by Amy Vansant
“Orphan-y? You should have said so. I would have worn my curly red Annie wig.”
“You have one?”
“No.”
“Hm.”
Penny slithered out of her white Cadillac as gracefully as possible in the form-fitting and more appropriate black skirt-suit into which she’d changed. She opened the back door to retrieve a large flower arrangement.
As she struggled with the lilies, Charlotte stepped out and watched another large, white Cadillac park behind them. A tan, bony, older woman in an identical black skirt-suit emerged and opened the back door of her car. She leaned in and jerked a huge colorful flower arrangement into the sun, like a never-ending parade of clowns spilling from her car.
Penny straightened, lilies in hand, and closed her back door with her foot. As soon as her gaze fell on the other woman she froze and the two of them stood that way, arms wrapped around impossibly large flower arrangements, staring through the foliage like rival gorillas.
Each possessed similar helmet-shaped hair, hawk-noses and bodies like x-rays.
“I always wondered what the twins from The Shining looked like all grown up,” mumbled Charlotte.
“Hello, Penelope,” said the woman after several seconds.
Penny’s lip twitched. “Hello, Pussy.”
The woman snarled. “I told you not to call me that, you miserable—”
“Uh, do you want me to take that, Penny?” offered Charlotte holding out her arms.
Penny’s attention snapped to her, returned to Tabby, and then swiveled toward the front door of the rancher. Tabby, too, pointed her gaze to the Bloom residence. They both took one last glance at each other and began powerwalking toward the house, identical low-heeled, dark pumps wobbling on the uneven pavers as they shifted and re-shifted their flower arrangements to keep from veering into the shrubbery.
Charlotte scurried after them.
The women jockeyed for position at the door, sword fighting with their flowers. Petals abandoned hope that they might spread joy, and fluttered to the ground to die.
A small woman in a dark navy Mumu opened the door. She craned her neck to see the faces behind the flower.
“Penny, Tabby. What a surprise. How are my favorite twins?”
Charlotte looked at the two women with fresh eyes. They really are twins. That explains a lot.
“Cora, you dear thing. I was so sorry to hear about your loss,” said Penny.
“So sorry,” echoed Tabby.
“It was quite a shock. Please, come inside.”
Both women jostled forward, bouncing between the door jamb and each other’s arrangements. Tabby grunted and shoved forward into the foyer with Penny on her heels.
Charlotte spotted a flash of red as someone wearing Louboutin shoes slipped out of the hall and into what looked like the kitchen beyond. Another person sharing sympathies, no doubt. She felt bad that someone who had just lost their husband would have to field so many guests and tried to look as small as possible.
It didn’t work. Cora’s gaze fell upon her.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m Charlotte—”
“She’s my orphan!” yelped Penny as she set her flowers on the floor. Her bony spine poked at the back of her suit like that of an underfed Stegosaurus.
“Your orphan?” asked Cora, taking Charlotte’s fingers in her own soft, crêpey hand.
“She found me in a box of Cracker Jack,” said Charlotte.
Penny made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a growl. “Isn’t she funny? Her grandmother lived in Pineapple Port and I let her stay after she died. The grandmother that is, not Charlotte. Charlotte’s still alive. Of course. She’s right here. I practically raised her.”
Penny’s eyes flashed, daring Charlotte to contradict her.
Cora’s hand fluttered to her heart. “Why that’s wonderful, Penny. I had no idea. You know, I work with the orphans in Tampa.”
Penny released a surprised gasp, securing herself The Oscar for the visit. “Do you? Isn’t that wonderful. Though certainly not a surprise to hear. You’ve always been so kind-hearted.”
Tabby stood behind Penny, staring laser holes through the back of her head. “Penny, I forget—was that before or after they found that woman’s bones in Pineapple Port?”
Penny’s face drained of color.
“What’s that now?” asked Cora.
“Nothing, nothing dear—”
A woman in a maroon, utilitarian housekeeper’s dress appeared in the hallway. “Ma’am, can I get anything for you and your guests?”
