Pineapple Lies (8 page)

“Once or twice,” she said, quickening her pace.

Harry began an abbreviated version of the story, talking in a steady rhythm until Charlotte knocked on Frank’s door and he answered.

“Hey Char. How can I help you?”

“Harry found something.” She pointed to him and he held up the sandwich bag. “It was near the grave. He found it with his metal detector.”

“Seems your people missed it,” said Harry.

Charlotte watched as a dark cloud passed over Frank’s countenance.

“They weren’t
my
people. They were from the big city.”

Harry barked a scratchy, humorless laugh.

“Sorry. When you’re from Chicago it’s funny to hear people call Tampa
the big city
.”

Sheriff Marshall ran his tongue over his teeth and reached to take the bag from Harry.

“What you paint the bag black for?” he asked, straining to see the bullet.

“I labeled it. Her pens were too fat.”

“I beg your pardon!” said Charlotte, pretending to be offended.

Frank looked at her and chuckled.

“Come on in,” he said, grabbing a pair of reading glasses from the counter beside the door to study the object.

“It’s a .380,” said Harry.

“Might be a 9mm,” said the Sheriff, squinting at it through his glasses. “Though, I can barely make it out through the short story written on the bag. It could be a tiny cannon or a ham sandwich.”

“It’s a .380.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Do you think it killed her?” asked Charlotte.

“Could be. Could be some weird coincidence.”

Harry snorted. “I doubt it.”

“You say this was in the grave?”

“It was in the pile of dirt Katie dug. A few feet away, up against the fence.”

Frank nodded and put the bag on the end of his counter.

“I’ll make sure this gets to the right people.”

Harry’s smile dropped and his gaze fell upon the bag. For a moment, Charlotte thought he might grab it and sprint out the door.

“I could take it somewhere if you tell me where,” he said. “I don’t mind.”

“I got it,” said Frank, sliding the bag farther from Harry’s reach and ushering them both towards the door.

Outside, Charlotte waited for Harry to pick a direction and then with a quick goodbye, opted to walk the opposite way. All roads led to every other in the community; she could get home either way. She preferred to travel without another cold case story. She was
living
a cold case story, she didn’t need more.

Chapter Eight

Charlotte didn’t go directly to Declan’s pawnshop. First, she went food shopping. Then, she pretended to head for home, looped around driving aimlessly, and finally turned down the road that led to the pawnshop.

She wasn’t sure who she was kidding. She didn’t need to manufacture an excuse to see Declan. He needed to know about the bullet. The problem was she’d freshened her makeup before leaving her home; not something she normally did. It made her feel as if part of her mind had an ulterior motive for visiting the sexy salesman. A reason not related to the case. She pictured his chiseled jaw and the manly curve of his neck and felt a tingle.

Maybe it wasn’t her
mind
with the ulterior motives.

Charlotte flew by the Hock o’ Bell, taking it for an actual Taco Bell restaurant. The stucco walls and arches betrayed its former purpose. She’d thought Declan’s restaurant repurposing idea was clever when she met him, but now she wondered if it wasn’t a little confusing. How many people pulled into the parking lot searching for burritos, only to find creepy antique dolls and jewelry? Maybe he should sell food, too. He could have stuffed deer heads with hot dogs balanced on their antlers…serve everything on an endless supply of antique candy dishes…

She made an illegal U-turn and pulled into the shop’s parking lot. An avalanche of nerves rumbled through her body. Declan was easy to talk to, she had nothing to fear, but she felt
weird
around him, as though he kept catching her
looking
at him. When she talked to other people and they looked at her, it felt normal; after all, she was having a conversation with them. When she talked to Declan and he looked at her with those impossibly green eyes, she felt…
caught
.

“I’m being silly,” she said aloud.

She’d so wanted to dismiss him as a money-hungry ambulance chaser, but he didn’t seem like a ghoulish type. He seemed nice. Maybe even a little sad and vulnerable. In addition, didn’t Darla and Mariska go to estate sales all the time to buy items from the dead? Wasn’t that the same thing?

But wait!
Half the residents of Pineapple Port thought Declan was gay, so the idea of coupling with him might be more impossible than it already seemed. Granted,
she
didn’t think he was gay, but then, she was less likely to jump to conclusions than the denizens of the Port. They thought any man who used hair gel was gay. They probably took one look at Declan’s well-manicured nails and never looked back. Most of them had grown up in a time when a man who wore matching clothes was suspect.

