by Amy Vansant
“I’m sorry I don’t. This is all very exciting, though. Secret babies. It’s like a Hallmark movie. Do you think she’s secretly an angel?”
Charlotte jerked back her head. “What?”
“Someone always ends up being a secret angel.” Mariska waved her hand as if dismissing her previous thought. “Probably not. What are you going to do?”
“As soon as the sun comes up I’m going to give the Loggerhead Inn a call and see if Siofra McQueen still works there.”
“You think she’s still there?”
“I don’t know. Right now it’s the only lead I have.”
Mariska pressed her lips together and nodded. “It’s all very mysterious. Any idea who Shea McQueen is?”
“I can tell you the Internet has no idea. I couldn’t find anything about him—or at least nothing that told me I had the right Shea McQueen. I’m going to keep looking.”
Charlotte spotted the exact moment Mariska’s attention began to wander.
“Do you want some breakfast?”
Mariska’s gaze drifted to her always-stuffed refrigerator. Charlotte was surprised the poor appliance didn’t groan with relief at the idea of something being removed.
“I could make toast and eggs, or waffles, or a scramble, or—”
Charlotte smiled. “No, thank you. I’m going to try and do a little more research and then pack.”
“Pack for what?”
“For a trip to Jupiter Beach. If I call and Siofra is there, I need to go meet her. If she isn’t there, I want to go look for her—find a lead. Can you watch Abby for a day or two?”
“Of course.” Mariska frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe Siofra doesn’t want to be found.”
Charlotte cocked her head. “I never considered that.” She thought for a moment and then decided she didn’t want to consider that scenario a possibility. “Ah well. I’ll give you an update in a bit. Maybe I’ll get her on the phone and that’s all it will take.”
“Okay. Just let me know.”
Charlotte packed up the box, and after enduring a trademark bear-hug from Mariska, returned to her house. She did more Internet-searching, but found no Shea McQueen who could be her grandmother’s baby-daddy.
Nanny, what were you up to?
Why would her nanny have a baby with another man ten years after her mother was born? How could her mother not know she had a sister? Or half-sister as the case may be—
Charlotte recalled a story her mother once told her about how she’d traveled to live with a family friend on a farm for the summer when she was around ten. Enthralled by the idea of riding horses all day, young Charlotte had never thought it strange that her mother would be sent away to stay with a family friend she’d never met before or after. But now...
That’s it.
Her grandmother had sent her mother to live with friends while she was heavily pregnant with Siofra. Her mother didn’t know she had a sister because Nanny had hidden it from her.
Siofra had been a secret from the whole family.
But what about when her mother came home? Where was Siofra at the time?
Charlotte’s gaze dropped to the birth certificate again.
Shea McQueen.
Did you take your daughter with you?
Charlotte looked at her watch again.
Eight o’clock.
Close enough.
She found her phone and dialed the Loggerhead Inn, which, according to the Internet, was still in business. The woman who answered the phone sounded young and chipper.
“Good morning, Loggerhead Inn. How can I help you?”
Charlotte decided to get right to the true purpose of her call.
“Hi, I was hoping someone there could help me. I’m looking for Siofra McQueen?” She pronounced the name ‘she-fra,’ which was how the Internet had told her to do it.
“I’d be happy to help you. Do you know what room she’s staying in?”
“She isn’t a guest, I think she works there.”
“Oh.” The girl’s tone seemed to grow icy. “In what area?”
“That’s it. I don’t know. I was hoping you did,” Charlotte said, tacking a nervous chuckle to the end. It didn’t seem to warm the chill growing between herself and the young woman on the opposite side of the line.
“Can I ask what this is in reference to?”
“I—” Charlotte paused. She hadn’t taken the time to devise a plausible answer to that question. She couldn’t tell the woman she’d discovered she had an aunt she didn’t know existed.
“She’s a friend of the family and I wanted to notify her about a death.”
She winced. Her lie was a little heavier than she’d meant it to be.
