“They called him the Mothman,” Grayson said.
I willed myself not to speak. I was already halfway to crazy. I didn’t need to give Grayson any more fuel to drive me the rest of the way.
“You and Earl are gonna love each other,” I said as sarcastically as I could muster. “He’s a freaking conspiracy nut, too.”
“You’re not?”
“Nope.” I mashed the accelerator. “Life itself is enough of a conspiracy for me.”
“WELL, THERE GOES MY getaway plan,” Grayson said as he surveyed the carnage inside the service bay. The engine to his RV had been thoroughly disassembled by Earl, who’d spread its innards all over the place like he was getting ready for a jumble sale.
I winced. “Sorry. But I tried to warn you. The engine was shot, anyway. Earl’s a great mechanic. He’ll have it back together for you in a jiff. Three days, tops.”
Grayson licked his busted lip as he digested the news. “Well, I guess I should make the best of it. Hold on a second.” He climbed inside the RV. I heard bottles clinking around. I thought he was going to haul out a couple of beers, but he came back holding a Q-Tip. One end of it was fluorescent pink.
“What do you think?” he asked, showing it to me.
I eyed it dubiously. “Not my shade of lipstick. But I think it’d go great with your green eyes.”
Grayson laughed. “I did a Kastle-Meyer on the soil sample.”
“A castle what?”
“Kastle-Meyer. A drop of phenolphthalein, a drop of hydrogen peroxide, and voila. Pink means positive for blood.”
I crinkled my nose at the swab. “Is it human?”
“Indeterminate. I’d need to do a precipitin test to find out. And for that, I’d need more blood, a lab, and perhaps an unlucky rabbit.”
“Oh.”
Grayson tossed the swab into a trashcan. “Do you have lunch plans? My treat.”
If I was hungry, I couldn’t tell. I was still too grossed out by the whole dead dog thing.
“Tell you what,” I said, “given the state of our foreheads, I think we could both use a rest. I’ll make us some soup, we’ll get a nap, and then head out later to an early supper. I’m not that hungry right now. Besides, I need to call Paulson and catch him up on what we found.”
Grayson nodded. “Actually, that sounds good. I could use a rest. What did you have in mind for dinner?”
“There’s a little Mexican restaurant in Waldo. El Molino’s.”
“Perfect. I love tacos.”
“Good. But just so you know, I’m not interested.”
“You’re not interested in eating?”
“No. I meant .... Look, you’re not trying to ask me out, are you? I hope there’s no ... you know ... ulterior motive.”
Grayson shot me a look. “Oh. Well, make no mistake, Drex. There’s an ulterior motive, all right. I didn’t see a restaurant for twenty miles before my RV broke down. And I’ve heard the Uber service in this area sucks.”
I smiled. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll bring you a bowl of chicken noodle.”
“Could you do me a favor?” Grayson asked.
“What?”
“Would you change your shoes for dinner? Even if it’s just into flip-flops?”
“Why?”
“Call me a softie, but I hate to see you dragging around a dead man’s past.”
My throat grew tight. I gave him the once-over. He gave me a friendly smile.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I STUDIED MY REFLECTION in the mirror and readjusted my wig. Then I fished my cellphone from the pocket of my coveralls and spent ten minutes trying to figure out how to add Paulson’s number to my list of phone contacts.
Damned computers! Carl used to do all this crap for me. Why did I let myself get so dependent on him?
I gave up and punched Paulson’s number into the phone. “Paulson? It’s me, Bobbie Drex.”
“Hello, there. Anything new with Vanderhoff?”
“No. But listen. I went back out to the site where we found the dog.”
“You did? Why?”
“I dunno. Curiosity? Anyway, I found something we missed yesterday. On the dog’s body. Its fur had puncture wounds all over it. Like it had been stabbed by someone.”
“Stabbed? Huh. What did you do with the carcass?”
“Nothing. It’s still there.”
“This may be a case of animal cruelty.”
