Pineapple Turtles

by Amy Vansant

  “It’s her credit card. She won’t be able to pay for lunch, and she’ll notice her phone is missing. Don’t you people ever carry purses anymore?”

  “Not if I can help it,” muttered Croix. She tapped on the keyboard of her computer. “I have her license plate number on the check-in card.”

  “That’s something. Give me that.”

  Croix found the card Charlotte had filled out upon checking in and handed it to Angelina, who scanned over the info. She strolled to the desk to retrieve her pet and hand the Yorkie to Croix. Slipping Charlotte’s phone into her pocket, she headed toward the elevator.

  On the fourth floor, she used her master key on room four eleven. She watched a boat roll by from inside the French doors that led to the balcony and then turned to scan the rest of the room.

  Let’s start with the bathroom.

  Items arranged neatly on the counter.

  Splashing in the sink.

  Nothing in the trashcan.

  Nothing in the closet.

  Angelina moved back into the tiny hall separating the bathroom from the bedroom. She gave the handle of the room safe a tug.

  Safe locked.

  She hovered near the safe a moment longer and then moved back into the main room.

  Start with the easy stuff.

  Her eye fell on the duffle bag she’d seen the girl yank out of her car and frowned, feeling slightly offended.

  This isn’t a roadside motel.

  She unzipped the bag and rustled through the sparse clothing inside. Couple of shirts, pair of shorts and what looked like a sleeping shirt.

  Angelina sniffed.

  Meeting, my ass.

  The bag didn’t hold a single item of clothing someone could wear to a health inspector meeting.

  Patting the hidden front pouch of her sweater, Angelina found the card Croix had given her and pulled Charlotte’s phone from her pocket to dial.

  “Hey, Artie, how are you?” she purred when a man’s voice answered. On the other side of the line it sounded as if Officer Artie Janket had choked on a French fry, which, if Angelina had to lay down money, he had.

  “Miss Angelina,” he sputtered between gagging noises. He took a moment to catch his breath and then returned to the conversation. “To what do I owe this great pleasure?”

  “I need a peek at a license.”

  “Aw, Angelina. You know I’m not supposed to do that sort of thing.”

  “Artie, you know if you don’t, I’ll find someone who will.”

  He sighed. “I suppose that’s true enough. Hit me with it.”

  She rattled off the plate number.

  “Got it. Charlotte Morgan. Driving a Volvo 240 wagon. No outstanding warrants. No arrests. Hm.”

  “What, hm?”

  “Says she’s a licensed private detective.”

  “Her?”

  “That’s what it says.”

  Angelina felt her stomach gurgle.

  I need to eat something.

  She moved to Charlotte’s mini bar and pulled out a tiny vodka. She cracked the top and took a sip.

  “What was that?” asked Artie.

  “Cracking my knuckles. Anything else?”

  “No. She’s clean.”

  “Address? I have one here. Can I check it against that?”

  “Sure.”

  She read off the address and Artie grunted an affirmative. “That’s it.”

  “Thanks. You’re a doll.”

  “You free for dinner this week?”

  “I might be. Can I get back to you?”

  “Of course you can, darlin’. I’d wait until the full moon comes back for you.”

  “That’s tomorrow.”

  “Then the next one.”

  “Gotcha. Talk to you later. Thanks again, Artie.”

  She hung up, deleted the call from the phone, and thought for a second, pulling at her earring.

  Time for the safe.

  She moved to the guest room safe and plugged in her override sequence. Inside sat a laptop computer and a shoe box.

  A shoebox? Why would a girl with a duffle bag for a suitcase bring shoes so nice she needs to keep them in the box?

  Khaki shorts and Louboutin’s.

  Nope.

  Angelina pulled out the box and flipped open the lid. Inside were papers of every size and color. A child’s drawing on pink construction paper, a page of math problems with a circled red A on it, report cards with the name Siofra on them.

  Angelina swallowed.

  The last names scrawled on the school papers varied. Siofra Candish. Siofra Foxtrot. Siofra Blake. But the first name was always the same. Siofra. Even one of the child’s drawings had the name Siofra on it.

  Angelina sat on the bed.

  This isn’t good.

  What other information might this Charlotte have? Who is she?

  The ironic part was she kind of looked like Siofra. The last time she saw her, anyway. It had been a while. And even then she wasn’t Siofra, she was Lily.

  Who knew who she was now?

  Angelina took another sip from the vodka bottle and returned to the safe to slide out the computer. She opened the lid and stared at the password box.

  Locked, of course.

  Croix had taught her a couple of ways to break into a laptop, but after doing so she’d have to reset the password and that would give her away.

  What was the dog’s name?

  Abby. One-Two-Two-Twenty-five.

  She plugged in the numbers and the screen shook, but didn’t switch to the desktop.

  Shoot.

  She thought about a few other possibilities and decided to start simple.

  Let’s give it a shot.

  She typed in a-b-b-y.

  The computer sprang to life.

  People are so predictable.

  She poked around and found notes from other cases the girl detective had worked. There was a lot of information about a girl named Stephanie Moriarty. Angelina made a note to remember that name. Most of the crimes looked small time. Nothing too sinister, with the exception of some notes implying ole Stephanie might be a serial killer.

