Pineapple Lies (15 page)

After her ferocious burst of energy, Dottie locked the door and shuffled to Mariska’s car with all the speed of a buffering video. Charlotte hopped out and offered help, but the woman waved her away with an angry grunt. Dottie collapsed into the front seat of Mariska’s VW Jetta and then slammed its door into her walker, repeatedly, until it gave up and toppled out of the way.

Mariska covered her ears as Dottie yanked the passenger door shut with a thunderous clap. Charlotte, who knew better than to sit in the car when Dottie closed her door, collapsed the walker and put it in Mariska’s trunk.

Dottie had the legs of an eighty-five year old woman and the arms of a steelworker with a secret passion for mixed martial arts. She sat her purse on her lap. Without a word or nod to Mariska, she looked forward and twiddled her thumbs, ready to go.

Charlotte slid into the backseat.

“It’s on Citrus, right Dottie?” asked Mariska as she pulled away from the curb.

“What’s that?”

“Your daughter; she lives on Citrus, right?”

“No! She lives on Citrus!”

“Right, okay, dear.”

They pulled onto the highway and Dottie’s head began to bob as if she was listening to heavy metal music. Charlotte shimmied to sit behind Mariska to gain a better view of Dottie’s face, curious as to what expression might accompany her rhythmic head-banging. The new angle revealed that Dottie wasn’t bobbing her head; her wig was flipping back and forth on her scalp. The breeze caused by the open sunroof made it look as though her white curls cordially tipped hello to every passerby, except that Dottie had never been that friendly in her life.

Charlotte covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. She caught Mariska’s eye in her rearview mirror and pointed to her own head and then Dottie. Mariska glanced over and saw the wig flapping in the breeze.

“Oh!”

Mariska tried to stifle a laugh, but only delayed it long enough to build pressure for a lip explosion.

“Dottie your wig…”

Dottie didn’t register the comment and Mariska starting laughing too hard to try again. A strong gust flipped the wig back until it stood straight above Dottie’s head like an open teapot, supported by the headrest that towered over the tiny woman. Her own wispy white hair danced in the breeze like cilia beneath her raised cap of curls. She didn’t notice. As the curls flung back, Charlotte squealed with giggles and clamped a second hand over her mouth. A tear of laughter rolled down Mariska’s cheek.

Dottie’s daughter lived nearby, and Mariska pulled in front of her home a minute later. As Mariska braked, Dottie’s hair flopped back onto her head, settling in place as if it had never moved. She shot a look at Charlotte and touched her hand to her head.

“Did you touch my head?” she barked.

“No! Absolutely not!”

Charlotte hopped out of the car, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. She retrieved the walker and set it up, nearly losing a hip to the car door as Dottie flung it open and stepped out onto the curb. She tried to help Dottie to her walker, but the woman ripped her arm from her grasp.

“I can walk,” she said.

“Sorry.”

Charlotte weaved around Dottie and sat back in the passenger seat. She refused to look at Mariska until they were moving. Ten feet down the road, the two women looked at each other and cackled once more.

“Oh, by the way,” said Charlotte as they laughed together. “I decided I hate loofah mitts.”

Mariska’s laughing slowed.

“Hate them?”

“Hate them.”

“Okay.”

“And those rainbow-colored crinoline balls.”

“But they’re so pretty!”

“Horrible. Impossible to use. They look like My Pretty Pony poops.”

Mariska huffed.

“Fine,” she said after a moment. “But your baths must be awfully boring.”

Only one other woman sat in Another Nail salon. The owners were Vietnamese and most people assumed they’d misunderstood the English idiom
Another nail in the coffin
, but with the salon located in the middle of retirement country, Charlotte felt confident they hadn’t misunderstood anything.

The woman enjoying her nail buff was Susan Strazza, a familiar Pineapple Port resident. Mariska and Charlotte waved and said hello before taking their places in their favorite pedicure chairs. Charlotte knew she spent too much of her meager income on pedicures, but she liked them and she lived in Florida. She imagined the money that people in Maine saved on pedicures they turned around and spent on socks.

