Pineapple Pack II

by Amy Vansant

  She hadn’t been expecting a guest, so she poured herself what was left and pretended her mug was full.

  Frank pulled a blue file folder from the envelope, spreading papers across her table top.

  A photo of a purplish, naked man lying on a slab caught her eye.

  Frank grimaced and moved papers to cover Bucky’s naughtier bits. “I’m going to be cremated. I don’t want anyone taking naked photos of me.”

  “You should try harder not to be murdered then. This was an autopsy. He didn’t have a whole lot of say in the matter.”

  “Does that mean I have to be nicer to people?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt.”

  Frank grunted.

  “Did they say anything when they gave you this stuff?” asked Charlotte, skimming the medical examiner’s report.

  “Said there wasn’t anything that screamed murder. Turns out he was pretty drunk at the time. The only thing out of place was some odd bruising.”

  “This?” Charlotte asked, pointing to a circular bruise on Bucky’s upper chest.

  He nodded. “But who knows exactly how he fell or what he hit on the way down.”

  “Other than his mast.”

  “Other than that. That, we’re pretty sure about.”

  “So you don’t think it’s murder?”

  Frank shrugged. “Nothing to say it is. Nothing to say it isn’t.”

  “Do you mind if I keep this stuff a while? I might go through it a little more closely later in the day when my stomach is stronger.”

  “It’s all copies. Keep it.”

  Frank took another gulp of coffee and stood. “What are you doing today?”

  “I thought maybe I’d go check out the scene of the impaling. See if anything rings a bell for me.”

  “You want to check on that doll hospital first?”

  “Sure!” Charlotte heard the excitement in her own voice and felt a little ashamed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be so nosey. It’s probably nothing, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to make sure Mr. French is okay.”

  Frank nodded. “Nah, it’s a good instinct. Him being gone and his cat roaming the streets. It’s odd.”

  Charlotte gathered a few things and tucked her hair into a ball cap. She slipped her lock-picking case into the waistband of her shorts and, noting that her tee didn’t hide the bulge of the pack, changed into a larger, flouncier shirt. Frank didn’t approve when she fudged the law, but sometimes fudge made life much sweeter.

  She said goodbye to Abby and headed for Frank’s patrol car.

  Ten minutes later, the two of them stood peering into Mr. French’s store. Glass eyes stared back at them from every shelf. The hand of a large, brunette doll in a Victorian collared dress appeared to move, ever so slightly, and Charlotte stepped back.

  Trick of the light.

  Right?

  She shivered. “You say he lives over the shop? You couldn’t pay me enough.”

  Frank flicked the lipstick message, as if noting that it hadn’t been removed, and tried the door. “It’s locked.”

  “I’ll go around the back.” Charlotte jogged away before Frank could stop her. She knew Frank wasn’t allowed to enter a locked property without good cause but, well, technically she wasn’t allowed to either.

  Still, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  Charlotte tried the back door and found it locked as well. None of the windows wanted to budge. Pulling her black lock-picking case from her waistband, she removed the tools and got to work.

  It was Frank’s own wife, Darla, who’d taught her how to use the lock picks. Before she’d met Frank, Darla had a brief affair with the other side of the law.

  Charlotte loved that Darla had shared her skills. People often considered retirees weak, less fashionable shadows of their younger counterparts. But she knew the truth. Retirement communities were full of long, rich lives filled with secrets most youngsters couldn’t begin to imagine.

  The door lock opened with a satisfying pop! Charlotte tucked away her tools and entered.

  She felt like she’d arrived at the set of a zombie movie. Doll heads, legs, arms, eyes and torsos littered every counter top. She avoided looking at them and weaved her way to the front of the store.

  Don’t think about tiny hands grabbing your ankles. Do not.

  She opened the front door, heart racing, never so happy to see Frank’s grumpy puss.

  “The back door was open,” she said, flashing doe-eyes and a smile.

  He frowned. “Uh huh. You forget I’ve seen you and Darla working those locks.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  Frank stepped inside and flipped the light switch. “Did you see anything?”

  “I was trying really hard not to look. The workshop’s like Dollmageddon. I feel better now that you’re here.”

  They moved from room to room, finding nothing of interest other than a photo on the bedroom dresser of a mustachioed man Charlotte assumed was Mr. French. He had Blade’s new cat draped over his shoulder. There was no mistaking it was the same cat.

  They made their way back to the front and Frank opened the door to leave. “I can try and reach his family—”

  Frank cut short, peering down at a cat that stood on its hind legs, staring back up at him.

  “That is the smallest, hairiest person I’ve ever seen.”

  Charlotte pointed. “See? I told you. That freaky thing is the perfect pet for this crazy place.”

  The cat tottered around them, appearing to search the lower level for his missing owner. With great leaps he tackled the stairs toward the apartment above.

  “This is breaking my heart,” said Charlotte. She scooped up the cat and carted him around the small upstairs apartment, allowing him to inspect every inch. Feeling as if they’d looked everywhere, she sat him on the bed to be sure he was satisfied.

  The cat rolled back on its haunches, looking very unsatisfied.