  That’s interesting.

  But not relevant.

  She opened a browser and went to a real estate site to look up Charlotte’s address. The house she lived in was owned by her. Last owned by Estelle—

  Angelina’s face went tingly.

  Last owned by Mick’s ex-wife.

  This girl was a private detective living in the home of Siofra’s mother.

  Oh this is not good.

  Angelina slapped close the computer and slipped it back into the safe. She returned the shoebox and locked the safe door.

  She tidied—zipped shut the duffle bag, tucked the fun-sized vodka into her pocket, fluffed up the spot on the bed where’d she sat and with a final sweeping glance of the area, left.

  Once downstairs, she hustled out the front door.

  “Where you going?” called Croix as she hustled by.

  Angelina waved her away. “No time.”

  The doorman opened the door as she approached and she stopped to put a hand on his chest.

  “Which way did she go?”

  “Basket stop.” He pointed to the left.

  “What do you think? Sushi?”

  He squinted and then nodded.

  She patted him on the chest. “I think so too. Thanks, Bracco.”

  He smiled and she hurried for her car. It wouldn’t be long until the girl realized her phone was missing and she needed to be there to save the day.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Hey, fancy meeting you here.”

  Charlotte looked up from her sushi roll to find Angelina from the Loggerhead Inn walking towards her. Striding, really, as if she were late for a lunch date. The woman bristled with confidence.

  What is going on with this lady? She’d practically pushed her out of the hotel and now she was here as if she couldn’t get enough of her.

&nb
sp; “Hello again. I guess that’s why this place is on your list?” asked Charlotte as Angelina arrived tableside.

  “Hm?” Angelina cocked her head and looked at the ground through one eye like a bird.

  “Your list. I guess this place is on it because you like it.”

  “Oh right. Sure.” She stooped, disappearing below the table and then popped up again with a familiar item in her hand. “Is this your phone?”

  Charlotte patted the pouch of her hoodie where she’d last put the phone. “Yikes. Yes. Thank you. How did that fall?” She took the phone and slipped it back into its home. Thank goodness Angelina had come along. If she’d reached to find her phone and found it missing, she would have panicked.

  Uninvited, Angelina sat at Charlotte’s small round high-top table and began shifting the center piece and a spare set of silverware as if they were chess pieces, clearing a sight path to Charlotte on the opposite side of the table. “So, tell me more about why you’re looking for Siofra?” she said.

  Charlotte’s mouth hung open a crack, her brain unable to unlock.

  Why is this woman here?

  She decided there was nothing left to do but play along. “I think she was important to my grandmother.”

  “And who was your grandmother?”

  Charlotte frowned. She didn’t like that suddenly Angelina got to ask all the questions. Every interaction with the woman felt one-sided.

  “Does this mean you figured out who Siofra is?” she asked.

  Angelina ignored her and instead raised a hand to flag down a waitress. When the server shifted directions and moved to the table, Angelina smiled.

  “Is this your table, Susan?”

  The server grinned and nodded. It was clear to Charlotte she was happy to see Angelina.

  “Great. Sweetheart, could you get me a Clamato and vodka?”

  Susan nodded and continued on her way.

  Angelina refocused on Charlotte and leaned in as if she were sharing a secret. “They hate it when you ask them for something and it isn’t their table.”

  Charlotte nodded.

  Angelina continued. “I don’t usually drink this early but my nerves are shot—”

  “Why?”

  “Why don’t I drink this early?”

  “Why are your nerves shot?”

  Angelina shrugged. “Oh. It’s Tuesday. What were we talking about? I think you were about to tell me who your grandmother is in relation to Siofra?”

  Charlotte frowned.

  She’s got the upper hand again. How did that happen?

  “No, I asked you if you figured out who Siofra is,” she said.

  “Oh. Right. Maybe. I just want to narrow things down a bit.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Angelina turned a palm to the sky, her fingers splayed out like ruby-tipped peacock feathers. “I mean, I can’t just give you the names and addresses of everyone who worked at the resort. I have to find out why you want to know. You could be a debt collector, for all I know.”

  “But I’m a food inspector.” Charlotte felt like an idiot repeating her stupid lie, but she had to stick with her cover.

  Wait, did I say health inspector or food inspector the first time?

  She wasn’t sure.

  Shoot.

  Angelina nodded. “So you say. But that’s something a debt collector might say, isn’t it?”

  “And knowing who my grandmother is would tell you if I’m a debt collector?”

  Angelina shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Charlotte took a deep breath. “Okay. Fine. It seems as if neither of us want to be the first to share and we’re going around in circles. Let’s start over.”

  “Fine.” Angelina studied her nails. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t trust me. You’re a health inspector who showed up asking for information. I have reason to be afraid of you.”

  “Why? Is your kitchen in violation?”

  “No. But you know how health inspectors are.”

  Charlotte couldn’t miss the emphasis Angelina placed on the word “health”, now certain the woman had caught her mistake.

  I definitely said health inspector the first time. Not food inspector.

