Moth Busters, Dr. Prepper, Oral Robbers: Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures 1, 2 & 3

by Margaret Lashley

  I took a step closer and curled my fingers around the back of the chair opposite Paulson. “Of course, being new in town, you wouldn’t know this, Detective Paulson. But old lady Vanderhoff’s been Point Paradise’s resident crazy cat lady since as long as I can remember. She’s a rite of passage for kids around here.” I smiled coyly. “In fact, you’re nothing but a dork until you’ve mustered up the courage to ring her doorbell and run.”

  “You don’t say.” Paulson grinned. “So, did you?”

  “Sure. When I was six. On Halloween. She came to the door wearing a green monster mask. Made me drop a load in my pedal pushers—along with my pillowcase full of candy.”

  Yes. That’s the way to talk sexy to a man, Bobbie. No wonder you haven’t had a date since Blanders ....

  “But that’s ancient history,” I added hastily.

  Paulson’s left eyebrow arched. “Let’s hope so.”

  I glanced down at my frayed coveralls. My cheeks burned. I wanted to crawl under a rock and drag brush up to its edge to cover up any trace of my ever having existed. But that wasn’t an option. So, instead, I slapped on an expression of casual interest, toed my father’s scruffy right boot, and asked, “What does the report say?”

  “According to Vanderhoff, someone keeps calling her home phone. They say weird things and hang up.”

  I shifted onto my other foot. “Well, like I said, it’s probably the neighborhood kids earning their stripes. In case you haven’t noticed, they do everything on the phone nowadays.”

  Paulson shot me a salacious smile, then leaned over and removed a file from his briefcase. He opened it and read aloud from the pages within. “Vanderhoff says, and I quote, ‘When I pick up the phone, I hear beep-beep-beep, and a robot tells me to do naughty things.’”

  I bit my bottom lip. “Huh. Okay. That’s weird. Even for Vanderhoff.”

  Paulson shot me a boyish grin. “I know, right? I mean, who uses a landline anymore?”

  That one earned him half a genuine smile. “When did she start getting the calls?”

  Paulson’s blue eyes shifted back to the report. “Ever since she came back from Beth-Ann’s Beauty Parlor a week ago last Wednesday, apparently.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “That’s what Jack’s report says.” Paulson tossed the file onto the table in front of him. It spun half a circle and came to rest with a corner hanging off the edge. “Read it yourself.”

  “Why? What’s it got to do with me?”

  Paulson’s grin faded. “Well, I thought about what you told me last week. Are you still interested in becoming a private investigator?” He glanced up at the bandage on my forehead. “I mean, after this mall cop incident?”

  My gut flopped. I’d never been less sure of something in my entire life. But if I didn’t become a P.I., how else was I ever going to escape Point Paradise and motor oil under my nails—not to mention Earl’s farty Frito breath?

  “Yeah. I’m sure,” I said, and rolled my eyes up toward my forehead. “This little thing? Nothing but a flesh wound.”

  Paulson shook his head. “Mall cop.” He tapped a finger on the report. “I can’t believe they made you risk your life for ten bucks an hour.”

  “That’s why I took that P.I. training course on line. To get licensed as a Class CC Intern.” I hung my head. “Problem is, I need two years of on-the-job training to get my real investigator’s license.” I looked up and smiled wryly. “Then I’ll be eligible to die with the dignity of knowing I was making twenty-four bucks an hour.”

  Paulson grinned. “I take it you finished the course?”

  “They tell me the diploma’s in the mail.”

  He whistled. “Wow. You can get a certificate for anything over the internet nowadays.”

  “Thanks,” I said sourly. “So, did you just call me in here to bust my chops or what?”

  Paulson winked. “If I did, is that a crime?”

  Considering how broke I am? Yes. I wasted at least a buck fifty in gas to get here. You could’ve asked me about the diploma over the phone.

  “I guess not,” I said, and turned to go.

  Paulson’s voice sounded behind me.

  “Wait, Bobbie. You need work.”

  I froze in place. What I really needed was cash. But the word “work” was close enough. I turned back around. Paulson’s face wasn’t exactly serious, but it wasn’t mocking, either.

