by Amy Vansant
The man shook his head. “Our land.”
Herbert Vincent leapt to his feet, his eyes flashing white as his chair flipped over behind him. “You’re not going to touch a tomato on that man’s land or my name isn’t—” He fell quiet, the hand he’d thrust into the air slowly lowering as he silently lipped through the possibilities.
“Herbert Vincent,” prompted Bob.
Herbert’s hand shot back into the sky. “Herbert Vincent!”
Tommy stood, poking a finger in the stranger’s direction. “I demand to know why you’re here, who you are, why you don’t like tomatoes and if you have ever done any naked acting.”
The suited man frowned. “I don’t have time for this. I’ve sent these papers to Mr. Weeble several times over the last few months and as the local constabulary, I was hoping you could help. We’ll be at the vegetable field by seven tomorrow morning. I bid you good day.”
He twirled on the heel of his shiny loafers and left the bar.
Bob looked at Tommy. “What kind of jackass says I bid you good day?”
Tommy shrugged. “I had a naked meter reader say it once in my movie, Je Taime Meter.”
Mac flopped back into his chair. “T.K. never said anything about anyone ripping up his farm, did he?”
Without raising his gaze from the papers, Frank reached for his beer to find it gone. He took a moment to glower at Herbert. “Says here most of T.K.’s farm was on Air Force land, which was just sold to this guy’s company.”
Frank looked up and furrowed his brow in Tommy’s direction. “Your chin’s red.”
“Huh?” Tommy touched his face before weaving his way to the men’s room.
Mac raised his empty glass in the air. “T.K., we won’t let you down. We’ll stop those bastards or we’ll die tryin’. Right, guys?”
“Look at my face!” wailed Tommy’s reply from the bathroom.
Herbert stood. “Well, I’m going home. I have stuff to do.”
Bob touched his arm. “You’re going to leave T.K. hanging? After what he did for you?”
Herbert jerked away his arm and held up four bony fingers.
“Three things. One, I’m too old for this crap. Two, House Hunters is on tonight. Three—” Herbert studied his two remaining fingers and let one fall. “Three—I hate tomatoes. Make me break out. I swelled up like a balloon the night he dumped them tomatoes on me.”
Bob scowled. “House Hunters is on tonight?”
“It’s on every freakin’ night.” Mac huffed his disapproval. “Fine. You two go watch people whine about paint colors. Me, Frank and Tommy will take care of Elizabeth.”
“Yeah, you should go, Bob. Nighttime in the tomato field gets cold on the old arms,” Frank added, plucking at Bob’s sleeveless sweater.
Tommy pounded out of the bathroom. He had toilet paper wrapped around his chin like a bank robber who worked out of a men’s room.
Frank stood, hiked up his pants, and left the bar together with Tommy and Mac.
Bob straightened his sleeveless sweater and turned to Herbert, who still hovered near the table, seemingly unsure what to do next. “I need a ride home. Want to watch the show with me and Mariska?”
Herbert grunted and threw a dollar on the table. “She wear them stupid sweaters, too?”
Chapter Six
“Hey, you.”
Charlotte released Abby from her leash and the dog froze, glancing back and forth between her boyfriend Declan, who’d just walked up the path to Mariska’s stoop, and Mariska’s dog Izzy, bouncing up and down to see her furry friend. It took Izzy leaping forward and slamming into her for the Wheaton to choose. Mariska opened her storm door and without another glance at Declan, Abby and Izzy tore off into the house. Decision by tackle.
Charlotte smiled at Declan as the screen door clicked shut. “I was just dropping off Abby.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take her?” he asked, planting a quick kiss on her hairline.
“Nah. She likes playing with Izzy and I won’t be gone long.”
Declan nodded to Mariska. “Good morning. Looks like you won the dog lottery.”
“I did. Good morning. Would you like something to eat? Pancakes? Eggs? Maybe hash? I have some kielbasa...”
Declan held up a hand. “I’m good.”
