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

by Margaret Lashley

  Stumpy beamed with the kind of unselfconscious pride I’ve only ever witnessed in the true South. “That’s what I like to hear.”

  “I’m curious,” I said. “What’s there to do around here?”

  “Well, purty much anything you put your mind to.” Stumpy grinned, reminding me to make an appointment with my dentist. “‘Cept mindin’ your own business, that is.” He laughed. “Folks ‘round here is plum allergic to that.”

  “Thanks for the warning. But I think they’ll find me a pretty boring subject.”

  “I guess we’ll see about that.”

  AFTER DOWNING A CUP of coffee and cleaning the entire kitchen and bathroom with Ty-D-Bol, bleach, and an old toothbrush I found under the sink, I got dressed and went out to explore the Hell’ammo. It had been too dark to see squat when I’d arrived last night. But the morning light revealed the true natural beauty – and truly unnatural horror – of the place.

  Tucked amongst the beautiful old live oaks and saw-leaf palmettos was what could only be described as the decaying remnants of tsunami debris. The wave must have washed over Lake Rosalie perhaps twenty years ago. Left behind in its wake was a hodge-podge of off-kilter, rusty old trailers and abandoned household goods gone bad. As I glanced around, I got the feeling even a junkyard would turn its nose up at most of the crap gracing the property.

  From what I could tell, none of the trailers or RVs had been moved in decades. How could they? Their tires were either flat, disintegrated, or completely AWOL. Most of the trailers were covered in cheap, falling-down plastic siding, tacked up ages ago to make them appear more like cabins. Others, like mine, didn’t bother to hide the fact they were pull-behind RVs. Either way, all were covered in a thin film of green algae, as if the forest itself was trying to slowly digest them, bit by bit.

  Spanish moss hung from the trees like old hag’s hair, and piled up on the rooftops like mounds of bad curly perms waiting to be donated to a senior center. The narrow spaces between the run-down abodes were clogged like arteriosclerotic veins – not with garbage, per se, but with piles of broken furniture and rusted car parts, accented by the occasional abandoned major or minor household appliance.

  I wondered what an alien from another planet would make of all this. I shook my head. No wonder Bigfoot ran away.

  I glanced over at Maggie and reminded myself that I could leave at any time. The thought made me suck in a deep, comforting breath. I noticed her rearview mirror was askew, and walked over to investigate. Crap! Someone had been pilfering around inside Maggie!

  In my haste not to become Sasquatch’s bride last night, I’d left her top down. Whoever’d fiddled with her mirror had left the seats and floorboards smeared with muddy prints. I opened the passenger door. The gnawed lid of a plastic container fell out onto the ground.

  Uh oh....

  A noise behind me made me whip around. A raccoon stumbled sideways out of the bushes and fell on its side. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Oh my dear lord, no!

  “I’m sorry!” I said to the disabled raccoon. “I shouldn’t have left the cookies out here. It was my fault.” I glanced around, wild-eyed as a murderer, hoping no one else had seen.

  “You must be Val,” a voice said.

  I nearly jumped out of my skin. I whirled back around. About six feet away was a skinny old woman eying me from beneath a head full of curlers made from toilet-roll tubes. She was perched atop the saddle of an adult-sized tricycle. Soldered onto the front end, in lieu of a third wheel, was a metal grocery-shopping cart.

  “I’m Charlene,” she said, and waved. “Howdy! Just stoppin’ by to see if you need anything. I’m headin’ up to Junior’s Save ‘n’ Stuff.”

  I couldn’t for the life of me form a coherent word, much less a sentence.

  “Admirin’ my ‘shopper chopper,’ eh?” She grinned. “Stumpy fixed it up for me real nice, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” I managed.

  “Junior’s got a sale goin’ on today. Two-fer-one on Cheetos and moon pies. You want you some, sugar?”

  The angle of my vision shifted up and down slightly. I must have been nodding my head.

  “Alrighty, then. Got you down for both.” Charlene grinned and pedaled off down the narrow dirt lane like a hillbilly remake of The Wizard of Oz – on LSD.

  Okay. That’s it. I’m done here.

