Pineapple Jailbird

by Amy Vansant

  Jamie scoffed. “Like that matters. I’m a little disappointed you’re not, to be honest.”

  “Does this mean you care about me?”

  Jamie’s playful tone dissipated. “You know who I am and you have my DNA. I can’t have you in the prison system with nothing to do but think of ways to bargain your way to freedom.”

  Stephanie frowned. “Stop. You’re gushing. It’s embarrassing.”

  “Just tell Solomon everything you can think of to help him find you a way out.”

  “Well, I didn’t kill Jason, so this should be his easiest case ever.”

  “You said you shot at him.”

  “In self-defense.”

  “Even so, Steph, it’s not looking good. It isn’t a coincidence you ended up in that warehouse. Someone set you up.”

  “But I didn’t kill him. He was already in that chair, dead—”

  “Tell Solomon everything. And when he gets you out from under these charges, you and I will have a talk about your new life plan. That is, if Declan’s okay with that.”

  Jamie spat the word Declan as if it tasted bad in her mouth.

  “New life plan? What—”

  The air on the other side of the line stopped its subtle hissing and Stephanie knew the connection had been severed. She handed the phone back to Solomon.

  “Your mother wants you to tell me—”

  Stephanie held up her palm. “I know.”

  She wanted to ask her fancy new lawyer what her mother had threatened to do to him if he didn’t win her case, but decided it didn’t matter. Her psychopath mother would do anything to get what she wanted and this time, what she wanted was to know her daughter wouldn’t help the authorities find her.

  A chill ran down Stephanie’s spine.

  She thinks I’m a liability.

  It was never a good idea to be a liability in Jamie’s world.

  It could be prison was the only thing keeping her alive. But trapped here, there was little she could do to hide. Who knew how far her mother’s influence reached?

  I’ll need to stay on my toes.

  Jamie’s regrets didn’t tend to live very long.

  Chapter Three

  Sheriff Frank ran his hand across his thinning gray hair and stared at the mannequins in Mariska’s bed as if they were a trigonometry problem he had to solve. When Charlotte called, he’d run over from his home a few doors down. He stood beside her now, his knobby knees jutting from beneath a well-worn maroon robe, tufts of gray hair sprouting from its deep V.

  “So you came in here, Mariska and Bob were gone, and these things were in their place?” he asked.

  Charlotte nodded. She’d returned Jamie’s note to the envelope and hung it back in the mannequin’s hand. She’d used Mariska’s cell phone to call Frank, who was like a second father to her, after Bob.

  Bob.

  Bob had a wisecrack for everything. Charlotte wished she could hear his thoughts on the lifeless bodies staring up at her now. Jokes ping-ponged in her head, echoing in Bob’s voice.

  “That’s the most life Mariska’s shown in bed in years!”

  “Everyone always said we were a couple of dummies...”

  The idea that she might never see Mariska and Bob again made Charlotte’s throat tighten. She looked away to hide her emotions from Frank.

  Be a professional. Everything will be okay.

  She pointed to the envelope. “I think the note is for me.”

  “You read it?”

  “Yes.”

  Frank sighed. “You shouldn’t have touched the evidence.”

  “I know, but I had to find out what was going on, didn’t I?” Charlotte held up her own hands, still covered in yellow plastic. “I put on the cleaning gloves and I was very careful.”

  “Still.”

  Charlotte stared at the note. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Jamie Moriarty did this. You know she didn’t leave fingerprints. She’s too smart.”

  From behind Frank, Charlotte heard a tiny whimper as Darla, his wife and Mariska’s best friend, entered and pressed her knuckles against her lips. She’d taken the time to throw on red capris and a black t-shirt with Bike Week ’95 stamped on the front in a peeling fat font.

  “What is this? Where is Mariska?”

  Charlotte frowned. “We don’t know.”

  “Who did this? Why?”

  Charlotte plucked at the fingers of her gloves. She liked to think she’d left them on to show Frank how careful she’d been with the note, but in reality her brain just wasn’t working. It felt as though someone had pressed pause on all her major organs. Fear had her feeling as frozen as the mannequins.

