Pineapple Lies (7 page)

“Those three are never more than three feet apart. Anyway, I apologize. This office remodel has everything mixed up.”

Declan nodded. “It’s fine. I’m relieved. Let’s start over.”

“Okay. And if you want to pet Oscar, you go ahead.”

Declan glanced at the dog who had flopped on the ground by his foot.

Frank looked over his notes. Declan watched him cross out the word
weirdo
in three separate places and
sick bastard
in one.

“So long and short of it, your mom disappeared and you had no idea why. No talk of a boyfriend or anything like that?”

“No. I mean, I was a kid so I wasn’t really thinking about things like that, but Mamó never said anything like that later in life either.”

“Mamó?”

“My granny.”

“Is your grandmother still alive? Can I talk to her?”

“No. She died two years ago. Emphysema.”

“Those damn cigarettes, I bet. I lost a sister to them.”

Declan nodded.

“Do you know where your mother worked?”

“Here, I think. She worked as a secretary at the building office, and then she also waitressed a bit, nights and weekends.”

“You know where?”

“Orange Grill?” said Declan. “Something like that.”

Frank grunted. “Nectarine’s. Yeah, they went out of business close to ten years ago.”

“That’s pretty much all I know. I just recognized that necklace. I’d given it to Mom for Christmas and she always wore it.”

“I need to take a swab from your mouth so they can compare it to the DNA of the bones. Though they’ll probably do the identifying by her teeth if they’re in good shape.”

“No problem.”

“We’ll have the tests back in a few days. Then we’ll know for sure if it was your mom or not. I’m real sorry, about the bones and my behavior today.”

Declan shrugged. “No problem. I’m glad we got that cleared up.”

The sheriff swabbed Declan’s mouth, put the results in a clear jar and sealed it. As he jotted his name on it, there was a knock on the door. He put down the jar and shook Declan’s hand.

“That’s it. You’re free to go.”

He opened his door, Declan following to leave.

A shifty-eyed young man in his late teens wearing jeans shorts and a torn t-shirt stood on the sheriff’s steps. He was staring at the frog pond.

“Yeah, I got a call to show up here,” he said, turning as Frank opened the door.

“What’s your name?”

“Tommy. Tommy Wickham.”

Declan swiveled to investigate the notorious pond lover. He glanced at the sheriff, who flashed him a quick smile and then turned his attention back to Tommy.

“Come on in, son,” he said, putting his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “I just need to talk to you for a little bit.”

Chapter Seven

Charlotte sat on her screened porch.

Her
lanai.

She stared at the shallow gravesite behind her home. The police and forensic investigators had completed their tasks and removed the crime tape, but the yard would never feel the same. She shivered, thinking about all the years Declan’s poor mother lay beneath her patio. She groaned, recalling last summer’s luau themed barbeque party.

People had danced the hula on Erin’s grave.

My god. There might have been a conga line.

If there was a dead person in her backyard, where else might they be? She had seen enough horror movies to know that once someone disturbed a grave, all sort of weird things started to happen. Now every time Abby stirred in her sleep, Charlotte sat straight up in bed, wondering if her dog’s paranormal senses were tingling. Abby ran in her sleep a
lot
. She was exhausted.

As far as she knew, the investigators only found bones and the necklace. She hoped they’d also found something that would lead to Erin Bingham’s killer. Everyone knew spirits grew less restless after avenging their deaths. That was Ghost 101. She hoped Erin was a nice lady, uninterested in haunting people. Declan seemed nice, so that boded well; his mother was probably nice, too. Charlotte couldn’t imagine Declan haunting someone. Though, if she had to be haunted by someone, it wouldn’t hurt to have a handsome ghost lurking about. It could be like
The Ghost and Mrs. Muir.

Charlotte took a sip of her wine.

Great
.

She was sitting around, drinking alone, fantasizing about being a young widow like Mrs. Muir, alone in a lighthouse with a ghost.

I’m even alone in my daydreams.

She really needed to get out more. She needed to venture beyond Pineapple Port. Maybe go somewhere where people talked about movies more recent than 1947
.

Charlotte stood and walked into the house. She wrote
get out more
on the chalkboard wall beneath
solve mystery
and
bread, lettuce, cookies
. The chalkboard hadn’t been painted for a week before it turned into a shopping list. She moved to put down the chalk and then changed her mind. She added
The Ghost and Mrs. Muir
on the board. She hadn’t seen it in a while.

