Pineapple Turtles

towards tacky, but whoever decorated her room had taste. Charlotte was impressed, and a feeling of well-being settled over her. All thoughts of her odd experiences downstairs washed away with the surf in the painting.
Charlotte tossed her duffle bag on the luggage stand and frowned at it.
The room was too nice for duffle bag.
I need to upgrade my luggage.
She took a few minutes to lay out her bathroom things and freshen up. Feeling as if she’d been given the chance to start the day anew, she stood by the window and gazed down at the gently flowing waters of the Intracoastal Waterway. The sizeable lawn below separated the hotel from the water, where several boats sat docked at each of three piers. A pelican sat on one of the pilings trying to choke back a fish as big as its head.
Charlotte took a deep breath and released it slowly. She took a photo with her phone and texted it to Declan before slipping the device into the pouch of her thin hoodie.
Let’s do this.
She spun on her heel and headed back downstairs, hoping the concierge had returned to her station at the desk.
What was her name again? Something sort of sexy and exotic-sounding…
Angelina.
Sounded like a World War II Italian femme fatale. She hadn’t looked that old, though. Maybe early sixties.
If Angelina hadn’t returned, Charlotte decided she’d go get some food and then hope to bump into her on her return. If she was avoiding her on purpose, she wouldn’t be able to hide all day.
Charlotte was still thinking about the pelican on the piling and its chances of swallowing that enormous fish, when the elevator doors opened and she found herself staring at the back of a woman’s head.
Dark hair. Sitting in the concierge’s seat.
Helloooo, Angelina.
She strode out of the elevator and, after a passing urge to park herself behind the chair so Angelina couldn’t scurry away again, stationed herself at the front of the desk like a normal human being. A tiny Yorkie sleeping in a faux-fur bed on the corner of the desk rose to its feet. The woman put her hand on the dog’s butt to hold it in place and looked up at her, smiling with bright white teeth. The dog and the grin melted away any irritation Charlotte might have harbored.
How could someone with that dog and that smile be up to no good?
High cheekbones, full lips, stormy blue eyes—Angelina had all the hallmarks of an aging beauty. There was no doubt she was the knockout in the photograph she’d admitted to being on the phone.
Charlotte assumed Angelina lived and worked in Florida full time, but she wore dark tights and red boots with a V-neck black sweater that did an admirable job of promoting her cleavage. The outfit seemed wintery for the Sunshine State in any season, but as a fellow Floridian, Charlotte knew the locals’ blood tended to run thin. Fifty-five degrees in Florida was like sub-zero in other parts of the country. She guessed, though, the woman had come from a chillier clime originally, and never lost her love of black clothing.
“Can I help you?” Angelina asked, her expression open and guileless.  She looked as if nothing would make her happier than recommending a nice place to eat lunch.
If only it were that easy.
“Hi. Are you Angelina?”
“Last time I checked.”
Though the answer could be filed under smartass, the smile, again, made it impossible to receive the line as anything other than playful.
“Who’s your friend?” Charlotte motioned to the dog. The Yorkie had sat beneath the weight of her mother’s insistence, but she stomped her front paws to show her need to say hi.
“This is Harley.” Angelina gave up holding the dog in place, and she trotted across the desk to get pets from Charlotte. When the love-fest ended, the Yorkie returned to her bed, and Charlotte pulled the newspaper clipping she’d found in the attic shoebox from her pocket. She unfolded it and pointed to Angelina in the photo.
“Is this you?” she asked.
“Oh, look at me,” said Angelina, resting her chin on her hand. “I loved that shirt. I wonder what I did with that?”
Angelina beamed at the photo with such longing Charlotte found herself wondering what the woman might have done with the pretty blouse in the picture before pulling her mind back to the task at hand.
Time to get to work.
“I’m Charlotte Morgan. I called asking about Siofra?”
“Mm.” Angelina’s grunt rang neither positive nor negative. She remained staring at the photo.
“Is this her?” Charlotte moved her finger to another beauty, this one younger and unsmiling. Her eyes weren’t on the camera, but looking at something to the left of the photographer. “Or maybe this?” she moved to another woman in the photo about the same age. This one was blond and smiling, chipmunk cheeks humped beneath her eyes.
Angelina looked up at her and licked her lower lip. “I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”
“Charlotte Morgan.”
“Morgan. That’s a nice last name. Like Captain Morgan. Are you heir to the Captain Morgan fortune? Can you get me a discount?” Angelina laughed.
Is she purposely trying to dodge my question?
Charlotte forced a chuckle. “Different branch of the family, I’m afraid.”
Angelina shrugged. “That’s okay. I don’t drink rum anyway. I might switch if you gave me a discount, though.”
Charlotte waited a moment, hoping the silence would start Angelina talking.
I’m not going to forget what I asked you.
Angelina’s expression shifted, as if she’d heard Charlotte’s inner dialog. “Where did you get this picture? It’s old.”
“I found it in a box in my grandmother’s attic.”
“Really? She maybe stayed here? Kept it for her scrapbook?”
“Maybe. But everything else in the box was about a girl named Siofra. I couldn’t help but think