Moth Busters, Dr. Prepper, Oral Robbers: Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures 1, 2 & 3

by Margaret Lashley

  “Because I turned into a girl.”

  “No, Bobbie. That ain’t it at all. On your eleventh birthday, your mom got drunk as a skunk and finally told your dad the truth.”

  I frowned. “The truth?”

  “That your daddy ain’t your daddy. Your real dad’s a man named David Applewhite.”

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  “YOU AIN’T NEVER COMING back, are you?” Earl asked as he handed me another tissue.

  “Why should I? This whole place ... my whole family is nothing but a lie, Earl.” I honked into a Kleenex.

  “Not all of it, Bobbie. I’m still your cousin, blood or not.”

  I smiled. “You’re right.” I stood up and gave him a hug. “Never is a long time. I’ll stay in touch. I promise.”

  Earl nodded. “Good. All right, then. I suggest you get your fat butt in gear before Grayson changes his mind.”

  I laughed. “Had to get the last zinger in, didn’t you?”

  Earl winked. “Who says it’s the last?”

  As I turned to head up the stairs, Earl called after me. “Hey Cuz, don’t forget to turn out the lights when you leave. I’m the new boss man, you know.”

  “Right,” I said, saluting. “I know.”

  AFTER CALLING BETH-Ann to give her the news, I glanced around the bedroom I’d inhabited for the past six months. Unlike the ghostly memories of my parents, I hadn’t made enough of an impression for it to linger here after I was gone. And for that, I was glad.

  On the nightstand, the picture of my unhappy family glared at me, frozen in a time better off forgotten.

  I picked up the framed photo and studied it. Dad was still frowning in his shiny, new Mustang. Mom still offered up her dour, distant countenance. And Grandma Selma still held me in her arms, her eyes glazed-over with a faraway stare.

  I blew out a breath. Then something caught my eye I hadn’t noticed before.

  Me.

  The baby in the photo. Her lips were curled, ever so slightly. She was smiling.

  Had the picture itself changed, or just the way I perceived it? I shook my head.

  Grayson’s crazy ideas must be contagious.

  I set the photo back on the nightstand. From under the bed, I grabbed a duffle bag and stuffed in a few clothes. On top of them, I placed Grandma Selma’s afghan.

  I stripped off my father’s shoes and mechanic coveralls for the last time. Carrying them across the room, I realized just how heavy they actually were.

  Suddenly, a devious smile worked its way onto my lips. I marched across the room and flung the boots and coveralls out the window. As they hit the asphalt of the parking lot below, the thud made me grin.

  Naked, I stepped into the shower, and let the warm, soapy water wash me clean.

  IT WAS DUSK WHEN I climbed into the passenger seat next to Grayson. Earl waved at us from the service bay as the old RV rumbled out of the parking lot. I waved back at him.

  “You’re going to miss him, aren’t you?” Grayson asked.

  I smiled. “Yep. Every chance I get.”

  Grayson laughed and tipped his fedora to Earl.

  I looked over at Grayson. “So, Mister Private Investigator, what now?”

  Grayson shot me a thoughtful smile. “Mothman may be played out for now. I think it’s time we look for a new game.”

  “Sounds good. Any ideas?”

  “I’ve heard reports of something strange going on in Plant City.”

  I laughed. “What? A killer weevil infestation?”

  “Close. Possible alien invasion.”

  “Huh. And it’s not even strawberry-picking season yet.”

  Grayson grinned. He shifted gears and steered the RV out of the parking lot and into the southbound lane of Obsidian Road.

  I reached over and touched Grayson’s arm. “Wait. I forgot something.”

  Grayson hit the brakes. “What?”

  “This.”

  I rolled down my window, pulled the Glock from my purse, aimed, and fired. The flashing yellow light between oblivion and nowhere shattered into a million pieces.

  Grayson flinched. “What’d you do that for?”

  I smiled and faced the road ahead. “Just putting out the lights, like the boss man said. Okay, Grayson. I’m ready. Let’s roll.”

  THE END—OF THE BEGINNING ....

