by Amy Vansant
Darla rocked back and forth in preparation to stand. “It’s the principle.”
Mariska agreed. “It’s how he went about it.”
“With confidence?”
Darla and Mariska both scoffed. “He was too good looking, that one,” added Darla between grunts as she stood. “Him and his fancy cowlick—”
“Got it. Well, you’ve given me my first leads, anyway. I know his name is Ryan Flannigan or O’Flanahan—”
“Or Callahan,” suggested Darla.
Charlotte grimaced. “So what you’re really saying is it could be anything Irish.”
Mariska nodded. “O’Callahan sounds right. He was from Boston.”
Charlotte nodded. “Shocker. I’ll check with Penny and see if she has records for where he moved. Thank you.”
She crossed the street for home, pausing when she heard Mariska calling.
“Do you think you should warn Gloria about Ryan?”
Charlotte turned. “Don’t you mean shouldn’t we warn him?”
Darla and Mariska cackled.
Chapter Six
“Whyja have to wear that shirt?”
Dallas took a step back and rubbed his knuckles.
Ryan Finnegan spat blood and peered down at his white tee, now splattered with red. Through the eye that hadn’t swollen shut, he could see his shirt said, Please?
The message had been for a woman he passed walking on the Riverwalk every day. She’d probably never see it now. Worse, he’d never know her response to the question he’d so painstakingly asked her by writing a word per day on his chest.
Ryan lifted his head. “It’s a long story.” He tried to smile but the act made his face hurt. On the upside, his shoulders had gone numb. They’d tied his hands behind his back, causing his shoulders to burn. Now, if asked, he’d have to say his right cheek hurt more than any of his other body parts. Dallas was a lefty.
“It’s just weird hittin’ a dude with Please? on his chest. I already feel weird about you bein’ so old.” Out of breath, Dallas collapsed onto a chair opposite Ryan’s.
Ryan guessed the boy was in his early twenties. Dallas looked like a lot of kids in Florida—impossibly thin, scruffy hair, drawers too big and held up by a thick belt, an apparent dentist phobia. Ryan called them “Espos” because they all looked like one of his son Craig’s friends growing up. His name had been Espo.
Ryan’s head swam. In his mind’s eye he could see Craig and Espo playing soccer in his backyard.
What kind of name is Espo, anyway? I never thought about it. Nickname, probably. Short for Esposito?
“Hey, you hear me?”
Ryan snapped back to the present to find Dallas slapping his knee in an attempt to draw his attention back to the beating already in progress.
“What’s that?” asked Ryan.
“I said, why don’t you tell me what you’ve been doin’ followin’ our guys so I can quit beatin’ on ya? You know this is just gonna get worse.”
“I told you. I only talk to the big man.”
Dallas sighed. “Sheeeet, Ryan. You’re too old for me to be doin’ this.”
“Agreed.”
“So why don’t ya talk?”
“I told you, I only talk to—”
Dallas waved him silent. “Yeah, yeah.” Dallas turned his head and snorted in a way that led Ryan to believe the boy had something seriously wrong with his sinuses. Dallas spat something and fished in his pocket for a cigarette.
“Those cigarettes are going to kill you.”
Dallas grinned. “You’re funny, tellin’ me I’m gonna die. You’re the one tied to a chair.”
He put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it as Ryan eyed the tattoos on the boy’s knuckles with his one good eye.
Dallas caught him staring. He stood, dropped the lighter back into the pocket of his baggy pants and held up his fists so Ryan could read the ink on the back of his knuckles. Each digit displayed a single letter, eight in total. The four letters on each hand created two words.
Ryan read the words aloud. “Your Dead.”
Dallas nodded. “See? That’s what I’m sayin’”
Ryan’s brow knit, with some accompanying pain around his right eye socket. “What about my dead?”
“Your what?”
“Your knuckles are inquiring about my dead. If you’re implying I’m about to be dead, it’s Y-O-U apostrophe R-E, Dead. You need two more fingers on your right hand if you want to spell it right.”
