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

by Margaret Lashley

  I rifled through his stuff.

  It didn’t take long. The wallet was nearly empty except for a few credit cards with the name Nick Grayson. Had he stolen another man’s wallet? Inside the billfold were five hundred-dollar bills so crisp and new they looked like Monopoly money.

  I unsnapped the flap to a pocket in the wallet. It fell open to reveal a tin-colored badge that could’ve come from a Cracker Jack box. The words Private Investigator ran along the top edge of a circle in the badge’s center. Inside the circle was a strange emblem made of three triangles, kind of like a 3-D Star of David.

  I re-snapped the flap, folded the wallet, and carefully placed it back in the same exact spot by the jeans on the bed.

  When I turned around, a naked man was staring at me.

  “Do you usually pilfer through your guests’ belongings?”

  Knickerbocker’s voice was strangely devoid of any distinguishable tone. Or maybe I was too distracted by his other assets to notice. He was stark naked.

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  “Who are you?” he volleyed.

  Something indiscernible flickered across his green eyes, then they hardened to what appeared to be quiet resolve. He took the towel he was drying his head with and wrapped it high around his waist. I got the feeling he was keener to cover his twin navels than his privates. He glanced to his left, licked his bottom lip, and took a step toward me.

  I stumbled backward and fumbled for the Glock in my pocket. I yanked it out and pointed the gun at him. “Tell me who you are. Now.”

  He considered me thoughtfully. “Who do you think I am?”

  “You said you’re William Knickerbocker. But there’s no such person. The name in the wallet says Nick Grayson.”

  “So why are you asking?”

  I wasn’t expecting a philosophical rebuttal. “I ... I want to know why you’re using an alias. Are you on the run or something?”

  “Sort of.” He sighed. “No. Not really. I only give my real name out on a need-to-know basis. You didn’t need to know. By the way, is that my gun?”

  “Shut up! I’m the one asking the questions!”

  “How am I supposed to answer them if you order me to shut up?”

  I blew out an exasperated breath. This was not going to plan.

  “I’m a detective,” I lied. “Working undercover. What are you doing here? What’s with the rubber octopus? And the tentacle marks all over your head?” I thought about asking about his twin navels too, but I was afraid it might land me in one of those, “Now I’ll have to kill you,” kind of scenarios.

  “Hold on,” he said. “Rubber octopus? That’s a new one.”

  “You kept saying it in your sleep. Octopi rubber. Something like that.”

  A glint of recognition flashed across his eyes. “Oh. Oculi rubere. It’s Latin. It means red eyes.”

  I relaxed my grip on the Glock a notch. “Why would you keep saying that?”

  He hesitated for a moment as he studied me. “Uh ... because my eyes were red.”

  I shook my head. “Over an over? I don’t think so. You were delirious. That term means something to you.”

  His expression softened slightly. “Wait a second ... you took care of me last night, didn’t you.”

  “Yes.”

  He reached a hand toward me. I stiffened my stance and braced the Glock in both hands.

  Knickerbocker stepped back and held up his hands. “Sorry. I just wanted to say thank you.”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “Uh ... you’re welcome.”

  His eyes shifted over toward the nightstand. “You won’t shoot me if I reach for that coffee, will you? It smells great.”

  “No. Go ahead.”

  As he reached for a cup, a warning signal pinged in my brain.

  He could throw hot coffee in my face!

  “Stop!” I shouted. “I need a few answers first.”

  He eyed the coffee longingly, then looked back at me. “Okay, I guess I owe you that. Shoot.” His eyes widened. “I mean—don’t shoot, shoot. Just ask your questions.”

  “So who are you? Knickerbocker or Grayson?”

  “Grayson. Nick Grayson.”

  “How can I be sure?”

  He smiled charmingly. “Why would I lie to you? You’ve already seen my lizard.”

  He winked a green eye at me. I blushed. Then he glanced over at the terrarium. I blushed some more. Was it possible he remembered kissing me last night? Or maybe he didn’t. He had been delirious, after all.

