Seven Daze: Redneck Rendezvous (A Val Fremden Mystery Book 7)

by Margaret Lashley

  Not bad for a first draft. I named the file Cheetos’ Revenge, saved it, and logged off my computer. I was feeling pretty stoked. In just one day I’d finished a whole short story, started another, and had created a casserole from scratch. This whole “writer’s retreat” thing was working out pretty well after all. Losing my keys had been a blessing in disguise. I’d actually accomplished something!

  I closed the computer, grabbed the casserole, and headed out the door.

  As I picked my way along the sandy lane toward the firelight flickering on the shore of Lake Rosalie, Deja-vu crept up behind me. Or was it just my imagination? The odd blend of curiosity and trepidation wrestling in my gut felt so...familiar. I was sure I’d been in this situation before – another lifetime ago – on a dusty path just like this one. Maybe once upon a time I’d been a fur trapper, looking to make peace with an indigenous tribe....

  A chill wriggled down my spine like a daddy-longlegs spider. Oh, no! What if my offering is rejected by the clan? I looked down at the casserole. Orange fingers poked out from their shroud of white goo and pointed at me accusingly.

  What if they saw the casserole as a joke...at their expense? What if they thought I was a jerk for bringing it?

  An avalanche of doubt crushed my confidence. I tightened my grip on the casserole dish and hoisted it to my right. I was about to heave it into the bushes when a voice sounded behind me. I was so startled I nearly yelped.

  “Howdy, Val,” Stumpy said. He walked up beside me. “Glad you came. Crowd’s kind ‘a sparse since the snowbirds flew on back home.”

  “Oh. Right. Thanks.” I smiled sheepishly. “What should I do with this?” I shrugged, raising the casserole dish a few inches.

  “Aww. I done tol’ ya you didn’t have to bring nothin’.”

  “My momma would roll over in her grave if I didn’t,” I said, in a voice I barely recognized as my own. As if possessed by ghosts of the past, I’d reverted back to the Southern twang it had taken me thirty years to get shed of. My face flushed with heat.

  “Put ‘er over there.” Stumpy pointed a short finger toward the open tailgate of a rusty Chevy pickup. It had either been parked or abandoned next to a rusted-out washing machine. “And grab yourself a cold one while you’re over there.”

  I set my odd offering down on the tailgate next to a platter of canned pear halves. Each lay on a lettuce leaf and sported a dollop of yellowing mayo where their pits used to be. Each ghostly pear was garnished with a few shreds of processed yellow cheese-like food product.

  Next to the pears were bowls containing the obligatory potato salad, baked beans, and tub of green Jell-O, complete with canned fruit chunks floating around in it like suspended vomit.

  Geeze. This makes Winky’s party look like a soiree at the Ritz.

  I leaned over the old washing machine and grabbed a beer from the icy water in its rusty tub. I cracked it open and chugged half of it down before I headed over toward the others. As I surveyed the odd collection of humanity sitting around the campfire, I felt an unexpected, interspecies connection I’d only felt once before – with a gorilla at the zoo. Maybe it was because my real mother once lived in an RV.

  “I believe you done met Woggles,” Stumpy said as I stepped up to the crowd. He motioned for me to sit on an old dinette chair. Its vinyl seat had been pre-ripped for my inconvenience.

  “Yes. Hi, Woggles,” I said. He tipped his beer can at me in a silent salutation.

  “This here’s Slim,” Stumpy said, and waved a short-fingered hand at a man who was anything but small.

  “Howdy,” Slim said, and leaned his hairy, four-hundred pound frame forward like a grizzly bear. The motion caused his inadequate dinette chair to groan in a way that made me wince. I shook his huge, beefy hand. It enveloped my own as if it were a newborn’s.

  “And I know you done met Charlene,” Stumpy continued. I nodded at the thin woman who rode around in a shopper chopper and made home deliveries. She’d changed into polyester slacks and a top encrusted with enough rhinestones to cover Cincinnati. Her silvery-blonde hair was beautifully coiffed in soft curls.

  Huh. Who knew toilet-paper tubes could be so handy?

  “You cain’t rightly not know Miss Busybody,” joked Woggles about Charlene. She smiled at me, then shot Woggles a dirty look.

