Pineapple Lies (24 page)

She made her decision. The kissing was better.
Hands down.

She tilted back her head and groaned quietly, the electricity of anticipation filling her chest and taking the fast train downward. He felt
amazing
. He leaned back against her kitchen island and pulled her closer.

Declan’s lips returned to hers. Mouths opening, their tongues touched, and the corner of her busy mouth found the chance to curl into a smile. Her world tasted like mint chocolate chip ice cream. She hoped he appreciated her makeshift breath mint.

Someone’s knocking on my front door.

She wanted the idea clamoring through her brain to be a metaphor, but as the banging began a second time, she recognized her thought to be literal. She really
did
hear someone at the door.

“No. No, no,
no
. You’ve got to be kidding me,” she mumbled, barely removing her lips from Declan’s. “Ignore it.”

“Charlotte! I know you’re in there!” called a voice, accompanied by a third string of knocks.

I know that voice.
Only one person in the neighborhood said “know” with two syllables.

“It’s Darla,” she said, resting her head on Declan’s chest. She rubbed her cheek back and forth across his chest hair.

“You said to ignore her,” he said, cupping the back of her head, his lips now resting on her hair.

“She has a key.”

Declan sighed. “You better get it. She sounds determined.”

“You have no idea.”

Running her palms across Declan’s muscular back, she forgot what they’d been talking about. She kissed his chest before the sound of her door opening threw her back into the present. She spun and saw Darla freeze as she looked up from Abby’s bouncy greeting and spotted them in the kitchen.

“Oh—oh—I’m so sorry. You never—you—I was worried…”

Charlotte’s back was to Declan, but her right hand moved to pet the soft cotton of his shorts along his outer thigh. It was soothing.

“It’s okay Darla, what do you need?” It was hard to find the breath to make the words. Her heart was racing.

She moved to take a step forward, but felt a tug on her shorts. Declan had hooked his finger into an unused belt loop and pulled her back into position. The tug of the fabric against her hips made her long for missed opportunities.

“You have to stand in front of me,” he whispered, his tone, urgent.

“Why—” Charlotte took a step back and felt something against her butt. Something
hard
.

“Soft shorts,” she whispered over her shoulder. “No restraint.”

“I hope you mean the fabric.”

“I don’t,” she said, reaching behind her back to feel for him. Declan made a little “aagh” noise of horror and spun away from behind her. He walked around the island and stood behind it, his elbows leaning on the tiles.

“Hi Darla,” he said, waving. “My clothes were wet, we’re waiting for them to dry.”

“I can see that. Really. I’m at a loss for words.”

“Darla!” said Charlotte. “Since when are you such a prude?”

“Oh Char, I don’t mean you two and what you’d call hanky-panky….”

“I really don’t think we would call it that. We’re not a hundred and four.”

“
You
might,” said Declan in her ear.

Charlotte shot him a glare and they smirked at each other.

“You two are adorable,” said Darla. “I don’t care what you’re up to. I invented that stuff. I’ve been hotter and heavier than that in an air-conditioned Kentucky laundromat at one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Please don’t go there.”

“Sorry. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is y’all can do whatever you like. Hell, if I were your age I’d—” Darla threw a hand out towards Declan. “Well I don’t want to give you any advanced ideas you might not be ready for. It’s the fact that it is
Declan
here that has me flustered.”

“She expect someone else?” he mumbled. Charlotte slapped the island behind her without turning. The sensation in her hand was like a pleasure firecracker.

What the hell?

“What do you mean?” she asked Darla.

“I came with news. Frank just got back. The test was positive on that gun you gave him, Declan. He needs to know where it came from.”

Charlotte turned as Declan rose from his elbows and stood straight. Charlotte didn’t worry about what Darla could see now. If finding out your uncle killed your mother wasn’t a boner-killer, she didn’t know what was.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Seamus!”

Declan burst through the door of his home. Seamus wasn’t at the pool and Charlotte had confirmed that he wasn’t at Jackie’s. When he arrived home and saw his uncle’s car in the driveway, the mixture of dread and relief left him frozen in his seat for a full minute.

“Out here!” called Seamus’ voice.

Declan spotted him standing next to the lap pool, still wearing his trunks. He strode across the living room and slid open the door to join him in the backyard.

“What are you doing?” asked Declan.

“Well, I’m already damp and I’m lookin’ at this contraption of yours. You’re in good shape. I’m wondering if I could master it.”

“Seamus, we need to talk.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, boyo. I forgive you. I told you that.”

“No, you don’t understand. It matched.”

“What matched?”

“Your gun and the bullet they found. Ballistics was a match.”

