“Apparently so. So, do you need any more proof vampires are alive and well? I’ve got plenty more examples.”
“No. That’s enough.” I frowned and shook my head. “Geez. What’s the world coming to?”
“The same as always,” Grayson said. “The world’s always had its prophets, Drex. Some go down in history as heroes. Others just go down.”
“So, what do we do now?” I asked. “Should we go interview Melvin Haplets?”
“That’s the idea. But I doubt they’ll let us just wander in.” Grayson put his hand on the door handle. “I’ve got a plan. Leave your Glock behind and follow my lead.”
Grayson pushed open his door, hopped out of the RV, and slammed the door behind him.
“Wait!” I said, fishing through my purse for my gun. I shoved it under my seat and scrambled after him. “What plan?” I called out.
“We’re brother and sister,” he said as I sprinted to catch up with him as he marched up the sidewalk. “We’re looking for a new home for granny.”
“Okay, we’re siblings,” I said to his back. “But what if they don’t have any rooms?”
Grayson spun on his heels and eyed me as if I’d just confessed I was made of cream cheese. “According to my calculations, Drex, they should have at least three fairly recent openings.”
My shoulders sagged. “Oh. Yeah.”
He turned back toward the facility. “Keep up, and keep sharp.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, then mentally kicked myself in the ass.
Elf surveys and bathroom booties be damned. Nick Grayson might’ve been a kook about some things, but when it came to detective skills, he had me beat by a redneck mile.
Chapter Thirteen
GRAYSON SALUTED AS he passed the clot of old men congregated in wheelchairs outside the main entrance to Banner Hill. I offered them a weak smile as I passed by. One smiled back. The others stared, zombie-like, at some point of interest apparently only they could envision.
Just inside the entryway, a middle-aged woman with a mousy brown helmet of hair sat stoically, entrenched at her station in the cheap office chair behind the reception desk. Her tired face, beige polyester dress, and dreary disposition matched the nursing home’s decor so perfectly that for a second I wondered if she’d been delivered in a box along with the rest of the uninspired furnishings.
“Hello. Ms. Draper?” Grayson asked, and flashed a charming smile.
“Ms. Draper’s the owner,” the woman said in a tone that mirrored none of Grayson’s cheerfulness, whether it was fake or not. “I’m Ms. Gable. What can I do for you?”
“Oh. My mistake.” Grayson smiled. “Forgive me. You have the air of ownership about you. An elegant pride, if you will.”
The plump, frazzled woman sized Grayson up as if he were selling baby seal meat and she was head of Greenpeace. “Uh-huh. What do you want?”
Grayson smiled brightly and glanced over at me. “We have an appointment to tour the facilities. My sister Ginger and I are thinking of placing our granny here at Banner Hill.”
“We only take men,” Gable said bluntly.
Her red lips curled into a petty-tyrant smile. Mighty Casey was striking out. I stepped up to bat.
“Excuse me, Fred,” I said, pushing Grayson aside.
He shot me a weird look. I knew why. For some reason, whenever I poured on the charm, it always came with a syrupy Southern accent. Don’t ask me why.
I cleared my throat, moved a cheap vase of plastic flowers out of my face, and smiled sheepishly at Ms. Gable. “Yes. Well, Fred here would never admit it, but ‘granny’ is what our dear old granddad wants to be called nowadays. You know how it is. Dementia can be such an unpredictable thing.”
Gable’s face softened a notch. “Yes, it can. But at Banner Hill, we prefer veterans.”
“Grandpa served in Vietnam, ma’am,” I said. “By the way, I think it’s super great that you want to honor those who’ve served our fine country.”
“And their VA benefits guarantee payment,” Grayson said.
I stepped on Grayson’s foot, then leaned over the reception desk. “Yes, that’s truly a blessing for everyone.”
Gable eyed us both. “Now, this grandfather of yours. Is he ambulatory? This isn’t a lockdown unit. We don’t take wanderers.”
I shook my head. “No. The poor thing can barely walk.”
“He uses a cane,” Grayson said.
Gable frowned.
“But mostly a wheelchair,” I offered.
