Lunatic's Game

by Margaret Lashley

  Chapter Eleven

  I CLOSED THE DOOR TO the bedroom, leaving Knickerbocker propped up on pillows with a glass of water and a selection of Southern Living magazines circa 1997.

  “What do you think we should do?” I whispered to Earl as we walked down the hall to the kitchen. “He seems confused. Do you know anything about treating a cracked clavicle?”

  “Not a thing,” Earl said. “But if I’m right and that fella got hisself bit up by Bigfoot, he’s probably got some kind of poison fever, you know, causing him to be all delusional and whatnot.”

  I closed my eyes and blew out a breath. Talking to Earl was like trying to have a conversation with Jethro on the Beverly Hillbillies. He had the same country twang, the same dumb luck, and the same irritatingly happy-go-lucky attitude. He also had an uncanny knack for calling things accurately, despite having no intellectual pursuits beyond Auto Trader and Pimp My Ride. It was downright infuriating.

  “It’s not a Bigfoot bite!” I hissed at Earl. “It’s from the seatbelt. He said so himself.”

  “What about all that lizard mumbo-jumbo? That don’t make him a very reliable witness, if you ask me.”

  “He’s probably confused from the accident.”

  Earl shrugged. “Or he’s some nut-job fresh outta the looney bin.”

  I glared at Earl. I wanted to dismiss his comment out of hand. But doubt threaded its way across my mind like my Grandma Selma’s cross-stitch. And that spider with icicle legs crawled out from under my wig again and made a beeline for where my bra hooked in the back.

  “I don’t want to be alone with him,” I blurted. “Earl, you make the soup. I’ll go check out the glove compartment.”

  “Yeah. Let’s see if his cash is just a delusion too.” Earl crinkled his nose. “Uh ... how do I make it?”

  I looked up at the six-foot-four lump of uselessness. “Soup? You’re kidding. You open the can, Earl. You pour it in a pan. Then you cook it till it boils.”

  “What kind of pan?”

  I groaned, shook my head, and stomped down the stairs.

  Halfway down, I turned around and stomped back up the stairwell. “Where are the keys?”

  Earl grinned, pulled them out of the breast pocket of his coveralls, and dangled them in front of me like a cat toy. I swiped them from his hand and blew him a raspberry.

  What a jerk!

  I UNLOCKED THE DRIVER’S door of Knickerbocker’s crappy old RV. With the built-in cab, I figured it measured around twenty-four feet long. Despite the exterior looking as if it were ready for the junkyard, I was surprised to discover the interior was almost mint.

  One glance at the shiny chrome controls jutting from the aqua-painted metal dashboard and I was eight years old again—a kid in a candy store.

  Sweet.

  From the looks of it, the Minnie Winnie had to have been manufactured in the 1960s, back when groovy was still a thing worth striving for.

  Of course, the windshield was a total loss. It was shattered into an opaque hodgepodge of tiny ice cubes. The driver’s seat also had a gash on the left side, near the headrest. Nicotine-hued foam rubber spewed out from the gaping slit in the aquamarine vinyl like raw chicken fat.

  I glanced around the floorboards and passenger seat. No receipts. No junk food wrappers. Not even a roadmap or a coffee ring. If this guy was living in his RV, you’d never know it. I laughed to myself.

  He must be totally OCD.

  I tried the glove compartment. It was locked. I fumbled with the key ring and tried the smallest key. It didn’t work. I tried the next one. The key slipped in. I turned it, and the metal glovebox fell open like a slack jaw.

  My own jaw followed suit.

  Inside the glove compartment sat row upon row of neatly bundled bills—the kind of money you’d expect to nab from a successful bank heist.

  I closed my mouth and cautiously picked up a packet. I fanned through the bills with my thumb.

  Twenties. Fifty of them. A cool grand.

  I picked up two more paper-banded packs and noticed a silver glint behind them. I shoved aside the adjacent stacks. A 9mm Glock came into view.

  I gasped.

  I’d wanted a Glock since I was ten years old.

  As I reached for the gun, a thought made me recoil as if I’d been bitten by a rattlesnake.

  Who is this guy? Black clothes. Wads of cash. Driving in the middle of nowhere—in the middle of the night. There’s no way he can be good news.

  I should call Paulson!

