Author: Amy Vansant
Category: Humorous
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/amy-vansant/page,8,569513-pineapple_turtles.html
Angelina led Charlotte away from the reception area and turned her back as she punched a code into the lock of a door situated at the end of a long hallway. Charlotte noted they’d moved in the same direction Angelina had disappeared upon her arrival at the Inn. Though the room didn’t use a key card like her own, inside it looked very much the same, but for the mess. It was clear housekeeping had been told to skip that room and that maybe Angelina wasn’t lying when she confessed to being unorganized.
“Do you live here?” asked Charlotte.
Angelina grabbed the crumpled sheets at the bottom of the bed and flung them towards the pillows at the head in what looked like a half-hearted attempt to make it. “Sometimes.”
The door clicked shut behind them and Charlotte turned to find several extra bolt locks. Upward-pointing square hooks hung on either side of the door, looking very much like the sort of hooks someone would place a large piece of wood or metal into to brace a door. She didn’t have to look far before she spotted a long thin piece of metal leaning against the wall. She suspected it fit perfectly between those two hooks.
Charlotte motioned to the locks. “Should I be worried?”
“Hm?” Angelina made another lackluster attempt to make the bed and then shooed at it as if it could get up and leave in shame.
“Expecting someone?” Charlotte added, still pointing at the multitude of locks.
“Always,” said Angelina without looking up. She opened bureau drawers, one after the next, rifling through balled up clothing, until she pulled out a small wooden box. She carried it to the bed and opened it to retrieve a wad of postcards from inside. “These are from her.”
She handed them to Charlotte, who sat on the most-made corner of the bed to study the cards, flipping over one after the next. Each was from a different state and town but none had any writing on them except the address of the Loggerhead Inn.
“How do you know they’re from her?” she asked.
Angelina looked grim. “I know.”
“Is there a reason she’d send blank cards?”
“To let her father know she’s alive—” Angelina looked away and Charlotte suspected she’d said more than she’d meant to.
“Her father is alive? He’s here?”
“Would that be strange?”
“It would mean you’ve always known more about her than you were letting on.”
Angelina’s expression fell slack, losing all readability. “Not necessarily.”
Charlotte frowned. She wasn’t in the mood to be pulled into the rabbit hole by Angelina’s pathological subterfuge. “My grandfather died the same year Siofra was born. I figured the last thing he did—”
Angelina laughed. “Was knock up your grandmother?”
“Yes. But the name on the birth certificate—”
“Wasn’t your grandfather’s name.”
“No. I thought maybe it was forged for a reason I couldn’t know.” She squinted at Angelina. “You’re saying my grandmother had Siofra with another man? And he’s here?”
Angelina nodded. “He owns the place.”
“But he’s here?”
Angelina fiddled with some invisible thing in her hand and mumbled her answer. “In the penthouse.”
Charlotte looked up as if she could teleport her way to the top of the building. There was something odd about the way Angelina seemed to know, without a doubt, he was in the penthouse at that moment. “Can I talk to him?”
“That would be difficult.”
“Why?”
“He’s in a coma.”
“Oh.”
That explains that.
“Can I ask what happened?”
Angelina stiffened. “No.” She looked away and then looked back, her expression softening. “Not yet. Maybe later.”
“You understand that makes Siofra my aunt?”
Angelina nodded. “Half-aunt. Why do you think I told you about Mick?”
“You mean Shea?”
Angelina tilted her head and smiled at her as if she pitied her for her slow-moving brain. “Nickname. Think about it.”
By then, Charlotte had already worked it out.
McQueen. Mick. Right.
She flipped through the postcards again, sorting them in order of postmark. The dates were widely spaced, often six months or more apart.
“Does her father know about these? Did the locations mean anything to him?”
“He knew about a few, before…” She flicked her hand in the air to invoke whatever had led to the man’s coma.
Charlotte searched for any kind of pattern. “Is there any reason to believe there might be significance to the locations?”
Angelina shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe. Mick’s good at codes.” She scratched the back of her head. “Among other things.”
“What do you mean he’s good at codes?”
“I didn’t mean anything by it. He just is.”
“You mean, like, for the NSA?”
Angelina stared at her until she looked away.
Ok. Not answering that one.
Charlotte huffed. “We’ll come back to that.” She lifted the wad of postcards. “But you’re saying it’s possible there’s a pattern here? Not crazy to think there might be a hint?”
“Not crazy. Though, I can tell you, I haven’t been able to figure it out.”
“And Mick didn’t either?”
“Not that he mentioned.”
Charlotte took a deep breath, struck again by the idea that her grandmother had a child with a man who might be a few hundred feet away from her. Did her mother ever know she had a sister?
“What is it?” asked Angelina.
Charlotte snapped from her thoughts. “Huh? Oh. Nothing. I was thinking after my grandfather died my Nanny found a new man fast.”
Angelina laughed. “Old man.”
Charlotte scowled. “He’s old?”
“No, well yes, but not then. That’s not what I meant. There’s something else you should probably know.”
Charlotte found herself worried by the woman’s suddenly serious tone. “What?”
“By old, I meant it wasn’t the first time.”
