Pineapple Puppies

Book 9: Pineapple Port Mysteries

by Amy Vansant

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

Synopsis

Someone has left puppies on the doorsteps of Pineapple Port's residents, but the adorable balls of fur seem to be connected to the murder of a nearby millionaire with too many heirs. Meanwhile, Mariska's been framed for baking a killer cake, and Charlotte must clear her name.

Fans of classic cozy mysteries will adore this whodunnit packed with puppies, baking, horses, sneaky maids and a dead rich man!

Release date: May 24, 2019

Publisher: Independently published

Print pages: 290

Sample

 

 

 

Chapter One

Mina gave the body on the ground one good kick with a sensible shoe.

It barely moved.

More importantly, it didn’t make a sound. It didn’t complain, which was unusual for that particular body.

She rested her knuckles against her lips and stared at the dead man, sorting her emotions. On the one hand, Kimber’s death meant she was out of a job. On the other hand…

Stop it. That’s terrible.

Still…

Next door, the tiny Yorkie puppies had whipped themselves into a yipping frenzy. Mina rubbed her hands on her apron and waddled out of Kimber’s room to the next door down the hallway toward the stairs. Opening it a crack, she made sure to use her foot as a wedge to block any chance of escape. Tiny noses and paws pushed at her shoe as she eased them back.

Struck by the irony that the identical black working shoe that had touched death was now swarmed by so much life, she allowed herself a little smile.

Mina slipped inside the whelping room and shut the door behind her. She wanted to lie on the floor and let them run over her. The poor things had lost someone, too. The puppies’ champion mother, Princess Buttercup, had suffered a complication during pregnancy, and they’d lost her. She, Kimber, and presumably the puppies had been devastated.

Since then, Mina had been the puppies’ mother, keeping the little furballs alive and happy as best she could. Kimber had loved those dogs, but now he was dead…Mina supposed she’d have to sell them. She didn’t have the time or the know-how to raise them as show dogs.

She’d miss them. They were a tremendous pain in the neck but so cute. Even now, one stared at her, dancing on his toes, readying himself to jump on her face when she lowered herself to the floor. He wanted to pounce. It was written all over his snout.

She was halfway to the floor when a stifled sob came from the closet. Mina fell back against the cabinet, startled.

“Who’s in there?”

“It’s me.”

The slatted closet door slid open to reveal a woman sitting on the closet floor, half-tucked behind a laundry basket. As the light fell on her, her eyes flashed white.

“What are you doing in there?” asked Mina.

The woman shook her head. “He’s dead.”

“I know. Get out. Don’t worry.”

The stowaway crawled out of the closet, mascara smeared beneath each eye where she’d been crying. Standing, she smoothed her shorts and wrapped her arms around her chest.

“What am I going to do? He fell.”

“You were there?”

“Yes. I mean, no. Not really. While I was in here with the puppies, I heard a thunk and went to look. I think he tried to get out of bed and fell.”

Mina frowned. “You shouldn’t have been up here.”

“I know. I wanted to see the puppies.”

Mina shook her head and motioned to the door leading to the hall. “Get out of here.”

“What?”

“Get out.”

“But—”

“I’ll let them know it was an accident.” Mina closed her eyes as the puppies tumbled over her toes, hoping she was doing the right thing. She could do nothing for Kimber, but she could still help the girl. She’d already been through so much, and with her family history…

The young woman’s hand reached out for the knob and then retracted. She turned back to Mina.

“What if they investigate?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if they think his death is suspicious? I touched things.”

“What things?”

“Knobs. Maybe the bedposts?”

“Anything else?”

She looked down.

“The puppies. They were all over me. They must have my hair, my DNA—” She looked at Mina, eyes telegraphing her rising panic. “What if they know no one but you is ever up here? What if the girls mention it, and then they find me all over the puppy room?”

Mina watched a puppy steadily chew the end of her shoelace, the fabric tucked in the back of its maw, where its sharp little molars could grind away.

What am I going to do with you, little rascals?

“Take them.”

“What?”

Mina opened the closet and pulled out a small dog-carrying case.

“Take them. No one will know they’re missing. I won’t mention them, and I’ll clean the room.”

“They’re purebreds. You want me to sell them?”

Mina cocked an eyebrow. “You mean so you can get caught, and they know you killed him?”

“But I didn’t—”

“You know what I mean. If you’re caught selling his dogs—”

“Right. I understand.”

“Take them. I’ll clean up before I call the police. You take the dogs.”

“But what should I do with them?”

Mina began shoveling puppies into the crate. “Find them good homes. Loving homes.”

“But where?”

