Pineapple Turtles

by Amy Vansant

  “Both, though I think you’re going to have to do the heavy-lifting on the answer.”

  “Sure. Whenever. But for now, let’s go find Siofra.”

  From the corner of her eye, Charlotte thought she saw another movement on Mick’s face.

  “Is it possible he’s smiling a little?” she asked.

  Angelina moved to bed and peered down at him.

  “Sometimes I think that, too.”

  Angelina leaned down to kiss him on the forehead, rubbed her lipstick off his skin with her thumb, and left the room.

  Charlotte leaned down and whispered in Mick’s ear.

  “I’m going to bring Siofra back to you.”

  She watched for a reaction and, seeing none, scurried after Angelina. She offered Martisha a wave as she jogged by and the tiny woman waved back.

  “Is the postcard in your room?” Charlotte asked as they slipped out the front door.

  “My desk.”

  In the elevator, Charlotte nodded and took a deep breath, trying to sort through her feelings about Mick. As the elevator bounced to a halt, she decided now wasn’t the time to process. Too many distractions. She tucked away her feelings for later.

  She realized Angelina hadn’t said a word the entire way down, which was strange for her chatty new friend. Maybe Angelina had some feelings she needed to tuck away as well. She’d tried to play tough girl up in the room, but Charlotte could tell she had feelings for Mick. More than likely they’d been seeing each other when he had his accident.

  What happened to him?

  “Hey, you never said what happened—”

  The doors opened and Angelina strode to her desk, leaving Charlotte and her question behind.

  Charlotte shut her mouth and followed.

  Okay. I’ll ask that one later.

  Angelina pulled open the single center drawer of her desk and retrieved a postcard with a maple syrup harvest scene on the front.

  Charlotte took it, studied the image and then flipped it over. The Concord, New Hampshire postmark covered the stamp in the upper right corner.

  “I thought Vermont was the maple syrup place,” she said, as much to herself as Angelina.

  Angelina sat in her chair. “Maybe that’s a hint. Maybe Vermont is where she’s going next.”

  Charlotte found only what she expected—the address of the Loggerhead Inn written in neat print in black ink, a stamp, a postmark, and nothing else. Most of the letters were capitals, except the g’s in Loggerhead, whose tails hung down.

  “I need to look up what happened in Concord recently.”

  Angelina swept a voila! motion in the direction of her opened laptop and stood.

  “Search away.”

  With a quick glance at Croix, who, as usual, watched from her post at the front desk, Charlotte sat down and typed ‘Concord, New Hampshire news crime’ into the search engine.

  Nothing popped up so she tried ‘Concord, New Hampshire kidnapping.’

  Nothing again.

  She tried. ‘Concord, New Hampshire newspaper’ to find The Monitor. On the Monitor’s website she found it difficult to find things from a previous date, but lucked out and spotted a follow-up story about a recently solved murder in the current day’s copy.

  “Here it is. This has to be it,” she said, reading through the article.

  “How can you tell?”

  “It’s about a woman and her dog who went missing. They found them both alive.”

  “Siofra had a thing for animals,” said Angelina.

  “That might have had something to do with it, but it was an unsolved case. The dog returned home with the missing woman’s wedding ring tied to her collar, two years after they both went missing.”

  Angelina’s eyes widened. “Ooh, that is interesting.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. I could see how that might have captured Siofra’s attention.”

  “Tell me more. They found her? Siofra found the woman?”

  “It doesn’t say anything about Siofra, specifically, but it never does. Everything I found always credited an anonymous tip or someone else. This time it sounds like a local cop found her.”

  “Where?” asked Croix from across the room. Apparently, in addition to seeing all, she had the ears of an owl.

  “In the neighbor’s basement. He’d kidnapped her and the dog and she finally found a way to get the dog out of the house.”

  “Yikes,” said Croix.

  “Why kidnap the dog?” asked Angelina.

  Charlotte looked at her. It was a fair question but an odd detail to focus on first. “Maybe to use against the woman and keep her quiet?”

