My mouth fell open. I’d just heard my own voice—but I hadn’t uttered a word. I scooted my wheelchair up toward the front of the RV.
“What’s going on up there?” I asked.
No one answered.
Confined to my role as a wheelchair-bound vet, I’d been relegated to the back of the RV. I’d rolled the wheelchair up to the narrow passage leading to the front cab, but it was too wide to fit through.
I banged the wheels against the walls a few times, then I remembered that I could walk. I got up out of the wheelchair and poked my head into the driver’s cab. Grayson was driving. Earl was in the passenger seat, fiddling with Grayson’s laptop.
“Hey, Bobbie!” Earl said. He grinned at me and started dancing a jig with his upper torso, working the black spy pen like a majorette’s baton. “Waahoo! It worked!”
“What worked?” I grumbled.
“This here spy pen! Looky here!”
Earl pushed a couple of keys on Grayson’s laptop. A video of me came on the screen.
I flinched. I recognized the booth at Johnny Grits, but not the close-up shot of the face on the screen. Whoever it was looked like Lucille Ball trapped in a lice-infested internment camp.
My mouth fell open as I watched my face filled the screen like a hostage selfie. Then my video image said, “Melvin was dancing around in a diaper. Then he tried to suck my toes.”
Earl had struck blackmail gold.
“Ha Ha! Got you good, Bobbie!” my cousin said, twirling the spy pen between his huge fingers. “Boy howdy, I want me one of these babies!”
I snatched the pen away from him. “Grayson’s got a whole case full of ’em. If he gives you one, will you go away?” I glared over at Grayson. His eyes were on the road, but his cheek was dimpled.
Jerk!
“Well now, that ain’t very charitable of you,” Earl said, “seeing as how I come all this way to help you out.”
“You came to see Reverend Reflux,” I said.
“Bertie and the BERPS,” Earl corrected haughtily.
“Whatever!”
“I’m pulling over to get gas,” Grayson said. “Drex, go sit on the couch and take your shoes off.”
“Yeah. Cool your heels,” Earl said. “Good idea, Mr. G.”
“What?” I hissed.
“I’m not taking sides,” Grayson said. “Actually, Earl just reminded me that I forgot to swab your toes.”
“It was just a dream,” I said.
Grayson maneuvered the RV onto an exit ramp. “You never know. The khakua is a tricky demon.”
“That’s right,” Earl said. “Why you think they sell so much Ex-Lax?”
Something inside me gave up. I surrendered, blew out a huge sigh, and went back and flopped onto the couch.
GRAYSON FINISHED SWABBING my toes, then dropped the Q-tip into a vial. “If it tests positive for saliva, I’m going to need samples to compare it with,” he said as I inched my feet back into my cheap, black, nursing-home issue slippers. “Next time you’re in the cafeteria, I want you to swab the cups and glasses. I’ll also need samples from the staff.”
I shot Grayson a look. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you play gramps tonight and swab people yourself?”
He grinned. “I would, but Gable would recognize me.”
I grinned back. “It’s Saturday. She doesn’t work weekends.”
“Hmm.” Grayson chewed his bottom lip. “That gives me an idea.”
I groaned. Not another one.
“Let’s all go to the plasma center. See if we can spot Balls.”
“Pardon me, Mr. G,” Earl said, chewing his lip. “But ain’t that illegal?”
My eyes rolled involuntarily. “Balls is the name of the guy who was supposed to be spying for us last night.”
“Oh,” Earl said. “How would we spot him?”
I deferred to Grayson.
He looked to his left and said, “Well, for one thing, the guy’s especially well-endowed.”
“WHY DID THIS BALLS feller run away in the first place?” Earl asked as we drove toward the plasma center after the gas-up and swab-down.
Because he has even more brains than he’s got balls.
“Some people just can’t be caged,” Grayson waxed philosophically.
“Ain’t that illegal?” Earl asked.
I closed my eyes and laid back on the couch.
Apparently, I’ve died and am now in some kind of psychotic purgatory. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.
