Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 01 - Peril in Paradise

by Marty Ambrose

  “And?”

  “I attended a day-long workshop and then came back to do a personal interview. That’s when I found him.” I swallowed hard. “Is he … ?”

  “Dead. Yes. He appears to have received a fatal chest wound.”

  “Ohmygosh!”

  “Was there anyone else around when you drove up?”

  “I don’t think so” My neck was starting to stiffen from tilting my head backward. “Would you mind sitting down please? I’m getting a crick in my neck.”

  He hauled a wicker chair over and sat down.

  “Thanks” Sort of. Even seated, Nick Billie was no less commanding. “When I arrived, the house was empty-except for Mr. Hillman.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About half an hour ago, I think.” Why was he asking me so many questions with a suspicious tone? Caution flared inside of me.

  “And where were you before you drove back here?”

  “At Capt’n Harry’s. I had the seafood basket with french fries and ketchup.”

  His dark brows flickered a little. “Just answer the questions that I ask you please, Ms. Monroe.”

  “Sure. Sorry. This is my first murder.” Keep the motor mouth under control, I reminded myself. He doesn’t need all the details.

  “So aside from this morning, you’ve never met Mr. Hillman before?”

  “No, but I did read his first book, Night Games. It was really good-the kind of true crime thriller that keeps you on the edge of your seat. It wasn’t too blood and guts like his latest stuff, which I’ve avoided. Have you read Men on Death Row?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have time to read. I deal with real life, and real-life murders aren’t all that thrilling. Mostly, they’re messy and unpleasant” He rubbed the back of his neck with a weary hand.

  I thought of Jack’s body in the room down the hall and shuddered. “I get your point.”

  “Was there anything odd about the workshop this morning?”

  I hesitated. “What do you mean?”

  “Did anyone make threatening comments or gestures toward Mr. Hillman?”

  “A few people were a little … upset at some of the criticism Mr. Hillman directed at them.”

  “Including you?”

  “I guess so”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yes” I looked down and picked at the dry cuticle around my thumb. I had that uneasy feeling that arose inside when I noticed a police car in my rear view mirror on the highway. I’d let up on the gas pedal even if I weren’t speeding and drive very, very carefully, anxious that maybe I had done something illegal that I wasn’t aware of.

  “Were you angry enough to want to hurt Mr. Hillman?”

  “Not really.” I kept at the thumb.

  “Did you come back here to injure him?”

  “No.” My head snapped up at that one. “I was ticked off when he criticized my story on the bike path, but everyone else was just as upset when he tore into their work. And just because I was angry doesn’t mean that I wanted to kill him.”

  For a long moment, he studied me with a speculative squint. My chin turned up in defiance. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I sure as heck hadn’t harmed Hillman, so why was I feeling guilty? I might have fantasized about using him for bait at the next tarpon fishing tournament, but I wouldn’t have really done anything like that.

  “Am I a suspect or not?” I finally summoned the nerve to ask.

  “In theory, yes. You found the body. You had ample opportunity to come back here and kill Hillman. And by your own admission, he made you angry earlier today.” He leaned back in the wicker chair and folded his arms across his chest. “But my gut instinct tells me you’re not a killer.”

  “That’s comforting-I guess”

  For the first time his mouth turned up on one side in a lopsided smile. “That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook, Ms. Monroe. My gut’s been wrong a time or two”

  Peachy. Just peachy. I’ve got a cop on the case with a malfunctioning gut.

  “Come to the police station tomorrow morning at the island center and we’ll take your statement”

  “I’m still technically a suspect?” That uneasy feeling amped up a notch.

  He rose to his feet. “Don’t leave the island.”

  “Not even to the mainland?”

  He frowned at me from his considerable height. “I meant don’t leave the area. We might need you for further questioning.”

  “My job is here-I have no intention of leaving,” I reminded him. Nevertheless, images of hooking my Airstream trailer to Rusty flashed through my mind. Freedom. No ties just open road. And no murder hanging over my head. So tempting …

  As if divining my thoughts, Detective Billie repeated, “Stay put for awhile.”

