by Amy Vansant
“Hm.” Charlotte eyed Darla. “Well, it’s something that happened last night, because you look like you haven’t slept in a year.”
Darla nodded. “I’ll give you that. One point for Detective Charlotte.”
Charlotte motioned to Darla’s long sleeveless dress. “You’re not wearing clothes. So it’s something that got you dirty.”
Darla looked down at herself. “Whaddya mean I’m not wearing clothes?”
“You’re wearing your sweat dress. The thing you throw on when you don’t want to keep wearing what you had on, but you don’t feel like taking a shower yet.”
Darla took a sip of her beer. “You’re good.”
“Thank you. You were digging.”
“Hm?”
“I saw the shovel out front, except...”
“What?”
“Is that blood on it? Were you digging up corpses?”
Darla laughed. “You’re getting hotter, but you’ll never guess the rest of it.”
Charlotte heard the flush of a toilet behind her and turned to find Frank walking down the hallway, tucking his shirt into his pants as he moved.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, entering the kitchen to claim the ham sandwich.
One mystery solved.
He seemed even more agitated than usual, chewing his sandwich as if it were more about killing it than eating it.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
Frank took a deep inhale through his nose and expelled it the same way, his mouth blocked by ham and bread. He swallowed, apparently eager to share. “This damn hurricane has everyone crazy. Fights in the parking lot over toilet paper, people calling in asking how to shutter their houses—like the sheriff’s office is a general contractor. Hurricane parties getting out of control.” He waved his hands as he talked, as if pointing to the areas of the town he’d visited while responding to each call he mentioned. After another breath, he thrust a pointed index finger toward the main road. “This morning I had to rush across the street because a lady had a racoon on her pool cage.”
“The animals have gone crazy, too?”
Frank’s eyes bulged. “No. That’s the kicker. The damn raccoon was dead. Flatter than a pancake, what was left of him.”
Charlotte scowled. “Dead and flat? On her pool cage?”
“Anyone want some bacon?” asked Darla, motioning toward the greasy paper towel Charlotte guessed hid the remainder of the morning’s breakfast.
Charlotte’s attention swiveled towards her.
She’s trying to distract me with bacon.
It was a smart move, and had the bacon been freshly cooked, might have worked.
Darla met her eyes, and doubled-down. “Do you want a sandwich?”
“No, thank you.” Charlotte turned back to Frank. “Tell me more. Am I missing something? How does a flat raccoon get on a pool cage? I mean...” She looked back at Darla. “Unless someone shoveled it off the highway and threw it up there.”
Darla grimaced. “That would be crazy.” She glanced at Frank and, confirming he wasn’t looking in her direction, licked the tip of her finger and drew an imaginary line in the air, letting Charlotte know she’d scored another point.
Charlotte grinned and then sobered as Frank finished destroying another bite of his sandwich and turned his attention to her again.
“Why would someone throw a raccoon on a pool cage? Is that something the kids are doing now?”
Charlotte shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, I’m almost thirty. I don’t get the kids’ newsletter anymore.”
Frank grabbed Darla’s beer and took a sip. “Right. I keep forgetting you’re so old. You’ll always be a little girl to me.”
Charlotte scowled. “Thanks?”
He barreled on. “I don’t know how the damn thing got up there. I’m guessing one of those vultures carried it off the street. See, the problem wasn’t the ‘coon. The problem was the birds.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “You should have seen the mess. Bits of raccoon everywhere—in the pool, around the pool. And the bird poop—everywhere. I’ve never seen such a mess.” He paused and cocked his head, the next half of the sandwich hovering an inch from his mustache. “You know what’s weird though...”
“What?” Charlotte leaned in, sure she was about to receive another piece of the puzzle.
Frank pushed his next bite into his cheek with his tongue so he could finish his thought. “There was so much raccoon. All ground up in chunks, almost like hamburger. The birds must have eaten it and barfed it up or something.”