  “And hey, ever-body, this here feller’s named Steve,” our host Stumpy said. “He drove in just about an hour ago.”

  I looked Steve over. He was a tallish, white guy of indeterminate age and weight. He wore a ball cap over a shaggy head of dark hair. His goatee-like beard was equally unkempt. Accompanying it like one bad decision after another was one of those smarmy, pencil-thin moustaches that made me instantly suspect him of being dimwitted, involved in shady dealings, or most likely both.

  Steve smiled, revealing a gold front tooth.

  Hmmm. Apparently Steve was a man of means, relatively speaking.

  “Hi Steve, I’m Val,” I said, and extending my hand to shake. Steve didn’t reciprocate. I gave him a bit of side-eye and took my seat.

  “Well now, what say we get this here show on the road,” Stumpy said.

  “What about me!” a female voice bellowed from the bushes. A short, squat woman in her late sixties emerged from the slate-colored darkness. Her blunt, boxy, gray bob looked as if she’d cut it herself. With a knife. In the dark. Her pudgy, square body was covered in a loose-fitting, faded house dress that fell just above her saggy knees.

  She stomped over and wedged herself into the chair beside me with an indignant huff. I waited a moment, then dared a sideways glance. Below her angry eyes and pursed lips, the woman sported a thin beard of curly white hairs. It resembled a loose wad of fishing line glued haphazardly to her chin. Possibly in the dark. With a knife.

  “All right, then,” Stumpy sighed. “Fire up the fryers, boys. Queen Elmira has arrived.”

  I WAS DOLLING OUT A spatula of orange and white goop onto my plate when a man’s voice sounded behind me. He was so close to me I could feel his breath on my neck.

  “Don’t tell me. Marshmallow and Cheeto squares?”

  It was gold-toothed Steve. I shrugged and offered a slightly embarrassed smile. “You’re pretty astute for a vagabond.”

  “Who you callin’ an ass toot in a Vagabond?” a screechy woman’s voice yapped. “You ain’t no beauty queen, yoreself, Missy. Actin’ all high and mighty. And you don’t even own your own trailer!”

  I turned around to face Elmira. Her crinkled nose and pursed lips told me she was sporting for a fight.

  “Astute,” I said.

  She raised a flabby, white fist at me. I took a step back and yelped, “Hold on!”

  “Astute means smart,” Steve said, stepping between us. “It was a meant as a compliment, Elmira. And I don’t have a Vagabond. I’ve got a Winnebago.”

  “Oh,” Elmira said. Her voice softened, but her face didn’t. She continued to glare at me suspiciously. “Watch it with that high-brow talkin’.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Here. Try one of these.” I offered her the orange and white glop still hovering on the spatula. Elmira snatched it and shoved a corner of it in her mouth. It disappeared along with her scowl.

  “Don’t you go trying to sweeten me up, neither,” she said, but her face showed my ploy had worked. As she waddled off toward the campfire, Charlene joined us.

  “What’s up with her?” I asked. “Somebody steal her cruller?”

  Charlene shot me a dirty look. “What do you mean by that?”

  I flinched. “Nothing. She just reminds me of my own dear, sweet mother.”

  “Oh,” Charlene said. “Well, just so you know, me and Elmira’s sisters.”

  I bit my lip and nodded. “Family is family. Am I right?”

  “Darn straight,” Charlene said. A grin broke out on her face. “Gimme some of that.” She pointed at my casserole. “I heard it was purty darn good.”

  I relaxed with relief. No harm, no foul. My casserol
e was a hit!

  Steve grinned under his smarmy moustache as I served Charlene a square. As she headed back to the bonfire with her sweet treat, Steve took the spatula from my hand and served himself a piece.

  “Huh. That’s surprisingly good,” he said, licking his fingers.

  “The secret’s in the marshmallow fluff,” I bragged. “I came up with that myself. You see, I didn’t have any marshmallows, except the gooey middles of some moon pies. I thought about using them, but I figured I’d better not. In Polk County, that might get me arrested for desecrating a local treasure.”

  Steve studied me for a moment. “I see you don’t learn too quickly from your mistakes, do you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Open mouth, insert foot.” He demonstrated by opening his mouth and inserting more of the marshmallow and Cheeto glop.

