Pineapple Lies

by Amy Vansant

  Charlotte nodded. “If it even happened. Like I said, I don’t know all the facts yet. I just wanted to keep you in the loop.”

  Declan’s shoulders slumped. “I really don’t think I’m in the mood for the Happy Maki now.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Charlotte. “I thought you’d like to know.”

  “Oh and I do. I really appreciate it. But I can’t talk to Frank?”

  “Not yet. If he finds out I’m telling you things he’ll cut me off and then you won’t have a man on the inside.”

  “So you’re my man on the inside? My confidential informant?”

  Charlotte smiled. “I’m your CI.”

  “And my private eye.”

  “Who doesn’t lie.”

  “Because you’re sweet as pie.”

  “And you’re my gu—” Charlotte stopped short. “I mean, the guy.”

  “Okay you’re too good at this. You’re starting to scare me now. Buh-bye.”

  “Why?”

  “Let’s call it a tie.”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  Charlotte looked at him, a tiny smile growing on her face.

  “Don’t say it,” he said.

  She pressed her lips together, as if it took all her strength not to speak.

  “Don’t you do it…”

  She shook her head and picked up her saki.

  “I’ll try,” she mumbled into the cup.

  He pretended not to hear and turned his head so she couldn’t see him smile.

  I think I like this girl.

  This girl who found my mother in her back yard.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next evening was the official meeting of the Bourbon Club, when Mariska’s husband Bob, Frank and a revolving handful of other local men collected in Mariska’s lanai to drink. They thought they were being clever calling it a “club,” forgetting that women invented book clubs that had more to do with wine and a night away from the kids than great literature.

  Charlotte, Mariska and Darla gathered in Mariska’s living room behind the glass sliding door that led to the Bourbon Club. The club had a running gag that women weren’t allowed in the lanai unless they brought snacks. The only female allowed full access was Miss Izzy. The slider door remained cracked wide enough for Miss Izzy to waddle back and forth between the men and women, exploring which group was most likely to feed her. The ladies began the evening as the easier marks, but two or three drinks later, Izzy wrapped the men around her little paw and the Cheez-Its fell like rain from a bourbon-infused cloud.

  “Frank cough up any more news about George?” Charlotte asked Darla as she sank lower into Bob’s man-eating La-Z-Boy.

  “They took his guns,” said Darla. “They’re going to match them against that bullet Harry found.”

  “Is he in jail?”

  “They’re holding him as long as they can, but I don’t know if a box of love letters is enough to make a case against him.”

  “This is so horrible,” said Mariska. “Penny has to be a mess.”

  “We should go talk to her,” said Darla.

  “We should!”

  “Maybe she knows something,” suggested Charlotte.

  “Exactly,” said Darla. “Maybe she knew about the affair.”

  “Maybe she knew about the murder.”

  Mariska gasped. “You don’t think…”

  Charlotte shrugged. “I don’t know what I think anymore. I know I didn’t think I’d ever find a body in my backyard.”

  “I don’t know how much help Penny will be,” said Darla.

  “If you discovered your husband was having an affair, and then the girl in that affair went missing, you might not be inclined to start looking for her. Penny might have seen more than she knows. At the time, she might have considered Erin’s disappearance luck, no matter what evidence she found lying around.”

  “Like a gun,” whispered Mariska. “Or bloody gloves. Or clothes covered in mud…”

  “If I found out Frank was having an affair, it’s not the girl who would go missing,” muttered Darla.

  Miss Izzy wandered in from the porch and set up camp at Charlotte’s feet, her ridiculous ears swirling in search of crinkling paper and crunching cracker noises. Charlotte took a pretzel from the snack bowl on the lamp table beside her and tossed it to the dog, who snapped it out of the air.

  “She loves her baldies,” said Mariska.

  “Baldies?”

  “The pretzels. No salt.”

  “Ugh.” Charlotte scowled. “No wonder they were the worst pretzels I’ve ever eaten.”

