Pineapple Lies (2 page)

“Move the rocks,” Charlotte repeated, demonstrating the process with her spade. “Stop making a mess or I’ll let Abby out and then you’ll be in trouble.”

Katie ignored her and resumed digging, sand arcing behind her, piling against the fence.

“You better watch it, missy, or the next item on the list will be to
fix the fence
.”

Katie eyeballed her again, her crooked bottom teeth jutting from her mouth. She looked like a furry can opener.

“Fix your face.”

Katie snorted a spray of snot and returned to digging.

Charlotte removed several bits of concrete and then shifted her kneepad a few feet closer to Katie. She saw a flash of white and felt something settle against her hand. Katie sat beside her, tail wagging, tongue lolling from the left side of her mouth. Between the dog and her hand sat the prize Katie had been so determined to unearth.

Charlotte froze, one word repeating in her mind, picking up pace until it was an unintelligible crescendo of nonsense.

Skull. Skull skull skullskullskullskuuuuulllll…

She blinked, certain that when she opened her eyes the object would have taken its proper shape as a rock or pile of sand.

Nope.

The eye sockets stared back at her.

Hi. Nice to meet you. I’m human skull. What’s up, girl?

The lower jaw was missing. The cranium was nearly as large as Katie and a similar off-white color, though the skull had better teeth.

Charlotte realized the forehead of this boney intruder rested against her pinky. She whipped her hand away. The skull rocked toward her, as if in pursuit, and she scrambled back as it rolled in her direction, slow and relentless as a movie mummy. Katie ran after the skull and pounced on it, stopping its progress.

Charlotte put her hand on her chest, breathing heavily.

“Thank you.”

Her brain raced to process the meaning of a human head in her backyard.

It has to be a joke…maybe some weird dog toy…

Charlotte gently tapped the skull with her shovel. It didn’t feel like cloth or rawhide. It made a sharp-yet-thuddy noise, just the sort of sound she suspected a human skull might make. If she had to compare the tone to something, it would be the sound of a girl about to freak out, tapping a metal shovel on a human skull.

“Oh, Katie. What did you find?”

The question increased Katie’s rate of tail wag. She yipped and ran back to the hole she’d dug, retrieving the lower jaw.

“Oh no… Stop that! You sick little—”

Katie stood, human jawbone clenched in her teeth, tail wagging so furiously that Charlotte thought she might lift off like a chubby little helicopter. The terrier spun and skittered through the fence back to her own yard, dragging her prize in tow. The jawbone stuck in the fence for a moment, but Katie wrestled it through and disappeared into her yard.

“Katie no!” said Charlotte, reaching toward the retreating dog. “Katie! I’m pretty sure that has to stay with the head!”

She leaned forward and nearly touched the jawless skull before yanking away her hand.

Whose head is in my garden?

She felt her eyes grew wider, like pancake batter poured in a pan.

Hold the phone.

Heads usually come attached to bodies.

Were there more bones?

What was worse? Finding a whole skeleton or finding
only
a head?

Charlotte hoped the rest of the body lay nearby, and then shook her head at the oddity of the wish.

She glanced around her plot of dirt and realized she might be kneeling in a
whole graveyard
. More bones. More
heads
. She scrambled to her feet and dropped her shovel.

Charlotte glanced at her house, back to where her chalkboard wall patiently waited.

She
really
needed some chalk.

Chapter Two

The Sheriff’s deputies allowed Charlotte to stay in her home while they oversaw the removal of human remains from her garden; the garden she now lovingly referred to as
The Garden Never to be Touched Again.
It wasn’t as catchy as
The Garden of Eatin’
; the nickname one couple in Pineapple Port had dubbed their screened-in porch area, but it would have to do. It was still better than
lanai
. Everyone in Pineapple Port had a
lanai
. Outside of Hawaii, calling a porch a lanai smacked of Sun Belt snobbery. As if Florida sun porches were more exotic than those in Maryland or Vermont.
Maybe they are.
Her fellow Floridians could grow palm trees and dwarf fruit trees in their southern porches. Maybe it was okay to call a porch a lanai.
I mean if it makes everyone happy…

Charlotte rubbed her eyes.

No wonder I never get anything done. I spend time thinking about the dumbest things.
A human head was sitting in her garden and all she could think about was whether she had the right to call a porch a lanai.

Priorities
,
Charlotte, priorities.

Outside, two young deputies stood in drab tan uniforms watching the dig with little interest. Frank Marshall, Darla’s husband and the Manatee County Sheriff, stood beside the diggers, clearly wishing he could be anywhere but standing in the Florida sun watching nerds excavate a body one brushstroke at a time. Whenever Charlotte trotted water to the crowd in her backyard, Frank released an exasperated sigh that conveyed his deep preference for ice-cold beer. When she offered him a bottle, he glanced at his young companions and declined.