Cora’s eyes darted to the kitchen. “Uh—”
Tabby and Penny looked at each other as Cora stalled. Charlotte knew each wanted to corner the widow alone in order to state their case for buying Cow Town. Neither wanted to broach the subject with the other there. Sharing food together would be a waste of time.
“We don’t want to take up any more of your time—just wanted to offer our condolences. We’ll get out of your hair,” said Tabby.
Penny agreed and the housekeeper wandered off with a nod.
“Well, it was lovely of you to stop by. Especially since I’ll be leaving soon.”
The sisters’ eyes grew large and the women stopped their progress toward the door as if they’d smacked into a wall.
“Leaving?” asked Penny.
Cora nodded and opened the front door, ushering them through it. “I’m going to live with our son in Connecticut.”
Tabby smiled. “How wonderful for you. So, you’ll be selling this lovely house?”
“Yes. And all the land.”
“To whom?” said Penny before she could stop herself.
Cora positioned herself inside the door and blinked at the women now standing on her porch.
“That depends on you two, doesn’t it?”
The twins drew a collective gasp.
“You want our best bid?” asked Tabby.
The widow Bloom’s eyes narrowed and a smile slithered across her lips, instantly transforming her from the kindly old widow-lady, into a crone offering tasty apples to Snow White.
This just got interesting.
Charlotte felt like an innocent victim about to die along with the intended targets.
“Oh, I don’t want your best bid,” Cora said, pausing for dramatic effect before continuing. “But I do want you to pay.”
“I don’t understand. Are you saying you’re not selling to us?” asked Tabby.
“I’m definitely selling to one of you. Nobody wants my land more than you two vultures.”
“But you don’t want bids?” asked Penny.
“Sixty-nine and eighty-eight.”
The twins looked at each other to see if the other understood Cora’s cryptic message.
Penny took the lead. “What’s sixty-nine and eighty-eight? Your price? I don’t understand.”
Cora’s smile faded. “Not a price. Years. Those are the years you had affairs with my husband.”
The sisters again gasped in unison. Charlotte slapped her hand over her mouth to keep from yelping with surprise and delight.
“It was the Summer of Love,” whined Penny.
“Yikes,” said Charlotte. The image of Penny enjoying the Summer of Love curled her toes.
The others glanced at her and she realized she’d spoken aloud. “Oh. Sorry. Go on.”
Tabby thrust out two downturned palms and bobbed them up and down as if she was trying to calm a hysterical child. “Cora, dear, for my part, I have to say, it was the eighties. There were drugs. So many drugs. We didn’t know what we were doing. And my husband had just died. I was in a strange place—and, Cora—you know your Bucky. When it came to women he was always like a man fresh out of prison. He probably sneaked a twenty-three-year-old waitress into his own coffin.”
Charlotte recoiled, stunned that Tabby would offer such a blunt assessment of Bucky’s moral fiber.
Strangely, Cora’s anger didn’t double. Instead
, she offered them a sweet smile.
“Yes. I knew Bucky. But it’s too late to make him pay, isn’t it?”
She slammed the door and they heard it latch.
“But what do you want us to do?” whined Penny.
“You figure it out!” trilled Cora from inside.
Chapter Four
Charlotte swirled her legs in the turquoise water of Declan’s lap pool. She’d no sooner sat down with him to enjoy a glass of wine and watch the sky fade from cerulean to dusky orange, than they heard his front door slam.
Seamus had returned.
Naturally, the everlasting houseguest that was Declan’s Irish uncle appeared the moment they’d tried to steal an intimate moment together. Seamus had moved back to Charity from Miami the previous summer. Declan had offered him a temporary place to stay, but as Thanksgiving approached, it seemed less likely than ever that Seamus had any intention of moving out.
Seamus’ manifestation was less annoying to Charlotte, this time, though. She’d been about to convey the story of her afternoon with Penny and he was saving her the need to repeat it.
