Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Box Set

by Margaret Lashley

  What he told Grayson and me would soon have us seeing red—but tomatoes would have nothing to do with it.

  Chapter Three

  I WAS RUBBING MY SORE wrestling thumb when the unexpected transmission crackled over the ham radio, sending an electric buzz through the cab of the vintage RV.

  “Oh gee double-oh seven to Mr. Gray. Come in, Mr. Gray. Over.”

  I recognized the squeaky voice instantly. It belonged to one of our new conspiracy-chasing allies—a Wayne’s World wannabe we’d dubbed “Operative Garth.”

  The thought of the skinny, bucktoothed redneck and his secret junkyard compound made me smile. All in all, Garth was a good egg, as far as cracked ova went.

  “Double oh seven?” I laughed and shot Grayson a look. “Is that prepper code for geek or nerd?”

  Grayson’s lips curled slightly as he reached under the dashboard for the radio. He unhooked the microphone and held it to his lips. “Gray here. Over.”

  “News flash,” Operative Garth said. “Caught more buzz this morning about Banner Hill. Another vet reported missing this morning. Over.”

  “So, it’s not an anomaly after all. Thanks for the intel, OG.” Grayson replied in a tone that was serious, yet somehow mocking. I suddenly suspected I might be the foil in a new Leslie Nielsen movie.

  Naked Nerd 33 1/3.

  “My honor, Mr. Gray,” Garth squeaked. “Over.”

  “Same MO?” Grayson asked. “Over.”

  “Yeah. Disappeared without a trace. Over.”

  “Any speculation on causation? Over.”

  “Money’s on organ reapers,” Garth responded. “Or body snatchers. Any theories? Over.”

  Grayson’s right eyebrow flat-lined. “Too soon to speculate. But a third victim definitely thickens the plot. Keep in contact OG. Reward if tip pans out. Over.”

  “Cool!” Garth blurted. A moment later, he hastily added, “Over.”

  I imagined Garth grinning like a donkey, pushing his thick, black-framed glasses up on his pug nose.

  “So, what gives?” I asked as Grayson hung up the mic. “I thought we were going to Ruskin.”

  “That’s three veterans in less than a week. Vanished like Draino down a dump hole. Something’s definitely up.”

  I eyed him skeptically. “Why? Is three some kind of magic number?”

  Grayson kept his eye on the road. “Three drops the probability of random coincidence to near zero.”

  My brow furrowed. “But who in their right mind would kidnap veterans from a nursing home?”

  “Exactly,” Grayson said, nodding thoughtfully. “No one. Unless they had a good use for them.”

  A good use for old men? Now there’s a probability of near zero.

  “What about body snatchers?” I asked. “You know, like Garth said.”

  Grayson shook his head. “Not likely. As far as we know, they were still alive when they were taken.”

  My nose crinkled at the thought. “Organ reapers?”

  “Doubtful. These guys are too old to be of any use for organ transplants.”

  I lifted my ball cap and scratched the auburn stubble growing in atop my shaved head. I knew Grayson wouldn’t be satisfied until there was some screwball angle to the chase. I, on the other hand, just wanted to hang on for another 102 weeks to complete my P.I. internship.

  “What about ritual sacrifice?” I offered. “To satiate demonic lust?”

  “Hmm. A buffet of human organs.” Grayson rubbed his chin as he pondered the idea. “You hungry?” He turned to me and smirked. “How about liver and onions for lunch?”

  I shook my head.

  Only you, Grayson. Only you.

  Chapter Four

  LIKE ASTEROIDS COLLIDING in space, Operative Garth’s intel had sent Grayson and me careening off on another trajectory. After a quick stop for gas, we’d shifted gears and direction, setting Ruskin and its murderous crop of tomatoes aside for another season.

  The disappearance of a third veteran from a New Port Richey nursing home had piqued Grayson’s curiosity. With his weird-o-meter recalibrated, for once the universe had redirected us in my favor.

  Our new destination required us to head west, toward the Gulf coast. I-4 would’ve been the most direct route, but definitely not the most reliable.

  It was late November. Tourist season was in full swing.

