by Amy Vansant
In her mind’s eye, she pictured sitting across from Declan in Mariska’s house. She saw his green eyes, sparkling as he chuckled and the manliness of his chiseled cheekbones blending perfectly with the expressive wrinkles gathering on his forehead as he talked and worried. The top button of his blue polo was unbuttoned, revealing the v-notch of his throat and a smattering of dark chest hairs. On either side of the shirt’s buttons, the thin fabric hung neatly from his well-developed pecs. She wanted to reach out and touch them. They looked firm. She inhaled, smelling his aftershave…
“What are you grinning about?’ asked Darla.
Charlotte snapped from her thoughts.
“Was I?”
Charlotte looked forward and raised her other leg.
“Nothing,” she said.
Chapter Six
Declan looked at the piece of paper in his hand then back at the ranch-style home in Pineapple Port. He’d received a call from Sheriff Marshall asking him to stop by and discuss the discovery of the bones, presumed to be his mother’s. The address on the summons was 115 Flamingo Court, just a few houses down the street from Charlotte’s. Declan knew the town of Charity was small, but he never imagined the police station would be a modular home in a retirement community. He checked the paper again, wondering if he’d misheard the address.
This made Andy Griffith look like chief of New York Police Department.
As he stared at the ceramic frog fishing in a tiny manmade pond in the front yard of the police precinct, a movement caught his eye. He glanced up in time to spot curtains drawing shut. Someone was watching him from the house.
Spurred into action, he climbed the three steps to the door and knocked. He still doubted the address, but felt silly not trying if someone already had eyes on him.
A balding man answered the door wearing shorts and a white tank top. He was wiry, with deeply tanned skin and bowed legs. A riot of white hair raged from each armpit. Declan guessed him to be in his early seventies and didn’t recognize him from the crime scene.
“Yes?” asked the man. His tone was brusque, bordering on annoyed.
“I was talking to your deputy out here,” said Declan, nodding towards the fishing frog. “And he said this was the police station?”
The man looked at the frog and then squinted at Declan.
“I’m guessing I wrote down the wrong address?”
“No, you got the right place,” said the man. “My office is being remodeled. I’ve been doing some things out of the house. I can’t let the gears of justice grind to a halt just because the paint hasn’t dried.”
“No, of course not.”
“And you keep your eyes off that frog, mister.”
“Okay…”
“Come in,” said the man, stepping back to make room. “I’m Sheriff Frank Marshall.”
Declan chuckled and offered his hand to shake.
“You know, you should have become a marshal…”
The sheriff grunted as if in pain. He ignored Declan’s hand and grabbed a t-shirt from a pile of folded clothes on his counter. He pulled it over his head.
Declan’s gaze fell to the chest of the sheriff’s tee and he bit his lower lip. The shirt was solid baby blue, but for two pink clamshells, one covering each breast.
Frank spotted Declan’s growing smirk and glanced down at his chest.
“Dammit Darla!” he said, ripping off the tee as if it was on fire. The shirt caught on his ear and he wrestled inside it before tossing it on the counter next to the folded pile and heading to the kitchen table.
“Follow me,” he said, winded.
A scruffy tan dog came running to Declan, his whole body wriggling with excitement.
“Hey there, cutie,” he said, squatting to pet the dog.
“He ain’t cute, he’s the ugliest damn dog in the world. Leave him be. He’s old and he’ll pee all over the place.”
Declan sneaked a quick ear scratching and then stood.
Frank grabbed a pen and pad from his kitchen counter before sitting at the large wooden table. He motioned to the seat across from him.
“Have a seat right there, weirdo. I just have to ask you a couple of questions.”
“What?” said Declan trying to stop in mid-sit, but he’d already dropped too far. He fell into the kitchen chair. “Did you just call me—”
“First question,” said Frank cutting him short. “I’m not your psychiatrist, but I’d like to ask you about your childhood. Anything off? You don’t have to get too graphic. Just the facts.”
Declan closed his gaping mouth.
I must have heard that wrong.
He supposed it made sense that the police would question him about his mother while she was alive; the information could help to identify her killer.
“Well, my father was a drug addict,” said Declan.
“I would have guessed booze, from your name.”
Declan’s jaw clenched. He swallowed hard and tried to relax. The last thing he needed was a beef with the local sheriff, but the old man wasn’t making things easy for him.
“Yes, Irish drunks are a delightful stereotype, but no, his poison was heroin.”
“Delightful?”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“Don’t.”
“Okaaay…”
“Booze, smack…shows a lack of restraint, either way. You a drunk?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“I drink, socially; maybe a beer or two after work, but I wouldn’t call myself a drunk, no.”
“What about other people? Would they call you a drunk?”
“Not if they knew what was good for them!”
Declan forced a chuckle.
Frank leaned forward on his elbows and stared into Declan’s eyes.
“Was that sarcasm?”
“No. That was…uh…just a joke.”
“Don’t.”
“Got it. Sorry.”
“Now, again; would other people call you a drunk?”