“What are you two up to?” asked Seamus, sliding open the glass door that lead from Declan’s living room to the lap pool outside.
“Speak of the devil,” said Declan.
Seamus cracked his beer. “Why do people always say that when I enter a room?”
“I, for one, am glad you’re here for once,” said Charlotte.
“Thank you. I think.”
Charlotte launched into the tale of meeting Cora and her strange interaction with Penny and her twin.
“You’re kidding! I can’t believe Penny has a twin. And they both slept with Cora’s husband?” said Declan when she’d finished.
Charlotte nodded, still cackling at the memory of the twins’ faces. “It sounds like Bucky was quite the Lothario. And I suspect Cora knew a lot more about his shenanigans than he thought she did. You should have seen her face. She’s been waiting for the day she’d have the sisters over a barrel, frothing for that property.”
“Has anyone asked where Cora was when Bucky took his swan dive onto the mast?” asked Seamus, slipping off his loafers. His toenails looked as if he’d spent most of the day hanging from a cave ceiling.
Declan winced. “Do not put those feet in my pool.”
Seamus glanced down. “Oh. Sorry. I’ve been meaning to ask Jackie to cut those for me.”
“But her chainsaw is on the fritz?” quipped Charlotte.
“Ha ha.” Seamus plunged his feet into the pool, his tongue jutting at Declan.
Declan sighed and returned his attention to Charlotte. “So what’s Penny going to do?”
“That’s the best part. Penny wants me to help her figure out what will win over Cora.”
“How are you supposed to do that?”
She shrugged. “I told her I was a detective, not a miracle worker, but she kept screaming just keep track of your hours at me, and that’s hard to resist.”
“This job will put you over the hours you need to get your license, won’t it?”
She nodded. To apply for a private detective license she needed forty hours of internship. Darla’s husband, Frank, the local Sheriff, and Declan’s uncle Seamus, a private detective himself, had already helped her earn most of them.
She turned to Seamus. “But it also means I need you to be the official hire so it counts as an internship for me.”
“Ah. Consider it done. So we have to figure out what Cora wants and get her to sell to Penny?”
“Yep.”
Seamus grunted. “I’m not sure I’m the guy to hire to figure out what women want.”
“Oh, I almost forgot!” said Declan rising. He jogged into the house and appeared moment later with a box wrapped in a thin kitchen towel held tight with safety pins.
He thrust it at Charlotte.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“It’s an early birthday gift, but open it now. I don’t want you to go one more day without it.”
“Ooh. How intriguing.”
“Extra points for the wrapping job,” said Seamus.
“Thank you. I was out of paper.”
Charlotte undid the safety pins and unfolded the towel to reveal a square cardboard box, the graphics on which suggested there was a shiny metal box inside. She read the label.
“A video doorbell?”
“Yes! It will alert you when someone is at your door. Then you can see them and talk to them through your phone.”
“But Mariska and Darla never bother to knock anyway. A door doesn’t even slow them down, I can’t imagine what a doorbell can do.”
“It’s not for them. You’re doing all these dangerous things now and you never know who might be lurking outside your door.”
“Like Stephanie,” muttered Charlotte, invoking the name of Declan’s ex-girlfriend.
Declan sniffed. “I don’t think she shows up on camera.”
He pulled her close and kissed the top of her head.
Seamus rolled his eyes. “All right, that’s enough of that.”
Chapter Five
The Hock o’ Bell Pawn Shop’s bell rang as Declan entered, followed by what sounded like the moaning of a lonely banshee.
Wincing, his gaze settled on the source of the din.
A one-eyed cat.
The new employee, Blade, wore a pure white, one-eyed cat on his shoulder.
Sure. Why not.
Declan sighed, knowing this probably wouldn’t even be the oddest thing about his day. With Blade, things only devolved.
