by Amy Vansant
“Is she delayed?”
“No, she’s on the curb ready to go.”
“The whole time you were talking to her she was on the curb?”
Mariska nodded. “All the peanuts in her bag were half burnt and the lady next to her wouldn’t stop moving her elbow past the half way point and the man on the other side of her had a cough.”
“And she couldn’t wait until she was in the car to tell you that?”
“It was all pretty upsetting. Apparently, the worst part about the cough was that the guy kept trying to keep from coughing, so when he did it was like an explosion.”
Mariska giggled as Charlotte rubbed her face with her hand and tried to mentally prepare herself. When Mariska and her sister got together it was always a giggle fest. She called them the Cackle Twins, because once they got to cackling, there was no end to it.
She hadn’t seen Carolina for a couple of years and was looking forward to it, but coming back to her now was how opinionated Mariska’s sister could be. For every judgement Mariska had, Carolina had two. Between that and the giggling, it was shaping up to be quite a visit.
They spotted Carolina at the curb with three suitcases nearly as tall as she was. She waved to catch their attention, her blonde bob rocking with the motion.
Charlotte looked at Mariska. “How long is she staying? A year?”
“Two weeks.”
“And three suitcases? She could pack bodies in those things.”
“One’s probably empty so she can take things back home.”
They parked and both hopped out to help Carolina with her bags. Charlotte waited her turn and then hugged her hello.
“Bring enough luggage?” she asked. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t, but it came out of her mouth anyway.
“One’s empty so I can take some orange juice home.”
Charlotte squinted at her. “Does the entire state of Michigan have scurvy?”
Carolina looked at her, emotionless. “You’re so weird.”
Charlotte opened her mouth and then shut it. There were so many arguments as to why packing a suitcase full of orange juice was a bad idea, but she had to let it slide.
Let it slide. Let it slide...
They threw Carolina’s luggage in the back of Mariska’s car and headed for Pineapple Port by way of a restaurant in St. Pete Beach.
“It’s hot,” said Carolina as they sat at a plastic table beneath a faux palm-frond roof. “Why would you live in this wretched furnace of a state? It isn’t natural unless you’re a snake.”
“Take off your sweatshirt,” suggested Mariska.
Carolina wrapped her arms around her shoulders. “It was so cold on that plane I thought they’d have to remove my feet by the time I got here. My toes are probably black. One way or another I’m going to lose my feet. I know it. If it isn’t the darn diabetes it’ll be the cold planes.”
“Well, you’re not on the plane, now. Take it off.”
“If I take off my sweatshirt my pits will be all sweaty thanks to the fact you live in a giant sweat lodge.”
A woman sitting at the next table shot Carolina a look. Charlotte offered her an apologetic smile.
She wasn’t sure why Carolina’s pits would be sweaty if she was freezing on the plane...but it was probably something about old age she didn’t want to know. She already knew too much.
Mariska tugged on the arm of her sister’s sweatshirt. “They’ll dry. You can just hold your arms up for a bit and let the pits air out.”
The woman at the other table glanced their way again. This time Charlotte stuck her tongue out at her, just a little bit.
The woman turned back to her table in a huff and Charlotte smiled at Carolina.
“Yeah, just flap those arms around. Let those pits really breathe.”
“I’ll look like I’m doing the chicken dance,” muttered Carolina.
“The chicken dance!” echoed Mariska, beginning to giggle.
“Oh no. Here we go,” said Charlotte, dropping back her head to stare at the ceiling.
When her neck started to ache she looked back up to find Carolina half out of her sweatshirt, trapped with one arm and her head still inside. Mariska was humming the Chicken Dance.
“Doodle doodle doodle do, Doodle doodle doodle do, Doodle doodle doodle do!” She clapped four times, noticed her sister was trapped in the sweatshirt and howled with laughter.
“It’s not funny, help me out of this thing!” came Carolina’s muffled voice.
Mariska stood and helped pull the sweatshirt off her now hysterical sister and the two of them rocked back and forth in their chairs, half cackling and half chicken dancing.
“Can I buy you ladies a cocktail?”
A small, grinning older man approached the table and set up camp between the Cackle Sisters. His skinny legs supported a pair of plaid shorts, held aloft by a leather belt that disappeared beneath his pot belly. He rubbed his short, steel-gray hair awaiting their response.
Carolina squinted one eye at the man.
“What are you up to?” she asked. She turned to Mariska. “What is he up to?”
“I think he wants to buy us a drink,” said Mariska. She looked at the man. “But we’re good, thank you.”
“The last thing these two need is a drink,” said Charlotte, trying to fill the gap where politeness had failed Auntie Carolina.
“It seemed like you were having quite a party over here,” he said. “I’m Lester Swander.”
He held out his hand to Carolina, who grunted and folded her sweatshirt into her lap.
“Well...I’ll see you around. You ladies have a nice day.” He offered one last nod and wandered off.
As soon as he was gone Mariska looked at Charlotte. “Didn’t he look familiar? I think he might be that fellow who’s renting in the old section.”
“At Pineapple Port?”
Mariska nodded.