Declan had never seen his uncle loose his cool. The man’s face went pale as death.

“You’re joking with me?”

“I wouldn’t joke about this.”

Seamus’ legs buckled under him and Declan reached to keep him from tumbling into the shallow pool. His uncle squatted on his heel, steadying himself with his fingertips on the ground.

“Tell me…” said Declan, trying to keep his voice as steady as the situation would allow.

“Tell you what? That I killed Erin? Are you mad?”

“Then how? How could a gun you’ve had in your possession for the last fifteen years match?”

“I feel sick…”

“Then tell me!”

“I don’t feel sick because I’m guilty, eejit!” Seamus screamed, tapping the side of his head with his non-steadying hand. “Use your head!”

“Seamus, I’m doing everything I can not to choke you right now. Do not push me.”

“I’m sorry. Help me up, son.”

Declan clenched his jaw and pulled Seamus to his feet. His uncle wiped his hands over his face several times, as if trying to awake from a dream.

“What is it?”

“If I was the murderer, do you think I’d be standing here looking at your pool after you told me you gave my gun to the police? I’d be in the Maldives by now.”

“Why the Maldives?”

“Non-extradition country.”

“Should I ask how you know that?”

“Oh lord, they’re going to look into me now…”

“Who?”

“The police.”

“So? You’re an ex-cop. That would only help you.”

“I’m not an ex-cop.”

“What?”

“I’m a CI. Well, a quasi-CI. Off the books.”

“A confidential informant?”

Seamus looked at him. “Really? How many times are we going to cover what CI stands for?”

“I know what it
means
, but what are you talking about? All this time you weren’t a police officer? What about the pictures you sent me over the years with you in uniform.”

“Wearing the Santa hats? The boys gave me a suit to wear to make cards for you. My friends were officers. When I left here…I was a mess. I got in a bunch of trouble. Eventually I got caught, but they had bigger fish to fry than me. I made a deal, and I did good. I’m a very talented thief and a better liar, but my greatest gift is my gab. After that, whenever they wanted information about anyone, they’d slip me into that person’s life. I could do things they couldn’t.”

“You made a
living
doing this?”

“I didn’t need much. Got a lot of free drinks out of it, too. And I did some finding on the side.”

“Finding?”

“Private eye stuff. Private cases. Off the books. Everything off the books. This might come as a shock to you, but the police don’t always do things by the book.”

Declan felt short of breath. He stepped back to take a seat on a patio chair.

“How am I supposed to believe anything you say after you just told me you were a professional liar?”

“Don’t you see?” Seamus put his hands on his hips and threw back his head to stare at the sky. “I took the gun from the pawnshop. Someone sold it there a week after Erin’s death.”

“You took the gun after Mom’s death…”

“
I’ve been carrying around the gun that took her from me.
I had the answer in my possession for almost
two decades
. My lucky gun! I might be the worst illegally operating CI slash private investigator that ever lived.”

“Why would they sell the gun to your pawnshop? Was it a message? A final kick in the teeth?”

“I don’t know,” said Seamus. “But we need the old records. When are they coming?”

“Who?”

“The police! When are they coming for me? Are they here now?”

“No. I was at Charlotte’s when Frank’s wife came to tell her the news, but they agreed to give me a little time. I wanted to talk to you first. Charlotte knows it’s yours, of course, but Darla doesn’t, so she can’t tell Frank. But Frank isn’t a complete idiot. He’ll put two and two together.”

“How do you know Charlotte won’t go right to Frank?”

“She won’t.”

“Are you sure?”

Declan flashed back to the memory of their kiss. When he left, she’d barely been able to stop touching him. He’d felt the same.

“Reasonably.”

“Do you still have the old pawnshop records?”

“Yes. They’re in the back of the store in boxes.”

“Good. Take your car. I’ll take mine and park it somewhere in a lot near the shop. They’ll come here first looking for me, and if my car is gone they’ll assume I made a run for it. It might buy us some time.”

Seamus slapped Declan on the shoulder as he passed. He paused only long enough to grab his keys and then headed for the door. Declan found his own keys and was almost to the door when it opened again, nearly hitting him.

“Whoa!”

Seamus stuck his head in the door.

“If I didn’t make it clear; I didn’t kill Erin. You know that, right?” he asked.

Declan paused and then nodded. Seamus bear hugged him and disappeared again closing the door behind him. Before Declan could grab the doorknob, Seamus opened the door and popped his head inside once more. He had to bob backwards to save his nose.

“Are you trying to kill
me
?” asked Declan, annoyed.

Seamus touched his shoulder to be sure he had his attention.

“Just an FYI, your girlfriend’s on ecstasy.”