Blade sat perched on a sofa not far from the door. He hadn’t worked at the shop for long, and Declan felt that they might still be the honeymoon phase. Already, using the word odd to describe him would be a disservice to odd people everywhere. Blade was one part strange, one part terrifying and one part enigma. Six-foot-six of aging muscle, with a long graying ponytail and skin like a pair of leather boots, Blade stood unique among the people Declan had met to date. His teeth were as large and white as spotless dice, but for the two missing—one upper, one lower.
And his name was Blade.
Declan might have fired Blade from sheer terror, except that the geriatric colossus consistently charmed the shop’s aging customer base into buying things—with actual money—that he’d been begging people to carry away for years. Because Declan procured most of his inventory at estate sales, in a town made up of seventy percent retirement communities, half his “customers” arrived to sell. The other half didn’t have anything to do between water aerobics and the early bird special, so they strolled around the shop chattering about the things they recognized as once belonging to their less fortunate neighbors.
“Isn’t that Josie’s bird statue?”
“Oh, you’re right. How awful.”
“I always hated that thing.”
“Me too.”
“Wasn’t that fond of her, either.”
“Nope.”
Somehow, big, scary Blade made almost everyone who wandered into the shop totter back out with a ship wheel lamp, pewter alligator or chipped teapot.
Everything that made Blade frightening to Declan enchanted the ladies of Charity, Florida. Sales increased, and that money paid for Blade’s assistance and then some. Pre-Blade, Declan had worked eight hours a day, every day, and while he hadn’t minded the schedule as a single man, now that he’d met Charlotte, he enjoyed his days off.
Declan dealt with Blade’s idiosyncrasies—such as the one-eyed, howling cat draped over his shoulder like a burp pad—as they happened, never daring to anticipate the next.
“There’s something different about you, I can’t quite put my finger on it,” said Declan.
Blade grimaced. “Aw, I’m sorry man. I didn’t have the grooming time I’d hope to get this morning. Had to skip my hair products. I know you like me to look sharp when I’m here.”
Declan’s gaze swept over his employee’s uniform for the day: jean ca
rgo shorts and a t-shirt emblazoned with a heat-transfer image of crossed knives, each blade thick enough to give a grizzly bear pause.
It was possible the definition of looking sharp needed to be further clarified in the employee handbook.
Declan sucked his canine tooth with his tongue. Blade always wore his long, dishwater gray hair in a simple ponytail, so he was ninety-nine percent sure Blade was mocking his own grooming habits with that comment about using hair products.
He was also one hundred percent sure he wasn’t going to do anything about it.
“I wasn’t referring to your hair,” said Declan, nodding his chin toward Blade’s furry friend.
Blade patted the cat, who remained amazingly calm as the man’s oven-mitt-sized hand lowered onto it. “Oh! You mean Spot. Yeah, that’s a long story.”
“Spot?”
Blade nodded.
“He’s all white, isn’t he?”
“Yup.”
A silence fell and Declan realized no further explanation would be forthcoming.
Don’t ask. Don’t do it. Don’t break first—
“Why would you name an all-white cat, Spot?”
Shoot. I asked.
Blade jumped as if he’d forgotten Declan was there. “Huh? Oh, I found him down at the bar I like to go to.”
Silence fell once more and Declan felt his fingers curl into frustrated fists and his voice notch up an octave.
“What’s that got to do with naming him Spot?”
Blade blinked at him. “‘Cuz that bar is my spot.”
Declan exhaled.
Makes perfect sense.
He wasn’t about to argue with a man whom he was pretty sure had worked as a mercenary at some point. The knife tee wasn’t helping to dissuade him from that conclusion.
That tee.
I do have to say something about the dress code, though, don’t I?
He’d only had an employee for a couple of weeks and he already hated it. It turned out that being the boss wasn’t any fun at all.
“So, Blade, about those knives on your shirt—”
Blade interrupted him. “Gerber silver tridents with double serration, but I call them Baby—after the baby food—and Stick.”
“Stick,” echoed Declan. After the action, no doubt.
Hm.
