Pineapple Pack II

by Amy Vansant

  “In all fairness, the owner of the finger’s not necessarily dead,” said Bob.

  “But he’s not as good at the piano as he used to be,” added Chuck.

  Bob raised his glass again. “To pianos.”

  Seamus and Chuck toasted him. “To pianos.”

  Carolina huffed. “Bunch of drunks.”

  Charlotte smiled at Carolina, who always served as a one-woman temperance league. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. For all we know it’s a toy. A disturbingly realistic toy.”

  “I dunno. It smells kinda funky,” said Darla, her nose wrinkling.

  Mariska grimaced. “It’s getting warm. I’ll put it in a Tupperware.”

  “Death warmed over,” mumbled Darla.

  Carolina held up a hand. “I swear, Mariska, don’t you dare put that finger in the refrigerator with the food.”

  Mariska opened all the cabinets and, finding no plastic containers, returned to the table with a wad of paper towels and a cut-crystal, covered butter dish. She used the towels as a makeshift glove to roll the finger onto the dish and then covered her prize.

  “That’s museum-quality now,” said Declan, admiring the finger-under-glass.

  “It’s like a little see-thru coffin for it,” agreed Darla.

  Charlotte moved the butter dish from the table to the counter and pushed it away from the edge.

  “Safer over here. Abby has a way of getting on tables,” she explained.

  Moving to the window, she stared outside as the last of the dim light faded. Two black cats sat on the dunes behind the house, staring up at her, their dark coats speckled with snow.

  Declan joined her and followed her gaze.

  “Am I seeing two black cats?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yep.”

  “That’s not ominous at all.”

  “Nah.”

  Mariska pantomimed brushing her hands free of the severed-finger problem and opened the refrigerator. “Thank you, Carolina, for doing all the shopping early. Thank goodness you did.”

  Caroline shrugged.

  Mariska hung on the door, staring into the refrigerator. “The refrigerator’s full of meat. Don’t you want it in the freezer?” She opened the freezer door and gasped. “What’s this?”

  “What’s what?” asked Carolina.

  The freezer was stuffed with packages of meat, leaving barely an inch of open space. The fridge had even more meat, piled high.

  “You told me to pick up dinners,” said Carolina.

  Seamus glanced in the freezer and whistled. “Maybe someone did chop up the last renters. I think we just found the rest of them.”

  Mariska scowled. “Carolina, there must be twenty steaks in here.”

  “Right, eight people, seven days...” Carolina’s expression fell. “Oh. You’re right. My math is off.”

  Mariska sniffed. “I would say so—”

  “I should have bought more.”

  “More? Carolina, there’s nothing but beef in here.”

  “You said to buy dinners.”

  “Who eats meat every day?”

  Carolina and Chuck looked at each other.

  “Who doesn’t eat meat every day?” asked Chuck.

  “Weirdo hippies, that’s who,” said Carolina.

  Mariska sighed. “The meat in the fridge will go bad before we can eat it and it doesn’t all fit in the freezer.”

  Carolina shook her head like a wet dog. “No, it won’t. First, we’ll eat it all. Second, I’ve been rotating the meat in the fridge and freezer once a day. It will last forever.”

  Charlotte leaned to whisper to Declan. “She learned that trick catering the Donner party.”

  Declan barked a laugh and quickly sobered when Carolina’s glare shot in his direction.

  Mariska frowned and Charlotte watched Carolina’s ire rise.

  “Oh I’m sorry. What do Florida people eat? Vegetables?” Carolina spat the last word as if it tasted like vegetables.

  Mariska huffed. “We don’t live on meat alone. Does that mean you didn’t buy anything green?”

  “I bought vegetables,” said Carolina, marching to the cabinet under the sink. She jerked it open and pointed. “Happy?”

  Ten pound bags of potatoes filled the large space.

  Mariska gaped. “They’re not vegetables, they’re potatoes.”

  Charlotte tried to interject. “Well, technically potatoes are veg—”

  Mariska barreled on. “Is that all you bought?”