  I hope you enjoyed Moth Busters! If you did, it would be freaking fantastic if you would post a review on Amazon, Goodreads and/or BookBub. You’ll be helping me keep the series going! Thanks in advance for being so awesome!

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07RC7HVD2#customerReviews

  Now, sit back and prepare yourself for Freaky Florida Mystery Book 2 – Dr. Prepper!

  Dr. Prepper

  FREAKY FLORIDA MYSTERY Adventures, Book 2

  By Margaret Lashley

  Prologue

  LAST WEEK, I GOT SHOT in the head.

  The doctor said I didn’t have brain damage. But the things I did afterward make me question whether I should’ve gotten a second opinion.

  First, I let a complete stranger stay in my Grandma Selma’s apartment.

  Okay, that’s not so crazy.

  But then I spent a week with that same stranger, rambling around Alachua County chasing after Mothman.

  Yes, Mothman.

  When I finally realized the guy might be a raving lunatic, I did the only sensible thing I could think of.

  I ditched my entire life, climbed into his dumpy RV, and headed off to Plant City to help him save the world from an alien invasion.

  You’re welcome.

  Chapter One

  I WOKE UP AND SMELLED the coffee.

  I cracked open a crusty eye. What I saw in the dim light sent memories of yesterday slamming into my brain like a saltwater tsunami.

  Less than twenty-four hours ago, my cousin Earl Shankles had hit me with a family secret that turned my life into a complete dumpster fire.

  My father who’d died six months ago wasn’t my father. And my mother had run off with Mr. Applewhite, the postman. According to Earl, 37 years ago, I was Mr. Applewhite’s “special delivery.”

  Funny. I didn’t feel special.

  So, with no one around to point my bastard-child finger at, I did something that a mere week ago I’d have considered totally irrational.

  Insane, even.

  I ran off and joined the circus.

  To be more specific, I joined a monster-chasing, freak-show of a circus led by a man I’d known for all of six days.

  From what he’d told me, Nick Grayson was a private investigator, an amateur entomologist, an alternative healer, and a noted—albeit somewhat disgraced—physicist.

  If any part of what he claimed was true, his credentials blew mine out of the water.

  All I brought to the table was a bachelor’s degree in art appreciation, a fairly limited knowledge of antiques, and a fairly unlimited distrust of ... well, pretty much anything that talked.

  But I could shoot a gun better than anyone I knew—including Grayson. I’d pinned my hopes on that being enough to convince him to keep me on as a PI intern.

  Otherwise, I was totally screwed.

  Last night, after leaving my cousin in charge of running my family’s auto repair business, I’d jumped out of my old life and into Grayson’s RV.

  But I hadn’t started my life over with a clean slate. Not even close. I’d climbed aboard toting enough baggage to significantly lower the guy’s overall gas mileage.

  As I lay curled up on the RV’s sofa, I thought about my friend Beth-Ann. The last words she’d said to me blasted through my mind like a hurricane siren.

  Are you outta your ever-loving gourd?

  Maybe I was.

  But it didn’t matter. It was way too late to turn back now.

  From the gentle rocking of the RV, I could tell it was rolling down the highway, full steam ahead. I closed my eyes again.

  Screw it, I thought. Life is for living.

  I was a carp
etbagger in search of carpe diem.

  Woohoo. Let the good times roll ....

  Chapter Two

  IT HAD BEEN WAY PAST midnight when Grayson pulled his vintage RV into the parking lot of a Walmart in Inverness, Florida. I’d woken when he stopped, and watched him pass by me silently on his way to his bedroom in the back of the RV.

  Exhausted, I’d immediately fallen asleep again on the couch. When I woke up again, it was still dark.

  Coffee was on the stove. Amy Winehouse was on the radio.

  I fumbled for my cellphone. It was 7:03 a.m. and we were already rolling again.

  Ugh.

  I dragged myself to sitting and touched the scab in the middle of my forehead. It was almost healed. Not bad for being the target of a ricochet bullet a little over a week ago. I scratched the itchy stubble growing in where my long auburn locks used to be.

  My new hairdo was a memento from the overzealous staff at the hospital in Gainesville. They’d shaved my head all the way to my ears, leaving me with a bald spot not even the most ambitious comb-over could hope to cover.