  “I’m listening,” I said.

  Paulson stood. I couldn’t help but do a mental inventory.

  Tall? Check. Dark? Check. Handsome? Double check.

  “You still with me?” he asked.

  My eyes traveled from Paulson’s manly frame to his piercing blue eyes. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Because when I came across this file, I immediately thought of you. I mean, what better practice for a newly licensed CC intern?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can take on the case of the Crazy Cat lady. A CC for a CC. Get it?”

  “Ugh,” I groaned. “I get it. What’s it pay?”

  Paulson winced and made a sucking sound out of the side of his sexy mouth. “Officially? Nothing. It’ll be practice. Like an apprenticeship, of sorts.”

  My interest disappeared along with my smile. “No thanks.”

  “Listen, I can’t pay you on the books. But how about a wager?”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You solve Vanderhoff’s problem, and I’ll give you twenty bucks out of my own pocket.”

  Given the current state of my financial affairs, his offer was disconcertingly appealing. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because, with Jack on vacation, I’m busy with bigger fish to fry than an old lady who sat too long under a hairdryer.” He flashed his charming smile. “Come on. Help me out with Vanderhoff.”

  I stared into his mesmerizing blue eyes until one of them winked.

  “It’ll be fun, Bobbie,” Paulson coaxed. “You can be my new ‘low man on the totem pole,’ so to speak.”

  Great. Now even Paulson doesn’t see me as female. My work here in Point Paradise is complete.

  “How could I refuse an offer like that?” I said sourly, and reached for the file.

  Paulson yanked it away.

  “I’m not done,” he said and grinned seductively. “I said it was a wager. If you don’t solve the case, you owe me something.”

  “What?”

  “Dinner.”

  Huh. Maybe this wasn’t just a pity call after all.

  I should’ve been happy about that. But my gut fired off a warning knot.

  Don’t get involved with Paulson.

  The guy’s charming, sky-blue eyes were like a window into my soul. If history repeated itself, the view from that window would be the last thing I’d see before I jumped through it and splattered my guts all over the sidewalk, right next to my broken heart.

  Geez. When did I get to be such a romantic?

  “Fine.” I grabbed the file. Paulson hadn’t specified what kind of dinner I’d owe him if I didn’t solve the case. As far as I knew, a McHappy Meal still cost way less than twenty bucks.

  So it was a wager I couldn’t lose. At least, not financially.

  “I’ll solve it. You’ll see,” I said, and turned to go. I attempted a dramatic exit, but tripped on my oversized work boots and fell to one knee, right next to a trashcan.

  Awesome.

  I put a hand on the rim, hauled myself up, and willed myself not to look back.

  Then I stomped out the door of Dana’s Café, cursing the dead man who’d left me to fill his stupid shoes.

  Chapter Eight

  IT WAS A FEW MINUTES after four o’clock when I left Detective Paulson in Dana’s Café and headed back toward Point Paradise. From Waldo, Robert’s Mechanics was ten miles away, down rural backroads habituated mostly by hunters, lost tourists, and the flattened carcasses of animals with poor depth perception.

  Being stuck in Point Paradise a
mongst the forgotten Florida backwoods of sawgrass and pines, to me Paulson’s arrival had been the most interesting thing to happen since Earl found a two-headed turtle out in Wimbly Swamp last year.

  The image of Paulson’s handsome face coaxed a smile from my sullen lips as I drove south on Obsidian Road. In a better mood than I’d been in ages, I slowed down as I approached the Stop & Shoppe drive-thru. I thought about buzzing through just to give Artie something to bitch about, but decided against it.

  I was working a case now. I needed to act like a professional.

  Vanderhoff’s house was a few blocks behind the Stop & Shoppe. It was one of a tiny cluster of modest ranch houses built in the 1950s, back when people were still gullible enough to buy swampland, and Point Paradise was still gullible enough to think it had a future. The developer had dubbed the place Cherry Manor.

  Cherry Manor. Yeah, right.

  No cherry trees grew in Florida, and there were certainly no manors within thirty miles of Point Paradise. In fact, I was pretty sure that, except for the size of the oak trees growing in the front yards, nothing had changed in Cherry Manor since the post WWII boon that had sparked its construction in the first place.