As warm water filled the foot bowl, Charlotte ran through the various settings of her massage chair. She liked the shiatsu setting that poked her hard beneath the shoulder blades, but it took some skill to force the mechanical thumb to stick in just the right position.

“So anything new?” asked Mariska.

“A lot. I went to see Declan last night.”

“Did you!”

“I was there when that Declan fellow was picking through poor dead Laurie’s things,” said Susan without turning. “He said her miniature tea set was
darling
. Straight men don’t say
darling
so I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

“I’m sure he was surrounded by old ladies and trying to be polite,” said Mariska.

Susan scoffed.

“And that has nothing to do with anything anyway,” said Charlotte. “I went to talk to him, not to marry him.”

Susan chose not to respond.

“Did he kiss you?” asked Mariska in her version of a conspiratorial whisper. Mariska’s whisper-voice was so loud, the nail tech’s family back in Vietnam could probably hear her.

“No. We…we might have had a moment though.”

“Oh!” said Mariska, her face blooming with surprised delight as if someone had goosed her.

“But,
again
, that isn’t why I went there. Al Taliferro came to my house after the meeting yesterday. He told me—”

Charlotte spotted Susan tilting toward her like a tree in a strong breeze. She leaned closer to Mariska to whisper.

“He told me he thought he nearly hit a girl on the side of the road with his car about the time that Erin went missing.”

“What?”

Susan’s head swiveled. “What?”

“I said Al told me his secret pizzelle recipe.”

“Oh,” said Susan. “I already have that.”

Mariska lightly slapped Charlotte’s arm to regain her attention.

“Did he—?”

“I don’t think he did,” she said, cutting Mariska’s incompetent whispering short.

“Oh good. That would be terrible.”

“I’ll give you more details later, but I don’t think the two things are related. I had him tell his story to Frank just in case. He wanted to.”

“Oh double good. Frank should know.”

“Frank doesn’t even eat pizzelles,” said Susan, craning her neck to look at them. “I tried to give him one once and he turned it down.”

“That’s funny,” said Charlotte. “He ate a whole plate of mine and then asked for more.”

Susan caught eyes with Charlotte in the mirrored wall behind her nail tech, scowled, and looked away.

“You’re terrible,” said Mariska. “So, you told Declan about Al?”

“Yes. That, and—”

Charlotte trailed off and glanced at Susan. She covered her mouth and leaned towards Mariska.

“Frank got the autopsy back, and it is
definitely
Declan’s mom.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.”

“You want eyebrow today?” asked the girl working on Charlotte’s toes.

“Yes, thank you.”

“You want mustache?” the girl asked, rubbing her finger under her nose.

Charlotte groaned. Every time she came to the salon one of the girls scolded her for the gunslinger’s mustache they insisted she had. Charlotte didn’t see any mustache, but they managed to shame her into agreeing to have the invisible hairs removed fifty percent of the time.

“Sure.”

Susan’s phone rang and the nail tech held it to her ear to avoid ruining her manicure.

“Hello?’ said Susan, much too loudly. The nail tech winced and leaned away from her.

“What? Oh! I’ll be right there!”

She nodded to the tech to hang up the phone and pulled her nails out of the tiny nail driers. The tech dropped the phone into her handbag on the floor.

“Is everything okay, Susan?” asked Mariska.

With her foot, Susan pushed her purse towards the woman at the checkout counter and pointed at it with a bright pink nail. Familiar with the drill, the cashier picked up the purse, retrieved Susan’s wallet and extracted the appropriate amount of cash.

“There are police cars all around George and Penny’s house!”

“What?” said Charlotte. “Are they okay?”

Susan shrugged. “I said
police
, not ambulance.”

Mariska’s phone rang and she scrambled to pull it from her pocketbook.

“Hello?”

Mariska put her hand over the phone. “It’s Darla.”

“Susan just went running out of here,” said Mariska, watching Susan do just that. “Something about police cars at George and Penny’s? Are they okay? Is there an ambulance?”

There was a pause before Mariska added, “We’ll be there as soon as we’re done! Call me if you hear anything else!”

“What is it?”

“Oh, you’ll never believe it.”

“What?”

“They think George killed Declan’s mother!”