“Here we are,” Grayson said, pulling up to the curb. He slammed on the brakes. I nearly fell off the sofa.
“There he is!” Grayson yelled.
“Balls?” I called back.
“Yes,” Grayson said. “I’d know those Smurf underpants anywhere!”
Yep. Psychotic purgatory it is.
“He’s taking off,” Grayson said, bursting into the main cabin. “Let’s go. We’ve got to catch him!”
“Sorry,” I said, lying back on the couch. “I can’t run in these stupid nursing home slippers.”
Grayson eyed the black, plastic shoes. “Okay, Earl. It looks like it’s you and me, bud.”
Earl nodded. “You can count on me, Mr. G.”
The two scrambled out the side door. As it slammed behind them, I laid back on the couch and smirked.
Two boobs against four balls.
May the odds be ever in my favor.
Chapter Thirty
I WAS UP IN THE FRONT cab, contemplating stealing the RV and never looking back, when I spied Earl and Grayson stumbling around the corner of the plasma center. Each was holding tight to the arm of some naked guy who was squirming like a dog about to get dunked in a vat of flea dip.
I leaned closer to the windshield for a better look. The guy wasn’t naked. He had on Smurf underwear. As my eyes moved upward to scan his face, I realized it wasn’t Balls. I poked my head out window.
“Let him go,” I yelled. “That’s not Balls.”
“You sure?” Earl hollered. “How can you tell?”
I blew out a sigh, hoping to erase the image of Papa Smurf seared into my brain. “Believe me. A woman knows these things.”
“I know he’s not Balls,” Grayson said, wrestling with the guy’s arm like it was a python. “But he’s got on his underwear. I detained him for questioning, and I need you to take down his testimony.”
Lucky me.
“I demand that you unhand me at once,” the man said. For being dressed solely in boy-sized Smurf underpants, the guy managed to pull off a fairly dignified huff.
“Where’d you get the Underoos?” Grayson asked.
The man bucked like an angry burro. “I found them by the trash cans over there.”
“He was carrying this,” Grayson said, and handed me Balls’ pink unicorn wallet.
Crap! Where’s the Purell?
“Where’d you get the wallet?” I asked, holding it between the pinch of my thumb and forefinger.
He shrugged and shot me a sullen stare. “Came with the underpants.”
I grimaced, totally jonesing for some industrial-strength sanitizer. “What happened to the rest of your clothes?”
The guy stopped squirming. “Look, I didn’t know she was a cop, okay?”
“Who?” I asked.
“Right,” he said sourly. “Just read me my Mirandas and get it over with.”
A speck of his spittle landed on my forearm. I wanted to jump into a vat of bleach. “Look, perv, we’re not after you. We’re after the guy who was wearing those Smurfs before you. Do you know him?”
“No.”
“Did you see him drop them?”
His nose crinkled. “No way. I don’t swing that way.”
“Well, did you—”
“You ask a lot of questions for a man with boobs,” he said, shooting me a cocky stare.
My neck muscles tightened. I held up the spy pen I’d swiped back from Earl. “Look. You didn’t happen to see a pen like t
his one, did you?”
“Well, yeah,” he said.
I nearly fell over. “Uh ... okay. Hand it over.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Why not?” Grayson asked.
The guy shrugged. “I didn’t want it.”
Earl gulped like an unclogging drain. “You didn’t want it?”
The guy scowled. “What for? It’s not like I need to write a rent check to Rockefeller.” He nodded his greasy head to the left. “It’s over there. By the garbage cans.”
Earl let go of the guy’s arm and sprinted toward the trash bins.
“Where is everybody?” Grayson asked captain underpants. “The plasma center’s usually swarming with people.”
He shrugged. “Down at the revival, I guess. Some guy came up in a van and announced they had free food over there. I was nearly trampled in the stampede.”
“BERPS?” I asked.
“Sorry,” he said. “Mushrooms always give me gas.”
“Found it!” Earl hollered from behind me.
Grayson and I turned to look. Captain underpants seized the opportunity to escape. He jerked free of Grayson’s grasp and ran for it.
