The billboard was abandoned now, as was the entire Waldo police force. The incident had raised such a stink that the entire department had been disbanded and their duties turned over to the Alachua County Sheriff’s Department.
Two years later, the Florida Legislature gave Waldo its other national distinction by passing a law banning traffic-ticket quotas for law officers. They named it the “Waldo Bill.” As for the notoriety the town received, the rest of us were secretly jealous. Everything exciting always seemed to happen in Waldo.
A rural-route school bus buzzed past me on US 301. It was most likely heading toward Hawthorne, the nearest town with a public school.
Poor saps.
I thought about how Beth-Ann and I had met on a bus just like it when we were sixteen. She’d climbed aboard wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt, black boots, black hair, black fingernails, black eye makeup, and black lipstick. I’d never seen anyone like her. Beth-Ann had been the first “Goth” kid at Hawthorne High—maybe the only one in all of Alachua County.
I turned the Mustang off US 301 onto Country Lane and smiled, remembering the first words Beth-Ann had ever said to me.
“Normal is for losers.”
She’d given my boy’s jeans, chain wallet, and close-cropped red hair the once-over, then sat in the seat next to me and delivered that line. Then she’d offered me a bottle of black nail polish. I’d been so stunned I didn’t even try to stop her as she took my hand and painted my nails. It had been my first-ever manicure.
I bit my lip and glanced down at my fingernails. I could use a manicure now, actually. But it would be a waste of money I didn’t have. Besides, there was no point. Cleaning carburetors didn’t require soft cuticles.
I pulled the Mustang up to a little wooden cottage and cut the ignition. Beth-Ann worked out of her house. She’d converted the detached garage into a beautician studio. A hand-painted sign hanging over the garage door read, “Beth-Ann’s Beauty Parlor. All Welcome.”
I walked around the corner of the garage and down the footpath lined with pavers. The side entry door was partially open. I pushed it the rest of the way.
Pale-faced, Beth-Ann looked up from her broom. Still sporting black hair, black lipstick, and thick eyeliner, she wasn’t about to give up her Goth dream anytime soon.
“Holy crap!” Beth-Ann said as I took off the Redman cap and gave her a gander at my monk’s ring. “Did you get attacked by a psychotic clown or something?”
“No. Just shot between the eyes.” I flounced onto her salon chair.
“I heard about the shooting, Bobbie. Good thing you’ve got a thick skull.”
I whirled around in the chair. “Really? You, too? I’m fine, by the way.”
She rested her hands on my shoulders and winked at me. “I know that, Bobbie. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be teasing you.”
“Oh. Speaking of teasing.” I pulled the wig out of the shoebox. “Can you do something with this?”
Beth-Ann’s face scrunched as if she smelled a fart. “Geez, Bobbie. I’m a beautician, not a magician.”
I let out a huge sigh. “Okay. It was worth a shot.” I got up out of the chair and turned to go.
“Wait!” Beth-Ann said. “Let me check my wig box. I think I’ve got something in there you could use.”
“You’ve got a wig box?”
Beth-Ann opened a cabinet and pulled out a cardboard box.
“Yeah. You know. Donations. Leave-behinds. Hey, it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind—and her hairstyle.” She glanced at my head and winced. “You of all people should know that.”
She rifled through an old Amazon box that appeared to be harboring the dehydrated husks of an entire generation of tribbles.
“Aha! Here it is!” Beth-Ann held up a bright-red wig. “Sit back down, sister.”
With no better option springing to mind, I flopped back into the barber chair. Beth-Ann stretched the wig out like a shower cap and placed it over my bald dome. She tugged it left and right, and spun me around for a gander in the mirror.
“Ta da!”
I gulped, barely recognizing myself. I’d gone from Mullet to Mohawk in under sixty seconds. I looked perfect—if I wanted to masquerade as Woody Woodpecker working the night shift at a Texaco.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“Hey, beggars can’t be choosers.”
I blew out a breath. “How much is it?”
“For you? Nothing. Compliments of the house.”
“That’s some compliment.”
Beth-Ann shrugged. “If you’d rather go on looking like a Franciscan monk, be my guest.”
I sighed. “You’re right. What the hell.”
“I’ve also got a clothes box, in case you ever decide to change from those mechanic’s coveralls one day. I haven’t seen you out of them since you came back, Bobbie. What are you wearing them for? Some kind of sick penance?”
“I run a mechanic’s garage, in case you forgot.”
“I know. But that doesn’t mean your life is over.”
I scowled. “You sure about that?”
“Yes! What happened to you, anyway? You used to actually like other humans.”
“Sorry. It’s just that ... I dunno. Carl did a number on me. And that whole thing with Earl. What is it with guys? They think they run the universe.”
Beth-Ann shot me a sympathetic smile. “Guys only have the power we give them. Just like everything else in life. So, when are you going to get your life out of that greasy garage and back in the sassy saddle with me?”
I smirked. “Soon.” I turned to go, then hesitated. “Hey. Any chance you can do something with my face?”
Beth-Ann stared at the scabby crater between my eyes.
