  I turned to face Grayson. “You ready to meet the preppers?”

  Grayson glanced up from his phone. “It’s just six. We’ve got time.”

  “Not if I’m going to get a drink in me first. And something to eat. I don’t want to take the chance those prepper guys’ll make me lose my appetite.”

  “Okay, Miss Early Bird Special. Just let me put on a belt and shoes.”

  I shot a glance at his feet. “You’re not keeping the booties on?”

  “No. They clash with my outfit.”

  I laughed. “Why do you wear black all the time, anyway?”

  “I thought I just covered that. So I never have to worry about clashing.”

  “Right. You wouldn’t want to mix your donut shirt with your pizza pants.”

  Grayson grinned. “Exactly.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  GRAYSON SHIFTED THE RV into park in front of a wooden structure that appeared to have been constructed entirely from the remains of old moonshine still explosions.

  He let out a low whistle. “So this is the infamous Blarney’s Bar.”

  My nose crinkled. “I think I’m gonna need a bigger glass of vodka.”

  A car door closed nearby. I glanced over and spotted the eyeglasses hoarder from Walmart. He ambled toward the bar’s entrance, still sporting his fast-food couture.

  “Damn,” I said. “There goes my head start—and my hankering for pepperoni pizza.”

  Grayson smirked. “Come on, Drex. A man has a right to make his own unique fashion statement.”

  “Yeah. His is, ‘Kill me before I accessorize.’”

  Grayson laughed and nodded toward Blarney’s. “Hey, you think they serve tacos in there?”

  I shrugged. “Why not? They obviously serve troglodytes. But earlier, didn’t you tell me you wanted venison and mashed potatoes?”

  “Can’t a guy change his mind?”

  “Sure. So long as a girl can, too.”

  Grayson studied me with his green eyes. “Fair enough. Let’s go check out the locals, shall we?”

  “I can’t wait.”

  We climbed out of the RV and walked across the dirt lot to the falling-down front porch that served as the entrance to Blarney’s. Once inside, I made a beeline for the bar. But even though I gave it my best shot, I wasn’t fast enough.

  “It’s you!” the guy in the pizza pants called out. “You came! Come join us!”

  As the pudgy pizza man approached, I gave him a weak smile. “That’s okay. We were gonna get a bite to eat first.”

  He squinted through pink glasses and shook his head. “Nonsense! We already ordered enough chicken wings for everybody in the place.”

  “Does that include me?” Grayson asked.

  “Uh ... sure.”

  Grayson eyed me playfully. “Then count us in.”

  I scrunched my nose. “You’ve never seen Grayson eat,” I warned.

  “You’ve never seen me eat, either,” Pizza Pants rebutted.

  I sighed. “No, I haven’t. Lucky me. Looks like it’s going to be a banner night.”

  The man grinned. “Follow me.”

  The colorful donuts on his shirt wobbled up, down, and sideways like a Fruit Loops acid flashback, rendering me slightly seasick by the time he led us to a dark corner booth in the rear of the bar. I was surprised to see the back of a blonde head poking up from the booth.

  What do you know? Pizza Pants brought a date.

  Then the head turned around.

  “Pandora! Mr. Gray!”

  Operative Garth stood up and pushed his black glasses higher on his nose. “Welcome!”

  Pizza Pants’ eyes were almost the size of the donuts on his shirt. “The Pandora and Mr. Gray?”

  “One and the same,” Garth said. “I see you’ve met my colleague, Dr. Freddy Crum.”

  “Doctor? As in Ph.D.?” I stuttered.

  “General physician,” Garth said.

  My jaw went slack. “You’re kidding.”

  Grayson elbowed me. I blushed and fumbled out an apology. “Sorry, Dr. Crum. You just ... it’s just that ....”

  “It’s okay,” Crum said. “I like to keep a low profile. These crazy scrubs are intentional.”

  “Intentional? What do you mean?”

  Crum slid into the booth across from Garth. “They make me invisible.”

  My left eye ticked involuntarily—my built-in woo-woo alarm. “Uh ... pardon the pun,” I said to Crum, but I just don’t see it.”

  Crum laughed. “As a physician, I mean. People don’t see me as a doctor when I dress like a clown.”