  I sneered. “Oh, don’t be such an ass toot.”

  Steve laughed and choked on the casserole. His hand flew up to his throat, then he got busy hacking out a lung. I slapped him on the back and fished the last beer out of the washing machine. I cracked the tab on it. Steve grabbed it out of my hand and poured it down his throat.

  “Ever thang all right over here?” Woggles asked as he stumbled up.

  “Yeah,” Steve gasped.

  Woggles’ good eye scanned the empty washtub. “Dang. No more beer. Party’s over. Guess I’ll head home. I ain’t feeling too good, no-ways.”

  “Can you see okay in the dark?” I blurted without thinking. Geeze! Steve’s right. My mouth sure can hold a pile of feet.

  “I’ll be fine,” Woggles said, and wandered off into the night.

  “Them crazy eyes sees it all,” Stumpy said, stepping out from the shadow Woggles left behind. “He don’t miss much. Some folks ‘round here thinks Woggle’s is psychic, you know.” Stumpy reached around in the washtub for a beer and came up empty-handed. “Huh. Looks like it’s closin’ time.”

  “She used the last one to save my life,” Steve said, his voice still raspy.

  Stumpy laughed and slapped Steve on the back hard enough to make his eyes bulge. “Well, at least it went to a good cause.”

  “Thanks for inviting me, Stumpy,” I said. “That was the best catfish and hush puppies I’ve had in like...forever.”

  “You don’t say,” Stumpy grinned. “Well, yore mighty welcome, young lady.”

  “I’m serious, Stumpy. Everything was delicious. And...thank you for...well, you all made me feel right at home.”

  “That’s mighty sweet, Val.” Stumpy gave me a kind, fatherly smile. “I guess I’ll get me another slice a that Cheeto pie and head home.” He grabbed a square and looked Steve and me over. “Somebody ought to see you back to your place. Ain’t fit for a purty woman like you to be wanderin’ ‘round alone in the dark.” He winked at Steve.

  “Stumpy’s right,” Steve said. “A woman can’t be too careful these days.”

  Before I could answer, Steve took me by the arm. “Shall we?”

  I looked at Steve, then back at Stumpy. An odd whirlwind of emotions swept through me. I was flattered, confused, and a little flabbergasted at being called a young lady. But the biggest shock was how much this place actually did feel like home.

  I turned to Steve. “Uh...sure.”

  Stumpy smiled and kept a watchful eye on us as Steve and I ambled off toward my RV. After we’d gotten out of earshot of everyone, Steve pulled my arm in tight, drawing me closer to him. “So, what’s a nice gal like you doing in a place like this?”

  “I’m married,” I lied.

  Steve laughed and loosened his grip. “So what are you doing out here all on your own?”

  “Well, it’s kind of a secret. But I’m working on a story.”

  “A story? Like a reporter? What’s it about?”

  “More like a novelist. And I don’t know yet. You on vacation?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  The yellowish light emanating from my RV window looked as welcoming to me as a beacon to a drowning sailor. I pulled my arm out of Steve’s. “Well, thanks for seeing me home.”

  “You going to stay awhile?” he asked as I scurried to the door.

  “I don’t think so. You?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On which way the wind blows.”

  Steve turned and disappeared into the night. I got out my key and reached for the door. As my fingers encircled the doorknob, they got tangled in something wrapped around it. I squinted in the dim light and made out the silhouette of a round object dangling from a string. I unhooked it from the knob and scooped it up in my hand. The fragrance of cinnamon wafted in the night breeze. I held the trinket to my nose and sniffed it as I carried it inside.

  Mmmm. How cute! Someone left me a little RV-warming present. Sure beats the smell of moth balls and mildew....

  I flipped on the kitchen light and “cute” skittered out the window along with my smile. I heard a squeal shoot from my mouth, then my heartbeat pulse in my ears. Hanging from the string in my hand was a shrunken head. Its grotesque face, rimmed in haggish moss hair, grinned maniacally at me with a set of sharp teeth made from broken shells.

  “Aaarrghh!”