  I patted down my coveralls. Five heavy-duty utility pockets and not one of them contained my cellphone. I mentally kicked myself in the ass, then stuffed three bundles of bills into my right hip pocket. I stacked the others back neatly, locked the glovebox, and was about to leave when curiosity got the better of me.

  I swiveled the seat around, got up, and crept into the main cabin of the RV.

  Beyond the reach of the overhead service bay lights, the RV’s interior grew dim and veiled in a grayish gloom. As my eyes adjusted to the faint light, a modest kitchen, a small banquette, and a fold out couch built into the wall came into view.

  Typical, old-style RV.

  Beyond the main cabin, I could see a small hallway, and the door leading to the bedroom. My lips quivered. I mumbled out the count.

  One, two, three ....

  Four deadbolts lined the edges of the bedroom door above the doorknob. Four more below.

  The hair on the back of my neck bristled.

  Why would anyone do that?

  A noise in the garage sent me whirling around on my thick, rubber heels.

  Crap! He knows I’m back here!

  My torso twisted toward the front of the RV. I took a sprinting step forward, tripped on my boots, and did a belly flop onto the floor of the main cabin. When I opened my eyes, I found myself face-to-face with a pair of reptilian eyes. They stared back at me from inside a ten-gallon terrarium tucked beneath the banquette. I grunted and hauled myself to sitting.

  Well, what do you know? Knickerbocker really does have a lizard.

  “LOOK WHAT I FOUND,” I said to Earl as I walked through the door and into the kitchen of Grandma Selma’s apartment.

  “Well, I’ll be. That looks like a lizard, all right.” Earl shook his head. “Too bad, Cuz. I thought you’d done got lucky.”

  “Hardy har-har.” I set the terrarium on the counter. “But that’s not all I found.”

  I pulled the stacks of twenties out of my pocket and fanned them in front of Earl’s face. “I guess you can go ahead and order those parts now.”

  Earl’s eyes grew as big as boiled eggs. “Lord a’mighty! How much you got there?”

  “Three grand. But there’s more if you need it.”

  Joy and avarice arm-wrestled on Earl’s face, providing me with some much relished sadistic pleasure.

  “You got that soup ready?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” Earl took an iron skillet off the burner and poured its contents into a bowl. The whole while, he kept one eye trained on the money. I shoved the bills back in my pocket. Earl frowned.

  “I’ll carry the soup,” I said. “You carry the lizard.”

  “What about the saltines?” Earl asked. He held up a waxy paper sleeve of crackers. “You can’t have soup without saltines.”

  “You spent my money on ... ugh! Fine.” I set the bowl on a plate and tossed a handful of crackers around the edges.

  “Happy now?”

  Earl eyed my pocket bulging with money. “I guess.”

  “Grab the lizard and follow me.”

  We crept down the hall, both of us quiet for a change. I held the plate and bowl precariously in one hand, tapped on the bedroom door with the other, then pushed it open. The bed was empty.

  “Mr. Knickerbocker?” I called out.

  The floor-length curtains moved. Knickerbocker peeked out from behind them.

  “Uh ... I brought you some soup. And Earl here has your ... uh ... lizard.”

 
Knickerbocker’s bloodshot eyes lit up at the sight of the terrarium. “Gizzard!”

  Earl shot me the look he usually reserved for when customers came to the garage to get their car fixed, but they should’ve been on their way to a psych ward. It happened a lot more than you’d think.

  “I’ll set her down right here on the bureau.” Earl gingerly placed the glass terrarium on top of an old oak chest of drawers.

  Knickerbocker took a step toward us, then loomed sideways, as if he’d just gotten off a Tilt-a-Whirl. His hand landed on the bed, catching his fall.

  “Get back in bed right now,” I said. “Eat your soup. You need to build your strength.”

  Knickerbocker smiled weakly and complied. He crawled in bed and took the bowl of soup I offered with shaky hands.

  “Saltines. Nice touch,” he said, and slurped the soup as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  Earl ogled the small, lime-green lizard through the glass of the terrarium. “If you don’t mind me asking, Mr. K, why’re you traveling around with a lizard of the reptilian persuasion?”

  Knickerbocker looked up from his soup and shrugged. “No barking. No walking. No litter box. Gizzard only needs one thing. Crickets and fresh water.”

