by Amy Vansant
“Brilliant, girl,” said Darla. “Let’s go.”
With furtive glances toward the crowd, the three women walked the long way around the block until they reached Jenny Teacup’s home. They had seen Jenny in the crowd with the others, so they walked brazenly past her house and into her backyard. They stood as close to the orange tree as they could get. Darla peeked between the hedge branches until she spotted her husband.
“I have to get his attention,” whispered Darla. “There are state cops nearby.”
“Text him,” said Charlotte.
“I guess one little text can’t hurt, but I don’t have my phone.”
“I have my phone,” said Mariska, pulling it from her pocketbook and handing it to Darla. Darla looked at it as if it were a Chinese puzzle box and then finally flipped it open.
“Sweetie, you need to upgrade this phone. You need to get yourself a smart phone.”
“Phones aren’t supposed to be smart.”
“Will you two hens hush?” said Charlotte.
“Hush, hush, sweet Charlotte,” mumbled Darla, putting the phone against her ear as Mariska giggled.
Charlotte rolled her eyes. She didn’t dare say another word or Darla and Mariska would start cackling. It took very little for them to catch the giggles.
They heard Frank’s phone ping on the opposite side of the hedge and he excused himself to look at the text. He read it, looked at the hedge, and then moved towards them.
“Frank,” hissed Darla through the leaves.
“Darla, I’m in the middle of official business. I can’t talk to you right now.”
“I need you to tell us what’s going on.”
“I don’t know yet. They’ve been digging a while, but they haven’t found anything. I can’t be here talking to you.”
“You tell me everything you know or I’ll reach through this damn bush and pat your bald head.”
She reached through the bush and touched Frank’s face.
“Darla! For the love of…”
“We’ll be here; you just tell us what you see as you see it.”
“Got something!” said another voice.
“Who is us?” asked Frank, peeking through the leaves.
“Mariska and Char—”
“Never mind. I know who,” he said. “Am I supposed to sit here and look like a crazy person talking to myself?”
“You don’t have to talk all the time! Just the important stuff. Cover your mouth with your hand. Come on, you’re a sheriff!”
Charlotte heard Frank sigh. The four of them stood in silence for several minutes.
“This is so exciting,” said Mariska in her stage whisper.
Charlotte put her finger against her lip to shush her.
Mariska pulled an imaginary zipper across her lips.
“It looks like a box,” whispered Frank from the opposite side of the hedge.
“A box?” said Darla. “Like a treasure chest or like a cardboard box?”
“Like a shoebox, but metal.”
“They gonna open it?’
“I don’t know…I guess they are…hold on, they’re looking at it.”
They all held as still as possible.
“They opened it. It wasn’t locked. It’s full of papers.”
“Papers? Not a gun?”
“Or a knife?” said Mariska, poking Darla in the ribs.
“Or a knife?” echoed Darla into the hedge.
“No, it’s all papers. He’s trying to open one to read it. He’s got those gloves on so it’s hard.”
“Oh, I would imagine that’s hard,” said Mariska. “I can’t grab anything small when I wear my dishwashing gloves.”
“Whatcha got there, Billy?” asked Frank in a much louder tone. The three women jumped at the sound of his voice and Darla fell sideways and then into the bush. Mariska and Charlotte rushed to extract her before her thrashing made too much noise.
“Looks like love letters,” said another man. “Between George and Erin.”
Mariska and Darla gasped, even as Darla tried to remove a flower plastered to her cheek.
“You’re going to inhale that flower and choke to death,” said Charlotte.
“George was having an affair!” said Darla.
“It looks like he killed Declan’s mom and it’s the affair that worries you?”
“Oh, that too,” said Mariska. “Terrible.”
Darla nodded in agreement.
“But I can’t believe George cheated on Penny. He’s always so quiet!”
“It’s always the quiet ones,” said Mariska again.
“Erin must have been fifteen years younger than him, too.”
“It’s always the young ones,” said Mariska.
“Frank!” whispered Darla as loudly as she could.
Frank walked back towards the hedge.
“Darla, not now!”
“Get me copies.”
“What?”
“Get me copies of the love letters!”
“I can’t do that!”
“Tell them you want to review them for clues or something!”
Frank grunted.
“I’ll see what I can do. But I don’t want to hear a peep out of you the next time I come home from the Bourbon Club a little snockered.”
“Fine. You get a one-time pass.”
“Fine,” said Frank, walking away.
“What are you smiling about?” asked Mariska.
Charlotte looked up.
“What? Was I? Nothing. Just thinking I should probably tell Declan about this new development.”
“Aaah…”
Mariska tried to wink, but it looked more like a small stroke. She was a terrible winker.
Chapter Eighteen
Entering Charlotte’s neighborhood, Declan spotted an elderly man on the side of the road gripping a radar gun. His black t-shirt, tan shorts, knee-high tube socks and tennis shoes didn’t appear to be standard issue, but he pointed the gun as if Declan was barreling down on him, intent to kill.
He slowed to two miles less than the speed limit of fifteen miles per hour. As he passed, the man lowered his gun and wagged a bony finger at him.
