Surrounding the truck bed, like a gang of shiftless loiterers, was an odd assortment of mismatched chairs, ranging from a mismatched pair of bent-legged metal folding chairs to a gut-sprung naugahyde Barcalounger. I closed my eyes and tried to convince myself that one of the seats wasn’t an avocado-hued commode.
“Whad’ya think?” Charlene asked.
“Nice. I can’t wait to give it a try,” I said, uncertain if I actually meant it or not. I diverted my attention to a flat-roofed, concrete-block building that reminded me of a campground toilet. “What’s that building for?”
“That there’s the clubhouse,” Charlene explained. “Wanna take a peek inside?”
“Why not.” I wasn’t sure if the Hell’ammo was growing on me or if Stockholm Syndrome was taking hold. “Appalled” and “intrigued” were having a fist fight in my gut, and “intrigued” was gaining the upper hand.
Charlene opened a plain, wood-paneled door that was peeling at the bottom and led me down a hallway past a couple of restrooms labeled Inboards and Outboards. At the end of the hall, we entered a thirty-foot square concrete box of a room with no windows. She flicked on a light switch. Against the far wall was an eight-foot long wooden box. It contained a built-in console TV and a stereo turntable.
I’d seen one like it in my grandma’s parlor when I was six. She’d been ironing and listening to a radio program. I remembered it quite clearly because it had scared the bejeezus out of me. I’d thought the radio announcer was a man trapped inside that coffin-like box. I’m still not one-hundred-percent convinced that it wasn’t.
On top of the 1960’s-era console sat a large, plasma-screen TV and the world’s last functioning eight-track player. The tape at the top of the heap was Pat Boone’s Greatest Hits.
If all that wasn’t odd enough, what I saw next caused me enough concern that I inhaled sharply. Positioned around the room and staring at the black screen like a lost, post-apocalyptic zombie tribe, was a random collection of bucket seats stripped from abandoned vehicles. I thought I recognized the emblem of a late-model Buick and a ‘70s-era Mustang.
“Nice,” I said. If I was in prison. In a third-world country.
Charlene shrugged. “It ain’t much. But it’s paid for.”
I tilted my head and nodded. “Well, there’s always that.”
“Thursday’s movie night,” Charlene said. “Gumball Rally.”
“Oh. What did you play last week?”
“Gumball Rally.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
As Charlene closed the clubhouse door behind us, I noticed a plastic lawn chair hanging from a tree by two ropes, as if it had been dealt a double helping of vigilante justice.
“What’s that?”
“Tree swing,” Charlene said. “Ain’t you never seen one afore?”
“It’s been a long time.”
Charlene grinned. “Give her a try.”
I walked over and inched my butt into the chair. I kicked off backward, but before I even made the arc to descend, the brittle chair cracked in half. Centrifugal force sent me tumbling, butt-first, into the dirt ruts scuffed out by the fools that had dared come before me.
Charlene came running up, her toilet-tube curlers jiggling. “You all right, honey?” she asked.
I got up and dusted off my behind. “Yeah. I’m okay.” I shot a perturbed glance at the mangled shards of plastic still swaying on their hangman ropes. “That thing should come with a warning.”
Charlene’s lip curled upward and tutted. “Well, maybe things have gone a tad ramshackle around here since we lost Woody, our resident handy man.”
“Right.” That explains why my showerhead is a beer can with holes punched in it. “How long ago was that?”
“A month ago Sunday.”
“Why’d he leave?”
“The Lord called him home.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Charlene shrugged and adjusted the bobby-pin on a loose toilet roll. “It happens.”
AFTER THE STARS CLEARED from my eyes and my tailbone quit throbbing, Charlene and I continued down the dirt lane. At the end of it sat a small trailer surrounded by the largest collection of wind-powered whirly-gig yard art I’d ever seen. A gust of wind sent them all swirling like propellers. I half expected the trailer to lift off and sail away on the world’s tackiest magic carpet.
One flailing doohickey in particular caught my eye. It was a wooden squirrel whose tail twirled maniacally as its head tipped and appeared to take a bite from a plastic ear of corn. I shook my head in wonder.
