Pineapple Mystery Box: A Pineapple Port Mystery: Book Two (Pineapple Port Mysteries 2)
Page 13
Of course, if movies were real, she’d be able to guess the password in two or three tries…
She twisted in her chair and stared at the closed door. The voices continued to drone in the hallway. She crinkled her nose. If Frank opened that door and found her on his computer, he would be furious. He might never trust her again. She had to find Jackie’s box, but…
Her gaze fell on the large cardboard box tucked between the file cabinet and the wall. Was that what Frank looked at earlier with such discomfort? Another mystery box.
There wasn’t anything wrong with taking a peek in there.
She stood, careful not to screech her chair across the floor, and took one sidestep toward the package. Closed but not sealed, each flap of the box folded beneath the next. A square hole remained open in the center.
She peered into it.
A white-rimmed pupil stared back at her.
I know that eye…
She pulled at one of the flaps and revealed a large green face, bent and folded at odd angles, glaring back at her from the carton.
Witchy-Poo! Darla’s precious Witchy-Poo, deflated and folded into a box in her husband’s office.
Charlotte’s shocked expression melted into a grin.
Gotcha.
She closed the flap.
“Okay, we’ll worry about that later,” said Frank over his shoulder as he re-entered the room. He looked at the chair where Charlotte had been sitting and, finding it empty, soon spotted her standing in the corner.
“What are you doing over there?”
“Stretching my legs. Everything okay?”
“Yes, uh…” His gaze flitted to the box and then shot back to her as he hooked a thumb toward his door. “They like to bounce everything off me.”
Frank sat down at his desk and Charlotte perched on the edge of her chair.
“So…that license plate…”
“I just can’t do it, Char, I’m sorry.”
“Aw…I’m sorry to hear that,” Charlotte looked at her toes. “And to think I really didn’t want to tell Darla that Witchy-Poo was in a box in your office.”
Frank sat up straight in his chair. “What?”
Charlotte smirked. “You heard me.”
He looked at the box and then settled back into his seat. “Dang.”
“Why would you steal your wife’s Halloween decoration? She’s losing her mind over that stupid witch.”
Frank sighed. “I hate that thing! Every year I have to blow her up, haul her to the roof, secure her, worry about her every time the wind picks up… When I found out she and Mariska were swapping all the decorations in the neighborhood to create a case for you, I figured it was a good time to give her a taste of her own medicine and do myself a favor in the process.”
“So you knew it was those two who switched the decorations and didn’t tell me.”
“Yeah. Sorry. I almost told on them when I saw they took Lil’ Frankie.”
“You can’t keep the witch in here forever, you know.”
“No, but I can keep it in the trash forever as soon as I work up the nerve to take it out there.”
“She’ll just buy another.”
“I don’t think so. They don’t make that one anymore and she’s partial to Witchy. Something about the nose to chin ratio.”
“Uh huh. So, anyway, here’s that license plate number I need run.” Charlotte pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and held it out.
Frank grimaced. “You know blackmail is a felony, right?”
“I’ve already committed a federal offense by putting flyers in people’s mailboxes. I’m an outlaw. I’ll be robbing banks by the end of the week.”
“Let’s hope not.”
“And you know, it’s bad enough you’ve played this trick on Darla, but on top of that you admitted that you knew I was on a wild goose chase with the mixed-up lawn art. I’m pretty sure you owe me.”
“Come on, Charlotte. I couldn’t tell you Darla did it! She would have killed me!”
“So imagine what she’s going to do to you if she finds out you stole Witchy-Poo!”
Frank rested both hands on top of his balding head and then snatched the paper from her fingers.
“Fine! Give me a second.”
He stood and walked out of the room. A few minutes later he returned with a white sheet of paper in his hand.
“Here you go,” he said, handing it to her. “Some lady out on Swallow Drive. It’s probably his girlfriend. You’re probably doing his dirty work or something.”
“Seamus’? No, he’s dating Jackie.”