“Figure it out. I can’t do everything.” Puppies packed, Mina closed the carrying case and pointed to the handle on top.

“Take it. Go.”

The woman took the case as if dazed. Mina opened the door for her. She walked into the hall, the case rocking as the puppies inside rolled around, still playing. She paused and turned back to Mina.

“Thank you.”

One puppy began to whine, and the others joined in until Mina couldn’t hear herself think.

“Go.”

The young woman turned and jogged down the stairs as best she could with a box full of howling puppies hanging from one hand.

Mina stepped into the hall where she could simultaneously look into the puppy room and Kimber’s room.

No more puppies. No more Kimber.

What am I going to do with all my free time?

She was about to fetch her cleaning gloves when she heard it.

A groan.

She spun on her rubber heel and saw Kimber’s hand move.

She gasped.

He’s alive.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

Charlotte elbowed through the Pineapple Port post-holiday “Swap and Sell” crowd to find Mariska standing at her jelly and relishes table, making change for a customer. Mariska’s normally perfectly poofed hair had wilted, flopping across her glistening forehead like a forgotten August flower.

Someone had the clever idea of running a post-holiday bazaar to help the residents unload the things they’d received that they didn’t want. It hadn’t hit anyone until it was too late that presents gifted between the residents would also end up on the tables. Half the group sat steaming, glaring at the other half and the Christmas tree mugs and snowman tea cozies they’d gifted.

None of the themed gifts bore any resemblance to the holidays Charlotte had known in Florida. It was December twenty-ninth, and she wore a spaghetti-strap tank top sprinkled with palm leaves, not snowflakes. Outside, it was eighty degrees.

“I can’t believe you’re still here. You’re usually sold out by noon,” said Charlotte.

Mariska motioned to a last loaf of bread on her table, its powdered sugar top visible through a festive green wrapping. “My jellies have been gone for an hour. I’ve been trying to sell Alice’s fruit stollens. They’re less popular after Christmas.”

“She wasn’t feeling up to selling?”

“No. That poor woman is in so much pain. Much worse than last year. I don’t know how she does it.”

Charlotte made a tsking noise. Severe arthritis and complications from lupus made each holiday tougher than the last for Alice. Whenever she baked one of her famous stollens, she chose one resident to serve as her “bread elf,”  a person to help her bake the bread, following her exacting instructions. But until this event, she’d always mustered the strength to sit behind a sales table.

Mariska poked the last loaf toward the table's edge, nudging it half an inch closer to the potential buyers. “Without her here, the bread doesn’t move.”

“And stollen has an acquired taste.”

Mariska smiled, her shoulders waggling as she lifted her chin. “Not like my jellies. Everyone loves my jellies.”

Charlotte spotted ‘Mac’ MacBrady, Pineapple Port’s retired Boston firefighter approaching. Mac was a tan, muscular man in his late fifties who’d had the local ladies swooning since his arrival, much to the amusement of his wife, Kelly. Kelly was selling only Irish soda bread at her table—not unwanted gifts. Poisonous stares in her direction had less to do with rejected presents and more to do with jealousy over her handsome hubby.

“I’m going to buy your last loaf,” said Mac, arriving tableside. “I need something different. If I have to eat another slice of soda bread, I will hang myself.”

“Is fruit stollen a thing in Boston?” asked Charlotte.

Mac shrugged. “Sure. In German neighborhoods. I love it. I like it with butter, but I’m so hungry I think I’ll eat it here. Kelly tricked me into helping with setup and breakdown, so I’m stuck here for a while.”

Charlotte chuckled. “Well, we all feel safer having you here. You never know when a jar of Jalapeno jelly might burst into flames.”

“My jelly would never do that,” muttered Mariska.

Mac presented his money as Mariska passed him the last loaf.  “I heard sirens a little bit ago. Was that a fire?”

Mac shook his head as he unwrapped the bread.  “Ambulance.”

“In Pineapple Port?”

He shrugged and spoke between bites, sugar powdering his lips. “Your guess is as good as mine. Kelly bet me twenty bucks I couldn’t go a week without listening to the emergency scanners and I’m gonna win.”

“Old habits die hard,” said Charlotte, but her mind was already preoccupied with the sirens. She knew from years of experience that sirens were never a good thing in a retirement community. The average twenty-seven-year-old rarely had to worry about ambulance sirens, but Charlotte had been orphaned as a child and sent to live with her grandmother in Pineapple Port. When her grandmother died, Mariska and the rest of the retirement community unofficially adopted her, allowing her to remain in her grandmother’s home and out of the orphanage.

