Pineapple Pack III

by Amy Vansant

Genres: Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Animal Cozy Mysteries; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries; Culinary Cozy Mysteries; Female Sleuths; Mystery Anthologies & Collections; Private Investigators; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Books 7-9 of the Pineapple Port Mysteries - Money-saving three-book pack!

Wall Street Journal and USA TODAY Best-Selling author Amy Vansant introduces you to even more wonderfully lovable Pineapple Port characters in this three-pack collection of the hilarious mystery series keeping readers on the edge of their seats!

Fans of female-sleuth authors like Jana Deleon, Lilian Jackson Braun, Gina Lamanna and Janet Evanovich will love the Pineapple Port series' abundant humor and clever plots --- as well as Charlotte's sharp intellect and the love and loyalty she holds for the wacky 55+ community who raised her.

Sample

 

Chapter One

Kristopher Rudolph poured himself another bourbon as the dog in his bathroom launched into its fifteenth chorus of Yap Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. The miserable little rat-creature would not shut up. He heard it trying to scratch a hole through the door and grunted, pleased he had no intention of trying to recover his damage deposit anyway.

The worst part was the noise. It sounded more like the dog was trying to dig a hole through his skull than the door.

How a dog the size of a football could make that kind of racket—

“Shut up!”

Grabbing a bag of pretzels from his kitchen counter, Kris tore it open and pounded down the hall. He cracked open the bathroom door and used his ankle to block the tiny dog’s escape as he slipped in his hand, inverted the bag and shook it.

Pretzels rained. Startled, the Yorkshire terrier backed away from the door, looking like a long-haired toupee with eyes.

Kris glared at it. “There, you happy? You are going home tomorrow. I promise.”

He shut the door.

Silence.

Well, munching, but that was better than barking.

Kris took a deep breath and patted his round tummy, suddenly craving pretzels. He strode back up the hall, shoved the empty pretzel bag into the kitchen garbage, grabbed a bourbon, and toted it to his overstuffed chair to park himself in front of the television. As a commercial for reverse mortgages blared, his gaze swept over his living room decorations.

Strips of lights lined the ceiling like disco crown molding. A Christmas tree stood beside him, blinking with frenetic urgency—middle section, bottom section, top section—over and over, sending semaphore messages to the reindeer, sleighs and giant snowmen flashing their own secrets from his front yard. A full set of reindeer ran across the wall above his sofa. Rudolph led the way. At least fifty other Rudolphs grinned from table tops and tissue box cozies.

He groaned and took a sip of his bourbon. “Freakin’ Christmas.”

Thanks to his last name, people around the little swamp-town he currently called home were always gifting him Rudolphs, thinking they were clever.

The presents were about as clever as sending someone from Maine a lobster mug.

I should be happy. Celebrating.

He took another sip of his bourbon and tried to concentrate on his upcoming retirement.

Somewhere warm. Somewhere they’ve never heard of Christmas. Somewhere they’ve never even heard of December.

Perched on at least six other flat surfaces, tiny stuffed elves stared at him with disapproving sideward glances, their arms crossed over their knees.

Kris winked at one as he sipped his drink. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve been naughty.”

His shoulder muscles had just begun to unbunch when his doorbell rang and Jingle Bells sang throughout the house.

The dog began to bark anew.

Kris closed his eyes, searching for strength. Not only did he have to answer the door, but he had to pretend he enjoyed the company.

One more month and this hell will be over.

Setting down his bourbon, he stood and opened the front door.

Crowded in his doorway stood two poofy gingerbread men. Leaning to the left and tilting his head to the side, he found two more behind the first pair. He recognized the costumes from the Charity Christmas parade earlier that day. The gingerbread men had been running around, as gingerbread men were wont to do. The curious part was he organized the parade and he hadn’t booked any gingerbread men. At the time he hadn’t thought much about it. It wasn’t unusual for people wearing silly costumes to join in a parade, unannounced. Especially in these Podunk little towns where half the locals’ bloodlines intersected. But he had to admit, now that the cookies were standing on his doorstep, his curiosity had piqued.

He pulled at his enormous white beard and did his best to look jolly.

“My, my, look at you all. How can I help you?”