  We both knew all too well that I-4 would be clogged with Thanksgiving holiday traffic. With millions of white knuckles wrapped around fake-leather steering wheels, this time of year the only blessing from God that Floridians could count on was a rental-car invasion of biblical proportions.

  Given the annual plague of travelers hell-bent on getting to Disney World for a relaxing family vacation, one tiny fender-bender could set off a road-warrior-style apocalypse.

  So we took SR 39 north instead, and headed toward Zephyrhills.

  After driving by cow pastures, rundown rural churches, and an ugly stretch of sprawl missing its urban, we hung a left on CR 54 and headed west, where we were treated to yet another string of trailer parks, strip malls, housing developments, and dollar stores littering the landscape like hurled garbage.

  It was the side of Florida never featured on a postcard.

  By the time we reached the outskirts of Zephyrhills, both of us were mesmerized by monotony, and hungry as all get-out. Thankfully, it was my turn to pick a place to eat.

  When I spied Sargent Pizza, I practically yelled in Grayson’s ear.

  “Stop here!” I jabbed a finger at the low-rent pizza joint. Its checkered past as a failed convenience store was as obvious as a girdle on a goose.

  Grayson frowned. “Why there?”

  “I’m in the mood for pepperoni,” I said. But that was a lie. I’d have chomped down on a lawn-clipping sandwich at Katie’s House of Kale if that’s what it would’ve taken to ensure liver and onions wasn’t on the menu.

  THE INTERIOR OF SARGENT Pizza appeared to have been fitted out entirely with furniture stolen from somebody’s dead grandma.

  Grayson sat across a scarred oak table from me, sipping coffee and waiting on his anchovy pizza. The only other patron in the place was some lady languishing in a corner booth. Judging by her outfit, she was either a hooker or she was blind and had been dressed by one.

  “How much further to New Port Richey?” Grayson asked, adjusting the floral cushion tied to his chair by a dirty bow.

  I knew his question was just a ploy to make me practice using my smart phone. But after perusing Sargent Pizza’s menu and finding no organ meats on offer, I was feeling smugly generous.

  I pulled my cellphone from my purse and punched a few buttons, trying not to let my fear of technology set my teeth to grinding. To my surprise, with very little prompting, a map with several routes and timeframes popped up on the screen.

  Huh. Maybe Google Maps wasn’t designed explicitly to spy on me in my underwear, after all.

  I showed the routes to Grayson. “Looks like maybe another hour or two, give or take traffic.”

  Grayson gave me a quick nod, then removed his fedora and rubbed the stubble growing in on his head. Like me, we were both sporting a buzz cut. Mine, hidden under a ball cap, was courtesy of an over-exuberant ER staff when I’d been struck in the forehead by a ricochet bullet a few weeks ago.

  Grayson’s shaved head was self-inflicted—an attempt to achieve more accurate results from his EEG contraption. Or, at least, that was the story he’d told me. And, so far, he was sticking to it.

  Grayson opened his laptop, but before he could click the power button, the pizza arrived. It was delivered to our table by a short, roundish man in his late fifties. Shockingly, the guy was sporting a moustache bushy enough to give Grayson’s a run for its money.

  I secretly found myself worrying that the close proximity of two Freddie Mercury-style moustaches might set off some kind of planetary disturbance that could end the world as we knew it. Then I secretly worried why in the world I would think such a thing .
...

  I’ve either sustained serious brain damage, or Grayson and his conspiracy theories are turning my mind to mush.

  “Enjoy,” the waiter said, leaning closer to Grayson as he set down the pizza.

  I cringed and held my breath as the moustaches grew nearer and nearer to each other—just in case my theory had any merit ....

  But then, as suddenly as he’d appeared, the waiter turned and left. No black hole appeared. No rift in the time-space continuum occurred. The guy didn’t even leave a greasy skid mark.

  I breathed a sigh of relief—and caught a whiff of cheese and freshly baked crust.

  Maybe the heavenly aroma somehow counteracted The Moustache Effect. Or maybe I’ve officially gone insane ....

  I glanced down at the pizza. It was as big around as a bicycle tire, and took up most of our table. Half the pie was garnished with pepperoni. The other half was rendered inedible by blackish-gray strips of dead fish.

