by Amy Vansant
Charlotte considered this. “His face had a pretty tight fit in that bowl. Maybe the cat could only get to a little milk that splashed when he...splatted.”
She reached into her pockets and pulled out a pair of gloves.
“Look at you, all prepared,” said Frank, jerking his radio from his side. The radio crackled to life. “Ruby?”
“I’m here, Sheriff,” said Ruby from her station at the sheriff’s office. She’d replaced Miss Charlene, who’d moved to Alabama.
“Can you get me a tech out here to 745 Locust Ave? I need something tested for poison and I don’t want to touch it.”
“Is it poop?”
“What?”
“You said you don’t wanna touch it. Is it poop?”
“No, Ruby, it is not poop.”
“Alrighty then. Yes sir, I certainly will get you a tech.”
Charlotte looked at Frank as he replaced his radio, head shaking.
“Was she not going to get you a tech if it was poop?” she asked.
He sighed. “She’s getting weirder every day, I swear. I’m starting to wonder if recommending Ruby was Charlene’s final revenge before she left.”
Charlotte chuckled and opened the refrigerator. She was surprised to find room in it. All the people she knew in Pineapple Port kept their fridges overflowing with food. If anything was on special Mariska always had to buy six. Between meal leftovers, recipes ripped from Woman’s World magazine and shared neighborhood baked goods, Mariska couldn’t squeeze another grape in her fridge with a shoehorn.
Charlotte pulled the milk carton from the refrigerator with her gloved hand and put it next to the bowl on the table for testing. Peering back into the fridge, she noticed a white powder on the top shelf near the back. She removed some orange juice and a few more items to get a better view.
“You making a snack?” asked Frank.
“There’s a white powder on the shelf.”
“Well, let the techs deal with it. Don’t mess with anything. You might inhale something.”
Charlotte put her hand over her face, realized her glove might have already touched the powder and whipped it away.
She was about to stop pretending she had any idea what she was doing, when she noticed a shallow, square indentation in the back wall of the fridge. She poked it, but it didn’t move. Running her gloved finger over it, she found it slid to the side and sprung back into place. She tried again, applying more pressure. This time the little trapdoor revealed what looked like the end of a plastic tube. She stared at it. This wasn’t a refrigerator feature with which she was familiar. She allowed the trap door to snap shut again.
“Frank, there is something really weird back here.”
“You wouldn’t believe what old people eat sometimes. I remember Darla got on this prune and wheatgrass kick—”
“No, I mean there’s a secret door in the back of their fridge.”
“What?”
Frank peered in and Charlotte showed him how the door slid to the side and sprang back into place.
He tapped her on the shoulder to get her to move and closed the door. He walked to the side and, with great effort, slid the refrigerator away from the wall.
He peeked behind it. “What the heck is that?”
Charlotte shifted to get a better view. There was a small water bottle taped to the back of the refrigerator with a tube running from the bottom to the sliding door. The trap door was a piece of white plastic with a spring and a plastic loop on the opposite side. Clear fishline was tied to the loop and led to the other side of the fridge, out of view.
Charlotte circled the appliance and spotted the line protruding from the other side. She pulled the coffee pot in the corner of the counter toward her to investigate.
“What did you just do? The door opened,” said Frank.
Charlotte looked at the back of the coffee machine and found the fishline ended there, secured to the back. She flipped the top and peered inside to confirm that was where someone making coffee would pour water.
She pushed the coffee machine back into its corner.
“Now the door is closed,” said Frank.
Charlotte opened the refrigerator and pulled the coffee maker toward her again. She watched the sliding door open.
She grabbed the carton of milk from the table and put it back in the refrigerator. She eyeballed its height, and found the top of the carton sat just beneath the hole.
“I think they poisoned themselves,” said Charlotte.
“You think they built a contraption to poison themselves on purpose?”
“No, I think someone else built a contraption to trick them into poisoning themselves. Someone put poison powder in that tube and rested it against that little door. They must have put the milk directly under it with the spout open. The next morning these poor people pulled out their coffee machine so they could flip open the top and pour in the water. When they did, it pulled the fishline and released the powder into the open carton.”
“These people didn’t notice their milk was open?”
Charlotte put her hands on her hips. “If you found your milk open in the fridge, would you start looking for a poison delivery system?”
Frank shook his head. “No, I guess not. I’d probably just blame Darla.”
“Exactly.”
He pointed. “I think you just put your poison gloves on your hips.”
Charlotte realized she was resting the knuckles of each hand on her hips and held out her arms. “Shoot.”
“So finish your theory,” said Frank.
She sighed, holding her hands a safe distance from her body. “Once they poured the water into the coffee machine, they probably pushed it back. The hole snapped shut and they didn’t notice it.”
Frank grimaced. “That’s a pretty good theory, assuming the milk is poisoned. We’d better take the orange juice too, just in case.”
