by Amy Vansant
“Like underwear? How creepy!”
Charlotte squinted at Jackie. “What?”
“You said they demanded an unmentionable.”
“An unmentioned item. I meant they didn’t say specifically what they wanted, not underwear.”
“Oh. That makes more sense.”
“Uh, yeah… Nobody is asking for her underwear.”
“Stranger things have happened. Remember when that kid had a crush on Tippy and started leaving baseball cards on her doorstep?”
“He was, like, eight years old.”
“Still.”
“Anyway… My point is, she got the note when your flag was flying outside her door.”
“And you think they thought it was my house? You think they were demanding the box?”
“I don’t know. Seems odd that people are demanding things from two people in a week around here, and nothing has happened at Gloria’s since the flag came down…”
“But who gives directions using flags? That seems odd, too.”
“Maybe someone scoped out your house and then told someone else to put the note in the house with the parrot flag?”
“That was taking a risk in Florida.”
“No kidding. I don’t think I’ll tell Gloria to go home just yet, but let’s hang up your flag and see if that ends the attacks at Gloria’s.”
Charlotte opened the door and strained to hang the drunken parrot back on Jackie’s flagpole.
“Wait… Didn’t Gloria’s house catch fire?”
“Someone lit a box of brush—” Charlotte paused. “Hm. A box of brush. I wonder if that was a hint…”
“My point is, someone started a fire. Was that a threat, too?”
“Maybe. Or just kids being little jerks.”
“And now you want to draw those people to my house?”
“Well, when you put it that way…but…no—Rocky knows where you live. It was probably an early mix-up amongst his flunkies. At this point, I don’t think the flag will make a difference either way.”
Jackie put her hands on her hips. “Well if it does, I’ll be sure you’re the first to know.”
Chapter Fifteen
Tammy wiped the counter of the TikiMon Beach Bar as the young man took his seat.
“What can I getcha?”
“Mojito.”
She nodded. Mojitos were a pain in the neck. All the muddling.
Squeezing lime in a glass, she opened a plastic bin and pulled out fresh mint leaves. She mixed the lime juice with sugar and the leaves and began to crush it all with a well-worn wooden muddler.
He’d looked like a beer guy, too. It’s never easy.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Muddling your drink.”
“Really? See, I do it with a mortar and pestle. Get the leaves nice and broken.”
“Instead of in the glass? That doesn’t make any sense.”
He sniffed. “I do it the right way.”
The tone of his voice made her look up from her muddling and his expression said she’d crossed a line. The skin on the back of her neck prickled. She’d seen that look on other people and it never ended well. She decided to backtrack. “I dunno. This is how I was taught. Anyway, we don’t have a mortar and pestle here.”
His dazzling grin reappeared like a fast-forwarded sunrise and she realized she’d been holding her breath.
“I just bought a new set!” he said. “Too bad I didn’t know you needed one. I could have given you my old one.”
He giggled.
Freak.
“They your cats?” he asked.
She followed his gaze to the bar strays, Frick and Frack, sitting in the corner of the tiki porch.
“They were unofficially adopted by the restaurant.”
“They nice? Like, you can pet them and pick them up?”
She nodded, handing him his cocktail. “Real sweeties.”
“Hey, could I get some of those fish bites too?”
She punched in his order and turned to a couple sitting on the other side of the bar.
Five minutes later, a runner from the kitchen brought her the fish bites and she handed Mr. Mojito the greasy basket of fried nuggets.
“You got a pen I could borrow?” he asked.
Pulling one from behind her ear she slid it across the bar. Other customers commanded her attention and by the time she returned, the freak had gone. She felt relieved.
Throwing his empty plastic basket in the bin behind the bar, she realized the wax paper inside was missing. Did he eat the paper, too? Something else was misplaced…her tip. Instead of dollars, she found a napkin covered in ink.
My tip to you is my mojito recipe it said along the top, all in caps. Beneath it was a list of ingredients and precise directions that wrapped to the other side of the napkin. He’d even listed the size of the mint leaves. Three inches long.
Weirdo.
She balled the napkin in her hand and tossed it in the trash.
A break in the bar action offered a moment to feed the cats. The feline mascots took most of their food from the TikiMon patrons, but she liked to give them a can of wet food every day to be sure they didn’t go hungry or want for vitamins. When they’d arrived at the restaurant they’d been scraggily things. Now they were fat, sleek and happy, and she intended on keeping them that way.
She popped a can of Fancy Feast and clanged the lid against the beer tap. They always came flying when they heard that can banging. It cracked her up.
When they didn’t appear, she peered over the bar for her furry buddies.
Nothing.
She plopped the food into the cat bowl and it sat at the foot of the bar, untouched, for half an hour. Dave the bar runner set two baskets of chicken wings in front of her and turned to leave.
“Hey Dave, you seen the cats?”
He paused long enough to shake his head before disappearing into the kitchen.
“Huh. That’s weird.”
She grabbed the baskets and handed them to her customers.