“No.”
“Drugs?”
“No.”
“None? Smack? Horse? Nose candy?”
“Not unless you count heartburn pills and aspirin.”
“Mixed together? Is that something the kids are doing now?”
“No—I mean, I don’t know. I meant separately. I don’t take anything stronger than aspirin.”
Frank jotted a note on his pad, using a pen marked with the logo of a cholesterol drug. The pen made Declan smile. Every time he dealt with the residents of Pineapple Port, they produced pens featuring drug advertisements, stolen from their doctors. He guessed no one in the community had purchased a pen in thirty years.
“It’s funny,” he said. “That pen you’re us—”
“Tell me more about your dad,” said Frank, cutting him short again.
“Uh…there isn’t much to tell.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Declan leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Okay…well, he left when I was two or three. My mother raised me alone for a few years in New York, and then moved down here to be next to my grandmother.”
“Mm hm,” said Frank, scribbling a few more notes. The pad of paper he used had It’s five o’clock somewhere! stamped on it in hot pink. Declan scanned the house, spotting a frilly pillow and decorative plates on the wall.
“You and your wife live here long?” he asked.
Frank blessed him with his steely glare.
“Who said anything about my wife?”
“I was just making small talk.”
“Don’t. I hate that shit.”
“Duly noted,” said Declan, crossing his legs.
Frank looked at his crossed legs for a little too long, and he uncrossed them. This seemed to satisfy the sheriff and he returned to his notepad.
“Anything else I should know about your parents?”
“Well…when I was eleven, my mother left in the middle of
the night and never came back. We never knew what happened to her. My grandmother reported her missing, but nothing ever came of it.”
“Hm. I can see how that could mess you up.”
“I guess. My grandmother was a big help, her and my uncle, Seamus. He lived here at the time, but left to become an officer in Miami. He left his half of the Charity pawnshop to me for when I was old enough to take over.”
“So he’s police?”
“Was.”
“Was?”
“He just retired. He’s moving back here this week, actually.”
“Good for him.”
“He was decorated,” added Declan, feeling as though he had finally found some common ground with the sheriff.
“Oh, he must be so proud of you,” mumbled Frank.
Declan scowled.
“Sheriff, have I done something to offend you?”
“Let’s just say all your childhood hardships don’t forgive your behavior now. I’m so sick of this new generation, always blaming their problems on their mommies and daddies.”
“I haven’t blamed anything on anyone!”
“My mommy didn’t buy me the right brand of organic waffles,” said Frank in a whiney voice, ignoring Declan’s protestations. “That’s why I burned down the school.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” said Declan, rising to his feet. “I didn’t burn down a school!”
“I’m talking about your sick little hobby, you wackjob!”
The sheriff stood and pointed at Declan’s chest with his crooked index finger. He stood a good six inches shorter, but leaned forward like an aggressive bulldog. His posture gave Declan pause, and he had to fight his rising anger. He hated the idea of flashing a temper and confirming the sheriff’s impressive list of Irish stereotypes.
“What hobby?” he demanded to know.
“What hobby? Building ships in a bottle. You know what hobby, you pervert!”
Frank stuck his stubby finger in Declan’s face to punctuate the word pervert. It was all he could do not to slap it away and he clenched his fists at his sides to keep his hands still. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to hit someone, let alone an elderly man recently spotted in a mermaid t-shirt.
Heh.
The image of the pink shell bikini top across Frank’s chest brought a smirk to Declan’s lips and he felt his anger subside. He released his fists and took a deep breath.
“Look, I came here to help you catch my mother’s killer and all you’ve done is insult me.”
Frank’s head tilted to the side like a curious dog’s.
“Catch your mother’s—”
The fire in Frank’s eyes died and his face fell slack. He grabbed a wad of papers from his breakfast bar and shuffled through them until he found the one he wanted.
“You’re not Tommy Wickham?”
“I told you my name is Declan Bingham.”
The sheriff resumed shuffling through the paperwork and pulled another sheet.
“Christmas on a cracker. You think those bones they found at Charlotte’s house are your mother’s?”
“Yes. And I don’t see how that makes me a weirdo or a pervert.”
The sheriff waved a hand in front of him. “My mistake. I got you confused with this other kid, running around sticking his willy into koi ponds.”
“His what?”
“You know…” Frank made a few quick pelvis thrusts to illustrate his point.
Declan recoiled.
“You thought I was violating koi ponds?” He laughed. “That’s why you didn’t like me talking about your frog pond!”
The sheriff chuckled. “I didn’t want you makin’ eyes at Lil’ Frankie.”
“You named the ceramic frog Lil’ Frankie? And I’m the weirdo?”
“Watch it. Darla named him. She calls him ‘Lil’ Frankie’ because he catches about a many fish as I do.”
“Darla’s your wife? I met her. Her, Charlotte and…Mariska? They were very kind to me after I realized the bones might be my mother’s.”
“Those three are never more than three feet apart. Anyway, I apologize. This office remodel has everything mixed up.”