Chapter Seventeen

By the time Charlotte and Mariska took their beautiful toes back to Pineapple Port, a crowd had gathered around George and Penny Sambrooke’s home. Mariska pulled over and parked not far from the scene and the two of them walked straight to Darla, who stood with the others behind the crime tape at the edge of George’s beloved lawn.

“Crime tape in Pineapple Port twice in one week,” said Mariska, ending her thought with a series of disapproving tongue-clucking noises.

“Darla!” said Charlotte. “What’s going on?”

Darla turned, revealing her t-shirt, blue, with the words,
I’m not old, I’m vintage
stamped across the chest. Charlotte had given it to her for Christmas the year before, and she smiled to see her wearing it.

“Oh, girls, I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Did Frank tell you what’s going on?”

“He got a phone call this morning,” she said, walking away from the crowd and motioning them to follow.

Charlotte glanced at the crowd and saw several sets of eyes follow their progress. They strolled until they were out of earshot.

“Go on!” said Mariska. “We’re far enough away.”

“Have you
heard
you whisper? No? You know who has?
Everyone
.”

“Oh, just talk,” said Mariska, scowling.

“Fine.”

Darla stopped and crouched towards the other two, speaking low.

“So, Frank got a call; an anonymous call. Frank said it sounded like a man but the voice was funny, like he was talking through one of those voice changer thingies, so he couldn’t really be sure. The man said George killed Erin Bingham and he could prove it.”

“That’s crazy!” said Charlotte. “George has barely said four words since I met him and now he’s a killer?”

“It’s always the quiet ones,” said Mariska, shaking her head.

“I think he just can’t get a word in when Penny is around,” said Darla.

“Did he say anything else?” asked Charlotte. “How could he prove it?”

“He said the proof was buried underneath the orange tree in George’s backyard.”

Mariska gasped and covered her mouth.

“He buried her under the orange tree!”

Darla and Charlotte looked at her, brows furrowed.

“He buried her in my backyard. Remember?”

“Oh, right,” said Mariska, her hand slowly dropping her from her face. Her palm had barely passed her chin before it shot back up and she gasped again.

“He buried the
weapon
under the orange tree!”

“Or his other victims,” said Darla. “He could be a serial killer.”

Mariska gasped again.

“You’re going to hyperventilate,” said Charlotte.

Mariska moved her hand to the side of her face and shook her head, seemingly dumfounded by all the possibilities.

“How would this other person know George was the killer or about what’s under his orange tree?” asked Charlotte. “Unless they killed her together…”

“Oh no,” said Darla. “I didn’t even think of that. Poor girl; killed by two people!”

“I don’t think the number of murderers makes you more dead,” said Charlotte.

“It just seems scarier.”

“Where’s Frank now?”

“Standing by the orange tree while the crime guys dig up the evidence.”

“Can you call him and ask him what’s going on?”

Darla twisted her lips into a tiny knot. “I’m not supposed to call him when he’s working.”

Charlotte considered this, trying to picture the layout of George’s yard in her mind.

“Isn’t there a hedge between George’s yard and Jenny Teacup’s?”

Jenny Teacup’s last name was actually Teehan, but she collected antique tea sets. Someone called her Jenny Teacup once, and the nickname stuck. This supported Charlotte’s supposition that retirement communities were a lot like high school. She’d attended both high school and Pineapple Port simultaneously, so she knew better than anyone.

Darla nodded slowly. “There’s that gorgeous bougainvillea hedge between his house and Jenny’s; George’s pride and joy. Why?”

“We could stand behind the hedge and whisper to Frank.”

Darla’s and Mariska’s eyes both flashed wide and white.

“Brilliant, girl,” said Darla. “Let’s go.”

With furtive glances toward the crowd, the three women walked the long way around the block until they reached Jenny Teacup’s home. They had seen Jenny in the crowd with the others, so they walked brazenly past her house and into her backyard. They stood as close to the orange tree as they could get. Darla peeked between the hedge branches until she spotted her husband.

“I have to get his attention,” whispered Darla. “There are state cops nearby.”

“Text him,” said Charlotte.

“I guess one little text can’t hurt, but I don’t have my phone.”