  I ran back inside the RV and slung everything hanging out of my suitcase back inside and clicked the fasteners. Thank goodness I hadn’t unpacked yet. I’d spent too much time cleaning the kitchen and bathroom to have gotten around to disinfecting the chest-of-drawers.

  As I scooted past the refrigerator, I didn’t even hesitate. Too bad, carrot sticks. You’re on your own.

  I flung my suitcase down the rickety metal steps and locked the RV behind me. But after I’d drug all my stuff over to Maggie, my alter ego forced me to have a change of heart.

  If I’m going to be a writer, I need to toughen up. I mean, this place is chock full of interesting characters, right?

  That’s what I told myself. But the truth was, I couldn’t find my car keys. Either I’d lost them in the yard, or I’d locked them in the trunk last night.

  Crap on a cracked up cracker!

  I straightened my shoulders, set my jaw to Valliant Stranger mode, and dragged my luggage back inside the RV.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Come on, Tom! Can’t you come over now with the spare keys?” I pleaded over the phone.

  “I wish I could. But it’s almost rush hour. The traffic will be killer. It’ll take me three hours minimum to get there. Not counting the drive back.”

  “I’m not worth it?”

  “Val! You know I’ve got regional meetings all this week. Tonight I’ve got to schmooze a couple of bigwigs in town. I just can’t make it happen. Sorry.”

  “Crap.”

  “But I tell you what. I’ll get the keys overnighted to you when I get home from work today. You should have them by tomorrow afternoon, tops.”

  “Tomorrow? That means I’ll be stuck here for another night!”

  I could almost hear Tom smirk over the phone. “Come on, Valliant Stranger. Think of it as a...literary adventure.”

  “There’s nothing literate about this place, Tom. And I’m afraid –”

  “Listen,” Tom interjected. “For the last time, there’s no such thing as Bigfoot. And even if there was, I doubt he’d be into snickerdoodles. Especially not Laverne’s. Give me the address and I’ll get the keys off to you tonight. Honestly, that’s the best I can do.”

  “I know,” I conceded. “But I’m worried about using UPS. I don’t think even the AARP can find this place.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, like I told you. It’s in the middle of nowhere. The sign is falling down. And the community mailbox is a microwave stuck on a fence post with duct tape.”

  I waited a minute while Tom composed himself. “Come on, Val,” he finally managed between snorts. “You’re a big girl. You can make it another night on your own.”

  I bit my lip. Part of me wasn’t sure I could. But I wasn’t about to admit that to Tom. My jaw clamped down on my molars. “You’re right, Tom. Just forget it. I’ll figure some way out of here on my own.”

  I clicked off the phone. Tom tried to call back, but I didn’t pick up. Southern pride was an idiotic and enigmatic force not to be reckoned with lightly.

  FOR THE NEXT HOUR, my phone buzzed every ten minutes or so, but I didn’t dignify it with an answer. I knew better. Stuck in a dilapidated RV with nothing but lettuce and kale crisps for sustenance, things had nowhere to go but ugly. Tom’s refusal to come to my rescue had pushed me over the threshold to hangry – a state in which I knew I was capable of darn near any dastardly deed.

  I fixed myself a snack, sequestered my phone safely inside a zipped pocket in my purse, and plopped down in the tiny dinette booth. It was time to write. I opened my laptop and clicked the start-up button. As I waited for
it to boot up, I pulled the chain on the blinds and stared at my angry reflection in the RV’s dusty window.

  I bet Jorge’s gorgeous girlfriend Sherryl isn’t munching on a carrot stick right now like a dang gerbil.

  I opened the file marked Five Unique Ways to Kill Someone.

  I added another entry to my list; Cyanide Snickerdoodles.

  The rhythmic movement of my fingers across the keyboard stimulated an old, entrenched habit that had lain dormant in my brain for years. Like a sprouting seed, I felt a smile curve slowly across my lips as my fingers moved. An automatic response akin to riding a bicycle fell into place in my mind, just as it had all those years ago. Before Germany. When I’d been a bona fide copy writer.

  A newfound urgency pressed down on me. I closed Five Unique Ways to Kill Someone and opened a new file. I entitled it, The Snickerdoodle Murders. A devious expression possessed my face like a lesser demon, and, as if by magic, my fingers began to fly across the keyboard.

