Pineapple Pack II

by Amy Vansant

  “You can tell me about The Longest Ride during the slow parts.”

  Julia giggled and slapped a hand on his knee. “As if there are slow parts.”

  His eye dropped to her hand, which remained resting on his lower thigh.

  Once again, he’d underestimated the power of his charm.

  Easy, boyo. Dial it back. Don’t break the lass’ heart.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Half an Hour Earlier.

  Munching on a mini-hamburger, Charlotte made eye-contact with Seamus and gave him the signal to head to Elder Care-o-lina.

  He nodded and strolled from the room.

  Dinah and Emmitt had been at the beach house for their impromptu meat party for twenty minutes. They’d brought deviled eggs and cream cheese stuffed celery. Charlotte wasn’t sure how they’d made the snacks on such short notice, unless they possessed the same superpower she’d thought reserved for Pineapple Port residents. Back at home, she could invite any older person to a party and five minutes later they’d appear with deviled eggs and cream cheese celery. She’d thought it was Florida magic, but now suspected it was old-people magic, regardless of state.

  Not that she minded. She loved deviled eggs, and celery made a fine vehicle for a blob of cream cheese.

  Emmitt had joined Bob, Seamus, Declan and Chuck for a bourbon. She noted that the Florida group had enjoyed Emmitt’s company enough to offer him the good stuff for his second splash. He had no idea just how honored he should feel.

  Dinah was regaling Carolina, Mariska and Darla with stories of her youth in Iowa. Apparently, she’d been Corn Queen of her town three years running, a record that still stood.

  With everyone occupied, Charlotte put phase one of their plan in action by giving Seamus the signal. Once he left, she noticed the box of contractor bags Seamus had borrowed from earlier and grabbed one to serve as a slicker.

  “What are you up to?” said a voice behind her.

  She shook and whirled to find Declan behind her.

  “Were you a ninja in another life? You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “You’ve been slowly backing out of the room for the last ten minutes. We’ve been together long enough that I can tell when you’re up to something.”

  “I’m that predictable?”

  Declan stared at her and Charlotte frowned.

  “Shoot. I like to think I’m a little more mysterious than that.”

  “Let’s say you’re predictably mysterious.”

  Charlotte grinned. “I’ll take it.” She booped him on the tip of the nose with her fingertip because she knew he hated it and she hadn’t liked being called predictable.

  Grr.

  He wrinkled his nose. “Don’t try to distract me with cutesy. What are you up to?”

  “I love how you know me so well.”

  “Uh huh. I know Seamus, too, and he’s AWOL, so I know you’re both up to something. Probably the same thing.”

  She glanced back into the living room to be sure all parties were engaged before pulling Declan close. Open concept houses were great for entertaining but terrible for clandestine meetings: historically the second most important function of a kitchen after food preparation.

  “You know the blob I found with the tattoo on it?” she whispered.

  “The barfed turkey?”

  “That’s just it. I think it might be a person’s tattoo and I might have seen the person in a photo over at the nursing home. He had an army tattoo. A-R, like the blob.”

  “You think they killed one of their residents and buried the body out back?”

  “I don’t know. But I do think our neighbors are up to something. Seamus and I are going to take a little peek while they’re here.”

  “Is that why we’re having this party? To lure them out of the house?”

  Charlotte squinted one eye. “Maybe.”

  “But wasn’t the party Mariska’s idea? Wait. No. I remember you talking to her while I was painting. You made her think it was her idea.”

  Charlotte shrugged a shoulder.

  He took a deep breath. “Remind me not to mess with you. You might be a witch.” Declan glanced in the direction of the Elder Care-o-lina. “Isn’t there a nurse over there? And a bunch of residents?”

  “That’s where Seamus comes in. He’s going to keep the nurse enthralled with his sparkling personality.”

  Declan nodded. “He is a charming bastard for the first hour or so.”

  “Exactly. I’m going to sneak in the back and take a photo of the picture I saw on the wall there. Maybe look around a bit.”