  Angelina tucked Harley a little closer to her chest and kissed her on the top of her head. “Monster. I’d never let anyone kidnap you.”

  Harley remained nonplussed. No doubt she took for granted nothing would ever happen to her.

  “Does it say anything about any other woman?” asked Angelina.

  “Like who?”

  “Siofra could be using another name. She used to do that a lot working with her father.”

  Charlotte twisted in her chair to look at Angelina. “When were you going to tell me that?”

  She shrugged. “I figured you knew.”

  “How would I know?”

  “Because if she were using her real name we would have found her ourselves a long time ago.”

  Charlotte sighed. She opened a new tab, closed her eyes and let her fingers hover over the keys.

  Angelina poked her in the back. “I’m pretty sure you actually have to type something for a search engine to work.”

  Charlotte scowled. “I’m thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m trying to think like Siofra.”

  Angelina snorted a laugh. “Oh, okay.”

  Charlotte turned. “There are a million crimes out there. I want to try and narrow the field a little.”

  Angelina flashed both palms, Harley tucked in the crook of her armpit. “I stand corrected, by all means, please don’t let me break your concentration.”

  Charlotte faced the laptop and closed her eyes again.

  Think. Think. What are you looking for? Where do you want to go?

  Behind her, Angelina made a ghostly noise. “Chaaaarlotte…this is Siofra… why are you caaaaalling meeee...”

  Charlotte swiveled in her chair again. “I’m not trying to summon her from the dead.”

  “I would hope not,” muttered Croix from her lookout.

  Angelina took Harley in both hands and bobbed her up and down in front of Charlotte’s face as if she were a ghost, tiny legs dangling. She booped the dog’s wet nose against hers until Charlotte had to wipe the moisture from her face. She tucked back her chin, trying not to laugh.

  “You’re making this a lot harder than it has to be,” she said.

  Angelina pulled Harley back against her arm, laughing. “I’m sorry. Go ahead. What are you doing now?”

  Charlotte huffed. Angelina hadn’t taken a breath between giving her a moment and asking a new question. “I’m trying to find a pattern. For instance, those postcards moved from here, out west, floated around there for years, and then headed back this way. The last one was in New Hampshire, so I’m thinking I want to limit my searches to the east coast. She doesn’t seem to hop from one end of the country to the other and back again.”

  Angelina nodded. “Okay. That makes sense. Proceed.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Driving distance?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. And an overwhelming number of the cases were about missing children, too.”

  Angelina poked her again. “Type in ‘missing children near Concord.’”

  “I don’t think that’s how she does it. I think she tries to find big cases. National news cases and then picks one nearby she thinks sounds interesting.”

  “That’s how I’d do it,” mumbled Croix.

  “What do you mean, that’s how you’d do it?” ask
ed Angelina.

  Croix shrugged. “If I could work on any case I wanted, I’d search for ones that looked fun or challenging. Ones I thought other people couldn’t solve.”

  Angelina shoved Charlotte’s shoulder with her fingertips. “Do that.”

  Charlotte glared at her. “Quit poking me.”

  Angelina’s eyes grew wide as she peered down her nose at Charlotte. “Sorry, Miss Sensitive.”

  Charlotte grit her teeth and returned her attention to the keyboard.

  Think. Think.

  She tried a few searches for the latest cases capturing the attention of the nation.

  “Oh my,” she said after a few searches.

  “What?”

  “Look at this.”

  Charlotte pushed back her chair to make room for Angelina to lean in. The concierge manifested her reading glasses from somewhere in her cleavage.

  “Do you have your lunch in there too?” asked Charlotte.

  Angelina ignored her and popped on her glasses. She read the screen, her glossy crimson lips moving in time with the words. After a moment, she gasped.

  “That’s her.”

  “What? What is it?” asked Croix.

  “Some woman had her baby kidnapped and then returned, but the baby returned wasn’t hers.”

