COASTAL CORPSE
A MANGO BAY MYSTERY
COASTAL CORPSE
MARTY AMBROSE
FIVE STAR
A part of Gale, Cengage Learning
Copyright © 2016 by Martha Ambrose
The use of the name of “Harley Davidson”® is used herein as a work of fiction. Its use herein shall not be deemed to imply Harley Davidson’s endorsement or sponsorship of this Work.
Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc.
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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Ambrose, Marty, author.
Title: Coastal corpse : a Mango Bay mystery / Marty Ambrose.
Description: First Edition. | Waterville, Maine : Five Star a part of Cengage Learning, Inc. 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016001561 (print) | LCCN 2016006278 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432832018 (hardback) | ISBN 1432832018 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781432831950 (ebook) | ISBN 143283195X (ebook)
eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3195-0 eISBN-10: 1-43283195-X
Subjects: LCSH: Women journalists—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | Florida—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3601.M368 C63 2016 (print) | LCC PS3601.M368 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016001561
First Edition. First Printing: July 2016
This title is available as an e-book.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3195-0 ISBN-10: 1-43283195-X
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Printed in the United States of America
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my family, as always, for being my best buddies and best critics—especially my husband, Jim (the uberjournalist), and my mom. They are always there in my corner with suggestions and editing advice.
Also, I have to thank my agent and friend, Roberta Brown. She is the best of the best as my business partner and friend. My success is her success!
Lastly, I would like to express my appreciation to Tiffany Schofield and all of the splendid people at Five Star for letting the Mallie adventures continue.
CHAPTER ONE
“It’s official: this island is dead,” I announced, breezing into the shabby-but-not-so-chic Coral Island Observer newsroom, my fringed hobo bag swinging behind me. “And I’m ready to die—of boredom.”
So I was being a little dramatic.
Okay, maybe a lot.
Glancing around the deserted office with its semi-decrepit furniture and recently installed indoor/outdoor carpeting (pea green, no less), no one was there to respond. Only graveyard-like silence answered me—and the smell of onions from the hoagie I’d scarfed down for lunch yesterday.
No Sandy the Secretary. No Anita the Editor.
Sigh.
Not that I expected our secretary-cum-receptionist-cum everything, Sandy, to be at her desk. She had gotten married two weeks ago to her fiancé, Jimmy, and they were still off on their honeymoon in St. Augustine. I was happy for them—truly. But I missed my office buddy with her chirpy, upbeat personality and constant stream of “diet of the month” talk.
I had expected Anita to be here this morning—if only to hammer at me about my latest story. But her cubicle sat empty, too. Guess I lucked out on that one—for now.
My cell phone beeped with Sandy’s latest text message: Love the B & B. Heading out for a carriage ride through Old Town. Then the “Ghost Walk” tonite. I smiled. How fitting, since Jimmy’s mother—Madame Geri—touted herself as Coral Island’s freelance psychic.
I stared at the message. Their connubial bliss just made my situation seem all the more confusing—and weird, now that I was engaged.
I gulped as the last word echoed through my mind like a rolling wave, not sure whether to eagerly dip my toes in the water or run for the sea oats.
Is that what awaited me? Marital bliss like Sandy and Jimmy’s for the rest of my life? Or one of those marriages Lord Byron described with biting wit as “wishing each other not divorced, but dead”? Unfortunately, being a comparative literature major, I was steeped in every bad bookish take on marriage from Anna Karenina to Madame Bovary. Maybe I needed to update my reading list.
I moved toward my desk and plopped into the creaky, wooden chair. Then, I looked down, thumbing the small, square-cut diamond on my ring finger. Tiny silver sparkles shot out in all directions as the stone glinted under flickering fluorescent lights.
It felt cold.
I felt cold.
Maybe that was partly the chill left over in the office from last night. ’Tween season during November in southwest Florida could flip-flop from frosty at night to fiery during the day and, right now, it seemed downright nippy. Too lazy to turn up the thermostat, I hugged my gray sweater closer around me and flipped open the lid of my high-test, heavy-duty, jumbo java, bought at the island center convenience store.
A blast of earthy dark roast hit me. Aah.
Taking a long drink of the steaming liquid, I wondered how it was possible that I, Mallie Monroe, the girl voted “least likely to match two socks” in high school, was ready to actually settle down.
Sure, I’d had a string of temporary jobs before I worked my way south to Mango Bay near the tip of Florida and, while I didn’t want to become a nomad again, I also didn’t want to morph into some tropical version of a desperate housewife.
I shuddered—not from the cold, this time.
Quickly, I transferred the ring to my right hand, twisted the diamond out of sight and pushed all thoughts of my recent, sudden engagement to Cole Whitney out of my head.