What kind of mind does it take to come up with something like that?
“What are you looking at?” a woman’s voice snarled from inside the darkened trailer.
I gasped as if I’d been caught red-handed. Charlene laughed.
“Who’s that?” I whispered.
“Oh, that’s just crabby old Elmira. Don’t pay her no minds. She’s a crafter. Keeps to herself, mostly.”
“Crafter? As in witchcraft?”
Charlene shot me a look that made me question my own sanity. “What you talkin’ about? Elmira ain’t no witch! She makes new stuff outta old stuff, mostly.”
“Oh, of course,” I said as if I understood what that meant.
“Y’all quit starin’!” the voice called out again.
“Nobody’s lookin’ at you, Elmira,” Charlene called back. “Listen here, Val. I heard it might come up a rain later on this afternoon. If’n it does, we’ll have to move the fish fry to tomorrow. Well, I guess I’m off. I got to be gettin’ back to my chores.”
“Yeah, me too,” I said, and shook Charlene’s hand. “Thanks for the tour.”
As I wandered back toward Number Thirteen, I collected an old bucket I found along the way. Back at the RV, I filled it with water and dishwashing soap, then cleaned Maggie’s seats with my “emergency” towel. It took a half an hour and two changes of water, but I got the seats looking decent enough. Satisfied with my work, I rinsed the muddy towel and hung it on the makeshift clothesline someone had strung between the RV’s awning and a tree branch. Somehow, the dirty old rag looked right at home.
Maggie was clean, but with the possibility of more raccoons on the prowl and thunderstorms on the way, I needed to get her sealed up. Problem was, I couldn’t close her convertible top without the keys.
Dang. What would McGyver do?
I decided to ransack the RV and see what my options were. Not being much bigger than Maggie, the search didn’t take long. Up on the top shelf of the bedroom closet, I found my solution. I covered Maggie up with a gunmetal-grey tarp, and duct-taped it to her side panels. I had no idea whether McGyver would have done the same thing, but I felt pretty confident that my neighbors would approve.
I stood back and admired my handiwork as I twirled the roll of duct tape in my hand like a fancy gunfighter in an old Western.
I was Valliant Stranger. And I was ready for anything.
Chapter Fourteen
What a difference a dessert could make.
After a sensible salad for lunch, I had a rendezvous with a romance novel and five banana moon pies. They’d proven just the ticket to help dissolve my anger and disappointment with Tom. So what if Tom didn’t drop everything and run to my rescue with my car keys? I was making do just fine without his help, thank you very much.
The comingling of sugar and grease in my gut had created the perfect salve to soothe my savage beast. So much so that, by late afternoon, I felt fairly certain that I could check Tom’s text messages without spewing black thoughts into the world like an exploding oil rig.
My cellphone was still tucked safely inside the zipped pocket of my purse, despite my throttling the poor handbag until it had spilled its guts on the dinette table. I pulled the phone out and clicked “Tom.”
The first text from him read: “Where do you keep your spare keys?”
Fifteen-thousand pounds of pressure per square inch bore down upon my molars. I snatche
d another moon pie out of the box.
“Really, Tom?” I growled as I tore open the cellophane wrapper. “They’re on the freakin’ key hanger beside the back door. You know, that place where we hang all the keys?”
I took a savage bite of moon pie, severing it in half. As my teeth pulverized the crumbly, sticky goodness, I took a moment to contemplate the male species in general.
What is it with men? They have no problem finding your hidden stash of candy in a shoebox in the closet, but they can’t locate a set of keys hanging right in front of their noses?
I clicked on the second text. A jet of air streamed from my pursed lips. It simply read: “Val?” The third read: “Hello?” The fourth: “Are you there?” The fifth: “I’m serious.” The sixth: “Are you okay?”
I plopped down in the dinette booth and swept aside the spilled contents of my purse with a wave of my forearm. Elbows on the table, my fingers pecked out a reply text: “The keys are on the key rack by garage door, Boy Wonder.” I sucked the moon pie dregs from between my teeth and backspaced over “Boy Wonder.” As I did, my elbow bumped my laptop. The screen blinked back to life. I’d forgotten to turn the dang thing off.