That cheered her up. Gable smiled and said, “Well, we do have a recent opening. Ms. Draper isn’t here right now. Let me show you around.”
“THIS WAY,” GABLE SAID as she waddled down the facility’s main corridor in shoes that appeared to have been constructed from road-killed marshmallows. The bleak hallway’s sole decorative touches were metal grab bars and a smattering of cheap artwork in even cheaper frames.
Grayson and I trailed behind Gable like baby ducks. She stopped in front of a door with a small window in it.
“Have a look,” she said, opening the door. “This is the rec room.”
The room smelled of disinfectant, but was otherwise pleasant enough, given its overall clinical setting. On one side of the room, a couple of plastic-lined couches and lounge chairs had been grouped around a large-screen TV. On the other side, a half-dozen small tables were set up with checkers, chess, and other board games. In one corner, an old guy was passed out in a chair snoring, a book open on his lap.
Gable smiled. “One day, Mr. Green might just finish that book of his. He usually reads in his room, but he’s taken to sitting in that chair since his roommate went mi—ahem—passed away three days ago.”
“Oh,” I said. “What happened?”
Gable looked at me funny. “He died. Follow me.”
Gable turned and led us further down the hall to the kitchen to inspect the food preparation facilities.
“We’re mighty proud of our food service here,” she said, and opened a locked, metal door.
Inside, two rotund women in white scrubs and hairnets eyed us cautiously before giving us friendly, possibly even sincere smiles. I suddenly felt like a seventh grader standing in the cafeteria line staring at the lunchroom ladies, worrying that a double portion of French fries might give me more pimples.
“Very good,” Grayson said to the pair, as if he were performing a military inspection. “Carry on, ladies.”
“Wait,” I said. I pointed at a metal tray. It was heaped with yellow clumps of glop dotted with suspicious red chunks—like a fake vomit omelet. “What’s that?” I asked one of the women.
“Breakfast leftovers,” she said. “Powdered scrambled eggs and Spam. You want some?”
“Oh. Sounds tasty,” I said, with less enthusiasm than I’d meant to muster. “But I already ate.”
“Why powdered eggs?” Grayson asked Gable.
Gable smirked as if she’d just told a private joke. “Like I said, most of the men we serve here are veterans. A majority have mental health issues. Most of the time, they think they’re back in their military units. So we try to accommodate them by recreating G.I. rations. They eat ’em up, don’t they, girls?”
The two women laughed. “Yes ma’am.”
One woman with red curls peeking out of her chef’s cap said, “Today’s the first day in ages we’ve had any leftovers. Probably because of all the recent d—”
“Ahem,” Gable growled forcefully, silencing the woman with a scathing look. “Ms. Frasier, I’ll remind you that here at Banner Hill, we keep our clientele’s business confidential.”
Frasier looked puzzled. “But I didn’t—”
Another glare from Gable sealed Frasier’s lips for good.
“This way,” Gable said to Grayson and me. “I’ll show you what I mean about hearty appetites.”
After taking another quick gander at the vomit omelet, I was skeptical. But when we stepped into the cafeteria, sure enough, the old guys inside were
gumming their green Jell-O like there was no tomorrow.
“What unit you in?” one old man asked Grayson as we passed his table.
“Eighty-third,” he said. “You?”
“Sixty, you piss-ant,” he said, then shoveled another spoonful of gelatin into his toothless maw.
“See what I mean?” Gable said. “All they think about is war times. How about some coffee and cookies?”
My stomach gurgled. “Sounds delightful.” I was starved. Grayson was so eager to get here that he hadn’t even let us stop for donuts on the way.
Who in their right mind could forget about food?
We sat down at one of the worn, laminate-topped tables while Gable went to fetch coffee across the room.
“Spam. That could be significant,” Grayson said under his breath.
“What do you mean?” I whispered.
Before he had a chance to reply, Gable returned with three cups of coffee and a plate stacked with vanilla sandwich cookies. She handed me a cup.
I took a sip. The coffee was so weak I almost longed for the crap at the Dilly Dally Motor Court.
Gable noticed my reaction. “Some of the men here drink coffee all day, so we water it down,” she said.
