by Amy Vansant
Frank paused, trying to eat time. If Charlotte had the evidence she said she did, Lyndsey was being pretty brash about his visit. She wasn’t a tall woman, but she’d straightened to her full height, giving him the impression she was ready to toss anything he threw her way right back at him. Her mother seemed like an older version of the same defiant personality. Something about her eyes as she watched him made him feel as though he scared her a little.
Let’s start with her.
“Tracy, I don’t know if you remember me,” he began, talking as slowly as he dared without sounding as if he’d suffered some sort of brain damage. “I came by to visit you shortly after you moved in?”
Tracy nodded. “I remember. You didn’t bring anything.”
Frank felt his head jerk back a little in surprise.
Bring anything? Was I supposed to? It had never occurred to him to bring some sort of welcome gift when he introduced himself as the sheriff in town.
“Mom,” said Lyndsey.
Tracy lowered her hands and began to wring them, rubbing the knuckles on one and then the other. “I mean some of the neighbors brought me cookies and other nonsense and he just let me know he was in the neighborhood for police stuff.” She glanced at Lyndsey and then returned her attention to Frank. “I meant, I remember you were here on business.”
“Right. Gotcha.” Frank made a mental note to have Darla make some cookies for him next time a new neighbor moved in. He didn’t want to be known as Sheriff Doesn’t-Bring-Anything.
Back to business.
“Were you at the vet’s today, Tracy?”
Tracy’s gaze shot back to Lyndsey. There seemed little doubt she had been to the vet’s.
“I found a puppy.”
“You found a puppy? Where?”
“On my doorstep. In a box.” She glanced at the corner and Frank followed her stare to find a small cage with a towel lining the bottom.
“You buy that for the dog?”
“She had it. From her last dog,” interjected Lyndsey before Tracy could answer.
“Looks new.”
Lyndsey held her ground. “It’s not.”
“Where is it now?”
“What?”
“The dog.”
“She left it at the vet’s. She didn’t know what to do with it so she left it there knowing someone would take good care of it,” offered Lyndsey.
“That true, Tracy?”
Tracy nodded.
“You pulled out this cage and lined it with a towel and then decided to just leave the dog at the vet’s?”
“I realized I couldn’t take care of a dog.”
“You mean another dog.”
“Yeah. Another dog.”
Tracy held his gaze to show him how sure she was of her answers.
Frank didn’t believe her for a second.
“Were you aware the puppy had been stolen?”
Tracy’s eyes widened. “Stolen? No—”
“Stolen from Lyndsey’s place of employment.”
“We were just talking about that,” said Lyndsey stepping forward and in front of her mother, as if to limit Frank’s access to her. “I didn’t put two-and-two together at first when she said she found a dog, but she described the puppy to me and I knew it had to be Mr. Miller’s. I was going to report it to the cop who came to the house this morning. That’s where I was going when you blocked me.”
“The cop?”
“Like you.”
“Sheriff Carter?”
“Right. Carter. We have his number back at the house.”
“What time were you at the vet’s today, Mrs. Griffin?” asked Frank, turning his attention back to Tracy. She turned her head as if surprised Frank had remembered she was there, skulking behind her daughter.
“I don’t know. Maybe eleven?”
There was a knock on the door behind Frank and he turned to see Charlotte standing on the opposite side of the glass storm door. When he turned again, both women were looking at him.
“This is my, uh, associate. Do you mind if she comes in?”
Tracy shook her head and Frank motioned for Charlotte to enter.
“Hi,” she said, her gaze locking on Lyndsey. “We met this morning at the horse ring.”
“I remember.”
“This is Lyndsey’s mother, Tracy,” said Frank.
Tracy offered her a curt nod.
“Hi,” said Charlotte, before turning to Frank, expectant.
“Tracy was at the vet’s this morning, around eleven,” he confirmed.
“That was about the time we were at the Miller Estate,” said Charlotte, looking at Tracy. “Do you have your phone on you?”
Lyndsey scowled. “My phone? Why?”
