by Amy Vansant
Darla turned back to her painting preparations. “Suit yourself. It’s turning into quite a diorama of death down there.”
Charlotte jogged the chunk downstairs and slipped it under the crystal lid of the butter dish before returning upstairs to change. As she passed Darla’s room on the way to Declan’s, Darla called out to her.
“Leave your bags there for now unless they’re in Declan’s way.”
Charlotte stopped, pirouetted and walked back to Darla’s door.
“What’s that?”
Darla looked up and blew a chunk of hair out of her eyes. “I said when you get changed, leave your luggage in Declan’s room for now. So we don’t have to paint around it.”
Charlotte hooked her mouth to the side. “Why would I bring my luggage here?”
“Because we’re bunk mates. Why would you leave your clothes in his room? You don’t want to have to knock on his door every time you need to change.”
Charlotte scowled. “Who said I was sleeping in here with you?”
Darla put the first stroke of robin’s egg blue on the wall. “Declan. He tried to bring your luggage in here, but I sent him away.”
Scowling, Charlotte continued to the room she thought she was sharing with Declan.
“So you kicked me out?”
Declan crouched on the floor, laying newspaper for painting. He looked up; and, upon seeing her expression, his smile fell.
“Uh oh.”
“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t worry what everyone thought while we were here?”
“Carolina made it clear she was very interested to know more about the sleeping arrangements and I broke. Sorry.”
Charlotte gestured to the colorfully painted bunk beds Declan had pushed into the center of the room. “They’re children’s beds in here. What kind of horn-dogs does she think we are?”
Declan shrugged.
Charlotte sighed. “Now I have to share a bed with Darla and Turbo. They both snore like muscle cars.” Charlotte put her hands on her hips, surveying Declan’s painting preparations. “I don’t know if we can get these rooms done today.”
“It’ll be tight. We spent too much time rummaging around for body parts.”
Charlotte perked. “Oh, I almost forgot. Speaking of body parts, I found another.”
“You did? Another finger?”
“No. Unidentifiable blob. Darla thinks that it’s turkey Turbo barfed. I threw it in the butter-coffin just in case.”
“Ugh.” Declan grabbed a brush and handed it to Charlotte. “Ready?”
“Oh no, mister. I came to change for painting, but I’m not doing your room.”
“My room? Oh. I get it. You’re helping Darla.”
“Yep.”
He offered her a lopsided grin. “I guess I deserve that.”
She nodded. “You deserve worse. I’m going to record Darla and Turbo snoring and play it for you. Then you’ll really understand what you’ve done to me.”
Chapter Nine
Seamus’ room was the size of a walk-in closet, so it didn't take him long to paint it the festive pink that had been chosen for him. When he finished, he strolled to the to-do list, which hung pinned to the side of the refrigerator by a pizza delivery magnet.
His plan was to finish all his chores in the first day then take the rest of vacation off.
The to-do list was printed out on a sheet of white paper in an unnecessarily large font.
DAY ONE:
Everyone paints their own room.
Seamus smiled. Check!
DAY TWO:
Paint living areas.
He grimaced. More painting. But he’d heard Mariska complaining about a slow sink. He could tackle that. No one else would.
Chuck and Bob had sucked him into a conversation where he’d felt compelled to brag about being a Jack-of-all-trades. It had been a trap. As soon as the boast left his lips, he’d realized his mistake. The two old men pounced, declaring they had no skills at all. In that way, they’d tricked him into taking responsibility for every chore that required any skill. Metaphorically, they’d Tom-Sawyer’d him into painting their fence.
Seamus sighed and hoped for the best. A slow drain could be as easy as pouring some drain cleaner or as hard as dismantling all the pipes.
Darla entered the kitchen and grabbed a Coke from the corner of the fridge they’d declared meat-free. She had light blue paint on her nose, cheeks and hair.
“Done painting?” she asked.