“Ah,” Grayson said.
I took a bite of cookie and could practically taste the expiration date. I tucked the rest of it into my napkin and tried to warn Grayson, but I wasn’t quick enough. He popped a whole one into his mouth and nearly choked.
“So, Ms. Gable, what’s your availability?” he asked, then proceeded to have a small coughing fit.
“Availability?” Gable asked.
Grayson took a slurp of coffee, swallowed hard, then glanced over at me. “Yes. Ginger and I’d like to bring gramps in for a tour, but we don’t want to get his hopes up if there’s no room at the inn.”
“Tell you what,” Gable said. “Fax me a copy of his military ID and monthly pension check, and I’ll hold a space for him for twenty-four hours.”
“That’s mighty gracious of you,” I said sweetly.
“It certainly is,” Grayson said. “But I hope to return with him this afternoon, if that’s amenable. He’s quite anxious to find his new forever home.”
“Certainly,” Gable said. “Does four o’clock work for you?”
Grayson beamed. “Perfect.”
“What’s your grandfather’s name?” Gable asked.
Before I could reply, Grayson blurted, “George Burns.”
I closed my eyes so no one could see them roll.
Awesome, Grayson. I’m Ginger. You’re Fred. Gramps is George Burns. Now all we need is Gracie and we’ve got our very own tragic variety show.
Chapter Fourteen
BACK AT THE RECEPTION desk, we thanked Ms. Gable and promised to return with Grandpa Burns for an interview for possible admission to Banner Hill. As the exit door closed behind us, I grabbed Grayson by the arm.
“Geez, Grayson, I thought we were here to find missing war veterans, not to create more out of thin air!”
“Basic investigative tactic,” Grayson said. “If we’re going to track down the cryptid turning vets into Captain Crunch, we need to familiarize ourselves with the layout and players. Did you notice? None of the vets wore nametags.”
“No. I didn’t notice.”
Grayson frowned. “That’s going to make it harder to find Melvin Haplets.” He motioned with his chin.
I turned to see the same three old smokers in wheelchairs who’d been staring at us when we’d walked in earlier that morning.
“Hello, fellows,” I said. “Would one of you happen to be Melvin Haplets?”
They all exchanged glances with each other. “No. We don’t associate with him,” said the man in the middle.
“Why not?” I asked.
“He’s a fuddy-duddy,” the same spokesman said, initiating a round of dry, cough-like laughter from the trio of geezers.
“Yes,” I said. “Nobody likes a fuddy-duddy.” I turned to Grayson, my eyes pleading for direction. I was at a lost for what to say or do next.
Grayson grabbed me by the arm. “Have a nice day, gentlemen,” he said, and tugged me down the sidewalk.
“Don’t stir the pot on Melvin,” he whispered. “It might make him the next target.”
“Target?”
“Yes. Every night for the past three nights, a resident vet has gone MIA. I think we’re going to need eyes on the place overnight if we’re going to catch the illicit action.”
“Illicit action?” I said. “Look at those guys. They can’t even walk and they’re the cool guys.”
“Exactly, Drex. They’re sitting ducks, and it looks like somebody’s got a taste for Vietnamese gamecock.”
“What?”
Grayson turned and walked briskly toward the RV. He only had three steps on me, but given his long legs, I had to sprint to catch up with him.
“What are you saying?” I asked, jogging to keep up. “That vampires prefer Asian cuisine?”
“No. And don’t forget. Vampires are just one of the working theories at the moment. Did you know that Spam is a favorite food in Papua New Guinea?”
Wha??? Either I missed something or Grayson is insane.
“Grayson, what are you talking about?”
“Spam, Drex.” Grayson stopped beside the RV.
“Spam?” I asked, leaning up against the door so he couldn’t open it.
“Yes. The breakfast omelet they served had Spam in it,” he said, using his fingers to put air quotes around the word Spam.
I shook my head. “Maybe I need some real coffee, Grayson, but I’m just not following you.”
He cocked his head to one side. “In Papua New Guinea, the Korowai tribe believes it’s necessary to kill and eat any person they believe to have been possessed by a khakua demon.”