“I couldn’t possibly have a
bottle
on duty Charlotte,” he said, retrieving a handkerchief to swab his sweaty forehead. “Not a
bottle
this early.”

“A can?”

Frank tilted his head and peered at her from beneath his brow, encouraging a second guess.

Charlotte considered the emphasis Frank had put on the word
bottle
.

“Aaah…”

She popped back into the house, poured the bottle of beer into a coffee mug, and returned.

“How about coffee?” she asked, handing Frank the mug.

“Oh, sure,” he said, glancing at the younger officers. “I would love some
coffee
.”

“It’s good, I grind the beans myself.”

“Do you, now?”

“They have a nutty, almost hoppy taste, don’t you think?”

Frank glared at her. “Mm,” he grunted, taking a sip. “You should probably go back in. I don’t want you contaminating the scene.”

She grinned and went back inside. Abby barked as she entered and ran towards the front of the house. Charlotte followed her.

“What is it girl? Is Timmy down the well?”

The police had stretched a length of yellow crime tape across Charlotte’s front gate and a line of chattering neighbors stretched from one side to the other. The police might as well have sat in the front yard with a bullhorn screaming, “Scene of the crime! Come see the scene of the crime!” Like sharks to blood, the people of Pineapple Port smelled gossip fodder from miles away.

Charlotte wasn’t only the youngest resident of Pineapple Port, she was the most famous. Growing up in a retirement community made her the local oddity. If she purchased a different brand of coffee, within two hours, the whole neighborhood knew. Crime tape was overkill.

She’d moved to Pineapple Port with her grandmother, Estelle, at age eleven, following her mother’s death from cancer. Estelle had died nine months later. Mariska and Darla were her grandmother’s best friends, and they conspired with Darla’s husband Sherriff Frank, and Pineapple Port’s founders, Penny and George Sambrooke, to allow Charlotte to remain in her grandmother’s home. She spent most of her time at Mariska’s, until her teens, when she officially moved back into her grandmother’s home. Though she lived alone, she had everyone in the community as foster parents, with Mariska and Bob, who lived directly across the street, as primary caregivers.

Growing up in a fifty-five-plus community had pros and cons. The con was having endless other nosey grandmothers watching her every move. The pro was access to golf carts. Everyone in the neighborhood had a cart, some quite fancy. Access to souped-up golf carts was a child’s fantasy, and as a child, she’d dreamed of becoming a professional golf cart racer. She’d been horrified to discover there was no such thing. All other career options paled in comparison.

As an adult the pros and cons of living in the Port shifted. The neighborhood scrutiny contributed to her lackluster love life. That was a
huge
con. The one time a man spent the evening at her home, she’d been greeted by winks or scowls by nearly everyone in the neighborhood the following day. In retrospect, she wished she’d worn a t-shirt that said,
He got to second base and then slept on the sofa.

On the pro side, she never wanted for jams, jellies or crocheted items of any kind. People without an endless supply of homemade jelly really didn’t know what they were missing.

Charlotte returned to her kitchen and watched them dig, drinking the rest of Frank’s beer from her own coffee mug to calm her nerves. The Sheriff wasn’t the only one trying to avoid scrutiny. Frank looked through the window and she held up her mug in cheers. He reciprocated.

As they enjoyed their beers, the forensic team removed and labeled each part of a skeleton. Charlotte watched a tech dust and place what looked like a toe bone into a baggie. She took another sip from her mug.

“I’m her mother!”

Charlotte’s head swiveled toward her front door. She heard arguing. She recognized one voice as that of the female officer guarding her front door. The woman had a terrible demeanor, and her sharp bark was undeniable. The other voices sounded more familiar, particularly the one claiming to be her mother.

She drained her mug.

Charlotte walked to the front door to find Darla and Mariska on her porch, their faces twisted in agitation. From the conversation, she deduced the two were attempting to gain entry by claiming to be her mother and grandmother, but they’d forgotten to agree upon who would play which role, and neither wanted to be the grandmother.

“So, you’re
both
her mother?” asked the officer. “Or you’re both her grandmother?”

Charlotte opened her door just as two other neighbors, Penny and Bettie, joined Mariska and Darla on her stoop.

“Charlotte, dear,” said Mariska. “I was so worried for you. What’s going on? Tell Mama.”

Darla glared at Mariska.

“What’s going on?” asked Penny. “I demand to know what’s going on.”

Charlotte knew she’d have to tell Penny everything. Pineapple Port’s matriarch ruled all the important committees and planned all the events worth attending. Those who disappointed her were doomed to a lifetime of weak bridge partners.

“Your
grandmother
and I are very worried!” said Darla, stepping on Mariska’s toe.

“Hi Charlotte!”

Behind the three louder women stood five-foot-nothing Bettie “Bettie Giraffe” Dahl, adorned in her trademark giraffe-print blouse.

“Hi Bettie, you’re back!” Charlotte said, unsurprised to see her. Bettie had no permanent place of residence. She visited friends until it was time to hop to the next host home, and appeared in Pineapple Port two or three times a year.