“Yikes.” Charlotte looked at Darla. “That sounds like terrible luck.”
“No kidding. Thing is...” Frank stopped, looking confused again.
“What?” prompted Charlotte.
“Didn’t you say you needed to get going?” Darla asked.
Frank’s thought process seemed to find its conclusion. “There was one of those white Styrofoam trays up there, too. With the raccoon.”
“The kind that hamburger comes in?” asked Charlotte, trying to look innocent. She could feel the heat of Darla’s stare on her neck.
Frank looked at her. “Yes. I assumed it blew up there but now—”
Darla lunged forward and grabbed Frank’s empty plate. “Honey, you better get back to work.”
“Hello everyone,” said Gloria, entering through the front door. She threw her arms around Charlotte’s neck to give her a squeeze. “So good to see you.”
“You, too.” Charlotte squinted at Darla as she hugged the little woman. Darla looked away and put Frank’s dish in the dishwasher.
“You didn’t buy anything at the outlets?” asked Charlotte.
Gloria shook her head. “No. Didn’t see anything I needed.” She took a deep breath, looking flush and happy. “I feel so good,” she said, to no one in particular.
“That’s good. Why? Did you sleep well?” asked Charlotte.
Gloria laughed. “Not really. I only wish I could see the face on that—”
“Cocktails!” screamed Darla. “Maybe we should have a cocktail and take it easy?”
Gloria looked at her watch. “It’s early, isn’t it?”
“Nah. It’s like a holiday. You’re here, there’s a hurricane coming, it’s Florida’s version of a snow day.”
Gloria clapped her hands together. “Do you have champagne?”
Frank slid off his stool, muttering. “It’s not even one o’clock. Is this what you do all day while I’m at work?” He snatched up Darla’s beer and took another sip, swishing it in his mouth to draw the from his teeth.
“It’s a hurricane party. Special occasion,” said Darla, refusing to let her momentum die. She guided Gloria toward the back of the house and away from Frank. “I might have champagne in the back. Let’s go look. We can look together.”
Frank watched the women disappear into the back bedroom. “Those two. One stranger than the next. I’m almost afraid to leave them alone together.”
“You should be,” mumbled Charlotte.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She pointed at the television playing news on mute in the living room. On the screen, a large animated storm barreled in their direction. “Looks like the hurricane really did decide to hit us,” she said.
“Whoopee.” Frank’s radio squawked and Charlotte heard the dispatcher.
“Hey Frank, we got a possible dead guy over at The Fairways homes.”
Frank rubbed his temple and then held the speaker on his shoulder to answer. “Darlene, I’ve told you not to say things like that on the radio. Use the codes.”
“Sorry Frank. We got a possible dead guy over at 294 Sandtrap Lane.”
“Not the street numbers, the—” He closed his eyes. “Nevermind. I’m on my way.”
Charlotte perked. “Ooh, can I come?”
Frank stood. “Sure. I give up. I could take all the help I can get.”
“Good. I need to talk to you.”
“About wh
at?”
“We might have a problem.”
Frank frowned. “Great. Just what I need.”
Chapter Thirteen
Declan punched in the security code and entered his pawn shop, the Hock o’Bell. He didn’t plan to linger now that he knew Jamie might be back in town. He needed to get his gun and a smattering of other useful objects, and get back to Charlotte. She’d worn him down after Stephanie left, insisting he not shadow her all day. He’d let her go, but had no intention of leaving her alone for long. He wanted to get his security equipment, get back home to secure the house, and then get Charlotte in the house. They could ride out the storm together feeling protected.
Though I might have to tie her up and lock her in the closet to keep her there.
Striding to his safe he slowed, passing a taxidermy armadillo standing on its hind legs. It wore a suit of armor helmet and held a tiny sword gripped in its claw. He bent to read the little plaque on the base of the item.
“King Arthurdillo.”