Charlotte nodded. “They’ll probably want to test a lot of stuff, but my money is on the milk. There’s no coffee in the pot so maybe the man didn’t drink it. I’m thinking the missus took milk in her coffee, so she died first. Then a couple days later the husband decided to have cereal and...sploosh.”
“Is that the sound of a man dying in his Wheaties? Sploosh?”
She nodded. “Duh.” She pulled the gloves from her hands and put them next to the milk. “Who would do something like this?”
She looked at Frank, who stood frozen, staring at nothing. “Frank?”
Frank frowned. “I’m afraid I know exactly who would do something like this.”
He opened the refrigerator and scanned it, moving the contents left and right as if looking for something. Finally, he opened the butter compartment and gasped.
“What is it?” asked Charlotte.
He grabbed her gloves from the table and, slipping one on, gently pulled something from behind a box of butter sticks. He held it up for her to see.
It was a piece from a common cardboard jigsaw puzzle.
Charlotte squinted at it and recognized the pattern printed on it.
“Jellybeans?” she asked.
Chapter Three
The bell connected to the Hock o’ Bell Pawnshop’s door rang its merry greeting and Declan looked up to see who’d entered. He realized part of him worried it was the man he’d just hired part-time. Blade. Something about the guy was a little unsettling. Maybe that his name was Blade. That should have been his first clue. He was already wondering if he’d made the right decision between Blade and paying for another month of want ads in the local paper. Something about that guy—
Declan’s apprehensions over his hiring practices dissipated as he watched a blonde in a tight blue business suit slink through the door.
Oh no.
This was much worse. Now his heart yearned for Blade.
It was Stephanie darkening his door. His ex. Growing up with her had blinded him to the horror of dating her and, like a fool, he’d given it a shot.
; She made Blade look like Santa Claus.
Who knew when he started a pawnshop the greatest downside would be that his ex-girlfriend could pop in any time she wanted?
“Why?” he asked, dropping his gaze to continue his paperwork.
“Why what?” she asked, weaving through the furniture. He’d recently reconfigured his wares, forcing people to walk through more of them on their way to the counter. Not only did it help sales (theoretically), it also kept bad guys from bolting straight from his counter to the door, which hadn’t been a problem until recently.
“Why are you here?”
“Oh. Nice to see you, too, Decky.”
Declan’s gaze rose from his books. The sound of her pet name for him made his blood run cold. She stopped at the counter and smiled at him.
She had a face that launched a thousand trips...to therapists.
She sighed. “You blinked first but I’ll get to the point. Doesn’t your little friend work with the police or something?”
“My little friend?”
“Whatsherface.”
“You mean my girlfriend? Charlotte?”
“Mm. Whatever. I don’t like labeling people.”
“She’s training to be a detective, if that’s what you mean.”
Stephanie grimaced. “Oh. I thought she was more than that. A cop or something. Probably the total lack of femininity about her gave me that impression.”
“You’re pushing it. Get to the point.”
“Oh! I know. She’s friends with the sheriff, isn’t she?”
“Yes. He’s helping her get her license.”
“Good. I need you to give her a message to give to him.”
Declan sighed. “I don’t know where this is going but I already don’t like it.”
“Tell her to tell him there’s a serial killer in town.”
Declan’s eyes grew wide. “What? Why would I do that?”
“Because there is.”
“No, I mean why wouldn’t you tell the police if you know there’s a serial killer in town?”
She shook her head. “It’s for a client. I can’t answer any questions about it and don’t want to draw attention. Lawyer-client privilege and all that.”
“You take serial killers for clients?”
“My client isn’t the serial killer. Not that I could tell you if she was.”
“This is ridiculous. Just send them an anonymous note or something.”
“Too slow. I need you to be our official go between. And there’s another side to this: We need any information Charlotte and Sheriff get on the case. In return, we’ll give you any information we get. Sounds like a sitcom, doesn’t it? Charlotte and Sheriff?”
He scowled. “Is this another excuse to talk to me?”
Stephanie flipped her hair with one exaggerated toss of her head. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“You already told me you were going to stalk me until you got me back. I don’t think it’s a stretch to suspect this nonsense is part of your plan.”
“It’s not. And if I had a plan you’d never know it.”
“Probably not,” he muttered.
“Look...” Stephanie put her hand on the counter in front of him. “You should know that this case involves you and Charlotte. More than I can tell you. If you don’t help, you could be putting your own lives in danger.”
Declan opened his mouth to protest, but Stephanie put her finger on his lips before spinning on her heel and weaving her way toward the exit.
“Wait! What’s that supposed to mean?” he called after her.
She huffed. “This ridiculous furniture configuration is like a roller coaster line in Disney World.”
He tried again. He had time, thanks to the furniture maze. “Steph! How are we involved?”
She raised her hand to wave and left without another word.
Declan retrieved his phone and called Charlotte.
“Hello cutie,” she answered.
“Where are you?”
“Hello Declan!” he heard Mariska sing-song in the background. Wherever Charlotte was, chances were good that Mariska and Sheriff Frank’s wife, Darla, were nearby.