Declan rolled over two speed bumps and waved to six people walking their dogs before he reached Charlotte’s house. Even the people behind the wheels of golf carts had dogs nestled on the seats beside them or, in one case, jogging alongside. Did Pineapple Port force residents to own dogs by neighborhood bylaw? Did a cat count? What about a beefy hamster with a junk food addiction?
Though all the modular homes in Pineapple Port were similar, Charlotte’s was one of the few sans lawn art, standing unique in its blandness. Declan passed plastic flamingos, gazing balls, birdbaths, flags both American and football, smiling frogs and fake alligators lurking in lawns. Charlotte displayed only a smattering of reedy plants and a colorful ceramic pot where he presumed a plant had once lived and died.
Declan parked and walked half way up the driveway before Charlotte burst through the front door to meet him on the walkway.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hi.”
Charlotte looked lovely in another simple summer slip-on dress, this one red with hibiscus scattered across it. Her breast-length auburn hair hung loose and framed her face. Much like her sparsely garnished home, she wore little make up, but her fine features and hazel eyes needed little decoration. As a bonus, her height forced her summer dress to stop at mid-thigh, whereas on a smaller girl the frock would have brushed the tops of her knees. Declan found himself staring at her shapely, tan legs and averted his gaze.
“So…does everyone in your neighborhood have a dog?” he asked. “I must have seen half a dozen driving in.”
“Everyone except the cat ladies, but we dog-people don’t talk to them much,” she said, chuckling to show she was kidding. “A local puppy mill was shut down a few years ago and nearly everyone ended up adopting one.”
“Ah. That makes sense.”
As
they fell silent, he found his gaze beginning to trace the line of her body again.
“You said you had something to tell me?” he asked, finding her eyes.
“I do.”
“Should we go in?”
Charlotte glanced back at her home and squinted her right eye, plumping the apple of her cheek. She appeared in pain.
“I was thinking maybe we could grab some sushi at Katana Kuts?” she said. “Are you hungry?”
Declan looked at Charlotte’s modular home and wondered if his comment about her decorating skills had him banned from the premises.
“Sure. I could eat.”
“You do like sushi?”
“Yes.”
“Great. We’ll go Dutch. I’m not asking you to pay for me.”
“Well, I expect you to pay for me. After all, you asked me out.”
Charlotte’s mouth opened.
“I’m not asking you out! I just thought…I mean, I’m fine with treating you since it was my idea but—”
“I’m kidding,” he said, grinning as he watched her scramble. He glanced at the only vehicle in her driveway, a red golf cart. “I’ll drive, hop in.”
Declan opened his passenger-side door. Charlotte flashed him an odd look and stepped inside.
By the time he reached his seat, he knew he had to ask.
“What was that look for?”
“What look?”
“When I opened the door for you, you looked at me like I was nuts.”
“Oh, I was just surprised you opened the door for me. It’s unusual nowadays.”
“Years of opening doors for my grandmother I guess.”
“It’s nice,” she mumbled.
“Speaking of unusual,” he said, turning his head to pull out of the driveway. “There was a guy just inside the entrance to Pineapple Port with a speed gun, but he wasn’t wearing a uniform. Any idea what that was about?”
Charlotte laughed. “Oh you mean Tony. That wasn’t a speed gun. Did you see the wire hanging from it?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a painted hair dryer. He pretends it’s a speed gun to slow people down when they enter the neighborhood. It’s his unofficial job.”
Declan chuckled. “Well, it worked. I slowed down.”
“Oh, he’s very convincing. He freaked out one of my neighbors’ tweaker grandson. The kid thought he was about to be pulled over and made his getaway. She didn’t see him for two days.”
Katana Kuts was empty but for one other couple. All the early birds had come and gone. Two half-filled cups of coffee sat on the sushi bar with an empty sugar packet dispenser between them. As they sat, a man stepped forward and grabbed the two mugs. He scowled at the empty sugar container and replaced it with a full one.
“They took the sugar again,” he said, shaking his head.
“You have to start putting it loose, in bowls,” said Charlotte. “They can’t slip those in their purses.”
“I did put some in bowls,” said the man, nodding towards a sugar bowl sitting a few feet down the bar. “Then they take all the Sweet n’ Low.”
“Most people worry about young punks coming into their businesses…” said Declan.
“Yeah, for me it’s retirees. You said it. Sugar packets, creamers, soy sauce…even chopsticks! I have to ration everything.”
Charlotte leaned towards Declan and whispered. “We have a lady in the neighborhood who paints chopsticks with lacquer and sells them at craft fairs as decorative hair sticks, so I could maybe solve that little mystery for him…”
“Seriously?”
She nodded. “I have a pair. Sometimes she even hot-glues little flowers to them. People with free time can be very enterprising.”
“And sticky-fingered.”
“Sticky fingers are never a problem. They steal the handi-wipe packets from barbeque places, too.”
A tiny dark-haired waitress scampered from the back of the building to Declan’s side as he looked over the menu. She stood close, her face nearly rested on his elbow. He could feel the hairs on his arm move when she breathed. He fought the urge to pet her.