  “May I ask your name?”

  “Bobbie ... I mean Roberta Drex.”

  “Nice to meet—”

  “What do you do for a living, Grayson?”

  He winced. “That one’s a bit tricky.”

  I snorted. “You’re a private investigator. Like me.”

  He nodded. “True. I am a P.I. But I’m nothing like you.”

  My jaw flexed. What a jerk!

  “No, you’re not,” I said sourly.

  Grayson winced. “I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant was ... I kind of investigate more ... uh ... esoteric things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In layman’s terms? The unexplained.”

  “Unexplained?”

  “Yes. Things that can’t be explained by normal, rational, sensible logic.”

  “You mean like ghosts and stuff?”

  Grayson smirked ever so slightly. “Well, not exactly. I’m investigate unusual events that leave physical evidence.”

  “Like bigfoot?”

  “If compelling evidence is found, yes.”

  I pursed my lips. “I don’t believe in all that.”

  Grayson smiled. “That’s okay. They still believe in you.”

  I adjusted my stance, a bit angry at being teased. “You’re full of crap, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. And so are you, Roberta Drex. In fact, the average person walks around with over twenty-five pounds of feces clogging up their colon.”

  I grimaced with disgust. “Why would you know that? Why would you want to know that?”

  Grayson eyed me curiously, as if I were a fun, new toy. “As I said, I have unusual interests.”

  “I think you have an unusual head injury.”

  Greyson glanced upward, as if to get a look at the bump on his forehead. “Yeah, that too. Look, I’m sorry if I’ve been a bother. Let me pay you for your troubles, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “I don’t think so.” I gripped the gun tighter. “I think I should call the cops. Or the FBI.”

  “Go ahead. But might I suggest Homeland Security? Be sure to tell them you’re holding a gun on a man for babbling about a rubber octopus. Don’t forget I’ve got a Bigfoot bite, a shaved head, two navels, and I’m traveling in an RV with an accomplice—a lizard named Gizzard. Just don’t be surprised when they haul you away instead of me.”

  He had a point. What am I supposed to do now?

  Grayson must’ve read my expression like an open comic book.

  “Right now, lady, the only person who’d believe your story is me. Listen, you can either let me go or shoot me. But if you choose option B, I would highly recommend taking the safety off my Glock first.”

  I looked down at the gun. Like a viper striking, Grayson snatched it from my hand. As I looked up, I heard a click. I winced, closed my eyes, and waited for the second bullet in less than a week to strike me between the eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  THE BULLET NEVER CAME.

  I hazarded a peek out of one eye.

  Grayson was standing less than two feet away from me, holding the butt-end of the Glock toward me. He’d undone the safety and was offering me back his lethal weapon.

  I took it. He didn’t resist.

  “Why did you do that?” I asked, stunned.

  “Because I want you to trust me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if we can’t trust each other, we can never be friends.”

  I
swallowed against the dry knot in my throat. “Friends?”

  “I’d hate to part as enemies after you’ve been so kind.”

  I suddenly felt undone with confusion. Was I the bad guy in all of this? My face flushed with heat. Southern guilt could do that to a person. Then I remembered that if he left, he’d take his wallet with him.

  “Part?” I asked, my voice a notch nicer. “Why do you have to go? I mean, what’s the rush?”

  “It’s not safe to be around me. I try not to put my friends in harm’s way.”

  I looked at him sideways. “That sounds noble and all, but it smells like buffalo chips to me.”

  Grayson looked taken aback. “What do you mean?”

  “Around here, friends stick together through thick and thin.”

  Grayson cocked his head and smiled wistfully. “You have no idea how thin the ice can get when you skate near me.”

  “I was born and raised in Florida,” I quipped. “I don’t know how to ice skate. But I do recognize a cold shoulder when I see one.”

  Grayson laughed. “You’re an interesting woman, Bobbie Drex. If that is your real name.”