  “That’s two things,” I said.

  “Oh. Right,” Knickerbocker said absently. “Do you think you could get her some?”

  “Crickets or water?” I asked.

  “Both.”

  I looked over at my cousin. “Sounds like a job for you, Earl.”

  He pouted. “Why me?”

  “Because I’m heading back over to Beth-Ann’s.”

  Earl grinned. “Aw, come on, Bobbie. That wig looks fine. Besides, you don’t have to get yourself all dolled up on my account. Or is it on account of someone else?” He looked at Knickerbocker and shot him a wink.

  I sneered. “It’s not about either of you.”

  I hadn’t told Earl about the case I was working, or about getting my private investigator intern certificate. I wasn’t in the mood to live either one of those personal gems down just yet.

  “Can I bring you back anything?” I asked as I walked to the bedroom door.

  “How about a comb?” Knickerbocker said. He ran his hand over the top of his head and seemed genuinely surprised to discover he was as bald as a cue ball.

  I turned away so neither man could see my eyes roll in their sockets.

  Great. Another weirdo man to take care of. Thanks, universe. That’s all I need.

  Chapter Twelve

  ON MY WAY TO BETH-ANN’S beauty shop, I noticed four or five buzzards circling above the woods a few miles south of Point Paradise. In this rural area, lots of people dumped their trash instead of paying for pickup, so I didn’t think much of it. I drove on, intent on nailing my second interview as a P.I. intern.

  No mistakes this time. Beth-Ann’s a friend, but I can’t let that influence my professionalism.

  “HEY, YOU,” BETH-ANN said as she swept up a heap of black, wavy hair. “Just gave myself a trim. You need one?”

  “Haha. You’re a riot.” I glanced at my wig in the mirror, frowned, and gave it a quick adjustment.

  “What’s up, then?”

  “Not much.” Taking a note from my training course, I tried to act casual, in order to put the interviewee at ease. “Just searching for intelligent life. You seen any lately?”

  Beth-Ann grinned. “In Waldo? Not even a molecule. You?”

  “Nope. But I did meet a man.”

  Beth-Ann’s face shifted from studied indifference to flabbergasted intrigue. She leaned on her broom handle. “Really? Spill it, girl!”

  I shrugged. “Not much to tell yet. He came into town today with a busted RV. He’s boarding in Grandma’s apartment for a few days.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “William Knickerbocker.”

  Beth-Ann rolled her huge, violet eyes. “Ugh! I hope he’s cuter than he sounds.”

  “Meh. Not really. Kind of skinny. Bald. Not my type.”

  Beth-Ann’s shoulders slumped. “Figures. Not even new-client potential. So what else’s up?”

  I puffed out my chest a little. It went unnoticed due to my oversized coveralls. “Paulson gave me a case to work on.”

  Beth-Ann’s eyes twinkled with interest. “The sexy detexy? He gave you a real case? Tell me every juicy detail!”

  “Well, that’s kind of why I’m here. The case involves old lady Vanderhoff. She says she’s been getting weird phone calls. ”

  “Vanderhoff?” Beth-Ann crinkled her nose. “Oh, geez, Bobbie. Paulson’s playing you! Can’t you see that? He probably wants to get you somewhere dark and secluded so he can get in your pants.”

  I grinned. “Jealous?”

  Beth-Ann sneered. “Damned straight.” She sighed, then laughed. “Vanderhoff’s crazy. Remember that time she saw Jesus’ face in a Lay’s potato chip?”

  I pursed my lips to a bloodless line. “Ruffles, no less. Don’t remind me. Earl grabbed it out of her hand and ate it.”

  We locked eyes and both said, “Ruffles have ridges.”

  We laughed a moment, then Beth-Ann shook her head. “Ruined that poor woman’s chance at a National Enquirer spotlight. You know she still talks about it?”

  “No!”

  “Yep. Every time she comes in, near about.”

  I grinned, then cleared my throat, straightened my shoulders, and shifted into P.I. mode. “Seriously, Beth-Ann. What would Paulson have to gain by sending me on a wild goose chase with Vanderhoff?”

  “What does any guy get out of torturing a woman?” Beth-Ann scowled for a second, then smirked and winked at me. “I can’t believe you’re gonna be a detective! Tell me. How much is he paying you for the case?”

