Pineapple Lies by Amy Vansant Read Free Book Online Page B

someone already had eyes on him.
    A balding man answered the door wearing shorts and a white tank top. He was wiry, with deeply tanned skin and bowed legs. A riot of white hair raged from each armpit. Declan guessed him to be in his early seventies and didn’t recognize him from the crime scene.
    “Yes?” asked the man. His tone was brusque, bordering on annoyed.
    “I was talking to your deputy out here,” said Declan, nodding towards the fishing frog. “And he said this was the police station?”
    The man looked at the frog and then squinted at Declan.
    “I’m guessing I wrote down the wrong address?”
    “No, you got the right place,” said the man. “My office is being remodeled. I’ve been doing some things out of the house. I can’t let the gears of justice grind to a halt just because the paint hasn’t dried.”
    “No, of course not.”
    “And you keep your eyes off that frog, mister.”
    “Okay…”
    “Come in,” said the man, stepping back to make room. “I’m Sheriff Frank Marshall.”
    Declan chuckled and offered his hand to shake.
    “You know, you should have become a marshal…”
    The sheriff grunted as if in pain. He ignored Declan’s hand and grabbed a t-shirt from a pile of folded clothes on his counter. He pulled it over his head.
    Declan’s gaze fell to the chest of the sheriff’s tee and he bit his lower lip. The shirt was solid baby blue, but for two pink clamshells, one covering each breast.
    Frank spotted Declan’s growing smirk and glanced down at his chest.
    “Dammit Darla!” he said, ripping off the tee as if it was on fire. The shirt caught on his ear and he wrestled inside it before tossing it on the counter next to the folded pile and heading to the kitchen table.
    “Follow me,” he said, winded.
    A scruffy tan dog came running to Declan, his whole body wriggling with excitement.
    “Hey there, cutie,” he said, squatting to pet the dog.
    “He ain’t cute, he’s the ugliest damn dog in the world. Leave him be. He’s old and he’ll pee all over the place.”
    Declan sneaked a quick ear scratching and then stood.
    Frank grabbed a pen and pad from his kitchen counter before sitting at the large wooden table. He motioned to the seat across from him.
    “Have a seat right there, weirdo. I just have to ask you a couple of questions.”
    “What?” said Declan trying to stop in mid-sit, but he’d already dropped too far. He fell into the kitchen chair. “Did you just call me—”
    “First question,” said Frank cutting him short. “I’m not your psychiatrist, but I’d like to ask you about your childhood. Anything off? You don’t have to get too graphic. Just the facts.”
    Declan closed his gaping mouth.
    I must have heard that wrong.
    He supposed it made sense that the police would question him about his mother while she was alive; the information could help to identify her killer.
    “Well, my father was a drug addict,” said Declan.
    “I would have guessed booze, from your name.”
    Declan’s jaw clenched. He swallowed hard and tried to relax. The last thing he needed was a beef with the local sheriff, but the old man wasn’t making things easy for him.
    “Yes, Irish drunks are a delightful stereotype, but no, his poison was heroin.”
    “Delightful?”
    “I was being sarcastic.”
    “Don’t.”
    “Okaaay…”
    “Booze, smack…shows a lack of restraint, either way. You a drunk?”
    “No.”
    “Never?”
    “I drink, socially; maybe a beer or two after work, but I wouldn’t call myself a drunk, no.”
    “What about other people? Would they call you a drunk?”
    “Not if they knew what was good for them!”
    Declan forced a chuckle.
    Frank leaned forward on his elbows and stared into Declan’s eyes.
    “Was that sarcasm?”
    “No. That was…uh…just a joke.”
    “Don’t.”
    “Got it. Sorry.”
    “Now, again; would other people call you a drunk?”
    “No.”
    “Drugs?”
    “No.”
    “None? Smack? Horse? Nose candy?”
    “Not