  I flung the thing across the room. It ricocheted off the refrigerator and clanked into the sink. I shook my head and laughed nervously. Come on, Val! A shrunken head? That can’t be right.

  I tiptoed over to the sink and peered inside. The thing was gone! How could that be?

  The only thing in the sink was my dirty coffee cup. I noticed a clump of Spanish moss sticking out of the grey water inside it. Cautiously, I reached for the mug handle and dumped it out.

  I gasped again. I hadn’t imagined it.

  Two beady, cat-like eyes stared at me from a shriveled face the color of dried tobacco. Clutched in the shrunken head’s jagged teeth was a soggy piece of paper rolled up into a scroll.

  I had to know what was written on that scroll!

  There was no use taking any chances. I subdued the shriveled head with a wooden spoon before warily picking the paper from between its sharp little teeth. As I unrolled the soggy scroll, a message scrawled in red ink appeared. It spread across the page like a bloodstain, the last few letters not much more than a smear. It read:

  Stay Away.

  Chapter Sixteen

  So much for “feeling right at home.”

  I stared at the shriveled head, suddenly aware I was aping its horrific expression. It stared back at me with sinister cat-eyes and vicious, jagged teeth. Even though it was no bigger than a tangerine, my heart thumped in my throat at the thought that it might sprout legs and come after me like a disembodied eyeball from a bad B movie.

  No, sir. This RV wasn’t big enough for the two of us.

  I grabbed the spoon, scooped up the hideous voodoo head with it, and catapulted it out the door and back into the dark, evil night from which it had come. My skin crawled as I heard it thump onto the ground. I slammed the door, locked it, and shoved the cooler against the door for good measure. I hoped that would be enough. After all, I had no experience with shrunken heads or their devious ways.

  With the unwelcome voodoo head duly thwarted, I collapsed into the dinette booth. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Either I was cavorting with a bunch of nice, country folks or I was the next intended victim of a coven of blood-thirsty demons. Only time would tell.

  I knew I was in way over my head. It was time to call Tom.

  But I didn’t want to admit defeat.

  I picked up my cellphone from the table. The display lit up. On it was my text to Tom about the car keys being on the key rack. I’d forgotten to press “send.” Crap! I clamped my teeth tighter than my Aunt Pansy’s girdle and mashed the send button with all my might.

  The phone cut out.

  “Nooooo!”

  I tried to turn it back on, but it wouldn’t budge. Either I’d squashed its tiny brains out or the battery was dead. I pi
lfered through my suitcase and found the charger. I tried to stick it in the phone but it didn’t fit. I must have picked up Tom’s charger by mistake.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groaned aloud.

  Crap on a cracker! This was all Tom’s fault! His stupid stuff was spread all over my house...getting me all confused. Dang it! Why in the world did I let him move in?

  I flung the charger across the RV.

  Oh, how I wish Tom was here now....

  My heart thumped hollow in my chest as I re-checked the deadbolt on the door and the locks on every single window. When I’d finished securing every one of the tiny RV’s possible entry points, I brushed my teeth and grabbed my spray bottle of Ty-D-Bol. From my perch in the dinette booth, I kept a wary eye on that bloody note until the melted red words, “Stay Away,” were burned into my frazzled retinas.

  I WAS STARTLED AWAKE in the middle of the night again. Apparently, the RV’s manufacturer had spared every expense when it came to noise insulation. My head was slumped forward and my neck ached. As I lifted my head to look around, my vertebrae cracked like a long line of knuckles.

  Ugh. I was still in the dinette booth.

  Groggily, I scooted across the booth and stood up. As I took a fumbling step toward the bathroom, I saw something move at the end of the hallway. I froze like I’d been dipped in liquid nitrogen. I willed my bleary eyes into focus. Out of the haze, the shadowy silhouette of an intruder stared back at me from inside the bedroom.

  This can’t be happening.

  I blinked once. Twice. It was still there. Staring at me.

  The hair on the back of my neck pricked up. The ghostly apparition didn’t budge.

  OMG! It’s the demon spirit of that shrunken head!

  “What do you want?” I croaked, my lungs too tight to speak properly.

  No reply.

  In the silence, I could hear its heavy breathing. I took a step backward. The hideous intruder took a step.