Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Box Set

by Margaret Lashley

I smirked. “If I did, then I’d only have one left.”

  “Come on, Cuz.”

  “What is that thing, anyway?”

  “What the heck’s it look like?”

  I smirked. “A redneck’s worst nightmare?”

  “It’s a Mothman trap, you dingdong. Help me get it set up.”

  “How’d you get it stuck on your back?”

  “I was gonna tote it out to the RV and ... uh ... I kinda forgot it was sticky.”

  I rolled my eyes and sighed. “Fabulous. Follow me.”

  “What’s the plan?” I asked as Earl shuffled along behind me, hunched over with the trap stuck to his back.

  “We make this thing look like a moth cocoon,” Earl said as we made our way across the parking lot. “Grayson said that might be the creature’s safe space.”

  Before I could come up with anything more stupid than that, Grayson emerged from his RV with a Windex bottle in one hand, my wig in the other.

  “What’s that?” I nodded at the Windex bottle half-full of brownish liquid.

  Grayson beamed. “My proprietary blend of moth pheromones. I took the liberty of spraying your wig with them.” He handed me the soggy mass of red hair. “Now, put it back on and I’ll spray you down.”

  I stared at him. “Not in this lifetime.”

  Grayson blanched. “What? I’ve left the bedroom door in the RV unlocked. The plan is, you get all pheremoned up and wait for him in there. Earl and I will hide nearby. When Mothman goes inside, we’ll run in and stick that cocoon thing over him.”

  Grayson took a glance at Earl’s convoluted duct-tape trap and his confidence evaporated. “Earl, I told you to put the duct tape on the inside.”

  I stared at the two men. I was supposed to entrust my life to these two idiots? Grizzly Adams caught in his own moth trap, and Professor Pheromones with a Windex bottle full of happy hormone juice?

  I don’t think so.

  “Hold on, gentlemen,” I said. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  Chapter Sixty

  TYPICAL ACADEMIC.

  Grayson’s moth-trap idea might’ve seemed good in theory, but it didn’t translate in the real world—at least, not in my real world. If all went according to my plan, however, Mothman would soon be buzzing around us again, and into Grayson’s monster trap.

  I set my jaw to Wonder Woman mode and got to work.

  I ripped Earl’s sticky, cardboard box from the back of his flannel shirt and tossed it on the ground.

  “Grab your duct tape and follow me,” I commanded. “And you, Grayson. Spray down your monster trap bedroom with that pheromone stuff of yours. But be sure and save some for me. Come on, Earl.”

  My burly cousin shot me a look, but then tromped up the stairs behind me. He followed me into my apartment and down the hall to my bedroom.

  I pointed at the floor. “Fix Mothman so he can fly again.”

  Earl grinned as he contemplated the deflated remains of his blow-up-doll creation. “Looks like he put up a good fight, Cuz.”

  “Get to work,” I barked. “And don’t use Grandma’s afghan this time. Use this instead.”

  Earl caught what I threw at him and grinned. “Yes, boss man.” He ripped off a piece of duct tape with his teeth, got down on his knees, and went to work.

  While Earl doctored up the Mothman sex doll, I fished through my closet for the perfect outfit for our flying bait. I re-dressed the re-inflated body while Earl patched leaks and tested out the drone.

  “Does it still work?” I asked.

  “Ain’t too much worse for wear, Bobbie. You never were good with a punch.”

  “Har har. Grab that stupid thing and let’s roll.”

  When Earl and I emerged downstairs a few minutes later, the flying drone had been transformed. With the help of an old nightie of mine, fuzzy high-heeled slippers, and one of Grayson’s pink T-shirts for a cape, Mothman had become Mothwoman.

  Grayson’s jaw fell open.

  “Spray her down, professor,” I said. “Earl, tape that wig to her head, then let her fly.”

  “Yes, boss man.”

  “All right, men,” I said, crossing my arms. “Let’s get that pheromone scent up in the air, shall we?”

  WITH EARL AT THE HELM of the remote control, Mothwoman worked like an insect’s wet dream. She buzzed her way around the vicinity of the garage and bordering woods, advertising her wares like a mothy harlot.