  “Oh kitty. I don’t know where he is. We’ll find him.”

  Charlotte heard a bell outside, much like the one Declan had on his shop door. She glanced at the cracked bedroom window and the cat took the opportunity to dive off the bed and half-walk, half-roll down the stairs.

  “Hey!”

  Charlotte ran after the cat and, arriving on the lower level, grabbed Frank’s arm.

  “Where’d he go?”

  Frank stood in the entrance, staring down the street.

  “He just rolled past me like a little mall walker.”

  “And you let him go?”

  “He didn’t go far. He’s in front of the convenience store, wailing at the door.”

  As Frank said it, Charlotte heard the yowling. She passed Frank and walked to the cat as he fell silent. Picking him up, she entered the store.

  A thin, youngish man stood behind the counter, ringing up a customer. As she entered, the bell jingled and the cat whined his discordant song. The man’s attention shot to the cat, his expression twisting into an angry scowl.

  “You can’t come in here with that thing.”

  “Do you recognize him?”

  “Who?”

  “The cat.”

  The man scoffed and handed his customer change. He made it clear he had no intention of looking at her again.

  “Lady, I get enough crazy people in here. I don’t need this.”

  “So you’ve never seen this cat before?”

  Charlotte moved closer to the counter and the cat hissed, eyes locked on the man. She could feel its back legs scrambling against her, as if the cat wanted to launch himself at the cashier.

  The man stepped back and pretended to straighten his shelves. “I just hate cats. You wouldn’t bring a cat into a Seven-Eleven and you can’t bring them in here. Get out before I call the cops.”

  “No, please, let me,” she muttered, walking back to the entrance.

  She spotted Frank on the other side of the glass, about to enter. Holding aloft her palm, she asked him to
wait. Slowly, she eased open the door, careful not to shake the bell.

  The cat remained silent and Frank entered.

  “Is there a reason we had to do that in slow motion?” he asked.

  “Testing a theory. I think it’s the bell that the cat doesn’t like. This guy says he’s never seen this cat before, but the cat sure seems to know him.”

  Frank approached the counter. “You work here?”

  The man looked up, saw Frank’s uniform and snarled. “No. I just like to hang out behind the counter.”

  Frank glowered. “Maybe you didn’t see the badge. I’m going to try this again. Do you work here?”

  “Look, I not only work here, I own the place, and I’d really like to get back to work.”

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Cody Sobeck.”

  “Do you know the guy next door? Mr. French?”

  “The doll guy? We’ve said hi. We’re not best friends or anything. Why?”

  Frank pointed toward Charlotte, who remained at the entrance peering over the cat. “That’s his cat. He’s gone missing.”

  “The cat? He’s right there.”

  “French has gone missing.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but I don’t know anything about it. Hope kitty finds a new home.”

  Frank hooked his thumbs into his belt. “Oh? Are you so sure he’s not coming back to claim the cat?”

  “Come on. Don’t put words in my mouth, man. You know what I mean.”

  Frank craned his neck. “Mind if I look around?”

  “What? Look, no offense officer, but if you want to look around here, you get a warrant. I know my rights. I don’t know anything about your cat or the freak next door.”

  Frank grunted. “Uh huh. I’ll see you soon.”

  He motioned to Charlotte to follow him.

  “Don’t you think he’s up to something?” she asked, scurrying outside behind him.

  Frank sighed. “Maybe. But I do need to get a warrant to look around. And I have to hope an agitated cat is enough reason to get one.”

  “What are your chances of getting one?”

  “Pretty good. I still have a little pull around here. But it will have to wait until Monday. I’m not going to use up a favor over a suspicious cat on a weekend.”

  Charlotte sneezed. She was allergic to cats and as a rule avoided touching them, but this one was trying to tell her something. She could feel it.

  Blade padded down the street toward them wearing a fuzzy, brown robe snuggled around his large frame. “You found Johnnie.” He lifted the cat and placed it on his shoulder. “Where’d you find him? I opened the door and he shot right out.”

  “You couldn’t catch a two-legged cat?” asked Frank.

  “I was in my skivvies. I went to grab my robe and he was gone.”

  “You know anything about this guy?” asked Frank, pointing to the man inside the convenience store.

  Blade shrugged. “Just a guy. Not very friendly. Brags a lot about how he’s going to get a Seven-Eleven franchise.”

  “In that dinky, dirty shop? I doubt it,” muttered Charlotte.

  Frank shrugged. “I’ll check on him come Monday. Right now, I need to swing you back home and get to work.”

  “Sure,” said Charlotte, her mind already whirring with an idea.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Back home, Charlotte spent two hours poring over Bucky’s police report, beginning with her number one suspect, the person who was there when Bucky died. Shuffling through the paper work she found Bucky’s mistress’ name, Shawna Taylor, twenty-seven years old.

  Twenty-seven?

  Bucky was sixty-five.

  Ew.

  She jotted Shawna’s name and phone number on a piece of paper, along with a few other notes. It seemed to her that the police had done a thorough job in the short amount of time they’d had. Maybe the whole case would boil down to exactly what it looked like, a terrible accident.

