Coastal Corpse

by Marty Ambrose

  Everyone with money wanted a place on the “big water,” and it appeared that all the smallish homes at the end of road had long been torn down. In their place stood faux-Mediterranean monstrosities with Spanish-tile roofs and huge sweeping verandas across the front.

  Joe Earl pointed at a luxury residence complete with two-storied, arched entrance, lots of windows, and even a turret on the north side. I spied a canopy tent in the back.

  “Looks like the nursery is behind the house.” I took in the sickly bougainvillea bushes and withering magnolia trees that lined either side of the driveway. “Things certainly look a little droopy.”

  “Go figure.”

  I parked, and we moved toward the tall, double front doors, each with etched, oval glass. After I rang the doorbell, I took a quick backward glance at Rusty. He certainly looked more at home in an RV park than a ritzy neighborhood. “Maybe my truck needs a new coat of paint.”

  Before Joe Earl could respond, the door swung open, and Liz Ellis appeared, wearing a skintight, flame-orange sheath and a scowl. Her face wasn’t blotchy from crying anymore, but the red rings around her eyes suggested she had still shed a few more tears over Bucky.

  “What the hell do you nitwits want?” she demanded.

  Charming.

  “Hi, Liz. You remember us? Mallie and Joe Earl from the Observer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you remember, you originally came by the office a couple of days ago about your dying plants and threatened me if I didn’t do something about it. And I believe you followed up with several e-mails?” I gave her my best smile.

  Her scowl deepened. “And I threatened you with a lawsuit for harassing me about Bucky.”

  “Let’s just put that aside for now and focus on your nursery.”

  “It’s just about done for now. Too little, too late,” she spat out. “And I had to take a quick, high-interest loan on the house to pump some money into it, so I’ll probably lose that, too.”

  “I’m so sorry. But I do have some information that might be pertinent to saving what’s left of your plants.”

  “Forget it. I don’t care anymore.” She tried to yank the door closed again, but Joe Earl had caught the handle. She jerked it one more time, but he held fast with a tight grip that bespoke hours and hours of clutching his iPhone. “Okay, suit yourself.” She stepped back with a shrug.

  We followed her into a huge, high-ceilinged great room decorated with massive, antique furniture, the sofas and chairs upholstered in thick leopard and zebra skins. It looked like Jungle Larry’s version of the Antique Roadshow, a flash and trash safari of bad taste. As Liz strolled toward the bar, Joe Earl elbowed me in the direction of a tiger-skin rug, head intact, mouth opened, and teeth bared.

  I gasped and edged around it.

  As we seated ourselves on one of the animal-skin sofas, Liz joined us, a half-empty iced tea–sized glass in hand. I got a whiff of gin.

  She collapsed into a chair and let her head flop back, her glass tipping ice cubes onto her dress. She didn’t notice. “So what’s this ‘pertinent’ BS all about?”

  Pulling out my notepad, I flipped a few pages and pretended to read aloud. “While I was researching your complaint, I found out that Bucky was using a poisonous fertilizer on your plants.”

  “What?” Her head snapped up. “He was deliberately destroying my nursery?”

  “We don’t know that,” Joe Earl cut in. “One of his employees told us about the fertilizer, but he didn’t remember when he’d told Bucky.”

  “It was that moron, Coop!” she snarled, her face bunching up with anger. “He did it. Bucky would never do something like that to me.”

  “Why would Coop tell us about the fertilizer if he was the one using it to kill your plants?” I pointed out, trying to gauge how much of her reaction was fueled by the alcohol or if she was using it as a smokescreen to hide something.

  “All I know is it wasn’t Bucky.” She took another deep swig of her drink.

  “So, you had no idea that he might’ve been the plant killer you told me about?” I pressed.

  “Of course not.” She began to slur her words as her glance darted back and forth between Joe Earl and me. “What are you getting at?”

  “Whoever killed Bucky must’ve been pretty angry with him,” I speculated.

  “Exactly! He was murdered by that tramp, Wanda Sue,” she exclaimed. “I heard the police found her frying pan, and everybody on the island knows it. If I get my hands on her, I’ll make sure she regrets what she did to my sweet Bucky.”

  “Ms. Ellis, I’d like to remind you that Wanda Sue has not been convicted of anything.”