  “Jamie Moriarty. She left me a note to be sure we knew it was her.”

  “Isn’t that the one you thought was the Puzzle Killer?” Darla whispered the nickname of the country’s most prolific serial killer and paled.

  Charlotte could only nod.

  Frank eyed his wife and pushed on to avoid the rising panic they could both see roiling on Darla’s face. “How do you know the note’s for you?”

  “Because Jamie called me while I was at Seamus’ grand opening party over Christmas.”

  “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “There wasn’t much to tell, and it was Seamus’ big night.”

  Frank grunted at the sound of Seamus’ name. “That idiot owning a bar. That’s all I need. Don’t even get me started.”

  Charlotte couldn’t help but chuckle. Since her boyfriend Declan’s uncle Seamus had arrived in town, he’d found more than a few ways to cause trouble. A classic Irish rogue, Seamus always had one scheme or another in play. Half of her thought owning a bar was the perfect vocation for Seamus—he liked to talk and it gave him something to do besides lolling around Declan’s house. On the other hand, she could also imagine all sort of trouble brewing at his new bar, The Anne Bonny. It didn’t help that he’d bought the bar with no warning, and with money he swore he didn’t have whenever Declan suggested it might be nice if he paid a little rent. Seamus’ temporary housing in Declan’s spare bedroom had gone on for months.

  Frank stared at the envelope, running the tip of his tongue along the edge of the steel-gray mustache perched above his lip. It was time for a trim.

  “So what did Jamie want when she called?” he asked.

  “She wants me to get Stephanie out of jail.”

  Now it was Darla’s turn to gasp. “Stephanie? That lunatic Declan used to date?”

  Charlotte nodded. “That’s the one.”

  “Why is she in jail?” Darla pointed at the bedroom wall but waved her hand, invoking, one had to infer, somewhere farther away than the bedside table. “She just opened a lawyer thingy…I see her sign down there when I go to get the dog groomed. Attorney-at-law.”

  “She might have killed an assistant D.A.”

  “Stephanie? Really? I read about his murder in the paper. Jason something?”

  “Mm hm. Jason Walsh.”

  “But what’s all that got to do with Mariska and Bob?”

  “I found his body. And her, near it.”

  Darla gasped again. “They didn’t say that in the paper.”

  “They don’t tell you everything in the paper. Especially our paper. This isn’t exactly New York.”

  Darla glared at Frank. “Nobody tells me anything.”

  Frank slapped his hand to his chest. “What are you giving me the devil eyes for?”

  “Oh, you knew.”

  Frank looked away with a tiny shrug.

  The last thing Charlotte wanted to do was tell Darla everything that had happened to her the day she found Jason Walsh dead. Darla would lock her in her house and never let her outside again if she knew she’d walked in on Stephanie holding a gun in her hand, standing next to a dead assistant D.A. in an abandoned warehouse, and that Stephanie had proceeded to attack her. She still had the bruises. Luckily, Declan and Frank had arrived or she might have ended up as dead as the D.A.

  Darla
closed her eyes and tilted back her head. “You found a body. Mariska would kill you if she knew.”

  Charlotte nodded, though Darla couldn’t see her response with her face pointed at the ceiling and eyes shut.

  Darla opened her eyes. “Moriarty... That’s Stephanie’s last name, isn’t it? The one on her sign. She’s related to the woman who did this?”

  “Jamie’s her mother.”

  “So we have a whole family of killers in town.”

  Charlotte looked away. You have no idea. Darla didn’t know Jamie had once worked for witness protection and had imported dozens of killers for relocation in the area for her own twisted amusement. If she knew that she’d lock herself in her house and never leave.

  Darla put both hands on her head as if she were trying to keep it from exploding. “Why would she think you can get her daughter out of jail? Because you were there? Does she expect you to take the blame?”

  Charlotte sighed. “I don’t know.”