  Charlotte rocked several times to extract herself from her chair and walked to the lanai. She moved the sliding door wider than the exact width of Miss Izzy’s body and stuck her head in the room.

  “Did you ask for a guest pass?” asked Dave, a heavyset blond who lived on the other side of the neighborhood.

  Dave was a woodworker who came in handy whenever someone needed crown molding or a door shimmed. Most of the men in Pineapple Port were once blue-collar workers, but even the ex-business men had practical living skills and hidden talents. Charlotte found it comforting to know there was always an ex-plumber or amateur electrician nearby in case of emergency. She worried the only talent her generation of retirees would possess was the ability to clear a video game level in record time, or text someone a message without looking at the phone.

  “She didn’t ask Lance for permission,” said Bob, a goofy grin on his face.

  Charlotte smirked. Bob had been a Lance Corporal in the army. Somewhere around his third bourbon he, and everyone else, began to refer to him as Lance. While Bob was so quiet he made monks look like chatterboxes, Lance could be a handful.

  “Frank, did they get the ballistics test back on George’s guns?” asked Charlotte.

  Frank tilted to look past Charlotte into the living room, glowering at Darla. Charlotte turned in time to see Darla return his hard stare with a grin and a happy little wave.

  “No. We’ll probably know tomorrow,” he said. “And inform my wife I’m not telling her another damn thing.”

  “What if it is a match? Is that it? One hundred percent proof he did it?”

  Frank raised his glass to his lips and paused to consider.

  “It wouldn’t look good.”

  “But Lance is looking good,” said Bob.

  “Here here! To Lance!” the men all held their glasses in salute.

  Charlotte groaned and turned to rejoin the ladies.

  “What’s going on out there?” asked Darla.

  “Lance has arrived.”

  Mariska dropped her face into her hands. “Oh no.”

  “It’s bad enough dealing with one man,” said Darla, patting Mariska on the shoulder. “You have to deal with two, you poor, poor woman.”

  “Oh!” said Mariska, sitting up. “That reminds me. Charlotte, you have a date tomorrow!”

  Charlotte fell into her chair. “What?”

  “Gladdy’s grandson, Brad, is going to be visiting and I volunteered you to keep him company for a few hours tomorrow.”

  “Are you out of your mind? We had a deal you weren’t going to set me up with anyone anymore!”

  “This guy is rich,” said Darla. “We thought we’d make an exception. He’s good-lookin’, too.”

  Charlotte scowled. “Isn’t it a teeny bit of a warning sign that he needs his grandmother to set him up on dates?”

  Mariska and Darla looked at each other.

  “I don’t know that he needs to be setup…” said Mariska.

  “I think maybe he just broke up with someone,” said Darla.

  “Great. I get to be his rebound date while he’s away from home. How can I say no?”

  “It’s just been so long,” said Mariska, tilting her head to the side and staring as if Charlotte were dying of an incurable disease. “We were worried you’ve forgotten how much fun it can be to take your nose out of your books and talk to someone yo
ur own age.”

  “Not that we aren’t fascinating,” said Darla. “But…chatting with someone your own age and of the opposite sex might be good for you.”

  Staring into middle distance and feeling sorry for herself, Charlotte took a baldy pretzel and put it in her mouth. She immediately regretted it.

  “These things taste like cardboard.”

  “Don’t change the subject,” said Mariska. “Will you take him around tomorrow? Maybe get some lunch? I’ll pay.”

  “You don’t have to pay,” said Charlotte. “First of all, he should pay. I’m the one providing a tour service. Fine. Whatever. This neighborhood’s going down the tubes anyway. It’s all murder, sex and lust.”

  “Did someone call Lance?” said Bob, entering the room. He smiled, his half-staff eyes sweeping over the group. “Hello, ladies…”

  “You are going to regret this tomorrow, mister!” said Mariska, waggling a crooked finger at him.

  “If I had a penny for every time I heard that,” said Bob. “I’d be a pennynair!”

  He attempted a wink before sauntering down the hall to the bathroom. Charlotte could hear him ping-ponging off the walls as he walked.