Charlotte took a deep breath and opened her car door. She
needed
to talk to Declan. She had every right to be there. Nay, she was honor-bound to be there! First, she didn’t feel right attending the
Corpse Committee
without his blessing. Of course, she also didn’t feel great about telling him her neighborhood
had
a
Corpse Committee
.

Second, she needed to tell him about the bullet. He deserved to know about any evidence that could help solve his mother’s murder.

Charlotte opened the shop door to the sound of a bell ringing. Not a gonging bell, like the shape of the building might imply; but an old-fashioned tinkling retail bell tied to the door hinge. The store appeared empty of people, but stuffed with rows of furniture and trinkets. As she stepped inside, she stopped to admire a huge armoire that appeared large enough to lead to other lands. Her mind wandered. Did French children called C.S. Lewis’ book
The Lion, the Witch and the Armoire
? What was the French word for lion? Was it Lyonnaise? No, that was a kind of French fry. She definitely didn’t know the French word for witch…
Le witch?

“Hello?”

Charlotte jumped and found Declan standing beside her.

“Why are you always sneaking up on me?” she asked, her hand pressed against her rapidly beating heart.

“I’m pretty sure you just came into my store. I didn’t sneak my store
around you
.”

Charlotte let her gaze drop from his eyes to his toes and back again. He wore a red polo and khaki shorts; the polo once again hanging neatly from the slope of his perky pecs.

So the blue polo wasn’t responsible for making you look well built.

It had to be what was
underneath
the polo.

Dammit.

Charlotte cleared her throat and looked away.

“That would be quite a trick,” she said.

“What?”

“Sneaking your store around me.”

“Oh. Right. That’s my point.”

Declan looked away and then came back to her.

Why do
you
look flustered? We can’t
both
be flustered.

“Sorry, you’re right. My fault. My mind was a million miles away,” she said, largely to keep herself from saying something even more awkward.

“That happens with you I’ve noticed.”

Charlotte nodded.

“Old habit,” she muttered, looking around the store to avoid his eyes.

“Why’s that?”

Charlotte ignored his question.

“Hey, you don’t happen to know…” she trailed off, realizing how weird she was about to sound.

“What?”

“You don’t know the French word for lion, do you?”

“Did you come here to ask me that?”

“No…” She took a few steps away, dragging her finger along a low walnut bureau as she moved, as if testing it for dust. She didn’t know why she did it. But now, the urge to check her finger for dust was overwhelming.

“Nice shop,” she said, rubbing her fingers together.

I don’t feel dust…don’t look. He’ll know. Don’t look…

“Thank you.”

“It isn’t nearly as smarmy as I thought it would be,” she added, taking a quick look at her fingers.

No dust.

“Uh…thanks, I guess. I should use that in my ads:
Hock O’Bell: Not nearly as smarmy as you think.
”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No. No problem. I had a big blowout last month and sold most of my smarm. Can I help you with something? How are you?”

“I’m good. I suppose I should be the one asking you, though.”

Declan shrugged. “It’s upsetting, of course, but in my heart I knew my mother didn’t leave me. Part of me knew she was gone.”

“Did they confirm it was her? Did you hear?”

“No, but the timing and the necklace…I don’t see how it couldn’t be.”

Charlotte nodded.

“Now I just need to find out why and how it happened,” he said, running his fingers through his dark hair. One wavy curl fell on his forehead as he dropped his hand, making him look like Superman. Superman in a polo and khakis; which she reasoned was really more Clark Kent’s style, but he didn’t have those glasses on that tricked people into thinking he was an entirely different, incredibly built, handsome guy.

“Do you ever wear glasses?” she asked.

“What?” He raised one eyebrow. “Why would I wear glasses? You mean sunglasses?”

“No, I mean
glasses
glasses. Like, with thick black frames.”

“Uh…no. Should I ask you why you ask? Or will I regret that?”

Charlotte shrugged. “No, don’t ask. I think
I’ll
regret it if you do.”

“Fair enough. Can I ask why you stopped by one more time with the
tiniest
bit of hope that you might answer?”

