by Amy Vansant
“I know the address.”
“Are you sure?”
Charlotte took a deep breath. “Declan is my boyfriend.”
Penny sniffed. “I hope the owner of that shop pays your boyfriend well. Charging people a hundred dollars to pick up a few things—”
“A few things? That truck looks like a pioneer family of ten is about to make its way West. And the owner is my boyfriend. Declan is the owner...” Charlotte sighed, disappointed in herself for trying. “You know what? Never mind.”
Penny didn’t seem to hear. “It’s mostly junk. Man who lived here had no taste at all. No one buys that stuff anymore, but he left it behind like a lazy bones and I figured I deserve to make a few dollars off it.”
Charlotte squinted one eye. “Left it behind? Didn’t the man who lived there die?”
Penny scrubbed the roof of her orbital cavities with her eyes, back and forth, until Charlotte worried the irises would never drop back into place again. She was like a broken slot machine, caught between symbols. “Death doesn’t mean you can just leave your crappy furniture all over the place. He could at least have the courtesy to have responsible family to clean out his hovel.”
“Should you be calling the houses you built hovels?”
Penny ignored the question and continued. “I got lucky though. That pawn store fellow is paying me too much for this trash. Idiot.”
Charlotte rubbed the bridge of her nose in an attempt to calm herself. She’d almost forgotten the point of this painful interaction was to plumb Penny for information.
Time to refocus.
“I need to know about a man who used to live here.”
“You already said it. He died. Fell over dead at the bowling alley. Thank goodness he wasn’t in our weight room or—”
“Not the man who rented this house. I’m looking for someone who used to live in Pineapple Port maybe six or seven years ago. He’d be in his early sixties now. Handsome, from what I’ve been told. Bit of a ladies’ man. Ryan Flannigan? Or Callahan—”
“Finnegan.”
“You remember him?”
“Certainly. I remember everything.”
Charlotte grimaced. Right. Except who Declan is.
“Do you know where Mr. Finnegan moved?”
Penny nodded. “That big tower out on the beach. The white one that looks like a cheap wedding cake.”
“Do you remember the address? His apartment number?”
“No. We’re not pen pals or anything. I remember the building though because I’d tried to get George to buy us a place there when they first built them and he wouldn’t have it. Worth four times as much now. We could have made a killing. That man never listens to me.”
“But you’re sure that’s where he moved?”
“Absolutely.”
“Great. Okay. I’m going to take Abby home and then I’ll come back and take the truck to Declan.”
“I need you to take it to the pawn shop.”
“Right. My bad.”
“Wonderful. Thank you.” Penny turned and held up a hand to wave goodbye. “Don’t forget to pack up the stuff on the porch.”
Charlotte’s attention snapped to the porch where she could see more knick-knacks piled high.
“Wait, what?”
“Thank you!” Penny called over her shoulder and turned the corner without another sound.
Chapter Eight
The bell in Declan’s shop rang as Charlotte entered.
“I have a truck of stuff from Penny out here,” she announced, wiping her brow. Sweat of shame glistened on her forearm. Packing the rest of Penny’s junk into the truck had taken nearly an hour. Once again she’d allowed Penny to abuse her naturally helpful nature.
Fool me once, shame on you, fool me a hundred and eighty thousand times...
Declan’s employee, Blade, turned and grinned at her from beneath his impressive, droopy mustache. Blade was an enormous man with a shadowy history and a penchant for wearing shirts featuring one kind of weapon or another. Though he appeared menacing, he was a teddy bear of a giant and the best salesman Declan had ever hired, much to Declan’s chagrin.
“Let me help you with that, Miss Charlotte,” said Blade, lumbering toward the door.
“I appreciate it.”
Declan appeared from the back office, eyes widening when he spotted her. “Hey, what are you doing here?”
Charlotte smiled. “I missed you, too.”
He gave her a peck on the cheek. “I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know. Penny duped me into bringing you a truck full of furniture.”