  The open road fantasy faded. “Okay.”

  He strode out of the room and I sat there for a few minutes taking stock of my situation. It didn’t look good.

  The frenzied activity in the house had settled down, with only a few people left talking quietly in another part of the house. The firetruck had left. The sirens and cell phones had ceased.

  But my brain whirled with doubt and uncertainty. I had started the day out as a struggling journalist and, in the space of twenty-four hours, I had added murder suspect to my resume.

  Welcome to paradise.

  It was almost eleven o’clock by the time I pulled into the Twin Palms RV Resort at Mango Bay. My home. A small, tucked-away RV park, it contained only sixty sites with full hook-ups, a tiny strip of sand that passed for a beach, two shuffleboard courts, and an activities center for the retiree “full-timers” who stayed here for long stretches.

  The social scene consisted of various geriatric activities including bingo night and potluck Sunday dinner where the resident seventysomething ventriloquist would entertain us by singing with his stuffed monkey, Tito. Unfortunately, neither one could carry a tune.

  After nine o’clock, the “quiet hour” reigned and, since it was off-season and after nine, the place seemed practically comatose. That was fine with me tonight.

  Utterly spent, I parked in the designated spot next to my gleaming silver antique Airstream. Just looking at it lightened my mood. Thirty feet long and built in the seventies, its all-metal, all-aluminum construction, allriveted body, and all-steel undercarriage reigned supreme among the modern trailers and motorhomes on the road today.

  I had bought it seven years ago, spent three years renovating, and lived the life of a gypsy ever since. I could go anywhere in my Airstream with my trusty teacup poodle by my side. I loved the freedom.

  Dragging myself out of Rusty, I made for the door of my mobile haven when I heard a rustling sound. I halted. Slowly, I swiveled my head in the direction of the sound, a shadow of alarm passing through me. It was dark at the campsite, but I could make out a large areca palm, its long fronds brushing against the roof of my Airstream. I exhaled in relief.

  For safety’s sake, though, I scanned the rest of the site. Everything looked normal. My blue and white striped awning flapped in the light evening breeze. My wooden picnic table sat in the same position under the awning. The folding chairs still faced east where I had sat this morning to watch the sun rise as I drank my three cups of heavily-caffeinated, highly-sugared coffee.

  The spanking-new, quarter-of-a-million-dollar, class A mega-motorhome was still parked next to me, but no sign of the inhabitants. I hadn’t seen them since they’d arrived at the Twin Palms two days ago. The back of the motorhome had JUST MARRIED splashed across the rear window and, true to newlyweds, they seemed to have more than enough cozy pastimes to occupy themselves inside their motorhome.

  Most of the other sites around me were empty as they had been this morning. Nothing had changed or been disturbed.

  Except me.

  I’d come to Coral Island because I wanted to start a new life, find some sense of stability in my existence. Put roots down for a change. But nothing was turning out like I’d
planned.

  “Hey, Mallie”

  I peered through the darkness to see Wanda Sue strolling toward me, her neon spandex shorts with matching top forming a beacon in the night. She was the owner of Twin Palms RV Resort and, from what I’d been able to observe, one of the biggest all-time gossips on the island. “Hi”

  “I heard about Jack Hillman. Can you believe it? Someone actually killed him.” She clucked her tongue and shook her head, the upswept beehive hairdo remaining firmly in place.

  I blinked in amazement, both at her words and the bright yellow color of her outfit. It radiated more wattage than a three-way bulb. “How did you hear about it already?”

  “My friend, Joanna, works at the fire department. She heard it from the guys.”

  “Oh” What could I say? It was a small island.

  “Nothing like that ever happens on quiet ole Coral Island. You could’ve knocked me down with a feather when I heard the news.”

  “Me too”

  “And you were the one to find him?” Her voice turned sympathetic.

  “Joanna told you that too?”

  She nodded. “Poor you” Her voice turned sympathetic. “That must’ve been a shock like all getout. Why, I would’ve been shaking in my shoes and scared half out of my wits.”