  “And you know this guy in the photo is a patient?”

  “Yes. Or, ex-patient. Dinah implied he’s dead or gone, or at the very least, unable to come to the party. Who knows? I might open an door and find him sleeping soundly in a room. That’s what this mission is for—to find out.”

  Declan frowned. “I should never have introduced you to Seamus. You’re as crazy as he is.”

  She glanced at the guests to be sure they were still locked in conversation. “I have to get going before we run out of sliders and bourbon.”

  Declan sighed. “Well, jeeze, I want to play, too. What can I do?”

  “Keep an eye on these guys. If they move to leave and we’re not back, do your best to keep them here or get a signal to us.”

  “Aye-aye,” Declan saluted.

  She rolled her eyes and grabbed a cap from the peg on the wall beside the backdoor. Opening the door to the back porch, she slipped outside as Declan did his best to block the view of her exit from the others.

  Charlotte scurried down the stairs, and using the porch as an umbrella, took a moment to slip the contractor bag over her head and poke her skull through the bottom seam. Getting her head through was harder than she’d expected; she had to slice it with a fingernail to get the gap started.

  It was almost as if trash bags weren’t made to be worn.

  The bag was wide and flappy in the wind. She removed the belt from her jeans and tied it around the outside of the bag to secure her makeshift poncho. She felt ridiculous, but both Chuck and Carolina’s jackets were much too large on her and Seamus had taken the spare. No matter. Better to be unhampered. She wanted to move like the wind.

  She made her way to the next yard, mud once again threatening to suck the boots from her feet. Climbing the back stairs of Elder Care-o-lina’s porch, she tried the door, expecting Seamus to have unlocked it by then.

  It was locked.

  She positioned herself out of sight, occasionally peeking for a sign of Seamus. After four peeps from her spot, she spotted Seamus sliding on his socks toward the back door. The latch clicked and he winked at her.

  Very funny.

  He knew she looked like a wet cat.

  She was about to enter, when Seamus held up a finger, silently asking her to wait.

  She ducked back into her hiding spot, rain streaming down her face.

  A moment later, he disappeared toward the front of the house. She stared at the spot where he’d disappeared until he appeared once more, beckoning for her to enter.

  She eased open the door, walked out of her muddy boots and stepped inside. Out in the foyer, she heard Seamus and Julia talking.

  She paused.

  Did I just hear Seamus call Ryan Gosling ‘dreamy?’

  She cocked her head to listen as she moved toward the stairs.

  Are they talking about The Notebook?

  Baffled, she fought to ignore her curiosity and crept up the stairs to the second floor. She moved only when she heard voices, hoping the chatter would cover the sound of floorboards creaking.

  Safe in the upstairs hallway, she hurried to the photo of Mr. Marino on the beach. The print of his tattoo did seem similar to the lettering on the flesh they’d found. Removing her phone from her pocket, she took a few pictures of the tattoo so she could compare them back home. Mr. Marino was face-forward in the photograph, so she couldn’t see if his ears appeared famili
ar.

  She glanced down the hall toward Emmitt’s room. Dinah hadn’t opened that door during the tour and she couldn’t help but wonder what might be hiding there. Maybe he kept the death records there. Certainly, Emmitt wouldn’t have a document that said, killed Mr. Marino today, buried his body in the backyard, but if she could find some mention of what officially happened to him, it could be a starting point for a storyline that ended with Marino’s ear in a sandwich baggie.

  She took a step toward Emmitt’s room and hit the squeakiest floorboard in the history of houses. The creak sprung like a trap and she threw herself against the wall, her plastic bag coat rustling, making even more noise.

  She hugged herself and froze.

  A moment later Seamus’ voice rose from downstairs, much louder than the conversation she’d heard before.

  “I’ll wait here for you!”

  Charlotte swallowed, frightened to move.

  “I’ll wait downstairs while you go upstairs and check on the residents because you thought you heard that noise!” screamed Seamus.