Bettie waved. “You look beautiful, Charlotte.”

Bettie never had a bad word to say about anyone, didn’t mind if other people did all the talking and her obsession with giraffes made holiday shopping for her a breeze. Her collection of friends was no mystery.

The officer turned to Charlotte, her thumbs hooked in her belt and her demeanor hovering somewhere between annoyed and simmering volcano. She was clearly a woman of many moods, all of them variations of cranky.

“Two of your mothers are here,” said the officer. “Should I be on the lookout for any more?”

Charlotte shook her head and stepped outside, leading her four visitors away from the door and towards the crime-taped gate.

“What’s going on?” asked Mariska, as Charlotte half-beckoned, half-dragged her away from her front door. She herded the three instigators until they arrived on the edge of her property, as far from the officer as possible. Bettie, Charlotte knew, would follow wherever the others went.

“Are you okay?” asked Darla. “There’s tape everywhere. We thought you were murdered!”

“I’m fine. I was going to call you, but they showed up so fast I didn’t get a chance. Did you read the tape?” Charlotte pointed to the yellow strips draped across her gate. “It says,
Do Not Cross
.”

“It’s on the fence,” said Penny, punctuating her comment with a sniff. She had a sniff for every emotion, from a level one
Not Really Listening to You
to a level ten
Fury
. This was a about a two:
Don’t Waste my Time
. “They didn’t go across your door with it. It’s a mixed message at best and a fine symbol of their infinite incompetence.”

Charlotte paused, waiting for a level five
Why is Everyone so Stupid?
but Penny instead chose a well-timed hair flip, which, according to the body-language thesaurus, landed somewhere between a sniff and an eye-roll.

“We didn’t cross the tape,” said Darla.

“We didn’t cross it,” echoed Penny.

“I didn’t cross it,” said Bettie. She looked at Charlotte with large brown eyes. “I didn’t, did I?”

Charlotte smiled and patted Bettie on the shoulder.

“No, you didn’t cross it, Bettie. None of you did. But we need to disperse this crowd. You’d think Justin Bieber was throwing a concert in my backyard.”

“Who?” asked Penny.

“Oh, he’s that awful Canadian kid,” said Darla. “Needs a good kick in the pants.”

“But what’s going
on
?” asked Mariska again.

Charlotte looked around to be sure no one but her immediate crowd stood within hearing distance.

“After you two left this morning I went to work on my garden and found bones.”

Charlotte said
found bones
in a dramatic whisper. She didn’t mean to; the word
bones
just inspired drama.

Mariska’s eyes grew wide as silver dollar pancakes (one of the dollar-fifty specials at the local diner, half-price on John F. Kennedy’s birthday.) Charlotte knew all the deals in town. She didn’t mean to; she just naturally absorbed that sort of information living in the Port. Coupons, promotions and deals made up twenty percent of local small talk. Fifty percent was medical related; the remaining thirty was a mixture of bragging about grandkids, disapproval, gossip and recipes.

“Whaddya mean,
bones
?” asked Darla.

“Dog bones?” asked Bettie.

Bless her heart.

“Well, it was Franny’s Cairn who did the actual finding, but no,
human
bones. Definitely human bones. A skull, to be exact.”

All four women put their hands to their mouths, except Penny, who put her hands on her hips and cocked her head hard enough to send her short bob haircut swinging.

“That’s ridiculous.”

Charlotte shrugged. “It’s true.”

“There was a body in your yard?” asked Bettie. “A whole body?”

“No skin or clothes, just bones, but yes. When they removed the concrete for my garden, the bones were underneath. They’re old. The police and some forensic guys are back there processing the scene.”

“Ooh, is Frank there?” asked Darla. “I’ll get the whole story from him.”

“He’s there. He isn’t happy about it, but he’s there with two other officers.”

“Two policemen?” asked Bettie, touching her hair. Bettie was an incorrigible flirt.

“Did they bag and tag him yet?” asked Darla.

Darla watched an inordinate number of crime shows. Charlotte could see she was giddy at the opportunity to use her crime slang. Telling food store employees to bag and tag a sack of potatoes just wasn’t as satisfying.

“Are you a person of interest?” asked Penny.

“What? No!”

Charlotte realized the local gossip mill would have her labeled as an escaped convict/serial killer before
Jeopardy!
aired that evening. Even sharing what facts she could would spare her little in the imaginations of bored retirees.

“From what I’ve overheard, the bones are at least ten years old,” Charlotte said, taking a moment to make eye contact with each of the women, except Bettie, who had already lost interest and was watching a Blue Jay hop around the azalea bushes.

“And I can promise you they’re at least fifteen years old, because that cement has been there since my grandmother moved in.
When I was eleven.
I didn’t kill anyone and tunnel them under my grandmother’s porch like some kind of psychotic
Lord of the Rings
dwarf.”