Chapter Sixteen
Charlotte returned home to find Gloria on the sofa watching daytime television. She’d changed from her morning gown into a matching shorts and top outfit featuring large red roses on a cream background. She looked like a tiny floral sofa sitting on another sofa. Abby had her chin and one paw resting in her lap.
“Charlotte, you’re back! Any luck finding my assailant?”
“They aren’t really assailants unless they’ve assailed you.”
“My potential assailants then.”
“No.”
“Oh.” Gloria sulked. “I’m getting a little stir crazy.”
“I apologize. I’m a little distracted by…another case.” Charlotte found it hard not to smile as she said the words. She’d gone from unemployed to swamped in the course of a day. “I just popped in to check on you. I need to investigate some leads.”
The image of a man squeezed into a giant barrel flashed on the television screen and Charlotte stopped to watch.
“Um…What’s this?”
“I’m not sure what it’s called. It’s a crime show about a woman who killed her husband and put him in a barrel full of chemicals to dissolve his body. She was doing really well until she forgot to throw out the acid bottles. Now the cops are on to her. Stupid mistake.”
Hm. “Doing research?”
Gloria didn’t respond to her joke, once again engrossed by her program. Charlotte’s gaze drifted from the television to Gloria to her dog.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you. How come you don’t have a dog? You like dogs, right?”
Gloria paused the show. “Oh I love dogs!”
“You never…oh, I don’t know…accidentally fed one to a snake or anything…”
She laughed. “Oh no. I love dogs more than people!”
“And you don’t mind Abby?”
“Oh, no. She’s a joy.”
“Good. If she ever bothers you, just let
me know. First. I mean, don’t let it build up inside of you or anything. Just tell me.”
“Oh don’t be silly. She’s a doll.”
Charlotte nodded. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Okay. I took some pork chops out of your freezer.”
Charlotte paused with her hand on the doorknob.
Is she making room in the freezer for something?
“Why?”
“I thought we could have them for dinner. I’ll cook.”
“Oh! Yes. Sounds wonderful.”
Whew.
Charlotte went to Mariska’s to borrow her Volkswagen. Working from home, she rarely needed her own vehicle and always had access to Mariska’s. But now, as an investigator, she’d need to consider getting a car. Who knew when she’d have to rush off to check on a lead? She was going to need an official vehicle. Something understated that blended in with traffic. She could drive her golf cart to the store, but she’d look ridiculous staked outside a suspect’s home in a candy apple red golf cart with Sweet Charlotte stenciled in gold flake on the side. Although, Mariska’s VW Bug, with the giant pink flower in the dash, wasn’t much more subtle.
Charlotte drove to the Sheriff’s office, plotting how she might sweet-talk Frank into running a license plate number for her. She wasn’t sure it was legal for him to share information, and Frank hated blurry lines when it came to the law. In addition, she didn’t want to tell him about Rocky and Jackie. Not yet. So far, Rocky’s demands seemed straightforward and getting Frank in a kerfuffle over vague threats wouldn’t help anything. Hopefully, Frank would find her request for license plate information reasonable and she could be on her way.
She didn’t want to have to sic Darla on him. That would be a last resort.
The square, brick, government building that served as the Sheriff’s office came into view and she parked in the asphalt driveway that surrounded it. Charlotte sat in the car taking deep breaths to calm her rapidly beating heart. She wasn’t a fan of conflict or begging and suspected her request would involve both before the day was over. After a few minutes, she grabbed her purse and stormed into the building before her resolve could abandon her.
“Hey Miss Charlene,” she said to the heavy-set woman sitting behind the front desk. “Frank around?”
The woman smiled, her hair coiled into a bun that sat high on her head like a black mamba waiting to strike. “Well, hey there Miss Charlotte, how are you?”
“I’m good. And yourself?”
“Oh you know me. Peachy. Frank’s in his office. You want him?”
“Yes, please.”
Charlene pressed a button on her phone.
“Frank, Miss Charlotte’s here to see you.”
There was a pause before Frank’s gruff voice crackled through the intercom.
“Send her back.”
“Will do.”
She nodded. “His majesty will see you now.”
Charlotte grinned and walked down the cinderblock hallway, its fresh beige paint gleaming beneath harsh lighting. Why do government buildings have to be so soul-sucking? They’d recently renovated the place, but forgotten to soften the bulbs or add art or a plant or anything to make the building feel less like a prison. Of course, it also served as a jail so…maybe pleasantries weren’t high on the government’s list of priorities. Still, she felt bad for the people who had to work there every day. No wonder Frank was so cranky.
She rapped on the door labeled “Sherriff Frank Marshall” and entered at the sound of Frank grunting.
“Hello little lady, how can I help you today?” he asked without looking up from his paperwork.
She sat in the chair on the opposite side of the desk, careful to avoid a sharp tear in the vinyl seat. Apparently, the makeover hadn’t included new furniture.