  Who would have ever thought that a lack of pickles and a visceral dread of going outside would team up to become my muses?

  I WAS JUST TYPING “THE End” on a rough draft of my homework assignment, The Snickerdoodle Murders, when something scurried across my bare foot. It was either a mouse or a Florida-sized cockroach. Anyone who’d ever seen a palmetto bug could understand why I was hoping for a mouse. My mouth flew open and ejected a high-pitched tone that made my own eardrums pop.

  My knees nearly collided with my chin as I scrambled out of the booth. I shot a death stare at the plate littered with orange roots and dark-green leaves. Snacks I’d left untouched on the table.

  This is what I get for filling this stupid RV with rodent food!

  The mouse was the last straw. It truly was time to get out of this place. In a last-ditch effort to find my car keys, I grabbed my purse, turned it upside down, and shook its contents onto the dinette table. A lipstick and two pens rolled off the table onto the booth seats. Crumpled receipts and papers fell like giant flakes of dandruff and covered the plate of carrots and seaweed. I rifled through every pocket and crevice of my handbag. No keys.

  I turned my attention to the rest of the RV.

  I grabbed a broom and swept the kitchen floor and around the cabinets. Still no keys. I got on my knees on the bedroom floor and raked under the bed with the broom. My efforts resulted in one nudie magazine, an empty bag of pork rinds and what I hoped were the fossilized remains of five Milk Duds. I was sweeping them into a dustpan when someone rapped on the door.

  I padded over and opened it.

  Before I could say “Howdy,” shopper-chopper chick Charlene pushed her curler-headed self inside, her arms laden with moon pies and Cheetos.

  “How’s it goin’, Val?” she asked, and plopped the boxes and bags of processed foods, aka nectar of the gods, onto my tiny kitchen counter. Drool began to fill in the space under my tongue.

  “Uh. I’m doing okay. What do I owe you, Charlene?”

  “Seven dollars and thirty-two cents. Moon pies ain’t as cheap as they used to be.”

  I grabbed my wallet and counted out the bills while Charlene’s wandering eyes took in every square inch of the tiny RV.

  “What you been doin’ all day?” she asked. Her curious, dark-brown eyes conveyed a tinge of suspicion.

  “Nothing much,” I said, and handed her a five and four ones. “What’s there to do around here, anyway?”

  “Lots. If you got a good imagination. Hey, this here’s too much,” she said as she counted the money.

  “Keep it. For a delivery fee.”

  A smile cracked her pinched face. “How’s about I take you on a little tour of the place?”

  “Uh...sure.” I put my wallet back in my purse. “Hey. You don’t happen to know a locksmith, do you?”

  Charlene eyed me up and down. “Sure do. Woggles can get into darn near anything. What you want opened?”

  “I think I locked my keys in the trunk.”

  “You don’t say. Huh. I’ll give him a ring. He just lives next door, you know.”

  Charlene’s eyes continued their curious scanning as she reached into one of the huge pockets adorning her faded sack dress at hip level. She pulled out a cellphone. It looked as out of place in her hand as a wristwatch on a plesiosaur.

  “You know, you’re lucky,” she said as she tapped the phone screen with a knobby finger. “Cell phone reception’s sketchy around here. You got one of the good spots.”

  “Huh,” I grunted, and forced myself to keep my hands off the moon pies.

  “Woggles,” Charlene said into the phone. “You busy? New gal locked her keys in the trunk. Okay. Good. Bye.”

  Charlene waggled her eyebrows at me and clicked off the phone. “He’ll be right over.”

  A moment later, the RV door flew open and an old man’s grey head poked its way inside like a snake in a coon-skin cap. The banded tail hanging off his furry headpiece trailed down his long neck like a mangy ponytail.

  But that wasn’t the disconcerting thing about him. Woggles had a lazy eye that was so off-kilter it was hard to nail down where to look at him. I smiled at his left eye, only to watch it droop over to one side as if he were trying to glimpse his own ear. I tried the other eye.

  “Hi. I’m Val,” I sputtered.

  “Wally Walters,” he said. “Only you can call me Woggles, on account a my eye.”

  “Oh,” I said, as if I hadn’t noticed.