Charlotte saw something flash outside her kitchen window. It moved just above her fence line, round,
head-shaped
. She jumped and dropped the chalk.

Erin.

Already? She hadn’t had the time to avenge a squirrel’s death!

She froze, deciding whether to investigate or call for help.

Who could she call about a ghost?

A familiar tune began to play in her head.

Who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters!

Stop it. Damn it Erin, concentrate.

She crept to the window and peeked outside.

She saw another flash of movement, this time heading towards her front yard.

She ran for the front door, alerting Abby, who tore around the corner, cutting her off and creating a first line of defense. It was everything she could do to avoid tripping over the dog.

She threw open the door and Abby burst outside.

“Whoa whoa whoa!” yelled a man standing on the curb outside her home as Abby barreled towards him.

It was Harry Wagner. Harry had worked with Penny and George to expand Pineapple Port, but at nearly eighty, he’d long since retired and now lived in one of the homes.

“Abby no!” Charlotte called. “It’s okay.”

Abby did a tight loop around the man and then thumped her head into his knees, begging for pets.

Harry stared at Charlotte, his freckled head gleaming in the last of the afternoon sun.

“Were you just peeking over my fence?” asked Charlotte.

Harry grimaced.

“I hear you had some excitement.”

“News travels fast. I’m afraid you missed all the excitement if that’s what you were looking for. You scared me to death.”

“I’m sorry. I was curious and I didn’t want to bother you. How are you? I imagine it was a little upsetting.”

“I’m fine. Although I won’t be gardening any time soon.”

“Hmm.” Harry relented and offered Abby a quick pat on the butt. “Well, if you want someone to talk to, you know I’m no stranger to death.”

Charlotte knew. Everyone knew. Harry was an ex-Chicago cop and loved sharing cold case stories. Investigating old, seemingly unsolvable crimes in the latter part of his police career had been the highlight of his life. He’d only solved four or five cases, but when played on repeat, they provided him with decades of stories for sharing. Charlotte braced herself, hoping she wasn’t in for another encore performance of
The Body in the Lake
or her personal favorite,
The Case of the They Thought He’d Killed Himself, But I Knew Better Because Everyone Else is an Idiot.

“I think I’m good, but thanks.”

Harry nodded and looked at his shoes, but he didn’t leave.

“Was there something else?” she asked, sure she knew the answer.

“I was wondering…maybe I could come see the spot you found her?”

“You want to see the grave?”

“If I could…”

“Um…” she looked behind her as if the house might have an opinion. “I guess…”

“Great!”

Harry walked toward the door, pausing a moment to reach around the side of the house and produce a metal detector. He’d left it at the fence line. Charlotte recognized the contraption; she owned one herself. It sat, forgotten, in a closet somewhere. She hadn’t been to the beach treasure hunting in a very long time. At fifteen, she’d waged a month long Christmas season campaign for a metal detector, certain she could find riches on nearby beaches. Several quarters and hundreds of bottle caps later, the detector had found its way to a permanent home in her closet.

Charlotte scowled.

He’d been looking for a way to hop into the back yard and use it without telling her.

“I was thinking I might pass this over the crime scene a few times,” he said.

“I can see that.”

“Like I said, I didn’t want to bother you, but the gate was locked…”

“Don’t you think the crime guys did that already?”

“These guys,” he said, shaking his head the way someone might after a child handed him a report card full of failing grades. “They aren’t always as thorough as they should be. I just want to make sure they didn’t miss anything. I have a lot of cold case experience, you know.”

“I’ve heard that somewhere,” she said, using her leg to push Abby back as the dog strained to get a good whiff of Harry’s fascinating metal stick.

“It’s really lucky I’m here. I’m sure we’ll have this puzzle solved in no time.”

Harry entered the house and made a beeline for the backyard. He was at the gravesite by the time Charlotte joined him.

“What made you pull up the concrete?” he asked.

“I wanted a garden. I don’t know why so much of my backyard was paved. My neighbors have more grass.”

“You grandmother requested a larger patio during the building,” Harry mumbled, tucking his sifting scoop under his arm and switching on the metal detector. “Not sure why. Paid extra for it. Just made more work for my men.”

“Probably just didn’t want to mow the grass.”

Harry shrugged.

“I can already see they made a mess of this,” he said, pointing at the dirt around the gravesite. “I knew it.”

