Darla led her into the kitchen and pulled a pretzel from a container on the counter. She proceeded to eat it, even though an untouched ham sandwich sat on a plate on the island beside her.
“Can I guess?” asked Charlotte.
Darla laughed. “Guess what Gloria did? Oh please. I’d like to see that.”
Charlotte squinted at her, thinking. What was the last thing she’d talked to Darla about?
Hoarders.
She’d been angry. Really angry. So angry she’d invited Gloria, Queen of Revenge, to come ride out the storm.
Child’s play.
“You goaded her into lashing back at hoarders, didn’t you?”
Darla blanched.
“Did Mariska tell you?”
“No. You did. Remember? You came into Mariska’s doing a happy dance about it.”
Darla frowned. “Oh right.” She looked at her watch and then reached into her refrigerator. “Do you want a beer? I need one at this point.”
“No, thank you. I’ve got troubles of my own early cocktailing won’t help.”
“What troubles?”
Charlotte waved her away. “Let’s finish with yours first.”
Darla huffed. “Fine. I admit I may have made a mistake. I didn’t remember Gloria being quite so...enthusiastic about her art.”
Charlotte chuckled. “You opened Pandora’s box.”
“I did. But you knew that. You’re supposed to guess what she did specifically.”
“Hm.” Charlotte eyed Darla. “Well, it’s something that happened last night, because you look like you haven’t slept in a year.”
Darla nodded. “I’ll give you that. One point for Detective Charlotte.”
Charlotte motioned to Darla’s long sleeveless dress. “You’re not wearing clothes. So it’s something that got you dirty.”
Darla looked down at herself. “Whaddya mean I’m not wearing clothes?”
“You’re wearing your sweat dress. The thing you throw on when you don’t want to keep wearing what you had on, but you don’t feel like taking a shower yet.”
Darla took a sip of her beer. “You’re good.”
“Thank you. You were digging.”
“Hm?”
“I saw the shovel out front, except...”
“What?”
“Is that blood on it? Were you digging up corpses?”
Darla laughed. “You’re getting hotter, but you’ll never guess the rest of it.”
Charlotte heard the flush of a toilet behind her and turned to find Frank walking down the hallway, tucking his shirt into his pants as he moved.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, entering the kitchen to claim the ham sandwich.
One mystery solved.
He seemed even more agitated than usual, chewing his sandwich as if it were more about killing it than eating it.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
Frank took a deep inhale through his nose and expelled it the same way, his mouth blocked by ham and bread. He swallowed, apparently eager to share. “This damn hurricane has everyone crazy. Fights in the parking lot over toilet paper, people calling in asking how to shutter their houses—like the sheriff’s office is a general contractor. Hurricane parties getting out of control.” He waved his hands as he talked, as if pointing to the areas of the town he’d visited while responding to each call he mentioned. After another breath, he thrust a pointed index finger toward the main road. “This morning I had to rush across the street because a lady had a racoon on her pool cage.”
“The animals have gone crazy, too?”
Frank’s eyes bulged. “No. That’s the kicker. The damn raccoon was dead. Flatter than a pancake, what was left of him.”
Charlotte scowled. “Dead and flat? On her pool cage?”
“Anyone want some bacon?” asked Darla, motioning toward the greasy paper towel Charlotte guessed hid the remainder of the morning’s breakfast.
Charlotte’s attention swiveled towards her.
She’s trying to distract me with bacon.
It was a smart move, and had the bacon been freshly cooked, might have worked.
Darla met her eyes, and doubled-down. “Do you want a sandwich?”
“No, thank you.” Charlotte turned back to Frank. “Tell me more. Am I missing something? How does a flat raccoon get on a pool cage? I mean...” She looked back at Darla. “Unless someone shoveled it off the highway and threw it up there.”
Darla grimaced. “That would be crazy.” She glanced at Frank and, confirming he wasn’t looking in her direction, licked the tip of her finger and drew an imaginary line in the air, letting Charlotte know she’d scored another point.
Charlotte grinned and then sobered as Frank finished destroying another bite of his sandwich and turned his attention to her again.
“Why would someone throw a raccoon on a pool cage? Is that something the kids are doing now?”
Charlotte shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, I’m almost thirty. I don’t get the kids’ newsletter anymore.”
Frank grabbed Darla’s beer and took a sip. “Right. I keep forgetting you’re so old. You’ll always be a little girl to me.”
Charlotte scowled. “Thanks?”
He barreled on. “I don’t know how the damn thing got up there. I’m guessing one of those vultures carried it off the street. See, the problem wasn’t the ‘coon. The problem was the birds.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “You should have seen the mess. Bits of raccoon everywhere—in the pool, around the pool. And the bird poop—everywhere. I’ve never seen such a mess.” He paused and cocked his head, the next half of the sandwich hovering an inch from his mustache. “You know what’s weird though...”
“What?” Charlotte leaned in, sure she was about to receive another piece of the puzzle.
Frank pushed his next bite into his cheek with his tongue so he could finish his thought. “There was so much raccoon. All ground up in chunks, almost like hamburger. The birds must have eaten it and barfed it up or something.”
“Yikes.” Charlotte looked at Darla. “That sounds like terrible luck.”
“No kidding. Thing is...” Frank stopped, looking confused again.
“What?” prompted Charlotte.
“Didn’t you say you needed to get going?” Darla asked.
Frank’s thought process seemed to find its conclusion. “There was one of those white Styrofoam