Seamus nodded and tapped the list. “Goin’ to knock out this slow drain.”
Darla nodded and headed back upstairs. “Brenda said they already tried Draino, so that ain’t it.”
Seamus hung his head.
It’s never easy.
In an attempt to delay crawling beneath the sink, he spent a minute staring through the sliding doors that led to the back porch. The winds had picked up and the ocean had crept closer to the house than he’d imagined it could. The long beach they’d driven to reach the house had disappeared, replaced by churning water.
They were as stranded as if they were on an island.
He shrugged.
Oh well. I love steak.
Seamus walked across the kitchen to test the drain. Turning on the water, he watched with dismay as the sink filled. Only the occasional bubble rose from the drain to imply a trickle might be escaping down the pipe.
So much for hoping it had fixed itself.
He opened the doors under the sink and removed cleaning products and potatoes to make room for his thick frame. Once the cabinet was clear, he rolled downstairs to the utility room to find the tools he needed. The house’s collection of old paint cans, wrenches, hammers, screwdrivers and other accessories was impressive. The wall had a peg board with the shapes of tools traced on it. Most had tools occupying the spaces, but for what looked like a hacksaw and a pair of pliers.
Luckily, the plumber’s wrench was in its spot.
Grabbing a plastic store bag he found wadded in the corner of the room, Seamus filled it with the tools he needed and returned to the kitchen to squeeze himself under the sink. Grunting as he worked to wrench apart the pipe, he didn’t hear that someone had entered the kitchen until they yelped.
“Ooh!”
The sound made Seamus jump and slam his skull into the underside of the sink.
“Oof!”
He slid out, hand on his head, eyes squinted in pain.
Mariska stood at the edge of the kitchen, her own eyes squinted in empathetic pain, her hand on her head.
“You scared me. I didn’t expect to see you there,” she said.
“Who did you think I was?”
“I don’t know. A burglar?”
He rubbed his head, his voice rising an octave. “What kind of burglar breaks into a house and crawls under the sink?”
“Don’t they steal copper pipes?”
Seamus grimaced. She had a point.
There was a clatter as the P-trap fell from the pipe he’d been working and dropped to the bottom of the cabinet.
Seamus glanced at the P-trap and a flash of yellow caught his eye. Tucked in a clump of greasy mess, bright gold gleamed against the muck that had dislodged from the pipe when it fell.
Gold!
He leaned back into the cabinet, expecting to find a ring or other piece of jewelry.
Finders keepers, losers—
His grin dropped as fast as it had appeared. He glanced at Mariska to see if she’d noticed what he’d pulled from the pipe.
She was busy reading the to-do list.
Shimmying from the cabinet, he stood, closing the cabinet doors behind him.
“So, can I help you with anything?” he asked Mariska.
Mariska dismissed him with a wave. “Oh don’t let me stop you, I just wanted a bottle of water.” She opened the refrigerator and studied its contents for some time.
“Let me guess. Carolina didn’t buy water?”
“No. Guess it’s cola
for me,” Mariska grabbed a soda and with a little wave, disappeared in the direction of the stairs.
Seamus peered around the corner to watch her mount the stairs, and then scurried back to the sink and flung open the door. Fumbling for a flashlight, he shined it on the clump of things that had tumbled out of the P-trap.
He’d seen gold, but it wasn’t jewelry. What he’d thought was treasure turned out to be a tooth filling, still attached to the tooth.
And a good chunk of gum tissue.
Pulling his penknife from his pocket, Seamus poked through the glob of hair and grease. The disgusting mess inspired unwelcomed flashbacks of his time in Miami, where he’d bartered part of his rent performing handyman tasks. He’d needed spare cash often enough that he’d become the unofficial super of his building. The things he’d pulled from drains over the years ranged from disgusting to repulsive, but he’d never found a tooth.
The amount of hair and grease in the drain, in combination with the tooth...