  A close-lipped smile seeped onto Angelina’s face and Charlotte knew one other thing: Angelina hadn’t believed she was a health inspector or a food inspector for a minute.

  I could admit I lied or push it.

  “Why did you say health inspector like that?” she asked.

  Angelina’s eyes grew wide. “Like what?”

  “Like you don’t believe I am one.”

  “Well, you’re not, are you?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because nothing about you says health inspector. Health inspectors are always chubby old men.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Angelina pointed at her. “You’re not dressed like a government employee.”

  “We have days off, too, you know.”

  “You said you were here for a meeting. And if you weren’t, somehow I doubt health inspectors get so intrigued by family mysteries they run to the other side of the state to figure them out.”

  Charlotte scowled. “You seem to have an awful lot of preconceived notions about health inspectors.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Where are they holding your meeting again? I don’t want to miss it. Sounds like a party. And is it the health inspector meeting or the food inspector meeting? I keep forgetting.”

  Charlotte frowned.

  I knew it was a stupid lie.

  Her shoulders slumped. “Fine. I’m not a health inspector. But my stupid little fib would have worked if you hadn’t been so suspicious from the start.”

  “Touché. But why did you feel the need to lie?”

  “Because I thought if I told you my real job it would make you suspicious.”

  “Right. We wouldn’t want that.”

  Charlotte snorted a laugh. “Why are you being so dodgy about sharing information?”

  “I’m not being dodgy. I’m a concierge. Not a spy. I just don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Fair enough.” It occurred to Charlotte that Angelina hadn’t asked her what her real profession was. Strange, for a woman who’d been so suspicious of her.

  Almost as if she already knows.

  Angelina’s cheek twitched, as if beneath Charlotte’s glare, she’d realized her mistake.

  Looking away, as if the answer would have no importance to her, Angelina asked the question.

  “So what are you? A cop?”

  Without meaning to, a tiny grunt escaped from Charlotte’s throat.

  There it is. She’s covering. She realized she should have asked.

  This woman is good.

  Charlotte decided to come clean so they wouldn’t spend the next day playing cat and mouse. “No. Not a cop. A private detective.”

  Angelina seemed shocked. “Really?”

  She nodded.

  “Isn’t that interesting?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Susan delivered Angelina’s drink and wandered off again. Angelina plucked out the cocktail straw and took a sip of the thick, red-tomato-juice-based concoction.

  “The salt makes me bloat but I love these things,” she said before returning her attention to Charlotte. “So what else did you find at Grandmom’s, Sherlock?”

  Charlotte chuckled. “A shoebox full of a mishmash of kid things, mostly. Report cards, drawings—it made me think this girl must have been special to Nanny.”

  “That’s what you called your grandmother? Nanny?”

  She nodded.

  Angelina looked off into the restaurant, as if her thoughts were pulled in that direction by a memory.

  “Mine was Nona.” Her shoulders seemed to loosen, as if the tight strings holding her erect had slipped a notch. “Siofra’s been gone a long time.”

  Bingo!

  Charlotte perked. “So you do know her?”

  She nodded. “S
he’s been missing for years.”

  “Missing? Like, kidnapped?”

  “Gosh, no, I hope not. She just left. Personal reasons. We’ve made some inquiries but nothing solid. Until recently, we didn’t know if she wanted to be found, so we didn’t try.”

  “What happened recently?”

  “Her father fell ill. We want to let her know, but I’m afraid we’ve let her trail go cold for too long.”

  “Are you family?”

  Angelina tilted her head from side to side. “Family friend.”

  Charlotte ate a piece of her sushi roll.

  Declan was right. This definitely wasn’t going to be a one day project.

  Dabbing her napkin against her lip, she stared across the table. “Do you want me to find her?”

  Angelina’s brow crinkled. “You mean do I want to hire you?”

  “No, I’d do it for free, but yes, find her like I would if you were to hire me.”

  Angelina took another sip of her Clamato and vodka. “We really should find her.” She mumbled the words, as if she were talking to herself more than anyone else. She began to nod, the motion growing stronger until she put down her glass and locked eyes with Charlotte.

  “I think I can give you some leads, Sherlock.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Charlotte gobbled the last few pieces of her sushi, settled the bill and followed Angelina back to the resort. She paid for Angelina’s cocktail as a thank you for the recovery of her phone and Angelina accepted without a fight.

  “Cattle cup,” said the doorman touching the brim of his invisible cap as he opened the door for them.

  Angelina strode through without stopping. “Thank you, Bracco.”

  Charlotte smiled and hurried to catch up to Angelina. Flanking the concierge, she lowered her voice to a whisper.

  “Is it me or is he not saying real sentences?”

  She felt bad for asking, but it was time to figure out if she was going crazy or if that man was saying random words every time she passed by.

  “They’re real sentences. They just don’t make any sense to us.” Angelina tapped the side of her head with her index finger. “Brain injury. He knows what he’s saying but his brain and mouth aren’t on speaking terms.”

  “Oh.”

  “A lot of the people who work here are veterans or survivors of other types of wars.”

  Charlotte glanced back at the tattoo-covered body of Croix at the desk, wondering which war she’d survived. Croix smiled and offered her a tiny wave.