I really needed Sandy and her comforting shoulder to lean on—or at least access to one of those self-help websites where she could find an answer to my misguided attempts to understand life. Damn. Taking another deep swig of my coffee, I shuffled my Birkenstocks along the floor, slowing spinning my chair in a circle; it creaked and groaned with every rotation.
After a dozen spins, I halted and checked the “Island Time” clock on the wall. Almost ten.
Where the heck was Anita?
Well . . . I guess I really had bottomed out; I was now missing my mean-as-a-snake editor who trashed practically every sentence of my stories—even after two years of my working up to the Senior Reporter on our island weekly paper. Actually, I was the only reporter working at the Observer so, yesterday, I’d secretly given myself the new byline that stated, “Mallie Monroe—Senior Reporter.” It had kind of a nice ring to it, especially because Anita didn’t know yet. Smiling, I could hardly wait to see what she thought of my byline “promotion” when she saw this week’s edition. The Observer’s cheapskate owner, Mr. Benton, probably wouldn’t mi
nd, so long as the title was in name only. He wasn’t known as “Nickel and Dime Benton” for nothing.
But Anita wouldn’t like it.
Hey, it was about time I got some kind of recognition for my stint at the Observer. After all, I’d lasted more than twenty-four months on the same job.
A milestone.
And the longest period I’d ever stayed with the same employer. Remarkably, I hadn’t done anything too run-me-out-of-town dumb. Of course, being involved in four murder investigations and risking my life multiple times might not have been the smartest things, but they’d forced me to display some grit and learn a few tricks of the investigative journalist trade.
Yep, bestowing the title of “Senior Reporter” on myself was more than warranted.
Not that early November on the island would bring more than the usual Fall Fish Toss story or Ladies’ Garden Club Gala story. But, hey, you never know. Known mostly as a fishing Mecca, Coral Island stretched north and south, which meant it didn’t have that long stretch of powdery white shoreline that kept the tourists coming back year after year. Still, we paralleled the more famous beachy spots when summer had faded, the mid-year vacationers had vamoosed, and the winter snowbirds had yet to migrate to southwest Florida. Season was over.
Too bad that also meant no decent news until the holiday season.
Yawning, I flipped open my cell phone to see if Sandy had texted again.
Nothing from her—but Cole had texted twice with a “thinking about my favorite redhead” post from his photo assignment on a shrimp boat.
I answered with an emoticon, hoping the smiley face would convey what I couldn’t express in words.
At least—not yet.
I fingered the ring again.
Would I feel the same way if sexy island cop Nick Billie had given me the ring?
Whoa.
Where did that thought come from?
Instantly, I straightened in my chair, snatched the diamond off my finger, and shoved it into a desk drawer.
I couldn’t take this much soul searching before lunchtime; my normal morning decisions included, at best, a debate over ordering a classic or chocolate Krispy Kreme donut on my way to work. That was more than enough.
Just then the front door of the office banged open. I looked up and beheld a middle-aged woman with long strands of overly-bleached blond hair and feathery lines around her tanned face. She wore a long, splashy, tropical-print dress with a seashell necklace and armfuls of bangles. Attractive in an islandly way—except for the wild expression in her eyes. “Someone is trying to kill everything I love,” she exclaimed.
I rose to my feet in eager anticipation.
At last—a story!
She made a beeline toward me. “Are you a reporter?”
I held out my hand. “Mallie Monroe—Senior Reporter for the Observer.”
Ignoring my hand, she slapped her beringed fingers on my desk. “This is an outrage, and I need the media to get to the bottom of it.”
“Of course. Just let me take down your details first,” I responded quickly, hunting around for something to write on. All I could find was the crumpled hoagie wrapper—it would have to do. I snatched up a ballpoint pen. “Give me your name, address, and . . . uh, whatever else you know.”
She raised a hand to her forehead and gave a little moan.
“Oh, please, take a seat and let me get you a glass of water.” I sprinted around my desk, grabbed a plastic chair, and scooted it next to her. She immediately collapsed into the seat, dropping her head into her hands. While the distraught woman continued to moan, I managed to find an unopened water bottle in Sandy’s mini-fridge.
“Here you go.” I tapped the woman on the shoulder, and she raised her head. “Just try to calm down and compose yourself. We’ll take it slowly.”
After taking a long swig of water, she closed her eyes for a few moments. The moaning amped down a notch.
Eyelids fluttering open, she took in a deep breath. “I’m Liz Ellis and I live in Paradisio, where I run a small nursery. I’ve lived there for almost ten years and have never had a single problem—not with my clients and not with my neighbors. For God’s sake, I’m a founding member of the Triple P—the Paradisio Planters and Pickers—our organization that supports all of the local island growers.” She puffed out her ample chest in pride. “And I donate generously to local charities. Who would want to kill anything or anybody I care about?” She looked up at me with a tortured expression.
“I don’t know, Ms. Ellis.”
Lips trembling, she sniffed.