Charlotte could feel her resolve slipping. Sitting across from Frank she felt like a little girl. She cleared her throat and steeled herself.
“I need your help with a case.”
“A case?” Frank looked up, a smirk on his face.
Oh good. The idea of her working a case was amusing enough to tear him from his work.
“You got your first case, huh?”
“It’s actually my third, remember? My first was to find Witchy—er, your roof witch.”
“Right. I forgot about her.” Frank’s gaze jerked past her to the back of the room before he sniffed and looked away.
What was that?
Charlotte twisted in her chair to look behind her, finding nothing but a dented file cabinet and a large cardboard box. Frank’s expression had made her think someone had entered the room. Someone he didn’t want to see.
“So what can I do for you?” he asked.
“Seamus gave me a job and it would really help me solve the case if you ran a license plate for me. I’d like to impress him with my skillz.”
“Your skills, huh.”
“My skillz, with a z.”
“Of course. And what about Seamus?”
“He’s Declan’s uncle. The Irish guy. You’ve met him, remember?”
“I know who he is. I mean, what does he have to do with anything? What sort of job did he give you and why?”
“In order to get my private investigator’s license I have to intern with another investigator and it turns out he is one.”
“I thought we established he wasn’t a cop?”
“He’s not a cop, he’s a private investigator.”
“Seamus is a licensed private investigator?”
“Yep!”
“And he’s training you?”
“Uh huh.”
Frank leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against the arm, his mouth hooked to one side.
“What about law enforcement?”
“What do you mean?”
“Can you intern with law enforcement to get your license?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you ask me?”
“Oh…I…I just didn’t think to bother you with it.”
“Well, I can teach you anything he’s teaching you, that’s for sure.”
Charlotte smirked. “Frank…are you jealous?”
“Jealous? No, I’m not jealous! I just thought I could help. But if you don’t want my help—”
“No, I’d love it! I’m sure you could help. I could work with you both!”
“I mean, I’m actual law enforcement. I don’t know what he is.”
“A licensed private eye.”
“Yeah, but…what is that really?”
“I imagine it’s a licensed private eye.”
“But what has he done?”
She opened her mouth to share what she knew of Seamus’ past, but decided against it. Reminding Frank that Declan’s uncle had served as a confidential informant for the Miami police wouldn’t impress him. Frank was old school. He’d picture Seamus as a bad guy breaking the law with impunity in exchange for information. Which was probably partially true…but it also meant years of experience solving crimes and thinking like a criminal. His training could be invaluable. Seamus could teach her how to think like a criminal and Frank could teach her how to think like a cop. How could she not succeed with such diverse coaching?
“I don’t know what he’s done exactly,” she said, which was the truth.
“So, what do I need to do? Think of a test for you? Come up with something to sharpen your skills as an investigator?”
“That would work. But—”
She stalled, desperate to steer their conversation back to the license plate. She had to get Gloria safely out of her home and she had to find Jackie’s box before the gangster’s kid returned. The last thing she needed was a new project. “No hurry though.”
“No hurry?”
“I mean, I have a few things I’m working on now, so don’t feel like you have to come up with something tomorrow.”
Frank grunted.
“But what I do need is a plate run. Could you do that for me?”
He shook his head. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t go running plates for any yahoo who walks in the door.”
“Did you just call me a yahoo?”
“You know what I mean. How do I know the plate I’m running isn’t someone Seamus is trying to find.”
“It’s not.”
“How do you know?”
“I mean, I don’t know. But I’m sure it’s the plate of a friend or something. He’s using it to see if I can track down a person.”
“Well…you’ll have to find another way. Having me run a plate for you isn’t teaching you anything.”
“But it would speed things along and then I’d have more time to work on whatever project you have for me…”
“You just said you weren’t in a hurry.”
“I’m not, but… Boy, you would really help me show up Seamus if you could run that plate. He’d know I have more powerful friends than him when it came to law enforcement, wouldn’t he?”
The expression on Frank’s face changed from dismissive to one of deep contemplation. She’d hit a nerve.
Bingo.
She could feel Frank about to agree, when a voice called from the doorway behind her.
“Sheriff, can I see you for a second?”
No! Charlotte turned. A female police officer stood in the hallway outside Frank’s door holding an opened manila folder. It was the sour woman who had guarded her doorway the day she’d found Declan’s mother’s bones in her garden.
Figures.
The woman looked at her, a flash of recognition sweeping across her face.
We meet again…
“Just a sec…” Frank stood and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Charlotte heard the low mumbling of conversation in the hall and busied herself scanning the office for anything useful, like she did whenever she was left alone in a doctor’s examining room. No free cotton balls in Frank’s office though. No wooden tongue depressors to paint and use as bookmarkers. Was there a license plate machine she could put the number into while he was out of the office?
Yes.
Duh.
It was called a computer.
She peeked at Frank’s monitor and the Windows desktop stared back at her. The computer wasn’t locked. But if movies were real, even if she found the license plate database, she’d find that locked.