  “It is. Believe me. I wish it wasn’t.”

  I nodded toward the nightstand and the two steaming mugs atop it. “Now drink your coffee, Nick, before it gets cold.”

  I SAT DOWN AT THE ROUND, oak dining table where my parents had eaten three square meals a day for the past thirty years. Along the walls, pictures of relatives glared disapprovingly at me as I shared a meager breakfast of toast and coffee with the stranger who’d arrived yesterday in almost as bad shape as his RV.

  Emboldened by a shot of caffeine, I braved a question I’d been itching to ask Grayson since he’d said the word unexplained. It wasn’t exactly a question I could’ve asked Earl, for cripes’ sake. Or even Beth-Ann. But given my two recent run-ins with odd visions, I was dying for a little perspective from someone who perhaps knew something more about the topic.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked casually as I topped off his cup of coffee.

  “Me?” Grayson’s brow furrowed. “Depends on what you mean by ghosts.”

  “The spirits of dead people.” I sat down and pulled my chair closer to the table. “Do you think they’re real, or simply hallucinations?”

  Grayson shrugged. “What’s the difference?”

  My back stiffened. “Well, one is real and the other’s ....” I trailed off, uncertain how to continue my argument.

  “My point exactly,” Grayson said with a light laugh. “Who could know for sure? Every person’s reality is different, Drex. We believe what we decide to believe, against all known intelligence to the contrary.”

  “What do you mean?” I frowned, unhappy with his answer, and took a giant, ripping bite from my slice of buttered toast.

  “Let’s face it. The so-called ‘facts’ are irrelevant to most people. Unless, of course, they happen to support their opinions.”

  “What are you saying? That people are blind to the truth?”

  He slathered butter on his toast. “Well, that depends on what you call the truth.”

  I jabbed a knife into a jar of fig preserves. “I think I should warn you. I’m armed and you’re getting on my last nerve.”

  Grayson smiled. “It’s human nature to seek validation, Drex, not invalidation. A person’s point of view, no matter how soundly laid out, is still merely an opinion. It’s not an absolute.”

  My nose crinkled with annoyance and skepticism. “I’m still not following you. Give me an example.”

  “Okay. Let’s see ... how about everything you’ve ever read, said, or witnessed in this lifetime?”

  I nearly spewed my coffee. “What?”

  “Every book ... even history books, science books, the great philosophers ... they’re nothing more than limited interpretations of personal experiences. They’re simply the musings and opinions of their authors.”

  “Huh?”

  “Think about it. How many times has science declared something as absolute fact, then had to retract it? How many times has ‘recorded history’ proven to be nothing more than a self-flattering account from the winning side?”

  My lip jerked upward as if yanked with a fishhook. “Lots of times, I guess.”

  Grayson seemed to take my concession with easy indifference. “Then again, maybe they weren’t wrong after all.”

  “What?” My mind screeched like a needle across a record. “If you’re trying to confuse me, Grayson, congratulations. You win.”

  Grayson sighed. “I’m not trying to be ambiguous. It’s just that I believe truth is merely a temporary construct.”

  I blew out a breath. “Okay, if I’m going to wrap my head around this, I’m going to need more coffee. Lots more coffee.” I got up to fetch the pot.

  Grayson drained his cup and held it up for a refill. “Some philosophers believe that at any given time, we’re only evolved enough as a species to embrace a certain level of social and scientific principle. So we decide what truth is, what reality is, based on a sort of bell curve of the intellectual collective.”

  I frowned. “What are you saying? That nothing is ever absolute? That nothing is ever really true?”

  “Not exactly. What I’m saying is that truth is a fluid thing, Drex. Every individual has their own truth, and who’s to say whether it’s right or wrong?”

  “That’s pretty deep down the rabbit hole for a vagabond conspiracy-chaser living in a ratty RV.”

  Grayson’s chin lifted slightly. His eyebrows knitted together, giving him a look of mock pretentiousness. “I’m not a vagabond. I prefer the term ‘non-localized, alternative solutions investigator.’”