  “That man,” muttered Mariska.

  Charlotte chuckled. She loved Lance.

  “So…I was thinking…” said Charlotte, grabbing another pretzel. She nearly had it to her lips when she realized what it was, wrinkled her nose and tossed it to the dog. “Let’s approach this like a Dateline episode. What if it isn’t George who killed Declan’s mom?”

  “I hope it isn’t!” said Mariska.

  “Me too, but I mean, if it isn’t George, who is it? Who are our suspects?”

  “It’s always the husband,” said Darla.

  “It’s always the husband,” echoed Mariska.

  “Her husband was already dead,” said Charlotte.

  “Then the boyfriend,” said Darla. “Dateline is pretty one-note that way. Husbands or boyfriends, they are your choices.”

  “But the boyfriend is George,” said Mariska.

  “Oh, right. Well, the motives are always sex or money. Did she have life insurance?”

  Charlotte’s opened her eyes wide. “Yes!” she said, sitting up as far as the chair would allow. “And she had two boyfriends!”

  The other women’s mouths formed two perfect Os of surprise. They looked like the Christmas caroler statues that Mariska pulled out for display every holiday.

  “Two?” they said in unison.

  “When I was at Declan’s, Seamus admitted that he was dating Erin at the time of her death.”

  “Who’s Seamus?” asked Darla.

  “Declan’s uncle. Remember? He came to the Crime Committee meeting with him.”

  “His uncle!” said Mariska. “He was dating his own sister?”

  Charlotte pursed her lips and tilted her head to stare at Mariska from beneath her lowered brow. “His uncle from the other side of the family. He might be a murderer, but he isn’t a total sicko.”

  “Oh. Whew. That’s good.”

  “But I thought she was having an affair with George?” asked Darla.

  “Maybe she was. Seamus said that the night she went missing she told him she was breaking up with her boyfriend. She was going to try and make it work with Seamus and he was going to adopt Declan—the whole thing. She left to break up with the boyfriend and he never saw her again.”

  “So George did kill her!” said Mariska.

  “Seamus said he didn’t know who the other boyfriend was. She didn’t say. So it wasn’t necessarily George.”

  “Did Declan go to live with Seamus?” asked Darla.

  “That’s just it,” said Charlotte. “It sounded as if Seamus freaked out after Erin died. He said he tried to look into her disappearance, but came up empty. He was worried the cops would try to pin a murder on him, because his brother, Erin’s dead husband and Declan’s dad, had been a terrible drug addict and gotten in a lot of trouble with the local law. He thought maybe he could support Declan on Erin’s insurance money, but the money was delayed.”

  “No body,” said Darla. “They always hold the insurance check waiting for proof of death on Dateline. Makes the murderers furious.”

  “Exactly. Seamus moved to Miami and Declan went to live with his grandmother.”

  “Poor boy,” said Mariska. “That must have been terrible for him.”

  Charlotte face pinched as she realized the weight of what she was implying. “When it comes to possible suspects, Seamus looks pretty good. He was the boyfriend and someone who could have collected on her insurance by adopting Declan.”

  “That would be awful if Declan’s own uncle killed his mother,” said Darla.

  Charlotte nodded. “He seemed like a pretty nice guy. Odd, but nice.”

  “Is there anyone else? What if the other boyfriend wasn’t George?” asked Mariska.

  “You don’t think she had three boyfriends, do you?” said Darla. “That seems like a lot.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe her friends kept pushing guys on her, trying to get her to date more…” said Charlotte looking away to appear as innocent as possible.

  Darla nodded in agreement, until a look of realization washed across her face and her gaze locked back on Charlotte.

  “Oh I get it,” she said. “Like we’re pushing guys on you.”

  Charlotte offered a mirthless smile.

  “Speaking of which, before you human traffic me to this guy, are we going to see Penny tomorrow morning? Maybe she’ll know something.”

  “Yes, let’s do that,” said Mariska. “She could use some support. Maybe we can catch her at poolside breakfast, but if not we’ll go knock on her door.”

