by Amy Vansant
“Do you mind if I take that poster with me?”
“No, sure, I’ll grab it.”
Arnie Jr. jogged inside and she watched him carefully peel the poster from the glass. He held the poster in front of him as he walked back to her, studying it.
“Now that you mention it, it doesn’t say which charity,” he said, handing it to her. “I never noticed that.”
She took the poster. “Thanks. I’m going to go now but I’ll give you an update when I have one.”
“Great. The photo of the car is on that poster, but if you need any other information—VIN number, whatever—I can get that to you. I’ll text it to you, what’s your phone?”
Charlotte rattled off her phone number.
“Will do.”
As Charlotte walked toward her car her eye fell on a used Volvo 240 wagon. Something about the strange boxy shape of it appealed to her.
“How old is this?”
Arnie Jr. released his hold on the door to the showroom and spun on his heel. “It’s a nineteen ninety one.”
“Oh. Yikes.”
“Ah but you have a good eye.” Arnie Jr. hustled over, eating the pavement with his long gangly legs. “It was kept in a little old lady’s garage and was hardly ever driven. It only has fifty thousand miles on it.”
“That sounds like a lot.”
“For a car this old? They usually have at least twice that on them. And we went over everything with a fine-toothed comb. She’s in great condition.”
“You didn’t say how much.”
“Sixty two.”
“Thousand?”
“Hundred.”
“Oh. Right.” Charlotte felt herself blush. She’d never really gone car shopping before and was embarrassed by how little she knew.
“Can I open it?”
“Sure.
She opened the hatchback and peered inside. It didn’t seem very worn, and the back wagon area would make a great place to throw Abby when they wanted to drive to a park or the beach for a walk. The exterior white paint had held up well under the Florida sun.
“Can I drive it?”
“Sure. I’ll go get the key.” Arnie Jr. thrust his hands in his pockets and stared at her, smirking.
“What?” she asked.
“I’m not here to buy.”
Her brow knit and he grinned.
“I told you that’s what everyone says.”
Chapter Fourteen
After a test drive and a promise to return, Charlotte hopped back in Mariska’s car and dialed Frank.
“Frank here.”
“We might have a con man on our hands.”
“Who?”
“Rudolph.”
“Dead Santa’s a grifter?”
“I think so. I just talked to Jimmy the Jeweler. Rudolph talked him into donating a ring for a testicular cancer raffle and then he took the ring, supposedly to display it during the parade.”
“The ring Jimmy asked me about.”
“Yep. Jimmy never saw it again.”
Frank grunted. “Could be in the house somewhere. Or at the bank. The man was busy dying. He never got the chance to return it.”
“Sure, but he also took a car from Arnie Jr. over at Burke motors, and Kris told him the charity was for wounded veterans.
“Arnie lost a son.”
“I know. And Jimmy lost a brother to that particular form of cancer.”
“I didn’t know that. Hm.”
“And, Kris promised them both they’d be paid back wholesale for the items, so they didn’t mind ponying up big ticket items.”
“So you think he’s telling people what they want to hear to get them to give him things he has no intention of giving back?”
“If this is a scam, I suspect he had no intention of returning the items or gifting them to raffle winners. He was probably going to run with all the prizes and raffle cash.”
“Well, again, the man died. Who’s to say the car isn’t parked nearby?”
“There are a few other warning signs. Jimmy got an email from someone claiming Kris was a fraud.”
“From who?”
“Anonymous. Literally. The return address was Anonymous Christmas Elf. He offered to get Jimmy the ring back for a thousand dollars.”
“Anonymous Christmas Elf…and then Kris died with an elf in his mouth. Could the person who sent the email be the person who killed him?”
“It’s possible. Maybe the plan was to kill Kris, take all the stuff, and then get the donators to buy it back?”
“Hm. But if you have the nerve to kill someone, you probably have the nerve to fence merchandise. The car and ring alone would be worth a lot more than a thousand dollars.”
“True.”
“Could we track the email account?”
“Probably not. It was a free account. Disposable.”
“Well, this puts a whole new spin on the murder investigation.”
Charlotte nodded. “Seems there are more people who might have wanted him dead.”
Frank clucked his tongue like he commonly did when he was thinking. “I’ll get Danny here to drive around and see if he can find Arnie’s car parked anywhere.”
“A car might be a little easier to find than a ring.”
“Not for Daniel, but we’ll see.”
Charlotte chuckled and said her goodbyes as she slowed to make the turn into Declan’s parking lot. She’d been on autopilot driving, but now something in the back of her head reminded her she still needed to sweet talk Declan into visiting Stephanie and poring through her fingerprint book.
As soon as she walked through the door of the Hock o’Bell, she remembered what she’d been trying to recall on her way from Jimmy’s to Arnie’s.
Dinner. She’d promised Declan and Blade food.
She stopped in her tracks. “Oh no.”
Declan looked up from his desk. “I love it when people react that way to my place.”
Charlotte smiled. “It isn’t that.”
“You forgot the food.”
“Yup.”
She spotted Blade behind Declan pushing pizza into his mouth. She looked at Declan for an explanation.