Declan eyed her haul through the front windows. “Oh, right. I’m going to make a killing on that stuff. I tried to tell Penny she wasn’t asking enough for it, but she was so determined to get her price I had to give it to her.”
Charlotte chuckled. That Penny wasn’t getting the deal she thought she was made her feel warm and fuzzy inside.
“Do you want to go to the beach? I need to see if someone lives out there and we can use it as an excuse to sit on the sand for a bit.”
“Is this for a job?”
She nodded, finding it hard to squelch her joy at being employed as an official private detective. “Possible missing person. Probably nothing but I need to go check his last known residence.”
“You sound so official.”
“I know. Don’t I?”
“You want to go now?”
“Now would be good if you can swing it.”
He nodded. “I can leave Blade in charge.”
Blade pushed open the front door with his behind, toting a large table held pressed against his chest. The furniture seemed too large for a human to carry, but Blade carted it in and flipped it to its feet like it was made of Styrofoam.
Declan stared. “Blade, I’m going to go out for a few hours if you could hold down the fort?”
“Fort?”
“The store. Watch the store.”
Blade nodded. “Understood. But I wouldn’t call this place a fort. Multiple sources of entry. Hard to seal and defend. The glass in the front alone...”
Blade trailed off, shaking his head grimly as he surveyed the windows. Charlotte found herself staring at glass, imagining a horde of zombies spilling through like sewer rats.
Declan opened his mouth and then shut it again. He turned his attention to Charlotte. “Ready. Do you have what you need for the beach?”
Charlotte nodded. “Yep, brought it with me. We can swing by your place on the way so you can grab some trunks.”
They bade farewell to Blade and took Declan’s car to his home, not far from Pineapple Port. His Uncle Seamus stood outside, talking loudly on the phone.
“No. No, it’s gonna be rosy. You’ll be fine. I’ll be there in a bit. Right. Bye.” Seamus dropped the phone from his ear as they approached. “Hail, young lovers. What are you up to on this fine morn?”
Declan’s gaze dropped to Seamus’s boxer shorts—the only stitch of clothing the man wore. “It’s almost noon, Seamus. Did you just wake up?”
“Maybe.”
“Didn’t we talk about you roaming around in front of my neighbors in your boxers?”
Seamus scratched his beard and winked at Charlotte, clearly amused to be scolded by his nephew. “Maybe.”
Seamus had been crashing at Declan’s for months since returning from Miami, where he’d served as some sort of cops’ snitch. She wasn’t sure about the details—nothing Seamus said was ever completely the truth anyway—but he’d helped her earn her detective’s license and was always in a charming mood, so she let slide his embellishments and omissions.
Charlotte scowled at Seamus’s bloodshot eyes. “Everything okay? You look a little rough.”
Seamus shrugged. “That was Jackie on the horn. She thinks someone is messing with her club.”
“What club?”
“Her underground disco for geezers—Slipped Disc’o.”
&nb
sp; Charlotte laughed. “Jackie owns that secret old people club? I’ve heard rumors about one around the Port but I never dreamed Jackie owned it.”
“Some detective you are,” said Declan.
“Very funny.”
Seamus grinned. “Quite a perk for your girlfriend to have her own bar, eh?”
Charlotte suddenly felt a little wounded. “Why did she keep it a secret from me?”
“She’s tried to keep it a secret from the Pineapple Port crew. Doesn’t want her neighbors looking down on her—what with her husband and all.”
“Why would people look—” Charlotte stopped, realizing there were plenty of Pineapple Port residents who’d think it improper for Jackie to own a disco. The fact that Jackie’s deceased husband had been a notorious slum lord didn’t help. Keeping her disco a secret from the neighbors also saved her from having customers so close to home. They’d be clucking their tongues about the disco on Monday and hitting her up for coupons on Friday.
Jackie was a smart lady.