“What?”

Seamus closed the door and was gone.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Charlotte sat across from Frank at Darla’s kitchen table, staring at a photograph of Seamus’ gun.

“It can’t be,” she mumbled, slowly stroking the cloth placemat, her head resting on her fist. It didn’t feel as good as she thought it would. She didn’t know a placemat could be so depressing.

“Charlotte, you have to tell me who the gun belongs to or I’m going to have to arrest Declan,” said Frank.

“Declan! Why would you bring him in? He’s the one who gave you the gun!”

“He’s interfering with an investigation by hiding the owner of the gun. So are you, at this point.”

“Oh Frank, stop it,” snapped Darla. “You’re not going to arrest Charlotte.”

“Darla, you stay out of this.”

“Stop it,” said Charlotte, sitting back in her chair. “I don’t want you two fighting over me.”

“Oh we don’t need you to have a fight, Sug. It only has to be a day that ends in
y
.”

Frank scowled.

“Now look. The gun must be his uncle’s. I’m going to go to his house now.”

“He asked for a little bit of time,” said Charlotte, her voice cracking into a whine she hadn’t heard since she was a child. The last time she’d talked to Frank this way she was in the eighth grade and he was threatening to take away her skateboard for nearly knocking over Mrs. Taylor. Being raised by a community meant oodles of substitute moms, but it also meant multiple disciplinarians; some carrying more weight than others. Frank had been high on the list.

“It’s been three hours. For all I know, he’s spent all this time helping his uncle escape.”

“He wouldn’t do that!”

“How well do you really know him?”

“Pretty well, I’d say,” mumbled Darla.

“What does that mean?” asked Frank.

Charlotte glared at Darla, who winked and turned to grab a cup of coffee. There was a short knock at the door and Mariska walked in with a bowl in her hands. Bob followed close on her heels with a platter wrapped in plastic.

“I brought pierogis!” said Mariska, setting the bowl down on the kitchen island.

Charlotte smiled. Darla must have called Mariska to help distract Frank, who loved pierogis. Really, the two of them were geniuses at manipulating men.

“What do you have there, Bob?” asked Frank.

“Meat tubes.”

“Kielbasa,” corrected Mariska, taking the platter from him. Bob shrugged.

Frank stood to get in line for food and then turned and looked at Darla.

“This is a set up.”

Darla refused to acknowledge him, opting to plow ahead making a plate of food for her suspicious husband.

“I’m not going to forget what we’re doing here,” added Frank. “Charlotte, tell me who the gun belongs to, or I’m going to pick up Declan and his uncle right now.”

“Right after you eat,” said Darla.

“Fine.”

“I have a new theory about the murder,” said Charlotte moving toward the food. Frank couldn’t make her talk if her mouth was full. She looked down into the bowl and saw the potato-filled dumplings floating in a sea of melted butter. Her stomach growled.

“Potato and cheese?” she asked.

Mariska nodded, already pulling a plate for her from Darla’s cabinets. The two women knew each other’s kitchens as if they were their own.

“I have some fabulous kielbasa, too. Sit down. I’ll bring it to you.”

“Hi, Bob,” she said, sitting back down in her chair.

“Hey,” said Bob from Frank’s comfy chair. “I’m glad you were all hungry. If she asked me if I could finish that bowl one more time I was going to have to move out.”

“Oh you shush,” said Mariska, kicking the side of the chair as she passed it to put down Charlotte’s plate.

Charlotte cut a pierogi in half with her fork and gobbled it down.

“I’ll bite. What’s your new theory?” asked Frank, sitting with his own plate of Polish heaven.

“What if the love letters they found under George’s orange tree aren’t by George senior, but George junior?”

Mariska’s mouth fell open.

“He’s just a boy!”

“He’s in his forties now,” said Bob.

Mariska shook her head. “Where do the years go?”

“He caught me outside and said hi; said he was back in town to support his parents. But maybe he’s back in town to make sure he isn’t about to get in trouble himself?”

“Maybe. If he was guilty he’d be better off half way to Mexico,” said Frank, thoughtfully swirling a piece of kielbasa in a pool of mustard.

“Maybe coming to the scene of the crime isn’t the best move, or maybe that’s the best way to keep control of things,” suggested Charlotte.

“We found out about the letters from an anonymous phone call. Why would he set his father up for the murder after all these years? And how could he be sure we wouldn’t know the letters were his?”

“Maybe he didn’t make the phone call and his father took the blame to protect him. Maybe he’s here to thank him and help.”

“This just keeps getting worse and worse,” said Mariska, trying to sneak a second piece of sausage onto Charlotte’s plate. Charlotte fought it off with her fork, and then gave in as it found a home among the dumplings.