“We ordered a backup dinner just in case.”
Charlotte frowned. “Am I that predictable?”
Declan shrugged. “You get a little distracted when you’re on a case, and I figured now you’re a deputy, I should lower my chances of dinner delivery by another twenty percent.”
“Great. I’ve been reduced to a mathematical equation.” Charlotte’s gaze fell on a giant chest of drawers. “That thing is even more impressive in better light.”
“It’s something, isn’t it? Handmade by someone.”
She walked to the bureau and leaned down to study each of the drawer knobs in turn. “Each one is a different thing.”
“Yep. It’s pretty amazing. It wasn’t in the shop for more than an hour before someone bought it.”
Charlotte straightened. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. It paid for everything else in the house so it’s nothing but profit from here on out.”
“You’re a mogul.”
He laughed. “Make up your mind. Am I a vulture or a mogul?”
“Today, let’s go with mogul.”
Charlotte glanced at Blade. She wanted to talk to Declan about going to Stephanie’s, but she didn’t want to do it in front of his employee. The job might require a little light seduction and she wasn’t a fan of public displays of affection.
The shop’s bell rang and all eyes turned to the door. A woman wearing a ball cap pulled low entered the shop. She glanced up to find everyone staring at her and the attention stopped her progress. Her gaze dropped to the floor.
“Welcome to the Hock o’Bell. Are you looking for anything in particular?” asked Declan.
“No.” The voice seemed low for a woman with a petite frame. Pink nail polish flashed as she walked to the right, scratching her temple, obscuring Charlotte’s
view of her face as she passed.
Charlotte turned and looked at Declan with one eyebrow cocked. He shrugged and took a bite of pizza.
The woman walked directly to the ornate chest of drawers.
“How much?” she asked in her husky baritone.
“That’s actually not for sale.”
“Why not?” the woman’s voice jumped higher, cracking like a pubescent teenager’s. She cleared her throat, repeating the phrase in her original low tone. “Why not?”
“Sold. It’s a pretty unique piece.”
“To who?”
“Who did I sell it to?”
The ball cap nodded.
“Oh, I prefer to protect the privacy of my customers.”
“Why?”
Declan’s brow knit. “Why?”
Blade had put down his pizza, his curiosity piqued by the woman’s brazen question. Charlotte couldn’t take her eyes off her. The questions didn’t make sense, and combined with the woman’s odd voice and demeanor, she couldn’t help but feel suspicious. She could tell by the expressions on Blade and Declan’s faces that they, too, didn’t know what to make of the woman.
The shopper seemed to melt beneath their gazes. “Nevermind,” she muttered. Pulling her cap even lower, she scurried out of the store.
Charlotte turned to Declan. “That wasn’t weird at all.”
“Nah. Though I wish I could say that was the weirdest thing that happened to me this month. I had a guy bring in a stuffed ferret last week.
“Ew.”
“Beloved family pet. He hated to have to sell it.”
“You bought it?”
Declan pointed behind him with his eyes and Charlotte shifted her gaze to Blade.
“You bought a stuffed ferret?”
Blade stuffed the last bit of crust into his mouth and nodded. “I have a little farmer outfit that fits it perfectly.”
Charlotte looked at Declan. “Should I ask?”
“At your own peril.”
Charlotte took a moment to find her composure. “So Blade, why did you dress the stuffed ferret in a little farmer outfit?”
Blade took a sip of his soda. “Because he’d look weird next to the girl farmer ferret without it.”
Charlotte looked at Declan and he shrugged. “I warned you. You’re in the rabbit hole now.”
Charlotte turned her attention back to Blade with equal parts eagerness and dread. “You already own a girl farmer ferret?”
“It’s ferret American Gothic, 3D.”
Charlotte pictured American Gothic, the famous painting of the stoic farmer and his wife posing out in front of their homestead.
She didn’t have to picture it for long. Declan leaned down and produced a large wooden box tipped on its side, lid off. Two stuffed ferrets stood on their hind legs side-by-side, each dressed as farmers. Behind them, Blade had built a replica of the home from the American Gothic painting by Grant Wood.
“He’s holding a little pitchfork,” said Charlotte, pointing at the boy ferret.
Declan nodded. “Yep. It’s a faithfully-rendered ferret-based American Gothic diorama. Now ask me why it’s here behind the counter.”
“Why?”
“Because we put it on sale here yesterday and someone bought it. He’s coming to pick it up tomorrow.”
Charlotte burst into laughter. She’d been in the shop weeks earlier when Blade sold a mounted black-tailed deer head wearing a top hat he’d named Fred Astag, but the ferrets took his skills—both as an artist and salesperson—to a whole new level.
“Should I ask how long you had the first ferret before the second came to you?”
Blade shrugged. “A year maybe.”
“And was she dressed like a farmer lady the whole time, just waiting for her man?”
Blade scoffed. “No. What, do you think I’m crazy?”
Charlotte laughed. “Boy, I love Florida,” she mumbled.
Blade tossed his trash into the can and wiped a speck of sauce from his mouth with a paper napkin. “Well, time for me to go. Nice to see you, Miss Charlotte.”