  Darla wagged a finger at her. “Well, you don’t do it. Don’t you take the blame—”

  “I won’t. Jeeze, Darla, I’m not going to confess to a murder I didn’t commit. Do you think I’m crazy?”

  Frank held up his hands. “Okay, okay, none of this is getting us anywhere.” He patted his pockets and pulled out a phone. “I need to get the crime techs here—”

  The moment Charlotte saw the phone in Frank’s hand she gasped. “My phone!”

  What an idiot.

  Charlotte shimmied past Frank and Darla and ran outside, headed for her house. She could hear Darla screaming, “Where’re you going?” behind her as she neared her own door.

  Jamie had her phone number. She had to, she’d called her at Seamus’ party. Of course she’d call again. The monster hadn’t left Mariska and Bob dead in their bed, so odds were good Jamie wanted to talk. She’d taken them as some sort of leverage or threat.

  Charlotte burst through her door, bouncing it against the rubber stopper she’d had to install on the wall behind it after Abby slammed through too many times. She heard ringing, and ran down the hall toward her phone. She saw it glowing, still lying on the table beside her bed.

  She lifted it to her ear.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  Nothing.

  Charlotte checked her call history. Two missed calls. Both from the same number, though not the number that had called her during Seamus’ party.

  Charlotte hit the number to dial back. After two rings, someone picked up.

  “Joe’s Laundry Service. Can I help you?”

  “Joe’s...”

  Not Jamie. A misdial.

  Charlotte slumped to a seat on her bed. “I’m sorry. Wrong number.”

  “Oh? Were you looking for someone?”

  Charlotte was about to hang up when something about the woman’s tone caught her attention. It was almost as if she were goading her. As if she knew.

  She decided to give it a chance. “I’m looking for Jamie?”

  “I see. I’ll see if we have that part in stock.”

  “Part? It’s not a part—”

  The woman put her on hold and Charlotte heard elevator music swell on the opposite end of the line. She gripped the phone in frustration. She was about to hang up again when a different woman’s voice returned to the line. This voice was lower. Sexier. And familiar.

  “It took you this long to check your phone?”

  “I—” Charlotte stopped, mentally berating herself for not adopting a tougher attitude before answering the phone.

  Should she be sweet? Butter-up Jamie in hopes of getting Mariska and Bob returned? Or would the maniac take that as a sign of weakness?

  “Maybe I’ve put my faith in the wrong person,” added Jamie. Her slow, snarky tone reminded Charlotte of her conversations with Stephanie. It seemed the poison apple didn’t fall far from the psycho-tree, but Charlotte had even less time for Moriarty nonsense now.

  “Where are they?” she asked, making her voice sound as tough and steady as she could. Inside her shirt, she could hear her heart thumping.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t who me. You know who. Mariska and Bob.”

  “Oh, those two. They’re fine. They’re not bound and hovering over an alligator pit or anything. Well, at least not the alligator bit.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I told you what I want.”

  “Am I supposed to take Stephanie a cake with a file in it? You never told me how you expect me to get her out of jail.”

  “I want you to prove she’s innocent. You’re a detective, aren’t you?”

  Touché.

  “I’m not doing a thing for you until Mariska and Bob are back safe. My friends are off-limits.”

  “How about your dog?”

  “Jamie, I swear—”

  “I’m kidding. Take it easy. I think my point’s been made. Look out front.”

  Charlotte rolled to peer through her bedroom window, flipping open the slats of her plantation shutters. By the early morning light, she watched as a golf cart rolled into view, weaving down the street like Pineapple Port’s often slightly drunk neighborhood patrol. Mariska and Bob sat in the front, their hands tied behind their backs. Bob was driving the cart with the sides of his arms and his chin, rubbing the wheel to point left or right in a desperate attempt to end up straight in the end.

  “Slow down. No, slow! You’re going to kill us both!” she heard Bob bark. She guessed Mariska was working the gas pedal. It would be Jamie’s style to tie Frank’s feet so the two of them would have to work together to get anywhere.

