by Amy Vansant
Chapter Twenty-Three
Darla and Frank arrived outside Charlotte’s house, breathless. Frank couldn’t remember the last time he’d moved that fast for that long. He held his side where a stitch threatened to squeeze off his intestines.
He definitely couldn’t remember the last time he’d moved that fast in cotton pajamas.
“Nice shoes,” said Charlotte.
He looked down and realized he’d slipped into the pink pig slippers Darla had bought him the previous Christmas. Whether you’re a police officer or a sheriff, everyone always thinks pig gifts are funny.
“Thanks,” he grumbled.
“They oink when you squeeze the noses. What happened? Are you okay?” Darla’s attention drew to Declan. “You’re filthy.”
Declan smiled, his teeth whiter than usual against his sooty skin. “Thank you for noticing.”
Charlotte held up a hand. “I’m fine. Where’s Gloria?”
Mariska squinted at her. “You almost died in a fire! Why are you worried about Gloria?”
Frank knew why.
He scowled. “You can’t possibly—”
Charlotte glanced side-eyed at Darla, and Frank caught her hint.
Don’t let Darla know her friend might be killing people.
He shifted gears. “She’s at the house.”
The answer, as he suspected, wasn’t enough.
“You saw her?” she asked.
Darla frowned. “No, we ran right over. Why?”
“Her door was shut,” added Frank. “Tell you what, I’ll go back.”
Charlotte smiled. “Thank you.”
Frank spun on his heel and slapped home. He didn’t think for a second Gloria would have tried to harm Charlotte, but he understood eliminating her as a suspect would help the girl’s mind rest.
Heading up his driveway, he noticed a manilla folder leaning against the siding beside his front door. He hadn’t noticed it on the way out, but in their hurry to get to Charlotte’s that wasn’t strange.
He stooped and picked it up to flip it over once or twice.
Blank. Hm.
He picked at the flap as he continued inside and walked down the hall to the closed guest room to knock. Hearing nothing, he knocked again, louder.
“Yes?”
“Hey, Gloria, uh...” Frank realized he hadn’t come up with a way to explain why he was waking her up in the middle of the night. Somehow, he needed to confirm she wasn’t dressed and hadn’t been out of the house.
“There’s a fire,” he said, adding a little extra urgency to his voice.
“What?”
Gloria flung open the door and ran directly into him. Without apology, she barreled past him as he stumbled back. She dragged a sheet behind her, her butt exposed to the wind.
Frank closed his eyes and hung his head, muttering. “For the love of...”
Taking advantage of her absence, Frank stepped inside the room and flipped on the light. Nothing about the bedroom said Gloria had been anywhere but sleeping since she went to bed. He flipped off the light and headed outside, worried about what might greet him there.
Gloria stood at the end of the driveway, now fully wrapped in her sheet, staring down the street at the red glow cast by the fire truck’s blinking lights.
She looked at him, her eyes wide, pointing toward Charlotte’s house.
“Why are they down there?”
“Because that’s where the fire is.”
She appeared bleary-eyed and confused, which Frank took as further evidence she hadn’t been up and awake, fresh from setting Charlotte’s house ablaze.
“Charlotte’s house had a little fire.”
Gloria scowled. “Not here?”
He shook his head and her shoulders slumped.
“You made it sound like we were on fire.”
“Did I? I didn’t mean—”
Gloria straightened. “Were you trying to get a peek of me naked?”
“What? No!” Frank took a step back, nearly dropping the half-opened manilla envelope in his hand.
Gloria pulled her sheet tighter to her body and headed toward the door. She slowed as she passed him. “I won’t tell Darla about this.”
Frank found himself unable to speak until she’d entered the house. He found his voice as the door clicked shut behind her.
“You can tell her anything you like!”
Gritting his teeth, Frank slapped back to Charlotte’s, envelope swinging in his hand. Charlotte jogged toward him before he reached the group.
“So?” she asked.
“It wasn’t her. She was dopey as could be. Sound asleep for hours, naked in her bed.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Naked?”
Frank frowned. “As it turns out. She came running out of the room wrapped in a sheet.”
“Why?”
“I may have made it sound like the fire was in my house to get her out of there.”
Charlotte laughed. “Yikes.”
“You’re not kidding.”
“So maybe we can take her off our list. I wasn’t storm hoarding either, so that takes away her motive.”
“But your fire looked like an accident?”
Charlotte sighed. “Apparently, some effort was made. They left a candle behind. But they screwed boards across my hallway in the hopes I’d run out of the bedroom and bounce back into the pile of burning clothes they left outside my door.”
Frank sucked in a breath. “That’s crazy. That’s no accident.”
“No, but if the house had burned to the ground, it might have destroyed evidence.”
Frank looked at Charlotte’s house, imagining himself in the same predicament she’d found herself in that evening. “Why didn’t you go out the window?”
“Nailed shut.”
“By you?”