  “No.” Carolina opened the cabinet next to the first to reveal more potatoes.

  “So we won’t starve, but scurvy is going to be an issue,” said Declan under his breath.

  Charlotte laughed out loud and the two sisters turned their heads in tandem to glare at her.

  Charlotte tugged on Declan’s arm. “Let’s go get to work. It’s about to get all Polish sisters in here.”

  Chapter Seven

  It was a little too early for dinner and a little too late for lunch by the time they’d settled down and realized how hungry they were, so the eight of them had steak and potatoes for linner as the storm raged outside.

  “I don’t know whether I want to get to work or take a nap,” said Charlotte taking her plate to the sink.

  “I’ll do the dishes, you paint,” said Mariska, handing her own plate to Bob.

  Bob grimaced. By I’ll do the dishes, Mariska meant he would do the dishes. She’d trained him well in that department. She cooked, he cleaned. There would be no questioning what had been decided long ago.

  Darla hopped on the house’s ancient computer, tucked in a nook behind the kitchen table. “Look at Brenda,” she said, pointing to the screen.

  Charlotte peered over Darla’s shoulder to see her Facebook timeline. In a photo, their vacation house benefactor, Brenda Scott, sat on a beach, smiling, palm trees serving as a backdrop.

  “Where’s Phil?” she asked, as photo after photo of Brenda rolled by. In the last one, Brenda grinned in front of what looked like an adorable restaurant, a giant macaw parrot perched on her shoulder.

  “He’s the one taking the photos I imagine,” said Darla. She typed, Cute! Where’s Phil? in the comments.

  “Her vacation looks a little better than ours.”

  Charlotte moved to the window. The snow had turned to rain as the tropical storm arrived to battle the advancing cold front. It seemed neither of the dying super-storms had the strength to push the other aside. Instead they spun, locked in battle and stalled over the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

  Perfect timing.

  There’s nothing left to do but start painting.

  Moving from the window, Charlotte noticed a guestbook on the kitchen peninsula. She flipped it to the last entry.

  Weather was so-so but had a great time. Kids appreciated the house’s collection of board games. Pat & Angie Pinkerton, Seven Valleys, PA.

  Charlotte’s gaze wandered to the finger laying in its crystal coffin.

  Too big to be a kid’s finger.

  She thought maybe the Pinkerton kids had taken a game of Mouse Trap way too seriously.

  It wouldn’t hurt to do a little snooping.

  Pulling her phone from her pocket, Charlotte searched for the Pinkertons of Seven Valleys Pennsylvania. She found an Angie Pinkerton listed as a PTA contact on a local school website and dialed the number.

  “Hello?” said a woman’s voice.

  “Hi, is this Angie?” asked Charlotte, her mind whirring with possible ways to inquire as to how many fingers Angie’s family possessed before and after their recent vacation in North Carolina.

  There was a pause on the other end of the line before Angie’s voice returned sounding more sour than her initial greeting. “Is this a sales call?”

  “No. Sorry. My name is Charlotte, I’m in North Carolina staying in the same house you rented last week.”

  The suspicious tone left Angie’s voice. “Two weeks ago. Oh no. Did we leave something there? Was it the pho
ne charger? I told them to check all the outlets—”

  “No, it’s—well, maybe it’s worse than that, or nothing at all.”

  She heard only silence on the line.

  “Hello? Angie?”

  “What is this?” asked Angie, sounding agitated once more.

  Charlotte replayed her last statement in her head and realized how awful it sounded.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to scare you. I’m just finding it hard to ask—tell you what—I’m just going to say it. Did any of you lose a finger while you were here?”

  Silence.

  Charlotte continued for fear of losing her audience. “I know it sounds crazy, but we found a finger. In the trash. It has us a little curious to say the least.”

  Angie found her voice again. “You’re saying you found a human finger in the trash?”

  “Yes. In the trash you, or someone else before us, left behind. Unless it’s some kind of prop? Maybe a super-realistic, leftover Halloween thing your kids might have—”

  “My kids don’t play around with severed fingers.” Angie’s voice was so icy Charlotte had to assume the temperature had dropped in Pennsylvania as well. She stared at the finger and spoke her observations allowed.