  “She did it! Everybody knows she tried to kill him with that pan years ago because she never got over his leaving her. He’d moved on to someone better.” She raised her glass and stared at the contents.

  I cleared my throat. “Do you mean yourself? Were you involved with Bucky when he was dating Wanda Sue?”

  “You bet your sweet bippie I was.” Her eyes began to tear up. “He loved me, but Wanda Sue wouldn’t let him go. It was horrible. He told me that she called him constantly and threatened him. Eventually, he broke it off with her because he was worried that Wanda Sue might harm me.” She thumped the glass against her chest for emphasis, then began sobbing.

  I took a nervous glance at Joe Earl. He looked as if he’d eaten something sour, and he clutched his iPhone so tightly, his knuckles had turned white.

  Maybe it was time to wind up the interview.

  “You should know that Wanda Sue had been out of the picture for some time,” I said, shutting my notepad.

  “I know he was engaged to someone else, that S.O.B!” Liz’s chest pounding halted as her eyes narrowed into slits. She hurled her glass across the room. It hit the stone fireplace and shattered into a gazillion pieces. “He wouldn’t tell me who it was, but I’m going to make it my business to find his latest girlfriend.”

  Cray cray.

  “Speaking of business.” I found my voice after a quick check of my jeans for glass fragments. “In spite of what you just told us, you weren’t exactly happy with his landscaping services from what we found on his web site. Didn’t you call him a cretin and—”

  “Get the hell outta here.” She screamed as she rose unsteadily to her feet. “I want both of you to hit the road. Now!”

  “But, Ms. Ellis, I just have a few more questions.”

  Joe Earl elbowed me.

  “I’ve asked you to leave.” Liz pointed at the door, her face now twisted with rage. “If you don’t go, I’ll call the police. Or worse.” She tossed a coaster at us. Joe Earl ducked.

  Then, she lobbed another one at us.

  “Hey, stop throwing stuff at us.” He slipped his iPhone in the holster to protect it.

  Liz snatched up a large pillow and hurled it in my direction. It missed, but knocked over a lamp.

  “All right, we’re leaving.” I jumped up, grabbing Joe Earl’s arm as our irate hostess aimed a ceramic ashtray at my head. Before she could throw it, or any other missiles, we ran for the foyer and hurried out of the house. I heard the ashtray hit the door with a thud behind us.

  “That woman is a whacko,” Joe Earl said as we jogged toward my truck.

  “I shouldn’t have pushed her so hard, especially after I smelled the gin,” I admitted. “She probably downed half a bottle this morning.”

  “Maybe more.”

  “Let’s hit the road. I’m getting a bad feeling about her.” I cranked up the engine and reversed out of the driveway. As we started to pull away, I spied Liz on her front lawn, heaving a shovel at us. It narrowly missed Rusty’s hood.

  “Hit the gas,” Joe Earl urged. Instantly, my foot rammed down the pedal, and the engine died. Panic spurted through me as I turned the key in the ignition and pumped the pedal.

  “She’s picking up a pair of hedge clippers!”

  I heard them clunk inside my truck’s bed.

  Come on, s
tart! Rusty’s engine fired up, and we sped off. “What the hell is going on? That’s the second time someone has attacked me today.”

  Joe Earl checked the side-view mirror. “I don’t know. Bad karma?”

  “Don’t start sounding like Madame Geri. I just couldn’t take it.” I tried to rein in my rioting nerves. “Good thing she’d had a lot to drink ’cause her reflexes were slower. Otherwise, Rusty might be missing a taillight.”

  “You think? She was going for a chain saw when the clippers didn’t cause more damage.”

  Shoving back my hair, I kept my hands on the wheel and my eyes fastened on the road. “Who would’ve thought someone could go that berserk just talking about Bucky McGuire?”

  “She’s going up to the top of the suspect list, that’s for sure,” Joe Earl said in a grim tone.

  “I guess being on the verge of bankruptcy doesn’t help.” I turned onto the main drag leading back to the Coral Island and increased my speed. “We’re going to have to tell Nick Billie what happened. She seemed crazy enough to murder anyone, including Bucky.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Well, we’re safe now, and we can swing by the police station later today.”

