Pineapple Lies

by Amy Vansant

  “What happened?”

  Charlotte threw up her hands and flopped them back down to her sides.

  “I was set up with the grandson of one of the Pineapple Portians. He was an ass and I walked out on him, but that left me with no ride home. Charity isn’t exactly a hotbed of taxi service, and if I called Mariska, word would get back to his grandmother and the whole thing would be a mess.”

  Declan shot a glance toward Pickles searching for the man he’d seen with Charlotte. “Are you okay? He didn’t hurt you or anything?”

  “Oh, god, no, nothing like that. He just decided very early on that I was a poor little trailer park girl unable to resist his big city charm.”

  “It’s not a trailer park. They’re modular homes.”

  “Exactly!” Charlotte laughed and met eyes with Declan as they slipped into the car. He noticed the laugh lines on either side of her mouth, long lines that traveled from the apple of her cheeks to just below her lips. He liked them. How had he not noticed them before?

  Charlotte looked away. Declan thought she may have blushed, but the light was dying and he doubted his eyes.

  “To your house?” he asked.

  “Please. I really appreciate this. I had something to tell you anyway or I wouldn’t have bothered you.”

  “No bother.”

  I’m thrilled you had a terrible time with that guy. Which surprises me.

  They rode in silence for a few minutes. He heard a soft snorting noise from his right and glanced over to see Charlotte grinning and shaking her head.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “He wanted to make me a buttery nipple.”

  “He what?”

  “Brad. He said he wanted to go back to my place so he could make me a buttery nipple.”

  Declan’s mouth hung open. He laughed.

  “This guy you’ve never met before said the words buttery nipple to you?”

  Charlotte laughed harder, nodding her head as she covered her mouth and snorted another laugh. The sound of her hysterics made Declan laugh harder.

  “Class act,” he said.

  “You have no idea,” said Charlotte, trying to catch her breath. She lowered her voice to mimic her date.

  “Just talking to a big client…should be worth two million…”

  She began giggling again, this time a high-pitched peal that made her eyes water.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s not that funny. It’s just—”

  “The stress of it gave you the giggles,” said Declan.

  Charlotte turned to him.

  “Yes. How did you know that?”

  He shrugged.

  I just feel like I know you.

  “Where do these people come from?” he asked, changing the subject. Charlotte’s infectious laugher and his own glee at Brad’s douchebaggery had filled him with his own giddiness.

  “Atlanta, apparently.”

  “You should have said something. I could have come in and saved you.”

  Charlotte looked at him, her eyes glistening with laugh-tears.

  “You’d have done that?”

  “In a second.”

  Charlotte smiled. “That’s sweet.”

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  Charlotte slapped him lightly on the shoulder and wiped her eyes.

  Declan pulled into Pineapple Port and slowly made his way over the speedbumps to Charlotte’s house.

  “So I’m allowed in?” he asked as they stepped out of the car.

  “Yes. Though the decor hasn’t changed much, I’m warning you now.”

  “Don’t go changin’.”

  Charlotte opened the door and Abby rushed to do her meet and greet. Declan gave her a good head scratching and stepped inside. When he looked up Charlotte was staring at him, smiling.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing. How come you don’t have a dog? You seem to like them.”

  “Oh, I love dogs. Mine just died, two months ago. Arnie. He was originally my grandmother’s but she died when he was still pretty young. It’s still hard for me to think about getting another right now.”

  “Oh no! What kind was he?”

  Declan stood and retrieved his wallet from his back pocket. He pulled out a photo of a monkey-faced dog with large eyes.

  Charlotte grinned. “Such a cutie! Brussels Griffon?”

  “Yes! How did you know?”

  “I stitch them.”

  “What?”

  “I—I’ll explain in a bit. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Um, sure. Do you have a beer?”

  Charlotte nodded and moved towards the kitchen. Declan followed her, but stopped to study the black wall covered with chalk scribbles between the living room and the kitchen. He hadn’t noticed it last time, but then, there’d been some distractions.