He straightened and took a deep breath.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Declan’s only employee, a giant named Blade, had a talent for reimagining unsellable objects so they flew out the doors. He had a particular affinity for taxidermy, and must have created King Arthurdillo during his shift the night before. He’d probably sell his art within the week, which would not only rid Declan of the hideous stuffed armadillo he’d inherited at an estate sale, but also the tiny knight’s helmet someone once used as a tiny planter.
The man was a genius.
Declan walked into his office and opened his large gray safe. From it, he pulled his gun and a box of bullets, and then stared at a second gun, one belonging to Uncle Seamus.
Hm.
He stood to fish his phone from his pocket and dialed.
“The Anne Bonny, hurricane party central,” said his uncle, instead of hello.
Declan looked at his phone, thinking he’d misdialed. “I called your cell, not your bar.”
“I answer all my phones like this now. I am the hurricane party and the hurricane party is me.”
“Sounds like you’ve started early.”
Seamus chuckled. “Ah, but is it early today? Or late yesterday?”
“This isn’t a koan. Today is today.”
“What can I do for you?”
Declan glanced at the gun in the safe. “Stephanie came by the house this morning saying her mother’s broken out. She says she talked to her in person this morning.”
“Aye? Wouldn’t that have been on the news?”
“There’s some speculation someone on the inside might be covering for her. There aren’t a lot of hard facts yet. I just wanted to give you a heads up in case she comes after you, trying to get to us.”
“Not a problem, boyo. I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
“I’m at the shop getting my gun. Do you want yours?”
Seamus snorted. “That old thing? Nah. I’ve got some here. I’ve three within reach of where I’m standing right now.”
“Where are you?”
“Behind the bar.”
“Is that safe?”
“Not for anyone trying to stick up my bar.”
“Just stay aware, will you?”
Seamus sighed like a teenager submitting to a scolding. “Don’t worry. I promise to keep my bloodshot eyes peeled.”
“Great. I feel better already.”
Seamus’ voice dropped to a more serious tone. “If she’s coming after anyone, it’s you and Charlotte.”
“I’m aware. Charlotte’s staying at my house for the storm. I’m hoping by the time this passes Jamie will have, too. If she’s even here. Who knows.”
“Do you need any other equipment?”
Declan closed the safe. “I’ve been thinking about that. I’d like to shore up the house a bit. Some trip wire alarms maybe...”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.” Declan looked around, though he knew the only other person with a key was Blade, and that man was much too large to hide. “I’m alone.”
Seamus dropped to a whisper. “There’s a room in the shop where I keep some things.”
“What?”
“It’s behind the s-a-f-e.”
Declan rolled his eyes. “Are you under the impression a five-year-old might be listening? I’m pretty sure everyone else knows how to spell.”
Seamus ignored him. “Reach into the safe, there’s a false back in the upper right held in place with a screw. There should be a screwdriver in there.”
“There used to be. I couldn’t figure out why it was in there so I took it out.” Declan hadn’t thought twice about moving the screwdriver. Years ago, when Seamus turned the store over to him, he’d found old sticks of pepperoni in the file cabinets and toothpicks in the register. A screwdriver in the safe hadn’t been a shock.
“Go find it and loosen the screw.”
Declan opened the tool drawer behind the counter to retrieve the screwdriver he’d moved. Squatting in front of the safe, he leaned and felt for the screw to unwind it. As it fell, a metal plaque swung down revealing a red button.
“There’s a button,” he said, knowing better than to press it. Push the wrong button and the whole place might explode.
“Push it,” said Seamus.
“You’re sure? You didn’t boobytrap it and forget?”
“Uuuuhhhh...” The word dragged out for a few seconds too long. “No. Pretty sure.”
“Pretty sure.”
“No. It’s already hidden in a safe, what more would I need?”
Declan grimaced.
Here goes nothing.
He pressed a button and something in the wall behind the safe clicked. The safe shifted towards him a few inches, and he scrambled back, unsure where it might be heading. It stopped about four inches, the wall popping out and separating from the trim where a seam in the wall would never be detected.