  Anchovies. Yuck.

  “Looks good,” Grayson said, and folded his laptop closed, oblivious to how close we’d come to planetary annihilation.

  I shot him a look. “At least my half does.”

  “What’ve you got against anchovies?”

  “Nothing. Just a rule my Grandma Selma taught me. Never order fish from a roadside restaurant that used to be a 7-11.”

  Grayson shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He took a bite from an anchovy slice. His face went slack.

  “Something wrong?” I asked.

  “No.” He forced a smile and another chew.

  I smirked and picked up a slice from the pepperoni side. The melted mozzarella stretched like rubber all the way from the pan to my mouth.

  Grayson discretely spit his mouthful into a napkin. “Trade you a slice.”

  I smirked. “Not a chance.”

  “Come on. What’s it worth to you?”

  I took another bite. “Mmm. This is delicious.”

  His eyes fixated on my side of the pizza. “One slice. I’ll let you pick the radio station.”

  I licked my lips and stared him square in the eye. “Let me drive the RV.”

  Grayson nearly choked on his own air supply. “What? Not a chance!”

  I might’ve had mommy issues, but Grayson was totally OCD. And when it came to driving his RV?

  Total. Bloody. Control. Freak.

  “Why not?” I argued. “We’re traveling backroads. Come on. Let me drive. That way, you can ... you can work on your computer.”

  I watched Grayson mull it over as he stared at my pizza. I knew his hesitation. It wasn’t because the ratty old RV itself was worth much. The outside of the 1967 Winnebago looked like a traveling algae farm that had somehow survived a Cat 4 hurricane.

  No. His concern was about what was on the inside.

  Grayson had spent lord-knows-how-much money converting the RV’s small bedroom into an electromagnetic monster trap, complete with steel walls, caged windows, and eight massive deadbolts on the door. He’d also crammed the cabinets in the Minnie Winnie with all kinds of spy equipment and secret potions and stuff. To Grayson, that junk was probably irreplaceable. Not to mention, the hoarder had stashed stacks of cash behind the paneling in the walls.

  I smiled and chewed my pizza patiently. For once, I had the upper hand on Grayson. I met his mesmerizing green eyes with calm, serene clarity.

  Grayson, you’re obsessive-compulsive, a control freak, and a hoarder.

  The thought made me stop chewing.

  Huh. That makes three things. According to Grayson’s own logic, that means the random probability that he isn’t a neurotic whack-job is officially zero.

  I studied Grayson as he considered taking another bite of anchovy pizza. The cheese hanging off his moustache wasn’t helping his case regarding my whack-job theory.

  I took a sip of Dr Pepper and smirked. “I have a valid Florida driver’s license, in case you’re wondering.”

  Grayson crinkled his nose. “I know.”

  “Then what’s the problem? Just let me drive your crappy old RV, already.”

  He shook his head. “No can do.”

  “What’s it gonna take?” I asked, reaching for another slice of pepperoni pizza.

  “Three slices,” he said.

  I jerked my hand back. That was the rest of my half of the pizza.

  What do I care? I won!

  “Done!” I said.

  Grayson flinched. “And you have to call me Mr. Gray.”

  One side of my mouth hooked skyward. “Like one of your nerdy operatives? No way.”

  “Yes, way. For a week.”

  I sneered. “One day.”

  He frowned. “Five days.”

  “Once,” I said. “Final offer.”

  Grayson smiled in a way that made me feel as if I’d somehow managed to come out on the short end of this wager.

  “Okay, then. Let’s hear it,” he said, and reached for a slice. “Call me Mr. Gray.”

  THE RV’S TRANSMISSION crunched like a handful of nails thrown into a garbage disposal.

  I winced. Like an idiot, I’d turned the key in the ignition after the motor was already running.

  I glanced over at Grayson. He was grimacing as if he’d been shot in the heart.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Stop hovering! You’re making me nervous!”

  I shifted into reverse, and slowly, carefully, inch by inch, backed the hulking old RV out of the parking space and into a lamp post.

  Grayson closed his eyes and groaned.

  “It was just a light tap,” I said, trying to believe it myself. “I’ve never driven a rig this big before.”