  I scanned the RV’s tiny kitchen/living room area for Lucky Red. It was the Redman chewing tobacco ball-cap my cousin Earl had lent me to cover my billiard-ball noggin. I spotted it at the end of the couch, perched atop the head of ET, the extraterrestrial. Or in this case, ET, the world’s ugliest lamp.

  Good one, Grayson.

  I leaned over and snatched the cap off ET’s gray plaster skull. Lucky Red was my fallback until I could procure another wig. My last one had met its fate at the hands of a frisky Mothman. But that’s another story ....

  I yawned and pulled the cap over my stubble. My body reminded me I was in dire need of a shower and at least a half a gallon of coffee.

  Sitting on the couch, I could almost reach the coffee pot on the kitchen.

  Almost.

  I groaned and made a Herculean attempt, but the pot of life-inducing go-juice remained irritatingly out of reach.

  I scowled at the stove.

  Why couldn’t I have gotten some useful skill out of getting shot between the eyes? Like The Incredibles’ stretchy arms, maybe. But no. All I got was the knowledge that I had my twin brother’s gonad knocking around in my brain.

  And, like all men, he was not being particularly helpful.

  I grunted, hauled myself off the couch, and poured myself a jittery mugful of coffee. After gulping half of it down, I refilled my mug and wormed my way up to the RV’s cab.

  A slim man dressed all in black tipped his vintage fedora at me, giving me a glimpse of his own shaved dome.

  He shot me a sideways glance. “Morning, sunshine. Sleep well?”

  Grayson’s cheery, morning-person tone might as well have been fingernails on a chalkboard.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Like a balloon animal in a cactus garden.”

  I flopped into the passenger seat beside Grayson and rubbed my sore neck.

  Grayson laughed. “I told you to take the bed.”

  “Chivalrous of you, but no thanks.”

  The bedroom in Grayson’s RV moonlighted as an electromagnetic monster trap. Call me paranoid, but I wasn’t keen on the idea of losing consciousness inside a strange man’s small, padded, soundproofed bedroom that had enough locks on the door to restrain Godzilla. I already had enough trust issues, thank you very much.

  I blew out a sigh. “What happened to Walmart? I was gonna buy a wig.”

  Grayson fiddled with the knobs on some electronic contraption mounted to the underside of the dash.

  “I wanted to get an early start,” Grayson said. “Last night I got an update on that incident in Plant City. And, as you country folks are fond of saying, ‘Time’s a-wastin’.’”

  I shot him some serious side-eye. “I’ve never heard anybody say that.”

  I blew out a breath and took another sip of coffee. “Use that awful country accent one more time and I can’t be held responsible for where the contents of my coffee mug fling themselves.”

  Grayson smirked. “I see you’re not a morning person. Duly noted.”

  I looked out the window and almost smiled. Despite the crick in my neck and the grayish weather, it felt good to see the distance widening between me and my dead-end life back in Point Paradise. I took another slurp of coffee. It was damned good. I’d give Grayson that much.

  “What’s so interesting in Plant City?” I asked.

  Grayson shook his head. “Not so fast, intern. First order of business is to get the boss a refill.” He handed me his empty coffee mug.

  “Is this part of my P.I. training?”

  Grayson shrugged. “Only if you want to continue your P.I. training.”

  I grinned. Grayson was only a few years older than me, but he was already a seasoned private investigator. I was just a P.I. wannabe with a brand-new intern license. I needed two years of on-the-job training to qualify for a full-fledged Class C license. Thanks to Grayson and his traveling investigator show, I only had 103 weeks to go.

  I grabbed his coffee mug. “Pinch of salt, right?”

  Grayson’s eyebrow ticked up. “Gold star, cadet.”

  I tumbled back to the kitchen, threw a couple of Pop-Tarts in the toaster, and poured us both more coffee. After delivering the mugs to the cup holders on the dashboard, I grabbed the pastries and parked my rear back in the passenger seat.

  “Here you go.” I handed Grayson a blueberry Pop-Tart.

