Pineapple Turtles

to work, but if you need any help with Abby, let me know,” he said.
Mariska waved away his offer. “Oh she’s a doll. Better-behaved than Miss Izzy, I can tell you that.”
“Sheds less too,” mumbled Charlotte. She threw her arms around Mariska to give her a squeeze and then did the same to Declan. He shook a warning finger at her.
“Be careful driving. The middle of the state can get real remote, real fast. You might not have cell service so stay on the main road.”
She nodded as dutifully as she could muster. “Yes, sir.”
With a final peck on the lips Declan returned to his car and headed to work. Charlotte crossed the street to her home and grabbed her bags before hitting the road in her ancient Volvo 240 station wagon.
After filling her tank like a good girl to be sure she didn’t run out of gas in the middle of scary swampland, she headed east on route seventy, snaking her way through cow pastures, tiny farming towns and probably a plethora of pythons, alligators and other miniature dinosaurs. The road dropped to single lane for large stretches of the trip and though she often found herself stuck behind locals doing barely the speed limit, she reached Indiantown Road, leading into Jupiter Beach, in close to three hours.
Once on the beach side of the bridge, she weaved her way westerly on the barrier island to the Loggerhead Inn, overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway. The main building stood square and white, with charming porches dotting each level and flowering plants hanging from the front of every room like jewelry. The place looked as if a quaint southern home had been stretched to ten stories tall.
Charlotte pulled into one of the open parking spaces and jerked her duffle bag out from the back. A flock of white ibis picked their way through the grass nearby, nabbing millipedes and throwing them back into their throats like kids popping M&Ms.
She watched them until she found the nerve to continue.
Here goes nothing.
Hefting her bag, she headed for the Inn. A doorman opened the door for her as she mounted the stairs leading to the long first floor porch.
“Flapjack pants,” he said, tipping his hat with a broad grin.
She glanced at him as she passed and flashed a smile she hoped didn’t look as confused as she felt.
What did he say?
He remained smiling until she was inside and then eased the door shut behind her. Charlotte sensed he didn’t think he’d said anything odd.
Okay. Shake it off. I definitely heard him wrong.
Above her, a fan with blades shaped like palms circled fast enough to keep the air moving. She took a few steps into the foyer, her mind occupied searching for a phrase that both rhymed with flapjack pants and made sense. It took her a moment to notice a dark-haired woman staring at her from behind a desk fifteen feet inside the entrance.
As soon as Charlotte smiled at her, the woman stood and left the room.
Okaaay...
As she watched the stranger disappear down a hall, Charlotte guessed she’d been the concierge, probably the woman she’d talked to on the phone. She kicked herself for letting her get away.
Nothing left to do but check in.
Charlotte turned her attention to a short counter to the left, where a young woman somewhere near her own age stood, smiling. A snake tattoo slithered up her arm and her hair was as dark and curly as a Greek goddess’. Her name tag said Croix. Her forearm said USS South Dakota.
“Welcome to the Loggerhead Inn and Spa, how can I help you?” she asked as Charlotte walked closer.
Charlotte perked. “Oh, this is a spa too?” She hadn’t noticed that feature on the website.
The girl shrugged. “It could be. Do you want a massage or a pedicure or something?”
Croix’s expression seemed concerned, as if she worried she’d have to find a way to perform these tasks.
“I—no. I just didn’t...” Charlotte trailed off, feeling as if she’d gotten off-topic before she even started.
Why is nothing easy at this place?
She took a deep breath and decided to start over. “I’m Charlotte Morgan. I have a reservation for tonight?”
The girl typed something on the laptop perched on the counter and nodded. “Yep, I have you here for one night.”
Charlotte nodded, but her mind wandered to the task ahead of her. She couldn’t even enter the Inn without running into difficulties.
What are the chances I’ll find my aunt before checkout the next day?
“Let me ask you, if I needed to stay another night or two, would that be a problem?”
Croix shook her head. “No. Not at the moment. But it’s the beginning of season so be sure to let me know.”
“I will, thank you.” Charlotte glanced back at the little desk. “Is the concierge around?”
Croix’s gaze swept the room. “She was…  She’ll be back.” She busied herself sliding a card key into a paper case and handed it to Charlotte. “The elevator is at the back of the room. Take it to the fourth floor—you’re number four-eleven.”
Charlotte smiled. Four-one-one. The number for information, and that’s what she was here to gather. What were the chances?
She started toward the elevator and then, feeling as if she’d forgotten something, paused to look back at Croix. “Do you want to run my card?”
Croix snorted a laugh. “Nah. We know where to find you.”
Charlotte snapped her mouth shut.
Why did that feel a little threatening?
She headed toward the elevator thinking the Loggerhead Inn was starting to feel a little Hotel California.

 
 
Chapter Seven
“Just a second.”
Shana Bennett perked in her seat and blinked at the officer speaking. Her eyes felt stiff and swollen from crying. She rubbed one with the back of her hand