“All I know is Mariska and Darla aren’t keeping any secrets,” mumbled Bob. “If those two were in charge of keeping the enigma code in World War II, the German’s wouldn’t have lasted a day.”

Mariska glared at him and Bob returned to flipping through Frank’s television channels without further comment.

“Did I see Declan’s car in your driveway a little bit ago?” asked Mariska.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. She hadn’t done a thing in her entire life that Mariska didn’t see, judge and comment upon.

“Yes. Twice. First time, I shared my theory on Seamus and he was none too happy. Then Brad showed up and what a mess.”

“Bingo,” said Frank. “I knew it was Seamus.”

“Declan was jealous?” asked Mariska.

Charlotte stared at Frank a moment, cognizant that she’d slipped. Frank definitely knew the gun belonged to Seamus now. She decided not to make it worse and turned to Mariska.

“When I say it was a mess, I mean that literally. Brad brought me some cheesy cocktail ingredient to make up for being a bore earlier and, long story short, Declan ran him off. His revenge was to throw the bottle on my driveway.”

Charlotte made an explosion noise and threw up her hands.

“Oh! I am going to talk to Gladys about that asshole!” said Darla, throwing a fork in the sink with a clatter.

Usually, Mariska would reprimand her friend for her language, but instead she stood, grinning at Charlotte. It was unnerving.

“What?”

Mariska’s smile grew broader. “Declan was jealous.”

“He was just being a gentleman. He—”

Charlotte’s cell phone rang and she stopped in mid thought, scrambling to grab it.

“Hello?”

“It’s Declan.”

“I know. What’s going on?”

“Darla! Did you get that pepper jelly recipe from Penny?”

Charlotte looked up from her phone, she could barely hear with Mariska talking in the background.

“I’m sorry, what did you say? I’m here with…with everyone. Did you talk to…” Charlotte shot a furtive glance at Frank and then decided there was no point to hiding the owner of the gun at this point. “Did you talk to Seamus?”

“I did, it wasn’t him. We—”

“I did! I got the recipe and I found out what we did wrong with the last batch. Turns out you have to—”

“Darla!” snapped Charlotte. “For the love of Ball canning jars, will you two hush?”

“Sorry,” mumbled Darla.

“I’m sorry, can you say that again?” she asked Declan.

“We traced the gun to the original owner. Seamus said he took the gun from the pawnshop, but he never bothered to see who’d sold it. We went to the shop and found the old bill of sale. You’ll never guess whose gun it is.”

“We don’t have to use pectin at all,” whispered Darla as she picked up Charlotte’s plate.

“We don’t?” replied Mariska in the same volume ten whisper.

“Aah!” said Charlotte, sticking her finger in her opposite ear. “Who?”

Charlotte’s jaw fell slack.

“Come here,” she said. “Frank’s going to come get you if you don’t show up, so just come here and bring the paperwork.”

Charlotte hung up and took a moment to stare at Darla and Mariska as she shook her head.

“What?” asked Darla. “Oh. Like
you
knew you could make jelly without pectin.”

Charlotte put down her phone and turned to Frank. As she did, there was a knock on the door.

“Could this place be any louder?” asked Charlotte.

“Charlotte!” said Frank. “Was that Declan? Is he coming here?”

“You’re all crazy,” mumbled Bob from his chair. “Are there any pierogis left? You didn’t eat them all, did you?”

Charlotte locked eyes with Frank, trying desperately to block out the commotion.

“Declan confronted his uncle about the ballistics test.”

“So it
was
Seamus’ gun.”

“Yes. But he didn’t do it.”

“That’s something for the lawyers to sort out,” said Frank, waving dismissively.

“No, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Seamus used to own the pawnshop before Declan. He took the gun from there shortly after Erin went missing. He didn’t know who sold it to them, he just liked the gun. So he and Declan went to the shop and dug up the old pawn records.”

“And?”

“And it was
George
. George Sambrooke sold the gun to the pawnshop ten days after Erin went missing.”

Frank looked at the picture of the gun on the table beside him. He planted a stubby finger on it.

“‘S’ for ‘Sambrooke.’”

Charlotte leaned forward to look at the photo and saw a swirly ‘S’ engraved into the gun just above the grips.

“Sambrooke?” said a voice.

Charlotte looked up and saw Penny standing beside Frank, two jars of pepper jelly in her hand. She looked down at the photo. Charlotte watched as the color in her face packed up and headed out of town.

“Why do you have a picture of my gun?” she asked.

A jar of jelly slipped from her left hand and bounced on the carpet, rolling to a stop against Charlotte’s toes.