Seamus pushed the tooth aside and scooped the rest of the gunk into the bag he’d used as a makeshift tool box. He balled it up and threw it in the back of a drawer that held nothing but obscure kitchen utensils. He didn’t want to lose what could be valuable evidence, but he also didn’t want anyone bumping into the gunk.
He rooted through the other drawers until he found a sandwich bag and then returned his attention to the tooth beneath the sink.
Careful to avoid the gum tissue, he plucked the molar from the floor of the cabinet and dropped it in the sandwich bag before carrying it upstairs to Declan’s room.
“Hey.”
In mid-paint stroke, Declan turned.
“Hey. Done your room?”
“A while now. It’s tiny.”
“I thought you were being magnanimous taking the small room, but you knew you’d have to paint it. I should have known there was a method to your madness.”
Seamus flashed him a quick smile to let him know his deduction was correct. “Where’s Charlotte?”
“Helping Darla.”
“What’s up?” said a voice behind Seamus. Charlotte had appeared as if invoked. “My ears were burning.”
Seamus checked down the hall and ushered her into Declan’s room. She entered and he shut the door behind her.
“Ooh, this is very mysterious,” she said.
He raised his hand, the bag pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
Standing several feet away, Declan and Charlotte’s necks both telescoped toward the bag.
“What’s that?” asked Declan.
Charlotte retracted her head with a gasp. “A tooth. Where did you find it?”
“In the sink trap.”
She leaned closer. “Is that gum attached to it?”
Seamus nodded. “Whoever lost this one didn’t lose it easily.”
“Oh, I see now,” muttered Declan. He rested his roller in the paint tray and moved in to inspect Seamus’ trophy. “That is gross.”
Charlotte shook her head. “A finger, a hunk of meat, a tooth...”
Seamus scowled. “A hunk of meat?”
“I found a chunk of flesh under the bed in Darla’s—” She shot Declan a scowl. “I mean in my room.”
“Human?” asked Seamus.
“Darla thinks it’s a hunk of turkey Turbo barfed up, but I don’t know. I put it with the finger. Did you find anything else?”
Seamus pushed the bag into his pocket. “Hair, fat, grease. The usual. Except when you’ve already found larger chunks of people, you have to wonder if someone didn’t dismember a body in the sink.”
Charlotte’s eyes grew wide. “Yikes. It might be time to call the police.”
Seamus shook his head. “Tide’s eaten the beach. We’re stuck here and no one is coming in. Even if you raise someone on the phone, they can’t get here until the water recedes.”
Declan rubbed his face with his hand. “So it’s official. We are stuck in a murder house.” He lowered his hand, his face now smeared with paint.
Seamus smiled at Charlotte. “Life still has its precious moments.”
She giggled.
Declan scowled, looking from one of them to the other. “What?”
Chapter Ten
They managed to make it to dark without finding more people-chunks.
Charlotte walked into her newly assigned bedroom after brushing her teeth, her mind still searching for a logical excuse for what they’d found. Things were either very coincidental—an unbelievably realistic prank finger, a hunk of turkey and an accident that resulted in the loss of a tooth—or, things were horrific; someone had chopped a victim into bits and failed to account for all the parts.
The sight of her bed raised more concerns.
First:
Will a killer be lurking nearby as we sleep tonight?
She shivered at the thought of it.
And second:
Why is Darla on my side of the bed?
She tapped Darla’s toe. “You took my side of the bed. You said you liked the right side.”
Darla dropped her book into her lap. “My side was taken.”
At the sound of Darla’s voice, Charlotte heard the thump of a dog’s tail. The blankets beside Darla bobbed up and down in time with the beat. Moving to that side of the bed, Charlotte pulled back the sheets to reveal Turbo happily staring up at her, tail still thrumming as he awaited the verdict on whether or not he’d be asked to move.
Charlotte sighed. How can I ask those eyes to move?