  Unfortunately, about ten minutes into it, things went a little off plan.

  Earl emerged unexpectedly from the bushes and stepped under the light of a lamp post in the parking lot.

  His hands were in the air.

  Behind him was a man holding a gun to Earl’s ribcage.

  And it wasn’t Paulson.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  “FBI SPECIAL AGENT TOM Hicks,” the guy announced. “Come out now. And if you’ve got any weapons, lay them down.”

  Grayson and I glanced at each other from behind the RV. He nodded and laid Earl’s Mossberg shotgun on the asphalt. I followed suit with my Daisy BB gun.

  “What’s going on here?” Hicks demanded.

  “We’re on your side, Agent Hicks,” I called out from across the lot. “We’re trying to apprehend Paulson ... I mean the guy who’s pretending to be Terry Paulson.”

  The FBI agent poked his gun in Earl’s ribs. “Is this him? I found him crouched in the bushes, giggling like a moron.”

  “No,” I said, taking a cautious step toward them. “I know he looks abnormal, but he’s just my cousin, Earl Shankles.”

  Suddenly, a large, pinkish, bird-like creature buzzed over us, mere feet from our heads. We all looked up.

  “What the?” Agent Hicks yelled. He pointed his weapon toward the sky and fired twice.

  Shards of plastic rained down on the parking lot. A moment later, Mothwoman smacked into the asphalt between us. She squealed and deflated with a long, flappy, whine.

  I glanced up at Agent Hicks. His face was impossible to describe. He pointed his gun at Mothwoman, then Earl, then me; then just let it drop to his side. “Can somebody please explain what the hell is going on here?”

  “It’s a decoy,” I said. “We’re using it to lure Paulson in.”

  “With a flying blow-up doll?” Hicks eyed me like I was crazy. I couldn’t blame him.

  “It’s a long story,” I began, but Grayson cut me off.

  “We don’t have time for long explanations. Agent Hicks, whoever this guy is who shot your partner, he ditched his car nearby. He’s out there somewhere ... he could be aiming a gun at us right now.”

  Agent Hicks nodded toward our Mothman trap. “Who’s in the RV?”

  Grayson fumbled. “Uh ... no one. It’s part of the lure. I put on some soft music and lit a candle.”

  I smirked. “Nice touch.”

  Hicks jaw went tense. He pointed his gun at us again. “Shut up! I need some straight answers. Why is there a blow-up doll here wearing a monster mask and a red wig?”

  I grimaced. “This Paulson imposter is ... uh ... partial to redheads.”

  “And monster ladies,” Earl added, as if that explained everything else Agent Hicks needed to know.

  I was preparing myself for being cuffed and led to a psych ward when Grayson stepped forward.

  “Agent Hicks, I’m Nick Grayson, Private Investigator.” He flashed his badge. “I’m working on a case for Chief Warren Engles.”

  Agent Hicks’ eyes grew wide. But not as wide as mine.

  “I’m here investigating reports of Mothman sightings in the vicinity. The apparatus you shot down was, as my assistant said, a pheromone decoy.”

  Agent Hicks appeared incredulous. “I thought Mothman was just an urban legend.”

  “That’s what I’m here trying to determine.”

  Agent Hicks shook his head. “I’ve heard some ridiculous crap in my day, but this takes the prize.” He chewed his lip for a moment, blew out a breath, and looked Grayson in the eye. “Okay. What’
s the plan?”

  Grayson turned my way. All of a sudden, all eyes were on me.

  Again.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  “TERRY PAULSON WAS REPORTED missing by her family five days ago,” Agent Hicks said as the four of us crammed into the small banquet in Grayson’s RV. “I ran the plates on the Corolla in the ditch. They were stolen. The number’s registered to a Mandy Vanderhoff.”

  I wanted to kick myself in the head. The blue Corolla. There were millions of them out there. Mandy drove one. I hadn’t made the connection.

  “This guy must’ve abducted Mandy,” I said. “She has red hair. Terry Paulson has red hair. I’ve got ... I shot a glance around at the men’s faces. I had red hair.”

  Agent Hicks nodded. “Interesting observation. Officially, Terry Paulson was last seen ten days ago, when she left Starke prison driving a police transport vehicle. Her passenger was a murder suspect named Eugene Hollister.”