  Woggles glanced around the RV, but made no attempt to come further inside or to reach out a hand to shake. Instead, he remained sandwiched in the crack in the door, a disembodied head wearing a dead animal for a hat.

  “Nice to meet you, Woggles. So, do you think you can get into my car trunk?”

  An arm snaked its way inside the RV toward his head. In its hand was a dark-red apple. Woggles bit a giant chunk out of it like Quasimodo munching on a crisp, human heart. The hand disappeared out the door again. Woggles chewed with cheeks puffed out like a greedy chipmunk. “Sure thang,” he said. Fragments of apple accompanied his words and spewed out across the floor like damp confetti.

  “Woggles, you’re always makin’ a dad-burned mess with them apples,” Charlene scolded. “Why don’t you eat some real food?” She nodded toward the Cheetos.

  “Charlene,” Woggles said, “my momma tol’ me an apple a day keeps the doctor away. She lived to be ninety-four. I figure at my age, I gotta eat five or six a day to keep them greedy varmints off a’ my hide.” The snake arm appeared again, holding the gnawed apple. Woggles focused his good eye on it. “And these here apples sure beat the hell out of broccoli.” He took another bite, tucked it in his cheek and said, “So, y’all ready to do this?”

  I looked over at Charlene, then back at Woggles. “Sure.”

  Woggles’ head disappeared. Charlene pushed the door open. I followed her outside. As I walked down the rickety steps, I could see Woggles was already hunched over behind Maggie’s back end. I rounded the side of the car and realized Woggles’ entire locksmith kit consisted of a wire coat hanger and a crowbar. He hung the coat-hanger around his neck and steadied his grip on the crowbar.

  “No!” I yelled. “I mean...wait a minute. I don’t want to...damage the car.”

  Woggles eyed me funny. I think. It was impossible to be sure.

  “Yore purty particular for a gal with a dirty seat.”

  Both of my hands flew to my butt cheeks before I realized Woggles was talking about Maggie. I’d forgotten about the muddy raccoon brawl that had taken place in her front seat last night.

  “Oh. Well, it’s just that...uh...I already called my boyfriend,” I fumbled. My hands fidgeted while my ears burned. “He’s mailing me the keys. You know, on second thought, if you don’t mind, I’ll just wait for the keys to get here. But thanks anyway for your offer, Woggles. What do I owe you for your time?”

  Woggles shrugged. “Whatever.”

  As I ran inside to grab some money from my purse, I thought about my “
emergency” towel. I’d kept the stained-up old towel in Maggie’s trunk “just in case.” This morning, I’d found it stuck to the Velcro on the bottom of my suitcase like a burr on a dog’s hide. It had tagged along last night as I’d made a mad dash inside before the bush monster got me. I figured it would be perfect for wiping down Maggie’s dirty seats. I grabbed it and my wallet and headed out the door.

  “Thanks for your help,” I said as I slapped a fiver in Woggle’s hand. He looked pleased, I think. I turned to Charlene for a matching set of eyes to lock onto. “Uh...how about you give me that tour now?” I asked, and tossed the old towel into Maggie’s driver’s seat.

  “Be happy to,” she said. “Foller me.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” I muttered absently as I stared at the concrete swimming pool. Only its kidney shape remained recognizable from the photos I’d seen of it on the Shell Hammock website. Smack dab in the center of the pool’s empty, cracked shell was the rear chassis of a long-bed pickup truck. Whether it had been placed there intentionally or was the result of a drunken miscalculation, I couldn’t say. But the good folks at the Hell’ammo had made the most of it nonetheless.

  While the cab end of the pickup had gone on to some other fate of which I had no knowledge, the truck bed was enjoying its retirement years with new purpose. It had been stripped of its wheels and lined with a blue plastic tarp, patched more times with silver duct tape than I could count. A green garden hose snaked its way from around the back of an abandoned Cadillac carcass and into the truck bed. Water poured from it, slowly filling the makeshift pool.

  Sweat trickling down my back made the scene more tempting than I thought possible. “The water looks nice and clear,” I offered.

  “Yep,” Charlene said and folded her arms as if she was satisfied with the quality of the workmanship. “Gettin’ her all fixed up for the fish fry tonight.”

  I wiped sweat from my upper lip and glanced longingly at the pool. Then I had second thoughts.