Authors: Amy Vansant
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Cozy, #Literature & Fiction, #Women's Fiction, #Humor
Pineapple Lies
Pineapple
Lies
A Pineapple Port Mystery: Book One
Amy Vansant
©2015 by Amy Vansant. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by any means, without the permission of the author. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN-10:
0-9837191-6-8
ISBN-13:
978-0-9837191-6-8
Library of Congress: 2015905485
Vansant Creations, LLC / Amy Vansant
Annapolis, MD
http://www.AmyVansant.com
http://www.PineapplePort.com
Cover art by Farik Osman - http://www.sexytoonpinups.com
Copy editing by Carolyn Steele.
“Whachy’all doin’?”
Charlotte jumped, her paintbrush flinging a flurry of black paint droplets across her face. She shuddered and placed her free hand over her heart.
“Darla! You scared me to death!”
“Sorry, Sweetpea, your door was open.”
“Sorry!” echoed Mariska, following close on Darla’s heels.
Charlotte added another stroke of black to her wall and balanced her brush on the edge of the paint can. Standing, her knees cracked a twenty-one-gun salute. She was only twenty-six years old, but had always suffered bad knees. She didn’t mind. Growing up in a fifty-five-plus retirement community, her creaky joints provided something to complain about when the locals swapped war stories about pacemakers and hip replacements. Nobody liked to miss out on that kind of fun.
Charlotte wiped the paint from her forehead with the back of her hand.
“Unlocked and open are not the same thing, ladies. What if I’d had a gentleman caller?”
Darla burst into laughter, the gold chain dangling from her hot-pink-rimmed glasses swinging, and then sobered beneath the weight of Charlotte’s unamused glare. Another pair of plastic-rimmed glasses sat perched like a baby bird on her head, tucked into a nest of champagne-blonde curls.
“Did you lose your other glasses again?” asked Charlotte.
“I did. They’ll turn up.”
Charlotte nodded and tapped the top of her head. “I’m sure.”
Darla’s hand shot to her head.
“Oh, there you go. See? I told you they’d show up.”
Mariska moved closer, nudging Darla out of the way. She threw out her arms, her breezy cotton tunic draping like aqua butterfly wings.
“Morning hug,” she demanded.
Charlotte rolled her eyes and relented. Mariska wrapped her in a bear hug, and she sank into the woman’s snuggly, Polish-grandmother’s body. It was like sitting in a favorite old sofa, rife with missing springs, and then being eaten by it.
“Okay. Can’t breathe,” said Charlotte.
“I’m wearing the top you bought me for Christmas,” Mariska mumbled in Charlotte’s ear as she rocked her back and forth.
“I saw that.”
“It’s very comfortable.”
“This isn’t.
I can’t breathe.
Did I mention that? We’re good. Okay there…”
Mariska released Charlotte and stepped back, her face awash with satisfaction. She turned and looked at the wall, scratching her cheek with flowered, enameled nails as she studied Charlotte’s painting project.
“What are you doing there? Painting your wall black? Are you depressed?”
Charlotte sighed. Darla and Mariska were inseparable; if one wasn’t offering an opinion, the other was picking up the slack.
“You’re not turning into one of those dopey Goth kids now, are you?” asked Darla.
“No, it has nothing to do with my mood. It’s chalkboard paint. I’m making this strip of wall into a giant chalkboard.”
“Why?” Darla asked, her thick, Kentucky accent adding syllables to places the word
why
had never considered having them. Her mouth twisted and her brow lowered. Charlotte couldn’t tell if she disapproved, was confused, or suffering a sharp gas pain. No one guess was more likely than any other.
“Because I think I figured out my problem,” she said.
Darla cackled. “Oh, this oughta be good. You have any coffee left?”
“In the kitchen.”