Moving back to the chair behind my desk, I retrieved the ballpoint pen and hoagie wrapper. “Now if you could take me through exactly who you think is trying to kill—”
“I’m Liz Ellis. No one hates me.” Her voice rose as she thumped the water bottle on my desk top. “No one!”
“Gotcha.” I doodled her name on the hoagie wrapper along with the words: Someone hates her.
“As for the rest, I’m just not going to stand by and do nothing while I watch the slow march to death around me.”
I clicked the pen with an involuntary spasm. “Can’t say I blame you, but could we move on to the facts? Are you saying that you witnessed a possible murder?”
She nodded with a quick jerk of her head.
“All right, let’s take it from the beginning. Who was killed and when did you see it happen—”
“Not a person, you dimwit—my plants and trees. Someone is deliberately killing all of the organic greenery in my nursery—everything from the bougainvillea bushes to the pygmy palms. They’re withering and dying—and with them, my business.” Her face crumpled into an expression of agony.
Oh.
Herbicide.
“So that’s why you’re here today? To report a possible plant killer?”
She nodded.
“And no one threatened you?”
She shook her head.
I set down the pen and threw the hoagie wrapper in the trash. Then I slipped my business card across the desk. “Here’s my card and e-mail address if you need to contact me, but you might want to report this one to the island police. I’m sure Detective Billie will want to do a full investigation—”
“You’re just sluffing me off.” She shook her finger at me and leaned in until her face was mere inches from mine. Alcohol breath. “And you’ll be sorry, trust me. I’m Liz Ellis, and I don’t like being trifled with—especially when it comes to my nursery.”
“Ms. Ellis, I’m not ‘sluffing’ or ‘trifling,’ but is it conceivable that your plants are just . . . unhealthy?”
Her mouth dropped open. “Now you’re insulting me?”
“No, no. Not at all—”
She spewed an unprintable curse and stomped out of the office, slamming the door behind her.
I blinked, trying to take in what had just happened. The woman was cray-cray.
Fishing the hoagie wrapper out of the trash, I added to my previous doodle: I hate Liz Ellis. Then, I tossed it in the can again.
And so much for the big story of the day.
I flipped on my ancient Dell desktop PC (now refurbished) and logged onto the newspaper’s system to see if Anita had filed an assignment for me. I scanned my e-mail and found—nothing. I blinked and sat back, shoving my sweater sleeves above my pale, freckled arms (matching my pale, freckled face); then, I checked through the “Trash” section just in case I had mistakenly deleted her message.
Still nothing.
Odd.
I drummed my fingers on the desk and stared at the computer screen, wondering if this editorial evasiveness was some new ploy of Anita’s to get me to generate more sensationalized stories.
Could she be that devious?
Is pasta the national dish of Italy?
I clicked on my Inbox again, and saw two new e-mails from local residents who wanted me to cover the closing of a bankrupt septic cleaning company (yuk), and the opening of a new bakery: Sugar and Spice
(yum). I responded to the second e-mail and logged the upcoming December date into my online calendar, even though I knew Anita wouldn’t be too juiced about it.
She hated heartwarming, community-interest articles—fitting, because she had no heart. Her years as a reporter for the Detroit Free Press had apparently eliminated any slight tendency she might’ve had to connect with another human being on an emotional level. And all those experiences in her youth left me with the middle-aged, nit-picking boss-from-hell: my mentor.
I checked my Inbox again, e-mailed Anita—then waited, and waited, and waited.
A message popped up—from guess who? Liz Ellis.
A plant killer is loose on Coral Island, and you just missed your chance to stop him. Whatever happens is on your head, and I’ll make sure you pay. Oh, and by the way, I won’t be buying any future advertising with the Observer. Liz.
Damn. That last one might hurt. If Mr. Benton got wind of a dissatisfied customer, my new Senior Reporter title could be in jeopardy.
I punched the delete button on her e-mail, making a mental note to ask Sandy to smooth over the troubled waters—and get Liz back in the fold of paying advertisers.
Sipping my coffee once more, I reviewed my options to get cracking on my day’s stories. I could call Anita’s cell phone, but I was supposed to do that only in an extreme emergency. Imminent death or dismemberment probably qualified—not boredom. I could call her at home, but even after two years on the job I didn’t know her home number. As a last resort, I could send her a smoke signal; unfortunately, I didn’t have so much as a book of matches, and I’d probably get arrested because we’d had an early season outbreak of brushfires.
I tucked my curls behind my ears, stretched out my jeans-clad legs, and stared down at the nearly empty cup. What else could I do?
Take charge. You’re now the Senior Reporter.
I’d ransack Anita’s office for any hard-copy assignment sheets she might’ve left behind yesterday. That way, I could get started before she showed up for work—and distract myself from this mind-numbing ennui before I called Liz to follow up on the herbicide.
Coastal Corpse Page 1