  Not subtle, but effective. There was no doubt that Julia was on her way to investigate.

  She had to move.

  A door in the hallway opened and a woman with a halo of white curls peered out.

  “Who are you?” she asked, upon spotting Charlotte.

  Charlotte heard Julia hit the stairs and panicked, looking from the old woman to the stairs and back.

  She had to do something.

  She locked eyes with the woman.

  What was her name? She loves Murder She Wrote. I remember that bit. What is it...what is it...

  “Grace!”

  The woman smiled. “Yes?”

  Charlotte shot into Grace’s room, pulling the elderly woman in with her and shutting the door behind them. “Hi, Grace. I’m glad I found you. Quick, follow me.”

  “Why are you whispering?” asked Grace.

  Charlotte could hear Julia’s footsteps on the stairs.

  She took Grace’s hand and tried to look as serious as possible. “Jessica Fletcher sent me.”

  Another little known advantage of growing up in a retirement community: knowledge of Murder She Wrote.

  Grace gasped. “Jessica sent you?”

  Charlotte nodded, aware that at any moment, Julia would open the door. She dropped to her knees on the opposite side of Grace’s bed, laid on her back, and began shimmying beneath it.

  She left her face sticking out and Grace stared down at her, seemingly baffled, but unalarmed.

  Charlotte felt terrible lying to the woman, but she was out of ideas. “Grace, I’m on a case and I need your help. I need to hide for a little bit. Don’t tell anyone I’m here. Can you do that for me?”

  Grace nodded. “Oh I can. I can.”

  Charlotte withdrew her head like a turtle into its shell, her nose grazing Grace’s mattress support slats.

  “What’s the case?” asked Grace.

  Charlotte poked out her head again. “Um, Russians. There’s a Russian spy on the loose.” She grimaced, suspecting that Jessica Fletcher didn’t deal in international politics. She made a mental note to watch some refresher episodes of Murder She Wrote in case she ever found herself in a similar situation. There were probably fifty people back in Pineapple Port who’d been given the complete DVD boxed-set at one time or another.

  At the mention of Russians, Grace’s lips formed an O and her eyes grew wide.

  Ah, Grace seems impressed by the Russian story. That’s all that matters.

  There was a knock on the door. Charlotte thrust out her arm and put her index finger over her lips, asking Grace to be quiet. Grace nodded.

  Charlotte pulled her head back under the bed and held her breath. Partially to be quiet. Partially because she could barely breathe, squeezed beneath the bed.

  Grace climbed onto her mattress and Charlotte turned her head as dust rained on her face.

  Don’t think about sneezing. Don’t think about sneezing—

  “Grace?” called a voice from the hall.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Julia. Can I come in?”

  Charlotte heard the door open and saw Julia’s foot enter the room.

  “Were you just in the hallway?” asked Julia.

  There was a long pause.

  From her hiding place Charlotte grimaced, trying her best to telepathically send a request to Grace.

  Please say yes, Grace.

  “Yes,” said Grace.

  Charlotte blinked. It worked. Am I telepathic?

  “Did you need something?” continued Julia.

  “No.”

  “Everything’s okay?”

  “Yes. There aren’t any Russians.”

  There was a pause and Charlotte winced again, hoping that Julia wouldn’t feel the need to delve into the Russian situation.

  Julia cleared her throat. “Okay, well, don’t wander around. If you need anything hit the buzzer, okay?”

  “I will.”

  Julia closed the door and Charlotte breathed again. She squirmed out from under the bed. The fit had been tight.

  It might be a good idea to stay away from the cream cheese celery for a bit.

  She couldn’t be responsible for her behavior around deviled eggs.

  Grace hung over the side of the bed, staring at Charlotte as she shimmied free.

  “How was that?” she asked.

  Charlotte stood and brushed her face clean. “Fantastic. Perfect. Thank you so much. You’ve saved the free world.”

  Grace sat up and grabbed Charlotte’s upper arm, her eyes darting to her door. “Is she one of them?” she whispered.