“Well, I don’t know who he thinks he is; him and those teeth,” said Carolina. “Looks like he’s stolen some poor horse’s chompers.”
“Oh didn’t he have beautiful teeth?” said Mariska.
“You’ve got to be kidding. I was afraid he was going to bite me. He might have taken off my arm.”
“Think of the air that would hit your pits then,” mumbled Charlotte. Was it too early for a drink? Nah...
Mariska shook her head. “I think he just wanted to buy you a drink because you looked like fun.”
“Looked like fun,” Carolina echoed. “How awful.”
“He only had eyes for you. I think it’s those enormous knockers of yours,” Mariska added, giggling again.
Carolina shot her a look and then chuckled. “They’ve always been a problem.”
“Mind of their own!”
The two women put hands on each other’s arms, and Charlotte worried they would suffocate laughing.
Chapter Five
One Month Earlier.
The Future Horizons Alzheimer’s home kept its door locked. At first Alex thought that was odd, but older, confused people did tend to wander. The home had to keep the door locked so the residents didn’t ramble outside and disappear into a swamp.
Locked doors were good for the residents, but a problem for people trying to sneak inside. There would be no slipping into the building. It wouldn’t be like wandering into a hospital and blending in with the other visitors; all those good people not planning to kill someone.
Alex stood in the parking lot watching people knock on the home’s door. They always gained entry without trouble, thanks to the distracted nurses rolling wheelchairs through the vestibule. The nurse would stop rolling his or her patient around like a room service cart, open the door, and continue on, sometimes without a word exchanged. There was no real security. People came to visit their loved ones and whoever happened to be near the door let them in, no questions asked. Nobody asked to see I.D. or demanded visitors prove they were family members. After all, who would pretend they were related to
an Alzheimer patient? What would be the point? You couldn’t wheedle your way into the will of somebody who couldn’t remember who you were from one day to the next.
The door swung open and a couple left the center, the man’s burly arm wrapped around the woman’s thick shoulders. The woman wiped tears from her eyes as they wobbled to the car, bobbing against each other, connected in their loving but awkward way.
“My own mother doesn’t even remember me,” said the woman, her voice cracking.
“It’s a terrible thing,” said the man.
Alex approached the couple, smiling.
“I know you two... Aren’t you Olivia’s kids?”
The couple stopped and the woman put her hand against her chest. “Us? No, I’m Stacy—Andrea Longo’s daughter.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. You look something like Olivia’s daughter. I apologize.”
Alex offered a nod of apology and headed toward the home.
Andrea Longo. If anyone asked any questions, Alex was there to see Andrea Longo. Andrea wouldn’t be able to confirm or deny; judging from her daughter’s tears, Andrea Longo’s mind was wandering somewhere far, far away.
Alex knocked on the door and a nurse pushing a woman with a million-yard stare opened it. Alex thanked her and headed toward the hallway as if the way was familiar.
The patients’ names were on their doors.
How convenient.
It didn’t take long to find the right room; the room with the paper insert in a brass frame that read Roger Stekel.
Best to print the names out on paper; one never knew how often they might have to be changed.
Alex knocked, heard no response, and slipped inside the room.
“Wow.”
Roger’s room was wallpapered with finished crossword puzzles. Now ninety years old, Roger Stekel had completed one crossword puzzle per day for the last sixty years.
That was one way to kill a life.
Roger napped, a half-finished puzzle rising and falling on his chest, a pen still in his fingers.
The pen gave Alex an idea.
“I’m going to need you to sit up for me, Mr. Stekel.”
Roger didn’t move.
Grabbing both of Roger’s pajama lapels, Alex tugged on the old man and sat him upright. He pulled back the blankets and swiveled each of the old man’s legs in turn, hanging them over the side of the bed.
“Can you walk Roger?”
Roger’s lids fluttered. “What?” he croaked.
“Can you walk?”
The old man grimaced. “Of course I can walk!”
Better check. A pinch to Roger’s veiny calf made the puzzle master jump.
“Ow!”
“Sorry about that. I can’t risk you not being able to get out of bed on your own.”
“What? Who are you?”
Alex put an arm around the old man’s back and wrapped a hand around Roger’s, holding rigid the pen still balanced in his liver-spotted hand.
“Sorry about this, Rog.”
“What?”
In one swift movement, Alex jerked Roger’s pen-holding hand, stabbing the crossword king in the jugular and pushing his body forward. Roger landed on his knees and forehead, blood pooling on the low-pile carpet. He didn’t make a sound as he slowly collapsed to one side.
Alex pictured the headlines:
Local puzzle-solving master falls out of bed and stabs himself with his puzzle-solving pen.
Oh, the irony.
Perfect. The jackals at the news outlets loved irony.
His death would make the news.
Alex pulled a puzzle piece from his pocket and slipped it under Roger’s head, careful not to knock over the body. Alex slipped from the room and, after a panicked moment searching the walls for a code to unlock the exit to the building, strolled back into sunlight.
Chapter Six
Seamus stared at the stuffed bear holding a chocolate, heart-shaped lollypop. Would Jackie like that? She might. She likes chocolate. But she’d never mentioned bears one way or the other...