“Did you hear?” Mariska’s best friend, Darla, appeared, craning her neck to peek around Mac.

“Where’d you come from? Why do you look so flustered?” asked Charlotte.

Darla nudged Mac aside with her hip to get a spot at the table. “I ran from my car. It’s Alice.”

Mariska perked and waved a few dollar bills in front of Darla’s nose. “Let her know I just sold her last fruit stollen.”

“That’s the least of her worries.”

Mariska frowned. “Why? It took me—”

Darla put her hand on Mariska’s. “Sweetheart, Alice just died. They found her at home slumped over one of her stollens.”

Mariska gasped. “You’re kidding.”

Darla shook her head. “I’m not.”

 “Did she choke? How did she die? How did you hear about it?” asked Charlotte.

“Frank told me,” said Darla, invoking the name of her Sheriff husband. “They don’t know how she died yet. He said she doesn’t look right, though. Little green around the gills or something.”

“What does that mean?”

Darla shrugged. “They don’t think she choked.”

“Heart attack?” asked Mariska, clearly preparing to run through the usual list of culprits.

“Or poison,” said Darla in a stage whisper.

“Poison?”

The three ladies turned to stare at Mac, who froze, mid-chew, staring back at them from above the stollen positioned at his lips.

“Poison?” he mumbled, his mouth full. He glanced at the chunk of bread remaining in his hand. “Excuse me a minute.”

As he strode back into the crowd, Charlotte watched him spit the bread he’d been chewing into his hand.

Mariska slapped Darla’s arm to get her attention. “I sold every last one of those stollens. Are you trying to tell me I might have poisoned everyone?”

Darla huffed. “Why do you think I ran here? I wanted to stop you from selling them just in case.”

“Did Frank say anything about poison?” Charlotte frowned. Alice had been ill for a long time. Chances were good that she’d died of natural causes.

“Only that she looked like her face was bloated or something. Or green. I forget the exact words he used. I just remember thinking, that sounds like poison.”

“Why would anyone poison Alice?” asked Mariska.

Darla squinted. “You tell us. You were her elf. You made the stollen.”

Mariska’s eyes popped wide. “I didn’t poison her.”

“I wasn’t saying that. I was kidding.”

“It’s not funny.” Mariska shook her head so hard her dangling Christmas bell earrings chimed.

“What do you think we should do?” Darla tapped her front teeth with her fingernail while she waited for an answer.

Charlotte glanced up at the recreation center’s stage, where a microphone for the morning’s announcements stood. “I’ll jump up there and ask everyone with a fruit cake to return them. Just in case.”

Mariska rested her head in her palm. “This is so embarrassing.”

Charlotte tried to leave, but Darla grasped her wrist and held her in place. “Charlotte, wait. Tara sells fruit cake. Make sure you say fruit stollen. If you tell people the fruit cake is poisoned, she’ll have a conniption.”

Charlotte sighed. Living in Pineapple Port was like being trapped in high school forever.

“Good point. Okay.”

She again tried to make her way to the stage, only to have Darla jerk her back.

“Come to think of it, if you tell anyone anything is poisoned, there’ll be panic. Maybe we shouldn’t.”

Charlotte frowned. “What am I supposed to do? Stand up there and tell them we accidentally put gluten in them?”

Mariska sniffed. “Gluten isn’t a real thing.”

“It’s like global warming,” agreed Darla.

Charlotte glowered at her. “Darla, I swear. I thought we’d agreed. Global warming is a thing.”

Darla waved her away. “I know, I know. We don’t have time to talk about stranded polar bears now. People are walking around here with poisoned fruit cakes.”

“Stollens,” stressed Mariska. “But I didn’t do it. Make sure you say that, too.”

Charlotte rubbed her temples with one hand. She had to retrieve the stollens and avoid mass hysteria. People would be apoplectic with hypochondria at the idea of poisoned stollens. Once, someone had confessed to accidentally leaving one of the bingo balls out of the cage on bingo night, and the residents nearly rioted.

Slipping from Darla’s grasp, Charlotte jogged up the stairs to the microphone, flipped the switch, and heard the speakers crackle as she tapped the mike’s wire mesh. The crowd’s gazes swiveled in her direction.

“Attention...um...attention. If you bought a fruit stollen today from Mariska—”

“Why’d she have to say my name?” moaned Mariska, somewhere below her.

Charlotte continued. “Um, we need you to return them. The stollens. We used salt instead of sugar.”

“I would never do such a thing,” hissed Mariska.

“Will we get a refund?” asked a voice from the crowd.

“Yes. Full refund,” said Charlotte.

Mariska moaned again.