  “Someone swapped babies on her?” The bridge of Croix’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t have a kid, but why would anyone do that? Who wouldn’t prefer their own baby?”

  Angelina and Croix both trained their attention on Charlotte. Even Harley stared down at her with her big brown eyes.

  Charlotte put her hand on her chest. “Why are you asking me?”

  “You’re the detective,” said Angelina.

  Charlotte sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe they didn’t like the baby they had.”

  Angelina scoffed. “Everyone likes their own baby best.”

  Croix nodded. “That is weird.”

  “Well, I don’t know why they did it, but the swapped baby makes for an interesting case,” said Charlotte.

  Angelina straightened. “I don’t know. The more I think about it, it might not be interesting enough. I mean the last one with the dog—”

  “Did you see where it is?” interrupted Charlotte.

  “No. Where?”

  Charlotte pointed to the top of the article, pressing her finger right under the words Jupiter Beach.

  Angelina pointed to the ground. “It’s here?”

  Charlotte started typing. She asked Google Maps how long it would take to drive from Concord, New Hampshire to Jupiter Beach, Florida. Google spat out the results.

  “It’s a full day’s drive. Twenty three hours. She’d probably at least split it.”

  “The postcard got here yesterday, but it was mailed three days ago,” said Angelina.

  “So she could be here right now.”

  Angelina pressed her lips tightly and began to pace. “Do you think? Would she come here after all this time?”

  “She might. She’s been getting closer. Could be she was trying to make her way here anyway.”

  “Maybe she’s the one who stole the baby so she could come here and solve the case,” offered Croix.

  Angelina and Charlotte looked at her.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” said Angelina.

  Croix shrugged.

  Charlotte glanced through the front entry way. “The question is, if she is here, where would she be?”

  “Not here, apparently,” mumbled Angelina.

  “Getting involved with the case?” suggested Croix.

  “Exactly.” Charlotte looked at Angelina. “I need to borrow Harley.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Frank spotted the goblins on the crop duster and suffered a flashback to times gone by.

  “It’s T.K.!” repeated Mac, pointing at the plane.

  Frank nodded. It was definitely the same plane the Gophers had watched turn back the Air Force from Herbert’s land so many years ago.

  “But it can’t be T.K.,” he mumbled, squinting into the sun.

  In Elizabeth Weeble’s back yard, a hundred arms pointed toward the sky.

  Hepper shifted the bulldozer into another gear and continued his path of destruction, unpeppered by tomatoes as his enemies’ attentions drew skyward. Soon, he was far enough down the line of bombs even Declan’s tossed tomatoes couldn’t reach him anymore. The yellow monster approached the far corner of the fence, marked by a silver dummy bomb, chugging away as bombs pressed into the dirt beneath its giant tires.

  The plane passed overhead and made an arcing loop to head back toward the field. As it approached, it swooped low and even Hepper had to stop his progress to stare. Just as Frank feared the plane might plow directly into the bulldozer, the nose of the aircraft lifted toward the heavens and the payload doors opened. Hundreds of red orbs cascaded over Hepper, the bulldozer and the field exploding with gushy ferocity.

  One red ball smacked Frank in the chest and he took a step back to catch his balance. He looked down to find his uniform covered with red and suffered a moment of panic. He spotted seeds and realized he wasn’t dying.

  “Tomatoes?” he asked as the deflated skin of one slid down his buttons and slapped to the ground.

  The bulldozer, now painted red with tomato blood, continued to grind toward the corner of the field.

  That’s when it exploded.

  Declan and the Gophers dove to their bellies, crushing tomato plants beneath them, hands covering their heads. Dirt rained.

  The crowd, already silenced by the plane, released a collective gasp.

  When the soil stopped falling, Frank looked up to see the plane veer hard to the right. It half-landed, half-crashed into the empty field behind the tomato farm.

  A cloud of smoke rose from where the bulldozer had been and wafted toward the Gophers.

  “What the hell was that?’ asked Mac.