Mariska clucked her tongue. “You’re so skinny. Both of you. I swear.”
Behind Mariska, Abby flashed by on her way to sniff all the rooms in the house. Izzy hugged her backend like a squat, shedding tailgater.
Charlotte patted Declan on his perky pec. “Thanks for coming by before work. I wanted to say goodbye.”
He nodded, looking confused. She imagined he was. She’d told him about finding the box and the trail leading to a mysterious aunt on the other side of the state, but the urge to drive to Jupiter Beach seemed sudden, even to her. She couldn’t help it.
“So you really think you might have an aunt in Florida?” he asked.
She shrugged. “It’s a longshot, but I feel like I should at least try to find her.”
“But the people at the hotel didn’t know her?”
“No. At least no one at the Loggerhead Inn admitted to having any idea who she is, but it’s the only lead I have. I think if I’m there someone will have to talk to me. I can’t shake the feeling they know more than they’re letting on.”
“I guess that’s what makes you the detective.”
She chuckled. “Or just a suspicious weirdo.”
Declan slipped his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts. “I looked up the hotel. Looks pretty nice.”
“I wish you could go with me.”
“Me too. But Blade’s out of town, which leaves me with no one to watch the shop. Plus, I don’t want to rush you out of there if you need more than a day.”
She hooked her mouth to the side. “I might.”
“I know how you roll.”
They giggled together and Declan looked at Mariska, his cheeks flushing red. Charlotte smiled.
Adorable.
“I’m going to head to work, but if you need any help with Abby, let me know,” he said.
Mariska waved away his offer. “Oh she’s a doll. Better-behaved than Miss Izzy, I can tell you that.”
“Sheds less too,” mumbled Charlotte. She threw her arms around Mariska to give her a squeeze and then did the same to Declan. He shook a warning finger at her.
“Be careful driving. The middle of the state can get real remote, real fast. You might not have cell service so stay on the main road.”
She nodded as dutifully as she could muster. “Yes, sir.”
With a final peck on the lips Declan returned to his car and headed to work. Charlotte crossed the street to her home and grabbed her bags before hitting the road in her ancient Volvo 240 station wagon.
After filling her tank like a good girl to be sure she didn’t run out of gas in the middle of scary swampland, she headed east on route seventy, snaking her way through cow pastures, tiny farming towns and probably a plethora of pythons, alligators and other miniature dinosaurs. The road dropped to single lane for large stretches of the trip and though she often found herself stuck behind locals doing barely the speed limit, she reached Indiantown Road, leading into Jupiter Beach, in close to three hours.
Once on the beach side of the bridge, she weaved her way westerly on the barrier island to the Loggerhead Inn, overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway. The main building stood square and white, with charming porches dotting each level and flowering plants hanging from the front of every room like jewelry. The place looked as if a quaint southern home had been stretched to ten stories tall.
Charlotte pulled into one of the open parking spaces and jerked her duffle bag out from the back. A flock of white ibis picked their way through the grass nearby, nabbing millipedes and throwing them back into their throats like kids popping M&Ms.
She watched them until she found the nerve to continue.
Here goes nothing.
Hefting her bag, she headed for the Inn. A doorman opened the door for her as she mounted the stairs leading to the long first floor porch.
“Flapjack pants,” he said, tipping his hat with a broad grin.
She glanced at him as she passed and flashed a smile she hoped didn’t look as confused as she felt.
What did he say?
He remained smiling until she was inside and then eased the door shut behind her. Charlotte sensed he didn’t think he’d said anything odd.
Okay. Shake it off. I definitely heard him wrong.
Above her, a fan with blades shaped like palms circled fast enough to keep the air moving. She took a few steps into the foyer, her mind occupied searching for a phrase that both rhymed with flapjack pants and made sense. It took her a moment to notice a dark-haired woman staring at her from behind a desk fifteen feet inside the entrance.
As soon as Charlotte smiled at her, the woman stood and left the room.