  I smirked. “Well, I suppose you are entitled to your opinion of reality.”

  Grayson grinned. “Touché.”

  I refilled his coffee cup. “So tell me, no bull this time. What’s up with the red octopus thing?”

  “Oculi rubere. It’s Latin for red eyes.”

  “You said that. But why were you repeating it over and over in your sleep?”

  Grayson glanced around, as if to ensure no one else was listening. He leaned in toward me. “Because I came out here on a case. I’m investigating rumors of a red-eyed creature that’s been roaming the pine forests and swamps around Waldo.”

  I nearly dropped the coffee pot. “And I thought you were full of it before.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “You’re really chasing a monster? Gimme a break, Grayson!”

  “My alternative P.I. services happen to include the occasional tracking of cryptids,” he said defensively.

  “Cryptids?”

  “Yes. As yet undiscovered or unexplained creatures.”

  “Like ghosts?”

  “More substantial than that. Creatures who leave behind footprints.”

  “And dead bodies?”

  Grayson’s eyebrow shot up. “Perhaps. Why do you ask?”

  I shrugged, uncertain of how much to reveal to him. “Have you, you know, actually seen this red-eyed thing you’re chasing?”

  “Yes. At least, I think so. On the road the night before last. Right after my RV broke down. The whole incident—or accident—whatever it was, was odd.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My RV came slamming to a halt ... as if I’d hit something.” Grayson absently felt the tender knot on his forehead. “After getting up close and personal with the windshield, I looked over to my left. I would swear I saw a pair of red eyes staring at me from the woods.”

  Ice spider made another beer run down my spine. “Maybe it was your own reflection in the window.”

  “No. Couldn’t’ve been. The driver’s side window was down.”

  I grimaced. “Did you get a picture of it or anything?”

  “No. I remember reaching over to roll up the window ... then this stabbing pain suddenly shot through my shoulder.”

  “It bit you?”

  “I don’t know.” Gr
ayson slowly rotated his shoulder. “It could’ve been the seatbelt harness. I think I cracked my clavicle. Anyway, the next thing I knew, it was daybreak. I was still sitting upright in the driver’s seat. I remembered seeing the flashing yellow light up the road. I thought it was close, so I got out and walked it.”

  “The flatlands around here can be deceiving.”

  Grayson’s eyebrow shot up. “You’re telling me. I kept walking and walking, but the light wasn’t getting any closer. I was beginning to think it was a mirage. Then, finally, two and a half miles later, I ended up at your garage.”

  I thought about the bite-shaped wound on Grayson’s left shoulder. What if it really was a bite? Should I tell him about the two glowing red spheres I’d seen atop the Stop & Shoppe drive-thru? Were those the red eyes he was chasing? They certainly couldn’t have belonged to deer—not unless Rudolph was doing a pre-Christmas test flight.

  I decided against saying anything. Especially after all the gobbledygook he’d just spilled. If Grayson wasn’t going to give me any straight answers, then he wouldn’t be getting any from me.

  But I really wanted some straight answers.

  I chewed my lip. Maybe if I took Grayson to the place I’d seen the dead body, he’d stop this esoteric bull-crap philosophizing and give me some useful information. According to my P.I. training course, I shouldn’t lead the witness. If I was going to do this, it would be better to take him there without telling him anything, then let him conjure up his own version of reality.

  The man certainly seemed up to the task.

  “I went back to the scene of your accident,” I said. “I don’t think what you hit was a deer.”

  Grayson’s eyebrows rose slightly. “No? What do you think it was?”

  “Not sure. You up for a ride? I’ll show you.”

  Grayson glanced quickly at his mug. “Can I take my coffee with me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “IS THIS A SIXTY-FOUR?” Grayson asked as he climbed into the Mustang.

  “Sixty-four and a half.”

  “Candy-apple red. Goes well with your auburn hair.”

  “Actually, it’s Rangoon Red. And this is a wig.”