“I have my phone,” said Mariska, pulling it from her pocketbook and handing it to Darla. Darla looked at it as if it were a Chinese puzzle box and then finally flipped it open.

“Sweetie, you need to upgrade this phone. You need to get yourself a smart phone.”

“Phones aren’t supposed to be smart.”

“Will you two hens hush?” said Charlotte.

“Hush, hush, sweet Charlotte,” mumbled Darla, putting the phone against her ear as Mariska giggled.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. She didn’t dare say another word or Darla and Mariska would start cackling. It took very little for them to catch the giggles.

They heard Frank’s phone ping on the opposite side of the hedge and he excused himself to look at the text. He read it, looked at the hedge, and then moved towards them.

“Frank,” hissed Darla through the leaves.

“Darla, I’m in the middle of official business. I can’t talk to you right now.”

“I need you to tell us what’s going on.”

“I don’t know yet. They’ve been digging a while, but they haven’t found anything. I can’t be here talking to you.”

“You tell me everything you know or I’ll reach through this damn bush and pat your bald head.”

She reached through the bush and touched Frank’s face.

“Darla! For the love of…”

“We’ll be here; you just tell us what you see as you see it.”

“Got something!” said another voice.

“Who is
us
?” asked Frank, peeking through the leaves.

“Mariska and Char—”

“Never mind. I know who,” he said. “Am I supposed to sit here and look like a crazy person talking to myself?”

“You don’t have to talk all the time! Just the important stuff. Cover your mouth with your hand. Come on, you’re a sheriff!”

Charlotte heard Frank sigh. The four of them stood in silence for several minutes.

“This is so exciting,” said Mariska in her stage whisper.

Charlotte put her finger against her lip to shush her.

Mariska pulled an imaginary zipper across her lips.

“It looks like a box,” whispered Frank from the opposite side of the hedge.

“A box?” said Darla. “Like a treasure chest or like a cardboard box?”

“Like a shoebox, but metal.”

“They gonna open it?’

“I don’t know…I guess they are…hold on, they’re looking at it.”

They all held as still as possible.

“They opened it. It wasn’t locked. It’s full of papers.”

“Papers? Not a gun?”

“Or a knife?” said Mariska, poking Darla in the ribs.

“Or a knife?” echoed Darla into the hedge.

“No, it’s all papers. He’s trying to open one to read it. He’s got those gloves on so it’s hard.”

“Oh, I would imagine that’s hard,” said Mariska. “I can’t grab anything small when I wear my dishwashing gloves.”

“Whatcha got there, Billy?” asked Frank in a much louder tone. The three women jumped at the sound of his voice and Darla fell sideways and then into the bush. Mariska and Charlotte rushed to extract her before her thrashing made too much noise.

“Looks like love letters,” said another man. “Between George and Erin.”

Mariska and Darla gasped, even as Darla tried to remove a flower plastered to her cheek.

“You’re going to inhale that flower and choke to death,” said Charlotte.

“George was having an affair!” said Darla.

“It looks like he killed Declan’s mom and it’s the
affair
that worries you?”

“Oh, that too,” said Mariska. “Terrible.”

Darla nodded in agreement.

“But I can’t believe George cheated on Penny. He’s always so quiet!”

“It’s always the quiet ones,” said Mariska again.

“Erin must have been fifteen years younger than him, too.”

“It’s always the young ones,” said Mariska.

“Frank!” whispered Darla as loudly as she could.

Frank walked back towards the hedge.

“Darla, not now!”

“Get me copies.”

“What?”

“Get me copies of the love letters!”

“I can’t do that!”

“Tell them you want to review them for clues or something!”

Frank grunted.

“I’ll see what I can do. But I don’t want to hear a peep out of you the next time I come home from the Bourbon Club a little snockered.”

“Fine. You get a one-time pass.”

“Fine,” said Frank, walking away.

“What are you smiling about?” asked Mariska.

Charlotte looked up.

“What? Was I? Nothing. Just thinking I should probably tell Declan about this new development.”

“Aaah…”

Mariska tried to wink, but it looked more like a small stroke. She was a terrible winker.