  “It was pretty upsetting.” If I turned into a motor mouth when I was excited or nervous, Wanda Sue turned into a cliche convention when she latched onto a juicy tidbit of scandal.

  “I gotta tell ya, I’m not surprised, though”

  “What do you mean?”

  Wanda Sue leaned in closer, her voice lowering into hushed tones. “It was only a matter of time before someone did Hillman in.”

  “Really?” My interest sparked. “He had a lot of enemies on the island?”

  “Enemies? Honey, they were practically hanging from the trees like snipers. If I’d been him, I would’ve never left my house without one of them bullet-proof vests that SWAT-team guys wear.”

  “I heard he had a reputation as a womanizer.” I dropped the words as if they were a baited hook, just waiting for Wanda Sue to chomp and take off.

  “Womanizer?” She laughed with a loud, short laugh. “That man had more women than a dog has fleas. And they weren’t all his, if you get my meaning.”

  “Can you give me any names?”

  Wanda Sue tapped her chin. “He has some young blond writer hanging around now-“

  “Chrissy?”

  “Yep, that’s her name. But before her, there was Nora Cresswell-wife of a local fisherman. Her husband, Pete, ran a shrimp boat” She reached into her shirt pocket and pulled out a roll of Lifesavers. “Unfortunately, he hired some guys who did illegal fishing and the Coast Guard arrested the lot of them. When Pete was in jail, Hillman moved in on Nora”

  “Nice timing.”

  “She wasn’t the first” Wanda Sue popped a wintergreen mint into her mouth.

  “What happened to Nora?”

  “She’s living on her own-“

  A scratching sound interrupted our conversation.

  “Ohmygosh, I forgot about Kong,” I exclaimed, reaching for the door of my Airstream. As soon as I opened it, my tiny apricot-colored teacup poodle bounded down the stairs and started circling Wanda Sue as he growled low in his throat, at least what could pass for a growl from a three-pound hairy mop of a pooch. “I’m sorry. He gets a little crazed when he’s cooped up too long.”

  I grabbed the leash that I’d left on the picnic table and hooked it on his collar.

  “Of course he does, honey. You take him for a walk and put that scoundrel Hillman right out of your mind,” Wanda Sue said. She leaned down and attempted to pat him on the head. He growled louder. “What a sweet doggie.”

  He stomped his miniscule paws on her feet.

  “Kong, stop that” I jerked on his leash, knowing his next move would be to nip at her heels. Kong-short for King Kong-didn’t like being patronized by humans who wanted to pet him because he was so tiny. When he was a puppy, I’d taken him to a dog psychologist who said Kong suffered from low self-esteem and needed to feel important. That’s why he acted aggressive with most people-especially those with a condescending air. So I named him King Kong, hoping to give him a boost. But so far, it wasn’t working too well.

  “He’s really wound up tonight.”

  “I understand, honey. My cat, Riley, acts the same way when I don’t pay enough attention to him. Give him a lot of love and support, and he’ll be fit as a fiddle” She tottered off on her high heels.

  I looked down at Kong’s spunky face and floppy white ears. “Is that what you need? Lots of love and support?”

  He wagged his tail.

  “Come on, let’s head for the beach” I led him toward the Gulf of Mexico, tugging at his leash. For some reason, Kong didn’t like the beach. Maybe the expanse of water exacerbated the low self-esteem problem, maybe he didn’t like the sound of the waves, or maybe he was just being difficult. At any rate, he resisted all the way to the surf and, once there, sniffed the water as if it were a noxious odor.

  “You’re going to have to get used to the beach, Kong. This is home” He turned up his brown eyes and button nose in a pleading gesture, then slowly sat down on the sand.

  Sighing, I listened to the gentle swell of waves as they rolled ashore. Deep, drawn-out echoes against the soft sand, as if to remind me that a terrible thing had occurred. A man had been murdered tonight and I found his body. I was a suspect.

  I knew what my family would say: Mixed-up Mallie had really done it this time. I was on the edge of yet another calamity and this one was a doozy.

  Kong wasn’t the only one who needed love and support right now. I could use a strong shoulder to lean on. But there was no one in my life.