He sighed and wondered how he could be so bad at romance. He thought of himself as a romantic guy, but none of his exes seemed to agree in the end. His nephew Declan always knew how to delight the ladies. The young buck had given Charlotte an HDMI cable for her television and she’d giggled like he was a knight returning from a dragon’s lair with the Holy Grail.
What was that about? More importantly...
Would Jackie like a cable?
Nah. She didn’t even watch much television.
He picked up the bear.
“That’s leftover stock from Valentine’s Day,” said a voice with a French accent.
He turned and found the tall, dark-haired Simone standing behind him, smiling like a hungry fox. Seamus felt like a baby chick dropped from the nest. Simone was his age, mid-fifties, but her sex appeal was timeless. The last time he’d run into Simone she’d handcuffed him to her wall. He’d barely made it out with his fidelity to Jackie intact, because while the handcuff stuff wasn’t his thing, it wasn’t uninteresting. And Simone wasn’t unattractive.
“It’s nearly Thanksgiving,” he said, finding that his saliva had packed up and left town.
“Exactly,” she said, taking the bear from him. “Unless it’s a chew toy for your dog, you can do better than a drugstore bear.”
“I think a drugstore bear would be unsafe for a dog. Toxic stuffing and whatnot.”
“Not my point.”
“Fair enough.”
She leaned across him to return the bear to its dusty home. Her breasts brushed his arm. She smelled like a champagne brunch on the back of a yacht anchored off of Monaco. He could picture the scene—water sparkling in the morning sun, calla lilies in a glass vase on the table—
Boy, she was good.
“It was a joke gift,” he muttered, taking a strategic step back.
“I’m sure.”
“So...how have you been?”
She bit her lower lip and stared into his eyes before speaking. “I’ve been better. I need your help.”
“My help?”
“You fancy yourself a detective, correct?”
“I don’t know if fancy is the word. It’s what I do. There’s nothing fancy about it.”
“I need you to find someone.”
“One of your witness protection people?”
Simone’s eyes grew wide and she grabbed the front of his shirt. “How do you know about that?” she asked, her French accent replaced by something much less exotic.
Seamus held up his hands and grinned. He didn’t want to tell her he’d heard about how she’d been banished by the Federal Marshals for sending a large number of criminals under witness protection to the same area of Florida. This area of Florida. She’d been reassigned to babysit her “clients” and make sure witnesses from rival criminal enterprises didn’t clash in the local Publix.
He knew things she didn’t know he knew. He grinned. For the first time he didn’t feel off balance talking to Simone and he liked it.
“I told you; I’m a private investigator. I know a lot of things.”
She let him go and smoothed his shirt.
“Sorry. People die when my secrets become public.”
Feeling cocky, Seamus put his hand on his hip and stretched his other arm to prop himself against the shelves. As he applied his weight, the shelf popped up and he fell against the shelving unit. Several heart bears and a dozen plastic tubes of knock-off M&Ms spilled to the ground. He scrambled to retrieve them and threw them back on the shelf as quickly as they rolled off a second and third time.
When he’d managed to balance everything on the shelf, he noticed Simone staring at him, her arms crossed against her chest.
He cleared his throat. “So how can I help?”
“I think one of my witnesses has gone rogue. I need to find him.”
“Can’t you call in the Marshals for this?”
Simone sighed. “I think
they’re upset enough with me.”
“Okay. So what’s this rogue’s name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know who it is.”
“So this person could be a man, woman or head of cabbage? How is that possible? How can you not know the person you put into Witsec?”
“Shhh...” she said, covering his mouth with her hand. “Lower your voice. Someone is killing people and I’m worried it’s one of my clients. They aren’t the most upstanding group of people, you know.”
“Killing who?”
“Did you read about the man eaten by an alligator in his pool? It was two months ago.”
Seamus nodded. “You’re saying he wasn’t eaten by an alligator? The enormous reptile in his pool was a coincidence?”
“I’m saying I think the alligator was placed there to make it look like an accident. There was a crossword champion, too, a month back. Only his obituary was in the paper, but I discovered they found him on the ground with his puzzle pen embedded in his aorta.”
“And that didn’t raise any flags with the police?”
“It looked as though he'd fallen on it. They ruled it an accident. I think the two are connected. It’s my job to find links in situations like these.”
“So you want me to find a fella who’s killed two people in the last two months and that’s all the information you can give me?”
“The victims were both puzzle enthusiasts.”
“Oh, great intel. If I can identify the next victim he can help me finish my clear blue sky before he’s brutally murdered. Anything else?”
Simone shook her head. The point of her dark, bobbed hair touched one edge of her mouth and then the other. Her full lips were brilliant crimson. Seamus looked away to keep himself from staring. In his head, he rattled off the last five winners of the FIFA cup and then returned his attention to Simone.
The power women had over men was nothing less than black magic.
“What’s the pay?” he asked.
“You require money?”
“That’s how these things usually work.”
She moved closer to him “There are other ways.”
He stepped back. “Money would be just fine.”