Crap! My files!
I dropped my phone and grabbed the computer. After punching in the code to unlock the screen, it opened onto the short-story I’d named The Snickerdoodle Murders. I scanned through the document. It appeared to be intact. I hit “save,” closed the file and turned off the computer. The clock above the stove read 4:38. I suddenly became aware of its loud ticking. It echoed through my tin-can abode, seeming to make each second pass slower. I drummed my nails on the laminate tabletop.
What should I do now? Take another stroll around the banana plantation?
The collapsed carcass of my emptied purse lay in the booth beside me like a gutted fish. I grabbed it and stuck my wallet inside the pocket designated for it. My hairbrush went into the pocket beside that. I scrounged my lipstick and pens from the opposite bench and dutifully clipped them in place in the loops provided. The sight of everything looking all neat and tidy caused a ridiculous, smug feeling of accomplishment to shoot through me. I scoffed at myself.
So much pride over nothing. This must be how a man feels that one time he actually replaces the empty toilet roll.
I reached for my tube of hand lotion. Something shiny and metallic glinted from underneath the heap of papers and crumpled old receipts littering the table. My heart flinched.
My keys!
My hand lurched into the pile of papers. Something stung me like a bee.
“Yow!”
I jerked my hand back. At the end of my middle finger, a crimson drop of blood glistened. My mind scrambled.
Snake!
My butt was out of that booth faster than a spider on a space shuttle. I jettisoned across the kitchen and grabbed a wooden spoon hanging on the wall by the stove. Staying out of striking distance, I leaned over and stuck the spoon under the papers and flipped them over.
Lying underneath them on the table wasn’t a rattlesnake or my keys – it was that stupid Donut Shack VIP badge. The dang pin on it had pricked my finger. Donuts always had been my downfall.
“Figures.”
I collapsed back into the booth with a thud. As I sucked my injured finger, something else caught my eye. It was the pile of letters I’d pulled from the trash when I’d been tailing Goober at the post office the other day. I thumbed through them. One was a blue envelope addressed to “Current Resident.” It contained a pack of discount offers from neighborhood businesses. I wondered if there were any coupons for Depends in there, then wished I hadn’t.
The next was a letter from the AARP. It was addressed to Gerald Jonohhovitz, aka Goober. I snorted. It seemed no one could escape the AARP’s clutches, no matter how off the grid they were. Goober hadn’t opened the envelope, but it bore a familiar, greasy stain. I recognized it as the telltale, sticky-finger residue caused by Winnie’s world-famous peanut-butter donut bombs. If asked to explain how I knew this in a court of law, I would’ve most definitely incriminated myself beyond all hope of leniency. Still, a self-congratulatory smile crept across my lips at my “Sherlock-Holmes-like” powers of deduction.
I tossed the AARP letter on the table along with the coupons and glanced at the next piece of paper. It was a check stub from Griffith & Maas. I saw the payout amount and shook my head. Minimum wage was definitely a soul-sucker. I set the stub on top of the AARP envelope and looked at the last scrap of paper. My jaw fell to the ground like a bad girl’s drawers.
It was another paystub, smeared with the same greasy thumbprint as the others. Goober’s name wasn’t on the stub. Neither was any company name. The stub read simply, “For services rendered.” It was in the amount of ten-thousand dollars.
What in blue blazes? What could Goober have done to earn that kind of money?
A sharp rap on the RV door made me nearly jump out of my skin. I glanced to my left. A pinched face stared at me through the oval of glass in the door.
“Fish Fry is on!” Charlene yelled through the pane. “See you at six o’clock!”
I nodded absently, but my mind was on something else...
...ten-thousand dollars!
I stared at the stub again. This had to be some kind of mistake. Goober didn’t have any skills that could earn him that kind of dough – unless I was highly mistaken about the going rate for a professional fart slinger. And he didn’t have any family that could lend him it, either. I mean, I guess he didn’t. I’d never really asked....
I turned the stub over. The other side was blank. “For services rendered.” That didn’t sound like it was for any kind of inheritance.