  I gasped. “The guy pretending to be Terry Paulson must be Eugene Hollister! The dead body in the woods ... with the orange jumpsuit. Hollister killed her and switched clothes. He messed up her face, so no one could identify her.”

  “You could be right, young lady,” Agent Hicks said. “Yesterday, we found Terry Paulson’s body in a shallow grave about two and a half miles south of here.”

  “I told Paulson—I mean Hollister that I’d found a body,” I said. “He must’ve gone back and hid it, then made me go back to the scene to show me it wasn’t there.” I shook my head. “He wanted me to think I’d imagined it. Then he must’ve gone back later that day and buried it. The rain would’ve washed away his trail.”

  “But why hadn’t anyone reported Ms. Paulson missing until now?” Grayson asked.

  “Apparently, the guy assumed Terry Paulson’s identity,” Agent Hicks said. “She was filling in as interim officer for Jack Barker. Nobody knew her in Waldo. Hollister could’ve reported in to the Alachua Sherriff’s Department online. Or used a device to change his voice to sound like a woman over the phone.”

  My back stiffened. “They make devices like that?”

  “Sure,” Grayson said. “Hollister might’ve been able to fool department employees with it, but he couldn’t fool Terry Paulson’s family.”

  I shook my head. “That’s why he didn’t want to go to Vanderhoff’s himself. Paulson ... I mean Hollister. He gave me that assignment because he was afraid old lady Vanderhoff would recognize Mandy’s car. She must’ve made the connection anyway, and so he had to kill her.”

  “What’s this Hollister fella look like?” Earl asked.

  Agent Hicks pulled out a photo. “Kind of like Paul Newman, some say. I, personally, don’t see it. Reports say he’s got a way with the ladies, though.”

  Earl and Grayson both shot me told you so looks. I grimaced. As Agent Hicks passed the photo to Earl, I snatched it from his grubby hand and stared into the handsome, irritatingly attractive face.

  I didn’t recognize it.

  “That’s not him,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s not the guy who was pretending to be Terry Paulson.”

  I handed the photo to Grayson. He agreed. “You’re right. It’s not.”

  Hicks stared at us both. “Then who the hell are you trying to catch?”

  I bit down on my lip. Hard. “I guess we’d better reset that trap and find out.”

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  PHASE TWO OF “OPERATION Moth Trap” was well underway.

  The door to the RV’s monster-trap bedroom was open for business. A few feet down the hall, Grayson and Agent Hicks were holed up inside the miniscule bathroom. I didn’t even want to know how two grown men were making that work. The soft music was playing again, and because Grayson insisted, a candle was left burning on the kitchen table to offer Mothman a symbolic “flame.”

  Our comrade in arms, the dearly deflated Mothwoman, was duct-taped to the RV’s open doorway. She was wearing my wig, my sexiest lingerie, and a nylon rope around her waist.

  I was positioned upstairs in my bedroom above the garage. My role was to flick on a lighter if I saw anyone approach. The light would signal Earl. He was hiding inside a smelly trash can by the RV.

  I smiled to myself. That had been my idea. Being in charge of the plan had its privileges.

  Once I signaled Earl, his job was to pop up out of the trash can and tap on the bathroom window to alert Grayson and Hicks that our prey was approaching the RV door. They, in turn, would then tug on the rope and yank Mothwoman inside.

  Once the perpetrator stepped inside the RV, Earl was supposed to run around and close the door, then make sure it stayed closed until Agent Hicks and Grayson gave the all clear.

  I looked down at the RV in the parking lot and shook my head. I wasn’t kidding myself. This was a foolish plan devised by foolish people. Still, as I stood by the window and kept watch, I prayed with all my might that God would keep his promise to take care of children and fools.

  Because if this didn’t work, Earl and Grayson would never let me live it down.

  Never.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  ABOUT A QUARTER PAST two, I was about to call the whole thing off when a shadowy figure appeared out of nowhere. I blinked, unsure if I was just seeing things. In a split second, the dark figure somehow managed to traverse the parking lot. He was nearly to the RV door.