  He touched it.

  Chalkboard paint.

  “I suppose a chalkboard wall doesn’t help make the place less dorm-like,” said Charlotte, opening the beers.

  “I guess it’s kinda hip,” he said. His gaze fell upon his own address scrawled on the wall. There was a loopy circle drawn around it.

  Is that a heart around my address?

  Declan glanced at Charlotte and then moved to take a place on the sofa. She joined him and handed him his beer. He tried hard not to stare at the stacks of books scattered around the room. The urge to find them a shelf made his face twitch.

  “So did you have more information?” he asked.

  Charlotte nodded slowly and took a sip from her beer. She looked uneasy. She’d been forthcoming, if not excited, to share other news with him so he couldn’t help but be intrigued about this new information.

  She took a deep breath and began.

  “Mariska, Darla and I put your case through the Dateline filter…”

  “The Dateline filter?”

  “Do you watch Dateline?”

  “No. I mean, yes, sometimes. Here and there.”

  “If you watched any at all, you’ll know nine times out of ten it’s the husband.”

  “I think I do recall that trend.”

  “There has to be a motive, and it is always money, sex, drugs or all of the above.”

  “Sure. Or rock and roll, but that’s less common.”

  Charlotte smiled. “Ha. Right. So anyway, following those general guidelines, the husband theory is out, because your father was already dead.”

  “Right…”

  “So that takes us to the boyfriend.”

  “George.”

  “Right, maybe, but what if it wasn’t George?”

  “They found love letters…”

  “But his guns didn’t match the ballistics.”

  “He probably ditched the gun he used. I mean, that only makes sense. Don’t they always throw the gun in a pond, too?”

  “Yes… But let’s say for the sake of argument, George is cleared.”

  “Is he? Is that what you have to tell me?”

  “No. I know it’s hard for you to understand…but we’ve all known George for years. Decades. He’s not the killing type.”

  “Did you think he was the having-an-affair-with-his-young-secretary type?”

  “No. Fair point. But if you knew his wife…let’s just say that is easier to imagine.”

  Declan took a sip of his beer. He felt agitated. He had a hard time grappling with the fact that George’s guns had come back clean. In his mind, George had to be the killer, but he could see the wheels of justice were going to roll slowly. He wanted this all behind him. He wanted his mother’s killer found. Removing the most likely suspect from the list would mean little to no hope of identifying the killer, and he didn’t want to think about that.

  “So where are you going with this?” he asked, trying his best not to take his simmering anxiety out on Charlotte.

  “We know George wasn’t her only boyfriend.”

  Declan’s hand stopped in mid-air, his beer inches from his lips. He lowered
the bottle.

  “You’re not trying to imply Seamus had something to do with this? Is that why we had to meet here? Or did you just need a ride home?”

  Charlotte blanched.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. You’re right. Tell me what you know.”

  “I…” Charlotte fidgeted and rubbed her right temple with her fingers. “Seamus had motive on every level. He was your mother’s boyfriend. He was no doubt jealous of the other man who may or may not have been George. If he adopted you after her death, he stood to receive her insurance money.”

  Declan put down his beer.

  “You’re kidding, right? He’s a cop.”

  “Cops make mistakes. And he wasn’t a cop yet. Maybe that’s why he became one, to do good to make up for—”

  Declan stood. “Or maybe he became a cop to help people in situations like he found himself in when his girlfriend went missing.”

  “That could very well be!” Charlotte also stood. “And I’m not saying Seamus did it, I’m just saying it isn’t totally out of the realm of possibility! Maybe just keep it in mind—”

  “Seriously? You know how long you’ve known George? Well, I’ve known Seamus longer than that. He didn’t do it.”

  “He probably didn’t! It’s just—”

  “It’s just what?”

  “He’s dating my friend Jackie…”

  “And you’re afraid he’s going to kill her?”