She shook her head. “Someone else, but I don’t know when. I’m guessing while I was out tonight. Could have been days ago. I don’t know. I never open them.”
Frank pulled at his mustache with his free hand. “Someone tried very hard to kill you.”
“Seems like it.” She motioned to his other hand. “What’s that?”
He looked down at the manilla envelope. “I don’t know. Found it outside my door when I went back.”
He pulled away the torn piece of the envelope flap he’d started picking at before and slid out a single piece of white paper. In the center sat a fingerprint with ‘C.F.’ printed near its edge in blue ink. He turned the sheet so Charlotte could see.
“Who gave you this?” she asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“A fingerprint? Do you mind if I keep this for a bit?”
He frowned. “I dunno...”
“I have the fingerprint book. I want to go through it and compare.”
He sighed and handed her the sheet. “Fine. Be careful with it. We don’t know if it’s important.”
“I know.”
She turned and walked toward Mac, who stood next to a pile of blackened clothes someone had raked out of her house. Frank followed behind, scuffing in his pig slippers.
The big fireman smiled as she approached. “I think we’re done here.”
“Can we go back in?” she asked.
He shook his head. “The damage wasn’t too bad. Mostly the clothes and the walls in the hall. The structure is safe, but I need you to stay out for a bit. The arson investigator needs to take a look.” He nodded at a pile of clothes at his feet. “Unless this is all yours and I have to bring you in for arson.”
Chuckling, Charlotte reached down and plucked a singed pink shirt from the pile, small enough to fit a five-year-old.
“This is not my size.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Corentine Flores pulled to the curb and sat in her car, her hands on the wheel, her chin against her chest, trying to breathe.
Her therapist’s breathing exercises weren’t working.
I’ve come too far to lose it a
ll now.
The uneasy feeling she’d suffered since finding a man dead at the bottom of his ladder hadn’t gone away. Nobody felt good about stumbling on a dead guy, but she had reason to feel worse than most.
The morning newspaper brought her more bad news than she could bear. First, she read that the ladder man lived alone. That meant the odds his wife had called her cleaning business for a quote were low. Yet, that morning she’d received a call from a woman requesting a cleaning quote at Ted’s address—insisting she come in person. The area had a lot of retirement communities and old people could be strange, so she hadn’t thought too much about it at the time.
After finding Ladder Guy dead, she’d maybe been too willing to push the oddity to the back of her mind.
The woman who called could have been anyone. If not his wife, his daughter, or a friend...
But then she received the second call. Another person demanding an in-person quote. By the time she’d driven to the address, EMTs and gawkers had swarmed the place. When she spotted the stretcher with the covered body, she’d hightailed it out of there.
The newspaper only confirmed her suspicion—the man had died working on a gas generator in his garage, preparing, no doubt, for the hurricane.
Not good.
Someone was setting her up. Someone wanted her at the scene of these crimes.
She had an idea who, though the why still had her baffled.
Corentine stared at the house to her right. It belonged to the man who lived next to the man who’d died falling off the ladder.
It has to be him.
He’d been at the scene of the second murder as well. He’d pointed her out to the lady who worked with the sheriff, as if tattling on her. As if he wanted the authorities to see her there.
How does he know who I am?
She’d searched for his identity, knew his name was Jack Canton, but the name didn’t mean anything to her. She’d only spoken to her new witness protection handler once, and he hadn’t mentioned anyone named Jack, but then, he’d seemed pretty flustered. The U.S. Marshals were no doubt reeling after finding out one of their own was a notorious serial killer, who’d clumped an unknown number of criminals in the same general area for her own amusement.
After years of proximity, a lot of the criminals had found each other. A few had started their own support groups and small-scale criminal enterprises. She’d stayed clean. Started her business. Went to therapy.
Why was this happening to her?
Who was Jack Canton? And if Jack was in WITSEC too, why would he want to out her?
She’d worked too long for her new life.
Now, these people dying...
Corentine took a deep breath and climbed out of her dull-gray Kia.
Let’s find out who you are, Jack Canton.
Fingering the weapon in her pocket, she walked along the man’s path to knock on the door.
Jack opened the door, scowling at the sight of her.
“What are you—”
“I need to talk to you.”
“To me? About what?”
Corentine looked around to see if anyone was watching. “Let me in.”
“What? Get out of here, you lunatic!” He poked the air with a pointed finger, directing her back to her car.
“Just let me in so we can talk.”
“Are you crazy? Coming to my door and—”
Corentine pulled the gun from her pocket and took a step closer. He stumbled back, hands rising toward the ceiling.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Is he angry or frightened? I’ll find out soon enough.
“I told you. I need to talk to you. Get back.”
Jack took a few more backward steps into his living room and she followed, closing the front door behind her.
“What do you want from me?” she asked.
Jack’s brow knit. “What? You’re the one with the gun.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Look, you crazy lady, get out of my house!”