Dallas reversed his fists to read his knuckles, scowling before lowering his hands to his sides. “I know. It just didn’t fit that way. I only got four fingers on each hand. If you don’t count thumbs.”
“Mm hm.”
Dallas’s eyes narrowed and he poked a finger in Ryan’s direction. “You know if you don’t talk soon, they’re gonna bring in the woman to deal with you.”
Ryan felt a cold chill run down his spine. He’d spent a lot of time making small talk with the boys on the corners over the last week. One of their favorite stories revolved around a female killer. Rumor had it their boss’s business had recently tripled thanks to an assassin he’d brought in to wipe out the competition.
“The Rubia? She’s real?”
Dallas nodded. “I think I saw her once.”
Ryan recalled the most terrifying rumor he’d heard. A man had opened his front door to find a Christmas wreath made of human fingers hanging on his door, each arranged neatly, side by side in a circle. The rings on the fingers served both to identify the digits’ owners and add a sparkly, festive air.
The woman had made the wreath with what was left of the man’s underbosses.
He had to ask. “What about the wreath?”
Dallas whistled. “Yep. I heard that one. Saw a photo, too. Freakin’ crazy. That lady is no joke.”
Ryan swallowed, the metallic taste of his own blood heavy on his tongue.
In hindsight, my plan may have been ill-advised.
He heard the sound of heels clicking in the hallway outside the room and the door opened. A blonde woman poked her head inside.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
Ryan watched the boy pale. “The guy Louis wanted me to get for him.”
The woman’s gaze settled on Ryan.
She looked familiar. It was hard to tell through his swollen eye, but there was definitely something familiar about her. He’d seen her before.
He could tell who Dallas thought she was.
He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a flash of recognition ripple across her expression, and then The Rubia was gone.
Chapter Seven
Charlotte held her dish of corn casserole high and away from Abby’s flaring nose as she tucked it into her fridge. The soft-coated Wheaton terrier liked corn casserole as much as she did and precautions had to be made.
She knew she wasn’t much better than the dog at restraint, and made a mental note to devise an eating plan—how much corn heaven she’d allow herself to devour per day.
Maybe I can draw a grid on the bowl with pretzel sticks and limit myself to one quadrant per day...
Mmm. Strips.
I could use bacon.
Grabbing Abby’s leash from the hook by the door, Charlotte took the dog for a bathroom break in order to put some distance between herself and the casserole. While planning forced moderation, she’d managed to mentally add bacon to the cholesterol nightmare already taunting her. Time to run away before she dropped her face into the bowl like it was a feedbag.
It was late November and a cool seventy-five degrees—nice temperature in which to walk the dog and not have to wring sweat from her clothes upon her return. Even Abby appeared to have an extra spring in her step.
A few streets down from her own, Charlotte heard shouting and spotted a man arguing with a woman in front of a recently vacated home. It didn’t take long to identify the arguers. Penny, Pineapple Port’s owner, raised her bony arm in the air to punctuate a point. Penny’s l
ong-suffering community foreman, Roberto, raised his hands in response, marching toward his truck, reeling off his own complaints in Spanish. Hopping in the community’s maintenance truck, he slammed the door and drove off with a screech of tires.
“You’ll never work here again!” Penny shrieked after him.
“Trouble?”
Penny turned, her hand on her chest.
“Charlotte! Why would you sneak up on me like that? You could have scared me to death.”
“I didn’t sneak up on you. You just didn’t hear me with all the screaming going on.”
Penny motioned to a second truck parked in the driveway. “Lazy man. He filled the truck for me and then refused to drive it to the pawn shop.”
Charlotte perked. “Declan’s pawn shop?”
“Hock o’Bell.”
“Right. That’s Declan’s.”
“Whatever.”
Charlotte scowled. “Declan. My boyfriend. You’ve met him like a dozen times.”