“Wow,” said Declan, impressed.
“Use the safe to move the whole mess to the side.”
Putting his hands on either side of the safe, he slid it to the left like a barn door. The safe, which looked as if it sat flush on the floor, appeared suspended on a small platform he could glide away to reveal a hidden closet.
A blast of musty air hit his nostrils. It had been a while since anyone entered this secret place.
“Did you get it?” asked Seamus.
“Yes. It’s a little closet with shelves and boxes...” He spotted a large item mounted to the back wall. “Is that a rocket launcher?”
“Probably. I don’t remember exactly what I left in there. Fun stuff.”
Declan stepped inside, scanning the shelves for useful things. “How come you never told me about this?”
“Eh. I forgot about it. I’m going to get back to my party. Let me know if you need any help.”
“Right. Try not to get into too much trouble, will you? I don’t need to worry about you, too.”
Seamus laughed. “No one ever needs to worry about me, Boyo.”
Declan hung up and jerked a string dangling at eye-level to illuminate the bare bulb above his head. He slid the door shut, careful to first check the inside latch and ensure he could open it again. Windows lined the front of the shop; he didn’t want anyone peering inside to see the secret room, but he also didn’t want to have to shoot his way out after getting stuck. After opening and closing the door a few times he closed it tight, so from the shop side the safe would look as it always did, pressed against the wall and flush on the floor.
He stared at the boxes of weapons, suffering an uncomfortable flashback. He’d been an angry young man after his mother went missing, never to return. His father had already been out of the picture for years. No one knew how to reach him. His Uncle Seamus had stepped in to serve as his father, mentor and family, eventually encouraging him to join his government shadow operation to teach him discipline and allow him to expend his anger in productive ways. His
childhood girlfriend Stephanie had gone with him, her inherited bloodlust satiated by the missions.
For a while their lives had been exhilarating, but he’d eventually lost his taste for never-ending wars.
It hadn’t helped that Stephanie cheated on him with one of their captains.
Still young and foolish, he’d begged Stephanie to leave with him. She stayed. Later they reconnected on and off, always with disastrous results. Only recently, had it seemed she might find a way to settle.
Now, Jamie was back to drag her under again.
Maybe.
But now wasn’t the time to worry about Stephanie. Now, he had to protect Charlotte. Charlotte with her good heart, strong will and sharp mind. Charlotte who showed him love didn’t have to be torture.
He scanned the shelves and gathered together things he thought might be useful. Nothing proved high tech. It had clearly been a decade since Seamus added anything to his collection.
Thinking it over, he decided perimeter tripwires seemed like a bad idea with a hurricane coming. A tree branch could set them off. He gathered them anyway, thinking they could be repurposed to guard windows and doors.
Finding an empty backpack stuffed in the corner of the room, he tossed equipment inside. A small, square, video screen sat in the corner and he followed the wires leading from it to find a switch.
Here goes nothing.
He flipped the switch and the screen flickered to life. The image, obscured by what looked like dirt, showed the front of the shop. It flickered and switched to a shot of the inside. He could see King Arthurdillo sitting in his place of honor just inside the door.
Before leaving the room, you check to make sure no one will see you leave.
Smart.
Seamus always had been the smartest idiot he knew.
He flipped off the camera and triggered the door to slip out. After securing the closet once more, he locked the safe. His phone dinged and he pulled it from his pocket.
It was a text from Stephanie. A variation on an old theme: Think of the devil and she shall appear.
She’d only typed one word.
Proof.
A video clip arrived. He tapped to play and recognized Stephanie’s office parking lot. The front passenger side of a blue car appeared and parked partially out of frame. A moment later, a woman in a floral skirt wearing a broad-rimmed sunhat appeared, walking around the front of the car as if she’d exited the vehicle. He couldn’t see a face. The body appeared vaguely Jamie-shaped.