Darla and Mariska lined up and waddled toward the kitchen like a pair of baby ducks following their mama. Mariska inspected several mugs in the cabinet above the coffee machine and, finding one, put it aside. She handed Darla another. Mariska’s mug of choice was the one she’d given Charlotte after a trip to Colorado’s Pikes Peak. She’d bought the mug for herself, but after Charlotte laughed and explained the double entendre of the slogan emblazoned on the side,
I Got High on Pikes Peak
, she’d thrust it at her, horrified. Mariska remained proud of her fourteen thousand foot spiraling drive to the peak however, so she clandestinely drank from the offending mug whenever she visited.
Charlotte watched as she read the side of the mug, expelled a deep sigh, and poured her coffee. That heartbreaking look was why she hadn’t broached the subject of Mariska’s
I Got Baked in Florida
t-shirt.
The open-plan home allowed the two older women to watch Charlotte as she returned to painting the wall between her pantry door and living area.
“So are you pregnant?” Darla asked. “And after this you’re painting the nursery?”
“Ah, no. That’s not even funny.”
“You’re the youngest woman in Port Pineapple. You’re our only hope for a baby. How can you toss aside the hopes and dreams of three hundred enthusiastic, if rickety, babysitters?”
“I don’t think I’m the youngest woman here anymore. I think Charlie Collins is taking his wife to the prom next week.”
Darla laughed before punctuating her cackle with a grunt of disapproval.
“Stupid men,” she muttered.
Charlotte whisked away the last spot of neutral cream paint with her brush, completing her wall. She turned to find Mariska staring, her thin, over-plucked eyebrows sitting high on her forehead as she awaited the answer to the mystery of the chalkboard wall.
“So you’re going to keep your grocery list on the wall?” asked Mariska. “That’s very clever.”
“Not exactly. Lately, I’ve been asking myself, what’s missing from my life?”
Darla tilted her head. “A man.
Duh
.”
“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, last week it hit me.”
Darla paused, mug nearly to her lips, waiting for Charlotte to continue.
“A chalkboard wall?” asked Mariska.
“A
purpose
!” Charlotte announced with a flourish. “I need to figure out what I want to
be
. My life is missing
purpose
.”
“Oh, is that all,” said Darla. “I think they had that on sale at Target last weekend. Probably still is.”
Charlotte chuckled and busied herself resealing the paint can.
“So you’re going to take up painting?” asked Mariska. “I’ll take a chalkboard wall. I can write Bob messages and make lists…”
“I’ll paint your wall if you like, but starting a painting business isn’t my purpose. The wall is so I can make a to-do list.”
“I have a to-do list,” said Darla. “But it only has one thing on it:
Keep breathing
.”
Mariska giggled.
“I’m going to make goals and write them here,” said Charlotte, gesturing like a game show hostess to best display her wall. “When I accomplish something
,
I get to cross it off. See? I already completed one project; that’s how I know it works.”
There was a knock on the door and Charlotte’s gaze swiveled to the front of the house. Her soft-coated wheaten terrier, Abby, burst out of the bedroom and stood behind the door, barking.
“You forgot to open your blinds this morning,” said Mariska.
“Death Squad,” mumbled Darla.
The Death Squad patrolled the Pineapple Port retirement community every morning. If the six-woman troop passed a home showing no activity by ten a.m., they knocked on the door and demanded proof of life. They pretended to visit on other business, asking if the homeowner would be attending this meeting or that bake sale, but everyone knew the Squad was there to check if someone died overnight. Odds were slim that Charlotte wouldn’t make it through an evening, but the Squad didn’t make exceptions.
Charlotte held Abby’s collar and opened the door.
“Oh, hi, Charlotte,” said a small woman in a purple t-shirt. “We were just—”
“I’m alive, Ginny. Have a good walk.”
Charlotte closed the door. She opened her blinds and peeked out. Several of the Death Squad ladies waved to her as they resumed their march. Abby stood on the sofa and thrust her head through the blinds, her nub of a tail waving back at them at high speed.
Mariska turned and dumped her remaining coffee into the sink, rinsed the purple mug, and with one last longing glance at the Pikes Peak logo, put it in the dishwasher. She placed her hands on her ample hips and faced Charlotte.
“Do you have chalk?”