The foremost gingerbread shoved him with two caramel-colored mitted hands. Unprepared, Kris stumbled backwards, hands flailing to regain his balance. Bourbon splashed across the wall and his glass sailed through the air.

“We want what we’re owed,” said one of the cookies as they piled into his house. He couldn’t tell which one. Their mouths didn’t move.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

Earlier That Day

 

“Ooh! Here come those little cars,” said Mariska, pointing.

Older men, each with a red fez on his head, appeared driving tiny orange cars, weaving back and forth across the parade route as if the vehicles themselves had spent the day drinking.

Darla scowled. “Who are they? What do little cars have to do with Christmas?”

“They’re Shriners. It’s a club for men.”

“What isn’t?” muttered Darla.

Charlotte chuckled and looked at her watch. It was nearly Christmas and she had a lot to do. Back at her house an enormous embroidery machine waited patiently in her shed, eager to stitch Schnauzers and Cavalier King Charles Spaniels on golf head covers and polo shirts. Helping Mariska’s son and daughter-in-law with their pet embroidery business had once been Charlotte’s only job.

Now, she was officially a private investigator.

But with the holidays rapidly approaching, the crimes had dwindled and the demand for Dachshunds on kitchen towels had gone up, and she’d agreed to help for one last holiday.

She glanced at the two older ladies beside her.

That is, if Mariska ever lets me get any work done.

Charlotte’s adoptive mother had insisted she come watch the parade. After she’d been orphaned as a girl, Mariska, her husband Bob and Darla—with the help of Darla’s husband Sheriff Frank—had arranged it so Charlotte could grow up in their fifty-five plus community, Pineapple Port. If it hadn’t been for them, after the death of her grandmother, Charlotte would have been whisked off as a ward of the state. Shuffled through the system, she would have had a very different upbringing.

As it was, picking up some of their ‘retiree habits’ way too young was the worst that had happened to her. Most twenty-seven-year-olds didn’t go to water aerobics or watch television with the closed-captioning on.

She had work to do and Mariska had insisted she go to a parade. Oh well. In the grand scheme of things, it seemed like a small price to pay.

“Why do we have a parade again?” she asked over the pounding of a local high school’s marching band. There hadn’t been a Christmas parade in Charity, the city that housed Pineapple Port, since she was a little girl.

“You can thank Kristopher Rudolph. The man who looks like Santa,” called back Mariska.

Charlotte’s brow knit as she pictured the man. Whenever she’d seen him she couldn’t help but think his big white beard made for a poor facial hair choice in steamy Florida. It made her scratch her chin just thinking about it. “When did he move to Pineapple Port? Last summer, right?”

Mariska nodded, her auburn curls bouncing. “This is what he does. He arranges big Christmas events for towns to help them raise money for charity.”

“The man is obsessed,” chimed in Darla. “I had to deliver a cake to him for his charity bake sale and his house looks like this whole parade just marched right in there and took a seat.”

Charlotte shrugged. “I guess with a name like Kristopher Rudolph...”

“I know three women who bought him Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer statues,” said Mariska as four gingerbread men ran by, slapping kids’ outstretched hands with their own puffy mitts. “They put no thought at all into it.”

Darla hooked a thumb in Mariska’s direction. “She took  him a homemade jar of Rudolph the Red Pepper Jelly.”

Mariska nodded. “That was clever. Man needs another statue like he needs another whisker in his beard.”

Darla winked at Charlotte. “Kris is single and he likes fruit cake. The ladies in Pineapple Port have been waiting years for a man like that to show up.”

Mariska’s eyes flashed. “I wasn’t flirting with him.”

“Not you. You just have way too much homemade pepper jelly in your cabinets.”

Mariska’s expression relaxed and she giggled. “I do. It’s true. I think we overdid it this year.”

Mariska gasped and pointed, nearly taking out the eye of the woman next to her. “There he is now.”

With the blaring of sirens, a fire truck inched down main street, a jolly Santa perched on top, waving. Teenage girls dressed like elves grabbed handfuls of candy from red and green buckets and tossed treats into the crowd.

Charlotte looked at her watch again. “That’s the end, right?”

“Of course it is. Santa’s always last. Haven’t you ever seen a Christmas parade before?”

“I grew up here, remember? I was about six the last time we had a Christmas parade.”

“Don’t be a Grinch. What are you in a hurry to get back to?”