  “Damn!” I hissed, and fumbled with the lighter. It faltered.

  I tried again. The lighter shot out a flame. I pressed my nose against the windowpane, trying to see if Earl had seen my signal. My breath fogged up the glass. When I wiped it with my sleeve, the figure was gone.

  So was Mothwoman.

  Suddenly, a loud ruckus arose from the RV. It began to rock to and fro like it was in a Cat-4 hurricane. I opened the window and stuck my head out for a better view. That’s when I saw Earl run into the RV toting a baseball bat.

  The door slammed closed. An electric buzz stung the frosty air. Suddenly, all the lights in the house and parking lot went out, plunging everything into pitch-black darkness.

  My heart lurched in my chest. I stood still as a stone, waiting, grinding my teeth in the inky night.

  What in the hell’s going on in there?

  After what seemed like an hour, one lone flashlight emerged from the RV. Whoever had a hold of it pointed it up to my darkened bedroom window. The glare blinded me instantly.

  “Argh!” I fumbled backward as footsteps crunched across the parking lot toward my open window. I tiptoed back to the windowsill, and strained to see beyond the stars dancing in my eyes.

  “Who is it?” I cried out, hoping Mothman wasn’t going to fly through my window again.

  I was about to need another change of underwear when a second flashlight appeared. Then a third.

  Then Earl’s voice rang out from the gloom.

  “Woohoo! Bobbie! We caught us a Mothman!”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  “SO, WHO’S IN THE TRAP?” I yelled down from the bedroom window.

  All three men were huffing and puffing, leaning against the wall of the garage looking like they’d just survived Walmart’s Black Friday door-buster sale.

  “Eugene ... Hollister,” Agent Hicks said between gasping lungsful of air.

  Earl grabbed his side and wheezed, “Boy howdy, I sure could use me a beer.”

  Grayson looked up at me. “How about you, Drex?”

  “Me?” I called down. “I sure could use me a new life.”

  I WENT DOWNSTAIRS, and after the guys finally caught their breath, the four of us crammed into Grayson’s RV.

  “I don’t get it,” I said as Agent Hicks squeezed into the banquette across from me. “Why would Hollister be after us?”

  “You saw him out at Lake Alto. He shot a federal agent out there. My partner Rick Tomlinson.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “I can’t say for sure. I waited until the ambulance arrived. He was hit pretty bad, but still alive when I left. You can
bet Hollister was trying to eliminate you all as witnesses.”

  I chewed my lip. “But it wasn’t Hollister I saw at the cabin. It was the guy impersonating Paulson.”

  Hicks looked me in the eye. “You absolutely sure about that?”

  “It was dark, Drex,” Grayson said. “We only saw him for a second. Hollister and the guy impersonating Officer Paulson look a lot alike. It could’ve been Hollister who ambushed us in the cabin, then chased us back here with Vanderhoff’s stolen car.”

  How could I argue with Grayson? I thought I’d seen Grandma Selma out at that cabin, too. What kind of reliable witness did I make? With that stupid gonad stuck in my brain, I couldn’t be sure that anything I saw was real. There was a real possibility I could’ve gotten Hollister and the other guy mixed up.

  I blew out a breath. “I guess you’re right, Grayson. But even if Hollister was the shooter, this other guy pretending to be Paulson ... he has to be tangled up with Hollister somehow. Why else would they have both known about that cabin at Alto Lake?”

  Earl whistled and shook his head. “Is that coffee ready yet? All this figurin’ is starting to give me a headache.”

  Grayson leaned over and checked the pot of coffee perking on his propane stove. It was our only option for an early-morning cup of joe. It was only five-thirty. The Stop & Shoppe didn’t open until eight o’clock, and I didn’t have any electricity.

  I’d checked the electric meter. Hollister hadn’t cut off my power. The electric company had. They weren’t likely to turn it on any time soon, either. I owed them more than my entire net worth.

  “You may be right, Ms. Drex,” Agent Hicks said. “The two men might be working together. But right now, your mystery man’s not on our radar. In fact, we don’t have any data on him whatsoever. As far as we’re concerned, he doesn’t exist. But you come up with picture or a name for him, and I’ll be the first to help you out.”