  I bit my lip. “If I figure out who’s behind the calls, I get twenty bucks.”

  “Twenty bucks? Geez. What a tightwad. And if you don’t?”

  “I have to take Paulson to dinner.”

  Beth-Ann shook her head. “And you don’t think that’s you getting played? Sorry girl, but license or not, you’re no Magnum P.I.”

  I sighed and drummed my grease-stained nails on a washbasin. “I went to her house last night.”

  “Whose house?”

  “Old lady Vanderhoff’s.”

  Beth-Ann’s face went paler, if that was possible. “Wait a minute. You went inside?”

  “Yeah.”

  She grabbed my forearm. “What was it like? Were there balls of tinfoil as big as beanbag chairs? Empty Cool Whip containers stacked to the ceiling? Real children’s skeletons in her closet?”

  “No. Actually, it looked relatively normal. Except for the dolls.”

  “Dolls?” Beth-Ann recoiled and dropped my arm. “Yuck!”

  “I know. There were tons of them. Totally creepy.”

  “Did you find out anything?”

  “Only that she’s even crazier than I thought. She told me a robot told her to steal bananas.”

  Beth-Ann’s eyes narrowed. “That’s got your cousin Earl’s name written all over it, Bobbie. I bet he put her up to it. To get back at you for leaving that open can of sardines under Bessie’s driver’s seat on his birthday.”

  My lips twisted over to one side of my face. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Beth-Ann laughed. “No shit, Sherlock.”

  “Okay. Maybe you’re right. Still, just in case, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “Sure.”

  I pulled a notepad and pen from my coveralls. Beth-Ann smirked, but only for a flash, then slapped on a semi-serious look.

  “When did Vanderhoff come in here last?” I asked.

  “On Wednesday a week ago. Her bi-weekly wash and set.”

  I scribbled it down. “Did you use any new dyes or shampoos on her that might have caused a reaction?”

  “Nope. Normal stuff. And no color that week. Just the wash and set.”

  “So she was here for how long?”

  “F
rom two in the afternoon to quarter past three.”

  I looked up at Beth-Ann. “That’s pretty precise.”

  “I’ve been doing her hair for fifteen years, Bobbie. I’ve got that baby down to a science.”

  “Okay. Did she happen to sit under a hairdryer?”

  “Of course. With a headful of curlers. You know the routine.”

  “I mean ... for maybe longer than usual?”

  “Nope. I had another appointment right after. Nosy Nellie Parker at three-thirty. I had to keep on schedule or she’d blab all over Alachua County about how my standards were slipping.”

  “That’s the hairdryer, right?” I pointed to a chrome and purple chair that would’ve looked right at home in a low-budget sci-fi movie.

  Beth-Ann eyed me like I’d lost it. “Yes. It’s the only one I’ve got. You and Carl sold it to me, remember?”

  “Of course.” I walked over to check it out. Of all the things in Beth-Ann’s kitschy 1950s-vibe shop, her hair-drying chair was my favorite.

  Sleek, low-slung, square-shaped, the chair was upholstered in a light-lavender vinyl with a starburst-type pattern. Tubular chrome pipes served as spindly-looking arms and legs.

  But the part I liked best was the dryer head itself. The conical-shaped dome of stainless steel was the size and shape of the business end of a ballistic missile. It always made me think of a helmet left behind by an egg-headed alien.

  I looked around for a manufacturer’s tag. “What’s the chair called again?”

  “The Atomic Purple Salon Chair,” Beth-Ann offered. “Circa 1950-something. But I call her ‘Girlie.’”

  I grunted and scribbled it down on a notepad. I was about to leave when I noticed an earwig crawl out of one of the holes in the chrome dryer head.

  “Anything else?” Beth-Ann asked. “Hate to give you the bum’s rush, Bobbie, but I’ve got a perm coming in any second.”

  “No, that’s it for now.” I walked toward the door. “Thanks. You might want to spray for bugs. See you next week?”

  “Bugs? Hey, you could use a brow wax.”

  “I think I’ll hold onto all the hair I have left for right now.” I opened the side door, hesitated, then turned around. Beth-Ann was bent over, sweeping hair into a dustpan.