  “It’s really less severed as it is torn or...chewed off.”

  “If this is some kind of sick joke—”

  “It’s not. I swear.”

  Charlotte sighed. Time to wrap it up.

  “I’ll let you go. Just to be clear, you’re saying your family has all their fingers and toes, right?”

  Angie paused. “Wait—is it a finger or is it a toe?”

  “Would it change your answer?”

  “No. We didn’t lose any body parts, and believe me, if we had, I would have been the first to know.”

  Charlotte thought she heard Angie chuckle. It seemed she’d relaxed and Charlotte took her at her word. “Okay. I didn’t mean to frighten you. There’s just no nice way to ask if this finger is yours.”

  “So—wow. You really found a finger? And you have no idea where it came from?”

  “No. Did you notice anything odd while you were here?”

  “We saw a horse on the beach.”

  “I’m thinking odder than that.”

  “Right. Hm. There were ghost crabs. The kids were herding them into little crab corrals.”

  “But no knife wielding maniacs, people with nine fingers, that sort of thing?”

  “No, thank goodness.”

  “Well, I appreciate you hanging in there with me. I’ll give you my number in case you think of anything.”

  “I’ve got it on the caller ID. I’ll ask my husband if he can think of anything. I probably won’t ask the kids. I don’t want to know if they know where it came from.”

  It was Charlotte’s turn to laugh. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  She disconnected.

  “Did you just ask a stranger if they’re missing a finger?” asked Mariska.

  Charlotte nodded and pointed at the guestbook. “The last people to stay here.”

  Mariska raised the glasses she wore around her neck and peered at the book.

  “You mean the second to last.”

  “Second?”

  “They stayed two weeks ago.” She pointed at the date beside the entry.

  “Right. The lady I just talked to corrected me on that point. But they’re the last entry.”

  Mariska shrugged. “Not everyone signs the book.”

  “Especially when they spend their vacation snipping off people’s fingers,” said Bob from his station at the sink.

  “Stop being disgusting and finish those dishes,” said Mariska.

  Bob frowned. “The sink won’t drain.”

  Charlotte sighed as Mariska and Bob spun into an argument on how to wash dishes in a broken sink.

  “I need to find Darla and ask her for Brenda’s info. She should be able to tell us who stayed here last.” Charlotte said the words to explain her exit, but doubted anyone was listening.

  She searched for Darla, and soon found her in her room. Darla had set out the paint cans and lined up the rollers and brushes across the floor beneath the room’s large windows. Windows were good for light and for occupying wall space that didn’t have to be painted.

  “This room is just paint, no other fixes,” Darla said as Charlotte entered.

  “Why are we all painting so late? Won’t the fumes knock us out in our sleep?”

  “It’s green paint. No fumes. Neat, huh? I saw it on TV and asked Carolina to pick up this type. Figured we’d need it. Not like we can spend all our time on the porch here.”

  Charlotte nodded. “No kidding. Hey, before we get started, do you have Brenda’s phone number? I want to ask her who stayed here last week, if anyone.”

  “She’s in Puerto Rico, but I can give her cell a try. She probably won’t get back to us right away.”

  Charlotte frowned. Waiting for information was one of the worst parts of solving a case. At least this time she didn’t have to sit in a car and stare at a door. Stakeouts were the absolute worst.

  “Okay. Do I need to change into painting clothes?”

  “Yes. I said it doesn’t smell. It’s still paint.”

  Charlotte nodded. “Gotcha. I’ll go throw on my sloppy clothes and try and let this go for a bit.”

  Darla cocked her head. “Let what go? The finger?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why does that have you all wound up?”

  Charlotte paused on her way out the door. “It’s a finger. Doesn’t it make you a little curious how someone’s finger might have ended up in our trash?”

  Darla shrugged. “I grew up in Tennessee, hon. Findin’ fingers and toes and eyelids layin’ around was just another day in the life.”