  Telling Cora that her husband was pretty drunk at the time didn’t feel like crack investigating, especially if Tabby’s team proved foul play.

  She searched for Shawna’s name online and found her social media accounts. A relatively new picture of the girl with a young man caught her eye. Shawna and a man around her age had posed for a selfie beside a pile of clothes and what looked like athletic equipment. He wore a tee with FIU on the chest.

  A quick search for FIU lead Charlotte to Florida International University in Miami.

  Moving in! was the caption on the photo.

  Hm.

  Was that Shawna’s other boyfriend? Did he find out about Bucky and push him off the building in a fit of rage?

  Something to keep in mind.

  Finding nothing else suspicious in the police reports, she borrowed Mariska’s car and headed for the marina where Bucky had taken his swan dive.

  Sealock Marina was a large but quiet place. Apartments filled most of the building from which Bucky had tumbled. A few businesses occupied the lowest level.

  She spotted a man exiting a real estate office and, posing as an interested buyer, asked him about the building. He shared that the apartments were mostly second homes and vacation properties, empty most of the week. The businesses on the lower level weren’t the sort that drew much foot traffic. The marina itself came alive only on weekends.

  His description of the area meant it was reasonable that no one saw Bucky’s fall. It also made the marina the perfect spot to keep an apartment earmarked for marital extracurricular activity.

  The police had interviewed Shawna and released her, but she was next on Charlotte’s list. In a personal relationship with him and nearby when he died, Shawna might not have pushed Bucky, but she had to know something.

  Charlotte took the elevator to the twentieth floor and searched until she found a sign that read Roof Deck, pointing to a stairwell. Yellow police tape that had once blocked the entrance to the roof had come loose and fallen to the ground.

  It’s not official if it’s on the ground. She pushed on the door to head outside and found that roof deck was a bit of a grandiose term for what greeted her. It was really just a roof with the usual array of blacktop, pebbles and vent pipes.

  Walking to the railing, she peered down at the boats below until she found the spot where Bucky must have been standing before he fell. Bucky’s mast had been removed as part of body recovery, but his sailboat still bobbed in its oversized slip.

  She wondered if boat salesmen had to reveal deaths to potential buyers the way real estate agents had to by law. How would they even begin to explain where Bucky had died?

  The railing that encircled the roof seemed low; a cement wall with metal working embedded in the top, supporting a stainless steel handrail. It came to her ribcage, so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that a tall man like Bucky might have tumbled over. His blood alcohol level had been nearly point one five, and that, combined with any number of medications that an older man might be taking—anything was possible.

  She jiggled the rail to see if it was loose. It held fast. She noticed remnants of dust where the police had searched for fingerprints. She dragged her hand along the handrail, strolling down the edge of the building deep in thought. Ten feet from the spot she’d started, she noticed a black blob on the cement wall. Squatting to inspect it, she chalked it up as a bird dropping, until a terrible stench triggered something in her memory.

  Where do I know that smell?

  She leaned her nose closer to the blob and then jerked away, regretting the decision.

  I don’t know what they’re feeding the birds around here—

  Oh no.

  I hope it isn’t Bucky.

  She grimaced and took a few steps back. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she surveyed the area. The roof was like a vast empty plain, filled with nothing of interest to anyone but an air-conditioning repairman. She didn’t know what she’d expected. It wasn’t as if she thought she’d arriv
e to find a man wringing his hands like an old-time movie villain, cackling about how he’d pushed a man to his death. But she hated not finding anything. The case of Bucky’s demise was rapidly spiraling towards a dead end.

  She pirouetted in slow motion, searching for any sign of a camera that might catch a glimpse of the roof.

  Nothing.

  The marina apartment building stood taller than any of the others in the area, so without a drone or a satellite, it was unlikely any part of Bucky’s time on the roof had ended up on film.

  Time for Plan B.

  Charlotte pulled her note sheet and phone from her pocket and dialed the number written there.

  “Hello?” said a young woman’s voice.

  “Ms. Taylor?”

  “Yes?”

  “Hi. My name is Charlotte Morgan. I’m an investigator looking into Bucky Bloom’s death.”

  Charlotte cringed, both because she wasn’t officially an investigator and because she didn’t know what effect uttering Bucky’s name might have on Shawna. She might slam down the phone or scream or—

  Shawna gasped. “Do you think something happened? What can I do?”

  Or very pleasantly answer questions.

  “No, I didn’t mean to alarm you. I don’t think something happened—”

  “But you said you were an investigator?”

  “I’m just glancing over the case; double checking things.”

  Charlotte decided it would be unwise to mention any connection with Cora to Bucky’s mistress. She suspected mistresses disliked hearing about wives almost as much as wives disliked hearing about mistresses.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “No. Any way I can help...”

  “I know the police have already spoken with you, but it would help to confirm a few things. You were on the roof with Mr. Bloom the day he fell, correct?”

  “Yes. But not when he fell. I was, like, talking to him, and he told me to go get ready for dinner so that’s what I did. When I came back he was gone and I heard people downstairs making weird noises so I looked over the rail and there he was.”