“No.”
She’d been annoyed at herself all morning for forgetting chalk and resented having it brought to her attention. “I forgot it.”
Darla motioned to the black wall. “Well, there’s your first item!
Buy chalk.
Write that down.”
“With what?”
“Oh. Good point.”
“Anyhow, shopping lists don’t count.”
“Oh, there are
rules
,” said Darla, chuckling. “The chalkboard has rules, Mariska.”
Mariska pursed her lips and nodded. “Very serious.”
“Well, I may not have a chalkboard, but I have a wonderful sense of purpose,” said Darla putting her own mug in the dishwasher.
“Oh yes? What’s that?”
“I’ve got to pick up Frank’s special ED pills.”
She stepped over the plastic drop cloth beneath the painted wall and headed for the door.
“ED?” Charlotte blushed. “You mean for his—”
“Erectile Dysfunction. Pooped Peepee. Droopy D—”
“Got it,” said Charlotte, cutting her short.
“Fine. But these pills are special. Want to know why?”
“Not in the least.”
Mariska began to giggle and Darla grinned.
“She’s horrible,” Mariska whispered as she walked by Charlotte.
Darla reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a small plastic bottle. She handed it to Charlotte.
“Read the label.”
Charlotte looked at the side of the pill bottle. The label held the usual array of medical information, but the date was two years past due.
“He only gets them once every two years?”
“Nope! He only got them
once
. Ever since then I’ve been refilling the bottle with little blue sleeping pills. Any time he gets the urge, he takes one, and an hour later, he’s sound asleep. When he wakes up, I tell him everything was wonderful.”
Charlotte’s jaw dropped. “That’s terrible!”
Darla dismissed her with a wave and put the bottle back in her purse.
“Nah,” she said, opening the front door. “I don’t have time for that nonsense. If I’m in the mood, I give him one from the original prescription.”
Darla and Mariska patted Abby on the head, waved goodbye and stepped into the Florida sun.
Charlotte shut the door behind them and balled her drop cloth of sliced trash bags. She rinsed her brush and carried the paint can to the work shed in her backyard. On her way back to the house, she surveyed her neglected yard. A large pile of broken concrete sat in the corner awaiting pickup. As part of her new
life with purpose
policy, Charlotte had hired a company to jackhammer part of her concrete patio in order to provide room for a garden. The original paved yard left little room for plants. With the patio removed, Charlotte could add
grow a garden
to her chalkboard wall. Maybe she was supposed to be a gardener or work with the earth. She didn’t feel particularly
earthy
, but who knew?
She huffed, mentally kicking herself again for forgetting to buy chalk.
Her rocky new patch of sand didn’t inspire confidence. It in no way resembled the dark, healthy soil she saw in her neighbors’ more successful gardens. Charlotte returned to the shed to grab a spade and cushion for her knees, before kneeling at the corner of her new strip of dirt. It was cool outside; the perfect time of day to pluck the stray bits of concrete from the ground before the Florida sun became unbearable. She knew she didn’t like sweating, so gardening was probably not her calling. Still, she was determined to give everything a chance. She’d clean her new garden, shower, and then run out to buy topsoil, plants and chalk.
“Tomatoes, cucumbers…” Charlotte mumbled to herself, mentally making a list of plants she needed to buy.
Or seeds? Should I buy seeds or plants?
Plants. Less chance of failure starting with mature plants; though if they died, that would be even
more
embarrassing.
Charlotte’s spade struck a large stone and she removed it, tossing it toward the pile of broken concrete. A scratching noise caught her attention and she looked up to find her neighbor’s Cairn terrier, Katie, furiously digging beside her. Part of the fence had been broken or chewed, and stocky little Katie visited whenever life in her own backyard became too tedious.
“Katie, you’re making a mess!” Charlotte said, watching the dirt fly. “If you want to help, pick up stones and move them out of the garden.”
Katie stopped digging long enough to stare with her large brown eyes. At least Charlotte
thought
the dog was staring at her. She had a lazy eye that made it difficult to tell.