Lyndsey tapped her mother’s hip, motioning the older woman behind her. “Sheriff, what is this about? My mother found a dog. That’s all. It’s not a crime to leave a lost dog at the vet’s, is it?”
Frank frowned. He hated it when people were purposefully obtuse in an attempt to hide their guilt. As if Lyndsey, he and everyone couldn’t see the glaring coincidences.
He also hated it when he didn’t know if something was illegal or not. Was it illegal to leave a lost dog at a vet’s?
“But it isn’t a lost dog, is it, Ms. Griffin? It’s a stolen dog. You don’t think it’s a coincidence the dog stolen from your employer ended up at your mother’s house?”
“Well, sure, it’s odd, but the other dogs—”
Lyndsey cut short and seemed to pale a notch.
Frank tried not to smile. Hadn’t Charlotte told him Lindsay never asked where she’d found the dogs?
“What about the other dogs?” prompted Frank.
“They were found here, too?” Lyndsey turned to look at her mother. “Didn’t you tell me the other dogs were found here too?”
Tracy nodded. “Yes. I did. They were. I heard they were.”
Damn. Obviously she knows how fast the gossip mill around here moves. A perfect cover.
“Where’s the box?” asked Frank.
“What box?”
“The box left on your doorstep with the dog in it.”
Tracy’s eyes darted left and right as she swept the house. “I maybe put it in the garage.”
“You probably took it to the vet’s,” suggested Lyndsey.
“Right. I did.”
Frank looked at Charlotte. “Did she take the puppy in a box?”
“Dr. Powers didn’t mention finding a box. Just the dog.”
“I took it there, but I threw it out before I went in,” said Tracy.
“So we’ll find the box at the vet’s?”
“Maybe. I might have stopped at the store first.”
“You took the puppy to the store with you and then threw out the puppy’s box there?”
Tracy nodded and Lyndsey stepped away looking unstable as she lowered herself into a kitchen chair.
“What did the box look like?” asked Frank.
“I don’t remember.” Tracy snapped her response. It seemed as though what patience she had for questioning had come to an end.
Frank hung his thumbs in his belt. “Mrs. Griffin, I have to tell you. I don’t think the puppy came in a box. I think your daughter handed it to you and I think you were expecting it.” He glanced at the metal cage.
Tracy’s hands clenched again. “I ain’t talking to you no more.”
Charlotte turned her attention to Lyndsey. “I see you changed your earrings.”
Lyndsey snorted a laugh. “The sheriff gave me back my missing one. He said you found it in puppy poop.”
“I did. You said you didn’t work with the puppies.”
“I don’t. But Mina lets them run around the kitchen. One of them must have found it there.”
Charlotte held up the paper in her hand.
“Do you recognize this mask?” she asked.
Frank took a step forward to get a better view of the paper. Printed on it was a screen grab of a person tu
rning away from a door. Behind her a box sat on the door step. The person wore a dog mask, seemingly molded out of plastic. A poodle, if he had to guess, because it was pink with a tuft of curls at the top. For some reason cartoon poodles were always pink, though he’d never seen a pink poodle in real life.
Lyndsey stared at the printout and then dropped her head to rest in her hand, her elbow propped on her mother’s kitchen table.
“I want to talk to my lawyer.”
The corners of Tracy’s mouth dropped into an angry scowl.
Chapter Fifteen
Charlotte stepped out of her shower, towel-dried her hair and threw on a loose sleeveless, tropical cotton dress she liked to wear around the house. She was exhausted. She’d sat with the Griffin ladies until Sheriff Carter and his deputies had arrived and taken her and Lyndsey into custody. For fifteen minutes straight Tracy repeated how she’d done nothing wrong.
Once they’d been taken away, she’d lingered another fifteen minutes trying to download everything she’d learned from Mina and Payne into Frank’s brain. She told him Carter would need to talk to Mina again, that she was probably involved somehow, and that Payne could fill in some of the blanks if they could get her to come out of her teenage funk long enough to talk to them. She babbled until Frank told her to please stop talking and go home.