After a short silence, the girl said, “Um, let me put you through to someone who might be able to help. Just a second please.”
A few moments later, Charlotte heard another female voice, this one smoky, an older woman.
“Hello, can I help you?”
“Hi. I’m looking for Siofra McQueen.”
She barely finished her sentence before the woman answered.
“I’m sorry we don’t have anyone here by that name.”
“Oh.” Charlotte felt defeated. “She was a friend of my mother’s, and, my mother’s dead. I wanted to let her know.”
“Who’s your mother?”
“Hm?”
“Who’s your mother?”
Charlotte frowned.
Do I have to tell her that?
“Um, I don’t think—”
“Tell you what. I’ll ask around and see if I can find anyone who might know her.”
“I’d appreciate it. The name is Siofra McQueen. She’d be in her late forties.”
“Got it.”
Charlotte’s attention wandered to the newspaper article, her gaze moving from one woman to the next. One possibility was blonde, the other two dark-haired...
Isn’t it strange the woman on the phone never asked what Siofra looks like?
“Do you know what she looks like?” Charlotte asked.
“Who?” The woman sniffed. “Oh. No. How could I? I don’t know her.”
“I mean, I have a photo here I could send.”
The line went quiet.
“Hello?”
The woman’s voice returned. “I’m sorry. You have a photo of Siofra?”
Charlotte perked.
Hold on.
She called her Siofra.
Very familiar...almost as if she knows her...
“Yes.”
“Recent?”
“No.” Charlotte frowned.
That was another odd thing to ask.
“It’s a photo of your staff on the day of your grand opening. If you give me an email, I can send it to you.”
The woman clucked her tongue, sounding almost disappointed by Charlotte’s information. “No need. I have that photo. It’s been a while since I looked at it but I’ll take a peek.”
“Great. I appreciate it. My name is Charlotte Morgan.” She gave the woman her phone number. “And can I get your name?”
“Angelina. I’m the concierge-slash-manager.”
“You’ve been there since the beginning?”
“Mm-hm.”
“So I guess you’re one of the people in this photo. Can I ask which one?”
Another pause. “Far left. Dark hair.”
Charlotte dragged her finger along the picture until it rested on the chest of a glamorous, dark-haired, smiling, razor-thin woman.
One of the outside possibilities for Siofra. She’d suspected that person was a little too old to be Siofra, but it was hard to tell from a newspaper clipping. If she was Angelina, then now only two other women could be Siofra.
“Siofra should be about forty-six, so if she’s one of the people in this photo, I think that narrows it down.”
“Mm-hm. I’ll let you know if I can figure anything out for you.”
“I appreciate it.”
“No
problem. Bye-bye.”
The phone clicked dead.
Charlotte stared at the photo, her phone, and then back again.
Angelina knows more than she’s letting on.
There were only a dozen people in the photo, all founding employees. If Angelina was one of them, she had to know who all the others were. Granted, the photo was close to twenty years-old, but still…
I definitely need to go to Jupiter Beach.
It was only a three hour drive to the other side of Florida.
She called back the Loggerhead Inn and got the young woman again.
“Hi. I’d like to book a room.”
Chapter Five
“Another round?”
The bartender, a tawny-haired young man named Ban with the wide-eyed expression of a man eternally goosed by invisible hands, stepped up to the Gophers’ table. Ban was the first-born son of the only hippie in Targetsville and his full name was Ban Nuclear Weapons Wright. His father, Fred Wright, a man known to the Gophers, had insisted on being addressed as Foliage Wright soon after his eighteenth birthday.
“Sure,” said Tommy. He offered Bob a side-eyed glance as Ban walked away. “I think that boy’s eyes bulged out the first time he heard his own name.”
Bob snorted a laugh. “I think it happened when he heard his wacko parents name his little brother.”
Ban’s little brother, Clubsoda Not Seals Wright, worked at The Bromeliad as a bar back.
Mac leaned forward to join the fun. “I think his parents took the drugs but he has the flashbacks.”