“Jackie Blankenship?”
She nodded.
“Well, how ‘bout that. Doesn’t he move fast.”
“Don’t worry, nothing bad will come of this, I promise.”
“And you promise to keep my secret?”
She grinned. “For now. Let’s see how the rest of my case goes.”
Chapter Seventeen
Seamus pulled to the curb outside South Tampa’s swanky Harbour Island neighborhood and turned off his engine. It hadn’t been hard to find where Rocky’s dad lived. Rich people always have their faces splashed all over the Internet, attending this fundraiser or that party. In addition, there weren’t that many rich kids named Rocky. A few searches and he found Rocky’s name and after that it was almost impossible to avoid his father, who was also named Rocky, but went by Rock.
Poor Sam Spade. Born too early. Life as a detective in the nineteen forties must have been a drag. By the time Seamus had done fifteen minutes’ research, he even knew the layout of the Conrad home thanks to Realtor photos posted the last time the house was for sale. The article that he found about redecorating the Conrad pool house was fascinating.
Seamus had everything he needed to drive right to the Conrads’ door except a pass to circumvent the community guard. Naturally, the Conrads lived in a gated community. Nothing could ever be easy. The moment the guard laid eyes on his ten-year-old car, he’d be sent packing.
This job would have to be done on foot and incognito.
He pulled his car to the curb a few blocks from the neighborhood entrance and cut the engine. Pulling a gardening trowel from his backseat, he hopped out of the car and secured a floppy sun hat to his head. He wore a pair of canvas khakis and a thin white tee. He hoped these extra props would allow him to pass as a landscaper out to keep the neighborhood manicured.
He walked the perimeter of the cement and stucco wall that surrounded the community until he found an unmonitored spot that seemed easy to climb. He jumped and grabbed the iron bars embedded at the top of the wall and hoisted himself to the cement shelf, cursing under his breath for not thinking to bring Declan. He was getting too old to hop fences and his strapping nephew could have shoved him over the wall without so much as a grunt.
After a litany of his own grunts, he scrabbled over the fence, found himself unable to hold his own weight, and fell to the mulch behind a large bush, scratching his arm and knocking the wind out of his lungs. He lay there for a few minutes, gasping, but grinning.
I still got it.
At fifty-five years old, he still had a little pep in his step, no doubt thanks to his strict diet of junk food and alcohol.
Genes are wonderful things when they’re your friends.
Seamus strolled to Rocky’s address, stopping occasionally to dig an imaginary weed from the perfectly weed-less grounds. He recognized the large stucco-covered mansion on Seddon Channel from the pictures he’d found on the Internet. A landscaper’s truck sat outside the house and the side gate was open.
Jackpot.
He strolled in, snatched a pair of shears lying near an unnaturally round bush, and did his best to blend in with the other four men engaged in various stages of maintenance. One of them looked at him, squinted, and then nodded hello. He nodded back and the man returned to his work, unconcerned that he’d never laid eyes on the Irishman before.
Not a tight-knit group. Good.
/> Seamus continued toward the back yard of the home, where he spotted a man he guessed to be in his late sixties pacing a first floor porch overlooking the Conrads’ pool. He wore a polo and shorts that accentuated his knobby knees. The man’s voice echoed across the water as he engaged in an animated conversation via cell phone. The longer he paced the porch, the more certain Seamus became that he was Rock Conrad himself. He had the bored demeanor of a man who never did anything he couldn’t pay someone else to do for him.
Seamus moved closer to the porch and nipped at the leaves of a rose bush, straining to listen to Rock’s conversation. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for or even hoping to hear, but he trusted his gut. He needed to get a feel for the man threatening a woman over an empty wooden box. As a tactic, confrontation was his favorite option in situations like these, but years of experience and bloody noses had taught him it was best to gather information before charging into the fray.
“Oh, it was terrible!” said Rock, his booming laugh echoing across the pool. “Right. Right. I know…”
Seamus clipped a rose and it fell to the ground, bouncing off his toes.