“I have about twenty orders to stitch and Aggie Mae lost her Yorkie, Pudding. I promised I’d help her look for him.”

Darla rolled her eyes. “That little thing’s in a gator’s belly by now. You’ll notice there aren’t a lot of packs of wild Yorkies roaming Florida. I’m surprised he lived this long.”

Mariska smacked her friend’s shoulder. “That’s terrible.”

Darla shrugged. “Terrible but true.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

It was nearly ten p.m. when Charlotte received a call from Sheriff Frank. She had to look at her clock a second time to be sure she wasn’t imagining the hour as she fumbled to answer. This was the equivalent of two a.m. in a retirement community.

“Is everything okay?” she asked, in lieu of a more traditional greeting.

“You said you wanted me to give you a ring next time I had a murder investigation. Wanted me to walk you through the scene. Still interested?”

“Ooh!” Charlotte sat up, excited. Abby, her soft-coated Wheaten terrier, stretched and kicked the side of her leg, cranky the phone had woken her as well. 

Charlotte had forgotten she’d asked Frank to give her a call the next time he had a body. She wanted more experience with crime scenes and figured her inside track with the local sheriff could come in handy. “Yes, definitely. Where are you?”

“A few blocks away.”

“In Pineapple Port?”

“Yup.”

“Oh no. Who?”

“Kristopher Rudolph.”

“The parade Santa?”

“Uh huh.”

Charlotte wiped the sleepies from her eyes and took a moment to think. Her brain hadn’t quite caught up with her mouth yet.

“Did he have a heart attack or something?” She wasn’t sure how much she’d learn by peering at death by natural causes and her pillow suddenly felt extra comfortable.

Frank snorted a laugh. “No. It’s fishy alright. You’ll see when you get here. You know the address?”

She nodded and then realized he couldn’t see her response. “Yes. I think so.”

“We’ll be hard to miss. Follow the flashing lights.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in a second.”

Charlotte threw on shorts and a t-shirt while Abby watched her from the bed. The dog’s eyes slid shut and then sprang open again and again, torn between keeping vigil and sleeping.

“Heaven forbid you miss anything,” said Charlotte, petting the dog’s belly. Abby’s leg swiveled like the hand on a clock to give her access to better rubbing. “It’s okay. Nothing you have to worry about. You get your beauty sleep, princess.”

Abby grunted and centered herself on her back, her lower legs falling open to either side in a very unladylike fashion. She seemed unconcerned with Charlotte’s unusual nighttime departure. There’d been a time Abby would never have allowed mommy to leave without an escort, but Charlotte guessed she’d left the house and come back alive enough times now that Abby took her eventual return for granted.  

Charlotte left her house and jogged toward Kristopher Rudolph’s. Though all the modular homes in Pineapple Port shared similarities, there’d be no mistaking Kristopher’s this evening. Two sheriff’s vehicles, one with lights flashing in silence, sat parked outside. A small crowd of neighbors and gossips encircled the residence, murmuring to one another as they shared wild conjecture about the scene inside.

A Yorkshire terrier, tethered to the same style of head-high, white lamp post that stood sentry outside all the homes in Pineapple Port, yapped in a steady staccato beat as Charlotte approached. She squatted and lifted his chin to stare into his shiny eyes.

“Pudding, what are you doing out here?” She looked for Aggie Mae but didn’t see her in the crowd. “Looks like you’re not in an alligator’s belly after all.”

The dog celebrated by continuing to bark.

The front door of the home’s porch banged open and she heard Frank bark in his own gruff baritone. “Get in here.”

“Do I get credit for finding Pudding?” asked Charlotte, scurrying up the stairs. The crowd whispering behind her hissed to a crescendo. Now she had become part of the speculation.

I’ll tell them I was brought in as a consultant.

She giggled at the idea.

Charlotte Morgan: Crime Consultant.

She needed to get a sash and patches made like a Girl Scout. Private Eye patch, check. Crime Consultant patch, check.

Frank stared at the dog, frowning. “Pudding? Isn’t that Aggie Mae’s dog?”

“Yep. He’d gone missing. She asked me to be on the lookout.”

“Mission accomplished.”