Penny waved the comment away with the flick of a skeletal wrist. “I can’t drive this truck. It’s too big.”
Charlotte eyed the open-bed pickup. It was smaller than Penny’s SUV, but she knew that argument would get her nowhere. “Why didn’t you have Declan come pick it up?”
“He wanted to charge me a hundred dollars.”
“How much did Roberto charge you?”
“Charge me? Nothing. He works for me.” She scoffed and stared in the direction Roberto had sped. “Used to work for me.”
If her beady eyes had lasers, Roberto’s truck would have exploded.
Charlotte tried not to laugh. Penny threatened to fire Roberto on a daily basis. She was about to offer her goodbyes and continue her walk when the amount of furniture in the bed of the second truck still sitting in the driveway drew her attention.
“Did you say Roberto moved all that?”
Penny nodded. “It took him forever.”
“By himself?”
“I was here to supervise. Up until he said he had to have lunch.” She waggled her index and middle fingers like twitchy bunny ears to enact air quotes around the word lunch, as if an afternoon meal was a concept Roberto had made up to annoy her.
“Right. Tell you what...” Charlotte slowed, worried she was about to make a mistake. She understood Penny would take advantage of any kindness offered, but she also knew asking for a favor would be easier if Penny felt as if she’d won something in the deal.
“I’ll drive it to Declan’s.”
Penny hoisted an eyebrow. “That’s lovely, but I need it taken to the Hock o’Bell.”
“That is Declan’s.”
“Hm. If you say so.”
Penny turned to leave and Charlotte reached out to touch her arm. It reminded her of handling a turkey wing on Thanksgiving.
“Wait, I need some information from you first.”
Penny felt the pocket of her shorts. “Right. I have the address of the pawn shop written down here somewhere—”
“I know the address.”
“Are you sure?”
Charlotte took a deep breath. “Declan is my boyfriend.”
Penny sniffed. “I hope the owner of that shop pays your boyfriend well. Charging people a hundred dollars to pick up a few things—”
“A few things? That truck looks like a pioneer family of ten is about to make its way West. And the owner is my boyfriend. Declan is the owner...” Charlotte sighed, disappointed in herself for trying. “You know what? Never mind.”
Penny didn’t seem to hear. “It’s mostly junk. Man who lived here had no taste at all. No one buys that stuff anymore, but he left it behind like a lazy bones and I figured I deserve to make a few dollars off it.”
Charlotte squinted one eye. “Left it behind? Didn’t the man who lived there die?”
Penny scrubbed the roof of her orbital cavities with her eyes, back and forth, until Charlotte worried the irises would never drop back into place again. She was like a broken slot machine, caught between symbols. “Death doesn’t mean you can just leave your crappy furniture all over the place. He could at least have the courtesy to have responsible family to clean out his hovel.”
“Should you be calling the houses you built hovels?”
Penny ignored the question and continued. “I got lucky though. That pawn store fellow is paying me too much for this trash. Idiot.”
Charlotte rubbed the bridge of her nose in an attempt to calm herself. She’d almost forgotten the point of this painful interaction was to plumb Penny for information.
Time to refocus.
“I need to know about a man who used to live here.”
“You already said it. He died. Fell over dead at the bowling alley. Thank goodness he wasn’t in our weight room or—”
“Not the man who rented this house. I’m looking for someone who used to live in Pineapple Port maybe six or seven years ago. He’d be in his early sixties now. Handsome, from what I’ve been told. Bit of a ladies’ man. Ryan Flannigan? Or Callahan—”
“Finnegan.”
“You remember him?”
“Certainly. I remember everything.”
Charlotte grimaced. Right. Except who Declan is.
“Do you know where Mr. Finnegan moved?”
Penny nodded. “That big tower out on the beach. The white one that looks like a cheap wedding cake.”
“Do you remember the address? His apartment number?”
“No. We’re not pen pals or anything. I remember the building though because I’d tried to get George to buy us a place there when they first built them and he wouldn’t have it. Worth four times as much now. We could have made a killing. That man never listens to me.”