  Grayson let out a painful-sounding sigh. “It’s only twenty-four feet long, Drex.”

  “I’m used to driving the Mustang,” I said. “This thing’s got no visibility.”

  Grayson closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I guess you have to start somewhere. But have mercy on me and the poor girl.” He thumped a fist on his chest. “Any more screw-ups and I’m gonna refund your pizza.”

  I bit my lip, then carefully steered the RV out of Sargent Pizza’s parking lot. I took a right, heading east on CR54.

  “Geez,” Grayson said. “I thought you said you knew how to drive. We need to go west. You should’ve turned left.”

  I kept my eyes on the road. “I know. I just want to make one quick detour. For supplies.”

  Grayson’s right eyebrow flat-lined. “Twenty feet down the road and already I’m regretting this, big-time.”

  “Relax, Mr. OCD. I’ve got this.”

  Grayson’s brow furrowed. “I don’t have obsessive-compulsive disorder.”

  Rich, coming from a man who folds his Tootsie-Pop wrappers before putting them in the trash.

  “Who said anything about obsessive-compulsive disorder?” I lied. “OCD stands for Officer, Commander and Detective.”

  Grayson’s lips twisted to one side. “Sure it does. What kind of fool do you take me for?”

  I gave him a sweet smile.

  With that moustache? How about Borat?

  Chapter Five

  “SEE? THAT WASN’T SO bad,” I said to Grayson as we hauled our shopping bags out of the Walmart supercenter on Gall Boulevard. Given the hordes milling about the place, I surmised we’d stumbled upon the cultural epicenter of Zephyrhills.

  Grayson munched a handful of Cheetos he’d plucked from a bag as big as his torso. “Pardon me, lady. Do I know you?”

  “You wish.” I laughed and tousled the brand-new wig atop my head—an auburn, shoulder-length bob.

  The burgundy-hued polyester flop-top wasn’t the finest wig in the world, but compared to a ball cap or being bald, it made me feel like Sophia Loren. And, given my track record, there wasn’t any point in sinking too much money into a quality hairpiece, anyway. The first two hadn’t survived much more than a day each, thanks to Grayson’s penchant for “unconventional fieldwork.”

  My first wig had been snarled into a sticky, duct-taped r
at’s nest during a scheme to entrap Mothman with the womanly wiles of seduction. The second one had been blown to bits by a stoned doomsday prepper sporting a kewl set of grillz.

  As I strutted along in the Walmart lot, I hoped this third wig would stick around awhile—at least long enough for me to outgrow looking like a stunt double for G.I. Jane.

  “You know, that hairstyle really does suit you,” Grayson said. He took my hand and pirouetted me around in the middle of the asphalt parking lot.

  As I spun, I felt it again. That odd, electric buzz I got in my gut every time Grayson touched me.

  Unnerved, I broke free of his grasp.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Appearances are important. That’s why you should lose that cheesy moustache, Grayson. You look like you got lost in Kazakhstan on your way to meet The Village People.”

  “Ouch.” Grayson winced and pressed a hand over his heart as if he’d just taken a bullet. “So much for unconditional love.”

  “You’re such a jerk,” I said, pretending to laugh off his comment.

  But it wasn’t all that funny. In my heart the strange bedfellows of elation and terror were taking turns short-sheeting each other.

  I couldn’t decide which scared me worse—Grayson’s electric touch, or the fact he seemed utterly content to throw away his life chasing imaginary monsters.

  But then again, maybe that’s what we all do ....

  I yanked the RV’s passenger door open. “Get in, Groucho,” I quipped. “I’m taking you to Elfers.”

  One of Grayson’s bushy eyebrows rose a notch. “Elfers?”

  “Yes.” I rattled one of my shopping bags. “And if you’re a good boy, I’ll even give you a green Tootsie Pop for the ride.”

  WHILE I DROVE WEST on CR 54, Grayson disappeared into the back of the RV with his Walmart purchases. One of them was a pouch of live mealy worms for Gizzard, the pet lizard he kept in a terrarium on the banquette table. We were just outside Zephyrhills when he came climbing back into the cab.