“Dang! Should I chase him down?” Earl hollered.
“No. Let him go,” Grayson said. He took the pen from Earl and slapped him on the back. “Good job.”
“Huh,” Grayson said, studying the spy pen.
“What?” I asked.
“It appears to have been activated. It could contain valuable information.”
I sneered. “Or E.coli.”
Grayson stuck the pen in his shirt pocket. “I think this calls for a celebration, team! How about some topless tacos?”
Earl looked at him sideways. “Sorry, Mr. G. But ain’t that illegal?”
Chapter Thirty-One
WHILE EARL AND I MUNCHED on topless tacos, Grayson pulled Balls’ spy pen in half, revealing the USB stick hidden inside. He stuck it into a port on his laptop and, after wiping his fingers with a wet-nap, grabbed a tortilla chip, crammed it into his mouth, and punched a few keys.
The computer screen blinked to life. “Showtime,” Grayson said, wagging his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.
Earl and I scooted our chairs around the table for a better view of the video. But we needn’t have. The audio crackled with static, and the video remained totally black.
“Maybe he was wearing an eye mask,” Earl said.
Grayson and I exchanged glances, then looked back at the screen. “The pen must’ve been inside Balls’ pocket,” Grayson said.
“I hope it was his pocket,” I said, then took another bite of taco before I lost my appetite.
“Come on, I’ll give you a dollar for it,” Balls’ voice suddenly emanated from the laptop speakers.
I paused mid-bite. We all leaned closer to the screen.
“You ain’t got no dollar,” a woman’s voice said.
“Do, too.”
Grayson paused the video and whispered, “I bet that’s the dollar I gave Balls for eating a dead fly.”
Earl’s nose crinkled. “Ain’t that illeg—”
I slapped my hand over Earl’s mouth. “Shhh!”
Grayson tapped a button to resume the video, which continued on in pitch blackness.
“See here?” Balls’ voice asked.
“Huh. Where’d you get the condom?” the woman asked.
“Came with the wallet.”
“All right. Have a swig.”
A glug-glug sound—like a bottle being poured down a drain—emanated from the speaker.
“Hey! That’s more than a swig!” the woman screeched.
Balls grunted, then the sound of him panting hard and heavy filled the speakers.
“Gross. What’s he doing now?” I asked, not wanting to know.
“Running, I think,” Grayson said.
“Ungh! Ow!” Balls grunted.
“That would be him falling down,” Grayson said.
“No!” Balls screamed.
Suddenly, a video image blinked onto the screen. It was a side view of one of Balls’ checkered tennis shoes, his foot still in it.
“He must’ve dropped the pen,” Grayson whispered.
“Or it fell out of his pants,” Earl said.
A weird, helicopter-like whooshing sound overtook the audio. Leaves and garbage lifted up and began swirling around Balls’ feet. A strange, purple glow shone on the white squares of his tennis shoes.
“This is your last chance,” an unearthly voice said in a strange accent.
“Romanian?” Grayson asked.
“No thanks,” Earl said.
Suddenly, Balls’ checkered sneaker pivoted on its heel. He was turning, possibly to flee. The pen must’ve rolled slightly, as a brief image of Balls’ terrified face flashed onto the screen. Then everything blinked out to black. Both the video and audio cut out.
“Crap,” Grayson said. “He must’ve stepped on the pen and turned it off.”
I glanced over at my cousin. His eyes were the size of globe grapes.
“What just happened?” Earl whispered. “Did outer space critters get Balls?”
“Inconclusive,” Grayson said. He sat back in his chair and rubbed his chin. “Stanley mentioned that Old Mildred emitted a purple glow. He also said he saw a strange purple light outside the nursing home the night Charlie Perkins disappeared.”
“And now, here the lights are again,” I said.
Earl grabbed my arm. “You think it could be an attack of the Purple People Eaters?”
I jerked my arm free. “Get serious!”
“What?” Earl balked. “They’re real, Bobbie. They made a song about ’em and everything.”