Declan had already told her he’d promised to help his uncle demo the apartment above Seamus’ new bar, The Anne Bonny, so maybe Seamus could finally move out of Declan’s house and into a place of his own. Seamus could have asked his nephew to build a new house and Declan would have done it if it meant getting his uncle out of his home. While he hadn’t minded offering Seamus a place to live when he rolled back into town, he hadn’t counted on him staying for months.
With Declan busy, Charlotte had an evening to herself, which sounded like heaven. She’d had a long day worrying about two cases that weren’t even paying her. All she wanted to do was vegetate in front of the television with Abby. She didn’t have to worry if Abby had forgiven her for the puppies. The soft-coated Wheaton was already maneuvering to jump on her lap before she had a chance to sit down.
The moment her tush hit the sofa cushions, Abby jumped up again as someone knocked on the door.
Charlotte closed her eyes.
You have got to be kidding me.
She looked at her watch. It was almost eight o’clock.
Most of the neighborhood was asleep by eight. Who could be at her door?
Abby jumped back down to play protector, stabbing her elbows into Charlotte’s thigh to better launch from the sofa.
“Ow.”
Charlotte followed the dog to the door and opened it to find Darla and Mariska on her stoop, both dressed in black. Darla’s eyes were puffy and rimmed with dark circles. Mariska wore capris, her fleshy ankles glowing against her inky outfit. Her cheap sneakers appeared smeary, as if they’d been white and she’d colored them with a black Sharpie pen.
“Got your picks?” asked Darla, holding up a small nylon case. She tried to smile but looked as though she might be sick.
Charlotte looked at the case and knew it to be filled with lock picks. One of Darla’s ex-husbands had been a thief, and he’d taught her how to pick locks—a talent she used at the slightest excuse. She’d taught Charlotte the skill, and even bought her professional lock-picking tools, which she’d dubbed My Very First Lock Picks, like Playskool toys for baby burglars.
Charlotte frowned. “Sweet baby corn, what are you two up to now?”
“What are you talking about? We’re sneaking into Alice’s house to clear my name,” said Mariska.
“Tonight?”
“That’s what I said,” muttered Darla. “My head is still pounding from the limoncello, but I can tell you now, you won’t talk her out of this.”
Charlotte took a step back to let the ladies inside. “We don’t even know if Crystal’s home or not.”
“She’s not. We checked,” said Mariska.
Charlotte frowned. “I guess Frank told you they found almond in all the loaves.”
“He told me, I told her,” said Darla, melting into a chair. She rubbed her temple. “I swear I’m going to sue Tilly. That stuff should come with a warning.”
Charlotte turned to Mariska. “When we were talking about sneaking in there I didn’t know you were serious.”
“I am. Serious as a heart attack,” said Mariska, setting her jaw to be sure she resembled her sentiment. “I need to clear my name. I know that girl is up to no good.”
“It might not be her. I met her boyfriend today. Talk about up to no good.”
“See? I know it wasn’t me. We just have to find out who it was.”
“Maybe it was just an accident,” said Darla, sounding as if she could barely find the energy to talk.
Mariska ignored her and started a frenetic tapping on Charlotte’s arm. “Go get changed.”
Charlotte sighed. Comfy evening, shot. She cast an apologetic look toward Abby, but the dog was too giddy getting her chin scratched by Darla to care about losing her mother’s lap.
“I’ll change.”
“I’ll die,” muttered Darla.
Charlotte padded back to her room and rooted around her drawers for black clothing. The dark uniform probably wasn’t necessary, but if you can’t beat ‘em...
She returned wearing a thin long-sleeve navy scoop neck and dark gray leggings. Not black-on-black, but she sorted out a plan while changing that involved strolling around the neighborhood and then slipping behind Alice’s house. If they all looked like over-stuffed ninjas, someone might raise an eyebrow.