  “I—” Charlotte clenched a fist. “I don’t know! But it seems irresponsible to not mention it to her…”

  Declan grit his teeth and whirled towards the door. “You’re way off base with this one. I’ve got to go.”

  “Declan, please, I didn’t mean to upset you. I want to find your mother’s killer as—”

  Declan paused, his hand resting on the doorknob. His turned to Charlotte.

  “As much as I do? No, Charlotte, I don’t think you do.”

  “I’m sorry, that was a stupid thing to say. I—”

  Declan opened the door. He took one step onto the landing and nearly crashed into a man waking up the short flight of cement steps. The sandy-haired man juggled a bottle of liquor, nearly dropping it to the ground. Declan glared at him and then looked at bottle. It was Butterscotch Schnapps.

  Brad.

  “Your buttery nipple is here!” he called out, pushing past the man.

  “What the hell, dude,” said Brad, grabbing the railing to steady himself as Declan passed.

  Declan saw Charlotte arrive at the doorway as he flopped into his car and turned the ignition. She wrestled to lock the dog inside and stood on the porch, staring at him. He put the car in reverse and then paused, wondering if it was safe to leave her with the creep who had been so rude to her earlier. He stared at Brad. Brad was staring at Charlotte, his eyes sweeping down her body. Brad turned and looked at him.

  Did he just smirk at me?

  “Dammit!” he said, punching the steering wheel with the side of his fist. He slammed the car back into park and got out.

  “You!” he said pointing at Brad. “Go. Get. Now.”

  “Who the hell are you?” asked Brad, his attention now focused on Declan. “I think that’s up to her,” he added, throwing a free thumb in Charlotte’s direction.

  “Go,” said Charlotte.

  “Hey, easy girl. I was just trying to say sorry things didn’t work out so smoothly today,” said Brad. “I didn’t know your boyfriend was here. But you’re obviously over him. Why don’t we just go inside and let everyone cool off.”

  Brad moved as if to enter the house and Charlotte thrust her arm across the doorway to block him. His lip snarled.

  Declan saw white. He strode forward and grabbed Brad by his shirt, yanking him from the stairs and pulling him to the driveway. He wanted to put himself between Brad and Charlotte.

  “Go! Before I turn that bottle into a butterscotch enema.”

  Brad caught his balance against the house. He stared angrily at Declan, but after sizing him up, he shook his head and scoffed.

  “Screw you both,” he spat, turning to walk away. As he moved, he threw the bottle of schnapps and it exploded to the ground, splashing his Teva sandals with sticky liquid.

  Declan took a few steps towards Brad and the man picked up pace, pausing only to flash his middle finger from the middle of the road.

  Declan looked at the sweet pool of liquor at his feet.

  “Sorry about that,” he said.

  “A butterscotch enema?” asked Charlotte.

  Declan began to smile and then squelched it. He couldn’t stop thinking about what she had suggested.

  How well did he know Seamus?

  “You good?” he asked. “Do you want help with the glass?”

  “I’m fine. But Declan, please—”

  He waved her off.

  “I have to go. Be careful. Leave the booze for now and go inside.”

  He returned to his car. He lowered the window and stuck out his head.

  “And lock your door,” he called to her.

  He pulled away as Charlotte stood on her small porch, her arms crossed against her chest, watching him go.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Declan slammed the door to his house a little too loudly. Seamus popped his head around the corner.

  “You okay? Starting to think entering a house like a grizzly bear on meth is your signature entrance.”

  Declan sighed.

  “I’m fine.”

  Seamus disappeared again in the direction of the guest room. Declan stared where his uncle’s head had been for a full minute, and then followed him to the back of the house. He looked into Seamus’ room and found him packing towels into a small gym bag. Next to the bag was a dingy pair of tighty-whities underwear, an empty sports bottle, black lifting gloves and a .38 special revolver. Declan’s gaze settled on the revolver, though he could feel the dingy underwear screaming for attention.