Frank held open the screen door for her and Charlotte eyed his outfit. He wore a thin light blue robe over a t-shirt and boxers. His sheriff’s hat sat perched on ruffled tufts of uncombed hair. The robe hung to his knees and was held shut by the gun belt encircling his middle.

“Nice outfit.”

Frank grunted. “I had to get over here quick.”

“Using the gun belt as a sash, bold choice.”

“At least I remembered the hat.”

“Isn’t that Darla’s robe?”

“Shush up and get in here.”

Chuckling, Charlotte crossed the front porch to enter the double-wide modular home. The interior door had been propped open with a ceramic snowman the size of a golden retriever.

Charlotte smelled smoke as she approached, and as Frank entered and stepped to the right, she caught her first glimpse as to why.

A fat gingerbread man costume—presumably with someone inside—sat in a large padded reclining chair. The edges of the costume had been licked by flames, leaving black smudges, as if the baker had left him in the oven too long.

“Here’s our burnt cookie,” said Frank, pulling the head off the costume. Beneath it, Charlotte recognized the tufted white beard of Kristopher Rudolph, Pineapple Port’s new Mr. Christmas. His blue eyes stared back at her as if his fate had somehow been her fault.

“He was Santa at the parade this morning,” she mumbled to no one. Something near the man’s mouth had her hypnotized.

Another set of eyes.

Is that an elf…?

Squinting, she moved forward, her hand reaching toward the dead man.

“Is that an elf peeking out of his mouth?”

“Don’t touch.” Frank slapped her hand lightly and she retracted it, eyes never leaving the saucy elf peeking at her from faux-Santa’s lips.

“How—”

“Near as we can tell, he choked on the legs. Those little things have long legs, y’know.” Frank paused and then shook his head. “If this is what happens when those elves find out you’ve been naughty, I’ve been underestimating them for years...”

Charlotte yanked away her gaze. It wasn’t easy, and she knew she’d never see an elf again without picturing it being gobbled by Santa.

She glanced at a pile of ash beneath the Christmas tree. “I’d assumed the fire killed him, but—?”

“Nope. He got lucky there, so to speak. The tree was fire retardant and what might have looked like a good enough blaze to cover the evidence, died soon after it was set. You’d think the place would’ve gone up like a tinder box with all this crap in here.”

Frank made a sweeping motion with his arm and Charlotte’s eye followed. The gingerbread man, elf and fire ash had captured her attention—she’d almost missed the insanity of the room’s décor. Christmas decorations hung, sat or leaned against every inch.

“Kind of a live by the sword, die by the sword sort of thing,” she said, counting the room’s thirteenth Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer trinket.

Frank grunted. “What’s that?”

“Lived for Christmas, died by elf.”

“Hm. Poetic.”

Charlotte squat to poke at the ash on the ground. Near the back of the tree one of the packages had only partially burned. Using a half-melted candy cane she hooked it and pulled it towards her. The side crumbled revealing the smooth bottom of an empty cardboard box.

“The gifts are empty.”

Frank hung his thumbs in his belt. “They’re burned.”

“No, this one back here is only a bit burned. It was empty.” Charlotte stood and pointed at the pile of ash. “There aren’t any lumps that might have been gifts here. They were all empty boxes.”

“So? They were there for show.”

“I suppose, but...that’s weird.”

“Why?”

“Well, think about it. When Darla trots out all her decorations, does she set fake packages under the tree?”

“No. She puts all the crap she bought with my hard-earned money around it, until she gets a chance to give them out to a bunch of people who aren’t me.”

“Exactly. If you’re not a store, why would you stage your Christmas tree? It doesn’t look like he has anyone to gift—” she glanced at Kris Rudolph and then looked away, feeling as if the elf in his mouth had caught her peeking. “Can we put his head back on?”

Frank reached for the gingerbread man head and slipped it over Kristopher’s. “No problem. That’s why it was back on in the first place. Daniel couldn’t stop laughing. Tried to take a picture for his instant graham cracker.”

“Instagram.”

“Whatever. Look—” Frank’s gaze pinballed around the room as if he feared someone could overhear them. “I know I called you down here because you asked me to share this stuff, but that wasn’t the only reason I called you.”

“No?”

“No. I’m under a lot of pressure with this one and I’m surrounded by morons with the maturity level of five year-olds—”

“You mean Deputy Daniel.”