The group chuckled.
“Winner,” said Tommy. The three of them toasted with a clink of their beer glasses.
“Remember the time T.K. grew that tomato in the shape of Jane Meadows?” asked Bob, staring at the one empty chair at their table. Ban approached with a tray of fresh beers.
Frank took one. “Yep. What a talent that man had. Remember him dressed up as Santa Claus on Christmas, puffin’ on those damn Tomato-King-killin’ cigarettes?”
Mac took the last draught of his beer and pushed away his empty glass to replace the coveted spot in front of him with his refill. “Remember the heroic way little Davy Thompson threw himself on T.K.’s face when his Santa beard caught on fire? Good thing he had the fire chief’s son on his lap when it happened. I can still see him givin’ those kids tomatoes out of his sack...”
Tommy rolled his eyes. “Givin’ the disappointed kids tomatoes. Bless him for playin’ Santa, but those kids didn’t want tomatoes. They wanted Masters of the Cosmos men or whatever they were into then.”
“Well, he meant well,” mumbled Frank. “He got to the toys eventually.”
They clinked their glasses.
Mac pounded the table with the flat of his palm and covered his face with his hands. “I love women. Did I ever tell you guys how much I love women?”
Tommy clapped him on the back. “We know Mac. You’re doin’ real good.”
Mac sniffed and nodded. “I love my son, too.”
“We know you do.”
Tommy put his beer glass against his chin and sucked the air out of it to make it hang there. He held out his hands and waggled his head, the glass bobbing back and forth on his face.
Bob motioned to him. “That’s a good one. We should add that to the routine.”
An elderly man in a suit entered the bar and approached their table to stand with his hands folded in front of him like a priest.
The four men looked up at him.
“Can we help you?” asked Frank.
“Good evening, gentlemen.”
It sounded to Frank as if the stranger had a touch of British accent, which didn’t help to endear him to Frank. An exchange student from that country had once seduced his girlfriend in high school.
Tommy released the glass sucked to his face. “Man, you got great diction,” he said, unaware the pressure created by his stunt had burst the blood vessels in his chin, giving him a ghastly red goatee.
“Thank you,” said the man.
“You ever been filmed naked?”
The man’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
Tommy sat up. “I’m looking for a guy to build a tool shed, naked. Or fry some bacon. Take your pick.”
The man flashed an uncomfortable smile. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, and your chin—”
“Play around with hammers and nails naked? I got one word for you: splinters. I’d go with the bacon,” suggested Mac.
“But the bacon grease spits,” muttered Bob.
Mac winced. “I didn’t think of that.”
The man lowered the finger he’d been pointing at Tommy and abandoned his attempt to draw attention to the broken blood vessels on his chin. “I’m looking for Mr. Weeble. I was told I could find him here.”
Frank scowled. “No one but his mother and the I.R.S. called him Mr. Weeble.”
“No?”
“No. He’s The Tomato King. T.K. for short.”
“Very well. Do you know where I can find T.K.?”
The men looked at each other, held their glasses aloft and downed the air that remained in them with a single gulp.
“He’s dead,” said Tommy when they’d finished their toast.
The man scowled. “Is there anyone living in his house?”
“Elizabeth. She’s still there.”
“Beaver’s still there,” added Bob.
Mac punched him on the shoulder. “That’s no way to talk about Elizabeth.”
Bob rolled his eyes. “Beaver’s his dog, you idiot.”
Mac sniffed. “Oh. Right.”
The man shifted the weight from his left leg to his right. “Elizabeth’s his wife, I assume?”
Tommy nodded. “Yep. All the single women in Targetsville wore black to that wedding. Everyone wanted to be the Tomato Queen.”
“Not Mariska,” said Bob.
“She didn’t grow up here.”
Bob shrugged. “Still.”
The man continued. “Any children?”
Mac nodded. “I got five. Want one?”
“I meant Mr. Tomato. Did he have children?”
