Loco Motion: Lesbian Adventure Club, #24

Loco Motion

Lesbian Adventure Club: Book 24

Rosalyn Wraight

© Copyright 2021 Rosalyn Wraight

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author and publisher.

A Don’t Waste Daylight Publication

Chapter 1

The chick in Claudia’s GPS gadget ordered her to take the next right, and she slowed to a crawl. We were in the middle of the frickin’ boondocks so there were no streetlights or signs by which to gauge that turn’s actual whereabouts. Suddenly, though, the tree line ceased, and a driveway and a huge sign appeared: Red Pine Motor Lodge.

Although we still crawled, her turn proved whiplashing.

The GPS chick announced, Your destination has been reached.

What the hell?

Before us sat a derelict-looking motel, the strip kind, i.e. unit next to unit next to unit next to… There were maybe eight or ten of them. I suspected Alfred Hitchcock had sized it up one day long ago and had deemed it far too creepy to be believable.

At the far end, an Office sign loomed at a cockeyed angle, and Claudia inched the car toward it.

When she shoved it into park, she looked at me, her mouth gaping. We’re just supposed to walk in there and say, ‘Hi. We’re Alberta Cojones and Heady Heaper, and we have reservations’?

I thought that was a damn good question, but I had already made up my mind: It seemed a job far better suited for a gangster than a gossip columnist.

She asked, And, why are we the only ones here? With a point to the glovebox, she instructed, Read the damn sheet again. Maybe we missed something.

I was a gossip columnist; I could write and read. I therefore knew for certain that we hadn’t missed anything. Still, I retrieved the envelope. Lesbian Adventure Club weekends were usually never good when they began with envelopes. Remember the one Heady Heaper received instructing her to murder Mayor Alison? Then you know what I mean.

The prior evening, our doorbell rang, and Claudia answered it only to find no one there. Instead, an envelope lay on the step. It was addressed to Alberta and Heady, and it instructed us not to open it until precisely 9:15 the next morning. Until that ominous hour, we simply figured we were in for another nice, relaxing weekend at the mayor’s mansion, where, undoubtedly, there would be a cadaver-less murder. We even imagined a makeshift mayor’s mansion on the banks of the irritatingly squeaky Gator River, since Maggie and Susan were our hostesses.

Instead, though, the note we read the next morning instructed us to drive to the address where we now parked. We were told not to research and/or look at a map of the address, and that reservations had been made in our names. Bring clothes, two sleeping bags, a full tank of gas, and lots of cash. Cell phones are to be used for emergency purposes only.

When I read it to her again, the same thing simultaneously dawned on us: The reservations were in your names.

It could be our real names, she said, and they’re just trying to embarrass us when we use our character names.

I still don’t get why no one else is here, though, I said. And, why here? Is this place even open for business?

One way to find out.

Curiosity drove us from that car and to the office. When she pushed open its door, a metal bell clanged and startled me. I spied it above us and gave it a dirty look.

The smallish room had several filmy windows with curtain-less rods on the frames. It smelled musty as hell, and a glass door on the opposite wall had a sign indicating Diner. The room beyond the door, however, was dark.

A woman appeared from behind a wooden room divider.

Hi there, Claudia greeted. We’re Claudia Kitterman and Kate Sutter. We have reservations.

And, we have major reservations of a different kind.

The woman smiled and neared the small but tall reception desk, and Claudia and I moved closer. She took a book from the counter, opened it, and finger-scanned. Shaking her head, she said, Mm, sorry. I don’t see those names.

Claudia swatted me as she asked, How about Alberta Cojones and Heady Heaper?

"Now, those I do have!"

Surprise. Sur-frickin’-prise.

The receptionist spun around, and seconds later, she spun around again, this time holding a key in each hand.

Two?

Alberta? When Claudia reluctantly wagged her hand, she told her, You’re in Room 10. Farthest down. Then, she thrust the other key in my direction. You’re in Room 8.

We each grabbed our respective key, and I admit, I was damn confused.

Have a nice stay, the woman said.

Always attuned to the finer points, Claudia asked whether we needed to sign anything or pay or supply a credit card.

Nope, she cheerfully answered. You’re good.

We turned to leave, but Claudia stopped. She craned her head back. Any chance you have reservations for, um, Vanna Sully, Joan Evves, Caro—

Sorry, ma’am. Reservations and the guest registry are private.

Guest registry? You mean that thing we didn’t have to sign? Apparently, it was so private that even registering guests couldn’t see it. What the hell?

We left the office, and the door had barely shut when Claudia railed, They’re copying! Susan and Maggie are copying Alison and Janice! She clenched my arm. Remember the first murder mystery weekend Alison and Janice had? They separated every couple, except themselves.

Jesus, does that mean I’ll be bunking with Gertie Stone again?

Claudia continued, But, they can’t monitor a whole motel like they could the second floor of a house.

Um, don’t make the mistake of underestimating any of them, I reminded with an elbow. We usually ended up royally screwed when we did. They were all capable of bastardly, dastardly things, and if I were an honest sort of person, I’d have to admit that Claudia and I could be too.

Well, let’s just get checked in to our rooms. She said that last word rather snottily. Then, we can find out who else is here.

That caused me to scan the parking lot again—the little, gravelly thing that actually required a mere glimpse, not a scan. Our car was the only one, and there was absolutely no visible means of transportation for the receptionist. At least there wasn’t a spooky monstrosity of a house behind the motel where Mother lived in the basement.

We hurried up the planked walkway and then stopped in front of Room 8, my room. I inserted the key, and after a twist and a push, the same musty smell invaded my nostrils.

The dark room looked as though no one had been inside it for ages.

I can see why we need our sleeping bag, I said, pointing to the bed that had nothing more than a grungy fitted sheet on it.

Claudia said, "Uh, honey, the letter we got said ‘two sleeping bags,’ plural. I caught that right away. I figured they were going to do something like that."

I inspected the room and concluded that there was no way in hell that this was a functioning motel. It couldn’t possibly have been.

Then, an envelope on the ancient TV caught my eye. For Heady’s Eyes Only: it read. Goddamn it! I was going to be instructed to murder again. At that moment, though, that didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

I held the envelope