  The Mustang’s engine coughed when I switched off the ignition in front of Vanderhoff’s house. From the sound of it, I needed a new air filter. I made a mental note of it. But right now, the granny who’d gone goofy was top on my priority list.

  I climbed out of the car and walked up the plain concrete sidewalk leading to the plain concrete porch of her plain concrete-block house.

  I rang the bell.

  A lumpy green face appeared in the small window in the front door. It was the same grotesque mask that had caught me off guard that fateful Halloween three decades ago. This time, however, I didn’t crap my coveralls.

  Given the overall state of my life at the moment, I decided to count that as a win.

  I waved to Vanderhoff.

  She opened the door.

  Dressed in a red turban and a faded muumuu, she looked like the love child of a ménage á trois between Zoltar, the Grinch, and any random backwoods redneck me-maw.

  “Is that you, Mrs. Vanderhoff?” I knew it was, but I was working an official case now, and wanted to follow P.I. protocol: Always establish the identity of individuals before questioning them.

  Vanderhoff’s features shifted indistinguishably underneath the yellowish-green glop on her face. “What are you doing here, Bobbie? My car ain’t broke down.”

  “No, Mrs. Vanderhoff. I’m here helping out Detective Paulson.”

  She eyed the yard behind me. “Where’s Jack Barker?”

  “Vacation.”

  “Oh yeah. How’s he doing?”

  “Fine. Can I come in?”

  “Why?”

  “Just want to ask you a few questions. About those phone calls you’ve been getting.”

  “Oh. Sure. Come on in. Let me wash my face.”

  She ushered me into her living room and motioned me toward a faded, flower-print couch. I sat down and glanced around. Despite being her neighbor for decades, I’d never actually been inside her house before.

  I hadn’t had the nerve.

  After all, her house was Point Paradise’s equivalent of The Munsters’ place. I laughed to myself.

  What had I been afraid of back when I was a kid? The old lady’s harmless.

  Then I stopped laughing.

  Across the room, an ancient porcelain doll in a tattered lace dress stared at me. From her perch atop a wingback chair, she looked like a miniature corpse pissed off about being jerked out of her coffin.

  I swallowed hard and glanced to my left. In a dark corner sat a curio cabinet stuffed with more dolls. Each of them glared at me from their overcrowded, glass prison.

  A jolt of cold electricity shot down my back.

  Geez! Are these like ... voodoo dolls? Is this how Vanderhoff gets her revenge on the kids who bother her? Oh my lord ... has she got one of ... me?

  “So what do you want to know?” Vanderhoff asked, startling me so badly I shot up off the couch.

  “Uh ... questions ....” I fumbled for words as I waited for the crawling sensation beneath my red wig to subside. “I hear you ... uh ... you told Jack you’ve been getting weird phone calls.”

  I studied Vanderhoff’s face and decided she’d looked better with the avocado mask.

  She sucked her teeth. “Yeah, they’re weird, all right.”

  Suddenly, she jabbed a hand in the pocket of her faded muumuu. In P.I. mode, I braced myself in the event evasive action would be required. The old lady was crazy. For all I knew, she could’ve been packing a Colt 45—and I didn’t mean malt liquor.

  Her hand emerged holding a TV remote. An odd mixture of relief and disappointment echoed through my gut.

  “Bobbie, you remember that show, The Jetsons?”

  “Yeah.” I straightened my slouching shoulders and shook off the willies. “I mean, yes, ma’am.” I pulled a notepad and pencil from my purse to record the account.

  “Well, the guy who keeps calling me sounds like that robot, Rosie. Only if she was a man, you know what I mean?”

  Not really.

  “Sure, Mrs. Vanderhoff. What did the robot say, exactly?”

  The old lady leaned in closer to divulge her confidential information.

  “Beep-beep-beep,” she whispered into my face.

  My fingers relaxed around my pencil. I waved away the cloud of stale smoker’s breath that came along with her confession and said, “I see. Did you say anything back?”

  Vanderhoff shook her turbaned head. “Well, no. I hung up on him. I mean, who knows what ‘beep’ means in robot language? He could’ve been making an obscene phone call for all I know.”