“Of course I mean Deputy Daniel. Bottom line is, I need someone I can trust. Someone with a good mind for this stuff. Daniel’s brain is pre-occupied with online gaming and his doll collection.”

“He collects action figures.”

“Dolls in tights. Same thing.”

Charlotte pursed her lips to keep from smiling.

He trusts me. He thinks I’m good at this.

She wanted to crow. She wanted to hug Frank for trusting her, and even more so, for admitting he trusted her. Frank guarded his affections like a national treasure.

Be calm.

She cleared her throat. “But what makes this investigation special?”

“Harlan is going to want answers.”

“The mayor?”

Frank nodded and motioned to the gingerbread man. “This guy was a big deal.”

“How so?”

“He was doing all sorts of things for the city. He arranged the parade, ran the holiday raffle, organized Christmas sales with the merchants downtown... It was all supposed to be a big shot in the arm for Charity. He was going to turn us into some sort of Christmas City U.S.A.”

“That’s why he was here? He was a Christmas consultant?”

“From what I understand. I’m going to have to speak to Harlan tomorrow and get more details.”

“Pudding!”

Charlotte turned and spotted Aggie Mae Davis in a shiny purple robe with gold trim, her arms outstretched as she waddled toward the now frenzied terrier. The dog’s barking increased until Aggie Mae unclipped it from the leash tethering it to the lamppost. Pudding wriggled into her waiting arms, all once again set right with his world.

Charlotte turned back to Frank. “I meant to ask, what was Pudding doing out there?”

Frank scratched at his cheek. “That’s another thing. Damn dog was tied out front when the fire trucks got here. Nothing about this whole mess makes much sense.”

“Someone choked a man dressed like a gingerbread man with an elf, tried to set his tree ablaze, and then tied a missing dog to the post in his front yard on the way out?”

“Near as I can tell.”

“Totally weird.” She couldn’t help but take a moment to re-appreciate Frank’s robe and gun look. “Though not half as weird as that getup you’ve got on.”

Frank glanced down and then fought a failing battle to hide his own amusement. He tucked the robe a little tighter around his chest. “Help me out with this one Charlotte. Is it the Internet?”

“Is what the Internet?”

Frank raised his hands, palms pointed to the ceiling. “Everything weird has something to do with the Internet. Did Kris meet someone on that Greg’s Place? Is the costume some sort of kinky sex thing?”

Charlotte laughed. “Craig’s List. Does Kris even have a computer?”

Frank nodded. “Yes. It’s been bagged.”

“So the techs will find things on that if they exist, right?”

Frank huffed. “I dunno. I don’t know anything anymore. People dressing up like cookies—” He devolved into muttering.

“And no one saw anything?”

“No one’s come forward. It’s late. Everyone was in bed, but I have doofus out there asking around and doing door-to-doors.”

“How’d you get the call about the body?”

“The fire. A neighbor smelled smoke and thought they saw a glow in here. They called the fire department and the CFD called us. According to the fire guys, the dog was already outside barking. You can thank me we have any evidence left at all. I got here just in time to keep the fire guys from blasting all the evidence down the storm drains. You know how they like to overdo things, just to be safe.”

“Hello?” Aggie Mae peered through the screened porch door and into the house. “Charlotte? Is that you?”

“Hi, Aggie Mae.”

Charlotte walked to the screened front porch, where Aggie Mae promptly threw her arms around  her, pushing the dog tucked against her chest so tightly between her enormous breasts Charlotte worried Pudding might suffocate.

“You found him,” whispered Aggie Mae in her ear.

Charlotte couldn’t help but smile. No matter how many murders she solved, she doubted anything could feel as good as returning a beloved pet to their owner. Even if she didn’t deserve credit.

“See? I told you not to worry.”

Aggie Mae rocked Charlotte side-to-side, until Charlotte realized she was trying to maneuver a better view inside Kristopher’s house.  

“Whatcha got goin’ on in there?” Aggie Mae asked as Charlotte pulled from her death grip.

“Little fire. Bit of a crime scene though, so we need to get you and Pudding out of here.”

“Crime scene? You sayin’ someone robbed the place?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Charlotte heard Sheriff Frank shut the front door and stopped bobbing in her attempts to block Aggie Mae’s view.