Charlotte blinked. “What wasn’t the first time?”
“It wasn’t the first time Mick and Estelle had a child.”
Charlotte’s jaw fell open. “You mean my mother?”
Angelina pressed her lips together and nodded.
“That would make Mick—”
“Your real grandfather, too. They were married. Briefly.”
“So Siofra’s my full aunt? One hundred percent? You knew this all along?”
“Sort of.”
“Why didn’t you say?”
“Why do you think I’m letting you paw through her postcards? You think I let every nut job pretending to be a food inspector into my room?”
Charlotte scowled.
Again, pointing out the food inspector slip.
“When did you know?” she asked, letting the jab slide.
“When I realized you lived in Estelle’s house. After that it was easy enough to figure out who you are.”
“How—Oh. I put my address on the card at check-in.”
Angelina nodded and stood. “Right. It’s not like I was rifling through your room.” She flashed her toothy grin.
Charlotte turned to stare through the glass balcony doors.
I have a living grandfather. And an aunt!
She couldn’t place the emotions roiling in her core. A little elation. A little fear? Where were these people when her mother died? Where were they when her grandmother died? They didn’t come to get her. If it hadn’t been for Mariska and Frank’s pull with the authorities, she would have been sent to an orphanage. They didn’t even come to the funeral—
Charlotte gasped.
In her mind’s eye she recalled her grandmother’s funeral. She remembered standing between Mariska and Darla, both of them hovering like protective mother birds. It had almost be
en too much for her then, having so recently lost her mother to then lose her grandmother too, the last person on Earth related to her. Or so she thought.
She’d looked to the side to hide her welling tears from Mariska. She hadn’t wanted her grandmother’s well-meaning neighbor to see her pain and grab and hug her with that suffocating grip again. She wanted to be left alone.
That’s when she saw him. The tall man standing beside a coconut palm on the outskirts of the cemetery, a thin trail of smoke rising from the cigarette between his fingers, clear against the dark wall of clusia bushes growing behind him.
She didn’t know who he was then and he was quickly forgotten when Darla, instead of Mariska, spotted her tears and stooped down to bear-hug her.
Was that my real grandfather lurking on the outskirts of the cemetery?
“I need to see him,” she said.
“Who?”
“Shea. Mick. My grandfather. I have to see him.”
Angelina nodded.
Charlotte forced her attention to the postcards again and pretended to look through them, but her thoughts consumed her sight. She’d gone from no family to twice as much family in the course of a day.
What if she could find Siofra? What would she call her? Aunt Siofra? What about Shea McQueen? Should she call him Grandpa? Pop-Pop? Mick?
“Are you done with those?” asked Angelina.
Charlotte jerked from her daydreaming.
“What? No.”
“You’re done.” Angelina leaned forward and tried to grab the wad of postcards.
Charlotte held them out of reach. “I’m not. I want to think about them.”
“Think later.” Angelina leaned back and sighed. “I’ll let you keep them for a bit.”
“Okay. Thank you. Can I see my grandfather now?”
Angelina smiled, a strange mischievous twinkle in her eye. “First, show me what you have in the shoebox.”
Chapter Fifteen
Charlotte and Angelina took the elevator to room four eleven and Charlotte swiped open the door. Inside, she moved to the safe and plugged in her dog’s name as represented by the number each letter fell in the alphabet. It wasn’t the greatest password, but it would have to have been a thorough thief to come up with it. Certainly, someone with a larger plan than the quick ransacking of a hotel room.
She slid out the shoebox and carried it to the small table positioned to the right of the balcony doors. Angelina sat in one of the matching chairs and Charlotte popped off the lid before moving to the room’s mini-fridge. The salty soy sauce from her sushi lunch had her craving water.
“You can have a look. Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, retrieving a bottle of water.
Angelina held up a hand. “No, thank you. I’m working.”
“I meant water.”
Angelina’s lip curled. “No, thank you.”
Charlotte was about to head back to the table when she noticed an empty spot in the row of tiny airplane bottles lining the inside of the refrigerator door. She paused to count them; two rums, two scotches, one vodka.
I didn’t notice that missing before.
She looked at Angelina. “There’s a vodka missing.”
“What’s that?”
“There’s a vodka missing from my fridge. I didn’t drink it.”
Angelina glanced up. “I’ll let the front desk know not to charge you for it.”
Charlotte stared at her as the woman went back to shuffling through the papers.
Hm.
She couldn’t be certain, but she was starting to think Angelina might be able to lie as easily as she breathed.
Charlotte moved through her room inspecting things for signs of tampering. Nothing seemed out of place other than the vodka. She peeked in the safe again.
Has the shoebox been moved?
She hadn’t thought to really look at it before pulling it out. Her duffle bag sat in the same spot as where she’d left it. But is it tilted a little more to the right?
With a grunt and a silent vow to pay more attention from then on, she took a seat across from Angelina, who continued to paw through the box.
“See anything?” Charlotte asked.
“It’s all long ago and far away.” Angelina held up a child’s drawing of a stick figure with short hair and round black circles for eyes. It looked as though the figure was holding a gun. “She was an adorable kid.”
“He looks like a soldier. Is her father military?”