  “I’m not sure what to mention first,” he said. “That those underwear should be burned or that there is a revolver on your bed.”

  “They’re my lucky underwear,” said Seamus, picking them up and thrusting his finger through a hole in the cheek. “I was wearing them the day I was shot in the bum, instead of the spine or the head.” He wiggled his finger back and forth so Declan could appreciate the luckiness of the briefs.

  “Please don’t do that.”

  “And the gun,” said Seamus, pulling the underwear off his finger and picking up the revolver. “Is the gun I used to bring down the man who put the hole in the underwear.”

  Declan watched Seamus brandish the weapon, Charlotte’s voice echoing in his head.

  He’s the perfect suspect.

  The gun had a silver barrel and pearl handle.

  “That doesn’t look regulation.”

  “Oh, it isn’t. I brought it with me to Miami. Always kept it near. See this?”

  Seamus stepped forward and Declan took a half step back.

  “You afraid of guns?”

  “No. I— You just caught me off-guard.”

  Seamus shrugged and pointed just above the grip. “Look at the scrollwork there, see it?”

  “Looks like an ‘S.’”

  “It is! ‘S’ for Seamus! The moment I saw it at the pawnshop, I knew it was my gun.”

  “Was that before or after mom disappeared?”

  Seamus pulled his head back like a turtle and stared, his jaw set.

  “After. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  Declan shook his head. “It doesn’t. I don’t know. Everything comes back to her lately.”

  Seamus switched the gun to his left hand and patted him on the shoulder. “I know, boyo, this is all terrible. Hey, maybe sometime soon we can go to the range and do a little shooting. I’ll teach you a thing or two.”

  Seamus opened a drawer and put the gun inside.

  “So what’s with the bag?”

  “I’m going to go for an
evening swim with Jackie.”

  “Shouldn’t you take your lucky underwear?”

  “I don’t need luck when it comes to the ladies.”

  Seamus grinned and walked passed Declan, who followed him to the front door. Seamus tipped an invisible cap as he left.

  Declan traced his upper lip with the tip of his tongue, staring at the closed front door. He heard the sound of Seamus’ car roaring to life and saw it through the sidelight window as his uncle pulled away. He waited a moment longer, whirled, and pounded toward Seamus’ bedroom.

  Declan opened the drawer where Seamus had thrust his gun and was surprised to find it still there. It was so real. A tiny part of him thought the gun would disappear before he could get to it, as if it never existed.

  He reached to grab it and then stopped.

  Should I worry about fingerprints?

  The technicians would find Seamus’ prints all over it, of course. He’d just watched the man grip the handle. Prints weren’t the goal. Now that he knew Seamus had a gun, he could ask Sherriff Frank to test the ballistics against the bullet found with his mother’s bones. When it came back negative it wouldn’t prove his uncle’s innocence, but it might help.

  He thought about asking his uncle to submit it, voluntarily, but worried. What if he said no? How well did he really know the man? They’d only spoken a handful of times in fifteen years.

  What if Charlotte was right?

  She’d made a compelling argument. No, he hadn’t wanted to hear it, but it was a good argument nonetheless.

  Declan looked for something to use to pick up the weapon. He turned and spotted the graying underwear still on the bed.

  No.

  Choosing a tube sock nestled in the drawer beside the weapon; he gingerly lifted it, the weight driving home the reality of the situation. He carried it to the kitchen, where he dropped it into a gallon Ziploc bag. He grabbed a magazine off the table and slipped the bag between the pages, tucking the entire package under his arm he headed out the door.

  Twenty minutes later, Declan stood on Sheriff Frank’s doorstep. The gun, and any secrets it held, was out of his hands.

  His stomach roiled and he took a deep breath to calm his nerves. The guilt of handing his uncle’s gun to Frank paled only in comparison to his desperate need to find his mother’s killer. It was too late to second-guess his decision to turn in the weapon, but now the urge to confess to his uncle chewed at his guts like a hungry rat.