  I was on my own.

  Surprisingly, I enjoyed a heavy, dreamless sleep probably out of sheer exhaustion. And the next morning I awoke to a bright sun, promising a day of light and warmth. Actually beyond warmth. It would probably hit the upper eighties by midday and my nose would be peeling like the bark on a gumbo limbo tree.

  I knocked off my bike path story on my battered laptop computer, took Kong for a brief walk-avoiding the beach-and drove to the Observer office. When I walked in the door, Anita was waiting for me, cigarette in hand. A flicker of sympathy in her eyes told me she’d already heard the news. I marveled again that this island had a grapevine unparalleled by none-not even the one Marvin Gaye and Gladys Knight sang about.

  “How are ya doing?” she asked.

  “Okay. Yesterday was rough, but I’m feeling a little better this morning.” I poured a cup of coffee for myself-my fourth already for the day-and added two packets of sugar. Sandy sat at her desk with her eyes closed as she listened to her morning meditation on her iPod. She wasn’t wearing a price tag on her slate blue blouse and matching skirt, so I supposed they were keepers. Must be the stretchy jersey fabric.

  “I’ve got to go over to the island police station this morning and give a statement. Do you think I’m dressed okay?” I smoothed down my pea green shirtwaist dress. Being a jeans and T-shirt kind of girl, I’d had to hunt in my closet for one of the few dresses I owned-a gift from my older sister who kept trying in vain to get me into a more conservative style of clothing.

  “Yeah, you’ll win the fashionista award,” she said dryly. “Do you want me to call an attorney?”

  My hand tightened around the cup. “Do I need one?”

  Anita shrugged. “You were the one that found the body. That means you’re a .. “

  “Suspect. I know. But I’m innocent. I didn’t even know Jack till yesterday. And you’re the one who sent me there” I flashed a narrow-eyed glare at her.

  “True” Ignoring my accusatory eyes, she took a long, meditative drag on her cigarette. “You should be all right since Nick Billie is handling the case. He’s a straightshooter.”

  “You know him?” Heat crept into my cheeks. Just the mention of his name made my heart bea
t a little faster.

  “Sure do. I’ve been editing this weekly rag for almost twenty years. There isn’t anybody on the island that I don’t know, haven’t heard about, or written up in the paper-including Nick.”

  “How long has he lived here?”

  “He was assigned as chief detective of island police about five years ago. Before that, he was a tribal police officer.”

  My interested sparked even higher. “I thought he looked Indian.”

  “Native American is the preferred term todayremember that if it comes up in a news story.” She pointed a warning finger at me. I nodded, not wanting to stop the flow of information about Detective Billie. “Nick’s a Miccosukee. He grew up on the reservation south of Naples and was involved with a case there a while back that turned ugly. The case was never solved, and he left.”

  “What was the case?”

  “I don’t know the particulars. It had something to do with the kidnapping of a young boy.”

  “How was Detective Billie …”

  “Forget it-ancient history.” She waved her hand and shook her head. “That’s not your main concern right now. We’ve got a murder to cover, and you have a prime opportunity to write the story of your life.”

  “What about the bike path article?” I held up my finished copy.

  She cleared her throat with a scoffing sound. “That’s back-page drivel right now. Our lead story is going to be Hillman’s murder. And who better to write it than the person who found his body?”

  I chewed on my lower lip. “Look, Anita, I might be in a little over my head. I mean … I’m a suspect.”

  “A mere technicality.” She waved her hand. “You can do it. You’ve just got to believe in yourself.”

  Those words sank in like weights falling to the bottom of the sea. I felt them dropping inside of me with a distinct thud that reverberated through my being. Believe in myself. That was what I’d been trying to do most of my life and, so far, I hadn’t been exactly successful.

  “When you meet with Nick, give your statement, but tell him that you’re also going to be covering the story for the paper and you’d appreciate any sharing of information. Then we’ll start doing background work on Hillman. We want to give our readers a sense of who he was, and why his death was such an … an untimely, tragic event” She enunciated the last part with theatrical flare. “They’ll eat it up”