Declan nodded. “It’s fine. I’m relieved. Let’s start over.”
“Okay. And if you want to pet Oscar, you go ahead.”
Declan glanced at the dog who had flopped on the ground by his foot.
Frank looked over his notes. Declan watched him cross out the word weirdo in three separate places and sick bastard in one.
“So long and short of it, your mom disappeared and you had no idea why. No talk of a boyfriend or anything like that?”
“No. I mean, I was a kid so I wasn’t really thinking about things like that, but Mamó never said anything like that later in life either.”
“Mamó?”
“My granny.”
“Is your grandmother still alive? Can I talk to her?”
“No. She died two years ago. Emphysema.”
“Those damn cigarettes, I bet. I lost a sister to them.”
Declan nodded.
“Do you know where your mother worked?”
“Here, I think. She worked as a secretary at the building office, and then she also waitressed a bit, nights and weekends.”
“You know where?”
“Orange Grill?” said Declan. “Something like that.”
Frank grunted. “Nectarine’s. Yeah, they went out of business close to ten years ago.”
“That’s pretty much all I know. I just recognized that necklace. I’d given it to Mom for Christmas and she always wore it.”
“I need to take a swab from your mouth so they can compare it to the DNA of the bones. Though they’ll probably do the identifying by her teeth if they’re in good shape.”
“No problem.”
“We’ll have the tests back in a few days. Then we’ll know for sure if it was your mom or not. I’m real sorry, about the bones and my behavior today.”
Declan shrugged. “No problem. I’m glad we got that cleared up.”
The sheriff swabbed Declan’s mouth, put the results in a clear jar and sealed it. As he jotted his name on it, there was a knock on the door. He put down the jar and shook Declan’s hand.
“That’s it. You’re free to go.”
He opened his door, Declan following to leave.
A shifty-eyed young man in his late teens wearing jeans shorts and a torn t-shirt stood on the sheriff’s steps. He was staring at the frog pond.
“Yeah, I got a call to show up here,” he said, turning as Frank opened the door.
“What’s your name?”
“Tommy. Tommy Wickham.”
Declan swiveled to investigate the notorious pond lover. He glanced at the sheriff, who flashed him a quick smile and then turned his attention back to Tommy.
“Come on in, son,” he said, putting his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “I just need to talk to you for a little bit.”
Chapter Seven
Charlotte sat on her screened porch.
Her lanai.
She stared at the shallow gravesite behind her home. The police and forensic investigators had completed their tasks and removed the crime tape, but the yard would never feel the same. She shivered, thinking about all the years Declan’s poor mother lay beneath her patio. She groaned, recalling last summer’s luau themed barbeque party.
People had danced the hula on Erin’s grave.
My god. There might have been a conga line.
If there was a dead person in her backyard, where else might they be? She had seen enough horror movies to know that once someone disturbed a grave, all sort of weird things started to happen. Now every time Abby stirred in her sleep, Charlotte sat straight up in bed, wondering if her dog’s paranormal senses were tingling. Abby ran in her sleep a lot. She was exhausted.
As far as she knew, the investigators only found bones and the necklace. She hoped they’d also found something that would lead to E
rin Bingham’s killer. Everyone knew spirits grew less restless after avenging their deaths. That was Ghost 101. She hoped Erin was a nice lady, uninterested in haunting people. Declan seemed nice, so that boded well; his mother was probably nice, too. Charlotte couldn’t imagine Declan haunting someone. Though, if she had to be haunted by someone, it wouldn’t hurt to have a handsome ghost lurking about. It could be like The Ghost and Mrs. Muir.
Charlotte took a sip of her wine.
Great.
She was sitting around, drinking alone, fantasizing about being a young widow like Mrs. Muir, alone in a lighthouse with a ghost.
I’m even alone in my daydreams.
She really needed to get out more. She needed to venture beyond Pineapple Port. Maybe go somewhere where people talked about movies more recent than 1947.
Charlotte stood and walked into the house. She wrote get out more on the chalkboard wall beneath solve mystery and bread, lettuce, cookies. The chalkboard hadn’t been painted for a week before it turned into a shopping list. She moved to put down the chalk and then changed her mind. She added The Ghost and Mrs. Muir on the board. She hadn’t seen it in a while.
Charlotte saw something flash outside her kitchen window. It moved just above her fence line, round, head-shaped. She jumped and dropped the chalk.
Erin.
Already? She hadn’t had the time to avenge a squirrel’s death!
She froze, deciding whether to investigate or call for help.
Who could she call about a ghost?
A familiar tune began to play in her head.
Who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters!
Stop it. Damn it Erin, concentrate.
She crept to the window and peeked outside.
She saw another flash of movement, this time heading towards her front yard.
She ran for the front door, alerting Abby, who tore around the corner, cutting her off and creating a first line of defense. It was everything she could do to avoid tripping over the dog.
She threw open the door and Abby burst outside.
“Whoa whoa whoa!” yelled a man standing on the curb outside her home as Abby barreled towards him.