  Right. Robocop’s taken up a new career making perverted robo-calls. Case solved.

  I bit my lip and tried to appear professional. I figured maybe flattery would loosen up the witness. “Yes. Well, that’s certainly one interpretation, Mrs. Vanderhoff. And, might I say, you took a very smart approach, hanging up on him.”

  The old woman smiled, causing her dentures to slip. “Thanks, Bobbie.”

  “So, how many times did Robo ... I mean, the robot call?”

  “Three or four times. I wasn’t gonna bother the police, Bobbie. But when he told me to commit a crime, that’s when I called Jack.”

  “A crime?”

  “Yep. After he quit all that dad-blamed beeping business, that deviant demanded I get over to the A&P and steal six bananas.”

  Something inside me went slack. It might’ve been my will to live. “Well, that’s quite specific. And ... did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Steal the bananas.”

  Vanderhoff’s eyes doubled in size. “No way! I’m not a dad-burned thief!”

  “Of course not.” I dialed my tone to conciliatory. “I’m sorry. Tell me, why do you think the robot called you, Mrs. Vanderhoff?”

  She scratched her head with a yellowed fingernail. “I don’t know. Maybe he thought I was easy. There ain’t a lot of eligible bachelorettes here in Point Paradise, as you well know.”

  Okaaaay ....

  I doodled a cross-eyed lunatic in my notebook. “Is there anything else you can remember that I should know?”

  Vanderhoff studied me for a moment. “Yes. For the record, I think it was pretty low what that scoundrel, Carl Blanders done to you, honey.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Vanderhoff.”

  “I mean, dumping you for Candy Vincent after all them years. It ain’t right. After all, you still got some of your looks left.”

  I eyed her sourly. “Thanks.”

  “Candy Vincent’s a tramp, if you ask me,” Vanderhoff rambled on. “Who names a kid Candy and expects her to be anything but a tramp? Am I right?”

  “Yes. You’re right. Thanks. And I’m sorry about what’s happened to your niece Mandy.”

  The old woman winced. “You know, that new haircut of yours
kind of reminds me of her.”

  Really? Poor Mandy.

  Vanderhoff sighed and reached into the other pocket of her muumuu. My back stiffened. What would she pull out this time? A butcher knife? A doll head? A tub of guacamole?

  Before I could grab her arm to stop her, Vanderhoff pulled out a fist and thrust it at my face. I flinched. When I opened my eyes, she unfurled her gnarled fingers to reveal a handful of green pills.

  “You want a Paxil, honey?” she asked. “It helps. And you sure look like you could use one. I heard you got shot, but your skull was too thick for it to do any real damage.”

  My jaw clamped tight enough to straighten bent metal.

  I have got to get the hell out of this stupid town!

  “No thanks, Mrs. Vanderhoff. I have to go. But here, let me give you my number in case this robot guy calls again, or if you think of anything else that might be relevant.”

  I handed her one of my cards. Besides the online course and the fee for the state exam, a set of cheap business cards was the only investment I’d made in my budding P.I. career. I didn’t even have a gun. Nobody I knew offered a lay-a-way program for a Glock, and slingshots were so third century.

  Vanderhoff took the card. “Okay, Bobbie. I’ll stick it on the fridge with one of the magnets Mandy sent me.”

  “Good plan.” As I turned to leave, my footstep caused an oak floorboard in her living room to squeak.

  Vanderhoff grabbed my arm. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “The floor. It just said my name. Mil-dred. Mil-dred. Didn’t you hear it?”

  I shot Vanderhoff the kind of hope-against-hope smile people in movies offer serial killers on the off chance it’ll persuade them not to chop them into cat food. I modeled it after the doomed smile I’d seen on the faces of all of those dead-eyed dolls camping out in her living room.

  “Yes, I heard it,” I said. “Mil-dred. Plain as day. You have a good night, now, Mrs. Vanderhoff.”

  I hurried out the front door, slamming it behind me. When I stepped off the porch and glanced back, Vanderhoff’s turban-topped face was staring at me through that small windowpane in the door like Norman Bates in Arabian Nights.