Aggie Mae pointed over Charlotte’s shoulder. “Is that a giant gingerbread man in there? Sittin’ in a chair?”

Charlotte put a hand on the woman’s arm to ease her away from the house. “The important part is you have Pudding back, right?”

Aggie raised the dog to press his head against her violet lips, but her gaze never left the house.

“Sure...sure... Ain’t that Kris Rudolph’s house?”

Charlotte succeeded in guiding Aggie Mae away from the house. She spotted Deputy Daniel leaning against his patrol car, staring at his phone. She’d grown up with Daniel, and also knew him as the deputy her pawnshop-owner boyfriend, Declan, paid to let him know about deaths in the area. As unfortunate as it was, most of Declan’s inventory came from the deceased and it helped to know when people died.

“Daniel, can I talk to you?”

She patted Aggie Mae on the back to keep her moving into the crowd and walked to the officer.

“This crowd’s getting a little thick, don’t you think?” she asked.

Daniel glanced around him and then back to Charlotte, his eyes as empty and unassuming as a bovine’s.

She tried again. “I’m saying you should back them up or try to disperse them. Don’t you think?”

Daniel scowled. “Why? They aren’t hurting anybody.”

“But they’re too close. If one of them sees a little piece of the picture, and then another one spots another piece—by the time all the stories are swapped around in the pool tomorrow they might have a pretty good view of the whole painting.”

Daniel’s brow knit. “What painting?”

Charlotte sighed. Aggie Mae and Kris’s immediate neighbors already knew too much. Soon the machine would lurch into action. People would call friends who knew friends in the fire department and emergency services to find out more. By the next morning, all of Pineapple Port would know what happened. Or, at least, they’d think they did. Not knowing the full story never stopped anyone from sharing it.

“Our potential witnesses’ memories will be compromised if people start sharing what they saw through the windows. Not to mention, sometimes the best way to catch a bad guy is to withhold details of a crime from the press and public. If a suspect lets slip something only the real killer could know—” She paused. “Do you get where I’m going with this, Daniel?”

A smile curled the right side of the Deputy’s mouth. “You must have watched a lot of detective shows when you were little to know all this stuff.”

Charlotte sighed. She was in the middle of rephrasing her concerns when Frank’s voice erupted behind her at full volume.

“Sweet baby peas, Daniel. She’s telling you you need to get rid of these people now. Can you hear me?”

Startled, Daniel fumbled his phone into the air. It danced on his fingertips until he managed to snatch it and shove it into his pocket.

“Yes, sir. Gotcha.”

Daniel ran around the other side of his vehicle to flip the sirens on and off. The crowd lurched in time with the burst of noise and then fell silent as Daniel held up his arms and addressed the crowd.

“I need all of you to go home now...”

Frank dropped his head into his hands and peeked up at Charlotte. “He could have killed half the neighborhood flipping on the siren like that.”

Charlotte giggled.

Frank dropped his hands and stretched his back. “So you’re going to help me with this case?”

She nodded. “Of course I will. I don’t have anyone paying me to do anything else at the moment—”

“I’ll pay you.”

She gasped. “What? Really?”

“I’ll make it official. I didn’t expect you to work for free. I’ll deputize you.”

“What?” Charlotte’s volume increased and she bounced on her toes. She hadn’t been this excited since Mariska bought her a ten-speed bike for Christmas as a kid. “You’re going to make me a deputy?”

Frank waggled a finger at her. “Just for this case.”

“Will I get a badge?”

“Sure. I’ll give you a badge.”

“Will I get a hat? The uniform’s not particularly attractive, but I’ll take a hat.”

Frank cocked a hip, sending his shiny robe swaying. “You’re saying this uniform isn’t attractive?”

Charlotte laughed. “Okay, you got me. That outfit is gorgeous. I mean the usual uniforms don’t do much for me.”

“Oh. Well, you still don’t get a hat.”

She pouted. “Shoot. You’re no fun.”

Frank shrugged. “Fine. I’ll keep the badge...”

“No, I’m good. No hat but I still get the badge. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Deal. Will I outrank Daniel?”

They turned and looked at the deputy, who had fallen into an argument with one of the local ladies about exactly how close she could stand to the house and still be far enough away.

Frank sighed. “Definitely.”