Whoops.
He stooped down and stuffed it in his pocket as Rock walked towards him and sat in a chair just feet from where he pretended to work.
“Roger, I had to kill Artie,” he said.
Wait, what?
Seamus leaned into the bush, thorns scratching his face.
“What else could I do? I told him what to do and he totally ignored me. I tried to be kind for as long as I could, but he had to learn there are consequences…”
Seamus heard a branch crack. By the time he’d scrambled away from the bush, Rock was peering down at him from the porch, phone still pressed to his ear.
“Roger, I’ve got a situation here. I’ll catch up with you later. Okay? Okay. Bye.”
Rock lowered the phone as Seamus tried to clip his way down the line of bushes away from the porch.
“You. Who are you?”
Seamus pretended not to hear and walked away.
“You! With the hat!”
Seamus stopped.
Shoot.
He turned and pointed to his chest. “Me?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“I’m, uh, Ivan.”
Seamus had no idea how the name Ivan popped into his brain. Maybe because it didn’t hurt to use a scary Russian name when making a first impression with a potential gangster?
No. He suspected his choice had more to do with the name Rocky. He’d seen Rocky IV more times than he cared to admit and Ivan Drago had been a worthy opponent.
“I’ve never seen you before.”
“I’m fillink in.” Seamus said the sentence in his best Russian accent, which he realized was not good. Why had he started in Russian? Now he was going to have to continue his cartoonish accent for the rest of the conversation. He was much better at Spanish and…
Idiot.
Irish. I actually have an Irish accent.
Of course, he couldn’t sound like himself, could he?
Wait. Why do I need an accent at all? This guy doesn’t know anything about—
“Hey, are you listening to me?”
Seamus looked at Rocky.
“Vat?”
“I said are you listening to me?”
He nodded.
“Who are you filling in for?” Rock’s gaze swept over the workers. “Oh, Edwardo?”
Seamus grunted and nodded again.
“You haven’t worked for us long, huh?”
Us? Seamus winced. He’d read somewhere that Rock owned a landscaping firm, but he’d figured it was a front to make it easier to bury bodies. He glanced across the yard at one of the men and saw Conrad Landscape Construction emblazoned across the back of the man’s shirt.
I’m trying to hide as one of the man’s own employees. Brilliant.
He shook his head and plucked at the front of his plain white tee.
“No shirt yet.”
“Well when you get some time have Javier show you how to work with roses. He’s a real pro.”
He nodded.
“In the meantime, you be careful with these bushes. Too much roughhousing and you’ll kill them.”
Seamus turned his head and mumbled. “Whatever.”
“What’s that?” Rock’s voice grew sharp.
“Vat?”
“What did you just say?”
“Vat? Who?”
“You!”
“I say sometink? No. I don’t think so. Wodka.”
Doing a Russian accent wasn’t any fun unless you got to say vodka as wodka at least once.
“What?”
“I cut flowers now. Potatoes.”
“Did you say potatoes?”
“Vat?”
“Look, you—”
“Dad!”
Conrad cut short and turned to the sound of the voice calling for him. Rocky stepped out on to the porch followed by a blonde in white bikini. Seamus looked her up and down and then felt his chest grow hollow as a strange feeling of dread washed over him. He knew that girl.
Stephanie.
Stephanie laughed and touched Rocky’s arm as she surveyed the pool. She caught sight of Rock and turned her full attention to the older man, her hand outstretched as she introduced herself.
Seamus crouched to hide his face and clipped at the lower leaves of the healthiest rose bush he’d ever seen.
“Nice to meet you, Stephanie,” said Rock. “Rocky. Could you feed the lady for me?”
“Oh come on, Dad.”
“Now. I’ll keep your friend company.”
Rocky huffed and stepped off the porch on his way to a small greenhouse building in the corner of the yard.
Seamus did his best to keep his face hidden as he watched Rocky cross the yard. Feed the lady? What was a lady doing in a greenhouse?