He sure was animated. She watched his dentures pop out as he slurred the last word. He lowered his hand long enough to pop them back in.
She shook the gun at him. “Get your hand up. Why are you trying to set me up?”
“I’m not. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Get on your knees.”
His eyes widened. Maybe the gravity of the situation was sinking in. Jack lowered himself to the floor, his left hand dropping to steady himself on the living room table as he wobbled.
“Hands up.”
“I’m trying. I’m sorry. I have old knees. It isn’t easy. My back is ruined from golfing.”
Corentine shook her head. “From golfing. You are such a douchebag.”
He found his balance on his knees and remained there, hands in the air. His brow knit as he looked up at her. “Hey, what happened to your accent?”
She didn’t answer and he continued.
“You had an accent a minute ago. And this morning—”
Corentine kicked herself for forgetting her accent, but it didn’t matter. After all, the man knew who she was.
“Why are you setting me up?” she asked again in her natural Philadelphian accent.
“I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Is your wife here?”
“I don’t have a wife.”
“Really? As charming as you are? That’s a shocker.”
“Did you come here to hold me at gunpoint and insult me? I was the one helping when you found the dead guy, remember?”
“Who’d you get to call me?”
“Call you? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She motioned to the house next door. “You called me to his house on purpose.”
“No, I didn’t. You were there to clean, weren’t you?”
Corentine took another step toward him. “You think because I look Hispanic I must be a cleaning lady?”
“It said ‘House Cleaning’ something or other on the side of your car. And you told me that was why you were there before I called the cops, remember?”
Corentine relaxed a little.
I forgot about that.
Annoyed, she shook the gun at him. “Whatever. Tell me why you wanted me to find that body.”
“I didn’t.”
“You wanted me to find his body to frame me.”
Jack hung his head. “Lady, I’m sorry. You’re not making any sense.”
Corentine frowned, a creeping dread tickling her spine. The only thing worse than finding out Jack was trying to frame her, was finding out he wasn’t. That put her in an even more unsettling position.
It didn’t make sense she’d seen him twice, though.
“I saw you at the other house,” she said.
“What other house?”
“The golf course—”
He waved his hand at her. “Oh, yeah, yeah. I saw you there.”
“Did you call me there?”
“No. Lady, I don’t know your damn phone number, I don’t know why you think I’d be calling you. I’m not that desperate for a date.”
He stopped, clearly amused with his own joke, before a new, thoughtful expression passed over his face. He squinted at her.
“I thought it was weird you were there, though. I can tell you that. So did that cop lady.”
“Cop? Oh. You mean the lady detective.”
He nodded. “Nosey broad, if you ask me. Ordered the sheriff around like he worked for her.”
“Maybe he does.”
Jack’s expression twitched, but he appeared to remain dubious.
Presumably, he didn’t think much about women with jobs other than cleaning.
Corentine straightened her weapon. Whether it had been fear or anger, it was fading. He didn’t believe she’d shoot him, which meant he wouldn’t feel inspired to answer her questions.
One way to fix that.
“I
’m going to kill you now.”
He straightened, his hands reaching for the ceiling. “What? No. Why? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I swear.”
There it was. Definitely fear now. But his answers hadn’t changed.
Damn.
“So you really don’t know who I am?”
He shook his head. “You’re the housekeeper who found Ted. That’s all I know.”
Corentine lowered the gun and then raised it again. “Do you have a telephone?”
“My cell...”
“Give it to me.”
Jack fished his phone out of his pocket and held it out toward her.
She took it and stepped back to shake the gun at him one last time.
“I better not find out you’re setting me up. You call the cops—you tell anyone about me, and I will kill you. Do you hear me?”
Jack shook his head. “Yes. I won’t. Just go away.”
Deep in thought, Corentine turned and left the house. She didn’t realize she still had the gun in her hand until she’d nearly reached her car. She shoved it into the pocket of her hoodie.
Who is setting me up?
Jack was unpleasant, but his answers sounded honest.
But then who? Why?
The only person who knew about her past was in prison. It didn’t make any sense.
She drove out of Pineapple Port, her mind sifting through possibilities, none of which seemed viable. At the first traffic light, she looked behind her to see if anyone had pulled up, and finding no one, dropped Jack’s phone out the window.
Chapter Twenty-Five
After the investigators left, Charlotte talked Fire Chief Mac into letting her inside her charred house. She told him she needed medication, knowing he’d be too polite to demand to know what sort, but what she really needed was Jamie Moriarty’s fingerprint book.
Jamie had compiled a photo album filled with the fingerprints of her WITSEC clients, so she had some proof of their real identities, before they entered witness protection. Each page held one enlarged finger print and the true initials of the criminal. No doubt, she’d used the book to blackmail her pets into helping her with her own devious plans.
The sheet Frank had found looked something like the sheets in the book. The fingerprint was smaller, the initials handwritten and near the print instead of in the lower right corner, but—