Okaaay...
As she watched the stranger disappear down a hall, Charlotte guessed she’d been the concierge, probably the woman she’d talked to on the phone. She kicked herself for letting her get away.
Nothing left to do but check in.
Charlotte turned her attention to a short counter to the left, where a young woman somewhere near her own age stood, smiling. A snake tattoo slithered up her arm and her hair was as dark and curly as a Greek goddess’. Her name tag said Croix. Her forearm said USS South Dakota.
“Welcome to the Loggerhead Inn and Spa, how can I help you?” she asked as Charlotte walked closer.
Charlotte perked. “Oh, this is a spa too?” She hadn’t noticed that feature on the website.
The girl shrugged. “It could be. Do you want a massage or a pedicure or something?”
Croix’s expression seemed concerned, as if she worried she’d have to find a way to perform these tasks.
“I—no. I just didn’t...” Charlotte trailed off, feeling as if she’d gotten off-topic before she even started.
Why is nothing easy at this place?
She took a deep breath and decided to start over. “I’m Charlotte Morgan. I have a reservation for tonight?”
The girl typed something on the laptop perched on the counter and nodded. “Yep, I have you here for one night.”
Charlotte nodded, but her mind wandered to the task ahead of her. She couldn’t even enter the Inn without running into difficulties.
What are the chances I’ll find my aunt before checkout the next day?
“Let me ask you, if I needed to stay another night or two, would that be a problem?”
Croix shook her head. “No. Not at the moment. But it’s the beginning of season so be sure to let me know.”
“I will, thank you.” Charlotte glanced back at the little desk. “Is the concierge around?”
Croix’s gaze swept the room. “She was… She’ll be back.” She busied herself sliding a card key into a paper case and handed it to Charlotte. “The elevator is at the back of the room. Take it to the fourth floor—you’re number four-eleven.”
Charlotte smiled. Four-one-one. The number for information, and that’s what she was here to gather. What were the chances?
She started toward the elevator and then, feeling as if she’d forgotten something, paused to look back at Croix. “Do you want to run my card?”
Croix snorted a laugh. “Nah. We know where to find you.”
Charlotte snapped her mouth shut.
Why did that feel a little threatening?
She headed toward the elevator thinking the Loggerhead Inn was starting to feel a little Hotel California.
Chapter Seven
“Just a second.”
Shana Bennett perked in her seat and blinked at the officer speaking. Her eyes felt stiff and swollen from crying. She rubbed one with the back of her hand to untangle eyelashes bound to one another by salt and running mascara and then quickly lowered her arm back into place on her lap.
I shouldn’t move.
She didn’t know why not, she just knew she shouldn’t.
The police had been in their home since an hour after baby Mason was taken. Her daughter had been whisked to her grandmother’s house to shield her from the trauma of watching her parents fall to pieces. At seven, Maisy wasn’t old enough to understand the gravity of the situation, but she’d seen her mother lose her mind, running around the sea turtle Center screaming and sobbing. She had some idea things were bad.
Shana knew she’d have to address the effect the scene had had on Maisy, but later, when Mason was returned. Right now, for her daughter, it would be just another day at Mom-Mom’s, making cookies and watching cartoons.
She and her husband sat on their sofa, huddled together, both of them praying someone would soon demand a ransom. Anything to know little Mason was still alive. Shana’s body felt carved from marble. Something inside her demanded she hold perfectly still.
Don’t move and everything will be okay.
She feared if she shifted the spell would be broken and Mason would be gone forever. When her husband pulled his hand from her sweaty palm to scratch his nose, she almost stopped breathing. She laid her palms flat on her thighs and held them there so he couldn’t make her move again.
I might have already ruined everything, rubbing my eye.
Shana wasn’t sure holding still helped, but she did know one thing: she’d never forgive herself. How could she have left the baby on the ground? He’d been right behind her, less than a foot away—how did she not sense someone taking him?