  “Eyelids?” Charlotte whispered the word, her mind scrambling to imagine a way someone might misplace an eyelid.

  Darla stopped stirring her can of paint and straightened. “Hey darlin’, before you go, can you help me push this bed away from the wall?”

  Charlotte nodded and moved to the head of the bed. Together, they jerked the heavy oak frame away from the wall, making little progress after four good tugs, complete with grunts.

  Charlotte wiped her brow for dramatic flair. “Whew. I think it’s far enough away for me to get behind it and use the wall for leverage. Pushing might be easier than pulling. Hold on.”

  Sucking in her breath, she shimmied between the headboard and the wall. Back against the bed, she wedged her foot against the wall and pushed.

  The bed made slow, steady progress across the floor. Once the frame was a leg’s-length away from the wall, Charlotte dropped her foot back to the ground.

  Wet.

  Something squished beneath her heel and she shrieked, jumping away from the sensation.

  Darla grabbed her chest. “What is it? Spider?”

  “Worse. Something wet under the bed.”

  “Snake?”

  Charlotte’s lip curled and she took another step back. “Do you think that’s possible?”

  Darla shrugged and took two steps back.

  Keeping her bare feet far from the bed, Charlotte turned on the bedside lamp and slowly squatted, wincing as she prepared for a rare, North Carolina Land Eel to leap out at her.

  A tattered blob lay on the wood flooring behind the bed. Having never seen a snake that shape before, she crawled closer.

  One side of the blob had been squished flat, no doubt by her heel. Overall, the mass had the same gray color and texture as the finger—

  Oh no.

  Chapter Eight

  Charlotte swallowed and stood to face Darla. “Do you have gloves in here?”

  Darla moved to a pile of painting gear and bent to snatch a plastic bag from the heap. “I’ve got a whole bag of ‘em. Need a pair? What did you step on?”

  Charlotte held out her hand. “Hard to say at the moment.”

  Darla tore open the bag and handed Ch
arlotte a pair of blue rubber gloves. Charlotte pulled one on and squatted again to inspect the blob.

  The object resembled the finger they’d found in every way except that it wasn’t a finger. It had no nail and no bone structure. She poked at it and it dimpled, before slowly regaining shape, like time-lapse photography of a growing plant. The bumpy texture looked like fat and flesh, though any blood it may have possessed had faded to a sickly gray-brown.

  Charlotte pinched the fleshy chunk between her thumb and index finger and pulled it away from the ground. Viscous strings stuck to the floorboards, growing thinner and thinner until they snapped to rejoin the rest of the globule.

  “What is that?” asked Darla.

  Charlotte held the blob aloft for Darla to see. “My guess? A chunk of flesh.”

  “Flesh? Or meat?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Flesh is always people. Meat is stuff like what we had for—” Darla wrapped her hands over her stomach, the color draining from her face. “Oh, I can’t let my mind put those two thoughts together. I might be sick.”

  Charlotte flipped the chunk and squinted at it. “This side has writing on it.”

  “Really? What’s it say? If found, please return to body?”

  “Looks like A-R, a capital A and R.”

  “A-R?” Darla gasped. “Turbo.”

  “Huh? There’s no ‘A’ in Turbo.”

  “No, Turbo ate the turkey. He’s small enough to get under there. He probably barfed a chunk. Probably said Turkey or whatever they stamp on turkeys. Premium gobbler.”

  “Premium gobbler doesn’t have a A-R in it. Neither does turkey, for that matter.”

  Darla huffed. “Whatever.”

  Charlotte felt her shoulders relax. “You’re right. That totally make sense.”

  “You scared the heck out of me. That’s probably what that thing downstairs is, too.” Darla motioned in the direction of the stairs.

  “What thing? The finger? We found that in a tied bag of trash. And turkeys don’t have fingers or fingernails.”

  “My grandkids eat chicken fingers every day.”

  “Very funny.”

  Darla winked. “Anyway. I’m sure this mystery is the turkey.”

  Charlotte looked at the chunk of flesh clamped between her fingers and tilted her head. “Maybe I’ll keep it with the finger, just in case.”