“Like I said, Bobbie. I’m a beautician, not a magician.”
She eyed my deflated face and winked. “Aww, come on. Have a seat. Lemme see what I can do.”
Chapter Six
I GAVE MY SPIKEY RED wig a quick tug, ponied up a bit of feminine chutzpa, and sauntered into Dana’s Café. I’d come to meet Detective Terry Paulson about a proposal. Part of me hoped my cousin Earl had been right, and the proposal would be an indecent one. Pathetic as it was, this meeting was the closest thing to a date I’d had in living memory.
I didn’t want to appear as desperate or overeager as I felt, so despite Beth-Ann’s offer of more alluring attire, I’d stuck to my usual outfit—my dad’s fraying coveralls and oversized work boots. The problem was, the heavy boots made it impossible to pull off an actual saunter. Instead, I tripped over the threshold and stumbled into the coffee shop like a newborn calf.
Paulson was seated at a table for two. My heart leaped at the sight of him in uniform, just as it had when I’d met him for the first time at the mall last week. I shot him a smile, swiped habitually at my auburn bangs, and froze for a second before I remembered they were no longer there. In their place was a Band-Aid the size of a diaper. Not quite the same appeal ....
“Well, look at you,” Detective Paulson said in a voice that lilted with flirtation. “I have to say, I liked your hair longer. What’d you do? Get shot in the head or something?”
I couldn’t decide whether to be embarrassed or pissed, so I smiled. “Very funny.”
Paulson’s smirk faded to furrowed-brow concern. “I heard the news. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help when it happened.”
I pursed my lips. “That’s okay. Gainesville’s way out of your jurisdiction anyway.”
Paulson winced. “True. But what I meant to say is that I’m glad you’re okay. You’re not going back to that job at the mall, are you?”
I shrugged. “No. You take one lousy bullet between the eyes, and they throw you out like last month’s fryer grease. My manager called this morning. I’ve been laid off.”
“Ouch. I thought you looked upset. Is that what’s bugging you?”
Ugh! Every time I heard someone ask, “What’s bugging you?” I thought of some flea-infested rodent ... or
Carl Blanders, my ex, which, in my book, was pretty much the same thing. But at the moment, it was Detective Paulson getting under my skin. I wanted to slap his smug, irritatingly attractive face—then roll around in the hay with him. But not actually roll around in the hay. Being naked in a pile of dirty, pokey, dried-up stems of grass sounded itchy—and downright uncomfortable.
I looked up from my wandering thoughts. Paulson was studying me with a pair of laser-beam eyes the color of glacier shards.
“Uh ... no,” I said. “Nothing’s bugging me. I just hate that expression.”
“Well, in this case, the term ‘buggy’ fits.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have a seat.” Paulson gestured for me to sit.
“I prefer to stand.” I curled my hands into fists to hide the motor oil under my fingernails. I didn’t want to get too near Paulson. There was no need for him to find out my signature cologne was Quaker State.
“Have it your way.” Paulson leaned back in his chair. “After Jack Barker, uh ... left, I found a report involving Mildred Vanderhoff. Apparently, the old gal’s gone off her rocker.”
“You must be new in town,” I quipped, then remembered that Paulson was. In fact, it was rather miraculous there was a police officer there in Waldo at all.
Three years had passed since Waldo’s infamous speed-trap debacle. Four months ago, the town had finally been reissued its first dedicated police officer, Jack Barker. At fifty-three years of age and three-hundred pounds, it wasn’t exactly surprising when Barker suffered a heart attack. Two weeks ago, they’d hauled him out of this very café and up to Gainesville for treatment.
Barker was currently “on vacation” at a gastric bypass clinic. Detective Paulson was filling in during the interim.
“Of course, you wouldn’t know this, Detective Paulson, but old lady Vanderhoff’s been Point Paradise’s resident crazy lady since as long as I can remember. She’s a rite of passage for kids around here. 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 leaves up to its edge to cover any trace of my ever having existed. But that wasn’t an option. So 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?”
I gave 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 Band Aide 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 the smell of motor oil and 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 online P.I. training course. 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. “So, you really can teach an old dog new tricks.”
“Thanks,” I said sourly. “Did you just call me in here to bust my chops or what?”
Paulson winked. “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 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 was a shade closer.
“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 than to 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?”
“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 is complete.
“How could I refuse an offer like that?” I reached for the file. Paulson yanked it away.
“I’m not done,” he said and grinned. “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 fir
ed 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 and turned to go. 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.
Intent on making a dramatic exit, I took a step toward the door. But I tripped on my oversized work boots again 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 the café, cursing the dead man who’d left me to fill his stupid shoes.
Chapter Seven
IT WAS A FEW MINUTES after four o’clock when I left 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 roadkill.
Being stuck here amongst the forgotten Florida backwoods of sawgrass and pines, 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 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 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, in a tiny cluster of modest ranch houses built in the 1950s, back when people were still gullible enough to buy swampland, and Point Paradise still had hope for the future. The developer had dubbed the place Cherry Manor.
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