“You too, Blade.”
“Mind if I take a few of these with me?” he asked, stacking three pizza slices on a plate.
Declan motioned to the food. “No, go ahead. I don’t want you to grow weak from hunger and pass out on a pile of badgers in tutus.”
Smiling beneath his long mustache, Blade ambled out of the store with a final nod of an invisible cap.
Charlotte couldn’t stop giggling. “The man has a real talent.”
Declan nodded. “I just worry someday I’ll end up in a diorama dressed up like Whistler’s Mother.”
Charlotte wrapped her arms around Declan’s waist to give him a hug. “Hey look, we’re alone.”
“If you count sitting in a lit glass storefront on a busy highway as alone. It’s time to get out of here.”
Charlotte gave him a squeeze and then grabbed a slice of pizza. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until the smell of baked cheese hit her.
Might as well relax a bit.
She could tell Declan was distracted and ready to close up shop. Maybe it wasn’t time to bring up Stephanie quite yet.
“So who did buy the chest?”
“I forget the name of the lady who bought it. I’d have to look it up. I remember she was from Tampa. Just happened to swing in while visiting a friend. She was so giddy when she saw it I thought her head would explode. Apparently, she’s got a real thing for Christmas and a lot of those knobs look Christmassy.”
“There are thirty one drawers. It’s like a giant advent calendar.”
Declan nodded. “Except when you open a day, instead of chocolate, you get underwear.”
Charlotte turned to stare at the bureau. “It is pretty. Someone took a lot of time with it.”
“Kris maybe?”
She nodded. “Maybe. Or his family. It has a family heirloom feel to it.”
“I can tell you his ex-wife didn’t care about it. She took my money and drove out of town like wolves were chasing her.”
Declan folded the empty pizza box in half and started cleaning up. The door jingled and Charlotte turned.
Three human-sized gingerbread men stood just inside the door.
One of them held a gun.
Chapter Fifteen
“Uh, Declan?”
Charlotte remained still, unsure of the proper reaction to gun-toting cookies. The last person she’d seen in one of those costumes was dead, so she knew things were off to a bad start.
The gingerbread man with the weapon raised it.
“Get on the floor!”
Charlotte turned in time to see Declan straighten where he’d been bending over to pick an errant piece of pizza crust from the floor.
The gingerbread man waggled the gun. “Down!”
Now fully aware of the situation, Declan took a step forward to clear himself from the counter and moved to step in front of Charlotte.
“Freeze!” The armed cookie-man took a step forward.
“There’s no room back here to lie down,” said Declan in a slow, deliberate voice.
“Well, get down now.” The armed gingerbread man glanced at his friend and though it was hard to tell, it looked as if the second cookie nodded.
Declan leaned closer to Charlotte and whispered.
“Do what they say. Don’t be afraid.”
Charlotte was surprised to find she had little control over her nerves. Even a detective’s license and a deputy badge failed to make her cavalier about a gun pointed in her direction. She took a deep breath and wished she’d taken some sort of zen class to learn how to lower her heart rate at will.
“They still have to get down,” said the second gingerbread.
The one with the gun shook it again.
“I said get down.”
They lowered to their bellies. As Charlotte eased to the floor she kept her eyes on the armed gingerbread. She could see a face inside the cookie’s
jellybean-shaped mouth, but the netting between the white icing lips obscured it too much to see detail.
He looked away from her to his friends. “Get it, quick.”
While he held the gun on them, the other two gingerbread men ran stiff-legged to the ornate chest of drawers and began tugging it towards the door.
Declan made a quiet throat-clearing noise and Charlotte turned her head to face him.
“It isn’t real,” he whispered.
“The gingerbread men?”
“The gun.”
“Oh.” She twisted her neck again to study the gun and noticed the odd, molded look of the weapon.
She turned back to Declan. “So why are we on the ground? Shouldn’t we do something?”
“I don’t want to risk you getting hurt.”
Charlotte grimaced. She didn’t like him assuming she’d be the one to get hurt. Granted, Declan had recently revealed to her that he’d worked for some sort of covert, quasi-government black-ops group before he returned to Charity to take over his uncle’s pawn shop. She’d watched him karate-chop a thug before and had to admit he seemed more than capable of taking care of himself. Chances were good he could kick the butts of marauding Christmas treats.
But then, who couldn’t?
“I think even I can take out a cookie,” she whispered.
Declan chuckled.
“Shut up!” screamed the gingerbread man with the gun.
He seemed excitable. Charlotte guessed the second cookie who’d nodded his approval earlier was actually the one in charge.
The other two cookies heaved and grunted in their attempts to move the giant chest of drawers. They could only drag it a few inches before they’d have to stop and move some other piece of furniture out of the way in order to make way for both the bureau and their poofy bodies.
“Without Blade, I would’ve been hard-pressed to get that in there. This is going to take a while.”
Charlotte pointed to the gunman with her widened eyes. “Come on, tough guy,” she told Declan.
Declan cocked his head to the right to gain a better view of the struggling cookies. “I dunno. I’m sort of enjoying watching them try to move it.”
Charlotte grimaced.
Declan sighed. “Fine.”