“I couldn’t even take a quick nap today—dang dogs seem obsessed with this room. Hit the light, I’m done reading,” said Darla, setting the book on the bedside table.
Charlotte hit the switch and felt her way back to the bed, gently nudging Turbo until she found space to lie down. A moment later, Abby jumped into the bed and flopped at her feet, shoving against her legs with all her weight. Charlotte twisted to snake her body between the two dogs. It wouldn’t be the first time she slept awkwardly wrapped around dogs that she couldn’t bear to kick out of bed.
Outside, the storm raged, wind howling.
Between the sound of the rain beating against her window and her whirring mind, Charlotte was sure she’d never fall asleep.
Too much to think about...too much...
She awoke with a start.
Charlotte sat up in bed and glanced at the glowing red digits on the bedside table clock. It was 6:53 a.m. At home she would have been awake for hours, but they’d stayed up late painting. Guess she fell asleep after all.
“What was that?” mumbled Darla.
Charlotte tried to piece together what had woken her. She didn’t have to think for long.
The dogs were barking.
She heard the sound of paws on the stairs and Abby appeared. Turbo joined a moment later, both of them panting excitedly. Bringing up the rear, Izzy grunted her way into the room, her enormous ears swiveling like satellite dishes.
Darla sat up. “Is that the dogs? I swear, Turbo never barks and now that’s twice in as many days.”
“Abby must be a bad influence.”
Charlotte rose, happy she’d had the foresight to sleep in her sweatpants and a tee. Outside, she could hear the storm still howling.
Charlotte shuffled to the dogs and scratched Abby’s chin.
“What’s up, girl?”
The early morning light glowed through their window and she noticed something white on the floor beside the dogs. She flicked on the light.
The stairs were littered with white paw prints.
Paint.
“They ran through paint somewhere. There are paw prints everywhere.” The break in Charlotte’s voice conveyed the weight of the hours of cleaning it would take to fix the mess. If fixing was even possible. There were no carpets in the house, but there were rugs and furniture. Her shoulders slumped at the thought of the mess she couldn’t yet see.
Darla clambered out of bed and stood in her nightgown, jaw hanging as she st
ared at the painted paw prints, both big and small. Somehow, at least two of the dogs had run through the paint.
“Oh no,” she moaned.
Darla snatched Turbo into her arms and marched her to the bathroom. Charlotte grabbed the other two by the collars and dragged them after her. Both dogs sensed something was up and planted their feet, but on the polished wood floors they slid toward their fate.
Charlotte and Darla rinsed paws in the bathtub and locked the cranky dogs in the tiled room.
It was time to find the epicenter of the disaster.
They found Declan and Seamus staring at them from the bottom of the stairs.
“There are paw prints everywhere,” said Declan.
“No kidding,” said Charlotte, rolling her eyes.
“I see you knew that.”
“We just finished cleaning the little monsters’ paws,” said Darla.
Seamus rubbed his head and shuffled back upstairs towards his room. “You seem to have things well in hand.”
“I found some rags under the sink,” said Darla, heading down.
“I’ll help,” said Declan, taking one.
“Darla, go back to bed. I’ve got this,” said Charlotte.
Darla clucked her tongue. “Oh honey, this is a disaster.”
“I’ll get to it before it dries. It’s no problem. You can’t be crawling around on your hands and knees.”
Darla made some attempt to argue before heading back upstairs. “I might need another half an hour.”
Rag in hand, Charlotte wiped backwards down the stairs from her bedroom. Declan started ahead of her, and they skipped over each other’s progress until they had worked their way two stories down to the scene of the crime—the lower-level utility room.
A tray of paint sat against the far wall.
“Who painted this room?” asked Charlotte.
“I think that was Bob. He and Mariska had a difference of opinion on how to paint their room, so he took this one.”
Charlotte scowled at the nexus of the mess. The shallow tray of white paint had been flipped and a small pool of paint bled from underneath it. A riot of paw prints led in every direction.