He glanced at Stephanie. Rock was talking to her and she stared into his eyes as if he was the most fascinating man on the planet.
Seamus moved in a crab-like motion toward the greenhouse. He tucked himself behind an azalea bush and watched Rocky enter the glass building. He could see his form moving through the foggy glass. A few seconds later, he reemerged walking with bravado, no doubt to make up for the way his father had demanded his help.
“Dad, they already moved her!”
Rocky headed for the porch and Seamus swept wide around the perimeter of the yard until he was once again near the exit, out of view of Stephanie and the Conrads.
Was Rock keeping a lady in his greenhouse?
No. He wouldn’t be so blatant about a kidnapping in front of his son’s new girlfriend. Would he? That would be a king-sized ego.
What about the conversation he’d overheard on the phone…He’d killed Artie for not listening!
He peeked around the corner of the home and peered at Rock, who stood chatting on the porch with his son and Stephanie. There was a lot to consider. He didn’t know about the “lady” in the greenhouse, the man Rock might have had killed, or what game Stephanie was playing. But none of it mattered; he had to keep his attention on the problem at hand.
Rock was rich, powerful, apparently ruthless…
And he wants to hurt my girlfriend.
His lip curled. “I must break you,” he mumbled, snapping the “r” off the roof of his mouth to sound as Russian as possible.
One of the landscapers opened the fence door and flinched, startled to find Seamus hiding near the bush just inside the yard.
“Qué estás haciendo?” asked the man.
Seamus handed the man the shears. “I quit.” He walked past the man through the fence door.
“Hey!”
Seamus turned.
The man motioned to his lower back.
Seamus felt his own back and found his gardening trowel tucked in the back of his pants. He pulled it out and held it in front of him.
“This?”
The man nodded.
&nb
sp; “This is mine.”
The man shook his head.
Seamus pointed to the shovel and then his own chest. “Esto es mío.” Working in Miami for all those years was coming in handy.
The man shook his head again. “No!” He launched into a verbal scolding that went way beyond Seamus’ ability to follow.
“Whatever. Here. Take it.”
The man took the shovel and held it in the air as if he had pulled Excalibur from a stone.
“Yeah, you win.” Seamus turned to make his way back to his car.
He couldn’t spend all day arguing over a gardening shovel. He didn’t know what Rock was up to, but all signs pointed to him being a rich, powerful and possibly deadly man. In his experience, men like that always got what they wanted.
He had to find that box before they all ended up in the greenhouse.
Chapter Eighteen
Charlotte drove directly to the address provided by Frank. “Tomasa Molina” lived in a rancher on one of the older streets in town. With Charity’s large influx of planned communities, not many original homes remained, but Tomasa had one. Charlotte pulled in front of a powder blue, cement block rancher, small but well kept. Flowering bougainvillea climbed the posts flanking the front door.
She knocked, and a short, caramel-skinned woman answered.
“Hi, Tomasa?”
“Si.”
Oh no. Charlotte had been meaning to learn Spanish but she was terrible at languages. She’d tried several different self-teaching programs, but nothing ever stuck in her head except some numbers, colors and a smattering of random words with no way to properly string them together into sentences. Rocky’s box could be sitting inside Tomasa’s home and she wouldn’t be able to ask for it. She closed her eyes, trying to recall if she’d ever known the Spanish word for box.
“Do you…speak English? Uh… Habla Inglés?”
The woman nodded. “Si.”
“Oh! Great. I’m so sorry to bother you, but I…accidentally sold something at a yard sale that I didn’t mean to sell…um…vendido!” Charlotte grinned, thrilled she’d recalled the Spanish word for sold: vendido. She remembered it because it sounded a little like Vin Diesel, so to remember it, she’d imagined herself selling the actor. Too bad her mnemonic device hadn’t inspired her to look into the Spanish word for box while she was at it. Surely, anyone buying Vin Diesel would want him boxed and shipped.