Pineapple Turtles

“You have to stop doing that. We can’t actually trust everyone. It’s a business.”
“Yeah, yeah. But half the people here—”
“I check them in personally. Don’t I?”
“Yes.”
“You check in the civilians. Those people need to give us a credit card.”
“Got it.” Croix looked crestfallen and then perked. “Look at the back of the phone.”
Angelina flipped over the phone and saw the edge of a plastic card peeking out from a slit in the leather. She pulled it out and frowned.
“It’s her credit card. She won’t be able to pay for lunch, and she’ll notice her phone is missing. Don’t you people ever carry purses anymore?”
“Not if I can help it,” muttered Croix. She tapped on the keyboard of her computer. “I have her license plate number on the check-in card.”
“That’s something. Give me that.”
Croix found the card Charlotte had filled out upon checking in and handed it to Angelina, who scanned over the info. She strolled to the desk to retrieve her pet and hand the Yorkie to Croix. Slipping Charlotte’s phone into her pocket, she headed toward the elevator.
On the fourth floor, she used her master key on room four eleven. She watched a boat roll by from inside the French doors that led to the balcony and then turned to scan the rest of the room.
Let’s start with the bathroom.
Items arranged neatly on the counter.
Splashing in the sink.
Nothing in the trashcan.
Nothing in the closet.
Angelina moved back into the tiny hall separating the bathroom from the bedroom. She gave the handle of the room safe a tug.
Safe locked.
She hovered near the safe a moment longer and then moved back into the main room.
Start with the easy stuff.
Her eye fell on the duffle bag she’d seen the girl yank out of her car and frowned, feeling slightly offended.
This isn’t a roadside motel.
She unzipped the bag and rustled through the sparse clothing inside. Couple of shirts, pair of shorts and what looked like a sleeping shirt.
Angelina sniffed.
Meeting, my ass.
The bag didn’t hold a single item of clothing someone could wear to a health inspector meeting.
Patting the hidden front pouch of her sweater, Angelina found the card Croix had given her and pulled Charlotte’s phone from her pocket to dial.
 “Hey, Artie, how are you?” she purred when a man’s voice answered. On the other side of the line it sounded as if Officer Artie Janket had choked on a French fry, which, if Angelina had to lay down money, he had.
“Miss Angelina,” he sputtered between gagging noises. He took a moment to catch his breath and then returned to the conversation. “To what do I owe this great pleasure?”
“I need a peek at a license.”
“Aw, Angelina. You know I’m not supposed to do that sort of thing.”
“Artie, you know if you don’t, I’ll find someone who will.”
He sighed. “I suppose that’s true enough. Hit me with it.”
She rattled off the plate number.
“Got it. Charlotte Morgan. Driving a Volvo 240 wagon. No outstanding warrants. No arrests. Hm.”
“What, hm?”
“Says she’s a licensed private detective.”
“Her?”
“That’s what it says.”
Angelina felt her stomach gurgle.
I need to eat something.
She moved to Charlotte’s mini bar and pulled out a tiny vodka. She cracked the top and took a sip.
“What was that?” asked Artie.
“Cracking my knuckles. Anything else?”
“No. She’s clean.”
“Address? I have one here. Can I check it against that?”
“Sure.”
She read off the address and Artie grunted an affirmative. “That’s it.”
“Thanks. You’re a doll.”
“You free for dinner this week?”
“I might be. Can I get back to you?”
“Of course you can, darlin’. I’d wait until the full moon comes back for you.”
“That’s tomorrow.”
“Then the next one.”
“Gotcha. Talk to you later. Thanks again, Artie.”
She hung up, deleted the call from the phone, and thought for a second, pulling at her earring.
Time for the safe.
She moved to the guest room safe and plugged in her override sequence. Inside sat a laptop computer and a shoe box.
A shoebox? Why would a girl with a duffle bag for a suitcase bring shoes so nice she needs to keep them in the box?
Khaki shorts and Louboutin’s.
Nope.
Angelina pulled out the box and flipped open the lid. Inside were papers of every size and color. A child’s drawing on pink construction paper, a page of math problems with a circled red A on it, report cards with the name Siofra on them.
Angelina swallowed.
The last names scrawled on the school papers varied. Siofra Candish. Siofra Foxtrot. Siofra Blake. But the first name was always the same. Siofra. Even one of the child’s drawings had the name Siofra on it.
Angelina sat on the bed.
This isn’t good.
What other information might this Charlotte have? Who is she?
The ironic part was she kind of looked like Siofra. The last time she saw her, anyway. It had been a while. And even then she wasn’t Siofra, she was Lily.
Who knew who she was now?
Angelina took another sip from the vodka bottle and returned to the safe to slide out the computer. She opened the lid and stared at the password box.
Locked, of course.
Croix had taught her a couple of ways to break into a laptop, but after doing so she’d have to reset the password and that would give her away.
What was the dog’s name?
Abby. One-Two-Two-Twenty-five.
She plugged in the numbers and the screen shook, but didn’t switch to the desktop.
Shoot.
She thought about a few other possibilities and decided to start simple.
Let’s give it a shot.
She typed in a-b-b-y.
The computer sprang to life.
People are so predictable.
She poked around and found notes from other cases the girl detective had worked. There