“Oh. Nah.” Mac didn’t explain to the man T.K. and Elizabeth had tried everything to produce an heir, including one ugly incident with a box of Miracle Grow. He didn’t mention Elizabeth had resorted to secretly naming the more attractive tomatoes after her immediate family. The man didn’t need to know.
The man lowered himself into T.K’s empty chair. The Gophers looked at each other and then glared at their uninvited guest.
“What can we help you with, buddy?” asked Mac.
“Can you tell me more about this Potato King?”
“Tomato King. T.K. was the Tomato King. If he were the Potato King we’d call him P.K.”
Tommy’s head lolled on his neck. “What a man. There hasn’t been a man like him since Jake Cardinal.”
Frank squinted at Tommy. “Jake Cardinal? Why does that name sound familiar?”
“He’s the guy who went to Canada to do Niagara Falls in a barrel filled with Fix-a-Flat.”
“Oh right. Right.”
The stranger’s eyes opened nearly as wide as Ban’s. “Did he succeed?”
Tommy shook his head. “The barrel was undamaged, but Jake overdid it with the Fix-a-Flat and suffocated.”
Mac nodded. “Tragic. Hey, why are you asking about T.K. anyway?”
The man pretended not to hear and motioned to Ban for a round of beers. “Can I get a round for the table?”
Mac opened his mouth to repeat his question only to have Bob place a hand on his arm.
“Nope. Hold it. Free beer,” he hissed.
The men remained strategically silent until Ban delivered the suds and turned to leave, nearly knocking over an old man entering the bar. The geezer screamed, “Herbert Vincent!” at the Gophers before pulling up a chair and sitting down beside them.
Odd, unless you knew he’d been trying to remember his name all day.
<
br /> Herbert stole Tommy’s brand new beer, who in turn swiped Frank’s.
“Here’s a guy who could tell you the best story about T.K.,” Bob said, clapping Herbert on the back.
Herbert nodded. “I grew up here in Targetsville. Back in the day, my front porch, living room and bathroom were all crushed by dummy bombs.”
“Because your idiot dad built too close to the base,” mumbled Bob.
Herbert ignored him. “One of the few live silver bombs ever dropped shattered twelve of my fourteen windows.”
Frank looked at the stranger. “I think the pilots aimed for him.”
“Probably,” agreed Herbert, his chest swelling with what appeared to be pride.
Tommy picked up the story. “Major Hepper’s replacement tried to evict old Herbert from his familial home with the help of a dozen soldiers. Standoff lasted two days.”
Herbert raised both hands into the air to pick up the story on his own. “On day two, I heard this low buzzing noise in the distance. Abe Richard’s blue crop duster appeared over the horizon and swooped low over the Air Force men. That’s when T.K. released the bay doors and dropped a few hundred tomatoes on the heads of those bastards.”
Herbert laughed so hard he triggered a coughing fit and the others waited until he’d caught his breath.
“After all the press coverage, the Major let me keep my land,” he added, wheezing.
Tommy took up the narrative reins for Herbert as he pretended to need Mac’s beer to quell his cough.
“The story of the Great Tomato War grew larger and longer, until legend had it T.K., flying a shiny new B-52, dropped a hundred exploding red tomatoes, each with the wallop of a single hand grenade, on ten thousand armed soldiers and ten tanks, sending them off in such a fright the next day they offered to give all the land to T.K., who selflessly donated it to the town.”
The stranger nodded slowly, his mouth pressed into a hard frown. “Well, I think I’ve heard enough.” He squinted at the badge on Frank’s chest. “Are you the sheriff?”
Frank nodded. “County. Why?”
“I have some papers for Elizabeth. Could you see that these get to her?” He pulled a manila envelope from his jacket and held it out. “I wouldn’t ask except I’ve tried to deliver them myself several times.”
Frank took the package. “Are you asking me to serve her papers?” He slid the sheets from the manila envelope and glanced over them as the man moved away. “Hold it. These say you’re going to rip up T.K’s land.”