I looked to Grayson for support. To my surprise, he appeared to be mulling the idea over.
Great.
I shot him a dirty look.
“What?” Grayson asked. “Many folk legends and ballads are based on real events.”
Earl smirked. “Told ya so, Cuz.”
I lifted my butt cheeks one at a time and sat on my hands. It was the only way I could stop myself from slapping someone.
Chapter Thirty-Two
GRAYSON WAS DEEP IN thought as he drove us back to Banner Hill. I was in the passenger seat beside him, fake disability be damned. I’d called shotgun right before we left Topless Tacos, and now Earl was in the back cabin, trying his best to pop a wheelie in my wheelchair without landing on his fat head.
I tapped Grayson on the shoulder. “What else could cause a purple glow?” I half-whispered, hoping Earl wouldn’t overhear.
“Ionizing radiation, for one,” Grayson said.
I flinched. “Radiation?”
Grayson nodded. “Radium, in particular. Sufficient quantities of radioactive radium or polonium can create an eerie purple glow, if the conditions are right.”
“What kind of conditions are necessary?”
“Well, being at sea level, for one.”
“Okay. We’ve got that one covered. What else?”
“A critical accident in a particle accelerator.”
My gut slumped. “You mean like a nuclear meltdown?”
“Precisely.”
I ground my teeth in frustration. Still, an atomic explosion seemed more plausible than Purple People Eaters. “Crystal River nuclear plant is only fifty miles from here.”
“Hmm.” Grayson shifted his eyes from the road toward me. “Any reports of recent mushroom cloud activity in the area?”
I returned his stare, dead on. “No. I think we’d have heard something about it on the radio or something.”
“Humph. Too bad.” Grayson turned back to face the road. “That would’ve explained the sudden wind gust quite nicely.”
We drove along US 19 for a few minutes in silence, taking in the sights of the city—mainly factory-outlet carpet stores and used automobile sales lots.
“Wait,” Grayson said. “There is another possibility.”
I tore my eyes from a late-
model Buick with a windshield sticker marked down to $649.99. “What?”
Grayson hesitated. “Nah. You’ll think it’s silly.”
I glanced back at Earl sitting in my wheelchair making gorilla faces into a hand mirror. “Try me.”
“Well, certain types of mushrooms glow with purple bioluminescence.”
I smirked. “Before or after you eat them?”
Grayson’s cheek dimpled. “Take the order Agaricales. It’s indigenous to temperate and tropical climates, and includes over seventy-five species of bioluminescent fungi.”
“What are y’all talkin’ about?” Earl asked, poking his shaggy skunk-ape head into the cab.
“Bioluminescent fruit bodies,” Grayson said. “And their cousins, incandescent mycelium.”
“Huh?” Earl said.
I blew out a sigh. “Glowing mushrooms.”
“Y’all think purple toadstools got old Mr. Balls?” Earl asked. “That’s crazy.”
I nearly gasped. For once, I was in total agreement with my cousin. I shot Grayson a smug glance and folded my arms over my chest.
“Get real,” Earl said. “Ever’body knows toadstools wouldn’t hurt nobody.”
“Why not?” Grayson asked.
Earl snickered. “’Cause they’re fun-guys. Get it?”
And there goes that brief alliance.
I whacked Earl on the arm. “Get back in the wheelchair or you’re gonna need that thing for real.”
“Party pooper,” he grumbled, then disappeared along with his taco breath.
I looked back at the road. Grayson was exiting the highway too soon. “Grayson, Banner Hill is the next exit.”
“I know.” He smiled and shifted gears. “Just thought we’d do one little stop on the way.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“AWE, GEEZ. NOT THIS place,” I groused when I caught sight of the huge circus tent.
The monstrous pyramid of fabric was set up in one of those vacant lots used to sell pumpkins during Halloween and fireworks in July. Currently, it was mid-November and they were selling salvation—at least until the Christmas trees arrived.
“I couldn’t help myself,” Grayson said, pulling up to the massive, white tent. “I felt something stirring in my soul.”
Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Box Set Page 54