My face went slack. “Oh. Well, of course. How silly of me not to make the connection.”
Grayson shrugged. “It happens.” He reached for the handle to the driver’s door. I slapped it away.
“Grayson, I was being facetious! What are you saying? That the spirit of a khakua arrived at Banner Hill in a Spam can?”
Grayson’s eyebrow rose a notch. “Well, not exactly. But I have to say, that’s an interesting theory. Did you ever see that movie about—”
“Grayson! Just tell me what your theory is, okay?”
“I thought I did already.”
I shot him some side eye. “Humor me.”
“Fine. Up until the 1970s, the Korowai still practiced cannibalism. Then they were introduced to Spam. They said it tasted like long pig.”
“Long pig?”
“Yes. Human flesh. You see, Drex, Spam is the modern-day cannibal’s equivalent to cold cuts. It’s ‘Man in a Can,’ if you will.”
My stomach flopped. “What?”
“Someone at Banner Hill enjoys the taste of human flesh.”
I cringed. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
“Negatory.”
“Okay. Say that’s true. Why start killing vets? Why not just keep buying Spam?”
“Perhaps someone’s got a hankering for the real thing. Or, maybe they’re just trying to stretch the old food budget. You know, kill two old birds with one stone.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Crazy like a khakua.” Grayson grinned and opened the RV door. “So, let’s go find us a gramps, shall we?”
“What? Where? At the Gramps-R-Us store?”
Grayson smiled. “If only. By the way, good save in there. Turning granny into grandpa. ‘Dementia is an unpredictable thing.’ I’m going to have to remember that one.”
I climbed into the passenger seat. “It’s true. My Aunt Betty had dementia. She used to put her socks in her soup.”
Grayson’s right eyebrow arched. “You don’t say.”
I sighed. “You know, the whole cannibalism thing aside, in cases like Aunt Betty’s, I guess Banner Hill wouldn’t be the worst place to spend the rest o
f your life.”
Grayson shrugged. “Are you kidding? They’ve got no icky guy in there.”
My nose crinkled. “Are you blind? No offense to those poor vets, but I saw plenty of icky guys in there.”
Grayson shook his head and turned the key in the ignition. “No. Ikigai. It’s a Japanese term. It means ‘a reason to get up in the morning.’ In Okinawa they live past a hundred because of ikigai.”
I smirked. “Or, maybe with all the icky guys around, it just seems like a hundred years.”
Grayson groaned, then looked past me through the passenger window. “Who’s that?”
A man’s muffled voice sounded to my right. “Hey, man. You guys really shouldn’t park here.”
I turned to see the wide chest and shoulders of a well-built black man in short-sleeved beige scrubs. He bent down until his head came into view. An open, friendly smile crowned his lips. Dreadlocks poked out from the beige bandana on his head.
I rolled down the window. “Excuse me?”
He poked a thumb over his shoulder. “The folks there ... across the street from Banner Hill. Well, let’s just say this is a bad place to park. Tires have been known to ... you know ... disappear.”
I followed the trajectory of the man’s thumb over to the low-budget, Section Eight housing across the street from Banner Hill. The small, concrete hovels bore the unmistakable, dusty pallor of desperation.
Dirt yards. Faded paint. Dismal future.
“I lost a few tires myself,” the man said, then laughed. “Then my whole car. Then my bike. Now I just take an Uber to work.”
“You work here? At Banner Hill?” I asked.
“Yes. Just getting off shift.”
“Hmm,” Grayson said. “You need a lift?”
The man’s face lit up. “Really? You sure?”
“Absolutely. I’m Nick Grayson. This is Bobbie Drex.”
“I’m Stanley Johnson,” the man said. “But I got to warn you, I live about ten miles from here.”
“Climb in, Stanley,” Grayson said. “Point us in the direction of the best taco stand in town, and your fare is paid in full.”
I grinned and opened the door to let Stanley in, then crawled out of my seat and took a hunched-over position in the narrow passage leading to the main cabin of the RV.
Moth Busters, Dr. Prepper, Oral Robbers: Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures 1, 2 & 3 Page 48