Wait a second. Goober was always cooking up some get-rich scheme. Had he finally done it? Naw...
As far as I knew, Goober had nothing of value to sell...unless he’d pre-sold his body to science! Had Goober taken a loan out on his carcass? Was his cadaver to be collected upon his death like one of those reverse-mortgage schemes? I mean, what other options were there?
I glanced at the clock. It was 5:11. I bit my lip and shoved the papers back into my purse. I’d have to deal with Goober later. At the moment, I had more pressing problems.
A good Southern woman wouldn’t be caught dead showing up to a social gathering empty-handed – no matter how stringently her host had insisted that she do just such a thing. I needed to bring something with me tonight. But what? One thing was for certain. If I went to that fish fry bearing a platter of kale chips, all rules regarding the reciprocation of said Southern hospitality would be instantly declared null and void.
In other words, things could get ugly for me.
Hmmm. I tapped a finger on my chin. Aspiring mystery writer and redneck double-agent Valliant Stranger has just been handed her second major challenge of the day.
Waterproofing Maggie with duct tape and a tarp had been a piece of cake. The stakes inherent in this second puzzle were considerably more complicated. I scanned the meager offerings in my RV’s tiny kitchen. I was going to have to get creative...and tread carefully.
In the South, adhering to unspoken societal obligations often proved tricky like this. But thanks to my upbringing in Greenville, my family had provided me with a first-rate education on the care and feeding of hungry hillbillies. That’s how I knew kale was definitely not on that menu.
MY TOES SCRUNCHED AS they tried to grip the wobbly cooler I stood on. I shone a flashlight into the long, narrow cabinet above the two-burner stove. The glint of glass caught my eye. I reached deep into the cupboard and pulled out a wayward jar of spaghetti sauce.
Dang. What could I do with that? I didn’t have so much as a box of macaroni and cheese to go with it. I set the jar on the counter and shone the flashlight deep into the cabinet again. Finally, a bit of luck tumbled my way.
Now that’s what I’m talking about! I reached into the cupboard and teased the jar out until it was close enough to grab hold of. I’d hit the redneck mot
herlode – a jar of marshmallow fluff.
My short-lived enthusiasm disappeared when I opened the jar. The fluff had shrunk down a good two inches from the top and was the consistency of Spam. I stabbed at it with a spoon and frowned. According to the expiration date, it had passed its prime a little over three years ago. Crap on a cracker.
I sniffed the fluff anyway. It didn’t smell funny...and it was still white...mostly. Besides, how could marshmallow go bad?
The gelatinous glob made a dull thud when I dumped it into a mixing bowl. The fluff had lost its...fluff. If I had a mixer, I reasoned I could beat it back into shape. But based on my prior pilfering through the RV, I was absolutely certain there was no mixer, blender, or any other whirling contraption to be found.
Wait a second. Except for...
...a power drill! That could work! I ran the three steps to the bedroom and grabbed the drill from the miniscule closet. Now all I needed was something to use as a beater. Something with a hole in it – like a slotted spoon. I rifled through the only kitchen drawer. No dice. But there was a pair of scissors. It was worth a go.
I stuck the blade-end of the scissors into the bit shaft and flipped the switch on the drill. The scissors shot off, flew across the room, and stabbed a couch cushion through the heart.
“Ooops!”
I pulled the scissors out and covered the hole with a throw pillow, then stuck the blade-end back in the drill. Half a roll of duct tape later, those scissors weren’t going anywhere. I plunged my makeshift mixer into the bowlful of white goo, fired up the drill, and beat that marshmallow glop until the drill’s battery gave up the ghost.
My chest puffed out and my eyes sparkled as I admired the gleaming bowl of merengue in front of me. Like Lazarus, I’d brought the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man back to life. Or, at least, back to fluff.
Eat your heart out, McGyver.
Chapter Fifteen
“The early evening shadows played upon the dish of Cheetos and marshmallow fluff in my arms, adding subtle highlights to the tangle of fluorescent orange worms writhing in a sea of sticky white goo.”
Seven Daze: Redneck Rendezvous (A Val Fremden Mystery Book 7) Page 9