She found her own lock-picking set and brought it to the kitchen. “Got my picks. Not that you’ll give me a chance to do it.”
“That’s true,” said Darla. “Hangover or not, I still love picking locks. It’s such a rush.”
“Do you have a ski mask?” asked Mariska.
“No. I grew up in Florida, remember? You’re lucky I have leggings. And you’ll forgive me if I don’t greasepaint my face.”
Mariska slapped Darla’s arm. “We should have painted our faces.”
Darla stood slowly. “I’m pretty sure mine’s already green.”
Charlotte said goodbye to Abby and they headed outside.
“Maybe you should bring her so it looks like we’re walking her,” suggested Mariska. “Abby could be our cover.”
“And have her running around Alice’s house once we’ve broken in?”
Mariska grunted. “Good point.”
“Most everyone’s headed for bed anyway. Are you sure Crystal isn’t home?”
“Her car was gone when we checked,” said Darla.
“Still gone,” said Mariska, as they rounded the corner and Alice’s home came into view.
“Good,” said Charlotte, though she wasn’t sure she meant it. It might have been nice to round the turn and see Crystal sitting on her porch. At least she could have gotten back to Abby and her television.
“She’s out whoopin’ it up,” said Darla. “I told you. She’s a party-muffin.”
“You’ve got a lot of room to talk,” said Charlotte.
Darla groaned.
“Everyone look to see if anyone is coming and then we’ll run around the back,” said Mariska.
“Clear!” whispered Darla, looking behind them.
“No one this way—I mean, clear!” said Mariska at nearly full volume. Whispering wasn’t her strong suit.
Charlotte had already scanned the surrounding area and found conditions optimal for running behind the house. Even the neighbors’ lights were off.
“Let’s go.” Charlotte jogged around Alice’s house with her friends in her wake.
With no moon visible and far from the street lights, Alice’s backyard proved nearly pitch dark. Worried she might step on something, Charlotte stopped short and Mariska banged into the back of her. She threw out a foot to catch herself before she sprawled across the backyard.
&nbs
p; “Easy,” Charlotte whispered. “I can’t see a thing.”
She heard a squeak and, as her eyes adjusted, she spotted Darla squatting in front of the back door, squeezed between the door and the screen. She’d gone right for the lock and already had her pack in her lap.
“I can’t see,” she hissed.
Charlotte pulled a small flashlight from her pocket and shone it on the lock at the dimmest setting, holding her hand around the beam to hide it from the neighbors’ view.
“Ooh, that’s a nice flashlight for this sort of thing,” said Darla.
Charlotte smiled. “Thank you. It came with my private investigator starter kit.”
“Really?”
“No.”
Darla inserted her tools into the lock. A minute later, they heard a soft pop and she turned the knob.
She stood. “Not my best time. I’m getting rusty.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” said Charlotte slipping inside.
A light in the kitchen had been left on, saving them the decision of turning on a light or working by flashlight. The house felt very different than it had the last time Charlotte visited. Gone were all the family photos, throw blankets and most of the furniture. The walls were bare and riddled with nail holes. The sofa remained, positioned in front of an ancient television. Boxes lined the walls, filled with Alice’s tchotchkes. Other smaller tables had been pushed against the wall and tagged with dots of white and neon orange. It looked as if Crystal might be preparing for a yard sale.
“It looks so sad,” said Mariska.
“It’s like Alice was just erased,” agreed Darla.
“Okay, no time to be maudlin,” said Charlotte. “Mariska, check the pantry. Darla, let’s look around for almond flour. I doubt Crystal was dumb enough to leave a bag of it laying around, but it doesn’t hurt to look.”
Darla clapped her hands together and then squinted as if the noise hurt her head.
Mariska opened the pantry and poked around while Darla and Charlotte systematically searched each cabinet.
“Nothing,” said Darla.
Charlotte shook her head. “Nope.”
“The dried fruit is still in the pantry and all the measuring cups and other things I used. Just how I left them,” said Mariska, beginning to pout. “What if we don’t find anything?”