Pineapple Podcast: A Cozy Mystery with Murder, Romance and Fun (Pineapple Port Mysteries Book 15) by Amy Vansant

Author:Amy Vansant [Vansant, Amy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-05-15T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Two

Darla, Charlotte, Declan, and Mariska gathered outside the Parisian Parrot to stand in a group beneath the flashing lights of a fire truck.

Firefighters had arrived to extinguish what was left of the kitchen fire.

“Another fire,” said Declan. “Is it me?”

He smiled at his joke but seemed jittery. The fingers on his right hand toyed with a lump in his front pants pocket.

“What’s that?” asked Charlotte, motioning to the square bulge.

He glanced down and stopped fidgeting. “Oh. Um, something I found in the rubble today. I took a last look.”

“It was a teeny-tiny fire,” squawked Mariska to no one in particular. She smacked a blob of white foam off her sleeve. “It even put itself out.”

Charlotte shifted her attention from Declan to her.

“What exactly happened?” she asked.

Mariska deflated. “I was trying to flambé the French toast. I poured the stuff on it and then—”

“Whoosh?”

“Whoosh,” agreed Mariska. “I just wanted to make it super French.”

Darla hadn’t stopped giggling since they evacuated. “She poured half a bottle of Grand Marnier on it,” she tattled.

“Maybe I got a little carried away.” Mariska pouted. “But it wasn’t my fault. The bottle tipped. It comes out too fast. It’s stupid—”

Darla cut her short with a series of snorts that would put a truffle hound to shame. She pantomimed how the fire had run up the wall.

“Then that fire caught the grease from the french fries and pow!” Darla lifted her hands into the air.

“I came as soon as I could,” said Frank, panting as he power-walked to the group. “Is everyone okay?”

“We’re fine. Just an accident,” said Charlotte, eyeing Darla. “Though your wife might die laughing.”

“Sorry,” said Darla, wiping her nose. “It’s a combination of adrenaline, fear, and the look on Mariska’s face when that fire skittered up the wall.”

Frank glared at her. “What did you do?”

“Me? It wasn’t me. It was her.” She poked a finger in Mariska’s direction.

“It wasn’t my fault,” moaned Mariska. “It wasn’t.”

Mac MacBrady, an ex Boston fire chief who’d retired to Pineapple Port, strode around the side of the restaurant with the group in his sights.

“What are you doing here?” asked Frank.

“I volunteer,” said Mac. “Glad you’re here. You’re just the guy I’m looking for.”

“Oh yeah? How bad is it?” asked Frank. “And, more importantly, am I somehow financially responsible?”

“I told you, it wasn’t me,” snapped Darla.

Mac shook his head. “The fire was nothing. The suppression hood took care of it; that’ll have to be recharged, but that’s not what I need you to see.” He side-eyed the rest of the group and pointed to Charlotte. “Maybe you, too.”

Charlotte put her hand on her chest. “Me?”

He nodded. “Come with me.”

Mac marched to the back of the restaurant with Charlotte and Frank in tow and led them through the back door. There, he motioned to an open walk-in freezer.

“In there,” he said.

Frank poked his head through the plastic strips dangling over the entrance.

“Oh, boy,” Charlotte heard him say.

She nudged him aside to get a peek.

On the floor of the freezer, tucked behind several white buckets, lay a man on his side, his skin blue, and eyes wide.

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