“I’m in a car on our way to pick up Mariska’s sister at the airport.”
“Is Frank with you?”
“No. Why would Frank be with us?”
“I guess he wouldn’t. I have a message for you that you’re supposed to give him.”
“From whom?”
“That’s just it, I’m not supposed to tell you. Though I probably will. Give me a little time though to think about it.”
“How mysterious.”
He grunted. “Mm. You know me. Mr. Mysterious.”
“Tall, dark and mysterious,” said Mariska, giggling.
“You forgot handsome,” said Charlotte.
“Oh, that goes without saying. He’s got those cute little buns—”
Declan felt himself blush. There was a kerfuffle on the line as he imagined Charlotte was trying to shush Mariska, who only giggled all the harder.
After a moment, Charlotte’s voice returned. “Sorry. So what’s the message?”
“Tell Frank there’s a serial killer in town.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think it means there’s a serial killer in town.”
“It’s not, like...code or something?”
“Why would it be code? I think someone is warning him that there’s an actual serial killer in town.”
The phone fell silent.
“Charlotte?”
“I’m here. Did this mysterious person that is probably almost definitely Stephanie say anything about milk?”
“Steph—” Declan paused and cleared his throat. “I told you I can’t say who it is. What’s this about milk? She didn’t say anything else about anything.”
“She?”
“Or he.”
“Uh huh.”
“She or he. I might have been trying to throw you off by saying she. Maybe it’s none of the above.”
“Not he or she? Did a brown bear stop by and warn you not to cause forest fires and oh—there’s a serial killer in town? Maybe a star-nosed mole popped up out of the floor and whispered it to you?”
“Ha ha. Fine. It was a human being. More or less. That’s all I’m saying for now.”
“And that’s it? I need to tell Frank there’s a serial killer in town?”
Declan heard Mariska’s voice in the background ask: There’s a what?
“Yep. And don’t tell him I told you, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I don’t know how many levels of secrecy there are supposed to be, but I guess the more the merrier. I’ll talk to you more about it later.”
“Did you say serial killer?” repeated Mariska. Charlotte hushed her.
“You know by telling me this with Mariska in the car, you’ve ensured everyone within a fifty mile radius will know about it.”
“Oh, that isn’t true,” huffed Mariska. “But he did say serial killer, didn’t he?”
Declan smiled. “I’ll remember that for the next time I have mysterious information for you.”
“Fine. But I have to tell you, you’re terrible at this. And I will talk to you more about this later.”
He sighed. “I know.”
Chapter Four
“I know that grunt.” Charlotte hung up the phone and looked at Mariska. “That was his Stephanie grunt.”
“What? Who? Declan?”
“Uh huh. He has this grunt he makes when he’s referencing the Viper.”
“Stephanie?”
She nodded. “It sounds like someone just stabbed him in the liver.”
“And he made that grunt? Why?”
“I don’t think I’m allowed to say.”
Mariska tapped her on the leg. “You said serial killer. Is Stephanie a serial killer?”
“No. I hope not. That would bode poorly for me.”
“You’r
e not kidding. You’re the only thing standing between her and Declan.”
“Me and the fact that he’d rather be covered in jelly and staked to an ant hill than date that harpy again.”
Mariska laughed. “Staked to an anthill. Where does your mind come up with these things? And why is she so obsessed with him, anyway? I mean, he’s built like a Greek god, but—”
“Mariska!”
“What?”
Charlotte sighed. “Stop talking about my boyfriend like he’s a steak and you’re starving.”
This sent Mariska into peals of laughter. “Can I get some A1 with that?”
Charlotte tried not to laugh, and failed.
She pulled into the airport’s cell phone lot to wait for Mariska’s sister Carolina to call and alert them to her safe landing.
Mariska opened her phone. She didn’t text very often and still owned a flip phone, so it took her a good ten minutes to send her sister a notice saying We are here.
“I couldn’t figure out the apostrophe to say we’re so I told her we are here which took more letters,” she said, snapping the phone shut. She looked exhausted.
“That’ll do, I’m sure.”
Mariska turned to her. “So what was all that about a serial killer? Is it the milk poisoner you told me about?”
Charlotte shrugged. “I suppose. That seems like the most serial-killery thing that’s happened around here lately, doesn’t it?”
“You said Frank knew who did it.”
“He thought it might be the Puzzle Killer, someone who was killing in this area years ago. Frank thinks he’s back.”
“Why do they call him the Puzzle Killer?”
“Because he never just kills someone. It’s always an elaborate ordeal. Frank said they were calling him the Rube Goldberg killer for a while, but not everyone got the reference and the cops were getting confused.”
“Goldberg was the traitor, right?”
“No, you’re thinking of the Rosenbergs. Rube Goldberg drew pictures of elaborate machines that did simple things. See? Puzzle Killer is just easier.”
“Definitely. I knew a Barbie Goldberg, but I don’t think she’d kill anyone...”
Mariska’s phone rang and she answered. Five minutes later she hung up.