As he bobbed his hand at the gravesite mess, his leather belt flopped in unison. Charlotte judged it a foot too long for his waist. The leather looked like hamsters had been chewing on it. She couldn’t hold Harry’s fashion sense against him; no one in the neighborhood would make the pages of
Vogue
anytime soon, but it looked like he’d punched the last three holes himself with a pair of scissors. It made her sad. She knew what it meant when the older residents started losing weight: a slow, but steady march to the end.

“I heard they identified the body as the mother of a shop owner around here?”

“Not officially, but there’s a good chance it’s Declan Bingham’s mother. He owns the pawnshop in town.”

“I should interview him. I know what questions to ask. I have a way of helping people remember important details.”

“I’m sure,” she said, yawning.

Harry placed his arm in the metal detector’s cuff and passed the round white disc at the end over the shallow grave. Nothing pinged.

Harry walked away from the hole, sweeping back and forth. Finding nothing to the left of the grave, he moved towards a pile of dirt near the fence. Charlotte recognized it as the lump Katie made while digging for the skull. Harry passed the detector over it.

She heard a beep. It was a strong signal. Memories of treasure hunting burst vivid in her mind, and she suffered a shiver of excitement. Apparently, she’d conditioned herself to react to metal detector pings like a Pavlovian dog drooling at the prospect of food.

“Part of the fence?” she asked. “A nail?”

Harry thrust out a raised palm to shush her.

She scowled, but remained giddy as the detector sang its mechanized aria.

He passed the detector over the pile again and narrowed in on the hot spot. Grabbing his scoop, he dug and sifted until Charlotte heard the sound of metal on metal rattling in the can-like digging device. The object sounded small, but solid.

Harry plucked out a small blob of metal. It looked like a tiny mushroom, with a cylindrical base and mushed top.

“That’s a bullet,” he said, his face glowing with pride. “I told you these yahoos down here don’t know what they’re doing. It’s the damn heat. It makes them lazy.”

“I guess you’re right. Shouldn’t you be wearing gloves?”

He looked at his fingers on the bullet.

“I’m holding it on the edges. There won’t be any perp evidence on a spent bullet anyway.”

“What about fingerprints from when they put the bullet in the gun?”

“Well, yeah,
that
. But it’s old and,
again
, I’m holding it properly.”

“You think that’s what killed her?”

“Very probable, unless you’ve been out here shooting guns.”

Charlotte chuckled, but she could tell by the way he was staring at her that he wasn’t kidding.

“I don’t have a gun,” she said. “What are you going to do with it?”

He grimaced. “I’d like to send it to my guys back in Chicago…”

“I don’t think you should do that. It should go with everything else they collected for the sake of continuity, don’t you think?”

“They’ll only mess it up.” He slapped his thigh and smiled until it looked as though his face would break from the strain. “Boy, are they lucky I’m here!”

“Why don’t you take it to Frank? I’ll go with you.”

“Fine,” he said switching off his detector. “I’d like that cocky little bastard to see how his people messed up, anyway.”

Charlotte started back to her house and Harry followed, staring at the bullet, grin still plastered to his face.

“Get me an evidence bag,” he said as they walked in the back door.

Charlotte lip twitched; annoyed by the way he’d barked his order.

“I’m fresh out of evidence bags.”

“A plastic bag will do. I know you don’t have any official evidence bags. I do, of course, but they’re back at the house. I forgot to bring them. Dammit!”

She opened a kitchen drawer and retrieved a sandwich bag.

“Easy there, Colombo,” she mumbled, knowing he was a little deaf and probably wouldn’t hear. “Here.”

“You have a permanent marker?” he asked, dropping the bullet in the bag.

“I do,” said Charlotte, opening another drawer.

She handed him a black Sharpie. He laid the bag on the counter and wrote on it as Charlotte read over his shoulder.

Bullet from—

“What’s your address here?”

“118 Flamingo Court.”

Bullet from 118 Flamingo Court – found by Harry Wagner.

Harry added his own address and phone number on the opposite side. By the time he finished, his scrawl had nearly turned the entire bag black. Charlotte could barely see the bullet.

“Is that where they should mail the medal?” she asked.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. Don’t you want to give them your email?”

“Oh, good idea,” said Harry, scrawling it beneath his telephone number and plunging the bullet into total darkness.

Charlotte and Harry walked the few houses down to Sheriff Marshall’s house.

“Did I ever tell you how I solved the Playground Killer case? The murder of Anthony Vera?”