  He raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Already brownnosing, eh?”

  I shrugged. “Figured it couldn’t hurt. So now will you tell me what’s going on in Plant City?”

  “I got a call from one of my sources.”

  “Your sources?”

  Grayson nodded down at the weird-looking equipment installed under the dash. “That’s a ham radio. I use it to operate an informal hotline on an obscure channel. People call in with information. If it sounds interesting, I follow up.”

  I took a bite of Pop-Tart. “What kind of information?”

  “You know. Unidentifiable tracks. Weird lights in the sky. Mutilated corpses. That kind of thing.”

  I sucked the sticky frosting from my front teeth. “Sorry I asked. So what’s in it for the informants?”

  “Operatives,” Grayson corrected. He shot me a grin and batted his eyes. “Why, my undying gratitude, of course.” He turned back to face the road. “That, and cold, hard cash.”

  “So, exactly what kind of strange phenomenon are we looking into?”

  “A fellow in Plant City overheard an unusual radio transmission two days ago. A guy named Lester Jenkins got on a frequency and starting screaming, ‘They’re here! They’re here!’”

  I took a sip of coffee. “Huh. Maybe his in-laws came into town.”

  Grayson shot me a sideways glance. “A cop found him dead a few hours later.”

  I smirked. “Like I said, maybe his in-laws—”

  “His head covered in some kind of slime,” Grayson said.

  “Huh. You’ve obviously never dealt with in-laws, Grayson.”

  He snorted. “Shut up and eat your Pop-Tart.”

  My gut gurgled. “Hey, can we stop at the next rest stop?”

  “I guess. Why?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve got something I want to get rid of.”

  “If you mean what I think you mean, the toilet works just fine while we’re underway.”

  I frowned. “Thanks. But that’s something I’m going to need a bit more time getting used to.”

  Grayson eyed me. “Claustrophobic?”

  I shrugged and stared at the road ahead. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

  Chapter Three

  DOWNTOWN PLANT CITY appeared to have been snatched directly from an episode of Mayberry R.F.D. Compared to my hometown of Point Paradise, the place looked like Camelot.

  Grayson, on the other hand, wasn’t quite so impressed. After a quick drive past the main street’s quaint little collection of coffee shops, boutiques, antique shops and
restaurants, he announced he’d seen enough, and turned the RV onto US 92.

  A mile or so down the road, a touristy billboard for Parkesdale Market came into view. I whined like a brat until I convinced Grayson to stop for a “World Famous” strawberry shake.

  When he spotted Parksdale’s candy-cane striped awnings, he sneered, but grudgingly pulled in. We got the shakes to go, and I was sucking down the last slurp when Grayson stopped the RV on a rural backroad we’d turned onto a few miles back.

  “This looks like it,” he said.

  I eyed him sideways. “Is this a joke?”

  Ignoring me, Grayson maneuvered the shabby RV up to a ten-foot-high, chain-link gate spanning a dirt driveway. It appeared to be the only way in and out of a barbed-wire-topped compound encompassing a couple of acres of half-cleared Florida scrubland.

  The place looked like a low-rent prison for blue-collar offenders.

  “Are you sure this is the right place?” I asked Grayson.

  “Yes. Positive.”

  I was afraid of that.

  The compound was situated in the back forty of a rural suburb comprised mostly of similar properties—trailer homes on small clearings tucked in amongst native palmetto bushes and pine trees. Most of the other neighbors, however, hadn’t put quite so much time and effort into creating such an impressive unwelcome mat.

  I rolled down the window and stuck my head out for a better view. Partially hidden by trees, overgrown bushes, and an assortment of rusty household appliances, I spotted the outline of an old trailer. Beside it stood a satellite dish big enough to impress NASA engineers.

  I crinkled my nose. “Well, at least he’s got something worth protecting.”

  Grayson mashed a button on a black metal box beside the gate. A robotic voice crackled from a speaker.

  “Identify yourself.”

  Grayson glanced over at me. Not knowing him that well, I would’ve sworn he looked just the teensiest bit embarrassed. He tipped his black fedora to no one I could see and said, “Gray Hotline.”