“What can I get you?” she asked, peering up at him like Oliver Twist in search of a handout.
“Um…” Declan tried to speak, but the girl’s face was so close it was if she’d stolen all the available oxygen. In addition to feeling claustrophobic, he was terrified that the moment he opened his mouth she’d smell everything he’d eaten the previous week.
She tugged on his sleeve.
“Maybe you want something to drink?”
“Um, Charlotte? Do you know what you want to drink?” he asked, tilting back his head and speaking directly to the ceiling.
The waitress dashed to Charlotte’s side. Charlotte’s arm touched Declan’s as she leaned to avoid inhaling the server’s hair. She murmured her order, lips grazing the girl’s forehead.
Unsure of an item, the waitress stood on the bottom bar of a nearby barstool and crawled across Charlotte’s lap to peer at the menu. She read the name of the drink Charlotte pointed to phonetically until she had it memorized. Then she hopped off the stool like a Pomeranian and scurried away.
Charlotte and Declan looked at each other and then looked away to avoid giggling.
A moment later, the waitress’ face arose like a whack-a-mole beside Declan’s elbow again. He yelped and jumped, knocking his chopsticks to the ground.
“Jeez, sorry,” he said as she handed him a new pair of chopsticks in a paper sheath. “I didn’t see you coming.”
Declan asked for a martini and inquired about one of the more obscure appetizers. The waitress again hopped onto the bottom rung of a stool and crawled across his lap. She explained several appetizers by reading what the menu said verbatim, which was unhelpful, since most of the descriptions read like a random game of Scrabble in the first place.
“I feel violated!” whispered Declan when she left to fetch their drinks.
“You might be pregnant,” said Charlotte. “I haven’t felt so loved since Abby fell asleep on my face.”
“What did you get that was so complicated?”
“A saki cosmopolitan. What did you get?”
“A martini. But I made the mistake of asking about the Happy Maki. Why are things always happy in Japanese restaurants? Just once, maybe I’d like to try the Sashimi of Discontent, or the Heartbroken Hand Roll.
Charlotte laughed and Declan made a mental note to make her laugh more often. It felt even better than inspiring a new widow to chuckle as he sifted through her beloved’s belongings. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun and he was only eating sushi.
I really need to hang out with younger people more often.
They received their drinks and the waitress disappeared. Declan planned to finish his martini while he and Charlotte talked about her news and then order food.
That’s when he heard the noise.
*click click*
Declan turned to find their tiny friend positioned a foot behind his seat. She stood smiling and clicking her pen as she awaited their food order.
*click click*
Declan could feel the hair on the back of his neck rising.
*click click*
I can hear her breathing.
“Um…” Declan’s fingers crawled back to the menu and the waitress stepped forward to rest her head on his elbow, awaiting his order.
“We’re going to hold off ordering for just a bit,” he said.
The waitress grinned. “Okay, that’s good. Okay.”
She scuttled back to the kitchen.
Declan released a sigh of relief. Another second and she would have been perched in his lap like a ventriloquist’s doll.
“Did you ever see that movie The Ring?” he asked Charlotte.
Charlotte covered her face as she snorted saki cosmo into her nose.
Score.
Charlotte finished her cocktail and asked for a small bottle of cold sake, which arrived in
a metal tree full of saki cups. When Declan ordered a glass of wine, the bartender misunderstood and brought two glasses.
Charlotte stared at her empty cocktail glass, saki tree, glass of wine and soy sauce bowl.
“I’m one fetal pig away from looking like I brought a seventh grade chemistry kit to dinner.”
“So, you should probably tell me your news before the waitress returns or before all those liquid converge in your stomach to create a homemade bomb.”
“Good point.”
She turned to Declan and stared into his eyes for a moment.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I’m not sure how to tell you this… But they’re questioning someone about your mother’s murder.”
Declan leaned forward, his hand slipping from the edge of the bar. He nearly fell from his stool.
“Careful!” said Charlotte, pressing against his shoulder to keep him steady. “This is the one time the waitress isn’t here to break your fall.”
“Really? Who?” he asked, doing his best to right himself gracefully.
“Well, that’s just it. It’s George, and I’m finding it really hard to believe it.”
“Who the hell is George?”
“One of my neighbors. He owns Pineapple Port. Frank got an anonymous tip that there was something buried beneath George’s orange tree, and they found a box of love letters between him and your mother. ”
“Love letters?”
“That’s the word. We’re pumping Frank for more information.”
“Why hasn’t anyone contacted me?”
“I guess they don’t have any official news yet. Love letters don’t make a person a murderer. You can’t tell Frank I told you.”
Declan realized his jaw was hanging slack and shut his mouth. He turned back to the counter and took a sip of wine.
“So you’re saying it’s possible my mother was dating George and he killed her, buried her on his land, and built a house on top of her?”
Charlotte shrugged. “I really doubt it. He’s never hit me as the murdering type. Of course, he’s never hit me as the cheating type either…”
“He’s married?”
“To Penny. She was at that meeting of the Crime Committee. The one in charge.”
“And they were married when…”