  All of a sudden, Rusty lurched forward with a jarring impact that caused our heads to snap forward. A sharp pain shot up the back of my neck. Then I checked my rearview mirror.

  Holy hell.

  Liz Ellis sat behind the wheel of a red Lincoln Town Car, her face transformed into a demonic grin as she mouthed, “I said that you’d be sorry. Damn you.” Honking the horn in one long blast, she drew closer. And closer.

  “Brace yourself!” I shouted. “She’s trying to kill us!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Joe Earl muttered an expletive and placed both hands on the dashboard, elbows straight, chin up, eyes fixed on the side mirror.

  I fingered my seat belt to check for a snug fit, then gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my fingers turned numb. Not daring to move my glance off the road again, I couldn’t gauge exactly where Liz was right now in her vehicular attack, but I tromped on the gas pedal.

  “Can’t you go any faster?” Joe Earl yelled out.

  “I’ve got it floored.”

  Joe Earl leaned over to check the speedometer and snorted. “We’re only doing fifty-five!”

  “That’s all Rusty’s got! You’d better call 9-1-1.”

  He reached for his iPhone, but it slipped out of his hands. “Damn, it fell under the seat.” Fumbling to retrieve it, he cursed under his breath. “I can’t reach the cell unless I unhook my seat belt.”

  “Don’t even think about it!” Frantically taking a quick peep in the rearview mirror again, I watched in horror as the massive car bore down on us. We’d cleared Paradisio, and the road had narrowed to a two-lane with mangroves on either side, clear sailing in terms of speed limit, and she was gaining on us with every second. “There’s nowhere to pull off.”

  Joe Earl looked briefly over his shoulder. “Is she driving a tank or what?”

  “Lincoln Town Car. They’re designed to take out small cities.” I eked out another five miles per hour, causing Rusty’s steering wheel to shimmy like a drunken hula dancer. “We’re no match for that beast of a car. A couple of hard bumps, and she could push us into the mangroves. I’ve got to do something.”

  “Any time, Mallie.”

  A wave of fear swept through me. “I’m going to try something crazy, but I’ve only seen it done on TV. I’m not sure it will work, but the Coral Island Water station is coming up, and it has a small driveway that we might—”

  “Do it!”

  I jerked the wheel to the left and yanked on the emergency brake. The back tires locked as I pumped the brakes lightly and steered in a wide arc, causing a piercing squeal and burning rubber. Rusty tipped to one side, but I held the wheel firm and let up on the e-brake. We hit the gravel and spun around. I screamed something that came out like, “Yaaaghhhh!” After a few seconds, the back of my truck hit a chain-link fence and came to an abrupt halt.

  Panting, I kept my death grip on the wheel as I saw Liz’s Town Car try to execute the same maneuver and fly into a shallow canal on the opposite side of the road. The square trunk of her Lincoln tipped upward like a ship’s stern, but the vehicle didn’t slide under. It remained upright, emergency lights blinking, back wheels still spinning.

  “She d-didn’t know the e-brake trick,” I stammered, trying to calm my ragged breathing.

  “Where did you learn to drive like that?” Joe Earl squeaked.

  “I spent a lot of time watching the Bourne movies when I worked at Disneyworld. Lots of good chase scenes. They could be a primer on how to drive in an emergency. My favorite was the Bourne Ultimatum.” Okay, I was officially babbling, but I had an excuse. “I guess it’s safe now to retrieve your cell phone and call 9-1-1.”

  He unbuckled his seat belt, reached under the seat for his iPhone, and tucked it firmly in the holster. “No way. She tried to rear-end us.”

  “I’ll do it—” But another car had already stopped, the middle-aged driver jumping out and flipping open his cell phone with one fluid motion. “Hang on, I’m calling the police!” he shouted. “Honk if you can hear me.”

  Liz gave a loud blast.

  “She’s alive. Let’s get out of here.” I turned back onto Coral Island Road, driving very slowly and carefully. Reaction was setting in, and waves of post-traumatic stress washed over me, causing me to shake all over.

  “You can kick it up to thirty.”

  “No, dammit,” I said, trying to force myself to relax by chanting my mantra: “Muggatoni. Muggatoni. Muggatoni.”

