Scatman Dues (Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Book 6) by Margaret Lashley (interesting books to read .TXT) 📗

a man of questionable genetic origin hide his porn stash?

A peanut tumbled off the candy bar, bounced off my shoe, and rolled under the bed.

Of course! Under the mattress!

I shoved the last hunk of BabyRuth into my mouth, then heaved up the queen-sized mattress.

Nothing. Crap.

Down the short hallway, Grayson crooned out another excruciating series of off-key notes. Caught off guard by his oral assault, I gasped and nearly choked to death on the logjam of nuts and caramel stuck to my upper palate.

Then another thought made me gag.

Did Grayson take the folder into the bathroom with him? Is he looking at the photos right now and... Ugh!

I cringed and let go of the mattress. It landed atop the box-spring with a soft thud. Caramel-coated disgust churned in my stomach. I called off my search for the folder and began covering my tracks.

First stop was the bed. I stretched and tugged on the black bedspread until it was creaseless and taut. Satisfied it was back to Grayson’s military-precision standards, I swallowed the remnants of my contraband BabyRuth, then licked my teeth in the mirror above the bureau until every chocolatey speck of evidence was removed.

That done, I glanced around the bedroom. Everything appeared in order. I turned to leave, then remembered the AWOL peanut and froze in my tracks. If it had been anyone else I was sharing a room with, I’d have ignored the wayward legume. But I knew if Grayson found it, he’d put two and two together—and come up with five.

Ugh!

I got on my hands and knees and looked under the bed. Of course, the stupid peanut had rolled all the way to the front right corner, out of reach. I crawled over to the front side of the bed and fished it out, bumping my head on the nightstand in the process.

“Ouch,” I grumbled, rubbing my head.

Aggravated, I stood up and kicked the nightstand. The drawer popped open an inch. The edge of a manila folder came into view. I glanced around the room. The coast was clear. I yanked open the nightstand drawer.

The folder marked Experiment #5 lay right on top.

Ka-ching!

I reached for it.

“Baarriinnngg!”

An alarm rang, scaring the bejeebers out of me!

I jerked my hand back, slammed the drawer shut, and whirled around on my heels. I fully expected to see Grayson standing in the doorway, ready to turn me to dust with laser blasts from his alien-green eyes.

He wasn’t there.

The alarm sounded again. A thought burst to the surface of my paranoid mind.

That alarm isn’t Grayson’s. It’s mine.

It was the special “emergency” ringtone of my best friend back in Point Paradise. Beth-Ann was calling my cellphone!

I sprinted out of the bedroom, down the short hall, past the bathroom, and into the main cabin. I snatched my phone from the banquette table.

“Beth-Ann!” I yelled into the receiver.

“Wow. You can still recognize my voice.” Her deadpan tone dripped with sarcasm. “I was just about to mark you off my best friend list.”

Guilt washed over me. “Sorry. I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what?” she asked.

I envisioned Goth-girl Beth-Ann milling about inside the quirky beauty shop she’d created inside her garage. In my mind’s eye, she was leaning against a broom, filing her black-lacquered nails, a Cheshire-cat smirk on her black-painted lips.

“Uh...private eye stuff,” I fumbled.

“Uh-huh.”

I let out a sigh and padded back down the hallway toward the bedroom. I knew from experience there was no fooling the savvy woman on the other end of the line.

“Well, to be honest, Beth-Ann—”

I stopped talking—I could no longer hear my own voice. It was being obliterated by a horrendous wail emanating from behind the bathroom door. Outside, a couple of dogs began howling.

“What in the world is that godawful noise?” Beth-Ann asked.

“Its ... uh...” I fumbled.

“Wait!” Beth-Ann gasped. “You’ve got some crazy creature snared in that bedroom, don’t you? You know. In that monster-trap thingy!”

“No,” I said. “That’s Grayson.”

“In the trap?”

“No! In the...” I cringed. “He’s in the...”

“Geez, Bobbie! Spit it out! Where is he?”

“He’s in the bathroom.”

“Oh.” Beth-Ann’s voice sounded three octaves deeper.

Grayson belted out another otherworldly yowl, making me envision C3PO being crushed between two flaming asteroids. I grimaced with embarrassment. “Look. It’s not what it sounds like. He’s not—”

“Stop!” Beth-Ann demanded. “Don’t. Say. Another. Word.”

I chewed my lip and listened to my best friend breathe for ten seconds. Finally, Beth-Ann broke the silence.

“Bobbie, I don’t know how you two can live together in that crappy RV without driving each other crazy.”

I blew out a jaded laugh. “Who says we haven’t?”

I could almost hear Beth-Ann’s jet-black eyebrows rise an inch.

“Oooh. Do I detect trouble in paradise?” she cooed.

I winced. “Kind of.”

“What’s wrong?”

I frowned. “Grayson doesn’t trust me.”

Beth-Ann snorted. “Imagine that.”

My eyebrows crunched together. “I thought you were my friend.”

“Sorry. But you know how you are.”

I scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind. Look. Why do you think Grayson doesn’t trust you? Have you tried talking to him about it?”

“Come on. You know guys’ ears are like their nipples, Beth-Ann. They don’t actually work. They’re just there to make them appear more human.”

Beth-Ann laughed.

I opened my mouth to say something, but the sharp squeak of the water faucet cut me off. Grayson had finished his shower. A surge of panic shot through me. Would Grayson know I’d snooped through his stuff?

“Hold on a sec, Beth-Ann.”

“Okay.”

I held the phone in one hand and feverishly scanned the hallway, then the bedroom, searching for any telltale signs of my ransacking rampage. I scurried over to the nightstand to make sure I’d shut the drawer all the way. Then I tugged once more on the corner of the taught bedspread for good measure.

“Okay. I’m back,” I said, then let out a sigh of relief. “Uh...what were you saying?”

“I asked you why you think Grayson doesn’t trust you,” Beth-Ann said.

“How the heck should I know?” I said, shooting a paranoid glance back down the hallway.

“Did he say he doesn’t trust you?”

I frowned. “No. But he keeps stuff from me. Important stuff. And most of