Charlotte waved away the rest of her sentence. “Never mind. I totally get it. What do you mean she thinks someone is messing with her?”
“Some wanker left a dead skunk on her doorstep about the same time some guys showed up asking to buy the place. She thinks someone is trying to muscle her into sellin’.”
“Oh no. What do you think?”
Seamus shrugged. “She’s got a bouncer the size of an oak tree, but he’s got the flu. That’s why I look like the devil. I was up all night playin’ bouncer. That was her on the phone telling me two more men stopped by and made her an offer.”
“And she doesn’t want to sell?”
“No. The whole affair has made her jumpy. I promised I’d go back out and see her.” He squinted at his nephew. “How’d you like a little bouncer work tonight?”
Declan grimaced. “You think you need help?”
Seamus shrugged again and sucked on his tooth with his tongue until the suction gave way with a snap.
Declan spent another moment awaiting a definitive answer and then gave in. “Sure. I’ll swing by when we get back.”
Seamus grinned and slapped his nephew on the shoulder as Declan headed inside to change.
Charlotte crossed her arms against her chest and prepared to make small talk with a middle-aged man in his boxers for a few minutes.
“Did Jackie tell Frank about these threats?”
Seamus tilted his head forward and peered from beneath his brow. “Nah. Sheriff Frank doesn’t know about the club. Let’s keep it that way for now.”
Charlotte nodded. Duh. If the rumors she’d heard were true, Jackie’s disco wasn’t exactly legal. She’d heard this mysterious club referred to as an underground dance hall for the fifty-five and over crowd, complete with illegal poker games in the back. Sheriff Frank was a good guy and Darla’s husband, but he did like to play things by the book. Best to keep him in the dark as long as possible.
“Does Jackie know who these men are?”
“Call themselves businessmen but from her description they sound more like thugs. I haven’t laid eyes on them yet. Probably want to turn the place into a teenage drug den or sometin’. I’ll take care of it, but I’d like your man’s help if you don’t mind.”
In truth, Charlotte didn’t love the idea of Declan putting himself in danger, but she knew he wouldn’t stand by and leave everything to his aging uncle.
“I’m sure he’s happy to help. I’ll come too. Maybe I can uncover something about who’s bullying her.”
Seamus grinned “Two private dicks and some muscle. We’ll take care of this in no time.”
“Please don’t call me a private dick.”
“Sorry, true, I’m more of a public dick myself.”
Charlotte snorted a laugh.
Declan reappeared in walking shorts and a polo shirt that spilled neatly from the tops of his impressive pecs. He swam every day in a lap pool behind his home and while Charlotte wasn’t sure why he worked out so hard, she wasn’t complaining.
“I ditched the trunks. I imagine we’ll be skipping the beach in order to get to Jackie’s?”
Charlotte smiled. “You know me so well. Maybe we’ll grab some lunch though.”
Declan slapped his uncle on the back. “Later old man.”
Seamus winced and scowled. “I’ll old man you.”
Declan and Charlotte drove to the beach and parked on the street outside Ryan Finnegan’s condo. Round and white, Charlotte had to agree his building did conform to Penny’s idea of a “wedding cake.” There didn’t seem to be anything cheap about it though—it had a manned gate blocking their entry to the parking lot.
They exited the car and Charlotte stood with her hands on her hips, chewing on her lip as she stared at the guard gate. She glanced at Declan and his shoulders slumped a little.
“Let me guess, you want me to distract the guard while you slip inside.”
She smiled. “It’s almost scary how well you know me now.”
“Scary’s the word for it, alright.”
She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll buy lunch.”
He sighed. “Deal.”
Declan approached the gate and struck up a conversation with the woman inside the booth while Charlotte slipped by and jogged to the front door of the building. She tugged on the handle.
Locked.
A moment before she could start hitting random intercom buttons hoping to find someone who would buzz her in, a man left the lobby. She grabbed the door and smiled as he passed, to appear as though he’d saved her time spent fishing for her key. He nodded and continued on his way.