  Charlotte followed her gaze. “Who? Julia?”

  Grace nodded.

  “Oh, no. She’s not a Russian. She’s on our side.”

  Grace sighed. “Good. I like her.”

  The old woman leaned back. She closed her eyes the moment her head hit the pillow.

  “Tell Jessica I said hi,” she mumbled.

  “I will.”

  “I’m going to take a nap now.”

  “Okay.”

  Charlotte patted Grace’s hand and tiptoed to the door. Cracking it open, she glanced down the hallway.

  Julia was gone.

  Downstairs, she heard Julia and Seamus resuming their conversation.

  Charlotte chewed her lip for a moment. She still wanted to check Emmitt’s room, but Julia had shaken her nerves.

  Be brave. This is your one chance.

  She took a deep breath and slipped into the hall, quietly closing Grace’s door behind her.

  Laying her fingers on Emmitt’s doorknob, she gave it a gentle twist.

  Unlocked.

  She let herself inside.

  Emmitt’s room was unremarkable, featuring a bed, a chest of drawers and a large, roll-top desk. She opened the desk drawers, finding them largely empty, but for one clearly designated for snacks. It spilled over with half-eaten bags of chips and other salty treats.

  She rolled open the top of the desk. Piles of cancelled checks and invoices covered the work space. Most of the checks appeared to be from D.F.A.S., Defense Finance and Accounting Service. Dinah had mentioned that the Elder Care-o-lina housed many veterans, and Charlotte guessed the residents’ pensions were sent directly to the house. She flipped through them until the name Anthony Marino caught her eye.

  The check was dated for the previous week.

  Mr. Marino is alive?

  She spotted what looked like patient files with names on the tabs and shuffled through them until she found Anthony Marino. The file contained a medical history, his original application to the home and weekly records of his condition. She glanced over the last few months of entries. The notations were fairly detailed for his first years. It appeared a few months prior he’d started refusing to eat. Soon after, the notes became more and more vague. The last six months said nothing but no change.

  Charlotte glanced at the date of the last log. />
  It was dated three months in the future.

  Her brow furrowed.

  Something didn’t add up. The check said Mr. Marino was still alive, but the file implied they’d stopped thinking about him. They were going through the motions of reporting his status—so much so they’d recorded the equivalent of ditto three months into the future.

  She felt certain Mr. Marino was dead.

  But Emmitt had never reported him dead.

  He was pretending to care for Marino while collecting his government checks. Meanwhile, another veteran occupied the room Marino left behind and even more occupied the rooms nearby.

  All of whom might one day have unreported deaths...

  Charlotte retrieved her phone and took a picture of the check and the medical reports. She was about to close the desk when she paused to consider the piece of furniture itself.

  Something is very familiar about this desk.

  Mariska had a friend with a similar piece of furniture. Charlotte remembered the woman showing her the secret drawer it possessed. As a girl of ten, she’d been fascinated by secret hiding places and had begged Mariska to buy her a desk like it for Christmas.

  She never did get the desk. By the time Christmas rolled around, she’d been obsessed with something new. But she still remembered that secret drawer.

  In rapid succession, Charlotte opened all the small drawers lining the back of the desk to check their depth. If one was short, it implied something was behind it.

  They all appeared uniform.

  Hm. Ah well.

  She put her hand on the handle to pull down the roll-top and paused once more.

  Columns. A small, closet-like compartment sat in the back center of the desktop. On either side of it, decorative columns protruded from the wood. She pinched one and pulled.

  It slid.

  The column was attached to a hollow box. She pulled it out like sliding a novel from a bookshelf and peered inside.

  Empty.

  Shoot.

  She replaced it and tugged the other column. Inside this hollow box was something small and shiny. She turned it upside-down and the object dropped into her palm.

  A key.

  It looked like a house key.

  Downstairs she heard the television spring to life. On a whim, she dropped the key into her jeans pocket and slid the column box back into place.