The kidnapper was a woman. The police knew that much. The security cameras had caught a glimpse of her and what looked like a stroller, but from what the cops said, they hadn’t seen much else. The woman had been parked in such a way they didn’t see her vehicle, either. She’d probably been planning the abduction for weeks. The stroller was probably empty, waiting to have a stolen baby placed inside. Though, they didn’t find Mason’s car seat, which was strange. She had to take Mason out of the car seat to put him in the stroller, didn’t she? Maybe it fit inside. Maybe the kidnapper brought a stroller big enough for a car seat to fit inside on purpose.
Shana swallowed and wondered if flexing her throat muscles counted as moving.
Stop. The details don’t matter. What matters is Mason is gone.
Saying those words in her head made the tears well up again, and she hung her head to concentrate and force them back. She could tell everyone was getting annoyed with her crying—her husband, the detectives—she could tell. Tears didn’t help anything, but she couldn’t stop.
She glanced at her husband and he offered her a weak, hopeful smile.
He’ll never forgive me.
This will be the end of us.
Carl had been calm so far—loving, supportive, offering words of hope when she needed them— but there was a distance to it all. It was as if he couldn’t bear to touch her, could barely stand to look at her, the woman who’d lost his son.
When the baby wasn’t recovered he’d never forgive her for turning her back on Mason.
It had only been a few seconds.
The car seat was so heavy and Maisy needed help—
She felt the sofa cushion bounce as Carl straightened.
“What is it?” he asked the officer.
She looked up.
He saw something. Something’s happening.
Detective Jimenez held a cell phone to his ear. She hadn’t heard it ring. Jimenez acknowledged Carl’s question by holding up a finger, asking for a moment. A few seconds later he said Got it okay okay bye and lowered the phone to his side. He looked at them and smiled.
He’s smiling. What does that mean?
Shana felt hope flutter in her chest.
“They’re returning him,” said Jimenez.
“What?” Shana almost whispered the word, more afraid to move now than ever. She couldn’t help it.
“You have him?” asked Carl.
Shana nodded. That was the question to ask.
I should have asked that.
Jimenez shook his head, but he raised a palm as if to say, I’m going to say ‘no’ but don’t be alarmed.
“Not yet,” is what he did say. “Someone called the station and said they were leaving the baby for us to pick up.”
“Where? Why? Who steals a baby just to give it back?” asked Carl.
Shana’s arm shot out before she could stop it and she slapped her husband in the middle of his chest with the back of her hand.
“Who cares? Why would you ask that? You’re going to jinx everything!”
He looked at her as if she wasn’t someone he recognized, and she realized how crazy she must appear, between the tears and the swollen eyes and the rage that shot through her upon hearing Carl’s stupid, stupid question.
“I just mean, it’s strange, isn’t it? To steal a baby and then give it back?” he mumbled.
Jimenez shook his head. “You’d be surprised. It isn’t that weird for someone to change their mind about something bad they did.”
Shana felt her fear turning to anger. Horrible woman… Who is this horrible woman who would put us through this just to change her mind?
She looked up. Everyone was staring at her.
I said it out loud.
She knew then she’d said her angry thoughts out loud but she didn’t say woman. She’d said a much worse word. The sort of word she’d trained herself not to say anymore now that she’d moved into Carl’s world.
Carl frowned at her. He didn’t like it when she reminded him of her modest beginnings. She was his wife now. She had to remember to act accordingly.
Her baby had been taken. What did he expect? Maybe he shouldn’t have dated his waitress if he felt—
She made a fist and pushed her fingernails into her palm to stop her thoughts.
Stop. Stop. Think about Mason.
She forced her attention to Jimenez. “Can we go? Can we go get Mason?”
“We’ve got officers on route. He’ll be back here before we could get there. It’s safer this way.”
“I can’t stand it.” Shana dropped her head into her hands. For some reason the rule about moving had expired in her head. “I can’t just sit here—”