  Frank dragged himself up, coughing, and lowered a hand to help pull Mac to his feet.

  “What happened?” asked Declan as he helped up Bob.

  “T.K. came back from the dead to save his farm,” said Mac.

  Certain his friends had survived the explosion, Frank jogged toward the bulldozer. The machine lay on its side next to a smoking black crater.

  Frank stared at the black hole until he realized it marked the spot where the silver bomb once stood.

  “It wasn’t a dud,” Frank called back to the others as they trudged toward him.

  “That’s an understatement,” said Bob.

  Tommy raised his phone and filmed as Andrew Hepper, thrown fifteen feet from the bulldozer, sat up, covered in dirt and tomato guts.

  “I’m going to sue you all,” he sputtered.

  “You ran a tractor over a bomb, idiot,” said Frank, pulling out his phone to call for an ambulance.

  “You put the bomb there.”

  “I didn’t. T.K. did. Good luck suing a dead man.”

  Frank and the others continued past Hepper toward the downed plane, while the curious crowd followed a hundred feet behind. As they approached the crumpled aircraft, the hatch creaked open and a frail, shaking hand reached out.

  “You all gonna shhtand there, or you gonna help me out of thish frickin’ plane?”

  “Herbert!” Mac grabbed the hand and pulled his friend forward. “You okay?”

  The old man clambered out of the crop duster, slapping at his torso and limbs as if he were checking to be sure they remained attached. “You shsee thoshse tomatoesh exshplode? Jussht like being in the war again.” He paused and felt his mouth. “Oh, I think I losshht my teeth, hold on.”

  Herbert bent back into the plane and rummaged around the cockpit. After a moment he appeared again, grinning.

  “That’s better,” he said, gnashing his dentures for all to see.

  Mac clapped him on the back. “Where’d you get the tomatoes?”

  “Out of T.K.’s storage house in town. Spent half the night fillin’ this old plane. Can�
��t you see how swollen my eyes are? Allergic.”

  The crowd gathered around Herbert, each taking turns to shake his hand.

  Bob leaned toward Frank and spoke in a low tone. “You think T.K. got a letter from Hepper and put that bomb out on purpose?”

  Frank shook his head. “No telling this would happen. I don’t think so.” He looked away and tried to push down the smile curling up the sides of his mouth.

  It was fun to think the bomb had been placed there on purpose.

  As the crowd lifted Herbert to their shoulders and carried him toward T.K.’s house, the voice of a child who’d been told the story of The Great Tomato War hundreds of times echoed everyone’s only thought.

  “The tomatoes really did explode!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Charlotte pulled to the curb and stared across the street at the home of the people who’d lost and gained a baby—just not the right baby. She couldn’t imagine their anguish. If someone took Abby from her and replaced her with a Bichon Frise, she’d lose her mind. Not that Bichons weren’t adorable. She wouldn’t be able to think about anything except what’s happening to Abby? Is she scared and confused?

  She couldn’t imagine someone putting another person through such torment.

  Charlotte felt light pressure on her thigh, as if a tiny forest sprite were strolling across her, and looked down to watch Harley clamber across her lap. The squirrel-sized dog tucked herself between the steering wheel and her bellybutton.

  She had someone else’s baby too, but only on loan. Charlotte scooped up little, crazy-haired Harley, stepped outside and lowered the dog to the pavement to clip the tiny princess’ rhinestone-covered pink leash to her collar.

  “You’re ridiculously small.”

  Harley scolded her with a sharp yip and waddled off to sniff the grass. Charlotte hustled to keep up with her.

  She felt as if she were walking a Teddy bear hamster. So much different than Abby. Abby had a neck like a linebacker. That dog could drag her to the end of the block before she could dig heels in deep enough to stop her. Charlotte lamented the lack of dog sleds in Florida—was she keeping Abby from her true calling? Maybe Abby was supposed to be the Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer of sled dogs, the Wheaten leading a pack of Huskies.

  If Harley was a fish on the end of a line, she’d never even know she had a bite.