Pineapple Gingerbread Men Read online

  Pineapple

  Gingerbread Men

  A Pineapple Port Mystery: Book Seven

  Amy Vansant

  ©2018 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-

  Library of Congress:

  Vansant Creations, LLC / Amy Vansant

  Annapolis, MD

  http://www.AmyVansant.com

  http://www.PineapplePort.com

  Copy editing by Carolyn Steele.

  Proofreading by Effrosyni Moschoudi & Connie Leap

  Cover by Steven Novak

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Six

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Other Books by Amy Vansant

  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 wa
s, 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.”

&
nbsp; “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.”