She entered the 90s Tuscan-styled lobby and wandered to a small, unattended mail room in the back. Slipping inside, she found a roster of tenants and trained down the list until she spotted Ryan’s name and apartment number.
Bingo.
Charlotte took the elevator to the sixth floor and followed the signs to condo six hundred and one.
The stark white door of Ryan’s condo featured none of the decorations displayed by some of his neighbors. No brass eagle knocker, no shell wreath, no flip-flop door mat.
She knocked.
No answer. A window in the thick cement wall beside the door had the blinds open, so she stood on her toes and peered inside.
Even from her limited view, she could tell Ryan’s main living area hadn’t been tidied in a while. Two of the dining room chairs lay on their sides. On the table, a glass had spilled, bleeding what looked like a pool of orange juice across the table top. Plate shards scattered across a faux wood tile floor.
Not good.
That’s what we in the business like to call “signs of a struggle.”
She didn’t have to be a detective to know signs of a struggle didn’t bode well for Ryan.
Charlotte retrieved her phone from her pocket and called Sheriff Frank. His voice barked into the line.
“Frank here.”
Charlotte grimaced. She wasn’t sure why she ever thought she’d catch Frank in a cheery mood. “You sound agitated.”
“Aaah, some yahoo took a dump in a hotel pool and now he’s running around with his shorts in his hand, waving them around like a victory flag.”
“Alcohol involved?”
“Boy, you really are a detective now, aren’t you?”
She giggled. “Well, I hate to bother you when you’re in the middle of serious police business, but I need a favor.”
“Great. Hit me. Anything to keep from watching this ding dong bounce around this pool.”
“Literally.”
Frank grunted and Charlotte continued.
“Remember Gloria Abernathy? She moved from the neighborhood a few months ago?”
“Little lady. Sort of permanently shocked in the eye department?”
“Right. She hired me to find a man she thought went missing. I’m at his apartment now, and there are clear signs of a struggle.”
“Let me guess, you pul
led a Darla getting in there?”
Charlotte smirked. Frank’s wife Darla had taught her how to pick locks. She’d even gifted her with her first lock-picking kit. Seems Darla had spent some time with some questionable people before marrying the local heat.
Charlotte felt relieved she didn’t need to lie to Frank about how she’d come upon her information. For once.
“No, I restrained myself. Just peeked through a window. But that’s why I’m calling you. He’s not answering the door and, as far as I know, he could be in there unconscious on the floor or something. I hate to get the police over here for nothing...could be he just had a wild party and is passed out on his bed.”
“I’ll swing by. What’s the address?”
“That’s the other thing, I’m out of your jurisdiction. I’m at the beach.”
“So... Did you call me to ask for my permission to pick his lock?”
“Pretty much. And to see if you had any words of wisdom before I check things out.”
“And if I say no, are you going to do it anyway?”
“Yes. But I’ll feel better about it with your blessing. Should I be swept into anything dicey, you can honestly state I discovered the scene and didn’t cause it.”
“I don’t know that. And you think I’ll take the stand and tell a judge I told you to pick a man’s lock?”
“Good point.”
Frank sniffed. “Right. Well, I guess we’re through here then.”
“Great. No words of wisdom?
“Not anything you don’t already know. Don’t touch anything. Don’t get yourself killed.”
“Ooh, that’s a good one. I’ll write that one down...”
Frank hung up, but she thought she heard him chuckle before going.
Charlotte put her phone back in her pocket and pulled out her lock picks. The lock was old and gave way immediately. She pushed open the door.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
She tiptoed past the mess and poked her head into the bedroom. The bed was neatly made. The view of the gulf from the balcony was gorgeous. On the sofa table sat a photograph of a young man smiling. His pose smacked of some sort of corporate headshot. She guessed that was Craig, Ryan’s deceased son.
If it wasn’t, Gloria was really barking up the wrong tree.