  “We’ll go pump her for information,” said Darla.

  “Is she cute? Are you taking volunteers?” asked Bob, appearing once again in the living room. “Lance is here! He’ll volunteer! But first, a beer!”

  “Your zipper is down, idiot,” said Mariska.

  Bob looked down and worked the zipper of his khaki shorts back up.

  “It’s not my fault. The women back there are really aggressive…” he mumbled, throwing a finger in the direction of the bathroom.

  Charlotte laughed.

  “Bob!” said Mariska. “Really!”

  Chapter Twenty

  Charlotte spotted Darla scampering toward the table where she and Mariska sat, her caftan flapping the breeze behind her. The third Wednesday of every month was Poolside Breakfast, where a good portion of the Port gathered to share eggs in the community center overlooking the pool. Charlotte and Mariska sat at their usual table, but Frank and Bob were absent.

  “Where’s Frank?” asked Mariska as Darla slipped into her seat. “I can tell you Bob didn’t feel up to breakfast this morning. Lance did quite a number on him last night.”

  “Frank was a little slow but he had to go into work. Charlotte, you need to make him and Bob those hangover concoctions of yours.”

  “The Red-eye Jedi,” said Charlotte. “Mind-tricks you into thinking you don’t have a hangover.”

  “How does it do that?” asked Mariska.

  “It’s full of vodka.”

  “Oh. Hm.”

  “Oh!” yelped Darla. “I almost forgot. Frank got a call. The ballistics came back and the bullet didn’t match any of George’s guns.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful!” said Mariska.

  Charlotte looked up in time to see Penny in the doorway.

  “And as if on cue, there’s Penny.”

  All heads swiveled to watch as Penny entered the room. She wore her best pearls, a silk tank and tan skort. As gazes fell upon her she lifted her chin and weaved her way between the oglers to Mariska’s table.

  “Hi, Penny,” said Mariska. “We were going to come see you today if you didn’t come to breakfast. How are you doing?”

  “I’m just fine. I assume you’ve heard the news?”

  “The bullet didn’t match,” said Darla. “Fran
k called you?”

  “Frank called me. And yes, the bullet didn’t match any of George’s guns. Of course it didn’t match.”

  “What’s that?” asked Harry from two tables to the left. “My bullet?”

  “The bullet,” said Penny.

  “But they still have those letters. Maybe he ditched the gun.”

  Penny glared at him.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Those letters are fakes or taken out of proportion. My George never had an affair with his secretary. That would be so… so…”

  Penny curled her hands into fists as she tried to find her word.

  “Cliché?” offered Charlotte.

  “Yes!” said Penny, pointing at her. “Cliché. A man and his secretary. It’s ridiculous. They told me they can’t even be sure the letters they found are between George and that girl. They’re misleading. They might be anyone’s letters. She isn’t the only person in the world named Erin.”

  “George said they aren’t his?” asked Darla.

  “Of course he did!”

  “Can’t they do handwriting analysis on them?” asked Harry.

  Penny whirled on him and released the fabled Level Ten Sniff. Before Harry could say another word she stormed off, calling “You people!” over her shoulder as she left.

  “Huh,” grunted Harry, moving from his own table to Mariska’s. “I thought for sure it was George.”

  “Maybe the letters aren’t as damning as we thought,” said Charlotte.

  “Maybe not,” said Harry. “Or maybe they just need to find more evidence. Hair or blood or the gun. He buried the letters, maybe he buried other things.”

  “Or maybe it wasn’t George,” said Darla. Charlotte could see she was getting annoyed with Harry for joining the group without asking.

  “Did you know Declan’s uncle was dating her?” asked Mariska.

  “Seamus?” said Harry, his ears perking. “He was dating his…uh…”

  “Sister-in-law,” said Darla. “That confused us for a second, too.”

  “Mariska,” whispered Charlotte, touching her hand. “You can’t gossip about something this serious.”

  Darla overheard and scowled. “Harry, we know you want to solve the mystery and relive your glory days but we can’t help you.”