“Or worse. Paulson, you know that body I thought I saw? It may have been real after all. I was thinking the dog could’ve been killed by an escaped con.”
“Did you find the body?”
“No. But the ground by the tree? You know, where I thought I saw it? The sand had a pinkish hue. It’s blood.”
“That could be critical evidence, Bobbie. I’ll get out there and collect samples.”
“But I—”
“Listen, Bobbie. Don’t worry. You did good. I’ll double-check the police reports for any mention of escaped prisoners. And I’ll run back over to the scene right now and bag some soil samples for evidence. Don’t go back there. We don’t want more contamination of the scene, in case this turns out to be something bigger than a dead dog.”
“Okay. But I’d hurry if I were you. There were vultures circling.”
Paulson sniggered. “Buzzards don’t bother me. I’ve had to fight off more than a few in my day.”
“Grayson says their vultures.”
“Who’s Grayson?”
“A guy staying here while his RV gets fixed. He’s a private investigator.”
“You don’t say. He was there with you at the scene?”
“Yes. He said last night’s rain washed away a lot of trace evidence.”
“That’s not good. Listen, be careful with this guy. He may say he’s a P.I., but you never know about strangers. And with your recent concussion, you might not have the best judgment right now.”
The niggling feeling of unease returned. “Okay. You’re right. But I already told him we’d go to dinner at El Molino’s tonight. Do you want me to ask him anything?”
“Not that I can think of at the moment. But tell him to keep his hands to himself, okay?”
I smiled. “I’ll do my best.”
I clicked off the phone. I was no detective, but I was pretty sure I noted a hint of jealousy in Paulson’s voice. I kicked off my father’s boots. Grayson had asked for flip-flops. I’d do him one better. I adjusted my wig. Hair or no hair, it was time to give his mind something to boggle itself over.
Chapter Nineteen
“SO THERE REALLY is a woman underneath those coveralls.”
I stared Grayson down across a sticky laminate table. We were sitting in a duct-taped-together vinyl booth inside El Molino Mexican restaurant in Waldo. I was wearing my sexiest top that didn’t have a grease stain on the front, and I’d slurped down just enough of a frozen margarita to have the guts to ask him some probing questions. I fired them off in rapid succession, before I lost my nerve.
“Okay, what gives with the octopus circles on your head? That lizard in the terrarium? The ratty RV? All that cash in your glove compartment? Your obsession with a red-eyed Mothman?”
Grayson eyed me curiously, then fired back with his own volley.
“What’s with the woodpecker wig? Daddy’s boots? Dressing like a man? Wanting to be a P.I.? I thought you were a small-town mechanic, Drex. Turns out you’re a freaking KGB interrogator!”
I shrunk back in my seat. “Sorry.” I hiccupped. “But you have to admit, there’s a lot of very odd things about you.”
Grayson twisted one side of his mouth and sighed. “Maybe you’re right. But it’s not good to tell someone all your secrets at once. Not when you’re holding as many as I am.”
His face changed from serious to playful as if he’d flipped a switch. He waggled his bushy eyebrows at me. “If we both spill our entire guts tonight, what will we have left to talk about on our second date?”
I pursed my lips, but ended up grinning despite myself. “But I thought—”
The waitress arrived with a stack of tacos big enough to feed a Free-Will Baptist hootenanny. The smell of cumin and ground beef made me salivate. I grabbed one off the top.
“You took quite a chance, handing me back the Glock,” I said and shoved half the taco into my mouth.
Grayson watched me like a lazy cat watches a mouse. “You might see it that way. But my whole life is about taking calculated risks ... on the right people, that is.”
“Calculated risks?”
He shrugged and shot me a sly grin. “While your eyes were closed, I took out the clip.”
I nearly choked on the taco. “That’s not fair!”
“Why not? You still could’ve beaten me over the head with it.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’ve got serious trust issues?”
Grayson burst into laughter. “All the time. How about you?”
I suppressed a smirk and looked at the corner of the ceiling. “Maybe a time or two.”