  “Hey, I’m on your side,” he retorted.

  “Sorry.” Abandoning the mantra, I realized that nothing would help calm me at this point. I’d almost been turned into roadkill twice in one day, and it wasn’t even noon yet. My nerves were edgier than a razor blade cutting grass.

  “Do you want me to call Nick Billie and tell him what happened?”

  “Uh . . . eventually.” I turned left at the island center’s four-way stop. “I need to swing by the tilapia farm first and pick up some evidence from Pop Pop. I told him I’d get it this morning, but that was before a snake almost bit me, a monster truck tried to run me over, and Liz Ellis tried to rear-end us into that great dead motorists’ heaven in the sky.”

  “I don’t think we should wait too long to contact him. She’s out of control.”

  “True, but it’s going to take a little time to pull her car out of the canal. Just long enough for me to touch base with Pop Pop. To be honest, I’m more than a little worried about him.”

  “Because of that Travis dude?”

  “Not exactly. I didn’t tell you this, but he’s been trying to unionize the other oldie co-workers and has gone kind of over the top. Aunt Lily said he and his co-workers were hitting the tequila pretty hard last night at Le Sink.”

  “Seriously?”

  “He answers his cell phone with ‘United Tilapia Farmworkers Union,’ and some guy from Tallahassee is coming today to help them do a vote.”

  “And you thought I was eccentric because I had a violin with the image of Old Abe?”

  “Point taken.”

  We drove the rest of the way in silence. Once at the tilapia farm, I parked Rusty in the empty lot outside the main office, asking Joe Earl to stay in my truck, ready to text me if Travis appeared on the scene. After taking a quick scan of the grounds, I hurried toward the tent where the tilapia tanks were housed.

  “Pop Pop?” I poked my head in the maintenance shed and scanned the interior for his familiar wrinkled face and oxygen tank, but he was nowhere to be seen. Tapping my toes, I speed dialed him. After several interminable rings, he picked up. “I’m at the tilapia farm. Where are you?” I hissed.

  “Inside the tent. Behind the generator.”

  Sidling in that direction, I ducked inside and spotted Pop Pop coming toward me. Then I did a
double take. He’d ditched his trademark plaid shorts and button-down shirt for a pair of camouflage overalls and Che Guevara hat, along with a UTFU button on his t-shirt. He’d also slapped a UNION NOW! sticker over his oxygen tank.

  “Why did you take so long to answer?” I said, torn between relief and irritation.

  “Tranquilo, chica. I’m on lunch break right now with Jose and Pepe, so I don’t have to answer the phone.” He held up a half-eaten taco, the sauce dripping down his earth-toned t-shirt. “We’re getting ready to count the votes now that they’re in. Our organizer is really pleased with the turnout.”

  “There are only three of you working here.”

  He shook a gnarly fist and took a whiff of oxygen. “Power to the old people!”

  “Listen, hombre, I’ve had a really, really tough day, and I’m not in the mood for any nonsense. Your main reason for being here is to scope out evidence against Travis,” I remarked, spacing out the last three words for emphasis, “not organize two old guys who’ll probably be going on strike at the retirement home.”

  “We’ll see.” A smug grin spread over his face. “Just ’cause you’re the editor-boss now, you’ve forgotten the workers’ plight.”

  Gritting my teeth, I counted to ten. “Pop Pop, I need that bleach bottle. Where is it?”

  “Lemme see if my lunch break is over.” Pop Pop checked his watch, squinting to make out the dial. “I’m still off the clock for another five minutes, but I’ll count it toward my overtime. I hid the bottle in the tool cabinet over there, so our management oppressor wouldn’t find it. Here, hold this.” He handed me the soggy taco.

  As he tottered off, I caught a delicious aroma of beef and salsa. My mouth watering, I realized that with all of the craziness today, I’d skipped my normal burger and fries midday snack. Keeping a wary eye on Pop Pop’s retreating back, I took a nibble. The spicy sauce melted on my tongue in a delicious explosion of grease and meat.

  “Go ahead and finish it off, Mallie,” he said, without turning around as he rooted in the cabinet.

  I didn’t need to be told twice. In three chomps, I had gobbled down the rest of the taco and licked the last bit of sauce off my fingers. Delicioso.