  “I’m slowing!” screamed Mariska.

  Giant red bows sat perched on both of their heads. Coils of silver tinsel snaked around their bodies. Mariska blew the festive garland away from her mouth when she wasn’t screaming at Bob. Christmas balls dangled from her chest, hooked through Mariska’s pajamas. One jostled loose and rolled to smash on the street as they passed Charlotte’s house.

  Cart, Mariska and Bob all blinked with a smattering of twinkling multi-colored lights.

  “Were the lights too much?” asked Jamie in Charlotte’s ear. “I should have gone with white lights. I find the colored ones tacky, don’t you?”

  Charlotte watched Darla and Frank spill from Mariska’s house, running toward the approaching cart. Pushing through Frank’s legs, Abby found her way outside and jumped into the back of the golf cart as it rolled to a stop against the curb. She found a spot perched on the back trundle seat, ready for a ride around the neighborhood, oblivious to the trussed Christmas characters in front.

  “Aren’t they festive?” asked Jamie.

  “You’re a lunatic.”

  “I’m not actually. I’ve been tested.”

  “If you’re waiting for me to thank you for returning them, it’s going to be a while.”

  Jamie snorted a laugh. “Stephanie told me you were a real drip, but I think she might have you wrong.”

  Ouch. For some reason being called a drip—even by someone as odious as Stephanie—hurt a little, and Charlotte was mortified she felt that way.

  “Tell me what you want me to do.”

  “I want you to get Stephanie cleared.”

  “Right, you said that. But why me? The only person in law enforcement I know is Frank and he couldn’t get Stephanie released in a million years.”

  “You have more resources than Frank.” Jamie’s tone made it clear she didn’t consider a local sheriff an asset or a threat.

  “Could you let me know what they are? And while we’re on the subject, who could be better at this than you? I thought you were some kind of genius?”

  Jamie sighed. “It turns out being a genius doesn’t make you good at everything.”

  “My heart breaks for you.”

  “I should rephrase. I am good at everything, but this isn’t something I can even try.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know who framed my daughter.”

  “Go
tell the police then. Or better still, go kill him or her? I thought that’s what you like to do best.”

  “Police. Right. That’s funny. And killing him wouldn’t get Stephanie out of jail. In fact, it would probably seal her fate. See my problem?”

  “This man is the one who really killed the assistant D.A.?”

  “More or less, I suspect.”

  “Then you could just torture him until he confesses.”

  Jamie laughed. “I like the way you think. But that brings me to my second point; he’s been an enemy of mine for a very long time. He’d see me coming from a million miles away. If it’d been easy for me to get to him, he would have been dead a long time ago.”

  “So you need someone he wouldn’t expect.”

  “Exactly. And who would he expect less than the person Stephanie beat the crap out of before being dragged to prison.”

  Charlotte frowned. “We were pretty evenly matched.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. I’ll send you more information. Hang tight for a couple of hours. I’ll send you some help to watch your back too, just in case.”

  “Just in case of what?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What if I can’t do this?”

  “That’s easy. Fail, call in the Feds, do anything I don’t want you to, and I’ll kill everything and everyone you love.”

  “Great. Is there a time limit?”

  Jamie snorted. “No. Why would I put that kind of pressure on you? I’m not a monster.”

  Chapter Four

  Charlotte shoved her phone into her pocket and slid off her bed. Darting through the house, she burst once more through her front door and ran across the street to the golf cart where Darla and Frank were already helping Mariska and Bob from their bindings. Darla plucked the Christmas decorations from them while Frank worked his pocket knife against the thin clothesline ropes that bound their wrists and, in Bob’s case, ankles. As she neared, Charlotte saw silver glitter sparkling on their hair and faces. It looked as though someone had glitter-bombed them.

  Charlotte threw her arms around Mariska, not caring for a moment she’d end up looking like a disco ball herself until she showered.

  “I was so worried.”

  Hands freed, Mariska squeezed back, her big Polish-momma arms crushing the breath from Charlotte’s lungs.