“How about a toast, then?” Grayson said. “To paranoia. Mother Nature’s bodyguard.”
I reached for my margarita. Grayson raised his mug of beer and winced.
I flinched in empathy. “Does your shoulder still hurt?”
“A bit. But that’s to be expected. I should be dead. What did you do to stop the poison?”
“Poison?”
Grayson’s eyes lost their playful edge for a millisecond. “I mean infection.”
“Oh. Nothing. Just rubbed it with alcohol.”
“Huh. Who would have thought something that simple could cure the bite of the Mothman?”
I studied his twinkling eyes and smirking face. It was impossible to tell if Grayson was teasing me or not. I really hated that I couldn’t read him. After all those years sizing people up at Blanchard’s antique auctions, I thought I could read anyone. There went that theory.
I raised my glass. “Like I said, you and Earl are going to get along like gangbusters. Cheers.”
Our glasses clinked together, and our eyes remained locked as we each took a sip. I looked away first, and set my margarita on the table.
“Are you ever going to answer my questions?” I asked.
“Sure. Pick one. I’ll answer one. Fair enough?”
“Better than nothing, I guess. So, all that money in your glove compartment. Did you make it as a private investigator?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Grayson shook his head. “Nope. That’s another question.”
“Argh!”
He smirked. “My turn. Why are you wearing that wig?”
“They shaved my head in the hospital.”
Grayson took off his fedora, revealing his pale scalp. It was turning dark gray as short stubble covered it like a five o’clock shadow. “Finally. A point of commonality.”
“Commonality?” I asked. “You mean the hospital or the head shave?”
Grayson put his hat back on. “No more questions.”
I frowned. “What are we gonna talk about then?”
“Tell you what. How about a dare?”
“A dare?” I took another slurp of margarita to prepare myself.
“Yes. You show me your bald spot, and I’ll tell you about my lizard.”
I nearly spewed my drink. “Your flirting skills suck, you know that?”
Grayson grimaced. “Sorry. I meant it as a joke.”
“Still, no deal. You’re not seeing my bald head.”
“Okay. Tell me why you dress like a man.”
“Nope. That’s another question.”
“Answer it, and I’ll tell you about how I earn my money.”
Finally, a man with an offer that I actually didn’t want to refuse. I took another slug of margarita. This time for courage.
“I was supposed to be a boy.”
Grayson blanched. “What?”
“I was supposed to be Robert Drex, Jr. But somewhere in transit, I got my wires crossed and the plumbing wrong. My sonogram ‘penis’ turned out to be the extended middle finger of my left hand.”
Grayson sat back. “No shit.”
“No. No penis. My parents had to add an “A” onto the name they’d planned for my birth certificate. That put a quick end to dear Robert and an unwanted beginning to me, Roberta—a very poor substitute, indeed.” I took another slurp of margarita and shrugged. “But hey, what kid hasn’t disappointed their parents? I just decided to get it over with extra early.”
Grayson shook his head. “Did they make you pretend to be a guy?”
“No. But my mom had a bit of a drinking problem, and my dad was busy with his garage. I hung out in the service bay, mostly. Until I hit puberty, that is. Then my father made me stay out. Mom and Grandma Selma tried to make me into a girl, but it was too late.”
“Huh,” Grayson said as I fortified myself with another slug of margarita.
“You wanna know something?” I asked.
“What?”
“I’ve never actually worn a dress. My poor mother couldn’t make me. Not even on prom night. It just felt ... weird.”
Grayson nodded. “Perhaps you’d already passed some critical stage of development, beyond which you couldn’t embrace pantyhose.”
I laughed sullenly. “Yeah. Maybe. Now, I guess I’m doomed to live the rest of my life in jeans.”
“Well, at least you didn’t say mechanic’s coveralls.”
I slammed my drink on the table. “Oh, hell no! This whole situation is ... is ... well, shit. I don’t know what it is.”
Grayson’s eyebrows flew up an inch. I took another belt of margarita and got angry at the world.