  I cocked my head. “I still don’t get it.”

  Crum shrugged. “Ever had an old woman lift her shirt and show you her boob?”

  “I have,” Grayson said, raising his index finger.

  I shot him a dirty look and turned back to Crum.

  “You see, in this getup, people don’t constantly pester me for medical advice while I’m out buying groceries, walking the dog, and generally trying to have a normal life.”

  “Oh.” I smiled at the doctor. “That’s actually kind of brilliant. But you have to admit, that’s some really ‘out there’ camouflage.”

  “The fast-food combo is one of my personal favs,” Garth said, and high-fived Crum across the table. “In that getup, nobody even asks us what time it is.”

  Crum grinned up at us, then he suddenly appeared startled. “Oh, my! Where are my manners? Please! Have a seat, you two.”

  Garth patted the open stretch of brown vinyl beside him. As I slid into the booth next to him, Garth said, “Mr. Gray, you can sit by Dr. Prepper.”

  “Dr. Prepper?” Grayson asked and stared at Crum. “So, you really are a prepper?”

  Crum glanced around the room, then gave a quick nod. “That’s me. Dr. Prepper.”

  Suddenly, Garth belted out an old advertising jingle, giving us an exhibition of his buck teeth as he sang, “He’s a prepper, I’m a prepper, Rex’s a prepper, they’re a prepper. Wouldn’t you like to be a prepper too?”

  Crum groaned. “I told you never to do that again.”

  Garth’s laugh sounded like a donkey’s bray. “Come on. Nobody can resist Dr. Prepper!”

  Crum groaned again and glanced at the end of the booth. “Speaking of Rexel, looks like we’ll need to pull up a chair for him. He won’t be too happy about that.”

  “It’s his rule,” Garth said. “Last one here has to sit on the end.”

  Crum looked concerned. “Strange. Rexel’s almost always the first one here.”

  Garth sneered. “’Bout time he got a taste of his own protocol. He’s the original Debbie Downer.”

  Crum sighed and nodded. Then his eyes lit up. He rubbed his pudgy fingers together and said, “Quick! Tell us about your adventures before Rexel gets here.”

  I shrugged. “Well, there’s not much to tell—”

  “We just captured Mothman,” Grayson said.

  Garth’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. “The creature from Point Pleasant?”

  Grayson grinned proudly. “The very same. Well, either him or a near cousin.”

  Crum’
s eyes widened. “No way! That must’ve been super exciting!”

  “Exciting?” Garth aimed the word at Crum, his chin nearly touching his neck. “More like freaking amazing! Didn’t I tell you their lives rocked?”

  “Sheesh,” Crum said. “The most exciting thing I’ve done lately is lance a boil on a kid’s buttocks. Are you two working on a case here in Plant City?”

  Garth answered for us. “They’re investigating Lester Jenkins’ death. They think Grays did it.”

  “Grays?” Crum whispered. “As in Gray aliens?”

  Grayson cleared his throat. “Well, yes. That’s one possibility. However, we haven’t come to any conclusions yet. Pandora told me this was a prepper meeting. Do you two know much about prepping?”

  “Enough,” Garth said, and nodded at Crum. “Freddy and I are on the same survivalist team. I’m security and communications.”

  Crum raised an index finger. “I’m in charge of medical and safety.”

  Grayson nodded. “Makes sense. And Rexel?”

  Garth scowled. “He takes care of inventory and supplies.”

  “Was Lester Jenkins part of your team?” I asked.

  The two men looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “Lester? No way,” Garth said. “He was too much of a hot head.”

  “And unpredictable,” Crum said. “And, I might add, a slob.”

  I smirked. That’s rich coming from a guy wearing his own grocery list.

  “I agree with you about his lack of fastidiousness,” Grayson said. “His cabin was a wreck. You’d think Jenkins would’ve kept it in better repair, considering the whole upcoming apocalypse and all. There’s a hole in the roof the size of a basketball.”

  “Maybe that’s why he went there,” I said. “To repair his cabin.”

  “More like to get away from his old lady,” Garth said. “He was always pissing and moaning about her. Couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

  Crum nodded. “Shoot first and ask questions later. That applied to Jenkins’ gun as well as his mouth.”