“Navy.”
“So Mick raised her?”
Angelina snorted a laugh. “That might not be how Siofra described it. But yes.”
“But that’s why there are report cards from so many different schools? He moved her around?”
“They traveled a lot. It’s a long story.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
“Maybe some time.” Angelina stood. “I have to get back to work. You can keep the postcards for as long as you need, but they don’t leave the hotel. Deal?”
“Deal. But you have to take me to see my grandfather.”
Angelina nodded as she moved toward the door. “I will. Of course. I’ll, uh, talk to his nurse and arrange a time for tomorrow, okay?”
With no other option offered, Charlotte agreed.
With a tight smile, Angelina left.
Chapter Sixteen
At quarter to six in the morning, a line of cars and trucks pulled into T.K.’s driveway, led by Ban and his father Foliage, who arrived in Targetville’s only rainbow-painted Volkswagen Bug. Foliage hit the horn and it played an abbreviated version of Give Peace a Chance.
By the time all the vehicles had parked, nineteen cars filled the driveway, spilling over into the empty plot of land beside the tomato field.
“I’ve brought the protesters!” announced Foliage, unfolding himself from the Bug.
It was the first time in his life Frank didn’t mind seeing a bunch of hippies show up to a party.
He spotted Bob walking toward him with Declan at his side.
“Where’s Charlotte?” he asked when they were close enough.
Declan shrugged. “She had to run to the East Coast.”
Frank chuckled. “Bet you’re happy it cleared up your day for this.”
“Oh sure. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He looked at his watch. “We were going to show up at seven but Bob couldn’t sleep and asked me to come get him at five.”
Frank laughed and glanced over at Foliage, who’d started rallying his people with a bullhorn.
“Let me guess—he’s the guy with the rainbow Bug?” asked Declan, following his stare.
Frank nodded. “Yep. Last time I saw him this happy he was lobbying against the mind-altering rays of the Target’s anti-theft beeper system.”
Elizabeth, the Tomato Queen, walked through her front door to be greeted by a gaggle of women with picnic baskets in various sizes.
“What’s going on?” she called to Frank.
“There are men coming to tear up T.K.’s field. We’re not going to let them.”
Elizabeth gaped but she didn’t ask for more information. Frank assumed she knew something about her field’s impending doom-by-corporation, but knowing T.K. he guessed he hadn’t wanted to worry his wife with details.
Men with shotguns milled about T.K.’s yard talking to each other as if it were just another day defending their compound from tax collectors. Foliage’s ready-made protest group had apparently grown to include both hippies and homesteaders. It struck Frank as an odd combination, but he imagined they both loved protesting in their own way.
Frank caught Mac’s eye and motioned him over.
“Hey, do me a favor. Try and keep the guys with guns away from the guys with the hemp shirts.”
Mac’s forehead furrowed. “Huh?”
“Keep the hippies away from the militia guys.”
“Aw, they’re all here to help Elizabeth.”
Mac offered him a goofy grin and Frank could t
ell he’d helped himself to a few more breakfast beers. He tried to speak a little slower.
“They’re all on the same page now, but there are a few hot-button topics I don’t want them sharing deep thoughts with each other. They could go from protesting for T.K.’s farm to protesting against each other in a heartbeat.”
Mac mulled this for a moment. “Yeah, I see what you’re saying.”
“Good. Get Tommy to help you. Be casual.”
Mac eased out a flat hand as if he were slipping it between two mattresses. “Casual. Cool. Totally cool. I can do that.”
Frank frowned. Yep. He definitely had a few more beers.
Mac toddled off and Frank surveyed the crowd, half of which were bouncing homemade signs with slogans like “Hell no, Tomatoes Won’t Go!”
Bob wandered over. “How was your evening?”
“Uncomfortable and wet.” Frank nodded at the crowd. “How did this happen?”
“Ban told his dad what was going on and Foliage did the rest. Clubsoda spent all night making the posters for the hippie group.”
“And the militia boys?”
“Not sure. Someone caught wind we were protesting government interference and they were in like Flynn.”
“But we’re not. We’re protesting a corporation.”
Bob shrugged. “Same thing to them.”
Frank stroked his mustache with his index finger. “I wonder if this is going to get out of hand.”
“Nothing to wonder about, Frank.” Bob grinned. “There’s no way this is going to end well.”
Chapter Seventeen
Charlotte spent the rest of the evening staring at Siofra’s postcards. She called up a turkey sandwich for dinner that cost more than her entire sushi lunch and ate it in front of her laptop, typing search after search about the locations from which the postcards arrived.
Apparently, bonding with the shifty concierge didn’t get you discounts on room service.
Her previous evening investigating the leak in her ceiling exacted a final toll on her eyelids around eight p.m. and she crawled into bed with the intention of taking a quick nap.
She awoke in the dark.
The deafening silence told her she’d slept longer than she’d intended. Gone were the occasional voices floating down the hall and the crunching of tires on stone in the parking lot. Crickets refused to sing. It almost felt as if sound was being taken out of her ears. She had to admit, she liked not hearing the tinkle of her Pineapple Port neighbor’s wind chime for once.