“But you’re sure that’s where he moved?”
“Absolutely.”
“Great. Okay. I’m going to take Abby home and then I’ll come back and take the truck to Declan.”
“I need you to take it to the pawn shop.”
“Right. My bad.”
“Wonderful. Thank you.” Penny turned and held up a hand to wave goodbye. “Don’t forget to pack up the stuff on the porch.”
Charlotte’s attention snapped to the porch where she could see more knick-knacks piled high.
“Wait, what?”
“Thank you!” Penny called over her shoulder and turned the corner without another sound.
Chapter Eight
The bell in Declan’s shop rang as Charlotte entered.
“I have a truck of stuff from Penny out here,” she announced, wiping her brow. Sweat of shame glistened on her forearm. Packing the rest of Penny’s junk into the truck had taken nearly an hour. Once again she’d allowed Penny to abuse her naturally helpful nature.
Fool me once, shame on you, fool me a hundred and eighty thousand times...
Declan’s employee, Blade, turned and grinned at her from beneath his impressive, droopy mustache. Blade was an enormous man with a shadowy history and a penchant for wearing shirts featuring one kind of weapon or another. Though he appeared menacing, he was a teddy bear of a giant and the best salesman Declan had ever hired, much to Declan’s chagrin.
“Let me help you with that, Miss Charlotte,” said Blade, lumbering toward the door.
“I appreciate it.”
Declan appeared from the back office, eyes widening when he spotted her. “Hey, what are you doing here?”
Charlotte smiled. “I missed you, too.”
He gave her a peck on the cheek. “I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know. Penny duped me into bringing you a truck full of furniture.”
Declan eyed her haul through the front windows. “Oh, right. I’m going to make a killing on that stuff. I tried to tell Penny she wasn’t asking enough for it, but she was so determined to get her price I had to give it to her.”
Charlotte chuckled. That Penny wasn’t getting the deal she thought she was made her feel warm and fuzzy inside.
“
Do you want to go to the beach? I need to see if someone lives out there and we can use it as an excuse to sit on the sand for a bit.”
“Is this for a job?”
She nodded, finding it hard to squelch her joy at being employed as an official private detective. “Possible missing person. Probably nothing but I need to go check his last known residence.”
“You sound so official.”
“I know. Don’t I?”
“You want to go now?”
“Now would be good if you can swing it.”
He nodded. “I can leave Blade in charge.”
Blade pushed open the front door with his behind, toting a large table held pressed against his chest. The furniture seemed too large for a human to carry, but Blade carted it in and flipped it to its feet like it was made of Styrofoam.
Declan stared. “Blade, I’m going to go out for a few hours if you could hold down the fort?”
“Fort?”
“The store. Watch the store.”
Blade nodded. “Understood. But I wouldn’t call this place a fort. Multiple sources of entry. Hard to seal and defend. The glass in the front alone...”
Blade trailed off, shaking his head grimly as he surveyed the windows. Charlotte found herself staring at glass, imagining a horde of zombies spilling through like sewer rats.
Declan opened his mouth and then shut it again. He turned his attention to Charlotte. “Ready. Do you have what you need for the beach?”
Charlotte nodded. “Yep, brought it with me. We can swing by your place on the way so you can grab some trunks.”
They bade farewell to Blade and took Declan’s car to his home, not far from Pineapple Port. His Uncle Seamus stood outside, talking loudly on the phone.
“No. No, it’s gonna be rosy. You’ll be fine. I’ll be there in a bit. Right. Bye.” Seamus dropped the phone from his ear as they approached. “Hail, young lovers. What are you up to on this fine morn?”
Declan’s gaze dropped to Seamus’s boxer shorts—the only stitch of clothing the man wore. “It’s almost noon, Seamus. Did you just wake up?”
“Maybe.”
“Didn’t we talk about you roaming around in front of my neighbors in your boxers?”