“Oh! Sorry. I actually have two things to tell you. First, Harry Wagner came by my house. He’s an ex-cop who used to work cold cases. He’s a little obsessed with them. Anyway, he showed up with a metal detector and found a bullet in my backyard.”

“A bullet? Where they found the body?”

“Yes. We gave it to Frank
—
er, Sheriff Marshall, so he can pass it on to the forensic people.”

“Who would shoot my mother?” Declan wondered aloud. “Not only shoot her, but take the time to bury her. It’s not like she was shot walking into a convenience store robbery or something.”

“It might not be related. It could be some crazy coincidence.”

“I guess… Thank you.” He thrust his hands in his pockets and then seemed to catch himself as his thoughts began to drift. He focused on her and she felt the urge to duck behind the nearest sofa.

“You said there were two things?”

“Oh right.” Charlotte looked at the ground and traced a circle on the floor with her foot. “Um…the lady who owns Pineapple Port, Penny, started a committee to address your mother’s discovery.”

“A committee?”

“There’s a committee for everything. Someone sneezes funny and they start the Funny Sneezes Committee.”

“Really. What are they calling this one? The Skeleton in Charlotte’s Yard Committee?”

Charlotte felt her face growing hot with embarrassment. “Uh…
worse
.”

Declan stared at her, awaiting her answer. She considered lying, but as she looked down and into her purse, she spotted the folded committee flyer. She had to tell him the truth; he would find out, anyway.

“
The Corpse Committee
.”

Declan bit his lip. “Oh boy. That’s definitely catchier than my suggestion.”

“They like alliteration. Sorry.”

“
Crime Committee
might have been good.”

“I think they hoped the sensational name would attract more attendees. They once had a committee to discuss hiring a new organic lawn service and called it the
Deadly Poison Club
.”

“Well, at least they didn’t call Mom’s committee the Corpse
Club
. That sounds like a teenage paranormal series.”

Charlotte laughed.

“Well, whatever they call it, it isn’t necessarily a bad idea. A lot of the older residents have been here since before your mother’s murder, and someone might remember something. You never know.”

“That would be great. They’ll probably find very little evidence with the bones. I don’t have high hopes.”

“I brought you a flyer,” said Charlotte. She handed him the pink sheet of paper with
Corpse Committee
across the top in bold letters. Beneath the title was a picture of a chalk outline.

Declan looked at the flyer and then back at her.

“Wow.”

“Sorry. But the date and time is on there if you want to attend.”

“I will,” he said, folding the sheet. “My uncle will, too.”

“Your uncle lives nearby?”

“He’s moving back from Miami. He’s retiring here.”

“Oh, well I bet it will be nice to have him near.”

“We’ll see about that,” he said, nodding his head from side to side. “He’s a character.”

Charlotte looked around the store, unsure what to say next.

“Okay, well, I thought you’d like to know about the group and the bullet. Maybe you could bring some photos of your mother? They might jog someone’s memory?”

“Good idea. I will.”

Charlotte took a few steps towards the door.

“And you could bring your, uh…significant other, if you like,” she said, turning.

He smiled. “My dog?”

“Do you have a dog?”

“No.”

“Oh, well I wouldn’t anyway. Some of the ladies carry their little rat dogs around with them and they don’t get along with other dogs. By
other
I meant if you had, you know…someone special in your life.”

“Someone special in my life,” echoed Declan. “You sound like a greeting card.”

Charlotte opened her mouth, frantic to better phrase her thought. He held up a palm to stop her from speaking.

“Got it. I was just messing with you. I know half of Pineapple Port thinks I’m gay.”

Charlotte took a deep breath and puffed her cheeks, exhaling with a pop of her lips.

“I’d say it’s closer to sixty percent…but I’m guessing you’re
not
by the way you phrased that?”

“
Just
by the way I phrased that?”

“Well, you have to admit you hit a lot of the stereotypes. You’ve got a nice haircut, your nails are buffed, you’re well dressed, you look like you work out, you’re handso
—
”

Charlotte stopped and glanced at Declan to see if he’d registered where her last word was heading.

He laughed. “Okay, you’ve convinced me. I’ve had it all wrong all these years…”

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose with her hand. “Sorry,” she said, shaking her head.