“Look. When my father died, I took over his shop. I wanted to save Daddy’s legacy ... and prove I was every bit as good a mechanic as Earl. I sunk my life savings into that shop. And what did I get in return? Broke! The place is a freaking money pit. Earl won.”
“Earl won?”
“He gets a paycheck, and I’m stuck paying the bills and tromping around in my dead father’s shoes. You want to know why I wear my dad’s shoes?”
I didn’t wait for Grayson to answer.
“Because I can’t afford to buy my own stupid pair of steel-toed boots! That’s why!”
Grayson nodded solemnly, then smirked. “So what were you doing before you became the world’s surliest mechanic?”
I burst out laughing, as if a dam had given way inside me. I laughed until I snorted. Then I laughed at my snorting. I laughed at my pain and my stupidity. I laughed at the utter absurdity of life. I laughed at the utter absurdity of Grayson. God, it felt good to laugh.
The waitress came over and eyed me as if I’d lost it.
“Ah,” Grayson said. “Just what we need. Reinforcements.”
He took the beer, then gently placed the margarita in front of me.
“Please, go on,” he said, and smiled encouragingly. “Your life before auto mechanics?”
He raised his bottle. I met it with my glass.
“I was an antiques dealer,” I said. “With my fiancé. Correction ... ex-fiancé. Carl Blanders. It was a good gig, actually. Until he went and traded me in for someone with more Blue Book value.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. But that’s another story. Let’s just say that for now, I’m stuck doing what I’m doing until I can come up with something better.”
“Like being a private investigator?”
“Yeah.”
“You know, I think you may have the makings of a good one, Red.”
My back bristled. “Call me a boy if you want, Grayson. Call me a jackass, I don’t care. But like I told you before, don’t call me Red. Do it again and I just might take a socket wrench to your carburetor ... if you catch my drift.”
“I get it,” Grayson said. “Deal.”
“Deal?” a familiar voice sounded behind me. “What kind of deal are you two making?” Detective
Paulson stomped up to the end of the booth and glared at us, his ice-blue eyes nearly hidden behind angry, narrow slits.
“Nothing, Paulson,” I said. “Just exchanging information.”
Paulson eyed Grayson. “I thought I told you not to discuss the case, Bobbie.”
Grayson met his stare. “We weren’t talking about the case. You must be Detective Paulson. I’m Nick Grayson.”
Grayson stood and held his hand out. Paulson shook it after waiting a beat.
“What are you doing in Point Paradise, Mr. Grayson?” Paulson asked.
“Just a little sightseeing.” Grayson looked at me and winked. “You have to admit she’s quite a sight. Am I right?”
Paulson’s face flushed. The tendons in his neck tightened. “Ms. Drex here is a treasure, Mr. Grayson. And folks around here ... well, we like to keep a close eye on our valuables.”
“Well, I can—” Grayson began.
“You two have a nice evening,” Paulson said, cutting Grayson off. He turned to me. “Bobbie, give me a call tomorrow. I want a full report on you-know-who.”
Paulson turned on his heels and left the restaurant.
“Is ‘you-know-who’ perhaps ‘little-old-me’?” Grayson asked, batting his eyelashes.
I didn’t answer, because I really didn’t know.
AT MIDNIGHT, THE OLD landline to my parent’s business started ringing. It’d been in continuous service since they’d opened the garage three decades ago. I hadn’t had the heart to disconnect the number, since their old-time customers still used it from time to time. It hadn’t rung in weeks. But now that I only had two hours sleep on a three-margarita hangover, it wouldn’t shut the hell up.
The fourth time it started ringing, I was too boiling mad to stop myself from answering it.
“What?” I yelled into the phone.
“Beep-beep-beep.”
“Who is this?”
“Beep-beep-beep.”
“I’m hanging up, now, jackass.”
“We’re watching,” a robotic voice said.
“Who’s watching?” I croaked, my throat suddenly too tight to squeeze out anything more.
There was no answer.
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