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 look into the puppy room and Kimber’s room at the same time.
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 her way 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 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 end up on the tables, too. Now half the group sat steaming, glaring at the other half and the Christmas tree mugs and snowman tea cozies they’d gifted them.
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 breads, 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 edge of the table, 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 own table—not unwanted gifts. Poison 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’m going to hang myself.”
“Is fruit stollen a thing in Boston?” asked Charlotte.
Mac shrugged. “Sure. In the German neighborhoods. I love it. I like it with butter, but right now 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 occupied worrying about the sirens. 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 soon after, Mariska and the rest of the retirement community had unofficially adopted her, allowing her to remain in her grandmother’s home and out of the orphanage. She knew from years of experience that sirens were never a good thing in a retirement community.
“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 own 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
